Camping in the Canadian Rockies / an account of camp life in the wilder parts of the Canadian Rocky mountains, together with a description of the region about Banff, Lake Louise, and Glacier, and a sketch of early explorations.

Many a hearty cheer rent the thin air as our little party of three reached the summit, for we were standing where no man had ever stood before, and, if I mistake not, at the highest altitude yet reached in North America north of the United States boundary. The summit was formed of hard bluish limestones, broken and piled up in blocks, as on all high mountain tops. The cliffs toward the east were stupendous and led the eye down to the valley more than a mile below. The air was almost calm and just above freezing, and the snow was melting quite fast in the sun. The thermometer at the Lake Louise chalet reached seventy-two degrees at the same time that we were on the summit of Mount Temple, which proves this to be almost the highest temperature that ever occurs on this lofty point. It would be safe to say that the temperature on the top of Mount Temple never rises higher than forty degrees.

If one is fortunate in a good selection of routes, the ascent of Mount Temple will not be found difficult. But the descent is very perplexing, for unless one remembers the intricate combination of gullies and ledges by which the ascent is made, many precipitous cliffs will be encountered down which it is impossible to descend.

This was our last exploit in Paradise Valley, and a few days later the various members of our party, one by one, bade farewell to the beautiful region of Lake Louise with its many pleasant associations.

I remained there five or six weeks longer until winter commenced in earnest and drove every one away. During the first week of October I made a final visit to Paradise Valley with Mr. Astley, the manager of the chalet, in order to bring back our tent and the camping utensils. Snow covered the ground in the shady parts of the woods, even at the entrance of the valley. The stream had fallen so much that its rocky bed proved the best route up the valley, especially for the horse. After an hour’s journey within the entrance we found ourselves at the base of Mount Sheol, and not far above us could be seen a fine herd of seven or eight mountain goats. They scampered off on seeing us, but soon came to halt as they were tempted by curiosity to have another look. These snow-white goats are the most characteristic animals of the Rockies and nearly correspond in habits with the more cunning chamois of Switzerland. Like them it is a species of antelope, though it resembles a goat to a remarkable degree.

We found our camp buried in snow, the ridge-pole of the tent broken down with the heavy burden, and everything so much disguised by the wintry mantle that we had difficulty in finding the camping place. Even as we were packing up the frozen canvas and blankets, the air was full of falling snow and the mountains encircling the valley were only revealed in vague and indefinite outlines, while ever and anon could be heard the dull roar of snow-slides sweeping down to the glacier.

About nightfall we were back at the entrance to the valley, where the lower altitude gave us the advantage of a ground nearly free of snow, though a fine rain sifted down through the spruce needles almost constantly.

Here we camped in the dense forest, and our roaring fire, built high with great logs, soon drove away the chill and dampness of the rainy night. The tent, our clothes, and the mossy ground were soon steaming, and the bright glare of our camp-fire illumined the trees and gave us good cheer, surrounded as we were by miles of trackless forests in the blackness of night. A hearty supper and a great pail of strong hot tea soon revived our spirits, and on a soft couch of heaths and balsam boughs—more luxurious than any bed of down—we bid defiance to the darkness and storm in perfect comfort. The next day the snow-flakes were falling gently and steadily, so that the trees were covered even to their branchlets and needles with the white mantle. The bushes, the mosses, and even the blades of grass in the swampy marshes, as we pursued our homeward way, were all concealed and transformed into pure white images of themselves in snow.

A few days later I went up to Lake Agnes to hunt for mountain goats, which frequent this place in great numbers. The snow was two feet deep. The lake was already nearly covered with ice, and I was compelled to seek shelter behind a cliff against a bitterly cold wind, driving icy particles of hail and snow against my face.

It was useless to prolong the contest longer. Winter had resumed her iron sway in these boreal regions and high altitudes, and in a few weeks Lake Louise too would begin to freeze, and no longer present its endless change of ripple and calm, light and shadow, or the reflected images of rocks and trees and distant mountains.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Selkirks—Geographical Position of the Range—Good Cheer of the Glacier House—Charming Situation—Comparison between the Selkirks and Rockies—Early Mountain Ascents—Density of the Forest—Ascent of Eagle Peak—A Magnificent Panorama—A Descent in the Darkness—Account of a Terrible Experience on Eagle Peak—Trails through the Forest—Future Popularity of the Selkirks—The Forest Primeval—An Epitome of Human Life—Age of Trees—Forests Dependent on Humidity.

West of that chain of the Rocky Mountains which forms the crest or backbone of the continent, lies another system of mountains called the Selkirk Range. Having many features in common with the mountains to the east, this range has, nevertheless, certain constant characteristics of vegetation and geological formation, so that the traveller who is but slightly familiar with them should never be at a loss in regard to his surroundings.

