_CALGARY TO THE SUMMIT._
Start for the Mountains--The Cochrane Ranche--Gradual Ascent--Mount
Cascade--Anthracite Coal--Sunday in the Rockies--Mountain
Scenery--The Divide.
We had reached the point on our journey when the accessories of modern
travel ceased to be at our disposal. Before us lay the mountain zone to
Kamloops, the distance across which, as the crow flies, is about three
hundred miles. We had failed to obtain any reliable information of the
character of the country over which we had to pass. Indeed, it was by
no means a certainty that there was a practicable route through it.
We had hoped to learn at Calgary all that was known of the territory,
to gain such thorough information that we should know precisely what
course we should take to reach British Columbia.
The problem had now to be discussed: if we could venture to advance
directly westward, or if we should be driven to pass through the United
States. At the worst, it was in our power to turn to the south from
Calgary to Montana, and find our way by the Northern Pacific Railway
through Oregon to Victoria, in British Columbia.
We had been referred to Mr. James Ross, the manager of construction of
the mountain district at Calgary. He had been instructed by telegram
before I left Montreal to collect the fullest information. Accordingly
he had sent out Indian couriers to the exploring parties to learn all
that was known, and it was in his power to acquaint us with the facts
if any one could do so. I had endeavoured to ascertain by telegraph
what Mr. Ross had learned; the invariable reply had been that the
couriers had not returned.
Mr. Ross entered while we were at our early breakfast. The couriers
he had sent to the Columbia had been detained by forest fires, but
they had at last returned with letters from Major Rogers, at the mouth
of the Kicking-Horse River. I learned that the journey to Kamloops
through the mountains was not held to be impracticable, but undoubtedly
it was marked by difficulties. There was a road which waggons could
travel for some distance up the valley of the Bow River. Where the road
ceased there was a rough horse-trail as far as the exploring parties
had penetrated from the east, some five miles beyond the summit of
the Selkirk Range. From that point the ground was perfectly unbroken.
We were told that for the remainder of the distance the only way open
to us was to go on foot; that the walking, at the least calculation,
would occupy ten or twelve days; and that it required about ten Indians
to carry supplies.
The question of supplies had specially to be considered, as there
was no possibility of obtaining them by the way. The country was
totally uninhabited. We could depend on no resource but our own
commissariat, which should be sufficiently ample to avoid all risk of
the chance of starvation. Our means of conveyance would not admit of
transportation to the full extent of our requirements for the whole
distance to Kamloops. Before leaving Winnipeg this contingency had been
anticipated, and definite arrangements, which we thought could scarcely
fail, had been made with the Hudson’s Bay Company for supplies, to be
sent easterly from Kamloops to the Columbia, opposite Eagle Pass. It
was my calculation that we would find our stores without fail at that
point on the 10th September. We therefore resolved to attempt to cross
the mountains on the trail across the Selkirk Range as it had been
described. To place the question of supplies beyond a peradventure, I
sent a special telegram to the Chief Commissioner of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, which I hoped would make error impossible.[E]
It was the morning of the 23rd August. We all wrote some last lines
home, and telegraphed some last words to our friends in the east,
informing them that we were leaving Calgary to follow the mountain
route. Previous to starting I called at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s
store to learn all that was there known about the country before us,
and to see the establishment itself.
We got off about eleven, meeting an unwelcome delay of an hour in
crossing Bow River. The ferry was being transferred to a better site,
and we had to wait until the final arrangements for stretching the wire
rope were completed. Finally it is stretched and secured, and we move
onwards.
Before many miles were passed our waggon broke down. To save time we
take lunch during the halt for repairs. The prairie about us has good
soil, but the herbage is dry. However, it affords good pasturage. We
proceed onwards through the Cochrane ranche, passing along a stretch of
rolling country, with hills bringing in mind many parts of the south of
Scotland; well adapted for grazing. A smoky atmosphere conceals from
our view the outline of the mountains. Our drivers, however, inform
us that when the air is clear they stand out distinctly to view, and
present a grand sight.
Our miserable waggon again causes us trouble. One of the wheels gives
way. We have again to halt, and remain by a large pond bordered by
willows. A fire is made to furnish some boiling water, by means of a
frying pan, to Mr. David MacDougall, who has appeared on the scene.
