THE LITTLE SAINT MARY'S
Perhaps the most sublime sweep of view within the entire Range is
gained from the summit of Mount Lincoln. To accomplish this ascent it
is necessary to leave the tortuous "switch-back" trail in full view of
Gunsight Pass and strike out over a trackless mass of shattered rock,
upward toward the peak. The way is steep and difficult, the footing
slippery and insecure. The muscles strain to quivering tension, the
breath comes in gusty sighs and still the mighty heap of dull rose and
green rock rears its jagged crest against the throbbing sky. But even
if the climb were tenfold longer and the goal tenfold harder to win, it
would be a faint-hearted seeker after the beautiful who would hesitate
to make the sacrifice of toil for the magnificent reward that awaits him.
The rugged pedestal of stone that crowns the peak, drops almost
precipitately three thousand six hundred feet, and directly below,
in a gorge formed by this and a second chain of lofty mountains, lie
two jade-green lakes, the Little Saint Mary's, joined by a slender,
far-leaping waterfall. So immense is the distance, that this fall,
spanning the seventeen hundred feet between the upper and lower lakes,
does not break the brooding quiet with the whisper of an echo. The
slim, white column parts upon the rocks into a diamond shape, and when,
happily, the sunshine catches in its spray, it becomes a tangle of
rainbows. But now, it unfolds its silver scarf silently, colourlessly
as a ghost, and the green lake, so far below, receives the pouring tide
with never a ripple to mar its smooth surface. The shadow gathers in the
gorge and along the mountains, the pines are darkly green and in sharp
contrast, the unmelted snow fields lie pale and gray-white to the very
rim of the lakes forming a setting as of old silver. After the first
shock of that sublimity has left the senses free of its thrall, a vast
panorama unfolds, dominated by the majesty of mountain-lords flanked and
crowded by range upon range of others, rising in lessening undulations
to the horizon's rim, as though a sea whose giant billows strove to
smite the sky in the throes of an awful storm, were suddenly transformed
to stone.
In the crushing might of these great spaces, peering over the brink
of the mountain top into the bosom of the smooth, still lakes as
coldly beautiful as an emerald's heart, that half-mad idea of
self-annihilation clutches at the mind. Perhaps it is the exhilarating
leap of the waterfall that tempts one, or perhaps the hypnotic charm
of the deep-set, jewel-bright pools, or perhaps some unguessed
secret of gravity which impels the tottering atom into the depths of
life-absorbing space. It is the same terrible, savage joy, the magnetism
of elemental force which we feel as we stand on the brink of the Grand
Cañon of the Yellowstone, with the glorious, brave call to death crying
from the water voices, while the whisper of life sounds sweetly from the
vocal winds of heaven.
And even as we gaze, the sun's light dies and the world is ashen pale.
Suddenly over the distant ranges, storm clouds come trooping in black
hosts. A heavy silence falls, broken now and again by the boom of
thunder and the frightened cry of shelter-seeking birds. Perched upon a
point of rock, silhouetted against the sky, a bighorn sheep watches the
gathering tempest, unmindful of the muttering thunder and the ominous
glow of lightning kindling in the sable-winged array. There is something
noble about him as he turns his crest upward to bear the onslaught of
the blast. The purple of the mountains overhanging the lake deepens
to black--the blue-black of a clear, night sky--and the snow filling
the ravines lies passionless and white as death. Beneath the driving
storm-banners, a luridly vivid light casts its reflection upon the earth
in a gilded path, revealing the smallest detail of valley and height
before the darkness wraps them in its mantle. The Kootenais for one
brief instant shine like towers of brass and a pallid mist overhanging
an arm of the remote Flathead Lake becomes a golden fleece, then the
garish glare passes and mystery and shadow settle down. Violet tongues
of lightning dart from the trailing clouds, the martial fifing of the
wind makes shrill music through the bleak cairns and empty wastes, and
great, splashes of rain fall fragrantly, refreshingly upon the warm
ground. But in all the tumult, the cold, jade-green lakes lie unshaken,
calm. So truly are they the mountains' brides, held securely in their
embrace of stone, that not even the wild riding of the gale nor the
shivering thunderbolt disturbs their untroubled depths, while their
champions, the peaks, in helmets of pale ice do battle with the elements.
The deafening cannonade becomes fainter, the sword-thrust of lightning
strikes at other quarry, and the storm, with torn banners dragging low
down the mountain sides, like routed hosts in retreat, follow the wake
of the thunder, the lightning and the tempest-ridden wind. And as the
sun shines forth from the heavens a transformation beams like a blessing
from every crag and rock. Still wet with the summer rain, they take on
strangely beautiful hues of sparkling rose colour, and green like that
of the mother ocean, and the naked, glacier-ground escarpments reveal
the exquisite illuminations wrought in flowing, multi-colored bands, in
subtle shade and wordless rune, of the record book wherein is writ the
history of æons.
Through the dazzle of the sun the sea of mountains re-appears, a flowing
tide of purple billows growing more ethereally blue in the distance
until they seem but the azure shadow of heaven. And far beneath in the
deep, dark gorge, cool with perpetual shade, flanked by mighty mountain
walls, are the polished jade-green lakes and the fall, spinning its
endless silver skein into the untroubled waters below.
_TRACK OF THE AVALANCHE_