Looking Back - “The Ascent of the Lions” - Written By John F. Latta

Prepared by Trudi and Rudi Leuthy for the LBHS

An account of the first ascent of the East Lions and the second ascent of the West Lion, during an extended September Labour Day holiday in 1903. The ascent was made by the three brothers – William Smith Latta, John F. Latta and Robert Peter Latta. Published by the City Archives, Vancouver, in 1953.

Although nearly fifty years have passed the annual event of Labour Day always brings to my mind that week in 1903 when my two brothers and I decided to climb ‘The Lions”. Previous less arduous excursions up Grouse and Crown had fired our ambition to seek a greater thrill. So on Saturday, September 5th, we set out on the great adventure. Our home at that time was in the ten hundred-block Homer Street then considered a fairly respectable residential neighborhood.

Across the street there was nothing but vacant C.P.R. property, where we used to pick wild blackberries on the slope between Homer Street and the railroad yards. Later, a part of this land next to Nelson Street was fenced in, and used for many years as a ballpark. That section of town had no streetcar service, so we had to walk to the North Vancouver ferry. We did not consider this any great hardship, for in those days legs were regarded as a legitimate means of transportation, and were supposed to be used for other purposes besides pushing down on a clutch or brake pedal.

Our equipment consisted of the following items. One tin cup, one empty lard pail, one saucepan, one small frying pan, one knife, three forks, two spoons, one cake of soap, one towel and a candle, (flashlights had not yet been invented), three pounds bacon, two pounds beans, one pound rice, two pounds dried peaches, a half pound of butter, quarter pound of tea, two loaves bread, a small quantity of salt and sugar and a one-pound tin of canned chicken. One pair of blankets, one ten-by-twelve canvas sheet, one had-axe, one 30-30 Savage rifle, matches in a waterproof case, and fifty feet of half-inch manilla rope. Our intentions with regard to the rope would not be properly equipped without it. As I had sternly advocated the elimination of all non-Essentials in order that we might travel as light as possible, I had objected to the butter and tea as being unheard-of luxuries to be encumbered with on a camping trip, but I was over-ruled. The majority tauntingly opined that if I had my way the commissary would consist only of dog biscuits and dried fish. The can of chicken was sneaked into the pack without my knowledge.

From previous experience, I knew that the trip would be hard on clothes, and not wanting to hazard damage of worth-while clothing, I donned an old suit and pair of shoes that were no longer decent enough for ordinary wear. I thought this would be a good opportunity to finish them off. As regards the latter part of that statement, my judgment proved to be infallible, but with regard to it being a ‘good’ opportunity it turned out to be lamentably the reverse, as will subsequently be shown.

Arriving on the North Shore we set off on the first of our journey of two and a half miles to the waterworks intake. A thumb as no use as an assist to transportation her, as the road was seldom traveled except by horse-drawn trucks hauling shingle bolts, or the occasional trip made by a waterworks inspector. The intake consisted of a log dam across the creek. A wire gate gave entrance to the fenced enclosure and it also marked the end of the road. An elderly man who lived in a cabin by the gate seemed to be the sole guardian. His duties were apparently limited to preventing anyone from fishing or bathing in the pool, and reporting on conditions at the intake. He told us we were not supposed to go beyond the gate, but as he turned his back, and there was a well-defined path around the cabin we assumed this was merely a formality, and proceeded on our way.

