Beyond the Skyline

Andrew John Kauffman, 2nd

HALFWAY between the main transcontinental line of the Canadian Pacific Railroad and the northeast arm of Upper Arrow Lake stand the ramparts of the Battle Range. This remote, uncharted and almost legendary system of granite summits—named in honor of a semi-historical hand-to-claw combat between a grizzly bear and a prospector—is the key to one of the most intricate and puzzling structures of the Selkirk mountain system.

The outer defenses of the Battle Range are formidable: in past years at least nine climbing parties, which included the best- known explorers of the Selkirks and experienced American mountaineers of their time, have tested these outposts only to withdraw. Their failure is in no way to their discredit. Precipitous valleys, heavy fallen timber, tangled jungles of slide alder and devil’s club, treacherous mountain torrents and polished granite cliffs bar the approaches. Until last summer no man had succeeded in reaching the foot of the main summits, nor had any human being ever been known to stand at the head of the wild adjoining valleys.

Three of us, Norman Brewster, Betty Kauffman and I, determined to emulate our predecessors, and, if possible, surpass their achievements. Frustration was fresh in our minds, for only ten months previously, during a brief reconnaissance, threatening clouds, low supplies, and a final physical obstacle had forced us to retreat. This time, however, we were better prepared. We were ready to confront the unexpected topographical surprises typical of this area. We had carefully studied all past attempts to reach the peaks and had sought advice from local trappers and prospectors. Lastly —and perhaps most important—we had all three climbed together before, and formed a small but well-knit team.

Our objective was to reach the central summits, ascend the highest peak, Mount Butters (about 10,750 ft.), and to climb as many additional mountains as time would allow. Actually, we had little over two weeks at our disposal, although we carried supplies for 24 days.

On July 5th we boarded the train at Revelstoke, B. C., bound for Arrowhead. A delightful boat ride the same afternoon brought us to Beaton, and that evening a truck carried us over a rough road to the last habitation, eight miles up the Incomappleux Valley.

The next few days witnessed the usual puffing and groaning that seems to dominate the early stages of all extended climbing trips. We relayed two moderate loads eight miles over an ill-kept, winding trail, at one point crossed the Incomappleux River on a cable car, and finally dumped our packs at a trapper’s cabin on the banks of Boyd Creek. An additional mile or so of blazed trail and fallen logs took us to the edge of Kelley Creek, a turbulent stream which flows into the Incomappleux at the western end of the Battle Range.

Here two alternatives presented themselves. Either we could slash a trail through thick brush and slide alder to the head of Kelley Valley, or we could scale a steep spur to high ground and endeavor to attain the main summits by traversing the range. This spur, dropping steeply from 9500-foot peaks to the floor of the Incomappleux Valley at barely 1800, consisted of deeply forested slopes, broken by occasional granite bluffs. The average woodsman might well have selected the first of these routes. Not so the mountaineer. We turned into the highlands.

On the 10th, after a two-day uphill fight, we pitched our first timberline camp in a broad basin overlooking the Incomappleux. The basin was largely blocked with spring avalanche snow, and an elaborate search was made before we discovered a spot sufficiently dry and flat for our equipment. Nor was our tarpaulin rigged into a shelter-half a moment too soon. Hardly had we stored our gear when a clap of thunder cracked overhead and high winds began shaking the fabric.

Blowing mists and rain lasted another two days. We managed to bring up the few remaining supplies we had cached on the wooded spur below. In the afternoon of the 12th, the skies appearing somewhat brighter, Norman and I conducted as thorough a reconnaissance of the route beyond as was possible under stormy conditions.

Four ridges, we knew, separated our camp from the foot of Mount Butters. Photographs taken the previous year from the south had led us to expect to find a broad trough, running parallel to the western peaks and leading directly towards the center of the range. We hoped the trough cut through at least two of the intervening ridges. Instead, as we reached the crest of the first ridge, hardly an hour out of camp, we stared, dismayed, at the unbroken, boiler-plated walls of the next obstacle beyond, rising into the fog 800 feet above us and some distance away. Indeed, the inner citadel was staunchly defended.

Only a rock-engineer with a beltload of metal and unlimited time at his disposal could have stormed that parapet. To backpack over it was out of the question. We must now resort to the roundabout and somewhat uncertain expedient of climbing over the very tops of the peaks and finding a suitable route down their back sides. We dismissed all thought of skirting the north flanks of the range, for we considered such an effort to be too lengthy and problematical.

