Chronicles of a Montreal Tour Guide: The Mountain In The Middle

When I was 19 I waited tables at the depressing Montreal restaurant chain, Mikes, on the corner of Jean-Talon and Clark. As I walked by the condos that inevitably replaced the old diner last week, I thought about the patron who came in almost every other day, with a new fellow. She ordered the same items, sat at the same table, faced the same direction and after greeting me as if the first time I served her on her fourth visit, I became aware of what my role in our relationship was. The restaurant was her first date spot and I was her first date waiter. Wherever you are, you’re welcome.

On an online dating site the other night a chap asked me what I suggested we do for the first time we were to meet in person. My response: the mountain. Really? Like, do what on the mountain?.. I decided to take the dog up instead. I’ve had a few first dates on Mount Royal, a few last dates too. The mountain is, and has been, a big part of my life from the days of my early childhood when it served as the front lawn of our apartment on de l’Esplanade. Whoever Mr. Right is going to be, he is at least going to enjoy a little time spent there.

The mountain is a large part of all of Montrealers’ lives as our hill sits smack in the middle of our metropolis. We have all studied at one of the institutions flanked between her and the city, welcomed new life at one of the hospitals that cling to her edges, said our goodbyes to loved ones at one of her cemeteries and have each tried to get away from all of the latter by taking the time to breath when walking her sinuous trails. Overlooked and underappreciated at times, we wouldn’t be the city we are today nor named Montreal if not for the butte, though some toponymists may beg to differ.

In 1874, the green space became the first natural site to be protected by law in Québec, just two years before a good chunk of that green space became the park we’ve come to love, and thank god for that. Imagine what would have become of our town had we built on, deforested and constructed taller than the island’s mesa.

Our skyscrapers, in a downtown squeezed between her peaks and the river, don’t scrape much thanks to a city by-law introduced to not obstruct the views of and from her summits. 200 metres, excluding antennas, is the limit. 1000 rue de la Gauchetière, the city’s tallest tower, got away with 205 metres..

The construction of our park was in large part the fruit of the reaction by the public against the fact that some locals were selling wood from the trees they levelled from her forest. Ironically, nearly a century later, our beloved mayor Jean Drapeau tore up thousands of trees, cleared bushes and gave us what citizens were calling the bald mountain. Why? To stop mainly gay men from performing acts of indecency in her bushes. Just a few men pre-Tinder era on successful first dates I reckon. Drapeau, who brought us the world’s fair and the XI Olympiad, would have levelled the mountain as part of one of his “great” projects if up to him.

In fact, due to this (and the 1998 Ice Storm), in the 90’s a massive reforestation plan began to take shape thanks to Les Amis de la Montagne, an organization promoting sustainability and conservation of our hill since 1986. It saw over 200 000 bushes and some 11 000 trees planted to coincide with our city’s 350th anniversary. Patches of these younger trees still stand out today.

What other modification can we thank Drapeau for ? Well, Camellien Houde, the mayor who preceded him, was totally opposed to having any vehicles other than trams intersect Mount Royal (the number 11 bus we know today is a throwback to the number 11 tram of yesteryear). In 1958, after Houde’s passing, Drapeau built a million dollar road that sliced the ridge in two and named it after his predecessor as a political go phoque yourself.

When the decision was finally made to create the million dollar park, a genius was brought up to Montreal from the United States to design what became one of our city’s best assets. At a time when urban parks were all the rage, Frederick Law Olmsted did to North American cities what urban planners and landscape architects fail miserably to do today. If you want to read up on his very eclectic life, pick up a copy of “A Genius of Place” at the CCA.

Olmsted’s ethos was simple, less is more. The mountain was to remain, or feel more like a mountain after he was done with it than before he laid eyes on it. The paths follow an unnoticeable incline to its main summit. Each bike ride, snow shoe, ski or walk along his path is to be concluded with that “I made it” feeling of achievement. The skyline begins to break through the balustrade of the lookout and we lay eyes on the city we forgot existed for a brief half hour. Job well done Fred..

Olmsted also wanted the space to be for all citizens. From the wealthy on it’s southern slopes to the poor who lived in the city below the hill the rich could watch from their homes high above. That assorted usage still exists today and at no shortage considering the nearly five million visitors the mountain receives every year, more than double the population of the island of Montreal.

To avoid the crowds, one of my favourite times to go is 9:00 am. The madly motivated early morning joggers are showered and in nine-to-five attire and the sometimes hordes of tourists don’t normally arrive until after 10:00 am. Occasionally, I have the fortune at the belvedere to be able to grab one of those fantastic lawn chairs and read the paper all to myself, and it’s a beautiful feeling. Another favourite time to enjoy the tranquility is in the winter, at night. No leaves means the moonlight shines through abundantly. The snow helps reflect that light and you could actually see unlike on summer nights.