Reaching the mouth of Sisters Creek, which enters the Capilano on the west side, we crossed on some conveniently-located boulders in the river bed and began our climb up this steep boulder-choked watercourse. The day had been cloudy, and now a light rain began to fall, so we started looking out for a suitable campsite. About half a mile up the creek we came to a large log supported on boulders and offering some shelter underneath. Branches were cut to make a bed, and the canvas sheet stretched over the log to shed the rain.
Next morning we took time to prepare a good breakfast. The rain had ceased, and we continued on over the boulders and logjams, finding it pretty rough going, it was the end of the dry season, and the water only showed up in spots where the bedrock was exposed, Some hours of climbing brought us to the glacier on the east side of the eastern Lion. The melting ice from this glacier supplies the water for Sisters Creek. The creek emerges from a tunnel under the ice,

And we explored it as far in as daylight penetrated and enabled us to see anything. Above us were hundreds of feet of solid ice. Then we climbed up the steep talus-strewn south slope arriving in late afternoon on the plateau-like terrain between the two Lions. Examine the south and west precipitous feces of the eastern Lion, we agreed that those who had reported this mountain unclimbable were not far wrong. That night we camped on the plateau, making up a fairly comfortable bed with boughs cut from the scrubby cypress that grew all about. Not thinking about the high altitude, we put some beans on the boil, but after several hours on the fire they showed no signs of softening up, so we left them in the pot all night and used them next day. We made out very nicely however, on bread, bacon and stewed peaches. Some animal kept prowling around in the brush near us, but we could not find out what it was.

In the morning it was bitterly cold with frost on the ground but giving promise of a fine day. This day we climbed the western Lion and found the records left by Martin, King and Dalton who had made the climb on August 10th. (Arthur Tinniswood Dalton, afterwards Assessment Commissioner, City Hall Vancouver; Fellow, Royal Geographical Society; Atwell Dalton King, afterwards solicitor, B.C. Electric Co., Victoria; and George Martin railway official, B.C. Electric Co., Vancouver – climbed to the summit of the western Lion August 11th, 1903, and to symbolize their victory, flew a small Union Jack from its peak.) It was the finest day we had on the trip, warm and clear, but there was a strong wind on top of the mountain blowing down from Squamish, so we did not stay long. That night we camped again on the plateau after exploring the small peak that rises between the two Lions.

Tuesday morning we had planned to see some of the country lying to the north. But as we were passing the ice field lying against the north flank of the eastern peak, Will suggested taking a look at the side of the mountain. Chopping steps in the ice with the little axe he worked his way up to the top of the ice ridge, and from the vantage point shouted to us that he thought the peak could be climbed from that side. So dropping our packs we followed in his steps. By this time he had gone down the reverse slope, and was standing on the edge of a crevasse some five or six feet wide which separated the ice from the rock. It was not much of a jump, but the speculative part of it was: would you bounce back when you hit the other side? There was not much of a foothold to land on, and the act called for some exact timing, It was necessary to grab for a handhold at the same time as your feet hit the rock, to prevent bouncing backward, and taking an unscheduled tour down three or four hundred feet under the ice. Will being the most venturesome took the first jump and reported back that it was dead easy. Bert went next, and Will grabbed him as he landed. Then they started to pull themselves up by the bushes. I being of no consequence whatever was left to get across as best I could. Bert did not quite make good his first attempt, and slid back until his feet were about two inches from reaching the ledge he had just left. Hanging on to the root above he called to me to do something about it. My suggestion that he hang on until I went back to North Vancouver for a plank did not seem to strike him as funny. However, I soon had him by the legs and boosted him up to where he could get a better hold, it then occurred to me that we might have some real climbing to do and it was in order to use the rope. So we got hitched up in approved alpine style, one on each end of the rope and the other half way between, we struggled upward for a short distance, fumbling with the rope which would get caught on every sharp corner and root on the mountain. Once Bert got his leg in a bight and was in danger of being up feet first. Finally, after having the rope whip smartly past my head, nearly severing one of my ears, we concluded that ropes were meant for professional mountaineers.  For us it was more of a menace than a help. So we got unhitched, coiled up the rope and dropped it where it could be recovered on the way back. The rest of the climb to the top was unexpectedly easy. There was plenty of brush to grab. It was wonderful what feeling of security you get when hanging on to a friendly bush, rather than risking your safety on a projecting piece of rotten rock that may come away in your hand.

Will was the first up and searched about for evidence of any previous climbers, but there was none. Over us came that feeling of reverent awe that one experiences when treading for the first time a spot that has never known man since God raised it up out of the sea.

