CHAPTER VIII

THE INDUS VALLEY AND THIRD JOURNEY TO DIAMIRAI NULLAH

'For some ...

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.'

_Rubáiyát of_ OMAR KHAYYÁM.

Our route with the coolies was to skirt along the lower slopes of Nanga

Parbat as near the snow line as possible. This would lead us first

into the Ganalo nullah, and thence to the Rakiot nullah. There we had

arranged to meet Mummery by the side of the glacier. Having crossed

the Diamirai glacier, we went straight up the opposite side of the

valley for a pass on the ridge south-east of a pointed rock peak at

the head of the Gonar nullah. This peak we have named the Gonar peak,

and the pass the Red pass (about 16,000 feet). From this pass a superb

view of the head of the Diamirai nullah was obtained, whilst to the

south and south-west a beautifully shaped snow mountain, beyond the

Lubar glacier, probably the Thosho peak, shone in the sunlight over

the Goman Singh pass. To the east we saw for the first time the great

Chongra peaks on the north-east of Nanga Parbat. On the north side of

our pass snow slopes stretched down some hundreds of feet to a small

glacier. Some of the coolies tried an impromptu glissade here, and

seemed rather pleased at the result; but it was a dangerous experiment,

for various rocks and stones awaited their arrival at the bottom. At

last in the dark after much trouble we managed to get down far enough

to collect wood for our camp fires, and put up our tent by the side of

a small stream.

Next day it was found necessary to climb up again at least 1000 feet

before descending about 2500 feet on to the snout of the Ganalo

glacier. This we crossed on the ice. On the far bank most luxuriant

vegetation covered the hill-side, and for a long time we climbed

rapidly upwards through woods of pines, birches, and other trees till

the rhododendrons were reached late in the afternoon. Still we pushed

on, hoping to get over into the Rakiot nullah, for perhaps Mummery

would be there awaiting tents and food. But the coolies were dead beat;

therefore, when we were still more than 1000 feet below the col, we

were forced to camp beyond the limit of the brushwood in an open grass

valley.

Next day we went over the pass, about 16,500 feet, into the Rakiot

nullah. From the summit a splendid view of the Rakiot glacier and

the northern side of Nanga Parbat could be seen. Never have I seen a

glacier that presented such a sea of stormy ruin; the waste of frozen

billows stretched ever upwards towards the ice-slopes that guarded

the topmost towers of the great mountain. Thunder and rain welcomed

us, and amidst dripping trees and cold mist our camp was pitched on

the true left bank of the glacier. From the top of the last pass we

had come over we could see the great face down which Mummery and the

Gurkhas would have had to come had they reached the Diama pass. It

seemed to us quite hopeless. I spent about half an hour looking through

a powerful telescope for any traces of steps cut down the only ridge

that looked at all feasible. I could see none. Hastings and I were

therefore of the opinion that Mummery had turned back. This he had told

us he intended to do should he find the pass either dangerous or very

difficult, for, as he pointed out, he was not going to risk anything on

an ordinary pass. Moreover, he had expressly taken sufficient food with

him, leaving it at the upper camp, so that should he have to return

and follow our footsteps he would have enough to last him for three

days. In the Rakiot nullah we could find no traces of him. Lor Khan and

Rosamir were at once sent back into the Ganalo nullah to meet Mummery

with extra food, Hastings and I in the meantime exploring some distance

up the valley. The day was more or less wet, with the mists lying low

down on the mountains. It cleared, however, in the evening. The next

two days were also wet and disagreeable. We were beginning to get

anxious, and when on the 29th Lor Khan and the coolie returned, having

seen nothing of Mummery, something had to be done.

[Illustration: _The Diama Pass from the Rakiot Nullah._]

We imagined that when the pass had proved to be too difficult, Mummery

had turned back to the high camp where the food had been left. From

there he would follow our route, but as the weather had been wretched,

with mist lying over all the hills, perhaps he had missed his way. Or

perhaps he might have sprained an ankle and be still in the Diamirai

nullah. It was therefore agreed that Hastings should return towards

the Diamirai nullah, and as my time was nearly at an end, if I wished

to get back to England by the end of September, I should make my way

to Astor as quickly as I could. Once there, I could wait a few days,

and Hastings promised that as soon as possible he would send a coolie

down to the nearest spot on the Gilgit-Chilas road, where there was a

telegraph-station, and telegraph the news to me at Astor.

Thus we parted company, Hastings returning along our old route to the

Diamirai, whilst I with a coolie and the cook set off for Astor.

About a mile down the valley we were met by some of the wild folk from

Gor, a village on the opposite side of the Indus. These inhabitants

of Gor have a somewhat evil reputation. Not many years before, an

officer out shooting in one of their nullahs was nearly murdered. They

did succeed in killing his shikari who was with him, but he himself

escaped owing to the lucky appearance of some soldiers from Gilgit who

were going down the valley of the Indus towards Chilas. Bruce also had

some experience of these turbulent tribesmen when stopping at Darang,

on the banks of the Indus below Gor; for whilst partridge-shooting in

the hill-sides the beaters had to be armed with rifles, and played

the double _rôle_ of protecting Bruce and driving the game. The Gor

shepherds that I met were, I believe, the only ones on the south side

of the Indus. Owing to the rich pasturage in the Rakiot nullah, they

kept sheep and goats there. I must say they treated me very well, and

two of them accompanied me for a couple of days, carrying the rucksacks

and showing us the way.

