Canadian Adventurers and Explorers Bundle. John Wilson

confident were they that they only brought along with them a few scraps of chocolate and no lights. They left the remainder of the supplies in a camp struck on the heather. The climb was strenuous: steep cliffs covered with a good deal of matted growth – scarred, contorted tree trunks of subalpine conifers with trailing branches at knee height. Climbing over these wiry obstacles was not often practical, and struggling through was not only hard on their clothes but took more time than they realized. Don had his compass and always knew where they were, but travelling was a little different as they had to avoid difficult left-hand pitched routes because of Don’s hand. He couldn’t use it to full strength, and he was still in the midst of treatments. The three climbers finally got to the summit in time to see the sinking sun cast the shadow of the mountain in a slim violet wedge for miles across the forested fringes flanking the Fraser Valley.

      But they made it. To prove their ascent – which was the first one recorded – they took photographs of themselves on the summit and built a rock cairn. Climbers left evidence of their ascent usually in the form of a signed and dated note with their names. This note was sometimes encased in a glass jar, or tin box, protected from the weather and placed beneath rocks on the summit. In this way, future climbers knew that others had preceded them. To pose for one of the photos, Phyl had to hold a handkerchief at a curious angle to cover the devastation to her clothing from the climb! Off with the packs, Phyl, Peggy, and Don slid to the ground and congratulated themselves on their efforts. They were not as fresh as they thought and yielded to the temptation to stay too long on top. By the time they began the descent, light had faded. There was no moon. In the darkness they could not distinguish one essential bit of the route, and it was soon unsafe to continue. The only place to spend the night where they would not be required to stand up was on a ledge just wide enough to sit upon with their legs dangling over the sharp edge above a long drop below.

      Despite the uncomfortable positions, they slept. At first light they resumed their descent. The homeward tramp to get the last train developed into a dull grind. Phyl and Don saw Peggy Worsley off at her train stop outside Haney and exchanged weary goodbyes. The train continued its journey along the valley heading west. Rest was not possible. A weekend holiday crowd had made the train late, and it was packed with passengers. Phyl and Don had to stand in the jammed aisle, heavy packs on the floor between their legs. The train arrived late at the station, and they missed the last streetcar in New Westminster. Sore beyond belief, Phyl took her boots off and walked in her stocking feet. Don walked with the automatic movement of a soldier, but literally went to sleep on his feet, again and again. Not a single automobile was to be seen. No police patrol car (which might have stopped to question their clumsy movements and perhaps taken pity on them, or transported them back to the hospital). Ascending Mount Blanshard was not a wise weekend activity for a recuperating soldier, but it was typical of Munday: he continually pushed his limits and by example encouraged those around him to do the same.

      1. Now called Mount Fromme, elevation 1175 metres.

      6

       Romance Above the Clouds

      In the summer of 1919 Don and Phyl were on a club hike on Mount Baker in Washington State. There were three of them in a group, and they climbed with an air of confidence – they were not roped together. Midway on the ascent they encountered a section of moraine – the mass of loose rocks deposited by a glacier – on the edge of a steep, washed-out creek gully.

      “Aahhh.” Phyl was instantly on alert. The sound came from Don on the moraine above her. She moved instinctively and with remarkable speed. From her position on the upward slope Phyl sprang to place herself several metres below on a rock outcropping, and she braced herself for the impact. He’s going to go over the edge. Please God give me strength to hold on to him. Don’s footing gave away completely and he was tossed out from the moraine slope. His body flipped over in mid-air above her. Phyl reached out to grab him and managed to pull his weight towards her, against the slope, in a desperate move to prevent his certain fall to the bottom of the gully. But just as his feet came down near her, the ground she was standing on broke away as well. As she held Don, Phyl began to lose her balance. Don clung to the rocks beside her and it was enough support to give her the moment or two she needed to rake out tiny ledges with her nailed boots.

      Happy honeymooners. Don and Phyl snuggle together

       “in the wilds,” 1920.

      “Are you stable?” Don asked. “I’m just hanging by a thread,” Phyl replied, as she looked around for a more promising ledge. Together they scrambled away from the gully edge and crossed the moraine upward, towards their companion. Around the campfire that night Don told the story. “Phyl was a marvel. She seemed to know even before I did of the danger that I was into.”

      Instinctive action or not, Don was convinced that a bond of communication existed between the two of them that did not require audible language. And thus commenced Don’s courtship. By nature, Don was taciturn, uncomfortable with extended conversation. His face held little expression, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. His outward appearance was the very opposite of Phyl’s; her expressive face could bubble over with enthusiasm. But behind Don’s façade was a romantic soul who composed poems about the beauties of nature and was a keen observer of all living things.

      He had loved before and knew love’s joys and pain. When he left for France he left also a relationship. While fighting in the trenches he had plenty of time to muse, but unfortunately, as he wrote, “my thoughts [alas] will return to where my heart is still.” By the time he was back at home in Vancouver, Don was over this love, and then appeared Phyl, embodying in her love of mountains a reflection of his own self. She was the one for him! Phyl, however, was not immediately smitten with Don’s personality. He was very different in character, she more spontaneous and outgoing, he more quiet and soft spoken, and he seemed so intense – but that was a characteristic shared by many men upon their return from war. She enjoyed his company and respected his abilities – he could teach her a lot about mountains and climbing. But, she insisted, she did not feel romantically inclined towards him. Phyl took a while to be persuaded by Don, who patiently bided his time. In the meantime they continued to hike on club-organized events and spent increasing amounts of time together.

      When Munday finally completed treatment for his injury, he had not regained the complete use of his arm and hand. He was able to do many things, but certain movements, such as carving a roast or tying his shoelaces, remained difficult. He was forever to travel with a small ball of wadded paper in his pocket. At odd moments he would put his hand in his pocket and roll the paper to keep his fingers nimble.

      Munday’s army discharge came in the fall of 1918. Because of his injury he could not resume his previous work as a carpenter but concentrated instead on expanding his freelance writing career. Besides, the typewriter provided good physiotherapy for his injured arm and kept his fingers agile.

      In his spare time, Munday served on the executive of the BCMC and for two years volunteered as the editor for the monthly newsletter, The BC Mountaineer. He also contributed much of the content. He wrote up accounts of climbs he, Phyl, and their friends undertook, many of which were first ascents, that is, the first documented climbs to the highest point on a mountain.

      On 4 February 1920 Phyllis Beatrice James married Walter Alfred Don Munday at Christ Church, Vancouver. Don’s brother, Bert Munday, and Phyl’s sister Betty McCallum (who herself had married a young soldier in 1914) stood as witnesses. The Vancouver Province reported the event in its social pages, noting: “the young couple are concluding a romance that started with mountaineering some years ago.”

      The day of the wedding was uncharacteristically foggy. Phyl had a small apartment on Walden Street in South Vancouver. It was not a long distance to the church, but given the weather, the bride-to-be arranged to leave the house for Christ Church