Boiling water, says this authority, repairs a wheel “slap bang, and
makes it go for another hundred miles,” with a few willow withes and
some cod lines, which everyone should carry in the mountains, unless he
has what is better, “shaginappy.”[F] The wheel is pronounced fit for
use, although it looked much less like a wheel, and we reach in safety
Morley, forty miles from Calgary.
Our day’s journey had been partially through rich pasture without a
tree. In certain parts a few groves are seen. The general course was
along a wide valley bounded by lofty hills. We had to do the best
we could at Morley. What accommodation we obtained we owed to Mr.
MacDougall, who gave up his own bed. But few travellers passed this way
until recently, and but little provision has been made for them. We
were thankful for any shelter we could obtain. It was nine o’clock and
dark when we arrived, so in any case there was but time to establish
ourselves as best we could. We were up at an early hour the next
morning, to find that our baggage waggon had not come up. Who should we
see, as we sat down to breakfast, but Senator Ogilvie, to lead us to
think that we had still some relations with the world behind us.
I determined not to wait for the waggon, but to push on to the next
stopping place and see what arrangements could be made for our further
advance. The baggage was to follow. I was much struck with the view as
we started. It was very fine, but its effect was marred by the cloudy
atmosphere which hid the more distant peaks. For twenty-two miles to
Padmore the whole route was equally striking. The valley is from three
to eight miles wide, extending generally in a western direction between
the foot hills of the mountains. It is marked by no sudden precipitous
ascents and is usually flat, carrying the prairie character with a
gentle ascent into the heart of the mountains. We are told that at one
time this valley, with the country around Morley and Calgary, was the
haunt of the buffalo. Mr. David Macdougall tells us that he has seen
the ground black with them, and that from an eminence not far from
Morley he has beheld them in herds on the plains, the number of which
would not be less than a million!
The prairie diminishes in extent as we advance. We pass through
park-like scenery. Groups of trees appear at intervals, and the
Bow River in its windings gleams pleasantly in the sun. The heavy
atmosphere is partially lifted and the outline of the mountains in
the distance comes to our view. What we see is probably the outlying
group; they are, nevertheless, bold bluffs, some of them defined
precipices to the summit, with long slopes in one direction, and in
some cases their fantastic forms look as if shaped in masonry.
The streams crossed to-day run in ravines of some depth, and the water
is clear and cold. We halt at Padmore, where the valley is contracted
to half a mile. Evidently we are about entering the portals of the
mountains. To the north, the slopes are bare; to the south, they are
wooded. The bare precipitous rock to the north is stratified and
strongly contorted. The geological features are most striking and the
exposure is on a grand scale. A great bluff rises nearly vertically
to the height of possibly fifteen hundred feet and is about two miles
in length. The lines of the strata are distinctly traceable, dipping
towards the west.
Four miles west of Padmore we are completely in the mountains. On every
side the sound of the hammer and drill was heard, and every turn of
the road revealed new views of the grandest mountain scenery. Peaks
towering behind and above each other came in sight, and the sun poured
down its warmest rays, deepening the shadows and bringing out fresh
beauties. As we advanced, the eye rests only on these mighty heights
when they are not concealed from view by the hazy atmosphere. The smoky
air, occasionally, it seemed to me, opened up, and in a way added to,
the landscape by developing the aerial perspective. As we advanced the
vapour disappeared, and before us stood out, clear and well defined in
the horizon, bold, massive mountain heights, crowned by sharp, turreted
peaks.
We pass Mount Cascade, so named from the small stream issuing from its
side, said to be at the height of two thousand feet, and with one leap
descending to the valley below. It is the most striking of the masses
we have seen, and we learn that its summit is 5,060 feet above the
plain. Discoveries of anthracite coal have been made in the flanks of
this mountain, and since my visit mining operations have commenced. The
road has become very rough; the wonder is how any vehicle can stand the
jolting, jarring and sudden wrenches over rocks and stumps which we
experience.
We are indebted to Mr. Graham, of Mount Forrest, for our dinner. He
very hospitably received us at his contractor’s camp, and we were in a
condition to enjoy all he gave us.