[Illustration: _The Chongra Peaks from the Red Pass._]

The first night we slept in an old and disused shepherd's encampment

high up, just at the limits of the pines. Next day we had to descend by

most precipitous slopes to the bottom of the Buldar nullah. Our second

night was spent high up on the eastern slopes of the nullah and short

of the pass which was called the Liskom pass by the natives.

On the next day we crossed this pass (about 16,000 feet). The view of

the Chongra peaks from here is most striking, backed as it is by the

great upper snow-field of the Rakiot glacier and Nanga Parbat behind.

Just across the Astor valley to the east rises the Dichil peak, a

terrific, double-headed rock pinnacle that is certainly over 20,000

feet high.

These obliging Gor shepherds had accompanied us thus far, but no

amount of persuasion could induce them to go one step further. At

last, becoming frightened, they put the bags down on the snow and fled

down the hill-side back to the Buldar nullah, and I was unable to give

them anything for all their kindness. That afternoon, 1st September,

I reached Dashkin on the Gilgit road, and was back again in civilised

country. From there I made my way to Astor.

It was on the 5th of September that I received a telegram from

Hastings. He had returned to the Diamirai nullah without finding

Mummery. The camp there was just as we had left it. Next day, 1st

September, he made his way up the glacier to the high camp under Nanga

Parbat with Rosamir and Lor Khan; there he found the extra provisions

and some other things exactly as they had been placed by Mummery on the

morning of the 24th There was only one conclusion to draw--Mummery,

Ragobir, and Goman Singh had been killed somewhere up the glacier that

lies between the Ganalo peak and Nanga Parbat. For there was absolutely

no way out, except the way they had gone in. The Diama pass over to

the Rakiot nullah we knew to be impossible on the eastern face, on the

south lay Nanga Parbat, whilst on the north was the Ganalo peak, 21,500

feet high. If, therefore, they never returned for the provisions, some

catastrophe must have overtaken them during their attempt to climb over

the pass.

From what I have seen of the valley, an avalanche falling from the

north face of Nanga Parbat seems the most probable explanation; but in

that vast ice world the hidden dangers are so many that any suggestion

must necessarily be the merest guessing, and what happened we shall

never know.

For Hastings to attempt to explore this glacier alone would have been

a most hazardous and hopeless task. He had no one with him on whom he

could rely, and the area to be explored was also far too large. His

only alternative therefore was to go at once with the greatest speed

possible to the nearest post where he knew an Englishman was, namely at

Chilas. This he did, but it was not till the 5th of September that he

reached Jiliper on the Indus and was able to telegraph to me at Astor.

In the meantime the villagers in the Bunar nullah had been ordered by

the officer in command at Chilas to explore all the valleys round the

Diamirai, and on the receipt of the telegram at Astor, Captain Stewart,

the head political officer of the Gilgit district, sent word to the

people in the Rupal nullah to do the same as far as the Mazeno La. I

felt, however, that there was no help and no hope. Out of that valley

up which Mummery had gone there was but one way: that was the one by

which he had entered it; he had not returned, the provisions were

untouched. It was a dreadful ending to our expedition. The mountains

amongst which we had spent so many pleasant days together no longer

were the same. The sunshine and the beauty were gone; savage, cruel,

and inhospitable the black pinnacles of the ridges and the overhanging

glaciers of cold ice filled my mind with only one thought. I could not

stop at Astor. Moreover, by descending the valley I should at least

meet Hastings sooner, for he was returning by forced marches to join

me at Astor. On the 6th September we met at Doian. Beyond what he had

already told me in his telegram there was nothing.

Together we returned to Astor to arrange our future movements. There

we agreed that it was necessary to return to the Diamirai nullah at

once, and together explore the upper part of the valley beyond the high

camp. Provisions and ponies were hastily got, and after having arranged

with Captain Stewart for as much help as possible, we started for the

Diamirai by way of the Indus valley and the Bunar nullah.

The first day's march down the Astor valley brought us to Doian. There

we were hospitably received by the officers of the Pioneer regiment,

who, earlier in the year under Colonel Kelly, had marched over the

Shandur pass to the relief of Chitral.

Below Doian the road descends rapidly by zigzags towards the Astor

stream: soon all vegetation is left behind, and one enters a parched

and barren land. The valley is hemmed in by precipitous cliffs on both

sides, and the road in many places has been hewn and blasted out of

the solid rock. Bones of horses strew the wayside, and occasionally a

vulture will sail by. The heat becomes oppressive, and the glare from

the hill-sides down which no water runs suggests a mountainous country

in the Sahara.

Before this road was built, the old path led over the summit of the

Hatu Pir, and the traveller now misses a marvellous view of Haramosh,

Rakipushi, and the Indus valley by plunging down into this bare,

desolate nullah, shut in on all sides by precipitous hills.

The small post of Ramghat, or Shaitan Nara, where this road finally

emerges from the Astor nullah into the great valley of the Indus, is

merely a post for guarding the suspension-bridge across the Astor

stream. Here are stationed some Kashmir troops, and here it is that the

roads to Chilas and Gilgit separate.

The Chilas road follows down the Indus on the left bank, through a

country which probably has no equal in the world. How this astounding

valley was formed it is difficult to say; but the valley is there, and

a wilder, grander, more desolate, and more colossal rift cannot occur

elsewhere on the earth's surface.

'Is this the scene

Where the old Earthquake-dæmon taught her young

Ruin?'

