_The Waputehk Range—Height of the Mountains—Vast Snow Fields and
Glaciers—Journey up the Bow—Home of a Prospector—Causes and Frequency
of Forest Fires—A Visit to the Lower Bow Lake—Muskegs—A Mountain
Flooded with Ice—Delightful Scenes at the Upper Bow Lake—Beauty of the
Shores—Lake Trout—The Great Bow Glacier._
The Summit Range of the Rocky Mountains as they extend northward from
the deep and narrow valley of the Kicking Horse River has a special
name—the Waputehk Range,—derived, it is said, from a word which in the
language of the Stoney Indians means the White Goat.
From the summit of one of the peaks in this range, the climber beholds a
sea of mountains running in long, nearly parallel, ridges, sometimes
uniting and rising to a higher altitude, and again dividing, so as to
form countless spurs and a complicated topography. In this range each
ridge usually presents a lofty escarpment and bare precipitous walls of
rock on its eastern face, while the opposite slope is more gentle. Here
the Cambrian sandstones and shales and the limestones of later ages may
be seen in clearly marked strata tilted up, generally, toward the east,
though many of the mountains reveal contortions and faults throughout
their structure, which indicate the wellnigh inconceivable forces that
have here been at work.
The Waputehk Mountains have remained to this day but very little known,
and almost totally unexplored, in their interior portions. No passes are
known through this range between the Kicking Horse Pass on the south and
the Howse Pass on the north. Then another long interval northwards to
the Athabasca Pass is said by the Indians to offer an impassable barrier
to men and horses. The continuity of the range is well indicated by the
fact that, for a distance of one hundred miles, these mountains present
only one pass across the range available for horses. The several ridges
which form this range rise to a very uniform altitude of 10,000 or
11,000 feet. On Palliser’s map of this region, one peak north of the
Howse Pass, Mount Forbes, is accredited with an altitude of 13,400 feet,
and the standard atlases have for many years placed the altitude of
Mount Brown at 16,000 feet, and that of Mount Hooker at 15,700 feet, but
there is much reason to doubt that any mountains attain such heights in
this part of the Rocky Mountains.
A heavy snowfall, due to the precipitation brought about by this lofty
and continuous range, as the westerly winds ascend and pass over it, and
the existence of many elevated plateaus, or large areas having gentle
slopes, have conspired to make vast _névé_ regions and boundless
snowfields among these mountains. From the snowfields, long tongues of
ice and large glaciers descend into the valleys, and thus drain away the
surplus material from the higher altitudes. No other parts of the Rocky
Mountains, south of Alaska, have glaciers and snowfields which may
compare in size or extent with those of the Waputehk Range.
[Illustration: The Waputehk Range.
Looking across the range from near Hector.]
The desolate though grand extent of gray cliffs and boundless
snowfields, extending farther than the eye can reach, when seen from a
high altitude, gives no suggestion of the delightful valleys below,
where many beautiful lakes nestle among the green forests, and form
picturesque mirrors for the surrounding rugged mountains. On the shores
of one of these mountain lakes, in the genial warmth of lower altitudes,
where the water is hemmed in, and encroached upon, by the trees and
luxuriant vegetation fostered by a moist climate, the explorer beholds
each mountain peak as the central point of interest in every view. Each
cliff or massive snow-covered mountain then appears an unscalable height
reaching upward toward the heavens,—a most inspiring work of nature,
raising the eyes and the thoughts above the common level of our earth.
When seen from high altitudes, a mountain appears merely as a part of a
vast panorama or a single element in a wild, limitless scene of desolate
peaks, which raise their bare, bleak summits among the sea of mountains
far up into the cold regions of the atmosphere, where they become white
with eternal snow, and bound by rigid glaciers.
Having become much interested in reports of the vast dimensions of the
glaciers in the Waputehk Mountains, and the beauty of the lakes,
especially near the sources of the Bow River and the Little Fork of the
Saskatchewan, I started on August 14th, 1895, with the intention of
visiting those regions and spending some time there. My outfit consisted
of five horses, a cook, and a packer. I had engaged Peyto for the latter
service, as he had been most efficient on our trip to Mount Assiniboine.
We left Laggan a little before noon. Not far from the station, there
commenced an old tote-road, which runs northward for many miles toward
the source of the Bow River. This tote-road had been hastily built for
wagons, previous to the construction of the railroad through the Kicking
Horse Pass, for at one time it was thought the line would cross the
range by the Howse Pass.
[Illustration: READY TO MARCH.]
