IN THE ROCKIES—HOLT CITY—LIFE IN THE CAMP—A ROUGH RIDE—THE KICKING HORSE
LAKE—BRITISH COLUMBIA.
I am writing from Holt City—so named after a famous contractor out
here—in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Here the rail comes, but no
further, as yet, though some 2,000 men are at work a few miles ahead, and
making incredible speed in the construction of this gigantic
intercolonial undertaking—an undertaking which would have been completed
by this time had the late Sir Hugh Allan (the founder of the Allan line
of steamers) and Sir John Macdonald had their way.
I left Calgary without shedding a tear—the train was only three hours
late—after remarking to the manager of the leading hotel that, much as I
had enjoyed myself under his humble but hospitable roof, I would give him
leave to charge me twenty dollars a day if ever he caught me within his
doors again.
When the train arrived, of course there was no room. This is the working
season, and the C.P.R., as everyone calls it in Canada, is hurrying on
men to the front as fast as they can be got.
However, I was permitted to get inside the mail van, in company with a
contractor, his wife, and a baby, which behaved itself as well as could
be expected under the circumstances; a lady who was going to visit her
husband, one of the contractors on the line; and an invalid from
Pennsylvania, who did not seem much to enjoy that rough mode of
travelling. We reached Holt City about eleven, when it was quite dark,
and the only bed I could find was a shelf in the van, on which I was glad
to lie down—but not, alas! to sleep. Had I got out, I should have been
lost, or run over by an engine—that is positive, as there is no road,
only divers rails, as, for instance, the Continental Hotel at Newhaven.
I am now writing in the post-office, which seems the great social centre
of the place, though the mail only leaves twice a week. It is a
decent-sized tent, with a desk and counter in the middle for the sale of
stamps and cigars and the delivery of letters. Behind it are a couple of
beds on which men are reposing in a way that I envy, and covered with
buffalo skins—the possession of which I envy them still more. In front
is a table, fitted up with old papers and a couple of uncommonly
uncomfortable benches, whereon are sitting various loafers, smoking and
talking, and warming themselves as best they can at the big stove—one of
which you now see in every Canadian house, and which but feebly keeps out
the raw cold of the morning.
[Picture: Mount Stephen in the Rocky Mountains on the Line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway]
Holt City is admirably located, to use an American phrase which I
heartily detest. It is a clearance in the forest, bordered by the Bow
River, which dashes foaming along. There is a shed, which does duty for
a railway station; a collection of tents, in which the _employés_ of the
company dwell, or which hold the large stores it collects here; a large
shed for meals, a railway car, in which Mr. John Ross, the able
administrator of the C.P.R. in these parts, resides with his accomplished
wife; and further off are other tents, which do duty as hotels,
billiard-rooms, and shops. Up here, I see little to remind me of the Old
Country, except bottles of Stephens’ inks, of Aldersgate Street, London,
which, says the head accountant, are the only inks on which they can
rely.
We are in a valley—a valley high up among the mountains—as fair as that
in which Rasselas studied to be a virtuous prince, but of a character
common in the length and breadth of the Rockies. I have seen scores of
valleys as fair; and yet I own the exquisite loveliness of the spot—at
any rate, in summer time—is marvellous. Around me rise Alps on Alps, up
into the cloudless blue. Firs, all larch and pine, in all the freshness
of their new-found greenery, clothe their base; while the snow, in
wreaths like marble, glistens on their dark sides or crowns their rugged
peaks. It would seem as if there could be no world beyond. It is really
wonderful what pleasant nooks of this kind one sees everywhere. I
stopped at one such last night, a station called Canmore, which, however,
seemed to be the fairest of them all—and so the fish think, as the
station-master tells me he often catches speckled trout seven or eight
pounds in weight. Very near are valuable sulphur and other springs, and
when the railway shall be completed, I look forward to the time when
Pullman cars shall come here laden with health seekers from all parts of
the world, who are fond of fishing and fine air.