From the summit of Nanga Parbat to the waters of the Indus below is in

depth nearly 24,000 feet. On the opposite side, the naked hill-sides

rising in precipice after precipice are entirely barren of all

vegetation. Waterworn into innumerable gullies and rock towers, they

present a melancholy and arid appearance; and, although their summits

are 12,000 feet above the Indus, they do not form a north side to this

gorge in any way comparable with that on the south. The floor of the

valley is filled with the debris of countless Himalayan deluges, yet

the Indus looks like a small and dirty stream. To appreciate in any

way the gigantic scale of the whole is quite impossible. What is the

depth of that stealthily flowing flood and the measure of its waters,

who can say? For it is more than six hundred miles from its source,

and its tributaries sometimes are almost as big as itself. From the

borders of Swat and Chitral, from the Darkot pass, from the Kilik

beyond Hunza, and from the Hispar pass, the waters collect to form the

Gilgit river, one only of the many tributaries of the Indus. This tract

of the Mustagh range is nearly two hundred miles long by eighty broad.

The Shigar river drains the waters from the Mustagh range and K^{2},

perhaps the greatest accumulation of ice and snow that exists outside

the arctic regions. The Nubra and Shayok rivers collect their waters

from a yet larger area. But still east of all these tributaries, the

Indus itself rises three hundred miles away in those unknown lands of

Tibet behind the Himalaya and near the source of that mysterious river

of eastern India, the Bramaputra. Yet all these collected waters are

penned into this apparently slow flowing and narrow river, as with

silent but stealthy haste it twists and turns through the gigantic

chasm at the base of Nanga Parbat. Once, not many years ago, in

December 1840, into the upper end of this gorge the side of the Hatu

Pir fell, forming a dam probably over 1000 feet high.[K] A lake was

formed behind it for miles. The water rose to the level of Bunji fort,

300 feet above the river below, and up the Gilgit valley this lake,

newly formed, reached nearly to Gilgit itself. For six months the

waters were held back till, topping the vast accumulation, they burst

the dam, 'and rushed in dark tumult thundering.' The lake is said to

have emptied in one day. A small remnant of the barrier can still be

seen near Lechre on the Chilas road.

The heat in this valley is so great after eleven o'clock in the day,

that it is impossible to travel, and makes it necessary to seek what

shade there may be till the sun has sunk low in the sky. The naked

rocks glisten and tremble in the heat, the staring colours of the

parched hill-sides, and the intense glare of the sun in this desert

land, are in curious contrast to the shady valleys that lie thousands

of feet up, hidden away in the recesses of the great mountain. But it

is after the evening shadows have one by one lengthened, after the last

glow of the hot orange sunset has at last faded out of the sky, and

from out the darkness the rising moon lights up this deserted landscape

with mysterious shadows and perplexing distances, that the whole scene

becomes totally beyond description. The intricacy of form shown by the

silent mountains seem to be some magnificent and great imagination from

the mind of a Turner. The white moonlight, and the grotesque black

shadows and leering pinnacles piercing the starlit sky, can only belong

to a land dreamt of by a Gustave Doré as a fitting illustration to the

Wandering Jew, and only be described by Shelley:--

'At midnight

The moon arose: and lo! the ethereal cliffs

Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone

Among the stars like sunlight, and around

Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves

Bursting and eddying irresistibly

Rage and resound for ever.'

But without doubt the dominant sensation in this strange land is that

of fear and abhorrence; and what makes it all the more appalling is

that this thing before one is there in all its nakedness; it has no

reserve, there is nothing hidden. Its rugged insolence, its brutal

savagery, and its utter disregard of all the puny efforts of man,

crushes out of the mind any idea that this spot belongs to an ordinary

world.

Whether in the day or the night it is the same. During the stifling

hours of noon the valley sleeps in the scorching sunlight, but there,

always there, is that monstrous flood below, slowly, ceaselessly

moving. Occasionally the waters will send up an angry and deep-tongued

murmur, when some huge eddy, rising to the surface, breaks, and belches

out the waters that have come from the lowest depths.

At night in the stillness and the heat, as one lies unable to sleep,

imagination runs riot; from out the inky shadows that seam the

hill-sides in the pale moonlight, dragons and great creeping monsters

seemingly appear crawling slowly down to drink at the ebon flood

beneath. And imagination easily in restless dreams becomes reality,

thus adding tenfold to the already accumulated horrors. But at last in

the darkness--

'Before the phantom of false morning dies'--

suddenly a breath of cold air, as from heaven, descends like a splash

of cool water. It has wandered down from the upper snows. Then a few

moments later comes another; and, tired out, real sleep claims one at

last.

Later, when one awakes, the morning sun has risen, sending his

light slanting across the hill-sides with a promise that before he

sets we may be delivered from the bottom of this singular abyss.

No description, however, can possibly give an adequate idea of the

immensity, the loneliness, and the feeling of the insignificance of

human affairs that is produced by this valley of the Indus below

Rhamghat.