Thus for several miles we enjoyed easy and rapid travelling. The weather
was mild and pleasant, and my men seemed pleased at the prospect of
another month or so in camp.
In the course of a few miles we came to the house of an old prospector.
As this was the farthest outpost of civilization, and the old man was
reported to be an interesting character, I entered the log-house for a
brief visit. The prospector’s name was Hunter. I found him at home and
was cordially welcomed. Here, in a state of solitude and absolute
loneliness, with no lake or stream to entertain, and surrounded by a
bristling maze of bleached bare sticks looking like the masts of
countless ships in a great harbor, this man had spent several years of
his life, and, moreover, was apparently happy. On his table I saw spread
about illustrated magazines from the United States and Canada,
newspapers, and books. The house was roughly but comfortably finished
inside, and furnished with good chairs and tables evidently imported
from civilization.
This isolated dwelling and its solitary inhabitant reminded me somewhat
of Thoreau at Walden Pond. Like this lover of nature, Hunter enjoys his
hermit life, which he varies occasionally by a visit to the village of
Laggan. Hunter had the better house of the two men, but Thoreau must
have had much more to entertain him, in his garden, and the beautiful
lake with its constant change of light and shadow, and the surrounding
forests full of well-known plants and trees, where his bird and animal
friends lived in undisturbed possession.
No sooner had we taken leave of this interesting home of the old
prospector, than the trail plunged into the intricacies of the burnt
timber, and our horses were severely tried. Peyto and another man had
been at work on this part of the trail for two days, very fortunately
for us, as without some clearing we should not have been able to force
our way through.
The fire had run through after the tote-road was built, so that the
fallen timber now rendered it nearly impassable in many places. The
forest fires have been much more frequent since the country has been
opened by the whites, but it would be a great mistake to conclude that
before the arrival of civilized men the country was clothed by an
uninterrupted primeval forest. When we read the accounts of Alexander
Mackenzie, and the earliest explorers in the Rocky Mountains, we find
burnt timber frequently mentioned.
However, these accounts only cover the last one hundred years, and
records of geology must be sought previous to 1793. Dr. Dawson mentions
a place near the Bow River where forest trees at least one hundred years
old are growing over a bed of charcoal made by an ancient forest fire.
Another bank near the Bow River, not far from Banff, reveals seven
layers of charcoal, and under each layer the clay is reddened or
otherwise changed by the heat. Thus the oldest records carry us back
thousands of years. The cause of these ancient fires was probably, in
great part, lightning, and possibly the escaping camp fires of an
aboriginal race of men.
Forest fires in the Canadian Rockies only prevail at one season of the
year—in July, August, and September,—when the severe heat dries up the
underbrush and fallen timber. Earlier than this, everything is saturated
by the melting snows of winter, while in autumn the sharp frosts and
heavy night dews keep the forests damp. According to the condition of
the trees, a forest fire will burn sometimes slowly and sometimes with
fearful rapidity. When a long period of dry, hot weather has prevailed,
the fire, once started, leaps from tree to tree, while the sparks soar
high into the air and, dropping farther, kindle a thousand places at
once. The furious uprush of heated air causes a strong draught, which
fans the fire into a still more intense heat. Sometimes whirlwinds of
smoke and heated air are seen above the forest fires, and at other times
the great mass of vapor and smoke rises to such a height that
condensation ensues, and clouds are formed. In the summer of 1893, a
forest fire was raging about five miles east of Laggan. Standing at an
altitude of 9000 feet, I had a grand view of the ascending smoke and
vapors, which rose in the form of a great mushroom, or at other times
more like a pine tree,—in fact, resembling a volcanic eruption. Judging
by the height of Mount Temple, the clouds rose about 13,000 feet above
the valley, or to an altitude of 18,000 feet above sea-level. It was a
cumulus cloud, shining brilliant in the sunlight, but often revealing a
coppery cast from the presence of smoke. The ascending vapors gave a
striking example of one of the laws of rising air currents. The tendency
of an ascending column of air is to break up into a succession of
uprushes, separated by brief intervals of repose, and not to rise
steadily and constantly. The law was clearly illustrated by this cloud,
which, at intervals of about five or six minutes, would nearly disappear
and then rapidly form again and rise to an immense height and magnitude.
