THE GUARDIAN LIGHTS OF CANADA’S COAST
The phenomenal commercial expansion of the Dominion of Canada, which
has brought about an amazing development in the maritime traffic with
that country on both its seaboards, naturally has been responsible
for the display of striking activity in the provision of aids to
navigation. Both the Atlantic and Pacific coastlines bristle with
dangers of a most terrible nature; the innumerable islands and
precipitous flanks of rock recall the wild ruggedness of the western
coast of Scotland or the forbidding Atlantic shoreline of France and
Spain.
When the ships of Britain first traded with Canadian shores, shipwrecks
and ocean tragedies were numerous; there is no escape for a ship which
is caught on those pitiless coasts. The early settlers, therefore, did
not hesitate to provide ways and means of guiding navigators to safety.
Their first lights were primitive, comprising bonfires fed with wood,
of which ample supplies abounded, pitched on prominent headlands; and
these flickering rays, when not obscured by smoke and fog, served to
speed the ship safely on her way.
The British pioneers, naturally, did not hesitate to improve upon
these uncertain crude methods of warning, in course of time, by
the erection of more substantial lights. These for the most part
comprised timber-frame dwellings, used by the family entrusted with
the maintenance of the light, from the roof of which a wooden tower
extended, similar in design to the buildings favoured for a similar
purpose in the United States. Many lights of this class are still
doing faithful service to-day, and although one might anticipate the
destruction of such a beacon from fire, yet, owing to the unremitting
care displayed by the families associated with the upkeep thereof,
this awful fiend has not been responsible for the temporary extinction
of many lights in the country’s history.
[Illustration:
_Photo by permission of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._
THE CAPE RACE LIGHTHOUSE, NEWFOUNDLAND.
One of the finest and most powerful beacons in the world. It is
filled with the hyperradiant apparatus, and the ray is of 1,100,000
candle-power.]
One of the oldest, if not the first light to be established, was that
on Sambro Island, to indicate the entrance into Halifax Harbour, Nova
Scotia. This signpost of the sea was set up in 1758, and fulfilled its
purpose for 148 years, when it was reconstructed and fitted with the
most up-to-date appliances. The white flash now bursts forth, at an
elevation of 140 feet above mean high-water, from the top of a white
octagonal stone and concrete tower, and is visible from a distance
of seventeen miles. When it is blotted out by fog, a powerful signal
is given once every ten minutes by a cotton-powder charge. Mariners,
however, are cautioned against attempting to make Sambro in fog, as the
shore is wild and cruel. This explosive signal is emitted rather to
communicate a timely warning to vessels which have lost their way.
The two most dangerous spots in the approach to Canada, however,
lie off the mainland. One is the irregular triangular island of
Newfoundland; the other is a low-lying stretch of sand known as Sable
Island. Both are amongst the most ill-famed graveyards in the North
Atlantic, where hundreds of ships have gone to their doom. Even to-day,
although both are well protected by lights, wrecks are by no means
uncommon. Sable Island is stalked by the ghosts of scores of seafarers
who have been the victims of some ghastly ocean tragedy upon its banks.
The island of Newfoundland lies in the jaw of the River St. Lawrence,
with two narrow passages leading between the Gulf behind and the broad
Atlantic. Both straits offer dangers to navigation, although in this
respect that of Belle Ile, whereby the northern corner of the island
is rounded, is the worse offender. Yet the most dangerous corner of
the island is, not where the waterways are hemmed in, but that tongue
which thrusts itself far out to sea, to terminate in the bluff headland
of Cape Race. This shoreline is as serrated as a fine saw, being a
succession of indentations and steep promontories, with submerged
reefs running far out to sea. To the south lies that great submerged
tableland, invariably curtained in fog, where mighty icebergs that
have come down from the north pound and grate themselves to pieces,
which throughout the shipping world is regarded with dread--the Grand
Banks. This south-eastward corner of the island, by being thrust so
far outwards, brings the rocky headlands into the path of the vessels
plying between Europe, Canada, and New York.