I had a narrow escape from not coming here at all. When we stopped at
Canmore for our evening meal, I found I was utterly unable to climb back
into the mail van. I may be young in heart, but, alas! I have lost
somewhat of the agility of early youth. I mentioned this to the
station-master and guard, who both promised me repeatedly that they would
have the train drawn up for me. Knowing this, I listened unconcernedly
to the cry of ‘All on board!’ Judge, then, of my horror when I saw the
train gradually gliding past.
‘Jump into the last car,’ cried the guard, as he saw me looking daggers
at him.
Fortunately I succeeded in doing so: it is easier to get on to an
American car when in motion than on an English one, on account of its
peculiar construction. This is fortunate, as the railway passenger in
Canada has to trust entirely to himself. He is ignored by guards and
porters and station-master altogether. Unfortunately, I jumped on to the
car sacred to the person of Sir John McNeil, and I was requested by the
black cook to move off, which I declined doing till we reached the next
station, when I moved into another car, and created not a little laughter
as I told my story. It is to be trusted that Sir John enjoyed himself
all the more for having got rid of my vulgar presence. I hope Sir John
may enlighten his friends on his return; but I fear he will gain little
knowledge of the people or the country, travelling in such a way.
Perhaps he will learn as much about it as the Marquis of Lorne, or the
Earl of Carnarvon, who recommends the poor people of the East-end to come
to Canada, where the chances are they will be worse off than they are at
home. Canada requires hardy, muscular men—if with money in their pockets
so much the better—not the refuse of our towns.
Again, I repeat, people in England ought to have fuller information about
Canada ere they go thither. It is a fortune for the strong man, but even
he has to run risks. Everywhere I hear of what is called mountain fever,
or Red River fever, or fever with some other name which stands for
typhoid disease. Grand and beautiful as is the country, fertile as is
the soil, people forget to observe sanitary laws at times and suffer in
consequence. But I must own that all the men I met in Holt City were
pictures of health and strength. For one thing, the company feeds them
well. I have just breakfasted in camp with the men. We had good coffee
and fried ham and other good things for breakfast, and good tins of
preserved fruits, to which everyone did justice. Everyone here has to
rough it. I washed this morning in the open air, having myself ladled
into a tin basin the water out of a cask in which still floated the
broken ice.
Holt City is, I suppose, the head-quarters of the C.P.R. Yet it is a
place by itself. Nothing can be rougher than the rail from here to
Calgary, or finer than the view. It is an advantage that the trains are
so slow, as you have more time to enjoy the scenery, which has almost
shaken my attachment to the Hebrides, though one misses the purple
heather which lends such a charm to the grey hills of the North. But
comparisons are odious, and the Rockies, in all their charms, must be
seen to be appreciated. It was a wonderful view I had last night as I
sat on the steps of the last car, drinking in all the strange beauties of
the place. We were climbing hour by hour a wilderness of mountains. We
were hemmed in by them from afternoon till night came down upon the face
of the earth. Mostly they were black, with snowy variations; some were
bare, others clothed with verdure. Some raised their heads in the clear
blue sky as fortresses, others were peaks, others ragged and uneven,
shapeless masses of matter growing out of one another. Some seemed to
like good company, others stood solitary and apart.
In the dells and shadows there are tales yet to be told. For instance,
here are some remains of the ancient road to British Columbia. Here, a
man tells me, last year there was a terrible tragedy. An English
gentleman and his son were camping near the spot. There came a forest
fire. Awful to relate, when the son had time to look around him, his
father was burnt to death. Fearful are some of the solitudes through
which the passenger plunges. The bear and the eagle have them entirely
to themselves. Few have explored them; fewer still have scaled the
mountain heights by which they are girdled. But nowadays one is in
search of silver or gold or coal, and has no time to think of mountain
grandeur. Cities rise and fall very quickly here. Silver City, for
instance, where we stopped last night, was all the rage a year or two
ago. It is now deserted. Yet people say silver is still to be found
there, and at Calgary, as an illustration of the fact, a ‘prospector’
showed me a fine specimen of silver, at the same time asking me to come
and see the shaft. I replied I was as fond of silver as he was, but I
sought it in another way.