Having a small diamond nose chisel in my pocket and using the axe head as a hammer, I chipped our name on a granite slab. It was a clear day and we lingered there for some time enjoying the superb view, the clean uncontaminated air, and that feeling of spiritual exaltation one seems to find only on a mountaintop.

The climb down was pleasant and uneventful, and on reaching the lower levels again we were entertained for a while watching a herd of about twenty mountain goats clambering about on the cliffs the other side of the glacier. As there was still some of the afternoon left we pushed on for about an hour before making camp. I was now becoming deeply concerned about the condition on my clothes from the waist down. My shoes had been showing signs of serious deterioration and a disinclination to log any further mileage. Relations between the soles and the upper had been strained to the breaking point. My efforts to save the situation by tying them together with string had proved dismally ineffective, this evening complete disintegration had taken place and I had to throw them away. Luckily, I had brought along a pair of buckskin moccasins for evening wear, and these I had to depend on to finish the trip and carry me back to the city. My pants had also suffered severely. They were badly torn in several places and were only held together by wishful thinking on my part. Wednesday dawned dull and threatening, but leaving our packs in camp we went to explore the picturesque country lying to the north. This is very charming country resembling the highlands of Scotland. The ground is covered with the pink flowering heath interspersed with pretty green conifers giving it a park-like setting. Several small lakes that feed the Capilano River add greatly to its charm.

Near one of the lakes we found the bones of a deer, evidently the victim of a cougar, as there were many cougar signs about. Outside of the few grouse we saw no other game, and there was an almost total absence of birds, a regrettable feature of most of our B.C. mountain and forest areas.

Back at camp we build up a good fire to dry out our wet clothes, squatting about and getting supper, arrayed as Nature’s children, until our clothes were dry enough to put on again. Then under the canvas for the night. During the night the rain increased, and by morning it was coming down in that unrelenting downpour so familiar to coast dwellers. The rain continued all that day and we did not wander far away from the camp. Next morning we were due to start back and we hoped the rain would spend itself during the night. However, morning brought no relief, but our time was up and we had to get ready to move. Our route led us to the edge of the heath-clad meadows, where the stream pitches down into a sort of gorge. This is really the beginning of the Capilano River. Owing to the canyon-like walls there was no place to walk but in the stream bed itself. We had not gone far when I was made forcibly aware of the treacherous nature of moccasins on wet rocks. The grease that comes out when wet, makes them as slippery as if the rocks were coated with ice. My feet flew out from under me and I came down backwards on the hard unyielding rocks.

After that, I picked my way along as if I were treading on Grad “A” eggs. For an hour or so we plodded along in the stream bed, then the gorge widened out and we were able to climb out and follow along the bank. This was much better except that the salmonberry bushes paid most embarrassing attention to what was left of my trousers, and I emerged from the first tangle, with nothing left but about six inches next to the waistband. The giant devil’s club also grew along the bank in great profusion, and kept making caressing passes at my bare legs, and affectionate gesture which was certainly not reciprocated. In places we would run into a projecting bluff, forcing us to ford the stream and continue down the other bank until faced with a similar formation on that side. Three times we had to ford the stream, and each time it became more difficult as the water was rising. Then we came to the great spruce swamp where the walking was easier. Hour after hour we plodded on the wet moss among the somber spruces, whose dripping tops disappeared in the mist overhead, and still the rain came down. Each minute we expected to break out on to higher ground, but every bend in the stream just revealed more spruces and more swamp.

The day was almost spent and we did not relish the idea of spending a night in the swamp, but finally decided there was nothing else for it but to make camp while there was still light enough left to enable us to get together some fuel. It is no easy problem in semi-darkness, to find anything combustible in a swamp, in pouring rain. We gathered small twigs from the drier side of the spruce trees, and managed, despite our clumsy swollen fingers to get a fire going.