The shortest route between the Old and New World extends across the
northern half of the Banks, with a slight swing southwards to avoid
Cape Race. So far as the great liners are concerned, they are spared
this peril, inasmuch as their prescribed lanes give the cruel coast
a wide berth; but all other shipping has either to swing round the
headland to enter the Gulf of St. Lawrence, or strike farther north and
pass through the Strait of Belle Ile. The latter route, however, is
available for only five months in the year; the greater volume of the
traffic skirts the southern shores of the island.
[Illustration:
_By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission._
CANN ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE ON THE EAST COAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND.
This is a typical example of a wooden frame building. The tower
projects from the roof of the home of the lighthouse-keeper and his
family.]
Under these circumstances Cape Race is to the western side of the
Atlantic what the Fastnet and Bishop Rocks are to the eastern
boundaries of this ocean. Even if the wild character of the coast were
not sufficient justification for a light, the currents experienced
off these shores, which are of high velocity and violently broken up
by the indentations and protuberances, would demand the provision
of a beacon. Over one hundred vessels of all descriptions have been
smashed to pieces in the vicinity of Cape Race alone. The Allan liner
_Anglo-Saxon_ crashed into the cliffs and went down in 1864 with 290
souls. In this instance the death-roll would have been far heavier had
it not been for the pluck and grit of the lighthouse-keepers, who,
observing the wreck, hurried to the water’s edge, lowered themselves
with ropes from the heights above, and, stumbling, groping, and feeling
their way through the darkness, at imminent risk to their own limbs and
lives, rescued 130 of the luckless passengers and crew from the wreck,
who were huddled on a ledge under the cliffs, hungry, shivering with
cold, and too exhausted to assist themselves. The light-keepers and
men from the telegraph-station had to lift these helpless survivors one
by one to the top of the precipice, a task demanding herculean effort,
patience, and intrepidity, and to lead and help them to the lighthouse,
where they were tended until a steamer, answering the telegraphic call
for help, came round from St. John’s and took the hapless people off.
In 1901 the _Assyrian_ ran ashore in calm weather, and was too firmly
jammed on a reef to extricate herself. A week later another fine vessel
and cargo worth £80,000, or $400,000, was battered to pulp by the
waves, the lighthouse-keepers once more, at great risk to themselves,
putting out and rescuing those on board in the nick of time. Ere the
excitement of this wreck had died down, a French emigrant steamer, the
_Lusitania_, ran full-tilt on to a reef, and but for the timely aid
rendered by the lighthouse-keepers and the fisherfolk 550 people would
have been drowned. More fearful catastrophes have been enacted within
hail of the lights at Cape Race and Cape Ray, hard by to the west, and
more millions sterling of cargo and ship have been shattered and lost
here than upon any other corresponding stretch of coast in the world.
The most noticeable point in connection with these disasters is the
large number of big boats which have ended their careers abruptly off
this spot, although the rocks have claimed a big share of small fry as
well.
The first beacon was placed on the headland in 1856. It was a
cylindrical tower, built up of cast-iron plates, erected near the edge
of the cliff, which is 87 feet high. The tower itself being 38 feet in
height, the focal plane of the beam was at an elevation of 125 feet
above the sea. It was erected jointly by the British and Newfoundland
Government authorities, although the maintenance thereof was entrusted
to Great Britain. In return for the provision of this warning, a tax
of one-sixteenth of a penny, or an eighth of a cent, per ton, was
collected in England from vessels passing the light. The beacon was not
particularly powerful, the ray being only of some 6,000 candle-power.
Some years ago the lighthouse was handed over to the Canadian
Government to be included in its service, together with the balance of
the fund which had accrued from the levy of the special tax. This sum
represented £20,579, or $102,895. The Canadian Government abolished the
light-due, and the surplus funds were absorbed into the general revenue
of the country.
