Mt Edith Cavell is 3,363 meters in elevation and is surely one of the foremost peaks in the Canadian Rockies. It was actually re-named in 1916 after a woman called Edith Cavell. She was an English Nurse executed by the Germans in WWI for having helped Allied soldiers escape from then occupied Belgium to the Netherlands, in contravention of German Military law. Prior to the name change it was known as La Montagne de la Grande Traversée. If memory serves me correctly the East Ridge, which this story covers, was first climbed in 1924. It has been a bit of a grudge match for me as you will see…
Typically MMA title bouts go five rounds as opposed to a regular match which only go three.
round one
It was late summer in 2002 when Bill and I were well on our way up the East Ridge of Edith Cavell. This is one of the premier routes in the Canadian Rockies, likened perhaps to the Hornli ridge on the Matterhorn by none other than famed alpinist and all around hardman Barry Blanchard. And not without reason either. It is a fine mixed alpine climb which boasts some of the best rock in the range as well as having some exceptional non-trivial exposure. It also frames the classic Chouinard-Becky- Doody North Face route. We had taken most of the day prior to drive to Jasper from Vancouver in KK’s old blue Ford pick-em up truck, but we still had a bit of daylight left to drive up to Angel Lake and scope out the approach hike up close. We jungled up for the night in one of the campgrounds down on 93A and organised our kit for the next day. We got the typical early pre-dawn start and the day looked promising enough; it was fresh and cool and we had made respectable time up the easy class three and four scrambling on the lower ridge and along the snowy bench. But by the time we had arrived at the base of the upper ridge, conditions had changed dramatically. There were a lot of heavy looking clouds that were rapidly moving in from the west. We tied in and continued moving upward however, but also kept an eye to the sky at the same time. The clouds had darkened considerably and were by now rapidly sinking down the ridge to meet us. Sure enough it started snowing and the whole upper part of the mountain was now socked in, and enshrouded in the dark grey clouds. We hummed and hawed a bit but it really didn’t feel prudent to carry on. So we turned around and abseiled the now slick rock, until the angle eased a bit and we could safely down-climb. The remainder of the descent was soggy but uneventful. Later that afternoon when the heavens really opened, we realised that our decision to abandon the attempt had been the right one, as disappointing as it was at the time. The long range forecast was not good either, so we headed back down to the coast in search of something there to climb.
Willi Pfisterer, was a well-known mountain guide and rescue specialist who received the ‘Summit of Excellence’ Award in 2003, had once taken Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau on a climb up the east ridge. Apparently Trudeau had asked him about a rope they were using and the mountaineer replied; “Well this is government rope, so I got it from the lowest bidder. But don’t worry; I have a better one at home.”
round two
Jump ahead to 2008. We drove thirty six hours non-stop for this little excursion. We had truck problems somewhere along the way; maybe North Dakota. We crossed into Alberta just south of Medicine Hat. It started snowing outside of Canmore; like a son of a bitch too. We actually pulled off to the side of the road with some tractor trailers and had a snooze. We grabbed coffee in Canmore in the snow. We got more coffee just up the road in Banff, in the snow. We got more coffee at Laggans in Lake Louise, in the snow. (We like our coffee) It snowed on the drive up the ice fields parkway. Our first attempt at the East Ridge wasn’t even an attempt really. As we pulled into the parking lot in the dark at Angel Lake it was already raining. We naively snoozed in the truck hoping that the weather might improve. It did not. We headed down into Jasper where we enjoyed tasty freewheels at Coco’s and swapped lies with a couple of Québécois climbers who had been unsuccessful on Robson by the North Face, Kain Face, and Furher Ridge. According to them Robson had not been climbed at all this year. Not surprising really. Eventually the day dried out enough for a short hike up Maligne canyon to stretch the legs and then it was back to Jasper and to the Athabaska hotel for beer and shooting pool with the colourful locals.
This is the fucking life! No?
– Jean Afanassieff, famed French Alpinist
The good weather forecast kept getting pushed out. Unfortunately every day of cloud and rain down in town means worsening conditions on the mountain. We went down to the Columbia Ice Fields one day to try Athabaska or Andromeda or something, but even that left us empty handed, trudging around aimlessly on the glacier in the fog and clouds. All we had to entertain us were thunderous avalanches booming down from Snowdome. So we drove back up to camp and waited some more.
One more go. We weaved up the road to the lake in the dark. This time there was not a cloud in the sky, and the Milky Way was sparkling in its full splendor. Renee was leading us up the trail with a blistering pace. She was a person on a bloody mission obviously. After about an hour or so we cut off the trail and head up on the moraines. It was slow going over the rough ground. There is one long, steep and icy talus slope that we had to struggle up before the col. It was good that we were still enshrouded in darkness so we can’t see how precarious it was. It was showing tinges of pink in the eastern sky as we eventually made it to the col and the sun greeted us. We wasted little time and started off up the ridge.
