the glacier regions. Everywhere the forests extend down to the very
edge of the water, and during high tide they actually seem to overlap
or grow out of the water. Consequently there is no beach, its place
being taken at low tide by ten feet or more of rocky wall adorned with
mosses and other vegetable and animal growths, and sometimes almost
as brilliantly colored as the walls of the Yellowstone Cañon. The
forests above add to this an endless variety of green tints, indicating
the different kinds of wood, the age of the trees; or, perchance, an
isolated streak of fresher color betrays the path of an avalanche which
carried away the old trees and made room for a new growth.
Some of the mountains are so rocky that they afford insufficient
nourishment to the trees, which consequently die after a certain age,
their gray, leafless skeletons suggesting the thought that after all
forest fires have their use as a sort of scavengers. Still, these
gray and green forests are less uninviting than those black and green
charnel forests in which the fires have done their work incompletely;
and they are the exception, not the rule, in Alaska.
For the first three days, as already intimated, these aspects of nature
were the only new experiences and sights offered to the _Olympian’s_
passengers, no stops being made after Fort Townsend and Victoria till
we reached Juneau (the largest town in Alaska), omitting Nanaimo,
Tongas, and Wrangel. It is customary to stop at each place of any
importance, either in going up or returning, the captain being guided
in his decision chiefly by the necessity of passing certain dangerous
places when the tide is favorable.
The most perilous of these places is Seymour Rapids, some hours north
of Nanaimo. As we approached these narrows, the water presented a
most turbulently fascinating appearance, twirling around furiously in
hundreds of little whirlpools, while large portions of the surface
appeared to be several feet higher than the adjoining parts, as if a
submarine earthquake had raised some places and thus made the water run
down hill. The spectacle was as exciting as the Niagara rapids, and
more sublime, because the fact of being on the water, and the knowledge
that there were hidden rocks all about, added just that slight
suspicion of danger which stimulates the feeling of sublimity.
In the narrowest part of the channel a regular water-fall was produced
by the headlong plunge of the tide waters down some rocks near the
eastern shore, while the other side was rendered equally dangerous
by numerous rocks, thus leaving only a very narrow channel in the
middle for the steamer to pass through. The _Idaho_ and _Ancon_ never
attempt this passage while the tide rushes through it like a mountain
torrent, but the _Olympian_ plunged in boldly. In vain, however, did
the engineer strain every muscle of his machinery; for more than an
hour the noble steamer, though paddling away at a rate of almost twenty
miles an hour, did not move a yard. Here was a lovely situation for
timid souls, with plenty of time to speculate on the possibility of
the shaft or rudder breaking, and to recall the fact that in this very
place two vessels have already come to grief, one at a sacrifice of
seventy Chinese lives! But the _Olympian_ suddenly made a spurt, and
the salt water-fall and the maelstroms were left behind.
On the fourth day we met the _Pinta_ in a shallow, quiet bay, and
exchanged greetings, mails, and provisions. The _Pinta_ is the
diminutive man-of-war which cruises these waters and keeps the Indians
in subjection through the fear of having their villages bombarded.
While the brass buttons of the officers exerted their usual magnetic
power over the eyes of the young ladies, the other passengers were less
romantically employed in watching the jelly-fish which crowded about
the steamers, literally by the million.
The next incident of importance was our stop at the gold mines opposite
Juneau, and subsequently at Juneau itself. Everybody went ashore to see
the mines and the quartz mills, where a hundred or more machines reduce
the ore to sand with a most terrific noise. The mine was said to be
worth twice the price paid for Alaska, and it was evidently prospering,
to judge by the additional buildings in course of erection.
At Juneau, which is a larger place than Sitka, the first thing that
strikes the eye is the large number of “drugstores,” almost every other
building being labelled as such. Can it be that the Indian habit of
leaving the heads and tails of salmon to decay in the street, in their
part of the village, has such an injurious effect on the health of the
Juneauites? or has the fact that the sale of whiskey is forbidden in
Alaska a remote bearing on the subject? Certainly neither the whites
nor the Indians look unhealthy.