In the course of a few years after a forest fire has swept along its
destructive course, the work of regeneration begins, and a new crop of
trees appears. Sometimes the growth is alike all over the burnt region,
young trees springing up spontaneously everywhere, and sometimes the
surrounding green forests send out skirmishers, and gradually encroach
on the burnt areas. Curiously enough, however, a new kind of tree
replaces the old almost invariably. Out on the prairie the poplar
usually follows the coniferous trees, but in the Rockies, where the
poplar can not grow at high altitudes, the pines follow after spruce and
balsam, or _vice versa_. The contest of species in nature is so keen
that the slightest advantage gained by any, is sufficient to cause its
universal establishment. This is probably due to the fact that the soil
becomes somewhat exhausted in the particular elements needed by one
species of tree, so that when they are removed by an unnatural cause,
new kinds have the advantage in the renewed struggle for existence. Thus
we have a natural rotation of crops illustrated in the replacement of
forest trees.
While we have been considering the causes and effects of forest fires,
our horses and men have been struggling with the more material side of
the question, and as the imagination leaps lightly over all sorts of
obstacles, let us now overtake them as they arrive at a good camping
place about eight miles from Laggan. Here the Bow is no longer worthy
the name of a river, but is rather a broad, shallow stream, flowing with
moderate rapidity. Towards evening Peyto shot a black duck on the river,
and I caught a fine string of trout, so that our camp fare was much
improved.
The next day we marched for about three hours through light forests and
extensive swamps, finally pitching our camp near the first Bow Lake. The
fishing was remarkably fine in this part of the river. From a single
pool I caught, in less than three minutes, five trout which averaged
more than one pound each. We camped in this place for two days in order
to have time to explore about the lake. This first Bow Lake is about
four miles long, by perhaps one mile wide, and occupies the gently
curving basin of a valley which here sweeps into that of the Bow. There
is something remarkable in the unusual manner in which the Bow River
divides itself into two streams some time before it reaches this lake.
The lesser of these two streams continues in a straight course down the
valley, while the larger deviates to the west and flows into the lower
end of the lake, only to flow out again about a fourth of a mile farther
down, at the extreme end of the lake. The island thus formed is
intersected everywhere by the ancient courses of the river, which are
now marked by crooked and devious channels, in great part filled with
clear water, forming pools everywhere. This whole region must have once
formed part of a much larger lake, as for several miles down the valley
there are extensive swamps, almost perfectly level and underlaid by
large deposits of fine clay.
The drier places in these muskegs are covered with a growth of bushes or
clumps of trees, gathered together on hummocks slightly elevated above
the general level. A rich growth of grass and sedge covers the lower and
wetter places, which often assume all the features of a peat bog, with a
thick growth of sphagnum mosses, while the ground trembles, for many
yards about, under the tread of men and horses.
The next day Peyto and I crossed the river on one of our best horses
known as the “Bay,” and after turning him back towards the meadow, we
started on a tramp around the lake. We followed the west shore for the
entire distance. The last half mile was over a talus slope of loose
stones, broken down from the overhanging mountain, and now disposed at a
very steep angle. There was a barely perceptible shelf or beach about
six inches wide, just at the edge of the water, which we gladly took
advantage of while it lasted.
The glacial stream entering the lake has built out a curious delta, not
fan-shaped as we should expect, but almost perfectly straight from shore
to shore. This delta is a great gravel wash, nearly level, and quite
bare of trees or plants, except a few herbs, the seeds of which have
lately been washed down from higher up the valley. All this material has
been carried into the lake since the time when, in the great Ice Age,
these valleys were flooded with glaciers several thousand feet in depth.
[Illustration: Mount Daly.]
As we turned the corner near the end of the gravel wash, the glaciers at
the head of the valley began to appear, and in a few more steps we
commanded a magnificent view of a great mountain, literally covered by a
vast sheet of ice and snow, from the very summit down to our level. As
we looked up the long gentle slope of this mountain, we could hardly
realize that it rose more than 5000 feet above us. The glacier which
descended into the valley was not very wide, but showed the lines of
flow very clearly. Six converging streams of ice united to form the
glacier on our right, while the glacier on the left poured down a steep
descent from the east, and formed a beautiful ice cascade, where the
sharp-pointed _seracs_, leaning forward, resembled a cataract suddenly
frozen and rendered motionless. As if by way of contrast, a beautiful
little waterfall poured gracefully over a dark precipice of rock on the
opposite side of the valley, and added motion to this grand expanse of
dazzling white snow. The loud-roaring, muddy stream near where we stood,
is one of the principal sources of the Bow, and, after depositing its
milky sediment in the lake, the waters flow out purified and crystal
clear, of that deep blue color characteristic of glacial water. On a
smaller scale this lake is like Lake Geneva, with the Rhone entering at
one end, muddy and polluted with glacial clays, and flowing out at the
other, transparently clear, and blue as the skies above it.