About 4 o’clock we arrived at Hillsdale, named after Mr. Hill, manager
of the company’s store. I was glad to meet here Mr. Dunbar, the
resident engineer, for I had looked forward to obtaining from him some
more definite information than we had yet received, especially of our
way across the Selkirk Range. A short conversation with this gentleman
gave a new colour to our enterprise, and I resolved not to proceed
further that day. Indeed we would have derived no advantage from
doing so. One statement of Mr. Dunbar, and he was supported in it by
one of his assistants who had recently come from the country in front
of us, certainly surprised me. He had heard of no one having crossed
the Selkirk Range. Major Rogers had made several attempts to do so,
but he had only so far succeeded as to reach the summit, or one of
the summits, but had not penetrated entirely through the mountains on
a connected line. No one was known to have passed over from where we
stood by the route before us to Kamloops; not even an Indian, and it
was questionable, if it were possible, to find a route which could be
followed.
I must confess that this information was unwelcome to me. I was
not without experience in crossing mountains, but expected in this
instance that our route would be over known ground, and that, whatever
difficulties lay before us, we had only to persevere to overcome them.
From what I now heard all seemed uncertain before me. It was possible
that we might have to walk our toilsome way onwards for many days,
suddenly to find it was impossible to proceed. I did not contemplate
assuming the position of an original explorer. My knowledge of work of
this kind had taught me how frequently it exacted much time and labour,
often to end in failure; that a gigantic natural impediment might
present itself to bar further advance, and that whatever the courage,
determination and fertility of resource shown, failure to proceed
onward would be the irremediable result.
I reserved, however, my opinion of our position until I had met Major
Rogers, in charge of these explorations. I understood he was at the
mouth of the Kicking-Horse River. In the meantime I entered into the
details of our journey with Mr. George Wilson, who had been detailed to
go with us in command of the pack train.
We discussed our route, estimated every day’s journey, and all the
possibilities and probabilities incident to our advance. George had
once been a scout in the service of the Southern States during the war,
and was evidently experienced in rough travelling. He appeared to me to
know well the work and duty of crossing the mountains, and we formed
some estimate of the pork and flour required to take us, with half a
dozen packers, to Eagle Pass, at the Columbia. I went into the whole
question so far as my knowledge permitted, and we talked it over until
bed time.
I owed to Mr. Dunbar, on that occasion, that we had comfortable beds
to sleep on, for he and his friends insisted that we should take
possession of their quarters.
The weather on Sunday morning was really beautiful. Those living in
cities can with difficulty understand the effect on the spirits and
minds of men away from civilization of a bright, cheery Sunday. In all
well ordered expeditions Sunday is a day of rest, and this view alone,
denuded entirely of all religious feeling, which is to some extent
dependent on early education, creates a scene of quiet and repose not
always experienced to the same extent in civilized communities. To
one bred like myself in the strict views of the Presbyterian Church,
there is something more than this sentiment: it is as if you held it
a privilege on these remote mountains to pay homage to the lessons of
your youth. Not from the merely mechanical acceptance of them, but
from a heartfelt sense of their truth. I have felt, on such occasions,
a sense of peace and freedom from the carping cares of life I never
could explain; but that the thought is not peculiar to myself many
circumstances have shown. You seem, as it were, at such times, only
to commune with nature, and to be free from all that is false and
meretricious in our civilization. You are beyond the struggles and
petty personalities of the world, and you feel how really and truly
life is better and happier as it is more simple.
The sun lit up in warm colours the great mountains encircling the
valley. We were surrounded by these magnificent heights. Our camp
was but a few miles distant from the valley, which leaves Bow River
for the Vermilion Pass. The atmosphere was not so clear as we could
wish, and the distant peaks were invisible. We had, nevertheless, a
remarkable view of the towering battlements to the north, in themselves
so lofty and so near to us, and the details so intricate that it would
be impossible to portray them within the limits of ordinary canvas. It
remains to be seen what effect will be produced by photography.
Dr. Grant held a service at ten o’clock, and gave a short sermon. The
congregation was composed of men engaged on the surveys and works. Some
two dozen attended. There was one also of the gentler sex present, who,
with her husband, came from the contractors’ camp near by. We dine
early. As to-morrow we have to take to the saddle, and in order to get
hardened to our work, we think it prudent that we fit ourselves for the
journey. We ride about twelve miles up the valley, between mountains of
the grandest description. To the south two heights of great prominence
present themselves. They command a view of the depression leading to
the Vermilion Pass. One of the peaks is crowned with perpetual snow,
and is of striking beauty. The other has a cubical form of summit.