Most of the Indian men were at work in the mines, but the squaws sat
in rows on the pier or in front of their houses, offering for sale
grass baskets, furs, blankets, small canoes and paddles, totem-poles,
wooden spoons, masks, bracelets made of silver dollars, berries, etc.
Each squaw seems to have the shrewdness and business instincts of a
Jew and a Yankee rolled into one. In their own language they comment
freely on the tourists,—tit for tat,—and appear to find their doings
rather ludicrous, which, no doubt, they sometimes are. These squaws
have obviously given their husbands elementary lessons in “woman’s
rights”; for the latter never dare to sell anything for a lower price
than first asked, and if the wife says No, the bargain comes to naught.
The squaws are also allowed to share the labor of the men on the water,
and they are experts in paddling their own canoes. Their domestic
accomplishments are less admirable. The interior of the house is as
uncleanly as the blankets they wear, and it would not be pleasant to
think of entering their huts were it not for the disinfecting smoke
which pervades them. With a few exceptions, they have no stoves, the
food being cooked over an open fire in the centre of the floor. The
smoke seeks to escape through a hole in the roof, but, before escaping,
it is utilized for curing strips of salmon that are hung on strings
below the hole. In front of the houses other rows of salmon are
suspended on sticks to dry in the sun; and before each hut lies a canoe
carefully covered with mats, to protect it against the sun.
At Sitka we had an opportunity to see the Indians as influenced by
missionary efforts. The Mission School contains over a hundred boys and
girls. The girls do the cooking, and the boys are experts in carpentry.
Their chairs and bedsteads are very neatly made, and are to be seen in
most of the Indian huts. The boys wear a blue uniform, to give them a
sort of _esprit de corps_; and the girls appear to give considerable
attention to their appearance, especially in the arrangement of the
hair. Their gait is very ungraceful, owing, as some say, to the fact
that their ancestors spent so much of their time in canoes. Among the
half-breeds, and the Indians too, some have considerable beauty of
figure and face; and were it not for the large mouth, many more would
be pretty.
It is impossible to look at these Indians and not come to the
conclusion that they are descended from the Japanese. The whole cast
of the face is Japanese: the cheeks, the small, sparkling black eyes,
with their scant lashes and brows, and the complexion, are unmistakably
so; and the fact that, not so many years ago, some Japanese mariners
were shipwrecked on the Alaskan coast, makes the Japanese origin of
the American Indian all the more probable. Another Japanese trait of
these Indians is their bright intelligence and their eagerness to
adopt the customs of the white man. They learn very readily, and some
of the pupils recited and prayed in English, while several squaws and
Indian men prayed in their own guttural language. The singing of these
children did not differ much in quality of tone or intonation from that
in our primary schools.
Besides these Indians, there is little of interest in Sitka itself
besides the old Russian castle and the Greek church, in which it is
odd to see pictures of saints in these out-of-the-way regions. The
church itself does not deserve the amount of attention it has received,
except from an antiquarian point of view; but the charms of Sitka
harbor have hardly been exaggerated even by those who compare it to the
Gulf of Naples. The arrival of a steamer is always a great event for
the Sitkans, natives and whites, who assemble on the wharf to greet
her arrival and cheer her departure; and the local weekly paper, the
_Alaskan_, was enterprising enough to get out an extra in a couple of
hours, with the passenger list; and this edition the young ladies
bought by the dozen and mailed to their friends as conclusive evidence
that they had been so near the north pole.
In speaking of Sitka before Glacier Bay I have followed the map rather
than the steamer’s course; for Sitka is already some distance on the
home stretch, and before arriving there the steamers visit Lynn Canal,
which leads up to the Chilcat country, famous for its furs, blankets,
salmon-canneries, and glaciers; and then Glacier Bay, which runs
almost parallel to Lynn Canal, and, with the Muir Glacier, represents
the climax of the present Alaskan tour. Lynn Canal contains a large
number of glaciers, each of which would make the fortune of a village
and a dozen hotels in Switzerland, and conspicuous among them are the
magnificent Eagle and Davidson Glaciers, which would be the “lions” of
Southern Alaska were they not slightly surpassed in grandeur by the
Muir Glacier, which, Jumbo-like, therefore gets all the attention of
the visitors.
