The Enduring Mountain

Watch the film here. 

THE FINE LINE

The full nature of the mountain, its sea of gold-grey limestone choss—rock that’s actively shedding away—engulfs the two climbers. One quests upwards. The other belays. Somehow, they’re attached, hanging to the crumbling mess of stone. 

 “I don’t know which way to go,” shouts the climber, Vikki Weldon. “I just don’t have any good gear in.” Chalk rings her mouth. Scuffs and scratches, a testament to a life lived at great heights, mark her helmet. No wind or birdcall comes. We simply hear her voice, her breathing, the rack of cams and nuts chiming from her harness as if to ward off misfortune. 

But there’s little gear to place. High above her last anchor point, a marginal piece that could rip out of the wall if fallen on, Vikki kicks a ledge to test its capacity for holding her weight. She commits to it and stands. In an instant, the dishwasher-size block detaches from the wall and hurtles past her belayer, Piolet d’or-winning climber Quentin Roberts.  

“This fucking mountain,” she mutters, her voice filled with the fear of God. “It’s all choss.”  

She searches for a solid hold. “Keep it together,” she tells herself. “Keep it together.” She wipes away tears with a chalky hand. There’s no turning back. It’s too complicated, too risky a move. So, Vikki climbs on, slowly upwards—5, 10, 15 meters out from her gear and into the story that the mountains write for us. 

LEGENDS OF OLD

Located on the traditional, current, and unceded territories of the Stoney Nakoda First Nations People, Yamnuska (Îyâ Mnathka) is the birthplace of Canadian climbing. Its towering and fortress-like southeast face rises straight up from the eastern prairies, creating a natural barrier to the other mountains of the Canadian Rockies.  

The first peak that drivers see traveling west on the Trans-Canadian Highway, and just a quick jaunt from Canmore, the awing face of Yam emerged as a hub for climbers during the 1950s and 60s. In 1952, clad in tennis shoes, a hemp rope tied around their waists, German-born Leo Grillmair, his brother Hans, and a young woman named Isabel Spreat paved the way for a generation of climbers with their ascent of Grillmair Chimneys.  

“We looked for the hard way,” said Grillmair about their ascent. It was an important deviation from their era’s tradition of simply checking off summits. Pushing the boundaries of what was thought possible, this team introduced modern rock climbing to Canada and inspired the next generations to search for an experience above all else in the mountains. 

Others followed and Yam became more than a classroom for aspiring climbers. It emerged as a place where the boldest Canadian climbers went to test themselves. With shoestring anchors, homemade gear, and a desire to find their way through the unknown, many of these climbers continued to push the boundaries of the sport, leaving a legacy of inspirational routes. 

BEYOND THE PHYSICAL

“So often we look at a route and we don’t think of the style it was done in or who did it and what resources they had,” says Vikki. “We don’t think about why they climbed. Stop for a moment. Think about it. It’s humbling and inspiring.”  

“In a sport that’s increasingly about pushing grades higher, keeping people safer, and where most climbers pursue the sport indoors, something is slowly being erased,” says Quentin. And so, questions arise: How do we keep the adventure alive? How do we stay connected to the mythology and lore of the past so that the mountains can continue to take climbers to those places of transcendence? 

Venturing upwards without knowing where a route goes, using few bolts, running it out on terrain within the climber’s ability—these ethics buck today’s safety standards. Yet, it’s this convergence of ethics that allows a conversation to take place about what it means to climb. Yes, safety matters, but what happens if we build a ladder up every mountain?  

“Climbing is about pushing yourself and exploring the boundaries of what’s possible,” says Vikki. There’s truth to the fact that when we’re confronted with something scary, when we enter a place not knowing where the exit is, where we must grovel and fight to get through, something of value is cut open and poured out of us.  

To climb mountains this way—to not know the full path ahead, to let the echo of uncertainty pulse against the drumbeat of possibility—teaches something important. The word perhaps—“perhaps this will go, perhaps it will go free”—is music to any climber’s ears and this wondering was the driving force behind many of the lines on Yamnuska. “It’s the inspiration for why many of us started to climb,” says Quentin. “I love training, but there’s a whole component to climbing that’s arguably way more powerful than performance, way more enduring and way deeper in a lot of ways.”  

 “Despite our best efforts, the mountains will always have the last word,” says Vikki. “And they will take us somewhere we didn’t expect to go.” Maybe that’s important. Maybe walking that fine line where fear rises in the chest teaches climbers something special. Maybe finding that place where mental fortitude overpowers physical strength is crucial to understanding the mountains. 

MOUNTAIN LESSONS

For Vikki and Quentin, the historical routes on Yam are a measurement from which to better understand their place in the climbing world. They are a conduit between eras and people, paths for Vikki and Quentin to discover what climbing is as well as their reasons for continuing to climb.  

“When we look at the mountains, it’s important to investigate the beauty of what happened in the past and to have our experiences in the here and now,” says Quentin. “What better place than Yam to get immersed in an era and style of climbing that is slowly vanishing from our community.” 

Repeating these routes and learning about their history creates an understanding of the treasures the mountains hold. It’s inspiration. It’s also a human-to-human connection on the most visceral level. “How much harder it is not knowing where you’re going. How much harder it is not having a topo to point the way or any idea of what gear to bring,” says Vikki. “How much more rewarding.” 

“They teach you something else too,” says Quentin, speaking about engaging with routes that push you mentally. “It’s almost like a spiritual growth that you get out of climbing these routes. It’s a perspective shift.” 

Making their way through one Yam route at a time, Vikki and Quentin uncover a new way of moving upwards—one where experience trumps accomplishment.

TOGETHER AMONG MOUNTAINS

“I’m a very safety conscious climber. I didn’t feel like I was putting myself in danger but,” Vikki pauses, “climbing on Yamnuska is always a little more dangerous. Everyone pays their dues on Yam.” 

“Routes that were done in an interesting way, routes that have a story to them, they often demand more than the physical difficulty of it,” says Quentin. “When you’re faced with big fall potential, what else are you going to do but keep going. It takes you into another realm.” 

On Yam, once you’re committed, you’re committed. You have to keep it together. And there’s something special about this. “It’s not to say that there shouldn’t be any safe routes,” says Quentin. “There are lots of safe routes and I climb those. But climbing in this style invites folks to engage with the mountains fully.” 

“One movement changed my mindset completely,” says Vikki, returning to the rockfall. Out there, searching for a hold high above her last piece of gear, she discovered a way forward. This fact is true for Leo, Hans, and Isabelle too. As they inched their way upwards, the rocks crumbling beneath their hands and feet, they found a new way of seeing the world—one that came from exposing themselves to uncertainty.  

“When you understand where you’re coming from, when you understand the lore of the mountains, you better understand who you are and where you want to go as a climber,” says Quentin. Then all that’s left is going for it.