Despite grand schemes to "improve" Mount Royal, it remains an oasis of green, and now citizens want to keep it that way
By John Sobol
EVERY SUNNY, summer Sunday afternoon, the monument to Sir George-Étienne Cartier on the eastern slope of Mount Royal becomes the focal point of a remarkable celebration. Without any official organization, these Sunday gatherings have become a fixture of Montreal's summer life. People of all ages and nationalities congregate to make music, dance, play sports, talk, sleep, sunbathe, and simply enjoy each other's company. Dozens of drummers pound out the day's rhythm on rattles or drums from as many countries. On the nicest Sundays, several thousand people make a point of stopping by between noon and 9 p.m., when the sun goes down and the celebrants go home. No one remembers there having been a fight, or a problem that could not be handled by someone present.
The feelings generated on these Sunday afternoons reaffirm the deep attachment Montrealers feel to Mount Royal. Almost every citizen has fond memories of walks, talks, romantic interludes, picnics, winter games and summer sports, blizzards and balmy summer days on "the mountain." Even those few residents who do not find time to visit their city's largest park are still taken in from afar by the rich green of the mountain's spring bloom and the tapestry of crimson in the fall.
Because of the mountain's size (190 hectares) and central location, access is easy from much of the city. More than 150,000 people live within a 15-minute walk of its slopes, and about 10 times that many can reach it by bus or Metro. Trudging through the woods, climbing up to a lookout, or feeding ducks on Beaver Lake -- even a short outing can bring relative peace to a mind troubled by countless urban woes.
Whether they come from near or far, the mountain receives plenty of visitors: more than three million last year. Forty-eight percent of Montreal's population went at least once in 1990. Yet, only on the hottest summer holidays does it ever feel crowded. Popular as it is, the mountain remains an area of enormous tranquillity and natural beauty.
Despite its grand name, Mount Royal is really little more than a knoll, one of a series known collectively as the Monteregian Hills. These ancient volcanic hills, which include nearby Mont St-Bruno and Mont St-Hilaire, rise up out of the plains between the Laurentian and the Appalachian mountain ranges. At its highest point Mount Royal reaches 225 metres, slightly more than one-third the height of Toronto's CN Tower.
Mount Royal is, however, the most notable geographic feature of the island of Montreal, and is visible from any part of it. The mountain is essentially a big block of gabbro, a type of igneous rock, with three rounded equidistant peaks. Two of these peaks, located in the municipalities of Outremont and Westmount, slope gradually for several kilometres. The third and highest peak, the one which most Montrealers think of as Mount Royal, has such steep cliffs that from the top it feels like you are leaning right over downtown.
The mountain is thickly covered with ash, birch, maple, oak and pine trees. These forests, like others in city parks, are filled with squirrels, raccoons and chipmunks, but one can also find rabbits and a few foxes. Dozens of species of birds make stops on the mountain during migration, and owls are known to nest in its more isolated spots.
What do people do on the mountain? On a recent winter's day I walked along Olmsted Road, the broad dirt pedestrian and cycling path that winds from base to summit, and took note.
Olmsted Road is so wide, about 15 metres in some places, that it never feels crowded. Two lanes of cross-country ski tracks run the length of it, and as I walked, families, couples and individuals passed by, struggling up or coasting down the gradual slope. There are also about 20 kilometres of marked ski trails on the mountain, meandering in and out of the bush.
Below one stretch of the road swirled a cascade of colour where scores of brightly clad children slid down frozen hills on toboggans, saucers, fancy sleds, and waxed cardboard boxes. Farther on there were hundreds more doing the same near Beaver Lake.
At one point, a pack of exuberant boys whistled by on snowboards, followed by a friend on a BMX bicycle. Then, lined up like an Olympic team, came a half-dozen serious-looking mountain bikers on their way up. These bikers raise the ire of mountain enthusiasts, who insist they are doing considerable damage to Mount Royal's many forest trails -- to say nothing of the danger to hikers. Last year, municipal police handed out more than 500 $50 fines to bikers who cycled off designated trails.
Near the mountain's summit stands a large stone chalet. This building was clearly built to serve a different purpose than its current one, which is to provide a warm and tranquil place to sit and have a coffee. The chalet yearns to be monumental. Its grand staircase, marble floor, enormous vaulted ceiling, and the giant wooden squirrels perched mysteriously in the rafters, give the chalet a forlorn solemnity. Built in 1932, it was intended to serve as a gala reception hall.
Nowadays it is only rarely used by the city to host important dinners or conferences. But for the old men who sit in the corner playing cards or the thoughtful wanderers staring at the faraway horizon or the city below, it is one of the most attractive and democratic sites in the city. Anybody can sit there for hours, for free, and feel on top of the world.
The chalet's other attractions are a small nature display, a miserably outdated canteen, and a series of large panels depicting the equally outdated colonialist view of Quebec's history. Two of Quebec's most renowned painters, Paul-Emile Borduas and Marc-Aurèle Fortin, painted several of the chalet's canvases, although these are not their finest works.