As the steamer enters Lynn and Glacier bays, the scenery becomes truly
Arctic, as well as the climate, and overcoats are in demand. Vast
snow-fields are visible in every direction, and the frozen rivers or
glaciers which represent their drainage all creep down to the water’s
edge, in some cases presenting a front of several miles. As the steamer
moves on, the panorama constantly changes, showing the mountains and
glaciers from every point of view without involving the slightest
fatigue on the part of the tourists; and as soon as one ice-river is
out of sight, another shows its edge, and gradually stands revealed in
all its grandeur. One never gets over the surprise that the snow-line
should be so low—that the snow in the crater-like dug-outs on the
mountain sides should be so near the level of the ocean in midsummer.
[Illustration: SITKA.]
On entering Glacier Bay, another Arctic surprise awaits the tourist.
Icebergs of all shapes and sizes begin to float about the steamer, some
just large enough to fill the steward’s depleted ice-box, others, the
size of a steamer, compelling the _Olympian_ to moderate her speed.
As the great glacier is in sight two hours before the steamer reaches
it, though headed directly for it, the passengers have ample time to
admire the exquisite blue and white tints of these icebergs, and note
their odd forms and resemblances to the hull of a steamer, various
geometrical figures, a bundle of logs, a fairy grotto, or a sphinx,
etc. Some of them are entirely covered with scores of gulls, which fly
away with harsh cries as the steamer approaches.
It appears incredible that the surface of the glacier which lies a few
miles ahead should be more than two hundred feet above the water; it
seems no more than twenty; but the apparent height constantly increases
until the steamer brings up suddenly within a few hundred feet of
the icy wall. Then there is a chorus of ohs and ahs, and the Bishop
of Rochester (England), who is one of the passengers, dogmatically
pronounces it the grandest sight in the world.
Imagine a wall of solid ice, two hundred and twenty-five feet high,
extending for about a mile to right and left, the upper portions white
and broken up into the most fantastic crags and pinnacles, like the
rocks of the Yellowstone Cañon; the lower portions of a deeper and
deeper blue, according as the increased pressure from above and from
the sides has squeezed out the air and changed the solid snow into
pure ice, producing near the centre a grotto of more than celestial
blue. Imagine, furthermore, that there are eight hundred feet more
of this wall under the water, that even if it is true that the Muir
Glacier moves thirty or forty feet a day, instead of only two or three,
like those of Switzerland, the portion of ice now visible to the eye
represents snow that fell perhaps hundreds of years ago, and has been
slowly creeping down with the ice-river ever since—and the meaning of
the word “sublime” will perhaps become clearer than any metaphysical
definition could make it.
Every ten or fifteen minutes the spectator is startled from his
reveries by an explosion, followed by an aggravated multitudinous echo,
and caused by the fall of a portion of the ice-wall into the bay, where
it floats away as an iceberg. As it splashes into the sea, the water
flies up as in a geyser, and a wild wave dashes over the rocks, tosses
about the steamer, and threatens to land it high and dry on the beach.
After this spectacle has grown familiar, the boats are lowered, and
every one goes ashore to climb up the side of the glacier and get views
of its rugged surface, resembling a stormy ocean suddenly frozen with
all its white-caps. Here also can be seen the dozen or more tributary
glaciers which combine to make the Muir, and the semicircle of
snow-mountains whose sides they adorn. The amateur photographers have
brought their apparatus along, and take groups of the passengers with
this picturesque background; and then the steamer’s whistle summons all
back to embark for Sitka.
