As they came upon a portion of the trail that had been covered by this slide, the squad was forced to pick its way around the fractured rock. Briefly halting before doing so, Angus McPherson pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his soaked brow.
“My lordy. Jack, I guess I’m in worse shape that I ever imagined,” observed the Scotsman between gasps of breath. “Why just look at your boys up there, climbing onward like this was nothing but a sunday stroll through Stanley Park. Why there was a time not so long ago when I could easily have kept up with those lads and then some.”
Stopping also to catch his breath, Redmond took a swig out of his canteen, before offering it to his portly hiking companion.
“I know what you mean, Angus. Because I’m beginning to feel those additional years as well.”
“Come off it. Jack Redmond,” countered the Scotsman. “Why you’re looking just as fit today as you were twenty years ago when we first met outside the town of Lahr in the Black Forest.”
The veteran commando shook his head.
“Thanks for the well-meaning compliment, Angus, but this old body’s logged quite a few kilometers since then. Why I’ve got pains in places I never knew existed before.”
Looking up the rock-strewn trail as the last of the squad disappeared into the tree line, Angus voiced himself.
“I hope Sunshine Village isn’t much further. These old legs have about had it.”
Jack checked the position of the sun overhead before responding.
“It’s not much longer now, Angus. Just think, you’ll be sitting in the lodge cooling your thirst with an ice-cold frosty one, while I’m still out on the trail with my boys. I’m beginning to seriously think about leaving this field work to younger, more capable individuals, like Sergeant-Major Ano.”
“Ah, that one’s as cool and no-nonsense as they come,” observed Angus. “During the whole time I’ve known him, never once have I heard him crack a joke or even laugh for that matter. Does the chap ever have a light moment?”
“Not very often,” answered Redmond. “Though there’s no one better with the men than Cliff Ano. He gained their respect from the very beginning, and that is the whole secret of successful command. From what little he’s told me of his upbringing, I pretty well understand his serious outlook on life. Growing up in an Inuit family that still followed the old ways and lived off the land, he didn’t have much time for childhood fun. When other kids were playing with toys and watching cartoons on television, he was out on the hunt with has father, or helping his mother repair and make clothing.
“I’ll tell you one thing though. If there was one person on this planet who I wouldn’t mind being stranded in the Arctic with, it would be Cliff Ano. That fellow is a survivor, pure and simple.”
Taking a moment to stow away his canteen, Redmond added, “Well, we’d better be pushing on. Can you make it, Angus?”
“Can I make it?” mocked the Scotsman. “Why I was only needing my second wind. Come on. Jack Redmond. There’s some life left in these old bones yet.”
To prove his point, he put the reed mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips, and as he began picking his way through the rubble, the mournful notes of “Donald Blue” vibrated through the crisp mountain air.
It took them another hour to reach the trail’s summit. This put them above the tree line, on a gently sloping plateau filled to the horizon with stunted pines, weatherworn granite escarpments, and acre upon acre of lush green heather. Spots of snow covered much of this meadowland, yet the mild temperature was more like that of summer than late fall.
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.