Behind the chalet the road continues to rise, circling the summit. But the road is only one route to the top. I will never forget the first time a friend brought me along the path that skirts the edge of the mountain's steep clifftops. Worn smooth by generations of adventurous sightseers, the trail winds through the trees, occasionally emerging into small clearings from which you can look out as far as the eye can see east and northward. Rocky ledges provide stable seating, and here and there are extinguished bonfire sites (fires, by the way, are illegal), where urban campers have held late-night vigils. I doubt whether any other city can provide such an exhilarating trek in its very centre.
It was at the foot of the highest peak that the island's original inhabitants, the Iroquois, had their villages. And it was there also that in 1642 Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, planted a cross and claimed the land for France. It was between this peak and the St. Lawrence River that a small French community, Ville Marie, was founded in 1642, struggled, and slowly grew into a thriving city. It was against the backdrop of this mountain that Montreal shaped an image of itself, an identity that has lasted centuries.
During its first 200 years, the city expanded mainly along the river, but by the mid-19th century the core of the city had begun to shift northward and inland. Expanded commercial and industrial activity in the port had led many merchants and residents to move closer to the mountain, along Sherbrooke and Ste-Catherine streets. During this period the mountain was privately owned and little used. Annual snowshoeing and hunting expeditions were held on it, but little else. It was densely forested and only the outlying slopes had roads. Many of these roads -- which began as footpaths -- remain today as important thoroughfares, such as C├┤te-des-Neiges.
Like other cities, Montreal's rapid population growth led to terribly unsanitary conditions. Epidemics of cholera led to mass burials and widespread calls for the creation of a large, distant, cemetery. Thus in 1855 Notre-Dame-des-Neiges cemetery was established in the wide valley between the mountain's three peaks. It might seem strange that people would picnic in a cemetery, but because it was the first large public green space, the cemetery was a popular destination for Sunday outings. Even today, many Montrealers like to jug or stroll along its 56 kilometres of roads.
The mountain was already integrated into the urban fabric when in 1860 a curious event spurred the creation of Mount Royal Park. During that particularly cold winter, a certain Mr. Lamothe cut down all the trees on his property for firewood. Nothing out of the ordinary you might say, except that his sizable property covered much of the mountain. Mount Royal looked awful, almost wounded. Montrealers were outraged. Nothing before had driven home how important the mountain was to the city.
From 1869 to 1875, Mr. Lamothe and 15 other individuals who owned land on the mountain were expropriated or bought out by the City of Montreal for the then impressive sum of $1 million. Then the city hired the landscaper who had designed New York's Central Park and Yosemite National Park. Frederick Law Olmsted would turn the mountain into an extraordinary urban park.
Olmsted was a visionary; yet in 1875 few shared his views. Nonetheless, his design was well received by the city's leaders. Others might have trembled at the size of such a task; instead Olmsted pronounced himself boldly upon the fate of Mount Royal: "If it is to be cut up with roads and walks, spotted with shelters, and streaked with staircases; if it is to be strewn with lunch papers, sardine cans and paper collars; and if thousands of people are to seek their recreation upon it unrestrainedly, each according to his special tastes, it is likely to lose whatever of natural charm you saw in it."
Olmsted's plan was to limit access to the mountain to ensure that it remained distinct from the rest of the city, to emphasize its varied topography, and to camouflage the necessary but unsightly tourist and maintenance facilities. Olmsted even insisted that "the mountain"should retain its popular name and not be called a park. His refusal to compromise, urbanize or commercialize the mountain was far ahead of its time, and remains today the symbolic foundation of all popular resistance to attempts to develop the mountain. Few visitors know about Olmsted's principles, but his ecological ethos is evident everywhere in the park's design.
Needless to say, his success has done little to discourage developers from trying to improve on it. In 1939, city councillors debated a plan to build a tunnel from downtown to a mall carved from solid rock beneath the mountain. The mall would have housed a zoo, a planetarium and shops. An elevator would have carried people to the top of the mountain. Surprisingly, some councillors were in favour of it, but the project was not passed.
The 1930s, however, did see the construction of Beaver Lake on Mount Royal. The lake, as well as an enormous cross on the summit, erected by Quebec's nationalist Société St-Jean-Baptiste, were built as a result of the province's many make-work programs during the Depression. The cross, fully illuminated at night, is a bold reminder of an earlier era in Quebec's history.
Today Beaver Lake has become one of the mountain's most popular areas. On summer weeknights, folk dances by the lake attract young and old. There one might hear Armenian, Irish, Norwegian or Portuguese music and learn the appropriate dances. By the end of the summer the regulars get quite good and it can be as entertaining to watch as to dance.
On winter nights, red-cheeked couples skate hand in hand on the frozen lake. Solitary skiers come swishing out of the woods and shake themselves off before entering the warm chalet. Boisterous teenagers can be heard tobogganing down the facing hill, oblivious to the cold and dark. Steam clouds the chalet windows and seeps from the doors, along with the familiar smells of damp wool and hot chocolate. The city seems a thousand miles away.
Over the years, city council has also considered running cable cars from Ile Ste-Hélène in the St. Lawrence River to the mountaintop, establishing a military base at the summit, building a Mount Royal observatory, hospital and concert hall, and even, in the late 1950s, an elevated highway encircling the entire mountain.
