Raphael Slawinski

West Face Story
by
Raphael Slawinski

I love all of the Canadian Rockies, these mighty yet crumbling bastions, and would have a hard time choosing a favourite area, let alone a favourite mountain. Let me see: there are the grey, jagged ridges of Kananaskis Country; there is Lake Louise with Mount Temple's brooding north face; and what about the Columbia Icefields and those gashes choked with ice? But if pressed, I would have to choose Mount Alberta above all others. There is just something about this peak that draws me back time and again. I have climbed it in summer and winter, I have daytripped it from the road and slept on its summit ridge, but I just do not seem to be able to get my fill. Every time I crest Woolley Shoulder and see Alberta's black bulk looming in the west, I feel the same excitement I felt the first time I grovelled up that notorious scree and looked across the Black Hole.

I first saw a photo of the west face in a 1989 Climbing magazine. A spectacular aerial shot, it showed a wall of black limestone topped by a dazzlingly white summit ridge, with a rare blue sky overhead. One line in particular jumped out at me: a gothic flying buttress, rising gracefully to the summit icefield. Underneath the photo, the caption read: “The unclimbed west face of Mount Alberta.” At the time, given my abilities, the photo may as well have been of Olympus Mons on Mars, but for all that I did not forget it. Years passed and I got to know Alberta, or at least the sides of it within easy striking distance of the hut. But the only glimpses I had of the west face were by looking down it from the summit ridge. And from there I could not see much, other than that it was steep. This past summer I finally decided to remedy this state of affairs.

On a hot Friday afternoon in late July, Rich Akitt and I hiked over Woolley Shoulder intent on the west face. The next morning, with a full moon lighting our way, we crossed the rubble-strewn glacier toward the south end of Alberta. For some reason that escapes me now, I thought it would be best to traverse one of the large scree ledges that girdle Alberta. That this was not a good idea gradually became clear as the further we traversed the narrower and more exposed the ledge became. After much unpleasant sidehilling, and with most of the length of the west face still to go, we turned around and stumbled back to the hut. We lacked the gumption for another attempt, so the following day we just ran up the North-East Ridge, descended the Japanese route, hiked out to the road and drove back to Calgary, arriving shortly before dawn on Monday.

I thought I was done with Alberta for the season. But gradually I found myself thinking about it again, and longed to peek over Woolley Shoulder one more time before winter closed in. And so on a heartbreakingly beautiful Friday afternoon in mid-September, Eamonn Walsh and I waded across the Sunwapta River and headed up Woolley Creek. The sun was still warm but there was a chill in the air telling of the coming fall. The fresh snow plastering the peaks would not melt until spring. But ever the optimist, I figured the steepness and sunny aspect of the west face would mean it would still be in rock climbing shape.

Once again we skidded down rubble and jumped gritty crevasses toward Alberta, visible only as a hulking black shape against a star-filled sky. The moon was just past new and did not light our way like last time, but unlike last time I knew where to go. Staying low, we rounded the south end of the mountain and easily walked beneath the west face across a rocky plateau. At a shallow col that plunged into a deep, shadowed valley to the north, we stopped for a quick rest. A cold wind whipped across the saddle and we were soon moving again, scrambling up scree and rock steps toward the vertical headwall capping the west face. We managed to fill up on water where it trickled down an ice gully, keeping a wary eye out for falling stones. Where the gully opened up into a snowfield, we donned crampons and traversed to the base of our chosen rib. A beautiful ribbon of ice cascaded down between the main wall and the lower part of the buttress. We were briefly tempted, but eventually the fact that we had only one tool apiece and no screws convinced us to stick to the rock. Besides, we were freezing and we could see the first rays of sunlight warming the crest.

At the top of the first pitch, we found an old rappel station. And I do mean old: heavy, rusted pins stamped “Swiss made,” connected with bleached goldline. In 1963, four Vulgarians had attempted the west face and nearly made it up before being forced down by severe electrical storms. We would be following in their footsteps for most of the day. Changing into rockshoes, we continued upward. The guidebook describes the opening pitches on the headwall of the North-East Ridge as offering “… largely unprotected climbing up to 5.10 on delicate, loose ground,” with “… poor to non-existent” belays, “… a true test of nerve and ability.” The first time I climbed that route a few years earlier, I was simultaneously disappointed and relieved to find that it did not live up to its “spooky” billing. But the west face amply made up for that disappointment. Crimping on crumbling edges, the last knifeblade a distant memory, I basked in my fear. At least once a year I seem to find myself whimpering to my partner: “I do not want to be scared anymore.” And yet perched on that flying buttress, high above empty, silent valleys, there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been.

As the afternoon wore on and the sunlight turned from white to gold, we started thinking about topping out. But instead we were faced with a steep off-width crack, the only weakness in what looked to be the final steep step. Fortunately the rock also took a turn for the better, and after some grunting and me sending a few volleys of stones down on Eamonn's head (“Dude, are you OK?” “I'm… not… sure…”) we were up, and looking at what we hoped really was the final steep step. We snuck up it via an easy gully, and then we really were up. The rockshoes and chalk bags went into the packs, out came boots and crampons. Under an intensely blue sky, more Karakorum than Canadian Rockies, we walked up the gentle snow slope to the summit and, without stopping, headed down the long south ridge.

Night fell just as we completed the last rappel down the Japanese gully, below and upwind of the elephants' asses. But we knew where to go, and so were spared sitting out a cold night. Plunging into the darkness, we downclimbed rock steps and surfed scree toward the distant creature comforts of the hut. The following morning we slept in: a rare treat for weekend warrior alpinists. We lingered over breakfast, and eventually it was time to go. As we hiked out Woolley Creek, we looked up at the east face of Woolley, the north face of Cromwell, and talked of returning soon for more perfect indian summer climbing. But instead I am sitting at home writing this, while deep snow blankets the Columbia Icefields. As Alex Lowe once famously said, winter comes early to the high country.

An account of the first ascent of the West Face of Mt. Alberta (3619 m), V 5.10+, by Raphael Slawinski and Eamonn Walsh, on the 15th of September, 2007.