A third, at no great distance, is pyramidal, and so on in every
conceivable variety these mountains tower above us. Westward we see
Castle Mountain to our right. The resemblance to Cyclopean masonry
has doubtless suggested the name, for it is marked by huge masses of
castellated-looking work, with turreted flanks. After passing through a
mile of burnt pine wood at its base, we reach Spillman’s camp, where
we stay for the night. The fires in the valley are extinguished, but
they are still running up the mountain side, and as night comes on
the flames gleam with a weird light. We soon wrapped ourselves in our
blankets. Although with a certain sense of fatigue, I could not sleep.
My thoughts reverted to the journey before us. Uncertainty seemed to
increase as we advanced.
Next morning some of us felt a little stiff and tired from our
afternoon drill, for such indeed was the object of our ride. Wilson and
Kit Lawrence, his assistant, started early with the supply waggon, as
our own movements are governed by those of the baggage. We did not deem
it necessary immediately to follow, and hence did not hurry our start.
The sun was a degree or so above Castle Mountain as we left. Our ride
was very agreeable: to some extent through Banksian pine, occasionally
along the bank of the Bow River, still a large stream, more
considerable, for instance, than the Thames at Richmond. The current is
strong, and unhappy the canoeman who has to pole up against it. Here
and there we ride through burnt woods. A “brulé” is an ominous word to
any one who has to make his way through the bush. The fire has recently
destroyed the growth of young timber. The existence of these fires
explains the frequent thick, heavy, smoky atmosphere through which we
have been unable to see the outline of the mountains. Occasionally a
snow-covered peak peers far above the dense smoke below, and to the
south we see what the maps suggest to be Mount Lefroy; but there are
several lofty summits, any one of which is sufficiently remarkable to
be named after that distinguished General. One is crested like a huge
camel’s back; one rises to a sharp cone; a third has the appearance of
an extinct volcano, and the crumbling edge of the crater reveals the
glacier within.
The waggon which has brought us from Calgary has been driven by a young
man named Kane. He had started early in the morning with Wilson, and at
a turn in the path we came suddenly upon Wilson’s horse tethered up by
the bridle. Kane was lying upon the ground, suffering from a violent
attack of colic. We had at once to ride and overtake the waggon for
medicine. Thirty drops of chlorodine relieved him, and we left him at
the nearest contractors’ camp. The two waggons with which we started
from Calgary have now nearly disappeared, for we have lost three
wheels, and one of the drivers is left behind.
Twelve miles distant from Spillman’s Camp the waggon road, bad as it
had been, comes to an end, and our supplies must now be carried on
pack horses. Here we met Mr. Neilson, a Kingston man, who renders us
great service; and it is here also, that Dave Leigh joins our service
as cook and pack man. There is always great delay in getting a pack
train ready; horses, saddlery and men must be collected. Our first
calculation was that three horses would suffice, as we know the weights
of all the packages and our calculation had been based upon them; but
from the badness of the roads we reduced the theoretical weight of the
pack by increasing the number of our animals. Our whole load amounted
to eleven hundred pounds, and our packers assured us that over the
bad roads it could not be carried by less than six horses. Experience
proved that the judgment of the men was correct; the consequence was
that the pack train could not leave that night.
Our party, however, started. One of them, who left after the rest, took
a wrong direction and narrowly escaped losing himself, at least for the
night. George shewed wonderful judgment in hunting up the wanderer and
putting him on the right track, relieving us all from great anxiety.
Our course took us across two forks of the Bow River and thence along
the banks of a rapid stream called Bath Creek, so named from one of the
engineers having fallen into it. We ascended for a few miles, when we
turned to the west by Summit Creek, a small glacier-bed stream, which
we followed till we arrived at the engineer’s camp at the Summit, 5,300
feet above sea level.
I had here to take leave of my friend Mr. Dunbar, who had to return
to his duties. He had been good enough to accompany us this far, and I
had found his presence of great use. Sitting around the camp fire at
night he was an admirable companion, for he had a fine voice. I have
particularly a very pleasurable recollection of the hymns he sang on
the Sunday evening in the first mountain pass. All music has a peculiar
effect under such circumstances, especially when it brings back
thoughts of the past and of distant friends; and there is to men of my
age a peculiar feeling in listening to devotional music, the influence
and power of which, however simple, are not easily forgotten.
To-night we fall asleep on the continental “Divide.” Hitherto we have
passed over ground draining to the east. To-morrow we follow a stream
flowing into the waters of the Pacific.