It was not till the 13th that we reached Bunar Post, a small station

for troops at the bottom of the Bunar nullah. Here we were met by

Captain de Vismes, who was in command of the Chilas district. He had

most kindly come from Chilas to help us with coolies up the Bunar

nullah, and from there to the Diamirai nullah. From Bunar Post to our

destination it took no less than three days' hard travelling; for as

I have already pointed out, it is not possible to go straight up the

valley. If we had been able to travel direct, it meant an ascent of

some 9000 feet, but by the only possible route that existed, nearly

double that height had to be climbed before we finally, on the 16th,

found ourselves once more in the Diamirai nullah. What a change,

however, met our gaze! The great masses of wild rose-trees that had

welcomed us on our first visit were bare even of leaves. The willow

groves now lifted gaunt, leafless branches into the chill air, and

sighed mournfully when the cold wind shook them, and the rhododendrons

were powdered with snow. Winter had set in, as the Chilas herdsmen had

warned us it would, only a month before; and the contrast was all the

more marked when compared with the temperature of nearly 100° in the

shade, which existed a few miles away by the Indus.

Hastings and I soon saw that any attempt at exploration amongst the

higher glaciers was out of the question. We went up the glacier as

far as half-way to the old upper camp where the provisions had been

found untouched, but even there it was wading through snow nearly a

foot deep; ultimately we climbed through heavy powdery snow, perhaps

500 feet up the south side of the valley, to obtain a last look at the

valley in which Mummery, Ragobir, and Goman Singh had perished. The

avalanches were thundering down the face of Nanga Parbat, filling the

air with their dust; and if nothing else had made it impossible to

penetrate into the fastnesses of this cold, cheerless, and snow-covered

mountain-land, they at least spoke with no uncertain voice, and bade us

be gone. Slowly we descended, and for the last time looked on the great

mountain and the white snows where in some unknown spot our friends lay

buried.

But although Mummery is no longer with us, though to those who knew him

the loss is irreparable, though he never can lead and cheer us on up

the 'gaunt, bare slabs, the square, precipitous steps in the ridge, and

the bulging ice of the gully,' yet his memory will remain--he will not

be forgotten. The pitiless mountains have claimed him--and--amongst the

snow-laden glaciers of the mighty hills he rests. 'The curves of the

wind-moulded cornice, the delicate undulations of the fissured snow,'

cover him, whilst the 'grim precipices, the great brown rocks bending

down into immeasurable space,' and the snow-peaks he loved so well,

keep watch, and guard over the spot where he lies.

FOOTNOTES:

[K] See note, p. 305.

THE CANADIAN ROCKY MOUNTAINS

'A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go:

* * * * *

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow

From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,

Stood sunset-flushed.'

_The Lotus-Eaters._

Far away in the west of North America, west of the Great Lakes, west

of Lake Winnipeg, west of the endless prairie, lies a 'Great Lone

Land': a land almost bare of inhabitants, a land deserted, if we except

a few prospectors, trappers, and wandering Indians who spend their

time amongst the mountain fastnesses, either hunting wild animals or

searching for gold and minerals.

Looking at a map of North America, one sees how a vast range of

mountains stretches from far south in the United States to Alaska,

more than two thousand miles away. This backbone of a continent in

reality is made up of a series of ranges, running parallel with one

another. In Canada there are, roughly, only two: the Rocky Mountains

to the east, and the Cascade range to the west, forming the shore of

the Pacific Ocean. In breadth about five hundred miles, in length over

fifteen hundred, if one includes the continuation of the Cascade range

into Alaska, where are situated the highest mountains in North America:

Mount St. Elias, 18,090 feet, Mount Logan, 19,539 feet, and Mount

M'Kinley (at the head waters of the Shushitna river), 20,874 feet.

Much of this country still has 'unexplored' printed large across it,

and until a few years ago, when a trans-continental railway connected

the Atlantic with the Pacific Ocean, parts of the western portion of

the Dominion of Canada, stretching as it does for thousands of miles,

covered with dense forests, watered by unnumbered rivers, was as

difficult of access as Siberia.

The magnitude of the Dominion, even at the present day, is hard to

realise. It can only be appreciated by those who have travelled through

its mighty woods, over its vast lakes and prairies, and explored the

fastnesses of those lonely canyons of the West. Halifax, in Nova

Scotia, is nearer to Bristol than to Vancouver on the Pacific coast,

and Klondike is further north of Vancouver than Iceland is of London.

Since, however, the Canadian-Pacific Railway has bridged the continent,

these mountain solitudes of the Far West are much more accessible

to the ordinary traveller, and the wild, secluded valleys of the

Canadian Rocky Mountains are becoming more frequented by sportsmen and

mountaineers. It does not need a prophet to foretell their future. A

land where the dark green valleys are filled with primeval forest,

where the pine, spruce, and fir, poplars, white maple, and cedar,

vie with each other in adding colour to the landscape and beauty to

the innumerable rivers, lakes, and streams: a land where endless

snow-clad mountains send up their summits into the clear air from

great glaciers below, where ridges of crags, pinnacles of rock, and

broken mountain-side, catch sometimes the glow of the early dawn or the

sunset, or at others bask in the glare of the midday heat, changing

their colour perpetually from grey to crimson, from gold to purple,

whilst below always lie the mysterious dark pine woods, filled with

scents of the trees, and the noise of the wind as it sighs amongst

the upper branches: such a land can only be employed by man for one

purpose, it must become a playground where the tired people can make

holiday.

It must become the Switzerland of North America, and, like Switzerland,

no doubt, some day will be completely overrun; at present, however, the

valleys are unspoilt; wild, beautiful, untouched and unscarred by the

hand of man. Fortunately the Canadian Rocky Mountains never can be the

centre of any great manufacturing district; and as they are in extent

vastly greater than the Alps, for a very long time to come they will

remain the hunting ground for those who care to spend their spare time

in breathing pure air, and in living amidst splendid scenery.