But to return to the Rockies. I wonder not that in times past the
Indians saw in them the home of the gods, or that there the scientist
discovers in them the source of the whirlwind or the storm.
I am again train-bound. No one knows when we may have a train from the
east, and till we have one it is impossible for me to get away.
Physically, perhaps, this is a good thing for me, as it enables me to
recuperate. Here I am, 5,000 or 6,000 feet above the level of the sea,
breathing mountain air, and luxuriating in mountain scenery. Last night
I slept in a caboose, and it was the best night’s rest I have had for a
long time. I went to bed at nine and was up again at five. Do my
readers know what a caboose is? It is a railway luggage-car on wheels.
Mine is rather a superior one, and has an upper and a lower chamber, and
has in the upper chamber a row of shelves, which do service as beds. I
had one of these to myself, and, as I was well provided with blankets,
did not much grieve at the absence of linen sheets.
My dear old friend, Mrs. Moodie, wrote a capital book, called ‘Roughing
It in the Bush.’ Assuredly I may, one of these days, write one on
roughing it in the Rockies, though the keeper of the caboose, out of
respect for my age and infirmities, does all he can to make me
comfortable. Already I feel the better for the air. For the first time
since I have been in Canada I have felt hungry; for the first time, also,
since I have been in Canada I have not had to physic myself with
chlorodyne. A month up here in the Rockies would make a young man of me
or of anyone else. I must be off before I become as gay as a horse fed
on beans. This is, I take it, the real and sufficient reason of the
peculiar spirits of the mountaineers, who rather alarmed me with their
liveliness at Calgary. Their exuberance is due to air, and air alone.
As I sit, a long row of mules files past; a man is riding at the head,
the others follow with their burdens packed on their backs. He is a
‘prospector,’ and is on his way to the other side. Already as many as a
thousand such have gone the same road this summer.
The mountains are full of wealth—in the shape of gold or silver, or coal
or slate, or other precious commodities. Hitherto the cost of conveyance
has kept people away. The opening of the C.P.R. will remove that
inconvenience. They will have a chance now of getting rid of their
minerals, when discovered, and of fetching up their stores from the East
at less expense. As it is, things are dear enough in Holt City. For
instance, if I send or receive a letter, I have to pay the postmaster a
few cents in addition to the usual postage-stamp. Calgary I thought bad
enough, but up here prices may be quoted as much higher. Yesterday I had
a ride over the mountains. It will be long before I take such a ride
again. No English coachman would drive such a road for five hundred a
year. No English carriage could stand it, nor English horses either. I
expected the buggy, as it was called, to be shattered into atoms every
minute—it looked so light and frail, and the horses—a handsome pair, the
property of Mr. Ross—to be ruined for life; yet we got safely to the
front—where the men are hard at work cutting down trees, removing earth,
tunnelling, and pushing on the work with all their might; and there, I
must say, there are openings for any number of men who like to come out.
Last year little was done in the winter, because the contractors believed
the climate would be against them. No one before then had wintered in
the Rockies, and everyone believed the climate to be much worse than it
really is.
But to return to the ride. I yet feel it in every bone in my body, as
all the time I had to hold on to my seat like grim death. Sometimes the
coachman was high above me; sometimes I was at the top and he at the
bottom; now we were deep in the mud, the next moment high and dry on a
formidable boulder, bigger than a hogshead, and came down with a bang,
which sent me quivering all over. Here we were with the water up to the
floor; and then we came on a mudbank quite as deep. Not an inch of the
ground was level. It was all collar work or the reverse. Fortunately we
were shaded by the firs which climb all the mountains out here, or the
heat would have been unbearable. As to conversation, that was quite out
of the question, though the ‘boy’ who drove me came when a child from
Devonshire, and had a strong wish to see the old country again, of whose
lanes, yellow with primroses, and cottages bright with roses and
honeysuckles, and farmhouses green with ivy, he had a very vivid
recollection. He made a lot of money, he said. Indeed, he had more than
he knew what to do with. Last winter, for instance, he stopped a month
in Winnipeg, and spent there four hundred dollars. ‘How did it all go?’