As the steamer slowly gets ready to depart, one notices what in the
excitement had previously escaped notice,—the grooved and polished
rocks, at least a thousand feet up the mountain side, indicating how
high the glacier must have been formerly. A century ago Glacier
Bay was not navigable, and according to Indian tradition the Muir
Glacier has receded five miles in three generations; but this need
not alarm tourists, as it still has a reserve to last a few thousand
years longer. On leaving Glacier Bay we were so fortunate as to see
the giants Crillon and Fairweather outlined against a perfectly
clear sky, illuminated by one of the most gorgeous sunsets I have
ever seen, and the glories of which did not fade till ten o’clock.
It is a superb mountain group, bearing a distant resemblance to the
Mönch-Eiger-Jungfrau group, as seen near Mürren, which Mr. Tyndall does
not stand alone in regarding as the finest in Switzerland.
XVI.
ACROSS THE CANADIAN PACIFIC.
ADVANTAGES OF AN AUTUMNAL TRIP—ENGLISH ASPECT OF
VICTORIA—VANCOUVER A “BOOM TOWN”—THE FRAZER RIVER AND CAÑON—EAGLE
PASS—REAPPEARANCE OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER—MOUNTAIN-SIDE
FORESTS—COMPARISON WITH SWITZERLAND—CONSTRUCTION OF
SNOW-SHEDS—BANFF AND THE NATIONAL PARK—THE BOW RIVER—DEVIL’S HEAD
LAKE—SULPHUR MOUNTAIN—WINNIPEG AND LAKE SUPERIOR.
The dense smoke from forest fires, which, by obscuring the grand
mountain scenery of Oregon and Washington during July and August,
so often makes summer travel in those States an illusion and a
disappointment, also extends into British Columbia, as far east as
Banff, the Canadian National Park, sometimes called the Yellowstone
Park of Canada. Tourists who, on their return from Alaska, wish to
proceed to the East via the Canadian Pacific Railway, will therefore do
well to postpone this trip till after the middle of September, unless
there have been some heavy rains earlier to put out the fires and lay
the smoke. Rain on the coast means snow in the mountains, and no one
need be told that half the beauty, grandeur, and apparent height of the
three great mountain chains which this railroad traverses, depends on
a new cloak of magnifying snow. And an autumnal trip has this further
advantage, that the foliage along the banks of the upper Columbia River
will wear its most brilliant tints of red and gold, which constitute
one of the greatest charms of this tour, contrasting delightfully with
the snow-capped peaks on every side.
Although Vancouver is really the Pacific terminus of this Canadian
railroad, the project of making Victoria the terminus by building
bridges over the chain of islands which in some places almost connect
the mainland with Vancouver’s Island, having been abandoned, Victoria
practically remains the starting-point; for a boat leaves this city
early in the morning to connect with the daily east-bound train; and
most tourists make it a point to spend a day in the capital of British
Columbia before starting, not only because Victoria is interesting
on account of its fine location, but because here many Americans for
the first time get a glimpse of English life. For Victoria is English
to the backbone,—as English as Montreal, or more so, because the
similarity of the climate of Vancouver’s Island to that of Southern
England (due to the effects, respectively, of the Japan Current and the
Gulf Stream) enables the English in this Pacific city to surround their
houses as at home, with fine lawns and trees, and gardens in which
flowers are in bloom all the year round, snow being almost as unknown
as in Southern California. Built on gently undulating ground,—such as
is characteristic of old England,—the very location of Victoria differs
from that of the “American” cities on the Sound, with their sloping
hills and precipices. Nor are the streets laid out with the geometrical
regularity so universal in the United States. The ladies on horseback,
the numerous churches, the animated streets on Saturday evening, the
abundant beef markets, the pirated American novels in the book-stalls,
the substantial appearance of the houses and many other things remind
one of the fact that here we are in America indeed, but not in the
United States. But the most utterly utter anglicism in Victoria is the
fact that if you want to leave a valise or parcel at the steamship
office or elsewhere, you get no check or receipt for it, but have
to rely on the receiver’s memory to see that no one else carries it
off. At the present rate of progress it will take another century or
two to get the idea of a numbered brass check, so simple, rapid, and
convenient, through the British skull.