At the present time the exploration of these mountains is going rapidly

forward, at least in those portions near where the Canadian-Pacific

Railway passes through them; and the mountaineer of to-day is offered

great opportunities. For should he climb to the summit of any peak,

even near the railway, high enough to give an extensive view, by

far the greater number of the mountains and peaks that can be seen

stretching in every direction, as far as the eye can see to the

horizon, are as yet untrodden by human feet.

The approach also to this splendid range is exceptionally fine. From

the east, as the traveller leaves Winnipeg and enters on the prairie,

till he reaches the foot of the mountains at Morley, nearly nine

hundred miles away, the broad endless spread of the open country is

seen. On many this apparently desolate, never-ending expanse of rolling

grassland produces a sensation of weariness. But it is like the open

sea in its size, and, like the ocean, has a charm that ordinary

country does not possess. Its very immensity gives a mystery to it:

sometimes the air is clear as crystal, and the white clouds on the

horizon seem to be touching some far-distant fold of the landscape; at

others the plain dances in the heat, and great mirage lakes can be seen

covering the middle distances; again, thunderstorms pass along the sky,

whose piled masses of cumuli clouds send down ribbons of fire, often

causing fires that sweep for miles over the open grassland. At early

dawn and sunset, however, are produced the great scenic effects of the

prairie, and to look down the sky from the zenith to the setting sun,

a great red ball just disappearing below the horizon, and count the

colours that light up the islands, bays, promontories, and continents

of that marvellous cloudland, makes one forget that one is in a railway

train, or has anything to do with everyday life; it is like actually

seeing for the first time some fairyland that one has read of in one's

childhood. Afterwards, when the full moon comes out, the distances

seem almost greater, and one can lie comfortably in bed and gaze at

the landscape sliding swiftly by, comparing the ease and rapidity of

modern travel, which does hundreds of miles in one night, with that of

the pioneers who first traversed these endless plains a century or more

ago.

Near a station called Gleichen, the Rocky Mountains can be seen more

than one hundred miles away, but it is not till one approaches them

that it is recognised how abruptly they rise out of the prairie, like

a long wall, with apparently not an opening; and, even when a few

miles away, they seem an impenetrable barrier. The railway, however,

follows the bank of the Bow river, which from its size must at least

come down a moderate-sized valley, and just above where the Kananaskis,

a side river, is crossed, a sudden bend of the line takes one through

the gateway of the hills and the Bow valley is entered, which is then

followed westward up to the Great Divide, or watershed, sixty miles

away.

The approach to the Rocky Mountains from the Pacific coast is through

country of a totally different nature. From Vancouver to the Great

Divide is five hundred miles; along the whole of this distance the

railway line is surrounded by the most splendid mountain scenery.

At first the line runs up the great and broad valley of the Fraser

river, which when seen in the light of a fine September afternoon is

magnificent. For it is shut in on all sides by high mountains (one,

Mount Baker, being 14,000 feet), and filled with such timber as only

grows on the Pacific coast, all of it the natural forest, vast

Douglas firs of giant girth, cedars, poplars, and maples, with their

autumn-colouring of crimson, green, and gold, adding beauty to this

lovely valley; whilst winding backwards and forwards across it, flows

the vast flood of the Fraser. Certainly it is one of the finest large

valleys I have ever seen. Then further up is the world-famous Fraser

canyon, not so beautiful as the greater valley below, but grand and

terrible in its own way. There are fiercer and bigger rivers and gorges

in the Himalaya. Here it is that for over twenty miles the railway

track has been hewn in many places out of the solid wall of the canyon,

whilst below rush the pent-up waters of the great river, sometimes

slowly moving onwards with only the occasional eddy coming up to the

surface to show the depth of water, again rushing with wildest tumult

between narrow walls of black rock, tossing up the spray, and foaming

along, afraid that unless it hastened madly through its rock-girt

channel the almost overhanging walls, hundreds of feet high, would

fall in and prevent it ever getting down to the open sea. Leaving the

valley of the Fraser, the railway follows the desolate gorge of the

Thompson river, and after passing through a series of minor mountains,

comes down to the valley of the Columbia river, which here is running

almost due south. If it had been possible to have built the line up

the Columbia valley to the Rocky Mountains, no doubt that route would

have been followed, but the railway has been taken over the Selkirk

range instead. It is whilst crossing the Selkirks that by far the most

wonderful part of this mountain line is to be seen. From the Columbia

to the summit there is a rise of 2800 feet, and the descent on the

other side to the Columbia river again is 1775 feet in less than twenty

miles. Here are to be seen the miles of snow-sheds through which

the train has to go, whilst towering into the sky are all the white

snow-peaks of the Selkirks, and the glaciers that almost come down to

the railway itself.

From the Columbia to the Great Divide another ascent has to be made,

this time of 2800 feet, and the last 1250 feet of this is done in the

short distance of ten miles. It is not in any way exaggerating to say

that these five hundred miles of line give by far the most extensive

and varied wild mountain scenery that can be obtained from any railway

train in the world. The Fraser valley, and canyon, the Selkirk

Mountains, and the scenery of the Rocky Mountains, before the Great

Divide is reached, are each one of them wonderfully beautiful, and each

one of them possesses so much individuality of its own, that to forget

the impressions they make would be impossible.