As so often happens after an extended mountain storm, the whole world sparkled like crystal next morning. With light loads we started for the first summit, hoping to reach the high pass beyond, which we felt certain separated it from the central peaks of the range. An easy climb up gentle and, occasionally, somewhat less gentle snow slopes, and finally along a wide and beautifully corniced ridge, brought us to the crest of the mountain. We christened this peak Mount Beowulf, and its pyramidal satellite Grendel, in honor of the legendary struggle between these two figures of Anglo-Saxon literature. We then constructed a small cairn and looked around.

Immediately to the north rose the peak which Drewry and his survey party had climbed almost 50 years ago, and which was reascended in 1946 by Erskine and Baker. Beyond could be recognized the familiar mountains of the central Selkirks: the Dawson Range, Purity, Bonney, Sir Donald, Swiss Peak, and, far behind, something that might have been Sir Sandford. In the opposite direction our gaze fell on the unclimbed spires of the Badshot Range, dominated by the slender apex of Mount Templeman, with its classically proportioned flanks flashing in the morning sun. Between these two extremes, due west, in brooding Norse solemnity, stood a somber, massive jumble of mountains: our goal.

The next task was to select a suitable route down the eastern slopes of Beowulf. A short investigation solved our problem. Roped together, we kicked steps down a 45° snow gully towards the glacier 600 feet beneath. The snow was packed, yet soft enough to provide good footing. A touch of caution was required, owing to a gaping though well-bridged bergschrund underneath. Our anxieties, however, were focused in another direction. A rather suspicious-looking cornice overhung the gully, and old avalanche tracks, starting immediately below it, swept ominously along our path. There was a curious mixture of haste and vigilance in our descent.

An hour later we had reached the pass and were within striking distance of the central peaks. The pass consisted of an exposed saddle, situated at about 8000 feet, and covered with heather and a few stunted bushes. On either side steep cliffs dropped almost 700 feet to unnamed glaciers. It was a delightful campsite, with adequate firewood and a few pools of water. However, we did express a little concern as to its suitability in case of storm. Little did we realize at the time how soon we were to find out.

That afternoon we returned to camp, arriving slightly before sunset, still drenched from the effects of a brief shower which had lashed at us as we ascended the steep gully under Beowulf. The following morning, July 14th, we moved the remainder of our gear to the 8000-foot pass and established our advance camp in a hollow about ten feet below the saddle.

Billowing thunderheads hovered on all sides during the afternoon. As evening approached, a vast, threatening cloud-wall moved slowly up from Arrow Lake towards our exposed ridge. Lightning flamed intermittently, the bolts crashing high among distant peaks. One whole skyline cracked with fire. Hastily we rigged our tarpaulin to withstand the storm. Ice-axes, crampons, our rifle, and all metal implements were stored a full 60 yards away. As we closed the flaps, I took a final look outside. A grey, shapeless sheet of clouds surged like an Oriental genie above the last ridge that still separated us from the tempest. Seconds later it dove upon us with cataclysmic force.

For twelve hours we crouched in our sleeping bags. Three successive storms of equal violence swept through the pass. The fabric over our heads banged sharply with each gust of the 70-mile gale. With numb fingers we held on desperately to the flaps, hoping the tarpaulin would not blow away and the seams not split. So intense was the wind and so heavy the rain that, on the few occasions when we peered outside, we could discern no object more than 30 feet away, even while daylight lasted. Lightning flashed everywhere and thunder boomed loudly in close accompaniment. During a brief lull I reminded my companions how an entire company of Austrian troops was once wiped out by a single bolt of lightning in a similar situation. Apparently my story did not enjoy popularity, for I was promptly ordered to keep my thoughts to myself.

The storm abated towards noon of the 15th. While Norman and Betty spread our wet equipment to dry, I made a short reconnaissance towards the next mountain, which we had named Obstacle Peak, and which still barred access to Mount Butters. Upon my return I reported the discovery of two apparently easy and feasible routes to its summit.

