Under the Ice

With the surrounding mountain peaks providing an inspirational backdrop, the squad took a brief break.

Removing their forty-pound packs, the men stretched their cramped muscles and munched away on chocolate-coated granola bars and oranges.

Anxious for a proper rest, Angus McPherson scanned this new landscape and soon spotted just what he had been searching for — a tightly stretched, elevated cable that had a chair swinging beneath it.

Forty-five minutes later, the Scotsman was actually on this lift, comfortably on his way to the lodge at Sunshine Village.

With a good four hours of sunlight left. Jack Redmond directed his squad in the opposite direction.

Still traversing a high Alpine meadow, they passed through a valley dotted with several crystal-clear lakes. From this point onward, a single narrow footpath had been cut through the heather, its gentle meander crossing the broad valley and disappearing in the direction of several distant, snow-covered peaks. The loftiest of these summits was a triangularly shaped formation that looked much like the Swiss Matterhorn. Known as Assiniboine, this was the mountain for which the provincial park they were about to enter was named.

They passed by a cairn indicating that they had just entered the province of British Columbia. Jack Redmond had walked this same trail as a teenager, and once again he felt right at home in this breathtaking wilderness valley that had changed little over the years.

To give the men a better feel for the land, he sent them off on the trail alone, at five-minute intervals.

While waiting for the squad to thoroughly disperse, he passed his time working on his log, and sharing some advanced pointers in the demanding science of orienteering. A little over sixty minutes later, he hit the footpath himself.

Their goal was Assiniboine Pass. Here they would set up an overnight bivouac, before continuing on to the mountain itself early the next morning. As last man on the trail, Redmond would most likely be arriving at this campsite well after dusk. Yet fortunately, the sky remained unusually clear, and because a full moon was scheduled to rise that evening, he figured he should have more than enough illumination to guide him by.

So as to not lag too far behind, he set himself a moderately stiff pace. The muscles in his calves were tight after the climb up from Simpson Pass, and the relatively level terrain he was now following was most welcome.

The one thing he found himself missing as he crossed through the meadows of lush heather was the sound of the Scotsman’s bagpipes. Surely this was the type of countryside in which the stirring music of the pipes could be most appreciated.

Subconsciously whistling, “Scotland the Brave,” Redmond thought of Angus McPherson. The affable army cook had been a long-time friend and confidant.

They’d been together on two tours of duty in Germany, and had managed to get into their fair share of trouble along the way.

The son of an immigrant sheepherder from Edinburgh, Angus was brought to Canada as a teenager.

His family settled in the Cypress Hills area of Saskatchewan, and it was while on a buying trip to Regina that he decided to run off and join the armed forces.

With his parents long dead in their graves, Angus had no other family but the army. Soon to be faced with mandatory retirement, he planned to start a small restaurant near the Currie Barracks in Calgary.

Destined to be one of his best patrons. Jack Redmond was forced to temporarily halt his improvised whistling version of “Bonnie Dundee” when the footpath began ascending up a fairly steep ridge.

A series of switchbacks led him steadily upward.

Conscious of the alien, forty pounds he carried on his back, he had to make a total effort to keep from halting before he reached the summit. Lungs wheezing and leg and back muscles protesting with cramping pain, he pushed himself to the very limits of his endurance. He was able to continue on only by resorting to a trick his grandfather had long ago taught him. When in the midst of a steep, steady climb, it was best to focus one’s complete attention on a tiny portion of the trail approximately a meter ahead. This allowed one to establish a constant speed, and not be distracted or discouraged by the passing scenery.

Redmond’s pulse was madly pounding away in his chest as he turned up the final switchback. Briefly eyeing the flattened summit above, he initiated one last major effort. Step by tedious step he proceeded, until his goal was at long last attained after a final, agonizing burst of expended energy.

Crouching down in an effort to regather his breath, Redmond wiped his soaked brow with the back of his hand and peered out to scan the ridge he had just traversed. From this elevated height he could follow the narrow footpath all the way back to the top of the Sunshine chair lift, where they had dropped off Angus.

Knowing the Scotsman’s love for alcohol, he could imagine him at the resort’s lounge, pouring down an ice-cold dark ale.