The position of this range in relation to the other mountains of the great Cordilleran System is not difficult to understand. The Selkirks may be said to begin in northwestern Montana between the Summit Range and the Bitter Root Mountains, and, trending in a northwestward direction through British Columbia about three hundred miles, they approach the main range and apparently merge into it near the Athabasca Pass. The most remarkable feature of the range is the manner in which it compels the great Columbia River to run northward for fifty leagues on its eastern side, before it allows a passage to the west, so that the northern portions of the range are entirely hemmed in by this large river, flowing in opposite directions on either side. Another feature of great interest in regard to the drainage is the relation between the Columbia and Kootanie rivers. The latter river is one of the chief tributaries to the upper Columbia, and flows southward to a point one mile and a half from the head waters of the Columbia, which it passes on its journey southward, while the Columbia flows in the opposite direction. The water of the Kootanie is actually higher than that of the Columbia at this point, and as the two rivers are only separated by a low, level plain, it was once proposed to cut a channel between, and divert the Kootanie into the Columbia.

The traveller is always glad to find himself at the Glacier House in the heart of the Selkirks. This is more especially true, if in previous years, he has visited this charming spot and become in some degree familiar with the place. The railroad makes a large loop round a narrow valley and sweeps apparently close to the great glacier of the Selkirks, a vast sea of ice that glistens in a silvery white sheen and appears to rise above the forests as one looks southward. There is something pre-eminently comfortable and homelike about the Glacier House. The effect is indefinable, and one hardly knows whether the general style of an English inn, or the genuine hospitality that one receives, is the chief cause. One always feels at home in this wild little spot, and scarcely realizes that civilization is so far distant.

The rush of summer guests called for the erection of an annex, so that there are now two hotels for the accommodation of tourists. The Glacier House is located near the railroad, and occupies a small, nearly level, place at the bottom of one of those deep and narrow valleys characteristic of the Selkirks. Those who have visited the Franconia Notch in the White Mountains would be somewhat reminded of that beautiful spot upon first seeing the surroundings of Glacier. The ground in front of the hotel has been levelled and is rendered beautiful by a thick carpet of turf. In summer it is fragrant and almost snowy in appearance from the multitude of white clover blossoms. This garden spot in the wilderness is still further adorned by fountains, which break the continuity of the greensward, and are fed by cascades that may be seen descending the opposite mountain side in many a leap, through a total distance of 1800 feet.

But this small area, that man has improved and rendered more suitable to his comfort, is surrounded on all sides by a wilderness, perhaps better described as a little explored range of mountains separated by deep gorges and covered with dense forests. It is like the Alps of Switzerland and the Black Forest combined. There are snow-clad peaks, large glaciers, and névé regions of vast extent in the higher altitudes, while the valleys below are dark and sombre in their covering of deep, cool forests. The main range of the Rockies presents no such rankness of vegetable growth—mosses, ferns, and lichens covering every available surface on tree trunks and boulders—nor such huge trees as those found everywhere in the Selkirks.

Moreover, the mountains of the Selkirk Range probably average 1000 feet lower than in the corresponding parts of the main range, but nevertheless they seem white and brilliant in their mantles of everlasting snow and sparkling glaciers. Finally, one observes that the railroad track is covered at frequent intervals by snow-sheds of considerable length, constructed of heavy beams and massive timbers, in order to withstand the terrible force and weight of winter snow-slides and avalanches. In the main range of the Rockies there are no snow sheds. The question naturally arises—What is the reason of all these differences from the more eastern ranges?

The answer to the question is that the climate is more humid. The snowfall in winter is so great that it remains all summer at much lower altitudes than in the Rockies, and supplies glaciers, which descend perhaps a thousand feet nearer to sea-level. The moisture from this deep covering of snow, saturates the ground as it melts in the spring, and, in addition to frequent, heavy summer rains, nourishes the rich forests of these mountains. Moreover, the atmosphere is always slightly moister than it is to the east, and does not tend to dry up the ground or evaporate the mountain snows so rapidly as in the summit range.

The eastward movement of the atmosphere, carrying up moisture from the Pacific, causes a great condensation of clouds and a heavy rainfall as the air currents pass over the Selkirks, and leaves the atmosphere robbed of a great part of its moisture to pass over the next range to the east.

Almost all the differences between the Selkirks and the Rockies proper, spring from the single cause of a moister climate. The principal features of extensive snow fields and luxuriant forests can be readily understood. May not the deep, narrow valleys of the Selkirks be likewise explained from the more rapid action and greater erosive power of the mountain streams in cutting down their channels?

Whatever may be the cause of all these phenomena, the results are very apparent. Any one who has visited the Selkirks for an extended period has, without doubt, spent many a day within doors writing his diary or enjoying the pleasure of music or literature, while the rain is falling constantly, and the clouds and vapors hang low on the mountain sides. The manner in which the clouds come sweeping up the Illicellewaet valley at the base of Mount Cheops and turn toward the flanks of Eagle Peak or Mount Sir Donald is very impressive. Certainly the cloud effects in the Selkirks are magnificent beyond all description.

