Tom Chiniquy.
By courtesy of Mr. S. B. Thompson.
New Westminster, B. C.
After all, the poor Indian is our brother, and not very unlike his civilized conqueror. One day William told me that the year before he had lost his squaw and four children by the smallpox, and that it had affected him so that he could not sleep. In his own simple form of expression, it was most pathetic to hear him speak of this sad event, which evidently affected him deeply. “Me sleep no more now,” he would say, “all time think me, squaw die, four papoose die, no sleep me. One little boy, me—love little boy, me—little boy die, no longer want to live, me.”
We had the satisfaction of rendering a great service to William through his child, who was a bright and handsome little fellow. By some accident a splinter of wood had become lodged in the boy’s eye. We were at length attracted by the peculiar actions of the little fellow, and upon inquiry found that he must have been enduring great pain, though without making a murmur of discontent. We took the matter in hand at once and sent him down to Banff, where, under skilful medical attendance, his eyesight, than which nothing is more dear to an Indian and which was totally gone in the affected eye and partially so in the other, was restored in a great measure. William was very grateful to us ever after, and on returning, some ten days later, delivered himself somewhat as follows: “Me say very much obliged. Three white men pretty good, I think.”
The Stoneys are a remarkable tribe of Indians. Their headquarters is at a little place called Morley, about twenty miles east of the mountains on the plains. Here they are under the religious instruction of the Rev. Mr. McDougal. So far as the Indian is capable of receiving and following the precepts of Christianity, the Stoneys seem to have equalled or surpassed all other tribes. They are said to be great Bible readers, and they certainly show some familiarity with the Old Testament history, if we may judge by their custom of adopting Bible names. They have been taught a certain arbitrary code by which they can read and write in a simple manner, while many of them talk English if not fluently at least intelligibly.
Their manner of dress is a concession to their own native ideas and those of civilization, for while they invariably cling to moccasins and usually affect trousers cut from blankets with broad wings or flaps at the sides, their costume is not infrequently completed by some old discarded coat received by purchase or gift from the white man. These Indians rarely wear hat or cap, but allow their straight black hair to reach their shoulders and serve in place of any artificial protection. On either side of the face the hair is gathered into a braid so as to do away with the inconvenience of constantly pushing back their loose hair.
Dr. Dawson says that the Stoney Indians have very few names for the mountains and rivers, and that they have only inhabited this region for about forty years. The greater part of the Indian names for various features of the country are in reality Cree or their equivalents in Stoney. The Stoneys have recently incorporated the families of the Mountain Crees with their own. According to De Smet, both the Crees and the Stoneys migrated southward from the Athabasca region a few years before 1849, and it is probable that they entered this region about that time.
I cannot conclude this digression on the Stoney Indians without quoting a few remarks from Captain Palliser’s reports. Though written nearly forty years ago these facts are no less true than at that time.
“The members of the Stone tribe are hard workers, as their life is one requiring constant exertion and foresight. They travel in the mountains or in the forests along their eastern base, in parties of six or seven families. The young men are always off hunting in search of moose or other kinds of deer, or of the Rocky Mountain sheep. The old men busy themselves cutting out the travelling tracks through the woods, while the women pack and drive the few horses they use for carrying their small supplies. They generally use skin tents stretched on a conical framework of poles, but their wigwams are much smaller than those of the Plain Indians. The women dress all the skins of the animals they kill into a soft leather, which, when smoked, is the material used throughout the whole country for making moccasins, most of the fine leather being obtained from the Stoneys. They are excellent hunters, and though as a rule small and feeble in body, are probably capable of more endurance than any other class of Indians. They make trustworthy guides, and, with a few exceptions, after some acquaintance with this tribe, you no more expect to be deceived, or told lies, as a matter of course, than you would in a community of white men.”
So much for the Rocky Mountain Stoneys, or as they are sometimes called, the Assiniboines.
The completion of our party did not take place at the wished-for time, and for more than two weeks Mr. F. and Mr. H., and I were alone at the chalet. We commenced our surveying work by measuring a very accurate base line on the lake shore, and began training by making various moderate excursions on the mountain sides. On the third day, however, after our arrival the whole plan of our party came near having a most sudden and unwished-for termination, together with results which nearly proved fatal to one of the party. The accident and its attendant circumstances proved the most exciting episode in all our experiences, and as it most clearly illustrates the chief danger of climbing in the Canadian Rockies, I shall describe it in detail.
It happened in this manner. On the 13th of July, Mr. H., Mr. F., and I started to make an exploration of the glacier that is plainly visible from the chalet and which, some two miles distant, flows down from the snow fields and hanging glaciers of Mount Lefroy. This glacier is formed from two branches, which come in from the east, and uniting into one great stream, terminate about one mile above the head of the lake. The extreme length from the snout measured to the highest part of the glacier is about three miles, while the average width is less than one third of a mile.