The new owners, realizing the importance of the light, subsequently
decided to provide a new beacon of greater power to meet the demands
of shipping, which had increased amazingly. In 1907 this structure
was completed. It is a cylindrical tower, carried out in reinforced
concrete, 100 feet in height, surmounted by a lantern of the first
order with hyperradial apparatus. This is the largest type of optical
apparatus in use at the present time, and the ray of light produced by
an incandescent oil-burner and mantle is of 1,100,000 candle-power,
shed from an elevation of 195 feet above the water. The warning flash
of a quarter of a second every seven and a half seconds is visible from
a distance of nineteen miles. In addition, the fog-signalling apparatus
was brought up to date. The steam-whistle, which had sufficed up to
the date of reconstruction, was replaced by a diaphone of the greatest
power installed up to that time. This is set up about 250 feet south
of the lighthouse, with which it is connected by a covered passage.
The air required to emit the warning blast, lasting three and a half
seconds once in every half-minute, is compressed by the aid of steam.
By day the lighthouse is readily distinguishable from its red and white
vertical stripes, red lantern, and white dwelling with red roof, in
which the keepers have their quarters. To-day the station ranks as
one of the finest in the world, complying in every respect with the
requisitions for one of a first-class character.
Sable Island is perhaps an even more evil spot in the North Atlantic
than the ill-famed Newfoundland coast. It is a bleak, inhospitable,
crescent-shaped collection of sand-dunes, eighty-five miles due east of
Nova Scotia and lying right in the steamship tracks. A more uninviting
stretch of dry land could not be conceived. Little grows here beyond
a special kind of brush, which appears to flourish in sea-swept
billows of sand. But the obstacle is formidable, being twenty-two
miles in length by a mile in width at its broadest part. This does
not constitute the extent of its dangers--far from it. The island is
slowly but surely being swallowed up by the restless, hissing sea,
with the result that, when one stands on the almost indistinguishable
line where sea meets land, an aspect of white ruffs of foam curl in
all directions as far as the eye can see, where the surf is thundering
over the shoals. I have related the toll that this island of the dead
has exacted from shipping,[A] and now confine myself to describing
the means that have been provided to warn the mariner off its bars.
The Canadian Government maintains two lighthouses, at the western
and eastern extremities respectively, and those entrusted with their
safe-keeping have as lonely an existence as may be conceived. The
welcome face of a stranger never brightens their lives, except when the
relief-boat draws in as far as it dares in the calmest weather, or when
some luckless wretches are snatched from a vessel which has fallen into
the toils of the sand and is doomed. The sea-birds and seals are their
sole companions on this lonely outpost.
[A] “The Steamship Conquest of the World,” chapter xxi., p. 299.
[Illustration:
_Photo by courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._
THE LIGHT AT THE SOUTHERN END OF BELLE ILE.
This Canadian beacon throws its rays from a height of 470 feet. In
foggy weather the headland often is obscured by fog, so an auxiliary
light has been provided 346 feet below.]
The necessity of indicating this death-trap to the mariner was realized
at the end of the seventeenth century, but it was not until 1802 that a
forward step was taken to ease the plight of those who were thrown upon
its shores. Then the province of Nova Scotia voted a sum of £400 or
$2,000, per annum, for the maintenance of a fully-equipped life-saving
station. This sum was too slender to fulfil the purposes conceived, but
in 1827 the Imperial Government, recognizing the humane character of
the enterprise, voted a similar appropriation, which is paid regularly,
or was up to a few years ago, towards its support. When the Dominion of
Canada became an accomplished fact in 1867, by the confederation of the
provinces, the matter was taken up whole-heartedly, and since that date
enormous sums have been expended upon the island for the protection
of shipping and the mitigation of the sufferings of those cast upon its
inhospitable shores. At the present time three life-saving stations and
six relief stations, equipped with the best modern apparatuses, are
maintained, connected by telephone and equipped with a staff of about
twenty men. When the gales are raging and the island is encircled in
a broad band of maddened spray stretching to the horizon, these men
are out patrolling the shore, ready to man the lifeboat upon the first
signals of distress. The life of these lonely workers now is lightened
very appreciably, as the island is fitted with a wireless station,
wherewith the men are able to talk through space with the mainland and
with passing vessels.