Nevertheless, it is not encouraging to have a friend step off the train and announce the fact that he has been enjoying fine weather for several days in the Rocky Mountains, some fifty or sixty miles to the east, while you have been confined to the house by a long period of rain.

Often, too, the climber or explorer becomes fretful under long confinement, and, taking advantage of an apparent clearing away of clouds and a promise of fair weather, when far from the hotel, is caught in a sudden downpour, and realizes the truth of that scriptural passage which was apparently written concerning a similar region—“They are wet with the showers of the mountains, and embrace the rock for want of a shelter.”

When the railroad first made this region accessible to tourists, the Selkirks rapidly acquired a remarkable popularity, especially among mountain climbers. In this early period several parties came over from England and other countries of Europe with the express purpose of making mountain ascents. Such parties were those of Dr. Green and the two Swiss climbers Huber and Sulzer. A good idea of the difficulties presented by the higher peaks to skilled mountaineers may be had from the fact that Dr. Green and his party only succeeded in reaching the summit of one high peak, while Huber and Sulzer left the Hermit Range in defeat, though they succeeded in reaching the top of the sharp rock peak, Mount Sir Donald, the Matterhorn of the Selkirks.

One of the chief difficulties to overcome is the penetration of the forest belt below the tree line. No one who has not tried a Selkirk forest has any conception of its nature in this respect. There are huge tree trunks lying on or near the ground, which have been thrown down by the precipitate fury of some winter snow slide, or have fallen by the natural processes of death and decay. These great obstacles are ofttimes covered with a slippery coating of moss and lichens, while the ground is fairly concealed by a rank growth of ferns, and plants in countless variety. The density of the underbrush is rendered still more trying to the mountaineer by reason of a plant of the Ginseng family, which from its terrible nature is most fitly named the Devil’s Club, for it is armed with thousands of long needle-like spines. This plant grows five or six feet high, with a stout stem bearing a few leaves of large size. The spines, which are an inch or more in length, project in every direction like an array of quills on a porcupine, and are strong enough to penetrate the skin and flesh with surprising facility. The alder bushes attain a peculiar growth in the Selkirks; each bush consists of a bunch of long slender stems, which spread out from the ground in every direction, ofttimes with nearly prostrate branches, which interlace and form a wellnigh impassable hedge. The alder bushes are found most numerous on bare slopes of the mountains, where snow slides have stripped down the forests; or in ravines, where the crumbling earth gives no certain foothold to larger and nobler trees.

In 1893, A. and I made an ascent of Eagle Peak. This mountain lies just to the west from the great wedge-shaped rock summit of Mount Sir Donald. The altitude of Eagle Peak is, I believe, a little more than 9400 feet above sea-level, and as the Glacier House is only 4400 feet, the ascent involves a climb of 5000 feet. The name of the mountain is derived from a great crag or cliff near the summit, which appears to lean out from a ridge, and bears a striking resemblance to the head of an eagle. When we were making our ascent we came suddenly on the Eagle itself, which now, on a nearer view, proved to be of colossal size, a great leaning tower, about sixty feet high. Rising from one of the rocky ridges, it reached upwards and outwards till the outermost point seemed to overhang a bottomless abyss, perhaps twenty or twenty-five feet beyond the verge of the precipice.

The ridge just below the summit is a scene of wild confusion, for the rocky ledges have been split up and wedged apart by frost and storms till they appear as giant blocks of stone ten or fifteen feet high, between the crevices of which one may catch glimpses of the valley and forests thousands of feet below.

The view from the summit of Eagle Peak is magnificent and well worth the labor of the climb. The proximity of Mount Sir Donald, which towers more than 1200 feet higher, causes its sullen precipices to appear strikingly grand. The great Illicellewaet névé, with its twenty square miles or more of unbroken snow fields, stretches out in the distance and forms part of the eastern horizon. The rugged appearance of the Hermit Range to the west, with its sharp ridges and needles, is perhaps the most tumultuous part in all this wild sea of mountain peaks. It has been stated on good authority that from Mount Abbott, a far lower ridge on the farther side of the valley, more than one hundred and twenty individual glaciers may be counted, but there are even more within view from Eagle Peak.

We remained on the summit till nearly three o’clock, and thereby took a great risk, as we learned afterwards to our exceeding regret. Before leaving, however, we built a high cairn and fixed several handkerchiefs among the stones so as to render it, if possible, visible from the valley below.