The object of this excursion was in great part to gain a little knowledge of the use of rope and ice-axe, which we expected would be required in much of our subsequent work. There was no difficulty in the first part of this excursion, as a good trail leads round the lake and some half-mile beyond. There we forded the icy stream which comes from the glacier and pursued our way between the moraine and the mountain side for nearly a mile on the east side of the glacier. Our next move was to ascend the moraine, which was very steep and about a hundred feet high at this point. On arriving at the sharp crest of the moraine, we saw the great ice stream some fifty feet below, and so thoroughly covered with debris and boulders that the glacier was almost totally concealed. The passage down the moraine was very disagreeable, as the loose stones all scratched and polished by their former passage under the glacier were now rolling from under our feet and starting up great clouds of dust. Just below, at the border of the glacier, the water from the melting ice had converted the clay of the moraine into treacherous pools of bluish-gray mud, veritable sloughs of despond. At length, by the use of our ice-axes, we gained the firmer ice and with it the advantage of far more pleasant walking. We found the whole surface of the glacier literally covered with sharp stones and boulders of all sizes up to those which must have measured ten feet square by twenty feet long. They represented all sorts of formations, shales, limestones, and sandstones thrown down in wild disorder over the entire surface of the ice. All this material had been wrested from the mountain side far up the valley by frost and avalanche, and was now slowly moving toward the great terminal moraine. In one place a large area of nearly half an acre was strewed with giant blocks of a peculiar kind of rock different from all the rest, which apparently had come thundering down the mountain walls in one great rock-slide many years ago. Large flat slabs of shale were seen here and there supported on pillars of ice, showing how much the general surface of the glacier had wasted away under the influence of the sun’s heat, while these pillars had been protected by the shade of the stone.
Advancing half a mile over the field of debris, we came gradually to where there were fewer stones, and at length reached almost pure ice. The question always arises where do all the boulders and pebbles that cover the lower parts of the glaciers come from? In the upper parts of the glaciers or névé regions, where the snow remains perpetual and increases from year to year, the stones from the mountain sides are covered as they fall, and are at length buried deep and surrounded by ice as the snow becomes compressed and solidified. As the glacier advances down the valley and descends to lower altitudes, a level is at length reached where the snowfall of winter is exactly balanced by the melting of summer. This is the snow line, or rather this is the best place in which to locate such a variable level. Below this line the surface of the glacier melts away more than enough to make up for the winter fall of snow, and, as a result, the stones and debris buried in the ice gradually appear on the surface. In the Canadian Rockies near this latitude the snow line on northerly exposures, as judged by this method, is about 7000 feet above the sea, which is also just about the level called tree line.
In mountainous regions, where the climate is very dry, as in Colorado or in certain parts of the Andes, there is a great belt of several thousand feet between tree line and snow line where there is not sufficient moisture to allow of tree growth nor sufficient snowfall to form glaciers at all. In the Canadian Rockies the climate is moist enough to make these lines approach, and in the Selkirk Range and regions of extreme humidity the snow line is actually lower than the tree line.
We advanced slowly over the glacier and found much of interest on every side. The surface of the ice was at first comparatively smooth and channelled with small streams of pure water which flowed along with utmost rapidity but almost without ripples, as the smooth icy grooves seem adapted to every whim of the flowing water. At length the ice became more uneven and our passage was interrupted by crevasses, around which we had to thread our way by many a turn and detour. Most of them were, however, partly filled or bridged by snow and we found no particular difficulty in pursuing our way. About one o’clock we found ourselves at the base of Mount Lefroy, a little beyond the point where the two branches unite, and we held a consultation as to the plan of our farther advance. Mount Lefroy rises from the glacier in precipitous cliffs on every side, and we were even now under the shadow of its gloomy and threatening rock wall. There is no apparent method of scaling this mountain except by a long couloir or snow slope, which rises from the glacier and ascends nearly 1000 feet to a more gentle slope above the precipice. It was our intention to ascend this mountain, if possible, some time during the summer but the results of our first exploration for a favorable route rather inclined us to give up further attempts.
The result of our consultation was the decision to climb a short way up the couloir in order to see if it were possible to reach the gentle slope above. If this proved practicable, the ascent of the mountain was almost assured, as no great difficulties presented themselves above. Accordingly we commenced the ascent, all roped together in true Alpine fashion, and soon found the pitch so steep that our ice-axes rendered us much assistance in cutting steps. A number of great schrunds or horizontal crevasses often found on such slopes appeared to block our way, but as we approached we found a passage round every one. They were boat-shaped holes in the snow some forty or fifty feet deep and about the same width. The bottom of each appeared smooth and apparently of firm snow, so that they were not in reality very dangerous obstacles, as compared with the narrow and wellnigh unfathomable crevasses of an ordinary glacier.
Nevertheless, when we had reached a point several hundred feet above the schrunds and were on a steep slope of snow, my companions advocated taking to the rock ledges on the right of the snow, as they were altogether inexperienced in mountain climbing and felt somewhat nervous. We found the rock ledges practicable and quite easy except for a great number of loose stones which went rattling down as we advanced. We were in a gloomy narrow gorge filled with snow and hemmed in on either side by cliffs which rose with almost vertical sides, here and there dripping with water from the snows above.