The Great Divide is at the watershed, or on the top of the Kicking

Horse pass. One of the most curious features of the Canadian Rocky

Mountains is the lowness of the passes, also their number. The average

height of the mountains is between 10,000 and 11,000 feet, yet none

of these passes are much over 6000 feet, so that the simplest way to

describe the range is to take the various masses of mountains that lie

between the passes.

Twenty miles south of the Kicking Horse pass lies first the Vermilion

pass (5265 feet), next comes the Simpson pass (6884 feet), thirteen

miles further south, thus giving three groups of mountains which can be

named as follows:--

(1) _The Temple group_ (or Bow range); and _the

Goodsir group_ (or Ottertail range).

This group is south of the Kicking Horse

pass and north of the Vermilion pass.

(2) _The Ball group_, which lies south of the

Vermilion pass and north of the Simpson pass.

(3) _The Assiniboine group_, which lies south of

the Simpson pass.

North of the Kicking Horse pass the peaks and glaciers of the Rocky

Mountains have been more carefully explored and for a greater distance

than on the south side of the railway. It will be sufficient, however,

only to mention the passes through the mountains which are to be found

in that tract of country (120 miles long), lying south of the Athabasca

pass, and north of the Kicking Horse pass. The first pass across the

Rocky Mountains is the Howse pass, 4800 feet, and thirty miles north

of the railway; thirty miles further north is the Thompson pass, 6800

feet; next comes Fortress Lake pass, thirty-five miles distant, and

only 4300 feet high; and lastly, twenty-five miles further, still to

the north, the Athabasca pass, 5700 feet. Thus if we omit the mountains

north of the Athabasca pass, there are four more groups. Taking them in

order, they are:--

(4) _The Balfour group_ (or Wapta range), lying

between the Kicking Horse pass and the Howse pass.

(5) _The Forbes group_, lying between the Howse

pass and the Thompson pass.

(6) _The Columbia group_, lying between the

Thompson pass and the Fortress Lake pass.

(7) _The Mount Hooker group_, lying between the

Fortress Lake pass and the Athabasca pass.

[Illustration: CANADIAN ROCKY MOUNTAINS Showing the Ice Fields and the

Mountains _Heights when marked? only approximate_ J. Bartholomew & Co.,

Edin^r.]

In the Temple-Goodsir group, which is situated just to the south of

the Canadian Pacific Railway, are a very large number of rock- and

snow-peaks; in fact, probably more varied rock climbing can be found

here than in any of the other groups of mountains. Mounts Temple,

Lefroy, Victoria, Stephen, Cathedral, Vaux, and the Chancellor have

all been ascended, but Goodsir, Hungabee, and Deltaform, all of them

first-class peaks, yet wait for the first party to set foot on their

summits. Besides the numerous good mountain climbs that can be found

in this district, many most charming lakes and pine-clad valleys lie

hidden away in the narrow valleys. It would be hard to find in any

mountain-land a more perfect picture than that afforded by Lake Louise,

a clear, deep lake, surrounded by pine woods and snow-clad peaks whose

reflection in the water seems almost more natural than the reality in

the distance. The O'Hara lakes and Paradise valley also possess the

wild grandeur and rich fertility that is one of the chief attractions

of the Rocky Mountains of Canada.

Of the Mount Ball group nothing need be said, Mount Ball being the only

peak in it which reaches 11,000 feet. As seen from the summit of Mount

Lefroy, Mount Ball is a long, somewhat flat-topped mountain covered

with ice and snow. Perhaps, however, on the southern side it may be

more precipitous and rocky. In the Assiniboine group there seems only

one important mountain, Mount Assiniboine itself. But what is wanting

in quantity is certainly atoned for by the excessive grandeur and

beauty of Mount Assiniboine. For long called the Canadian Matterhorn

(11,830 feet), it towers a head and shoulders above its fellows, the

highest peak south of the line. For several years it withstood many

determined attempts made to scale its sharp, pyramid-shaped summit;

but in August of 1901 the Rev. J. Outram, with two Swiss guides, was

fortunate enough at last to conquer this difficult mountain.

The chief feature of the Balfour group is the great expanse of upper

snow-fields on the Wapta névé. The highest peak, Mount Balfour, 10,873

feet, was ascended in 1898 by Messrs. Charles S. Thompson, C. L. Noyes,

and C. M. Weed. Once on this central reservoir of ice none of the

peaks are difficult to climb. The Bow river, which has its source at

the north-eastern corner of this Wapta snow-field, flows down the Bow

valley, which skirts for more than twenty-five miles the eastern slopes

of the Balfour group. This Bow valley is an excellent example of the

numberless valleys that are to be found amongst the Rocky mountains,

flat-bottomed and filled with pine woods and marshes or muskegs. Two

beautiful lakes, the Upper and Lower Bow lakes, filled with trout, give

good sport to the fisherman; but to fish successfully a raft must be

built, for there are no boats as yet on the lakes. The Upper Bow lake

is particularly beautiful, for in many places on its shores are great

expanses of open grassland, covered here and there with clumps of dwarf

rhododendron bushes, or, it may be, studded with thickets of pine and

other trees, whilst on the opposite shore the mountains rise sheer for

several thousand feet, and more than one glacier hangs poised high up

on the cliffs, above the clear blue water beneath.