After a partial ascent of Mount Hector on the next day, we moved our
camp and continued our progress up the Bow River for about two hours.
Here we camped on a terrace near the water, surrounded on all sides by a
very light forest in a charming spot. On the following day the trail led
us for two miles through some very bad country, where the horses broke
through the loose ground between the roots of trees, and in their
efforts to extricate themselves were often in great danger of breaking a
leg. Fortunately, however, this was not of long duration. The trail soon
improved and became very clearly marked like a well made bridle-path. It
led us along the banks of the Bow, through groves of black pine, with a
few spruces intermingled. The ascent was constant, though gradual, and
our altitude was made apparent by the manner in which the trees grew in
clumps, and by the fact that the forests were no longer densely
luxuriant, but quite open, so that the horses could go easily among the
trees in any direction.
In about three hours after leaving camp, our horses entered an open
meadow where the trail deserted us, but there was not the slightest
difficulty in making good progress. To the south, a great wall of rock
rose to an immense height, one of the lower escarpments of the Waputehk
Range, and as we progressed through the pleasant moors a remarkable
glacier was gradually revealed, clinging to the cliffs in a
three-pronged mass. As, one by one, these branches of the glaciers were
disclosed, they appeared first in profile, and owing to the very steep
pitch down which the ice was forced to descend, the glacier was rent and
splintered into deep crevasses, with sharp pinnacles of ice between,
which appeared to lean out over the steep descent and threaten to fall
at any moment.
The absence of trees to the north of us, and the general depression of
the country in that direction, gave us every indication that we were
approaching the Upper Bow Lake, nor were our surmises incorrect, for in
a few minutes more of progress, after seeing the glacier, glimpses of
water surface were to be had in the near distance among the trees. I
went ahead of our column of horses and selected a beautiful site for our
camp, on the shore of the lake, only a few yards from the water. The
surrounding region was certainly the most charming I have seen in the
Rocky Mountains. The lake on which we camped was nearly cut off from the
main body of water to the north, by a contraction of the shores to a
narrow channel. In fact, it might be regarded as a land-locked harbor of
the Upper Bow Lake. Just below our camping place the waters were
contracted again, and descended in a shallow rapid to another lake,
resting against the mountain side on the south. This latter lake is
about three or four feet lower than the others, and appeared to be about
two-thirds of a mile in length.
This region, for the artist with pencil and brush, would be a fairy-land
of inexhaustible treasures. The shores along these various lakes were of
a most irregular nature, and in sweeping curves or sudden turns, formed
innumerable coves and bays, no less pleasing by reason of their small
extent. Long, low stretches of land, adorned with forest trees,
stretched straight and narrow far out into the two larger lakes, their
ends dissolving into chains of wooded islands, separated from the
mainland by shallow channels of the clearest water. In every direction
were charming vistas of wooded isles and bushy shores, while in the
distance were the irregular outlines of the mountains, their images
often reflected in the surface of the water. The very nature of the
shores themselves, besides their irregular contours, varied from place
to place in a remarkable manner. In one locality the waters became
suddenly deep, the abrupt shores were rocky, and formed low cliffs; in
other places the bottom shelved off more gradually, and there would be a
narrow beach of sand and small pebbles, ofttimes strewed with the
wreckage of some storm,—a massive tree trunk washed upon the beach, or
stranded in shallow water near the shore.
There were, moreover, many shallow areas and swampy tracts where a rich,
rank growth of water grasses and sedges extended into the lake. Such
border regions between the land and water were perhaps the most
beautiful and attractive of all the many variations of these delightful
shores. The coarse, saw-edged leaves of the sedges, harsh to the touch,
are pliant in the gentlest breath of wind. The waving meadows of green
banners, or ribbons, rising above the water, uniform in height, and
sensitive to the slightest air motion, rustle continuously as the
breezes sweep over them, and rub their rough surfaces together.
From this region, wherein were combined so many charming views of
nature, with mountain scenery, lakes, islands, and forests, all of the
most attractive kind, it proved impossible to move our camp for several
days.
[Illustration: Upper Bow Lake.
Looking east.]