Whenever we paused for a momentary rest and the sliding, rattling stones ceased to fall, we were oppressed by the awful silence of this cheerless place of rocks and snow nearly 8000 feet above sea level.
It was while ascending these rock ledges that the accident occurred which came so near proving disastrous. There were a series of ledges from six to ten feet high alternating with narrow shelves where the slope was only moderately steep. The whole place was strewed with loose stones and boulders, some of which were so delicately poised that the slightest touch seemed sufficient to send them crashing down the cliff. At length a very dangerous looking stone of large size could be seen on the next shelf above us apparently just balanced in its precarious position, for the light could be seen underneath its base. H. followed me in safety around this great boulder which must have weighed more than half a ton. I was on the point of ascending the next ledge with the assistance of H. when we both heard a dull grating sound below, and turning, beheld the great boulder starting to roll over, and F. just below it and on the point of falling over the cliff. F. fell about ten feet to the next shelf where he was partially checked by the rope and prevented from falling farther. But to our horror the boulder, which had now gained considerable motion, followed after, and leaping over the ledge, for a short but awful moment it seemed to hang in mid-air, and then came down on F. with terrible force. It seemed impossible that there should be anything left of our poor friend. With a horrible crash and roar the great stone continued down the gorge, attended by a thousand flying fragments till the rocky cliffs echoed again.
After a momentary pause, unable to move and riveted to our places in horror, we hastily scrambled down to our companion who lay on the cliff insensible and bleeding. Our first efforts were to staunch his wounds with snow and then a hasty examination proved that though his hip appeared dislocated he had received probably no further serious injury. This escape appeared almost miraculous and it is probable that in the flying cloud of stones a smaller piece just happened to come under the great boulder and supported it partially at one end so that the full force of the blow was not felt. It was now half-past two in the afternoon and we were three hours’ journey from the chalet with a man on our hands absolutely incapable of walking or even partially supporting his weight. It was evident that one of us must needs hasten back to the chalet for aid, but first it was necessary to get down the long snow-slope to the glacier.
Fortunately our rope was fully sixty feet long and after tying a loop under F.’s shoulders, I anchored myself securely with my ice-axe in the snow, and then lowered him rapidly but safely the length of the rope. H. then went down to F. and held him while I descended, and thus after twelve or fifteen repetitions of this proceeding we all landed in safety on the glacier. Having selected a place on the ice which was partially covered with a few small stones, we took off our coats and placed our wounded companion on this hard cold couch.
Carrying nothing but my ice-axe, I started for the chalet at once. The first part of the journey, while threading the crevasses, was slow and somewhat dangerous without the rope, but by running whenever practicable and pushing my energies to the utmost, I reached the chalet in one hour and ten minutes, or less than half the time required by us to come up in the morning. Unfortunately no one was at the chalet except Joe the cook. I however got him started immediately to cut two long, stout poles and a piece of canvas with which to make a litter. The two Indians were on the mountain side near Mirror Lake working on the trail and Mr. Astley, the manager of the chalet, was guiding some visitors to Lake Agnes. There was no other course open than to climb up after them, though I was quite exhausted by this time. I found William after twenty minutes of hard climbing and made him understand the situation at once. One must use a simple manner of speech as near like their own as possible, so I said to him—“William, three white men go up big snow mountain. Big stone came down, hurt one man. Tom, Mr. Astley, you—all go up snow mountain, bring white man back.” William’s face was a picture of horror, and he asked in anxiety—“Kill him?” I said no, but that he must hurry and get the other men. Dropping his axe, he ran off for the others in all haste, while I returned to the chalet and gathered sundry provisions and stimulants. The rescuing party of four men was started in about thirty minutes, and taking the boat, rowed down the lake, till at last the small black speck on the water disappeared from our view as they neared the farther end.
A two-and-a-half mile ride on horseback brought me to the railroad station, where I sent a telegram to Banff for the Doctor. As there would be no train till the next morning I made arrangements for a hand-car to bring the Doctor up at once. A response soon came back that he was just about to start on his long ride of thirty-eight miles to Laggan.
Meanwhile poor F. and H. were having a miserable time of it on the glacier. The long hours rolled by one after another and no sign of aid or assistance was apparent. The days were still very long, but at length the declining sun sank behind the great ridge or mountain wall extending northward from Mount Lefroy. The glacier which imparts a chilly dampness even to the brilliancy of a mid-day sun now rapidly became cold in the lengthening shadows, and the surface waters began to freeze, while the deep blue pools of water shot out little needles of ice with surprising rapidity.