The next group further north, the Forbes group, has not been visited

as yet by many mountaineering parties. But it contains possibly the

highest peak in the Canadian Rocky Mountains, Mount Forbes, which is

certainly considerably over 13,000 feet, and may be as much as 14,000

feet high. The Bush peak and Mount Freshfield also must be about 12,500

to 13,000 feet, and Mount Lyell is not much less, perhaps 12,000 feet.

Many ice-fields lie underneath these high peaks: the Freshfield, Bush,

and Lyell snow-fields being the most important. In this group as yet

none of the peaks have been ascended, and up to the present only on the

Freshfield glacier has any one set foot. This is largely due to the

difficulty of getting to the foot of the peaks and the time necessary

to expend on such an expedition. To get to the bottom of Mount Forbes

from Laggan, the nearest spot on the Canadian-Pacific railway, would

take about nine days, and, should the Saskatchewan be in full flood, it

might take four or five days more.

The Columbia group, which is still further north, was only discovered

in 1898 by Messrs. Stutfield, Woolley, and myself. It is by far the

biggest accumulation of glaciers that we have yet seen, covering

an area of at least one hundred square miles; moreover, from a

geographical point of view, it claims additional interest, for it is

the source of the two great rivers, the Athabasca, the Saskatchewan,

and formerly probably of the Columbia as well. The mountains also

that rise out of these untrodden snow-fields are amongst the highest

peaks in the Canadian Rocky Mountains, with the one exception of Mount

Forbes. At present it is impossible to say with certainty whether Mount

Columbia or Mount Forbes is the higher. Personally I should like to

give the preference to Mount Columbia. Another peak situated near the

centre of this group, the Dome, 11,650 feet, on whose summit we stood

in 1898, is the only mountain in North America the snows of which when

melted feed rivers that flow into the three oceans--the Atlantic, the

Arctic, and the Pacific. North of Mount Columbia another peak was

discovered, Mount Alberta, over 13,000 feet. This mountain, unlike

Mount Columbia, is a rock-peak and flat-topped. Its summit is ringed

round with tremendous precipices, and its north-western face must

be particularly grand, for it rises straight from the valley of the

Athabasca for nearly 8000 feet.

[Illustration: _The Freshfield Glacier._]

The outlets from the great Columbian ice-field are very numerous; and

many large glaciers flow into the valleys to feed the head waters of

the Saskatchewan, the Athabasca, and the tributaries of the Columbia.

Of the mountains in the next group further north practically nothing

is known. Only three parties in modern times have even penetrated into

the valleys of this land south of the Athabasca pass--Professor Coleman

(1893), during his search for Mounts Hooker and Brown; and Wilcox

(1896) and E. Habel (1901). It is improbable that there are any peaks

as high as 13,000 feet, but many covered with ice, snow, and glaciers

were seen from the summits of the Dome and Diadem peak in 1898, when

we were on the Columbian ice-fields. That this mountain-land remains

unexplored is not to be wondered at, for the country is so far away,

and so difficult to get at, from any human habitation that it takes

weeks of hard work battling with the rivers and forests before even the

valleys are reached which lie at the bottom of these ranges of snow-and

glacier-covered mountains.

When one has got accustomed to it, however, travelling in these vast

mountain solitudes becomes by no means either irksome or unpleasant.

But before one is capable of understanding all the woodcraft and

knowledge requisite for successfully guiding a party through the

endless forested valleys, the apparent monotony is apt to weary

the traveller; afterwards, however, when a thousand and one things

in the woods or on the mountain-side are for the first time seen

and understood, then the environment no longer dominates one. For

instance, a peculiar notch or 'blaze' on an occasional tree means that

some prospector or Indian has been there before, or perhaps a newly

overturned stone amongst the moss tells how a bear has recently been

searching for food; or, again, some half-obliterated mark by the side

of a stream means cariboo, or, if higher up, goat or the wild sheep.

Then, often by the kind of tree one can roughly guess how high one is,

for certain poplars, for instance the balsam poplar, I have never seen

higher than 5000 feet.

Of course amongst the Canadian Rockies it is necessary on every

expedition to take men and horses. The men are to look after the horses

and the camp, and to cut the trail. The horses carry the food or

'grub-pile,' the tents, etc.

At first one is quite unaccustomed to the leisurely method of

progression, and quite unacquainted with many mysterious things that

afterwards appear obvious. Now that I look back on my first day with

ponies in the Rockies I blush for my incompetence and ignorance.

To begin with, we were late in starting--our men, with most of the

ponies and heavy baggage, had gone up the Bow valley, leaving us three

ponies for the remainder of the luggage. At the very start, if it had

not been for the help of an obliging man at Laggan railway station, I

do not think we should ever have satisfactorily tied on all the odd

packages. To pack an Indian pony, and finish all off neatly with a

good tight diamond hitch, is an accomplishment not possessed by every

one. After three summers' experience I really now can tie it: at

least I know I could, but it is a wonderful hitch; and although you

think that you have got it all right, when you begin to pull the rope

tight, somehow it all comes undone and one must start again from the

beginning.

The ponies having been packed, we started, but soon lost our way

amongst the most dreadful tangle of fallen timber; the men had 'blazed'

the way, but we were new at the work, and so soon got out of the trail.

After getting the ponies with great difficulty through some miles of

this timber, we gradually worked ourselves free, getting into more

open ground, but it was out of Scylla into Charybdis, for now it was a

question of how to get through endless swamps or muskegs that filled

up the floor of the valley. Here the blazes of course stopped, and

soon we missed the tracks of the other horses and got hopelessly lost,

floundering about in every direction trying to find a way through.