In our descent we found no trouble till we reached tree line, when the gathering gloom of nightfall, made earlier by a cloudy sky, aroused our apprehensions and led us to a serious mistake. Thinking that it would be better to follow the course of a stream, which had cut out a deep ravine in the mountain side, as there would be more light, for a time at least, we commenced our descent with all speed. We soon found ourselves in a trap, as the sides of the ravine grew constantly deeper and steeper as we descended, and it was at length impossible to get out at all. Floundering about among the long trailing branches of alders, our descent soon became a mixture of sliding, falling, and, indeed, every method of progress save rational walking. The darkness came on rapidly, as the days were short and the twilight much curtailed, it being late in the summer. In an hour it became so absolutely black that the foamy course of the stream we followed was the only visible object, as even the stars were concealed and their light shut out by a heavy covering of dark cloud. Sometimes the long, prostrate branches of the alders would catch our feet in a most exasperating manner, and cause one or the other to slide temporarily head-foremost, till some branch or root could be seized in the hand and the progress arrested. Once I saw a white object, just below me apparently, and thinking it might be a stone, was about to lower myself in fancied security when suddenly I realized that it was the foam of the stream some fifty feet below, and that we were on the edge of a precipice! At another time I fell headlong through a bush and brought up against some great obstacle around which I wound my leg, not knowing whether it might be a huge grizzly or some other denizen of the forest, when sure enough it moved away, and rolled over my leg. It was a great boulder nearly a yard in diameter.

This nocturnal descent was the most bitter experience I have ever had in mountain climbing, as the anxiety and worry consequent upon each movement were exquisitely painful, and continued three hours. Arrived at the bottom of the slope at ten o’clock P.M., we found ourselves in the mass of fallen logs and debris near the stream, and likewise near the trail. Under the spell of a certain assurance that a few minutes more of toil would bring us out to the trail, we thought nothing of falling into holes four or five feet deep, as we plunged about among the logs, or, when walking on them, occasionally stepped off into space.

We arrived at the Glacier House at 10:30 P.M., where we were surrounded by anxious friends, and regaled by a hot dinner of roasted chickens and all manner of good things, such as one always finds at this most excellent inn. At such times, more than at any other, one appreciates the thoughtfulness and care of a kind host.

Our experience on Eagle Peak, trying as it was, could not equal that of two gentlemen who, in 1894, made an attempt to scale the mountain. Unfortunately they failed to reach the summit, and, worse still, were benighted among the crags and cliffs at a high altitude, where they spent the night in misery. Finding themselves in their attempt unable to advance farther for some reason or other, they were descending, when it suddenly occurred to them that they were on a different ledge from any they had seen hitherto. Nightfall was bringing rapidly increasing darkness, and it seemed impossible, at length, either to proceed farther or even to retrace the steps by which they had come. Here, then, on a narrow ledge overlooking a precipice, the awful depths of which were rendered still more terrible in the obscurity of gathering gloom, and with their feet dangling over the verge, they were forced to remain motionless, and wear out the long night in cold and sleepless suffering. The next morning a search party was organized, and they were conducted back to the comforts of the Glacier House, much to the relief of their anxious friends, but nearly prostrated by their terrible experience.

Later, we made an ascent of Mount Cheops, a striking peak with a most perfect representation of a pyramid forming its summit. The view is fine but not worth the labor of the climb, as the ascent of the lower slopes seems interminably long and tedious by reason of the underbrush and steep slope. Like Eagle Peak, the summit revealed no evidence of previous conquests, and it will probably be a long time before any one will be so far led astray as to make a similar attempt.

Trails and good foot-paths lead from the Glacier House to points of interest in the vicinity. The chief resort is the Great Glacier itself, where one may witness all the phenomena of a large ice stream, or ascend to the vast névé, and wander about on a nearly level, and apparently limitless, snow field.

Mount Abbott is an easy and favorite climb, and is often successfully attempted by women who are endowed with considerable strength and endurance. On the way, a small pool, called Marion Lake, is passed. It nestles among the cliffs and forests on the mountain side far above the valley. It is the only lake I know of in the Selkirks. This is one of the remarkable differences between the Selkirks and the Summit Range of the Rockies: the absence of lakes in one region, and their great number in the other. The great majority of lakes in the Rockies are very small and often do not deserve the name, as they are mere pools a few yards across. But their small size in no way detracts from their beauty, and it is most unfortunate that the Selkirks possess so few of these, the most charming of all features in mountain landscapes.

The Selkirks are but little known, because the dense forests and the immense size of the fallen logs forbid the use of horses almost altogether, and will ever prevent the mountaineer from making extended journeys into the lesser known parts of the mountains, unless trails are cut and kept in good order. At present all provisions, blankets, and tents must be packed on men’s backs, a method that is both laborious and expensive.

It must eventually result, however, that these mountains will prove a most popular resort for climbers and sportsmen. The attractions for either class are very great. For the mountaineer, they present all the grandeur and beauty of the Swiss Alps, with difficulties of snow and rock climbing sufficient to add zest to the sport. The multitude of unclimbed peaks likewise offers great opportunities for those ambitious for new conquests. The immense annual snowfall causes many of the higher peaks to assume an appearance of dazzling beauty and brilliancy, while the Alpine splendor of these higher altitudes is strongly contrasted with the dark-green color of the forested valleys.