As they had seen me no more after I had disappeared behind a swelling mound of ice, they conjured up in their imaginations the possibility that I had fallen into some deep crevasse or had hurt myself on the treacherous moraine. At length, urged to desperate resolves, they formed a plan of leaving the ice by the nearest route, at whatever hazard to life and limb, rather than die of cold and exposure on the glacier. They had abundant opportunity for studying the grand phenomena of this Alpine region near at hand: the thundering avalanches from the cliffs behind them, and the cracking, groaning ice of the glacier as the great frozen stream moved slowly over its rocky uneven bed.
At length, to their great joy, they discerned by means of a field-glass which we had carried with us in the morning, the boat leaving the lake shore and slowly approaching. In half an hour the party reached the near end of the lake and were then lost to view for nearly two hours, till at length four little black dots appeared about a mile distant moving over the ice toward them.
The rescuing party did not reach them till seven o’clock, or more than four hours after the accident occurred. The return to the chalet was most exhausting to the men, especially to the Indians, whose moccasins afforded poor protection against the sharp stones and ice of the glacier.
Two section men came up from Laggan and met the party as they were returning, and afforded timely aid by their fresh strength. Poor F. was carried in a canvas litter hastily constructed and consequently not perfect in its results, as it only served to lift him a very little above the ground at the best and then where the ground was very smooth. William observed his haggard face and woe-begone appearance with concern and entertained the invalid at frequent intervals by such remarks as, “You think you die, me think so too.” The rescuing party arrived at the chalet shortly after midnight, while the Doctor appeared an hour later. Each party had been travelling for the last five hours toward the chalet, and while one was accomplishing about three miles the other covered more than forty.
Fortunately there were no injuries discovered that would not heal in a few weeks, and through the influence of mountain air and perfect rest, recovery took place much more quickly than could be expected.
CHAPTER V.
Castle Crags—Early Morning on the Mountain Side—View from the Summit—Ascent of the Aiguille—An Avalanche of Rocks—A Glorious Glissade—St. Piran—Its Alpine Flowers and Butterflies—Expedition to an Unexplored Valley—A Thirsty Walk through the Forest—Discovery of a Mountain Torrent—A Lake in the Forest—A Mountain Amphitheatre—The Saddle—Impressive View of Mt. Temple—Summit of Great Mountain—An Ascent in Vain—A Sudden Storm in the High Mountains—Phenomenal Fall of Temperature—Grand Cloud Effects.
While poor F. was recovering from his injuries, and before the two other men had arrived, H. and I carried on the work of surveying the lake, and made several interesting excursions on the adjacent mountain sides.
One fine cool morning, we went up the valley about half a mile beyond the end of the lake, and commenced an ascent of the sharp-crested ridge on the east side of the valley. This ridge forms a connection between the massive mountain on the left of the lake, known as Great Mountain, and a very high summit, crowned with a fine glacier, and named by some one Hazel Peak, which lies about two miles due south of Lake Louise. This connecting ridge we called Castle Crags, a name readily suggested by the irregular forms and outlines of the sharp needles and fingers, pointing heavenward, which adorned its highest crest, and seemed to represent the battlements and embrasures of some great castle. Several sharp columns of stone, with vertical sides, and narrow, graceful forms, rose up from this great parapet built by nature. Resembling feudal towers or donjons, they seemed by their great altitude to pierce the blue vault of heaven, and to dwarf by their proximity the snowy crest of Hazel Peak, which, in reality, is several thousand feet higher.
To ascend this ridge, and, if possible, gain the summit of one of these needles, from which we hoped to obtain a fine idea of the valley to the east, was the purpose of our excursion. The ascent proved easy almost from the start. On leaving the stream, which we crossed by means of some great trees, long since overcome by age or storm, and now serving as convenient bridges at frequent intervals, we commenced to ascend a long, even slope of limestone boulders, stable in position, and affording easy walking. The air was fresh and cool, for the morning sun was just rising over the crest of Castle Crags, while the rays of light seemed to skip from boulder to boulder, and, gently touching the higher points, left the others in shade. There were no bushes or tangled underbrush to impede our way, and so we had abundant opportunity to enjoy the beautiful flowers which cropped out in little patches among the yellow, gray, and cream-colored limestones. This was a mountain climb that proved thoroughly enjoyable, for all the conditions of atmosphere, of weather, and easy ascent were in our favor. There is a charm about the early morning hours among the high mountains. The bracing coolness of the air, as yet still and calm after the chill and quiet of night, the gradually rising sun and increasing light, the unusual freshness of the flowers and green vegetation, in their sparkling bath of dew, and the quiet calls of birds,—all seemed to herald the birth of a new day, far richer in promise than any heretofore. The afternoon, with its mellow light and declining sun, is like the calm, cool days of October, with its dusty foliage and sear leaves, brilliant in autumnal colors, but ever suggesting the approach of bleak winter, and pointing back to the glories of the past. The morning points forward with a different meaning, and hopefully announces the activity of another day, even as spring is the threshold and the promise of summer time.