[Illustration:
_Photo by courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._
THE NORTH BELLE ILE LIGHTHOUSE.
The warning flash, thrown from a height of 137 feet, can be seen from a
distance of 17 miles.]
The west end light has passed through many vicissitudes, and the
keepers have experienced innumerable thrills. At this point the ocean
is devouring the island rapidly. In 1873 the tower was raised in what
was considered a safe position. It was placed some distance from the
water’s edge on a favourable knoll, and thought to be immune from
the gnawing of the sea for many years to come. But Nature disposed
otherwise. The awful winter of 1881 played havoc with the island. One
mighty gale carried away a solid chunk 70 feet wide by nearly 1,400
feet long. When the summer came, and an inspection was made, fears
were entertained concerning the safety of the lighthouse. The keepers
had observed violent tremblings, for the tower vibrated considerably
under the smashing blows of the waves. Nothing could be done that
summer, and it was hoped that the succeeding winter would be milder,
to enable plans to be prepared for the construction of a new tower in
a safer position. The keepers, however, were urged to keep a sharp eye
on developments, and to be prepared for any emergency. The winter of
1882 proved to be worse than that of the previous year, and the island
suffered more than ever. The keepers and their isolated comrades viewed
the advance of the waves with ill-disguised alarm. Would the island
around the light hold out until the spring? That was the uppermost
thought. Every gale brought the waves nearer, and at last it was
recognized that one good gale would finish matters. So the men prepared
for the emergency. The demolition of the tower commenced, a race
between the waters and human labour. The men worked well and had just
got the superstructure away, when there was a creak, a groan, and a
crash! The foundations, which had been undermined, disappeared into the
Atlantic. In less than ten years the hungry ocean had carried a mile of
Sable Island away.
[Illustration:
_By kind permission of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._
A MAGNIFICENT CANADIAN LIGHT ON THE PACIFIC COAST.
An octagonal tower, 127 feet high, built of ferro-concrete.]
[Illustration:
_By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission._
THE WEST END GUARDIAN OF SABLE ISLAND, THE GRAVEYARD OF THE ATLANTIC.
This tower replaces the structure demolished by the waves.]
In 1888 the present magnificent lighthouse was brought into service.
It is a ferro-concrete tower of octagonal shape rising from a massive
plinth of the same form, and is provided with four equidistantly-spaced
wing buttresses to hold the structure more rigid in rough weather.
The building is set on a knoll rising 20 feet above the water, and
about 2,100 yards east of the extremity of the western dry spit of
land, so that the Atlantic will have to gnaw a considerable distance
before it will render the position of this light untenable. The tower
is 97 feet in height, bringing the white ray 118 feet above the level
of the sea. The light is of the group revolving type, thrown once
every three minutes. The warning is made up of three flashes, with an
eclipse of thirty seconds between each flash, followed by darkness for
ninety seconds, and may be seen sixteen miles away. While the beacon
mounts guard over the main end of the island on one side, there is a
dangerous submerged bar which runs north-westwards and westwards for
seventeen miles. The light at the east end, which was erected in 1873,
is likewise carried on an octagonal tower 81 feet high, but, being set
upon a more commanding position, the beam is elevated to 123 feet. It
is erected five miles south-westwards of the extreme tip of the island,
and gives a white flash at intervals of three seconds, followed by an
eclipse of fifteen seconds; it may be picked up seventeen miles away.
Similarly, this light mounts guard over a submerged sand-bar, which
extends eastwards for at least fourteen miles.