After inspecting the sights of Victoria, including Chinatown and the
naval station at Esquimalt, we seek our cabin on the elegant steamer
which leaves very early in the morning for Vancouver. The parting
whistles wake us up, and for a while we gaze at the scenery from our
bed, through the window. The shores are here more mountainous and
higher than in Puget Sound, and gradually, indeed, the scenery becomes
so Alaskan in character that we jump out of bed and dress hastily at
this unseemly hour, lest we miss some fine effects; and well it is
that we did so, for straight ahead are some superb mountain forms
which look coal-black in the dim, semi-foggy atmosphere. The island of
Vancouver (three hundred miles in length, with mountains nine thousand
feet in height, and still largely unexplored) gradually disappears
in the distance, and the city of Vancouver, on the mainland, comes
into view. Its location reminds one again of Tacoma or Seattle, and
in other respects, too, this brand-new city seems much more American
than Victoria. While Victoria, as a town, was incorporated almost
thirty years ago (1862), and has grown steadily to its population of
twelve thousand, Vancouver is a “boom town” of the most ultra-American
fashion. In 1886, its site was a dense forest, and to-day it has a
population of ten thousand—a growth almost equal to that of Tacoma, and
for similar reasons,—Oriental trade, lumber, fisheries, etc. Subsidized
steamers run hence every few weeks to Japan, China, and Australia; and
this circumstance alone would suffice to make of Vancouver a city which
will run a close race with Seattle and Tacoma.
A European could hardly be made to believe that this city of ten
thousand had grown up in four years in the midst of a gloomy forest
of firs. What strikes the observer is not so much the number of
the buildings as their appearance,—solid, substantial granite and
brick buildings four to five stories high, and many of them of real
architectural merit and individuality,—buildings such as are usually
only seen in cities of one hundred thousand inhabitants. But this
anomaly will disappear in a few years with the growth of the city,
together with the still more striking anomaly presented by the numerous
blackened stumps which still stand everywhere between the superb stone
buildings, as no one has had time yet to remove them. Usually clearings
are made for wheatfields by farmers, but here the forest was cleared
away for a metropolis—and in the eager hurry the stumps were left
standing.
A striking peculiarity of Vancouver is the very large size and number
of windows, both in public buildings and private residences,—evidently
suggested by the necessity of getting as much light as possible during
the many cloudy days which this mountainous region is responsible
for; but that sunshine also is abundant is attested by the fact that
pumpkins and even tomatoes ripen in the gardens. English influence is
shown in the astounding number of churches already built, and others
in process of erection. Everybody carries a prayer-book on Sundays,
and all the stores are closed. Finally, mention must be made of the
fact that the Canadian Pacific Railway has built here a magnificent
hotel, equal in every respect to the fine Tacoma Hotel built some years
ago by the Northern Pacific Railroad, and to the new Hotel Portland
in Oregon’s chief city. The scenery embraces the Cascade range, with
Mt. Baker, the Olympic mountains, and the peaks of Vancouver Island;
and the city has good wharfage, water, and electric light. With such
advantages it will continue to eat its way rapidly into the dense
surrounding forest.
The Frazer River, almost as widely famed as the Columbia for its
abundant salmon and its superb scenery, enters the Sound about ten
miles from Vancouver, at New Westminster, which had hoped to be the
terminus of the railway, but now has to content itself with being the
headquarters of the salmon-canning and lumber export trade. It is
connected by a branch road with New Westminster Junction, a station
on the transcontinental road, and is reached at 13.30 o’clock by our
train which had left Vancouver at 12.45. The Canadian Pacific Railway
has very sensibly adopted the custom of naming the hours from noon to
midnight, 13 to 24 o’clock. Passengers unused to this method need only
subtract 12 from those figures to feel at home; and after a day or two,
20 o’clock will seem as natural to them as 8 P.M. Nor is this the only
thing in which this Canadian road could teach our American roads a
useful lesson, as we shall see later on.