As we advanced, and gradually increased our altitude, the plants and flowers changed in variety, character, and size, till at length we left all vegetation behind, and reached the bottom of a long, gentle slope of snow. The sun had not, as yet, touched the snow, and it was hard and granular in the frosty air. The first snow on a mountain climb is always pleasant to a mountaineer. To him, as, indeed, to any one, the summer snow-bank has no suggestion of winter, with its desolate landscapes and cold blasts, but rather of some delightful experiences in the mountains during vacation. These lingering relics of winter have little power to chill the air, which is often balmy and laden with the fragrance of flowers, in the immediate vicinity of large snow areas. The trickling rivulet, formed from the wasting snows of the mountain side, is often the only place where, for hours at a time, the thirsty climber may find a cold and delicious draught. Instead of destroying the flowers by their chilly influence, these banks of snow often send down a gentle and constant supply of water, which spreads out over grassy slopes below, and nourishes a little garden of Alpine flowers, where all else is dry and barren.
Arrived at the top of the long snow-slope, we found ourselves already nearly 3000 feet above the valley and not far below the crest of the ridge. A rough scramble now ensued over loose limestone blocks, where we found the sharp edges, and harsh surfaces of these stones, very hard on our shoes and hands. Upon reaching the crest, we beheld one of those fearfully grand and thrilling views which this portion of the Rocky Mountains often affords. The most conspicuous object in the whole view was the glacier, which descends from the very summit of Hazel Peak, at an altitude of more than 10,000 feet, and sweeps down in a nearly straight channel to the north, and in the course of but little more than a mile descends 4000 feet. A gloomy, narrow valley hems in its lower half, and on the side where we were, the precipice rose, in nearly perpendicular sides from the ice, far heavenward to where we stood. We launched a few large stones over the verge of the beetling precipice, and watched them descend in a few great leaps into the awful abyss, where they were broken into a thousand fragments on projecting ledges, or else, striking the glacier, continued their course till the eye could no longer follow them.
We were standing just at the base of one of the aiguilles which, from the valley, seem like sharp points of rock, but, now that we were near, proved to be about sixty feet high. This needle appeared to be precipitous and inaccessible on our first examination. But we discovered a narrow crevice or gully on the west side which apparently offered a safe method of ascent. I was soon near the top of the needle, but at the most difficult part, where only one small crack in the rock offered a good hand-hold, I was warned not to touch one side where the cliff seemed parted, and filled with loose material. Making a reconnaissance, I found the back of this same crag likewise separated a little from the solid rock, and the crevice partially disguised by loose stones and dirt, which had settled in and filled the hollow. This crag was about ten feet high and six or seven feet square, and though it seemed impossible to disturb so great a mass, I felt inclined to take the safer course and leave it entirely alone, so I scrambled up by a more difficult route.
Arrived on the top of the needle, I told H., who had remained below, to get under shelter while I should put this crag to the test. He accordingly found a projecting ledge of rock a little to one side, while I sat down and got a good brace and started to push with my feet against the top of the crag. A slight effort proved sufficient, and with a dull grating sound the great mass, which must have weighed about twenty-five tons, toppled slowly over on its base, and then fell with a fearful crash against the sides of the cliff, and commenced to roll down the mountain side like a veritable avalanche. Through the cloud of dust and flying stones I could faintly discern the features of my friend below, apparently much interested in what was going on. It was well that I had not trusted to this treacherous stone.
After I had pushed down most of the loose stones, H. came up and joined me on the summit of the aiguille. This needle had a blunt point indeed, for it proved to be a flat table about fifty feet long and ten feet wide. We were 8,700 feet above sea-level, and the wind was raw and chilly as it swept up from the valley and over this ridge. The sun had but little power to temper the air, and we soon started on our descent. In about five minutes we reached the top of the long snow-slope, where we enjoyed a glorious glissade and rapidly descended more than a thousand feet. The best manner of glissading is to stand straight up and slide on the feet, having one leg straight and the other slightly bent at the knee. Trailing the ice-axe behind as a precaution against too great speed, or to check the motion in case of a fall, the mountaineer can thus, in a few minutes, rapidly coast down long slopes which may have required hours of toil to ascend. Nothing in the experience of climbers is more exhilarating than a good glissade down a long snow-slope. The rush of air, the flying snow, and the necessity for constant attention to balance—all give a sensation of pleasure, combined with a spice of danger, without which latter almost all our sports and pastimes are apt to be tame. Do not many of our best sports, such as polo, horseback riding, foot-ball, yachting, and canoe sailing, gain some of their zest from a constant possibility of danger?
A few minutes of rapid descent down the limestone slope led us to a fine, small spring, which dashed in a score of small streamlets over some rocky ledges covered with moss and ferns. Here we sat down in the cool shade of the cliffs and ate our lunch. The air was now warm and still, because we were not far above the valley, and here, instead of seeking the warmth of the sun as we had done on the cold mountain summit, a brief three-quarters of an hour before, we now enjoyed the shade afforded by the rocks and forest near us. We reached the chalet in time for a second lunch, and, as in our mountain exercise we never found any meal superfluous, we were ready to present ourselves at the table at once.