One of the most bizarre episodes in the mountain's history took place in 1954, when the city's newspapers began a campaign to clean up the mountain--morally, not physically. Editorials charged that the mountain's deep forests were simply too popular a place for young men and women to meet in secret. Furthermore, it was reported that alcohol was clandestinely drunk there. So the city instituted what were called "morality cuts." Dozens of workers were sent onto the mountain and instructed to uproot all the underbrush. Unfortunately, as a result, trees began to die in large numbers. Within five years the park was known as Bald Mountain. A replanting campaign followed soon after, but it took more than 20 years for the mountain to regain a semblance of its previous self.
Since its inception, the park has been patrolled by mounted municipal police. A police station and stables were built in 1941. Today, 14 officers and 10 immaculately groomed horses share daily patrol duties year round, while at night police use cars. In the early years of the station, officers also patrolled on skis. The mountain's stables are open to the public and receive more than 10,000 visitors annually.
Sgt. Gilles Legros, who oversees the mounted force, says being posted to Mount Royal is a high reward for a Police officer. "You have to have served 28 years to apply for the transfer, and there's a long waiting list. You don't have to know how to ride a horse, training is provided by fellow officers," he says.
Legros affirms the mountain is a safe place: "We have only one or two violent incidents reported a year. Our biggest problem is people breaking into cars, and even that isn't so common."
No major modifications to the mountain have been made in almost 30 years. It has settled into the sort of comfortable shabbiness that characterizes much of Montreal. Benches, trash cans and water fountains are in short supply, but thankfully so are neon signs, street lamps and loudspeakers. And while a few minor improvements would be welcome, for most Montrealers, less is more.
At least that is what people told Mayor Jean Doré last year when he held hearings on the future of the mountain. Doré and his planners had proposed building a funicular (a cable railway) up the steep north face and a small public ski hill next to it, closing the scenic and time-saving Camilien Houde Parkway that runs over the mountain, as well as renovating the whole park. All of these suggestions were roundly criticized in public hearings and have since been dropped.
By far the most interesting idea to emerge in recent years has been the three-summit plan. The idea is to link all three of the mountain's peaks by a nature path, similar to Olmsted Road. Much of the land on the Outremont side, for example, is owned by large institutions such as the University of Montreal, which have refrained from developing the higher slopes. For years this land -- the last virgin forest on the mountain -- has been a sort of unofficial park. But because few Montrealers are aware of its existence it has remained largely unvisited.
The proposal would incorporate this land, as well as the two cemeteries, and all other available natural terrain on the mountain, into one giant park. A walking tour (or winter ski trail) around the mountain could extend for 15 kilometres. A walk this long is already possible by cutting through a fence here and there, but a broad, well-maintained path would undoubtedly be popular.
In 1987, the cities of Montreal, Outremont and Westmount formed a committee to study the three-peak plan. This committee now also includes representatives of all the major institutions on the mountain which are working out the problems that might arise when their immediate surroundings are turned into parkland.
The three-summit proposal was developed by a group called Les Amis de la montagne. Originally formed in 1986 in opposition to plans to build a communications tower on the mountain, Les Amis have since been the catalyst for wide-ranging changes to the city's management of the site. As a result of lobbying by the 6,000-member organization, the city ordered a thorough study of the mountain's current land use and future development. Public hearings followed, at which 80 individuals and organizations presented briefs. A report on those consultations is in the hands of the executive council; their final recommendations are expected next fall.
Nathalie Zinger, one of the founders of Les Amis, says that "what is really needed is a genuine administration for the mountain, with its own personnel, budget and mandate." The responsibility for Mount Royal is currently divided between a handful of city agencies, and as a result, bureaucratic haggling is far more prevalent than action.
Zinger has visited the mountain since she was a young girl. She knows every inch of it and sometimes gives walking tours. Yet despite her familiarity, she says what she enjoys the most about the mountain is the sense of discovery she feels every time she goes there.
In 1987, Les Amis convinced the City of Montreal to create the position of park administrator, which was filled by forestry engineer Paul-Émile Rocray. Yet Rocray is virtually powerless without permanent staff or an adequate budget. To have a light bulb replaced, Rocray must ask the municipal department of public works. "They gave him a title but no management structure, no team," says Zinger.
Rocray, whose office is near the mountain, says he is doing the best he can with what is available. "For 30 years the mountain was neglected. Erosion, for example, is a terrible problem and we're working on that now, putting in a new drainage system. The one we have is 80 years old. We're trying to make the cheapest, most efficient improvements we can. Our goal is to make the mountain a better park without actually becoming landlords."
Mount Royal's physical and emotional presence is so powerful that the idea of changing it immediately raises fierce opposition among city residents. This is as it should be, for it is this kind of vigilance that has maintained the natural integrity of Montreal's favourite recreational spot for more than a century.
But changes are inevitable. In the past, homes and hospitals, cathedrals and arenas have been built on the mountain's lower slopes. Yet, if the three-peak plan is eventually realized, Montrealers can look forward to an ambitious and environmentally creative addition to what is already the most magical park in the city.