I spent a little time on the mountain, I spent a little time on the hill.
I saw things getting out of hand, I guess they always will.
Now I don’t know but I been told
If the horse don’t pull you got to carry the load.
I don’t know whose back’s that strong, maybe find out before too long.
One way or another, one way or another,
One way or another, this darkness got to give.
– New Speedway Boogie
Renee was once again in the lead as we worked our way up the third class sections of the lower ridge. We were now making good time. The climbing was fun and easy. Around a corner and into a gully and…doh! What’s this? Deep avalanche ready snow and rock plastered by a layer of ice. We pulled out a rope and I headed up for a look. It was not at all good, and a real lesson on how variable conditions can be from year to year. Back in 2002 this same section had been snow free and simple.
It was not going to go without some real finagling… and risk, and we were still low on the hill. From our vantage now we could see that higher up it looked even worse, with fresh snow plastering the rock, so with reluctance we made the decision to descend. These decisions are always fraught with anguish. I’m sure now; in the cozy comfort of the coffee shop where I write this, that if we had pulled out the gear, set up a proper belay, and excavated for some protection that we could have surmounted this ‘crux’ portion on the lower ridge, but higher up would have been more problematic, time consuming, and scary, and that we would have been inevitably shut down. The down climbing descent was uneventful and actually enjoyable until we tried to down climb from the col. Pretty treacherous stuff with a thin layer of ‘snice’ over the partially frozen talus. We opted to rap the first section until we got to safer ground. Once lower we realized that we could have avoided some of the steep and rough terrain we had been on in the morning if only we had stayed on the trail a bit longer. Cheap blinky Canadian guides! Spend the extra $100.00 and get a better one next time around. Maybe even one who wears glasses, tabernac!
round three
I’m makin’ ninety miles an hour on my German motorcycle
I’m makin’ ninety miles an hour and she’s chafin’ at the bridle
I’m makin’ ninety miles an hour on my sexy Munich eyeful
I’m makin’ ninety miles an hour on my German motorcycle
I’m makin’ ninety miles an hour on my German motorcyle
Hurt a little less with every mile west that I go
Makin’ ninety mile an hour on the Yellowhead to Jasper
– Mein Deutsches Motorrad, Corb Lund and the Hurtin’ Albertans
Another year and yet another thirty six hour drive. We found ourselves sitting in the truck in the parking lot at Angel Lake. It was early, dark, cold, and there are only a few patches of open sky with stars; the remainder was overcast; which was starting to be the norm for us. The forecast was variable; but there might be enough clear weather for us to have a shot at least. While we were slowly lacing up boots, cinching down packs, and other last minute time wasters, a pick-up truck careened into the lot and slid to a stop beside us. Three dudes fairly sprung from the cab, already wearing their boots they grabbed their packs from the box and vanished into the darkness with only a hasty ‘good morning’. That’s how it’s supposed to be done kids. Eventually we too got underway. By the time we were approaching the col and the base of the ridge, we got passed by another quick party. By then it was just starting to get light, and it didn’t look very promising higher up. After some pack and clothing readjustments and a bite to eat in the windbreaks we started on up. We didn’t get very far when we saw the first guys heading down. We could see them stopped and briefly confabbing to the group ahead of us. That group continued up for a bit and must have thought better of it as they also soon turned around. By now we met the first group and could hear firsthand from them about the conditions higher up. They thought it was pretty grim at the bench. Howling wind and driving snow. They had hunkered down in the lee of the ridge and waited it out an obligatory amount of time before their experience told them that conditions were not going to improve anytime soon. With both groups now descending we didn’t take long conferring and came to the same conclusion. We hung out for a bit in the windbreaks with the last group and shared some food with them and passed the time of day for a bit. There was no use in delaying the inevitable, so we soon had to make our way back down the talus and onto the trail.
Back to Jasper to wait.
Ironically as is often the case, we heard that the week prior had been bluebird on the mountain. We were chatting in Coco’s with a guide of sorts who had been on the route with Fred Becky the day before we got there. It’s a good thing we found that out after our attempt. I mean really. We were sucking wind big time just slogging up the scree to the base of the ridge. Knowing that a geezer of eighty-five did it and made the summit to boot, would have just added insult to injury. Even if it was Fred.
Barry Blanchard quotes Tim McAllister declaring Fred as “the grandfather of the road trip”.
Funny thing was that this guide was also trying to hook Renee up with the old man for a barn dance in Jasper that very evening, with an additional promise of climbing Assiniboine with Fred the following week. Yeah… go figure.
We made another brief foray onto the route several days later, but now the rock on the lower ridge was completely layered in verglass. Unfortunately our time in the area was running out and we had another 36 hour drive ahead of us so we headed back to town and made plans to head home.
Stay tuned for the exciting 2015 conclusion…