For the sportsmen, too, there are abundant opportunities to hunt the larger game. On the mountains are numerous herds of mountain goats and sheep, while the forests abound in bears—the black bear and the grizzly or silver tip. During the berry season, these animals frequent the valleys and are often seen by the railroad men even near the Glacier House. One gentleman had the good fortune to shoot a black bear from a window of the hotel last year. Of course, there is practically no danger from even the grizzly bear in this immediate vicinity, as they have learned to fear man from being frequently shot at, and have long since lost the ferocity which they sometimes show in extremely wild and unfrequented regions.

No mention has yet been made of the kind of trees to be found in a Selkirk forest. Almost all the varieties of coniferous trees observed in the Rockies, except the Lyall’s larch, occur in the Selkirks, though each variety attains much larger size. The cedar, the hemlock, the Douglas fir, and the Engelmann’s spruce are most conspicuous and form the chief part of the forest trees. Each of these species here attains a diameter of from three feet upward, even to six or seven, and a height of from 150 to 200 feet.

Nothing is more enjoyable than to take one of the mountain trails and enter the depths of the forest, there to rest in quiet contemplation where trees alone are visible in the limited circle of view. On a quiet afternoon, when all is calm and not a breath of air is stirring, the long, gray moss hangs in pendent tufts from the lower branches of the giant trees, and one feels that this is indeed another Acadian forest of which Longfellow sings:

Such indeed is a Selkirk forest.

The idea that is at length developed in the mind, by a long rest in one of these deep and sombre forests, is that of the majesty, and silent, motionless power of vegetation. The creations of the vegetable world stand on all sides. They wellnigh cover the ground; they limit the horizon, and conceal the sky. The tall cedars have a shreddy bark that hangs in long strips on their tapering boles and makes the strongest contrast with the rough bark of the firs. What could be more unlike, too, among evergreens, than the spreading fanlike foliage of the cedars, the needle-like leaves of the firs, and the delicate spray of the hemlocks?

What a vast amount of energy has been preserved in these forest giants; with what a crash they would fall to the ground; and what a quantity of heat—which they have stored up from the sun through hundreds of summers—would they give out when burned slowly in a fireplace! If we examine a single needle, or a thin shaving of wood, under the microscope, and obtain a glimpse of the complexity of the cells and pores with which this vegetable life is carried on; or consider the wonderful processes by which the flowers are fertilized, and the cones mature, so that the species may never die out; and then regard the immensity of the whole forest stretching boundless in every direction, all constructed from an infinity of atoms, the mind and imagination are soon led beyond their depth.

Now let the pure, cold light of science, with its precise and exact laws, fade away into the warm, mellow glow of romance, till we picture the forest as an epitome of human life, with its struggles, its suffering, and the slow but certain progress from infancy to old age and death. For here, among the forest trees, are every age and condition represented. Beneath, are young trees, vigorous and full of promise, hoping, as it were, some day to push their highest branches above the general plane of tree tops and share the life-giving sun, though, during the struggle, many will surely weaken and die in the pale and inefficient light beneath the older trees. Then there are the larger trees in the full glory of their prime, with massive trunks, straight and tall, giving promise of many years of life yet to come; and finally, the giants of the forest, their branches torn off by storms or their trunks rent and scarred by lightning. Everything about the oldest trees betokens the slow decay and all-conquering death, which is gradually sapping their life blood and pointing to their certain, final destruction. The long, gray moss, gently waving in the faintest breath of air, hangs from every limb, and makes these venerable monarchs resemble bearded patriarchs, which have stood here perhaps a thousand years battling with the elements, the wind, and the lightning, silent witnesses to the relentless progress of the seasons.

Trees have, however, all the qualifications of living forever. There is no reason why a tree should ever die, were it not for some unnatural cause, such as the fury of a storm, the rending power of lightning, or the destructive influence of insects and parasites. In California, in the Mariposa Grove, some of the giant redwood trees are twenty-five hundred years old. They began to grow when Solon was making laws for the ancient Greeks. These wonderful groves of California are, however, exceptional, and have survived by reason of the clemency of the climate and the fact that the aromatic redwood is avoided by insects. In most forests, the laws of chance and probability rarely allow the sturdiest trees to run the gamut of more than a few hundred years, and if they attain a thousand years, it is their “fourscore—by reason of strength.”

In the Selkirks, one sees the ground covered with huge tree trunks in all stages of decay, slowly moldering away into a newer and richer soil; some have yielded to the natural processes of decay, others to accident or forest fires, while in some places winter avalanches have cut off the tops of the trees forty or fifty feet above the ground, and left nothing but a maze of tall stumps where once stood a noble forest.