During the late summer and autumn the majority of the vessels plying
between ports on the St. Lawrence and Europe take the shorter route
round the northern corner of Newfoundland through the Straits
of Belle Ile. This is a highly dangerous passage, inasmuch as the
narrow streak of water, seventy miles in length, with a maximum width
of eleven miles, separating the frowning coasts of Newfoundland
and Labrador, is strewn with menaces, the most formidable of which
is Belle Ile, which lies right in the centre of the entrance from
the ocean. The island is really a lofty hump of rock, twenty-one
miles in circumference, with the shores for the most part dropping
precipitously into the water. It is an extremely lonely spot, and,
naturally, is feared by the mariner. His apprehensions, however, have
been considerably relieved, because the channel is brilliantly lighted
by several powerful lights visible from twelve to twenty-eight miles,
while another is being established.
[Illustration:
_By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission._
ST. ESPRIT ISLAND LIGHT, NOVA SCOTIA.
Its white revolving light is visible for 14 miles.]
[Illustration: THE GULL ISLAND LIGHT, NEWFOUNDLAND.
A very lonely beacon, visible for 27 miles.]
The beacons are distributed along the shores of Newfoundland, Belle
Ile, and Labrador, one powerful light being placed on Cape Bauld, the
northernmost point of Newfoundland, and another on Cape Norman, another
promontory to the west. These two lights are visible from twenty and
sixteen miles respectively, while on the opposite side of the strait
is Amour Point light, guarding the south-east side of Forteau Bay on
the Labrador shore, which has a range of eighteen miles. Cape Bauld
is the most important mainland beacon, inasmuch as it indicates the
entrance to the Belle Ile Straits. Belle Ile is well protected at its
two extreme tips, the principal light being at the southern end. The
necessity of guiding ships between the island and Newfoundland was
recognized half a century ago, for this light was erected in 1858. It
is perched on the summit of the cliff, 400 feet above the sea, the
occulting light of ten seconds’ duration and five seconds’ eclipse
being thrown from an altitude of 470 feet, rendering it distinguishable
twenty-eight miles away. Unfortunately, however, the extreme elevation
of the light often causes it to be enshrouded in impenetrable banks of
clouds, which drape the headland; so in 1880 an auxiliary light was
established, 346 feet below the upper light. This beam is similar in
character to the one above, and, from its elevation of 124 feet above
the water, it may be picked up from seventeen miles out. Consequently,
in foggy weather the lower light may be seen when the upper beacon is
obscured. This is one of the most important points on the coast, being
a marine telegraph, signal, and ice-report station, while it is also
fitted with wireless telegraphy. An interesting feature in connection
with this light is that it was kept going for three generations by one
family, the Coltons, whose name is legendary in Quebec, and some of
whom were born and died on Belle Ile.
[Illustration: THE BATISCAN FRONT RANGE LIGHTHOUSE, RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.
_By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._]
[Illustration: ISLE ST. THÉRÈSE UPPER RANGE BACK LIGHTHOUSE, RIVER ST.
LAWRENCE.
_By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._]
The second light, on the northern extremity of the island, to indicate
the northern entrance into the straits, is of recent date, having
been brought into operation in 1905. It is a tower of iron, encased
in a white octagonal reinforced concrete covering capped with a red
polygonal-shaped lantern throwing a flash of half a second once every
eleven seconds from a height of 137 feet, visible from a distance of
seventeen miles.
Fogs and mists are two great perils peculiar to this northern waterway,
so the splendid lighting arrangements are supported by excellent and
powerful fog-signals. The northern light has a diaphone giving a blare
lasting three and a half seconds every minute, while the southern
station has a siren giving a double tone. First there is a low note of
two and a half seconds followed by silence for two and a half seconds;
then a high note of two and a half seconds and a silent interval of
112½ seconds. This signal is emitted from a point midway between the
upper and lower lights, the air for the blast being compressed by
water-power. Another humane provision is the depot at the southern
station, which is kept stocked with food supplies for the benefit of
shipwrecked mariners. In 1898 a freighter carrying a deck-load of 400
oxen went ashore beneath this light and became a hopeless wreck. The
crew, realizing the impossibility of saving the animals, fired the
ship, so that the animals were suffocated and bruised, thereby sparing
the inhabitants of the island a deadly risk, and solving the difficult
problem which otherwise would have arisen, had the brutes been drowned
in the ordinary way and their decomposing carcasses cast up on the
beach. In the following year the Dominion liner _Scotsman_ crashed on
to the rocks near the same spot, and likewise became a total loss, with
a death-roll of nine. By dint of great effort the survivors scrambled
ashore, and had a weary trudge of nine miles over a broken, rock-strewn
wilderness to gain the lighthouse station and assistance, arriving in a
famished and exhausted condition, to be tended by the light-keepers and
their families.