‘Oh! in treating the boys!’ was his answer. I rather intimated that was
a poor way of using his money. ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘they all do it. That is
the way of the boys in this country!’ I was glad to hear him say that he
thought of taking a farm soon, and was putting by the money for that
purpose. The Rocky Mountains cannot be a bad place for a ‘boy.’ One of
them yesterday told me how he had vainly written to his father to come
out, who was now in the old country breaking stones on the road. Here,
at any rate, he would have been better off. It is a long journey, I
know, for the British emigrant. We are more than 1,000 miles from
Winnipeg, and the ride is a dreary one till you reach the Rockies. The
run to Winnipeg from Toronto by Port Arthur and Owen Sound is a real
enjoyment. It took us two days and two nights to reach Port Arthur from
Toronto, and the trip from Port Arthur to Winnipeg is accomplished easily
in twenty hours.
‘Any bears about here?’ said I to the ‘boy,’ in one of the few minutes
allowed for conversation in the course of our rough ride yesterday.
‘Not many. I seed one near where we are passing. He was a black bear,
and stood up and looked at me, and then I looked at him. I wished I’d
had a gun, and then I would have shot him.’
Fortunately I saw no bear, black or brown, in the woods as we drove
amongst them; scarcely a bird—only one, an owl I think, on the top of a
tree, which never moved, though we were close upon it. ‘Do you make any
difference in work on Sunday?’ I asked of one of the men. ‘Oh no; Sunday
ain’t of much account here.’ This is to be regretted, if only for
physical considerations. Everyone can work all the better for a day of
rest. Again, I think the C.P.R. injures itself in this way, that it may
lose the services of useful men who like to keep the Sabbath, either from
physical or religious considerations. As a matter of fact, I found many
did take a rest on Sunday, and it was amusing to see how the morning was
devoted to haircutting and shaving and mending clothes in the open air.
A man, I know, can spend his Sunday at honest work better than in
drinking. But when we think of the wild life of the miners and navvies
in the ends of the earth—a life so wild that the C.P.R. has got a law
passed to forbid the sale of intoxicating drink, and people are appalled
when they read, in spite of the law, whisky is supplied to men who have a
large number of revolvers at their side—it seems that a little provision
might be made for the religious wants of the community. The philosopher
will laugh, I admit. My reply is: Men were lifted out of degradation by
the Christian religion in some form or other, and as we root that out we
may expect society to retrograde. These men to the front will pay for
looking after. They are fine fellows mostly. At any rate, they are the
pioneers of modern civilization, and should be reverenced as such. They
are to be honoured for their work’s sake. They plant, we gather the
fruit. They sow the seed, we reap the harvest, and their work remains a
monument of perseverance, of the benefits of the Union, of enterprise,
and capital and skill. That Canada has thus carried the railway and the
telegraph across the Rockies shows that England and America will have to
look to their industrial laurels.
* * * * *
I am alive, I am thankful to say; but it seems to me that I should have
left my bones on the Kicking Horse Lake, which lies on the slope of the
Rockies, situated in British Columbia, where the scenery becomes grander
and the air balmier as it comes up laden with the soft breeze of the
Pacific. You see that at once in the superior size of the trees which
clothe the sides of that part of the Rockies.
As far as what the navvies call the front, I had the benefit of the
temporary railway by which Mr. Ross sends his labourers. It is then the
great difficulties of the work commence, as the rocks are tremendous, and
one of the tunnels making will be three-quarters of a mile long.