The Selkirk forests are dense and sometimes almost magnificent in their luxuriance, and vastly surpass the forests of the eastern range in the variety of species, the size of the trees, and the luxuriant rankness of vegetable growth. At the same time they do not approach the almost tropical vigor and grandeur of the Pacific Coast forests, where a green carpet of moss covers the trunks and branches of the huge trees, and even ferns find nourishment in this rich covering, aided by the reeking, humid atmosphere, on branches forty or fifty feet above the ground. In such a forest, the ferns and brakes reach a height of six or eight feet above the ground, the various mosses attain a remarkable development, and hang in long, green tresses, a yard in length, from every branch, and exaggerate the size of the smaller branches, while the beautiful tufts of the Hypnum mosses appear like the fronds of small ferns, so large do they become.

The forests of the Summit Range, the Selkirks, and the Pacific Coast are almost perfect indexes of the humidity of the climate. The Selkirk forests are less vigorous than those of the Pacific coast, but more so than the light and comparatively open forests of the Summit Range, where the climate is much drier.

CHAPTER IX.

Mount Assiniboine—Preparations for Visiting it—Camp at Heely’s Creek—Crossing the Simpson Pass—Shoot a Pack-Horse—A Delightful Camp—A Difficult Snow Pass—Burnt Timber—Nature Sounds—Discovery of a Beautiful Lake—Inspiring View of Mount Assiniboine—Our Camp at the Base of the Mountain—Summer Snow-Storms—Inaccessibility of Mount Assiniboine.

Great interest was aroused among tourists in the summer of 1895, by the reports of a remarkable peak south of Banff named Mount Assiniboine. According to current accounts, it was the highest mountain so far discovered between the International boundary and the region of Mounts Brown and Hooker. Besides its great altitude, it was said to be exceedingly steep on all sides, and surrounded by charming valleys dotted with beautiful lakes. The time required to reach the mountain with a camping outfit and pack-horses was said to be from five to seven days.

The romance of visiting this wild and interesting region, hitherto but little explored, decided me to use one month of the summer season in this manner. By great good fortune I met, at Banff, two gentlemen likewise bent on visiting the same region, and on comparing our prospective plans, it appeared that mutual advantage would be gained by joining our forces. In this way we would have the pleasure of a larger company, and at the same time the opportunity of separating, should we come to a disagreement.

The sixth of July was decided on as the date for our departure. In the meantime, we made frequent visits to the log-house of our outfitter, Tom Wilson, who was to supply us with horses, our entire camping outfit, and guides. Many years previously, Wilson had packed for the early railroad surveyors, and had thus gained a valuable experience in all that concerns the management and care of pack-animals among the difficulties of mountain trails. In the past few years, he has been engaged in supplying tourists with camping outfits and guides, for excursions among the mountains.

The season of 1895 was very backward, and there was an unusually late fall of snow at Banff, in the middle of June. Moreover, the weather had remained so cold that the snow on the higher passes still remained very deep, and several bands of Indians, who attempted to cross the mountains with their horses late in June, were repulsed by snow six or eight feet deep.

The weather continued cold and changeable during the first week in July. In the meanwhile, however, our preparations for departure went on without interruption, and Wilson’s log-house, where the supplies and camp outfits were safely stored, became a scene of busy preparation.

On every side were to be seen the various necessaries of camp life: saddles for the horses, piles of blankets, here and there ropes, tents, and hobbles. Great heaps of provisions were likewise piled up in apparent confusion, though, in reality, every item was portioned out and carefully calculated. Rashers of bacon and bags of flour comprised the main bulk of the provisions, but there were, besides, the luxuries of tea, coffee, and sugar, in addition to large quantities of hard tack, dried fruits and raisins, oatmeal, and cans of condensed milk. Pots and pails, knives, forks, and spoons, and the necessary cooking utensils were collected in other places. Our men were already engaged for the trip, and were now busily moving about, seeing that everything was in order, the saddle girths, hobbles, and ropes in good condition, the axes sharp, and the rifles bright and clean.

At length the sixth of July came, but proved showery and wet like many preceding days. Nevertheless, our men started in the morning for the first camp, which was to be at Heely’s Creek, about six miles from Banff. Our prospective route to Mount Assiniboine was, first, over the Simpson Pass to the Simpson River, and thence, by some rather uncertain passes, eastward, toward the region of the mountain.

Toward the middle of the afternoon we started on foot for Heely’s Creek, where our men were to meet us and have the camp prepared. Passing northward up the valley, we followed the road by the famous Cave and Basin, where the hot sulphur water bubbles up among the limestone formations which they have deposited round their borders. The Cave appears to be the cone or crater of some extinct geyser, and now a passage-way has been cut under one wall, so that bathers may enjoy hot baths in this cavern. A single opening in the roof admits the light.