It was not a great deal of comfort to us, as the heat generated was not much more than enough to dry the moisture out of the fuel. But we were able to keep it going all night. Sometime about midnight I was lying with my back as close up to the fire as I could get, and the welcome heat seemed at last to be getting through to my perished system. Presently it got a little too hot for comfort, believe it or not, and I shifted further away. Still it kept getting warmer. Then the smell of burning rags awoke my dulled senses to the fact that something else besides the fire was burning. Getting up and investigating, I found the back of my coat had been burned off. That was a long, long night. Things looked more hopeful in the morning, for the rain had ceased and we started off in better spirits, but with empty stomachs, as we had finished up the last of the grub last night at supper. All but six pieces of dried fruit were left which we decided to hold on to as an emergency ration. We had not tramped more than twenty minutes when we broke out of the swamp on the high ground we had so anxiously looked for the night before, when we could have had a good fire and spent the night in comfort. On the west bank of the river we made out what looked like a man-made trail, and we assayed our final crossing. By this time the river, swollen by the rains, was running swift and strong almost waist deep. Will got across by using a pole to steady himself and with one end of the rope which Will and I kept taut between us. I don’t know how we could have got him across without the rope, as he was nearly all in. The previous day he had been doggedly stumbling, along, not saying anything, in a sort of daze. So the rope turned out to be of some use after all. I have sometimes wondered if, when he was lying in the trenches in Flanders, where he gave his life, he was reminded of the night we spend in the Capilano swamp.

It was good to find a rail path under our feet again, and the warm sun soon dried us out and chased the misery from our bones. About eleven o’clock we stopped to rest and divided up the dried fruit, two pieces to each and nothing left over. Then on to the river crossing we had used on the way up. A few miles further down we stopped at a logging camp, where Will went in to see if he could borrow a pair of pants for me. I kept under cover until he returned with a pair that a good-hearted Swede had let him have for 50 cents. Judging by the size, that Swede must have been about seven feet heigh and broad in proportion, for the pants came up to my armpits, and even then the legs had to be rolled up about six inches to keep them from dragging on the ground, but I was clothed in comparative respectability once more. God bless the Swedes! The soles of the moccasins were worn completely through by this time, but that did not worry me greatly. I had walked in my bare feet before.

There was nothing ahead of us now but the long weary trek to the ferry. In those days the last trip was about 6:30 P.M. and we had to whip up our jaded legs to make it. Will forged ahead and stopped at Jack McMillan’s store long enough to get some biscuits to keep our stomachs from caving in. Home was reached about 8:00 o’clock where a good supper awaited us although we were almost too tired to eat. All had a hot bath and tumbled into bed, where we stayed until ten o’clock next morning.

I have watched the population grow from twenty thousand to nearly half a million, and the tax burden has become heavier every year as the population increased. That odious word “parking” had not yet been coined, and traffic was regulated by the good sense of those who used the roads. An hour’s walk would take us out into the woods, where nature could be enjoyed by the poorest without cost. Progress we have attained in great measure. Yes, but it seems we have paid a heavy price. Freedom and contentment have had to go down under the Juggernaut of progress. Through all the changes that Vancouver has passed, from a small town to a seething metropolis, the Lions have looked down unperturbed by the hectic scrambling of restless, ambitious men. Their unchanging serenity is a tonic to the souls of those who, in their perplexity, wonder what it is all about and how it all will end. We can be thankful that God made something that man, in all his conceit, cannot destroy. When we look up to The Lions, in their calm enduring majesty, we feel comforted and assured that, so long as they stand guard over our destiny, no great harm can befall.

Note: A couple of years ago, my husband Rudy and I were invited to a party. As we were introduced to other guests I heard the name Latta. Ms. Latta was indeed related to the famous Latta brothers. The Latta brothers were her three uncles. She never married, became a missionary and resided in North Vancouver. She told me that her father was too young to be a part of the 1903 Labour Day “The Ascent to the Lions” weekend with his 3 big brothers. Trudi.

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