During the time that we remained here, our explorations and wanderings
took us along all the shores and islands, and up the neighboring
mountain slopes. On one of the islands opposite our camp we discovered a
small pool of singular formation. The pool was nearly circular, and
about ten yards in diameter. The bottom was funnel-shaped, and in the
very centre was a black circle—in fact a bottomless hole—apparently
connected by dark subterranean channels with the depths of the adjacent
lake. Its borders were low and swampy, where the spongy ground quaked as
we moved about, and trembled so much that we feared at any moment to be
swallowed up. In fact the whole pool became rippled by the movements of
its banks.
The glacier opposite was the object of another trip, and this, too,
proved interesting. The _névé_ on the flat plateau above discharges its
surplus ice for the most part by hanging glaciers, which from time to
time break off and fall down the precipice. We were often startled both
day and night by the thunder of these avalanches. Two tongues of ice,
however, effect a descent of the precipice where the slope is less
steep, and though much crevassed and splintered by the rapid motion,
they reach the bottom intact. Here the two streams, together with the
accumulations of ice constantly falling down from above, become welded
into a single glacier, which terminates only a short distance from the
lake. The most unusual circumstance about this glacier is the fact that
the ice is much higher at the very end than a little farther back, so
that a great, swelling mound of ice, about 200 feet thick, forms the
termination.
About one fourth of a mile below the end of the glacier, on an old
moraine ridge now covered over with luxuriant forest, we saw a towering
cliff of rock rising above the trees. This proved, on a closer
examination, to be a separate boulder, which must have been carried
there by the ice a long time ago. It was of colossal proportions, at
least sixty feet high, and nearly as large in its other dimensions. From
the top we had an extensive view of the lakes and valleys; while at its
base we found on one side an overhanging roof, making so complete a
shelter, that it was not difficult to imagine this place to have been
used by savages, in some past age, as a cave dwelling.
Many years ago, not less than one hundred, the forests on the slopes to
the east of the valley had been devastated by a fire. The long lapse of
time intervening had, however, nearly obliterated the dreary effects of
this destruction. The trees had replaced themselves scatteringly among
the dead timber, and attained a large size. The fallen trunks showed the
great length of time they had lain on the ground by the spongy,
decomposed condition of the wood. Many of the trunks had dissolved into
red humus, the last stage of slowly decomposing wood, and the fragments
were disposed in lines, bare of vegetation, indicating where each tree
had found its final resting-place.
The swampy shores and large extent of water surface in this region
fostered many varieties of gnats, mosquitoes, and other insects, though,
fortunately, not in such great numbers as to be very troublesome. In
fact, the season of the year was approaching that period when the
mosquitoes suddenly and regularly disappear, for some unexplained
reason. I have always noticed that in the Canadian Rockies the
mosquitoes become much reduced in numbers between the 15th and 20th of
August, and after that time cause little or no trouble. In order,
however, that there may be no lack of insect pests, nature has
substituted several species of small flies and midgets, which appear
about this time and follow in a rotation of species, till the sharp
frosts of October put an end to all active insect life. Some of these
small pests are no less troublesome than the mosquitoes which have
preceded them, though they afford a variation in their manner of
annoyance, and are accordingly the more endurable.
Along the reedy shores of the lake and sometimes over its placid
surface, when the air was quiet toward evening, we often saw clouds of
gnats hovering motionless in one spot, or at times moving restlessly
from place to place, like some lightless will-o’-the-wisp, composed of a
myriad of black points, darting and circling one about another. Nature
seems to love circular motion: for just as the stars composing the
cloudy nebulæ revolve about their centres of gravity in infinite
numbers, moving forever, through an infinity of space; so do these
ephemeral creations of our world pass their brief lives in a ceaseless
vortex of complicated circles.
On one occasion we built a raft to ferry us across the narrow part of
the lake so that we might try the fishing on the farther side. The raft
was hastily constructed, and, after we had reached deep water, it proved
to be in a state of stable equilibrium only when the upper surface was a
yard under water. After a thorough wetting we finally reached the shore,
and proceeded to build a more trustworthy craft.
On the 21st of August we moved our camp down to the north end of the
lake. Here the nature of the scenery is entirely changed. Whereas the
lower end of the lake abounds in land-locked channels and wooded
islands, so combined as to make the most pleasing and artistic pictures
from every shore, the other part of this lake presents regular shore
lines, and everything is formed on a more extensive scale. The north
side of the lake is curved in a great arc, so symmetrical in appearance
that it seems mathematically perfect, and the eye sweeps along several
miles of shore at a single glance as though this were some bay on the
sea-coast.