A short time after leaving these interesting places, we had to branch off from the road, and plunge into a burnt forest, where there was supposed to be a trail. The trail soon faded away into obscurity among the maze of logs, and, worse still, it now came on to rain gently but constantly. After an hour or more of hard work we came to Heely’s Creek.

The camp was on the farther side of the creek, and, after shouting several times, Peyto, our chief packer, came dashing down on horseback, and conveyed us, one at a time, across the deep, swift stream. Peyto made an ideal picture of the wild west, mounted as he was on an Indian steed, with Mexican stirrups. A great sombrero hat pushed to one side, a buckskin shirt ornate with Indian fringes on sleeves and seams, and cartridge belt holding a hunting knife and a six-shooter, recalled the romantic days of old when this was the costume throughout the entire west.

Our encampment consisted of three tents, prettily grouped among some large spruce trees. A log fire was burning before each tent, and, on our arrival, the cooks began to prepare our supper. This was my first night in a tent for a year, and the conditions were unfavorable for comfort, as we were all soaked through by our long tramp in the bush, and, moreover, it was still raining. Nevertheless, we were all contented and happy, our clothes soon dried before the camp fires, and after supper we sang a few popular songs, then rolled up in warm blankets on beds of balsam boughs, and slept peacefully till morning.

I was awakened at dawn by the cry of “Breakfast is ready,” and prepared forthwith to do it justice. The day appeared cloudy but not very threatening. In an hour the packers began their work, and it was wonderful to observe the system and rapidity of their movements. The horses, of which we had seven as pack-animals and two for the saddle, were caught and led to the camp, where they were tied to trees near by. All the provisions, tents, cook boxes, bags, and camp paraphernalia were then made ready for packing. There are three prime requisites in skilful packing. They are: the proper adjustment of the blanket and saddle so that it will neither chafe the back of the horse nor slip while on the march; the exact balancing of the two packs; and the knowledge of the “diamond hitch.” The wonderful combination of turns and loops which go to make up the diamond hitch has always been surrounded with a certain secrecy, and jealously guarded by those initiated into the mysteries of its formation. It was formerly so essential a part of the education of a Westerner that as much as one hundred dollars have been paid for the privilege of learning it. Without going into details, it may be described as a certain manner of placing the ropes round the packs, which, once learned, is exceedingly simple to tie on or take off, and it will hold the pack in place under the most trying circumstances. The name is derived from a diamond-shaped figure formed by the ropes between the packs.

By eight o’clock our procession of ten horses was on the march, and, after passing through a meadow where every blade of grass was hung with pendent drops of mingled rain and dew, now sparkling bright in the morning sun, we came to the trail. Our winding cavalcade followed near the creek and gradually rose above its roaring waters, which dashed madly over many a cascade and waterfall in its rocky course. Our pathway rose constantly and led us through rich forests.

Peyto led the procession mounted on an Indian horse called Chiniquy, not a very noble-looking beast, but a veteran on the trail, and, by reason of his long legs, a most trustworthy animal in crossing deep rivers. Then followed the pack-horses with the men interspersed to take care of them, and the rear was brought up by our second packer, likewise on horseback. The greater part of the time, the gentlemen of the expedition kept in the rear.

The flowers were in all the glory of their spring-time luxuriance, and we discovered new varieties in every meadow, swamp, and grove. Beside the several varieties of anemones, the yellow columbines, violets, and countless other herbaceous plants, we found, during the march of this day, six kinds of orchids. Among them was the small and beautiful, purple Calypso, which we found in bogs and damp woods, rearing its showy blossom a few inches above the ground. At the base is a single heart-shaped leaf. We were very much pleased to find this elegant and rare orchid growing so abundantly here. There is a certain regal nobility and elegance pertaining to the whole family of orchids, which elevates them above all plants, and places them nearest to animate creation. Whether we find them in high northern latitudes, in cold bogs, or in dark forests, retreating far from the haunts of men, avoiding even their own kind, solitary and unseen; or perhaps crowded on the branches of trees in a tropical forest, guarded from man by venomous serpents, the stealthy jaguar, stinging insects and a fever-laden air; they command the greatest interest of the botanist and the highest prices of the connoisseur.

We camped at about two o’clock, not far from the summit of the Simpson Pass, in a valley guarded on both sides by continuous mountains of great height.

We were surprised the next day, on reaching the summit, to find the pass covered with snow, heaped in great drifts, ten or twenty feet deep, among the trees. The Simpson Pass is only 6884 feet above tide, and, consequently, is below the tree line. Near the summit were two small ponds still frozen over. A warm sun and a genial south wind were, however, rapidly dissolving the snow and reducing it to slush, while clear streams of water were running in the meadows everywhere, regardless of regular channels.