It was still half dark when, on the morning of the 16th, we shouldered light packs and started out on what we knew would be an all-day attempt to climb Butters. We realized that several unknown barriers must lie along our line of assault, protecting the easy snow slopes which, as we had observed the year before, curved upwards almost to the summit. The descent on the east side of Obstacle Peak could be more difficult and take longer than anticipated, and we might encounter trouble in crossing the fourth and last ridge between us and our goal.

An hour out of camp we were temporarily stalled. The spur leading to Obstacle Peak, which I had selected as the best approach, was broken by a huge hidden gap with sheer walls on either side. As crossing it would involve time-consuming and difficult rock climbing, we turned our attention to the other route.

From our present elevation at about 9000 feet, we descended to a bare 7500, traversed a broad, snow-filled basin, and started up a wide snow couloir on its far side. A 2000-foot climb up its twists and turns led us to the mountain-top. This consisted of two summits, both of which we climbed, about 9500 feet high and a few hundred feet apart. Here we obtained our first close view of Mount Butters and its satellites and gained a true picture of the problems still before us.

Behind forbidding granite cliffs and steep snow slopes, with mists drifting over its crest, the summit of Mount Butters loomed a thousand feet above its closest neighbors. Nearer at hand the north wall of a sharp, evil spire dropped vertically a full third of a mile to the white expanse of an unnamed glacier. We christened the spire Escalade Peak and wondered what lucky mountaineer would first stand on its summit; for surely we three, without pitons or snap-links, were not qualified to make the attempt. Its westerly neighbor, which we called Mount Fafner, was more inviting, but we intended to by-pass these mountains and center our attack on Mount Butters.

In many respects our climb down Obstacle Peak’s east flanks approximated our trip over the gully east of Beowulf: steep snow in excellent condition. From the Obstacle-Fafner col—at about 8200 feet—we pressed forward on snowfields south of the range. Once more we had to move downwards, this time 800 feet, then regain our lost elevation, only to drop another 600. At last, around 10.30, we were on the Butters Glacier, beyond the final bastion, with reasonable slopes leading directly to our goal. Barring a sudden thunderstorm, the central stronghold was ours.

Our approach had been difficult and intricate; the actual ascent was to be extraordinarily easy. For over two hours we plodded upwards, until we emerged into a huge snow basin ringed by the four separate crests of Mount Butters. We headed straight for the highest and most easterly peak, and made tentative plans to scale the southwest summit. The other two mountain-tops, on the north side, were scarcely worth attention.

Two feet of fresh snow gave us hard and slow work. It was after 1.30 when we at last covered the top few feet of rock. On the same day, one year ago, and at almost the same hour, Betty and I, with five bearded and frosty companions, had reached the 18,000-foot crest of St. Elias. Surely July 16th was our lucky day.

We gazed around us at peaks which rose like waves on the horizon. Sugarloaf and Duncan looked more distant than we had expected. Both appeared slightly lower than Butters, whose altitude we estimated at approximately 10,750 feet. Far beneath us the dark moat formed by Battle Creek curled around polished granite outcroppings. Somewhere in the east, Houston Creek vanished behind an intriguing serrated ridge, which formed an extension to Butters. The Beaver-Duncan Valley lay hidden in the distance. There, we believed, Sterling Hendricks and his party must at this moment be preparing to struggle towards the Battle Range. We did not envy them: they had a long way to go.

We constructed a suitable monument and left behind us a cheerful note for our successors, among whom, we thought, would be Hendricks. Then we started back towards camp. A running glissade put us at our starting point below Butters in little more than 45 minutes. At 5.00 we were once again preparing to climb over Obstacle Peak, and towards dusk we stumbled into camp. In our travels that day we had climbed upwards a full 9000 feet and down a similar distance. We had made two first ascents and had scaled one mountain twice. The half pint of rum which I had managed to hide all this time in the bottom of my pack, and which I produced a few moments after our return to camp, was greeted with exclamations of surprise and loud hurrahs.

Next morning we made an abortive attempt on Mount Fafner. As we hesitated whether to go on, some one recalled the excellent beer available in Beaton. No further prompting was necessary: we turned around and headed back. The same afternoon we jettisoned most of our remaining supplies and clambered over Beowulf to our previous campsite. The following day, despite a hair-raising duel with a black bear in the middle of a log-jam, we made good progress toward Beaton, and a few days later we were enjoying more “civilized” mountaineering at the Alpine Club of Canada’s summer camp.