This hot weather I can scarce imagine how the men and horses stand the
work; of the former, some were digging, others cutting down the trees,
others removing rocks, others filling up the swamps. Here the waggons
were being laden with stores to be sent further to the front; now and
then a long trail of mules sweeps by with miners and miners’ stores, and
I plunge into the forest, shaded from the fierce sun by the tall firs,
and as I struggle in the swamps caused by the melting snows, I can
realize something of the hardships of the early travellers—hardships of
which the tourist, when the rail is completed, will have no idea, though
he will be a little alarmed as the mountains drop away beneath his feet
for more than a hundred miles to the Columbia river, while the narrow
track of rails winds along its sides. In the winter this pass, when
covered with snow, is very dangerous, and many are the mules and horses
dashed to pieces over the precipice.
The lake, when I reach it, is full of ice and snow, and all round the
mountains rear their snow-capped heads. One of the peculiarities of this
region is the abundance of water in some shape or other, and the shadows
on the lakes reflect as a mirror all the surrounding scene—the dark
forest at the base, the masses of slate-like rock above, the snow in all
its radiant white higher up, the unclouded azure that crowns and
glorifies all.
Heated and tired, I throw myself on the moss, and realize, in all its
intensity, the appalling loneliness of forest life—I startle three wild
ducks, that is all. Down on my left comes the rushing torrent in a
series of picturesque waterfalls into the lake. I climb the mountain by
the side of them. The water sends to me an ice-laden air, which revives
me as I struggle upwards and onwards, watching the whirlpools and
cascades as the water angrily struggles to force its way through the iron
barriers by which it is hemmed in. I secure a fine specimen of petrified
moss from a stream close by. But I may not linger. Already I feel weak
as I plunge into the frozen snow, or sink where the sun has melted it
into morass, or stumble over an old moss-grown trunk, or climb the big
trunks which the axeman has already levelled, or pass the streams which
intersect the plain on logs off which I expect to slip every moment.
Then I come to the railway men, and avail myself of the imperfect and
unconnected track which they have formed; but now the sun beats fiercely
on me, and I can scarcely put one foot before another. The spirit is
willing, but the flesh is weak. Fortunately, I reach the tent of a good
Samaritan. I refresh myself with water from the crystal stream. I lunch
on bread and cheese, with tea kindly fetched from the company’s hut, but
I have to lie down three hours before I feel myself equal to urging on my
wild career again.
British Columbia seems at present to be chiefly occupied by miners. No
other kind of emigrants are needed there. The country is mountainous—a
regular sea of mountains; but, writes an occasional correspondent of _The
Toronto Mail_, ‘there are beautiful valleys, far surpassing anything you
have in Ontario, and the mountains and hills furnish pasture.
Considering the climate, the rich soil, and the high price paid for all
farming produce, I believe there cannot be a more desirable place for the
farmer. I have no hesitation in saying that a farm of fifty acres is
worth more than a hundred in the East. All you have to do is to sow your
land with good seed and you are sure of a bountiful return. No weevil,
midge, wire-worm, potato bug, nor, in fact, any farmers’ pests, exist
here. There are no scorching hot days and sultry nights; no heavy frost
or deep snow to impede work; consequently you are not driven like a slave
for six months and frozen in for the other six, but have steady work all
the year round.’
Other writers bear a similar testimony. With all its advantages,
however, the country has one drawback—the scarcity and high price of
labour. It seems well looked after by the Episcopalians, who have a
Bishop here and several clergymen, and, as I may suppose the other
denominations are equally in earnest and equally active, it is clear
settlers may enjoy the advantages of the forms of religious life with
which they are familiar, and under which they have been reared.
British Columbia, which entered the Canadian Confederation in 1871, is
the most westerly of the Canadian Provinces. It has a coast-line on the
Pacific Ocean of about 600 miles, that is, in a straight line. If its
almost innumerable indentations and bays were measured, the coast-line
would extend to several thousands of miles.
The area of the Province, according to the Census measurement, is 341,305
square miles. Its position on the American continent is one of great
commercial importance, and its resources are in keeping with its
position. If it were to be described from the characteristics of its
climate, its mineral wealth, and its natural commercial relations, it
might be said to be the Great Britain and California combined of the
Dominion of Canada.