As we began our descent on the south side, a great change came over the scene. Two hundred feet of descent brought us from this snowy landscape to warm mountain slopes, where the grass was almost concealed by reason of myriads of yellow lilies in full blossom, mingled with white anemones. These banks of flowers, resembling the artificial creations of a hot-house, were sometimes surrounded on all sides by lingering patches of snow. Such constant and sudden change is characteristic of mountain climates, where a few warm days suffice to melt the snow and coax forth the flowers with surprising rapidity.

The trail now descended rapidly, and led us through forests much denser and more luxuriant than those on the other side of the pass. Everything betokened a moister climate, and the character of the vegetation had changed so much that many new kinds of plants appeared, while those with which we were familiar grew ranker and larger. We had crossed the continental divide, from Alberta into British Columbia.

Early in the afternoon we came to our camping place on the banks of the Simpson River, where a great number of teepee poles proved this to be a favorite resort among the Indians. On all sides, the mountains were heavily forested to a great height, and, far above, gray limestone cliffs rose in bare precipices nearly free of snow.

On July the ninth, we made the longest and most arduous march so far taken. Our route, at first, lay down the Simpson River for several miles. While the horses and men followed the river bed almost constantly, making frequent crossings to avail themselves of better walking and short cuts, the rest of us necessarily remained on one bank, and were compelled to make rapid progress to keep up with our heavily laden horses.

After we had proceeded down the winding banks of the Simpson River for about two hours, our pass, a mere notch in the mountains, was descried by Mr. B., who had visited this region two years before in company with Wilson. The pass lay to the east, and it was necessary for every one to cross the river, which was here a very swift stream nearly a yard in depth. We all got across in safety, but had not advanced into the forest on the farther side more than fifty yards, when one of my pack-horses fell, by reason of the rough ground, and broke a leg. It required but a few minutes to unpack the poor beast and end his career with a rifle bullet. The packs were then placed on old Chiniquy, the faithful beast hitherto used by Peyto as a saddle-horse.

In less than fifteen minutes we were ready to proceed again. The trail now led us up very steep ascents on a forest-clad mountain slope for several hours. After this we entered a gap in the mountains and followed a stream for many miles, and at length pitched our camp late in the afternoon, after having been on the march for nine hours.

Every one was rejoiced at the prospect of a rest and something to eat. Even the horses, so soon as their packs and saddles were removed, showed their pleasure by rolling on the ground before hastening off to a meadow near by. Axes were busy cutting tent poles and firewood. Soon the three tents were placed in position, and fires were burning brightly before each, while the cooks prepared dinner.

This place was most delightful. The immediate ground was quite level and grassy. Near by was a clear deep stream with a gentle, nearly imperceptible current, which afforded a fine place for a cold plunge. The mountains hemmed in a valley of moderate width and presented a continuous barrier on either side for many miles. The general character of the scenery was like that of the Sierra Nevadas, with high cliffs partly adorned with trees and shrubs, down which countless waterfalls fell from heights so great, that they resembled threads of silver, waving from side to side in the changing currents of air. On the mountain side south of our camp, there stood a remarkable castle or fortress of rock, where nature had apparently indulged her fancy in copying the works of men. So perfect was the representation, that no aid from the imagination was required to see ramparts, embrasures, and turreted fortifications of a castle, in the remarkable pinnacles and clefts cut out by nature from the horizontal strata. The next morning, every one was more or less inspired with a pleasing anticipation and excitement, as, according to reports, we had not far to go before we should get our first view of Mount Assiniboine. At the end of our valley was a pass, from the summit of which Mount Assiniboine could be seen. The trail led us through a forest with but little underbrush, and presently a beautiful lake burst on our view. Two of us, being somewhat in advance of the pack train, caught a dozen fine trout here in a very short time, and were only interrupted by the arrival of the horses and men. The fish were so numerous that they could be seen everywhere on the bottom, and at the appearance of our artificial flies on the water, several fish would rise at once.

In half an hour, the summit of our pass appeared over the tree tops, and rose, apparently, 500 feet higher. The state of the pass was, however such as to cool our enthusiasm decidedly. It was completely covered with snow to a great depth, which made it seem probable that we would not succeed in getting the horses over. As this could not be proved from our position, we pushed on, determined to overcome all difficulties. The snow began to appear, at first, in small patches in shady places among the forest trees, then in large drifts and finally, everywhere except on the most exposed slopes. The trail had been lost for some time, buried deep in the snow. Our progress was not difficult, however, as the forest had assumed the thin and open nature characteristic of high altitudes, and it was possible to proceed in any direction. Our horses struggled on bravely, and by dint of placing all the men in front and breaking down a pathway, we managed to effect passages over long stretches where the snow was five or six feet deep. After the tree line had been reached, we were more fortunate, as a long narrow stretch, free of snow led quite to the top of the pass, through the otherwise unbroken snow fields. A great cornice of snow appeared on our right near the top of the pass and showed a depth of more than forty feet.