On the 28th of July, W. arrived at the chalet, and, as A. had likewise appeared a few days previously, our party of five was now complete.
One of the first points which we decided to occupy in our surveying work was a high peak above Lake Agnes, called Saint Piran. This mountain is very easy to ascend and on several occasions we found ourselves on the summit for one purpose or another. The summit is far above tree line and, indeed, almost reaches the upper limit of any kind of plant growth. The rounded top is crowned with a great cairn, about ten feet high, which has been used as a surveying point some time in the past.
During the midsummer months this mountain summit is sparingly covered with bright flowers, all of an Alpine nature, dwarfed in size and with blossoms enormously out of proportion to the stems and leaves. There are several species of composites which rest their heads of yellow flowers almost on the ground, and a species of dwarf golden-rod about three inches high, with only two or three small heads on the summit of the stem; but the most conspicuous is a kind of moss pink, which is in reality a mountain variety of phlox. This plant grows in spreading mats upon the ground, with small, rigid, awl-shaped leaves gathered in tufts along the stem, while here and there are small bright blossoms of a pink color. Mr. Fletcher, who has spent some time in this region investigating the flowers and insects, once found a plant of the pink family on this mountain, which proved by its little joints to be more than one hundred years old.
One day I came up here alone, and on reaching the summit was surprised to find Mr. Bean, an entomologist, busily at work collecting butterflies. Mr. Bean has lived at Laggan for a number of years, and has made a most valuable collection of the insects, especially the butterflies and beetles, of all this region. Remarkably enough, it is on just such spots as this lofty mountain summit, 8600 feet above tide, that the rarest and most beautiful butterflies assemble in great numbers, especially on bright, sunny days. Here they are invited by the gaudy Alpine flowers, which have devoted all their plant energy to large blossoms and brilliant colors, so as to attract the various insects to them.
I was much interested in Mr. Bean’s work, as he is the first pioneer in this field and has made many valuable discoveries. He showed me one butterfly of small size and quite dark coloring, almost black, which he said was a rare species, first discovered in polar regions by the Ross expedition, and never seen since till it was observed flitting about on this high peak, where arctic conditions prevail in midsummer. It is wonderful how the various species vary in color, form, and habit; some of the butterflies are very wild and shy, never allowing a near approach by the would-be collector; others are comparatively tame; and while some fly slowly and in a straight course, other species dart along most rapidly, constantly changing direction in sharp turns, and completely baffle all attempts at pursuit.
From the summit of this mountain we discovered a small lake in the valley to the west, and, as no one at the chalet had apparently ever visited the lake, or even known of its existence, we decided to make an excursion to this new region. Accordingly, a few days later, three of us started by the trail toward Lake Agnes, and after reaching a point about 600 feet above Lake Louise, we turned to the right and endeavored to make a traverse around the mountain till we should gain the entrance to the other valley. Our plan was not very good and the results were worse. For about two miles, the walking was along horizontal ledges of hard quartzite rock carpeted with grass and heaths, and occasionally made very difficult by the short dwarf spruces and larches which, with their tough elastic branches, impeded our progress very much. The day was unusually warm, and we were glad to reach at length a small patch of snow, where we quenched our thirst by sprinkling the snow on large flat stones, the heat of which melted enough to give us a small amount of muddy water. The roughness of the mountain and the nature of the cliffs now compelled us to descend near a thousand feet, and thus lose all the benefit of our first ascent. We were constantly advancing westward, hoping to come at length upon some stream that must descend from the valley of the little lake. Every valley in these mountains must have some stream or rivulet to drain away the water resulting from the melting snows of winter and the rains of summer, and we were certain that, if we continued far enough, we would finally discover such a stream. After our descent we proceeded through a fine forest, densely luxuriant, and in some places much blocked by prostrate trees and giant trunks, mossy and half decayed. The air seemed unusually dry, and our thirst, which had been only in part appeased by our draught at the snow-bank, now returned in greater severity than ever.
Suddenly we heard a distant sound of water, which, as we approached, grew still louder, till it burst into the full, loud roar of a beautiful mountain stream. The water was clear as crystal and icy cold, while nothing could exceed the graceful beauty of the many leaps and falls of the stream as it dashed over its rocky bed. Here we took lunch in a shady nook, seated on some rocky ledges at the edge of the water, surrounded on all sides by deep cool forests. How wild this little spot was! Though the railroad was less than two miles distant, probably no white man had ever seen this pleasant retreat where we were resting. Had our excursion ended here, we should have been repaid for all the toil, heat, and thirst we had endured, by this single experience.
A COOL RETREAT IN THE FOREST.