Belle Ile is a lonely station in the fullest sense of the word,
although the keepers are better off now than they were a few years
ago. The straits are busy in the summer, being crowded with shipping,
but with the coming of November all life disappears, and the liners
do not return until the following May or June. The rock is cut off
from the mainland by the masses of ice which pile up in the estuary,
together with the crowds of icebergs which come down from Greenland.
For six months the guardians of the light are isolated from the world
at large, although they have a slender link of communication in the
submarine cable. But the storms and stress of winter often rupture this
line, and, as the wireless installation is closed down when navigation
ceases, the keepers and their families settle down to a silent, weary
vigil, knowing nothing of the rest of the world, and all but forgotten
by civilization, because an interruption in the cable cannot be
repaired until the ice disappears.
[Illustration: UPPER TRAVERSE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.]
[Illustration:
_By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson._
AN “ICE SHOVE” UPON THE BACK RANGE LIGHT IN LAKE ST. PETER.
This photo gives a striking idea of the trouble experienced with ice in
Canadian waters.]
Even when the Gulf of the St. Lawrence is entered, the navigator is not
free from peril. The waterway is littered with rocks and islands. Among
these are Coffin Island and Anticosti, the latter being the private
property of M. Henri Ménier, the French chocolate magnate. For many
years the St. Lawrence was a byword to navigation, and wrecks were
numerous. It was shunned by navigators and abhorred by underwriters.
Even to this day the latter regard it askance, and the insurance rates
are high upon vessels trading in these waters. Through the efforts
of the Department of Marine and Fisheries, the Dominion Government
is removing this stigma from their great marine avenue, and their
engineer-in-chief. Lieutenant-Colonel William P. Anderson, to whom I am
indebted for much information concerning the guardians of the Canadian
coasts, has displayed commendable enterprise and ingenuity in combating
the natural odds pitted against human endeavour to render the coasts of
the country more friendly to navigation.
In the St. Lawrence the great foe is ice. Its onslaughts are terrific,
and none but the strongest works has a chance to survive the enormous
pressure exerted when the ice is on the run after the break of winter.
As is well known, for some five months in the year the river is frozen
so thick and solid that it will support a train. Naturally, when this
armour collapses, and the floes are hurled seawards by the current,
they concentrate their destructive energies upon any obstacles in
their way, piling up in huge masses weighing thousands of tons. It is
no uncommon circumstance for the floes to pack in a jagged heap 50
feet high, while all the time there is a continual push against the
obstruction.
Under these circumstances extreme ingenuity has to be displayed in
the erection of the fixed lights. The floating lights, such as buoys,
escape this peril, as they are picked up when navigation ceases, to be
housed in quarters on dry land, and replaced when the river is open
once more. Yet it is not only the ice in itself which causes trouble.
The level of the river rises when the ice is running, and this pressure
alone is enormous, while the scouring action about the foundations
is terrific. The type of structure adopted varies with the situation
and character of the light. The beacons for the aid of navigation, in
common with the practice upon American waterways, are divided into
groups or ranges, and the captain picks out his channel by keeping
these lights and marks in various lines. Maybe four or five lights have
to be brought into line, and accordingly the height of the unit of each
range varies from its fellow. Thus, the front light will be low, that
behind a little higher, and so on, until the last light in the group,
or “back light” of the range, as it is called, is a lofty structure.
In some places the light is placed in mid-stream, and perhaps
mounted upon a massive, high, steel caisson, resting upon a concrete
foundation, thereby proving immovable to the most powerful of
ice-shoves. Or a large pier carried out in ferro-concrete and pyramidal
in shape is used. In the case of the back light there is a skeleton
tower, which structure is employed to gain the necessary height.
