Revisiting your lunch
Some of the talks are performed during what the Banff organisers call 'literary lunches'. Your correspondent's ligger antennae were particularly stimulated by this term - it sounded like free grub. It was more than that. It was Cordon Bleu cookery served by flunkies in bow ties and there were fine wines and Belgian chocolates as well. Banff certainly knows how to treat a lady, and I for one was quite happy to pretend to be a media whore for the day. People were seated in tables of four, a bit like a jazz club, while the nominated speaker was perched on a high stool on a stage, Dave Allen - style, while he read out an excerpt from his latest book. On this occasion we got fun-sized US adventurer Rick Ridgeway reading from his tome Under Another Sky. Unfortunately the passage he chose to entertain diners with described his re-discovery of the body of a friend, 20 years after they were both avalanched on a Tibetan mountain. As Ridgeway described what the Himalayan Ravens (but certainly not ones not called 'Colin') had done by way of rearranging his pal's mortal remains, you could see the folk putting their knives and forks down and beginning to go quite green. Even your correspondent began to lose appetite. I began to feel perhaps literary lunches weren't such a good idea after all.

>> Our own Simon Yates - top geezer

The darkness beckons
Luckily, we soon had the film fest to distract us from all that carnage in the mountains. Featured films included National Geographic's bullet-strewn 'Into the Forbidden Zone' following the Northern Alliance's assault on the Taliban, while themed panel sessions included 'War and the Mountains'. Distinguished but jolly roly-poly Bombay mountaineer Harish Kapadia made an impassioned plea for mountainous flash points around the world to be designated "Peace Parks". 'It is time to end all the argie-bargy in the mountains' was his verdict. Or was that Haji-Bhaji? Who knows, possibly not even Harish. The only thing that was certain was that we were in North America, and the events of September 11th cast a long shadow, even to the sparkling slopes of the Canadian Rockies.

But don't think that the fest was at all gloomy. Lifting the atmosphere was Slovenian superalpinist Tomaz Humar, the undoubted Clown Prince of Banff 2001. Humar, who is perhaps best known for his extraordinarily risky nine-day solo of Daulagiri's South Face and numerous other Russian Roulette style climbs, turned up on crutches - the result, not of a mountaineering accident but a DIY mishap (he fell 10ft into a construction hole at home, breaking both legs). Despite this drawback, Humar, stumped around at high speed, greeting everyone in his way with a "Slovenian handshake"; which resembled arm-wrestling with an hyperactive chimpanzee. Humar's live presentation of his 'one way ticket' climbs was as astonishing as it was expletive-rich. The animated Slovenian explained how he achieved nine consecutively successful high altitude expeditions between 1992 and 1999, often solo and frequently without a helmet. Friends had been blown off ridges to oblivion in front of him, others had succumbed to avalanches and some had OD'd on oedemas. But Humar had come through it all still smiling without so much as a nosebleed. "I am professional tourist", declared Humar. "Professional Kamikaze Pilot more like," voiced someone in the audience.

>> The "injured" Tomas Humar staging a remarkable recovery

Running on auteur-pilot
As well as the plentiful live entertainment of course, there were the films - and the choice was overwhelming. Over 250 films were submitted to this year's fest and this had been whittled down to a mere 39. These ran in two separate theatres featuring subjects as diverse as bouldering, ice, mountaineering, wildlife, environment, culture, extreme ski, basejumping, sailing, kayaking, mountain biking, fictional drama, and war documentary. The atmosphere at the film screenings was ace as well. North American audiences reacted to events on screen with enthusiastic gusto, cheering and whooping at spectacular ski wipe-outs or monster climbing lobs, booing and hissing at any local heroes who put in cameo appearances, laughing uproariously at any jokes, and applauding wildly at any really exceptional footage. It made almost any film seem an 'event', and stood in contrast to the polite titterings that even hilarious bouldering films generally receive in the UK. Aside from the usual quota of MTV-style adventure porn, the screenings were outstanding for their quality. Amongst the climbing films two stood out: Rich Heap's Salathe -Blood, Sweat & Bagels - a kind of reality TV buddy movie filmed on the eponymous big wall; and Nic Good's Desert Friction - a kind of reality TV buddy movie filmed on a remote Namibian big wall. Both were very funny and exceptionally well filmed - but Nic Good pipped Heap to the prize. The final award ceremony had a real buzz - nearly 1000 people packed into the main theatre and filled it with lots of hollering and cheering.

Corpulent corporatism
It has to be said that one of the reasons the scale of the whole Banff shindig is overwhelming is that it's now backed by major sponsors like National Geographic, Eagle Creek and Chevrolet. The obvious danger is that it could simply become a huge corporate 'advertainment' exercise by commercial interests. However, Festival supremo Bernadette MacDonald is acutely aware of the dangers and stringently defends the independence of the Banff Centre from interference. Apart from that, one suspects that Joe Public wouldn't let the suits take over. Banff is immensely popular and held in some affection by locals as part of their proud Bow Valley Heritage. The Banff Fest has acquired an international prestige out of all proportion to the size of the town and you get the feeling there would be an October revolution with punters storming the gates and reclaiming it if they felt globalising Yanks were trying to hijack it. A hint of the healthy disrespect for the grown-ups was apparent in the treatment the Chevy 'Avalanche' demonstrator parked out the front of the main theatre was getting ('The only SUV that converts into a pickup'; in other words, a tank). Folk were standing in groups, pointing and having a good laugh at the monstrous absurdity of having a gas-guzzling 4x4 behemoth parked outside an event celebrating mountain environment and culture. Later that evening someone had set its alarm off to general merriment.

Partly animals
The final 'wrap party' perhaps summed up the real spirit of Banff. Although the organisation of the festivals is frighteningly slick and efficient, MacDonald and her monstrous regiment of mainly female Banff staffers are all fantastically laid-back and dead welcoming to Alpine superstar and Munro-bagging non-entity alike. It's easily the friendliest event of its kind and the staff knows how to party as hard as they work. The bash was reminiscent of a good old sixth-form school disco, complete with a soundtrack courtesy of a sweaty middle-aged pub rock-band. You can tell most Canadians are only one or two generations removed from us Brits because, wonderfully, none of them can dance but nevertheless fling themselves with gusto onto the floor, flailing their limbs about and banging into innocent passers-by, knocking over glasses in a Mr Bean-type boogie. Joining in with the artless spirit was Tomaz Humar. In a Lazarus-style recovery, Humar flung away his crutches and flamenco'd like a man possessed, grabbing anything in a skirt and attempting flamboyant Travolta-like disco moves, while waving a serviette above his head and whooping. Not to be outdone, Himalayan veteran George Band (1st ascent Kangchenjunga 1953) also entered the fray, sashaying into the throbbing ruck of youngsters to spin festival director Bernadette McDonald around a couple of times. "There's no fool like an old fool" he announced afterwards. As one of my Canadian hosts remarked, "Try telling that to Tomaz Humar, eh?" By the end of the night there was even a kind of conga to the strains of 'Hi Ho Silver Lining'. It really didn't feel like I was nearly 5000 miles from home at all.

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