Nor was our pleasure over, for the stream, we knew, would prove a certain guide to the little lake, and, with the anticipation of soon reaching some enchanting bit of scenery when we should arrive at this sheet of water, we pursued our way along the series of falls and cascades by which our new-found stream leapt merrily down the mountain slope. Such is the charm of mountain excursions in these unexplored and little known wilds, for here, nature is ever ready to please and surprise the explorer by some little lake or waterfall or a rare bit of mountain scenery.
Though we had stopped for luncheon at a place where the dashing water made several cascades and falls of exquisite beauty, we found a constant succession of similar spots, where I was often tempted to delay long enough to take photographs. As the stream thus descended rapidly, we found steep rock ledges, cut in giant steps and overgrown with thick moss till they were almost concealed from view, on either side of the mad torrent. These afforded us an easy method of ascent. The rocky formation of the stream bed revealed many different kinds of stone, conglomerates, shales, and quartzites, in clearly marked strata all gently dipping toward the south.
At length the woods opened up on either side, while, simultaneously, the slope decreased in pitch, and the stream ran over a bed of loose, rounded stones and boulders in the bottom of a shallow ravine. In a moment more we reached the lake, much more beautiful than our first view from St. Piran had led us to expect, but, also, much smaller in area. It was a mere pool, clear and deep, but intensely, blue in color and partially surrounded by a thin forest. Passing round the shores and up the valley, we found ourselves in some beautiful meadows, or rather moors, wherein streams of snow-water wandered in quiet, sinuous courses and gathered at length into the stream that feeds the lake. We came on a great number of ptarmigan—the high mountain species of grouse characteristic of this region,—which, with their young broods hardly able as yet to fly, were the most abundant signs of life that we found in this valley.
A vast amphitheatre or cirque, with lofty, bare walls nearly free of snow, formed the termination of the valley. We were not compelled, however, to return over the same route as we had come, for we found an easy pass with a long gentle slope of snow on our left. This led us over the divide and, by a long steep descent, brought us to Lake Agnes, where we took advantage of the trail down the mountain side to the chalet.
Our attention was next turned toward the exploration of the mountains and valleys to the east of Lake Louise, which seemed to offer greater possibilities of grand scenery than those on the opposite side. Accordingly, we made several visits to a high upland park or alp, which was in reality a sort of depression between Great Mountain and a lesser peak to the east. This depression and the two mountains, one vastly higher than the other, resemble in outline, a saddle with pommel and crupper and suggested a name for the place which seems eminently appropriate. A trail now leads to the Saddle, and the place has proven so popular among tourists that it is frequently in use.
The Saddle is a typical alp, or elevated mountain meadow, where long, rich grass waves in the summer breezes, beautified by mountain flowers, anemones, sky-blue forget-me-nots, and scarlet castilleias. Scattered larch trees make a very park of this place, while the great swelling slopes rise in graceful curves toward the mountain peaks on either side.
But this is only the foreground to one of the most impressive views in the Rocky Mountains. To the eastward about three miles, on the farther side of a deep valley, stands the great mass of Mount Temple, the highest peak near the line of travel in the Canadian Rockies. This mountain stands alone, separated from the surrounding peaks of the continental watershed to which it does not belong. Its summit is 11,658 feet above the sea-level, while the valleys on either side are but little more than 6000 feet in altitude. As a result, the mountain rises over a mile above the surrounding valleys, a height which approaches the maximum reached in the Canadian Rockies. All sides of this mountain, except the south, are so precipitous that they offer not the slightest possible hope to the mountain climber, be he ever so skilful. The summit is crowned by a snow field or glacier of small size but of remarkable purity, since there are no higher cliffs to send down stones and debris to the glacier and destroy its beauty. On the west face, the glacier overhangs a precipice, and, by constantly crowding forward and breaking off, has formed a nearly vertical face of ice, which is in one place three hundred and twenty-five feet thick. I have seen passengers on the trains who were surprised to learn that the ice in this very place is anything more than a yard in depth, and who regarded with misplaced pity and contempt those who have any larger ideas on the subject.
Avalanches from this hanging wall of ice are rather rare, as the length of the wall is not great and the glacier probably moves very slowly. I have never had the good fortune to witness one, though the thunders of these ice falls are often heard by the railroad men who live at Laggan, just six miles distant. They must indeed be magnificent spectacles, as the ice must needs fall more than 4000 feet to reach the base of the cliff. The compactness of this single mountain may be well shown, by saying that a line eight miles long would be amply sufficient to encircle its base, notwithstanding the fact that its summit reaches so great an altitude.
Mount Temple from the Saddle.
The strata are clearly marked and nearly horizontal, though with a slight upward dip on all sides, and especially toward the Bow valley, so that the general internal structure of the mountain is somewhat bowl-shaped, a formation very common in mountain architecture.
The surroundings of this great mountain are equally grand. Far below in the deep valley, the forest-trees appear like blades of grass, and in the midst of them a bright, foamy band of water winds in crooked course like a narrow thread of silver,—in reality, a broad, deep stream. A small lake, nestling among the dark forests at the very base of Mount Temple, is the most beautiful feature in the whole view. The distance renders its water a dark ultra-marine color, and sometimes, when the light is just at the proper angle, the ripples sparkle on the dark surface like thousands of little diamonds. On the right, an awful precipice of a near mountain looms up in gloomy grandeur, like the cliffs and bottomless abysses of the infernal regions pictured by Doré. This we called Mount Sheol.