The Province is divided into two parts: the Islands, of which Vancouver
is the principal, and the Mainland. Vancouver is about 300 miles long,
with an average breadth of about sixty miles, containing an area of about
20,000 square miles.
British Columbia has numerous harbours and rivers, some of which are of
importance, and all are remarkable for their bountiful, in fact
wonderful, supplies of fish. The scenery which it possesses is
magnificently beautiful.
The climate on the coast is more equable and much milder in winter than
in any other part of Canada; but as the mountains are ascended, greater
cold prevails, with more snow, and the characteristics of greater dryness
of atmosphere which mark the climate of the interior of the continent are
found.
The population of British Columbia, by the Census of 1881, did not exceed
49,459, of which 25,661 were Indians. This comparatively sparse
population is due to the hitherto isolated position of the Province; but
now that railway communication between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans
through the Dominion of Canada is being rapidly pushed forward to
completion by a route which offers the easiest gradients and the most
important natural commercial advantages of any possible line across the
continent of America, the inducements the Province offers to settlers are
beginning to attract the attention, as well of the emigrating classes of
the Old World, as of the migrating classes of this continent; and
population is already beginning to flow rapidly in. It is beyond doubt
that the percentage of increase which will be shown at the next decennial
Census will be a statistical fact to excite men’s wonder. Its fisheries,
its forests, its mineral resources, will provide work for thousands who
are starving at home. And it will be easily reached when the Canadian
Pacific Railway is completed.
* * * * *
I have now reached the end of my journey, and I sum up my emigration
experiences. The emigrant, if strong and industrious, and ready to take
advantage of opportunities, and not averse to roughing it, will be sure
to find work; but he must be shy, if he has cash, of land schemers, and I
would advise him, if he thinks of settling, not to be in a hurry about
it, but to take time to look around. I have seen as fine farming country
as anywhere in the world. I have seen other parts where no one can get a
living. Amongst the emigrants I see many who must succeed anywhere, and
many who will go to the wall wherever they may be.
Let me give you another illustration of the bursting of an emigration
scheme. The London dailies often have advertisements offering for a
certain bonus to provide young men with homes where farming in all its
branches is taught. The London (Ont.) papers tell how a number of young
fellows have been taken in in this way. They paid the advertisers sums
from thirty pounds upwards, in addition to their passage money, the
consideration being that on their arrival in Ontario they were to be
placed on farms and kept there at the agent’s expense. Of course, when
they reached their journey’s end, no farmers were to be found. If a
young Englishman wishes to try farming in Canada, he cannot do better
than hire himself to a farmer for a year or two and keep his money in his
pocket for the purchase of a farm.
But even then he must not buy a farm till he knows something about it,
and he cannot be long out here before he will find out where the good
land is. A Canadian whom I met at Calgary, told me that he knew a farm
near Toronto which was regularly in the market every year. It is safe to
be bought by an Englishman, who tries it for a time, gives it up in
despair, and then it comes into the market again.
‘Are there any stones on the farm?’ asked an Englishman, after he had
purchased his farm.
‘I only saw one,’ was the encouraging reply: and it was a truthful one.
There was but one stone, but then it embraced the surface of the whole
farm.
The English purchaser must have his wits about him. Here he is by many
regarded as a stranger, and they take him in. The poet tells us where
ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise. Ignorance is not bliss in
Canada, emigrants really must have their wits about them or they will
suffer much.
Near Moosomin there is some fine country where many English have settled.
Only last week an Englishman selected a farm in that locality for a
homestead. He at once proceeded there, having at considerable expense
hired a conveyance for his wife and four children. When he got there he
found the land already occupied. To add to his troubles, when he
returned to Moosomin one of his children died; the result is that the
wife has grown home-sick, the poor man disheartened; he wants to return
to England, but he has already exhausted his means. This want of harmony
between the land office and the guides, according to _The Manitoba Free
Press_, is said to be of frequent occurrence. The Dominion Government
ought to see to this. They are eager to promote emigration, but many
such cases will make English farmers naturally a little reluctant to come
out.