Twenty GMCs Later
20 GMCs Later
By Bill Summers
What has kept me coming back — and what I hope will continue to draw people to the GMC.
The General Mountaineering Camp (GMC) means many things to many people, for a wide range of reasons. For me, it has always been about the people. Some of those I met at my very first camp in 2003 at Snowy Pass remain close friends to this day. That sense of connection—formed through shared challenges in remote places, often far from the distractions of everyday life—is powerful, and it endures.
I’ll admit I arrived at that first camp with a fair bit of trepidation. I wasn’t sure what to expect, or even if I truly belonged. But it didn’t take long for that uncertainty to fade. The guides, volunteer leaders, and the camp manager at the time, Brad Harrison, created an environment that was welcoming, encouraging, and quietly confidence-building. They taught me more than technical skills—they showed me that I could climb mountains. That realization, simple as it sounds, was transformative. It changed how I saw myself and what I thought was possible.
Over the years, I had the privilege of attending several GMCs with Richard and Louise Guy. They were an inspiration to all of us, continuing to attend camps well into their 80s. There was something deeply meaningful about witnessing their continued enthusiasm—their presence alone spoke volumes about what the GMC meant. We all understood how instrumental they were in helping sustain the camps through difficult times, especially through Louise’s letter-writing campaign, and their commitment left a lasting impression on many of us.
That message resonated with me in a very personal way. It made me reflect not only on what I had gained from the GMC, but also on the responsibility I might carry to help ensure its future.
That reflection ultimately led to my decision to give back—to donate $20,000 to the Alpine Club of Canada, $1,000 for each year I attended a GMC. It felt like a fitting way to recognize what those experiences had given me and to help ensure that others would have the same opportunity in the years ahead.
For many, it becomes the starting point of a lifelong relationship with the mountains. It is a place where people discover not only new skills but also a new sense of confidence. It is where individuals push beyond what they thought were their limits, often surprising themselves in the process. And it is a camp that is inclusive of all ages, bringing together people from all walks of life.
A camp doesn’t reach 120 years without an extraordinary network of people behind it. The camp managers and coordinators, the cooks who somehow produce incredible meals in remote settings, the guides and volunteer leaders who carry both responsibility and mentorship, the setup and teardown crews, and those working behind the scenes at the ACC head office all play a critical role. The GMC is truly a collective effort.
I’ve been fortunate to climb alongside exceptional guides such as Peter Amann, Sylvia Forest, and Brett Lawrence, as well as dedicated volunteer leaders like Chuck Young, Peter Finley, and Allan Main. They have ensured my safety, just as we have looked out for one another, but they have also opened my eyes to the deeper beauty of the mountains. That beauty reveals itself in different ways—standing on a summit after a long ascent, navigating through vast glaciated terrain, or simply sitting quietly in an alpine meadow surrounded by wildflowers, taking it all in.
Tradition is at the heart of every GMC. Some traditions evolve over time, while others remain the glue that connects one generation of campers to the next. The end-of-day storytelling is always a highlight. Sometimes the stories are straightforward accounts of the day’s climb; other times they grow into something far more entertaining, with creative embellishments that leave everyone laughing.
Then there are the meals—consistently remarkable given the setting—which fuel both body and spirit. And, of course, there are Happy Hours at the end of the day and the Friday night wrap-up: a celebration that brings together poems, skits, songs, and a shared sense of accomplishment.
Over the years, I’ve had the opportunity to host several of those wrap-ups. One that stands out in particular was at Moby Dick Camp. During a rest day spent in an alpine meadow filled with flowers, Lesley Young and I wrote a play based on Moby-Dick. What followed was a full camp production with roles for everyone: an ensemble cast, a choir, commercial breaks, and even theatre critics. It was creative, slightly chaotic, and a perfect reflection of the spirit of the GMC—people coming together, contributing what they can, and creating something memorable.
In more than 20 years of attending GMCs, no two camps have ever been the same.
Each year brought a new location—some focused on rock climbing, others on steep snow and glaciers—all in remote areas of western Canada. That variety is part of the appeal. There is something uniquely rewarding about climbing peaks that are not widely known, in places where few others have stood. They may not be famous summits, but they are no less meaningful. In many ways, those quieter, less-travelled places leave the strongest impressions.
While the GMC is not solely about reaching summits, those moments do carry significance. In the camp’s centennial year, a tradition was introduced to recognize climbing achievements: Bronze for one peak, Silver for ten, Gold for twenty-five, and Platinum for fifty. It’s not just about the numbers—it’s about the journey behind them. Guides and participants alike work to ensure that everyone has the opportunity to reach at least one summit during their time at camp.
Achieving Silver or Gold is something to be proud of, but reaching Platinum speaks to a deep and enduring commitment to the GMC. Those who reach that milestone are invited to reflect on what they have learned, often sharing stories that capture the spirit of the experience in ways that resonate with everyone present.
Of course, like many things, the cost of attending a GMC has increased over time. While those who are more established may be able to absorb that cost, it can present a real barrier for those just beginning their journey into mountaineering. That reality was another factor in my decision to contribute. If the GMC had such a profound impact on me, then helping make it accessible to others felt important.
The ACC has used part of these funds, as well as a substantial contribution from Bruce Gelb, with whom I have attended many GMCs, to support grants for first-time attendees aged 18 to 40—individuals who are often at a stage where the opportunity could make a lasting difference. It’s a small step, but one that I hope will open the door for others.
I see our contribution not as an endpoint, but as a beginning—a seed that can grow over time. My hope is that others will reflect on what the GMC has meant to them: the friendships formed, the challenges overcome, and the moments of quiet awe in extraordinary places. And perhaps, in that reflection, they may feel inspired to give back in their own way.
There are many meaningful ways to support the Alpine Club of Canada, and my contribution is modest in comparison to what others have done through scholarships, awards, and infrastructure. But for me, the GMC is where the ACC has had the most profound impact on my life.
If this contribution helps ensure that the GMC continues to thrive—if it allows others to discover what I discovered, to challenge themselves, to form lasting friendships, and to build a connection with the mountains—then it has been worthwhile.
And I hope it is only the beginning.
Donate to the GMC Access Fund
Click the ‘Donate’ button to help support The GMC Access Fund. You too, can help to provide a full-funded spot on the GMC for someone who may not otherwise have the means to attend.
Apply for the GMC Access Grant
You can also apply to receive this grant. Every year, two entrants are selected to attend the GMC for free, so that they can connect with the longest standing tradition in Canadian mountaineering.
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