This is carried upon a high, huge, solid plinth of concrete, even
if built against the bank. The frazil ice dams the channel, causing
the water to rise, and unless the foregoing precautions were adopted
widespread damage would result. All the lights between the gulf and
Montreal have to be protected in this manner, so that it will be seen
that the adequate lighting of this waterway bristles with engineering
difficulties of no light character, and is expensive.
The Canadian Government also is responsible, to a certain extent,
for the lighting of the Great Lakes, which is described in another
chapter, where similar difficulties prevail. It has also a long
stretch of the most rugged part of the Pacific coast to patrol,
aggregating about 600 miles between Victoria and Vancouver to the
Portland Canal, where Canadian meets Alaskan territory. This is a
wicked coast, broken and battered, as well as flanked by an outer
barrier of islands, recalling the Scandinavian Peninsula in its general
topographical characteristics. During the past few years the necessity
of lighting this seaboard adequately has become more pronounced, owing
to the creation of the new port of Prince Rupert, a few miles below
Alaskan territory, where the Grand Trunk Pacific reaches down to
the western sea, and the growing sea-borne traffic with Alaska. The
fact that a large portion of this navigation is maintained through
the inside passages, bristling with sharp turns, narrow defiles, and
jagged headlands, which for the most part are wrapped generally in
fog, renders the lighting problem more intricate. Probably the most
important light, and certainly the loftiest on the Pacific seacoast
north of the Equator, is that on the summit of Triangle Island,
British Columbia. It was built in 1910, and although the lantern itself
is only 46 feet in height, the elevation of the headland brings the
white group-flashing light of 1,000,000 candle-power 700 feet above
the sea, giving it a range of thirty-four miles. Four flashes are
emitted during each ten seconds, each flash lasting 0·28 second with
intervening eclipses each of 1·28 seconds, with an eclipse between each
group of 5·94 seconds.
Lieutenant-Colonel Anderson has introduced a new type of reinforced
concrete lighthouse with flying buttresses. The latter are not required
for strength, but are utilized to give greater stiffness to the tower,
as a column 100 feet or more in height, no matter how strongly it may
be built, must vibrate and swing in high winds. Yet it is desirable
to keep the lantern as steady as possible, and this is achieved much
more completely upon the above principle. The engineer-in-chief of
the lighthouse authority of the Canadian Government considers this
method of construction to be the last word in lighthouse building, and
has completed some notable works upon these lines. Perhaps the most
important is the Estevan Point light, on the west coast of Vancouver,
at a place known as Hole-in-the-Wall. The tower, of octagonal, tapering
form, is 127 feet in height, and throws a white group-flashing light,
comprising three flashes each of 9·3 seconds with two eclipses, each of
1·37 seconds, and a final eclipse of 6·36 seconds between each group,
seventeen miles out to sea. The surroundings of this station are most
romantic. Landing anywhere in its vicinity is extremely difficult and
dangerous, and the engineer had to select a point about two miles
distant for this purpose. From this place a road and tramway have been
laid through a grand primeval forest, such as is to be found only upon
Vancouver Island, wherein roams a drove of magnificent wild cattle.
While the Canadian coast cannot point to any lighthouse work comparing
with the Eddystone, Skerryvore, or Heaux de Bréhat, yet its most
powerful beacons are of a commanding character, representing as they
do the latest and best in connection with coast lighting. There is an
enormous stretch of difficult shore to patrol, along which has to
be guided an immense volume of valuable shipping. In addition to the
attended lights, the Government has been extremely enterprising in the
adoption of unattended beacons (described in another chapter), miles
of lonely, inhospitable shore being guarded in this way. Although the
development in this direction is of comparatively recent date, the
protection of maritime trade is being carried out in accordance with
a comprehensive policy, so that within a few years the coasts of the
Dominion will be rendered as safe to the shipping of the world as human
ingenuity can contrive.