suffered a bad concussion. He applauded Phyl’s decision to leave him on the floor and move him as little as possible, adding that in his estimation, if Sid had been exposed to the elements any longer than he had, death would surely have resulted. Only the speed with which he was rescued and removed from the cold had saved his life. Both the doctor and the nurse agreed to stay at the cabin for the next forty-eight hours to monitor Sid’s condition.
The following evening, the Mundays left Sid in their hands and came down the mountain to attend the local celebrations for the twentieth anniversary of the Alpine Club of Canada, a dinner held at the Hotel Vancouver. Word of the accident had just reached the club, and “cheer after cheer reverberated through the dining room when Mr. and Mrs. Don Munday arrived with apologies for ‘being a little late,”’ noted the ever-vigilant Province newspaper.
The injured boy was unable to travel. Phyl nursed him for over three weeks before he was sufficiently recuperated to handle the trip down Grouse. For her rescue and nursing of Sid Harling, the Girl Guides Association of Canada awarded Phyl their highest honour, the Bronze Cross for valour. She was the first woman in the country to receive this recognition.
Phyl had a busy time on Grouse, for it was only a few months later that she piggybacked an injured teenage girl down the mountain. But the climbing season geared up beginning in May with a little warm-up jaunt to Mount Garibaldi, and then two weeks later she and Don joined good friend Tom Ingram for what Ingram claimed would be “his farewell gesture to climbing.” At age fifty Ingram believed his climbing days to be over. Don and Phyl, to humour him, went along. The threesome travelled to Vancouver Island, and by stage from Nanaimo along the Alberni road towards Mount Arrowsmith (elevation 1817 metres). They planned for a four-day trip but completed it in two. This particular journey would set them on a quest – one that might be seen as an obsession – that would last over a decade.
The following month they were in the Cariboo Mountains west of the Yellowhead Pass where they made a first ascent of Mount Sir John Thompson (elevation 3246 metres) and became the second party to ascend Sir Wilfrid Laurier (elevation 3520 metres). From there the Mundays travelled to Lake O’Hara in Yoho National Park for the Alpine Club summer camp.
Two ascents, one of Mount Hungabee (elevation 3493 metres) and Mount Victoria (elevation 3464) stand out for this trip, the latter climb accomplished in a mere two and a half hours up (a new record) and three hours down. But here at Yoho Park, much to their chagrin, they discovered that the existing topographic maps of the park were inaccurate. Trails were shown where none existed. The maps also omitted many important details including the number of lakes on a specific route and the presence of not one, but three glaciers in the area between Emerald Pass and Emerald Lake. Don complained not too subtly in the fall issue of The BC Mountaineer. “It might not be out of place to put climbers on their guard against being misled [by the map].” On the section of trail from Emerald Pass, “the conditions encountered contained more concentrated mountaineering than this writer ever wishes to cram into half a dozen trips in future.”
Mountaineers who explored and climbed in national parks at this time had only inaccurate or simplified maps to follow. They found the inadequate maps frustrating and dangerous. For ex-Army scout Don, the lack of information was particularly galling. One of Don’s chief delights in climbing was the documentary activity that went with the climb. He and Phyl spent much time and effort carrying in cameras, and later motion picture cameras, to record the scenery and to put together photo-topographic panorama maps of the mountain ranges as viewed from mountain summits and oriented with Don’s compass. The Mundays believed mountaineers had a responsibility to forward precise topographic information to the provincial and federal authorities for inclusion in future mapping.
Closer to home, Don and Phyl knew firsthand the limits of topographic maps depicting the Coast Mountains. This mighty range extends from Alaska in the north, down through British Columbia, and south into Washington State. It covers more land than the Rocky Mountains. But apart from the terrain near Vancouver, the Coast Mountains were largely uncharted. Published maps identified only a handful of summits, and guessed at their heights. The few limited penetrations into the mountains produced some documentation, but much was based on speculation. Although provincial surveyors reported features they spied from a distance, little official work had been undertaken. As they explored in the Tantalus Range and around Garibaldi, Phyl and Don cast their eyes northward along the sea of mountains stretching parallel to the Pacific Ocean. They mused about the possibilities for future climbs and wondered what hidden treasures might be found in the heart of the range. But without maps to guide them, or manuscript references to follow, could they get access to this great range?
Sitting on Mount Arrowsmith with Don and Tom Ingram one day in the spring of 1925, Phyl looked through her binoculars and trained them across Georgia Strait to the mainland, where, on this particularly clear afternoon, the soaring white peaks stood out in sharp focus and their full glory. She could see almost five hundred kilometres along the length of the range. She scanned carefully, mesmerized by the mountains’ sheer magnificence.
“Don, look!” She handed him the glasses and pointed across the waters to a section within the deep white mass. He focussed and then he could see, shimmering above a cloud rift, one fine tall white peak rising above all others. Quickly he checked his compass and calculated.
“Looks to me that it’s about near the head of Bute Inlet, maybe just a little east. It’s a long way off, must be at least 150 miles from here. It’s magnificent! Phyl, why hasn’t anyone noted this peak before?” Before he could complete his thought, another glance through the binoculars answered his question. In the space of seconds, clouds obscured the mountain and it disappeared.
It was a Mystery, and that is what they called that elusive peak – Mystery Mountain. Right there, Phyl knew she had to find it, but with a full calendar of climbing trips scheduled, she and Don would have to wait until September. In the meantime they would plan an expedition up the coast. Tom Ingram, needless to say, forgot all about his farewell to mountains. This was much too exciting a prospect to miss.
In September 1925, Phyl, Don, Tom Ingram, and Athol Agur boarded the Union Steamship vessel SS Chelohsin headed up the coast to Bute Inlet. They took with them a five-metre rowboat with a gas engine, and sufficient supplies for several weeks. After they disembarked at Orford Bay, a local trapper named James McPhee led them up to the head of the inlet to Ward Point. From here the party travelled up a valley and ascended Mount Rodney (elevation 2390 metres) to survey the scene. Looking north, they saw a high prominence – their Mystery Mountain. Don checked the compass readings and calculated the distance to be about sixty-four kilometres from where they stood. Judging by the charts they had brought along, it appeared as if the mountain would be closer to the Homathko River than to Bute Inlet. Perhaps they could access the mountain from the Homathko the next season.
The following summer the Mundays (including Edith), Ingram, R.C. Johnson, and Don’s brother Bert again travelled up the coast, this time heading north of Bute Inlet, to the Homathko River. They dropped Edith off to stay with the McPhees. The climbers had five weeks, and they packed in a tremendous amount of supplies over what proved to be an almost impossible challenge of obstacles. They travelled thirteen kilometres up the swollen river in their small boat, then sixteen kilometres by canoe and backpacking, carrying the boat when necessary. They cut a trail the last nineteen kilometres from the boat to their base camp, and then they relayed the supplies, one load at a time. The Homathko River was almost impassable, for the shoreline was flooding and huge debris was crashing downriver. Finding a spot to set up a suitable base camp and relaying supplies took more time than they had ever anticipated. Never had Phyl and Don encountered such unwelcoming country.
One thing was apparent: this land also held an immense quantity of glaciers; Don estimated the larger ones covered forty square kilometres. After one long day scouting out, Phyl became snow-blind