As we neared the north end of the lake, a valley was disclosed toward
the west, and an immense glacier appeared descending from the crest of
the Waputehk Range. Even at a distance of three or four miles, this
glacier revealed its great size. The lower part descended in several
regular falls to nearly the level of the lake. In the lower part, the
glacier is less than a mile in width, but above, the ice stream expands
to three or four miles, and extends back indefinitely, probably ten
miles or more. This Great Bow Glacier had the same position relatively
to the lake, as the glacier we visited at the Lower Bow Lake held to
that body of water.
[Illustration: Upper Bow Lake.
Looking west.]
A better knowledge of these lakes revealed a striking similarity between
them. Each lake occupies a curving valley, which in each case enters the
Bow valley from the south. The two lakes are about the same size and
nearly the same shape, a long gentle curve about five times longer than
broad. At the head of each, though at slightly different distances, are
large glaciers. The glacial streams have likewise formed flat gravel
washes, or deltas, which have encroached regularly on the lake and
formed a straight line from shore to shore, perfectly similar one to
another. A further resemblance might be observed in the presence of two
talus slopes from the mountain sides, in each case on the south side of
the lake, near the delta. The Lower Bow Lake is about 5500 feet above
sea-level, while the upper lake is a little more than 6000 feet. The
increased altitude has the effect of making the forest more open, and
the country more generally accessible, in the region of the upper lake.
From one point on the shores of the upper lake, five large glaciers may
be counted, the least of which is two miles long, and the greatest has
an unknown extent, but is certainly ten miles in length.
Our camp was pleasantly located in the woods not far from the water.
After Peyto had put up the tent and got the camp in order, with the
horses enjoying a fine pasture, he set off to explore the lake shore
toward the Great Glacier. He returned to camp about five o’clock
carrying a fine lake trout which he had caught. This fish was taken near
the shore, and was probably a small one compared with those which live
in deeper water; nevertheless, it measured twenty-three inches in
length, and weighed about seven pounds. The Bow lakes have a reputation
for abounding in fish of a very large size. So far as I am aware, no
boat has ever sailed these waters, and there is no certainty what size
the fish may reach in the deeper parts of the lake. Judging by trout
which have been caught in Lake Minnewanka, near Banff, it is very
probable that they run as high as thirty or forty pounds.
[Illustration: CAMP AT UPPER BOW LAKE.]
The next day, Peyto and I took a lunch with us and spent the entire day
exploring and photographing the glacier and its immediate neighborhood.
The ice is not hemmed in by any terminal moraine, but shelves down
gradually to a thin edge. In fact the termination of the glacier
resembles somewhat the hoof of a horse, or rather that of a rhinoceros,
the divided portions being formed by crevasses, while long thin
projections of ice spread out between. It is a very easy matter to get
on the glacier, and quite safe to proceed a long way on its smooth
surface. We had some fine glimpses of crevasses so deep that it was
impossible to see the bottom, while the rich blue color of the ice
everywhere revealed to us marvels of colored grottoes and
hollow-sounding caverns, their sides dripping with the surface waters.
There is something peculiarly attractive, perhaps from the danger,
pertaining to a deep crevasse in a glacier. One stands near the edge and
throws, or pushes, large stones into these caverns, and listens in awe
to the hollow echoes from the depths, or the muffled splash as the
missile finally reaches a pool of water at the bottom. There is a
suggestion of a lingering death, should one make a false step and fall
down these horrible crevasses, where, wedged between icy walls far below
the surface, one could see the glimmering light of day above, while
starvation and cold prolong their agonies. A party of three mountaineers
thus lost their lives on Mount Blanc in 1820, and more than forty years
later their bodies were found at the foot of the Glacier des Bossons,
whither they had been slowly transported, a distance of several miles,
by the movement of the ice. The most dangerous crevasses are not those
of the so-called “dry glacier,” where the bare ice is everywhere
visible, but those of the _névé_ regions where the crevasses are
concealed, or obscured by the overlying snow.
Not far from the foot of the glacier the muddy stream flows through a
miniature canyon, with walls near together, cut out of a limestone
formation. The water here rushes some quarter of a mile, foaming and
angry, as it dashes over many a fall and cascade. Where the canyon is
deepest an immense block of limestone about twenty-five feet long has
fallen down, and with either end resting on the canyon walls, it affords
a natural bridge over the gloomy chasm. As probably no human being had
ever crossed this bridge, we felt a slight hesitation in making the
attempt, fearing that even a slight jar might be sufficient to dislodge
the great mass. It proved, however, quite safe and will undoubtedly
remain where it is for many years and afford a safe crossing-place for
those who visit this interesting region.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]