One may ascend from the Saddle to the summit of Great Mountain in an hour. Mr. A. and I ascended this mountain in 1893, before there was any trail to assist us, and we had a very hard time in forcing our way through the tough underbrush, while below tree line.
In the course of a great many ascents of this peak I have had several interesting adventures. The view from the summit is so fine that I have made many attempts to obtain good photographs from this point. One day, after a period of nearly a week of smoky weather, the wind suddenly shifted, and, at about ten o’clock in the morning, the atmosphere became so perfectly clear that the smallest details of the distant mountains were distinct and sharp, as though seen through a crystal medium. This was my chance, and I proceeded at once to take advantage of it. I had a large 8 x 10 camera and three plate-holders, which all went into a leather case especially made for the purpose, and which was fitted out with straps, so that it rested between my shoulders and left both hands free for climbing. It weighed altogether twenty-four pounds. With lunch in my pocket, I set out from the chalet with all speed, so as to arrive on the summit before the wind should change and bring back the smoke.
I climbed as I had never climbed before, and though the day was hot I reached the Saddle in an hour, and, without a moment’s pause, turned toward Great Mountain and commenced the long ascent of its rocky slope. In fifty-five minutes more I reached the summit and had ascended 3275 feet above Lake Louise. The air was still clear and offered every promise of successful photographs, even as I was unstrapping my camera and preparing to set it up for work. Suddenly, the wind shifted once more to the south and brought back great banks of smoke, which came rolling over the snowy crest of Mount Lefroy like fog from the sea. In five minutes all was lost. Mount Temple appeared like a great, shadowy ghost, in the bluish haze, and the sun shone with a pale coppery light. Such are the trials and tribulations of the climber in the Canadian Rockies.
One day at the end of August, H. and I ascended this mountain with our surveying instruments. The barometer had been steadily falling for several days, and already there were cumulus clouds driving up from the southwest in long furrows of lighter and darker vapors, which obscured the entire sky. A few drops of rain on the summit compelled me to work rapidly, but, as yet, there was no warning of what was in store.
After all the principal points were located we packed up our instruments and commenced a rapid descent to the Saddle. The slope is of scree and loose material, which permits a rapid descent at a full run, so that one may gain the Saddle in about fifteen minutes. Arriving there I paused to get a drink at a small stream under some great boulders, fed by a wasting snow-bank. H. had gone off toward the other side of the pass to get his rifle, which he had left on the way up.
Suddenly I heard a rushing sound, and, looking up, saw a cloud of dust on the mountain side and the trees swaying violently in a strong wind. A mass of curling vapor formed rapidly against the cliffs of Great Mountain, and a dull moaning sound, as of violent wind, seemed to fill the air. The sky rapidly darkened and black clouds formed overhead, while below them the thin wisps of scud rushed along and seemed white and pale by contrast.
I was no sooner up on my feet than the approaching blast was upon me, and with such unexpected force did it come that I was laid low at the first impulse. My hat went sailing off into space and was never seen more. The first shock over, I gained my feet again and started to find H. The air changed in temperature with phenomenal rapidity, and from being warm and muggy, in the space of about five minutes it grew exceedingly cold, and threatened snow and hail.
Though everything betokened an immediate storm and a probable drenching for us, I had time to notice a magnificent sight on Mount Temple. As yet there were no clouds on the summit, but, as I looked, my attention was called to a little fleck of vapor resting against the precipitous side of the mountain, half-way between summit and base. So suddenly had it appeared that I could not tell whether it had grown before my eyes or was there before. From this small spot the vapors grew and extended rapidly in both directions, till a long, flat cloud stretched out more than a mile, when I last saw it. The vapors seemed to form out of the very air where a moment before all had been perfectly clear.
Realizing that the sooner we started the better chance we should have of escape, we flew rather than ran down the trail, and were only overtaken by the storm as we approached the lake. The temperature had dropped so rapidly that a cold rain and damp snow were falling when we reached the lake. The boat had drifted from its moorings, and was caught on a sunken log some distance from the shore. I waded out on a sunken log, where I expected at any moment to slip from the slimy surface and take an involuntary bath in the lake. The boat was regained by the time H. had arrived a few minutes later and we reached the chalet thoroughly drenched.
Such sudden storms in the Canadian Rockies are rather rare, and are almost always indicated in advance by a falling barometer and lowering sky. I have never at any other time observed such a sudden fall in temperature, nor seen the clouds form instantaneously far down on the mountain side as they had done in this storm. The sudden rush of wind, the curling vapors, and flying scud afforded a magnificent spectacle on the Saddle, and one that was well worth the drenching we suffered in penalty.