Several times the luckless ponies, dead tired and overladen, had sunk

up to their bellies, but with terrified snorts and plunges had just

managed to get out again. At last the sun went down, then daylight

disappeared, and finally the moon came out, and we were still in that

swamp. Ultimately we tried to make for the forest at the side of the

valley, but one of the horses got so deep into a hole that only with

difficulty we managed to prevent him vanishing altogether. He was at

last rescued with an Alpine rope; and we also were rescued from a night

out in a swamp by our headman, Peyto, who had come down the valley to

look for us. The horses had to be left for the night, but we, wading

through everything, got safely into camp at about midnight. These

Indian ponies are wonderfully clever in thick timber or in the streams

and rivers that have every now and then to be crossed.

One old grey that I rode for two different trips was a most wise old

animal, rather stiff in the knees, but wonderfully sure-footed, and

never once did he even brush my leg against a tree trunk even in the

thickest timber. He was also a very gentlemanly old animal, never

frightened (unless he got into a muskeg), never in a hurry, very fond

of going to sleep, also of having his own way, and his way was usually

the right one.

To those who wish to spend all their time, during a short holiday,

climbing peaks, the Canadian Rocky Mountains cannot be recommended

without some explanation. Firstly, they are a very long way off; and

secondly, many of the finest groups, lying, as they do, perhaps fifty

or a hundred miles from the railway, necessitate days of travel with

ponies, provisions, etc., before even their base is reached. Still

undoubtedly the pleasure of the leisurely advance through the charming

valleys and dense pinewoods is to

'Those who love the haunts of Nature,

Love the shadow of the forest,

Love the winds among the branches,

And the rain-shower and the snowstorm,

And the rushing of great rivers'

of quite an equal importance to the joys of a first ascent.

The absolutely free life that one experiences in camp never palls, let

the weather be good or bad; as one jumps out of one's sleeping-bag into

the fresh morning air, one is always ready for the day's work.

Perhaps it is a glorious morning. The men have gone off to find the

ponies, which, if they have strayed far afield during the night, can

be found by listening for the tinkle of the bell always tied to the

neck of the bell-mare. Then after a breakfast of porridge, bacon, and

whatever else there may be, the horses are packed--an operation which

is hard work, and takes perhaps the best part of two hours when there

are over a dozen horses to load. Each pack has to be finally tied on

with the diamond hitch, otherwise in a very short time the pack would

work loose, and, if once lost bit by bit in the dense undergrowth of

the forest, would never be recovered.

Then comes the start, and the cavalcade files off into the virgin

forest, led by the headman, whose business it is to pick out a trail

amidst the dense undergrowth and the fallen trees along which the pack

train can go. Soon the sound of the axe is heard, and the single file

of ponies comes to a standstill whilst some fallen tree which bars

the way is cut through. Sometimes the path leads along the bank of a

swiftly flowing, muddy white river, swollen by the melting snows of the

glaciers, which every now and then are seen through more open parts of

the forest, glaciers that glimmer and shine high up amongst the peaks

that wall in the valley below. It is in places such as this that the

greatest danger to the horses and baggage is experienced. The banks of

the river may be rotten, or a horse more self-willed than the others

may suddenly plunge into the water, and often it is next to impossible

to prevent others following; so that in one moment of time perhaps half

the outfit may be sweeping down stream to perdition, and the expedition

ruined by being left provisionless. Fortunately, although I have often

seen our horses helplessly drifting down rivers that at first sight

seemed hopeless to get out of, owing to the undercut banks, depth of

water, and strength of current, yet somehow or other these plucky

little ponies always have managed to scramble out again.

The silent forests, through which one sometimes has to march for days

together, are not so dense, and the trees are not so large on the

eastern side of the Divide as on the western, that is to say, in the

valleys leading to the Columbia river.

In the valley of the Columbia itself, down which we travelled in 1900

from Donald to the Bush river, for several days we hardly saw the sky.

The vast forest far surpassed in size anything we had seen on the other

side of the range--huge pines, cotton-wood trees, firs, and spruces

reaching to a height of 150 feet or more. The undergrowth too was very

dense--cedar, white maple, and alder (near the streams), were found;

whilst the fallen trunks of dead trees, sometimes six or eight feet

in diameter, lay scattered with others of lesser size in every kind

of position. Some in their fall had been arrested by others, and were

waiting for the first gale to bring them crashing to the ground; whilst

at the will of every breeze that wandered through the upper branches

of the higher trees, these half-fallen monarchs of the forest would

break the heavy stillness of the air by their complaints and groans

against their more sturdy brethren for thus preventing them lying at

peace upon the moss-covered ground below. Others that had lain perhaps

scores of years in the wet underbush had decayed and rotted, leaving

rich masses of decomposing vegetation, from which trees had sprung

that in their turn also must fall and suffer the same change. There

is a marvellous fascination about these quiet shady fastnesses of the

western valleys. As one wanders day after day through this underworld,

cut off from the glaring sun of noonday and the blue sky, hardly a

sound breaks the stillness, whilst all around the ruin of ancient woods

lies piled with a lavishness most absolute--that of Nature's self, the

tangled wreck of a lifetime, the luxuriant growth of centuries.

It is in these western valleys that the rainfall is far greater than

on the other side of the range, hence the forests are thicker and the

muskegs and streams more dangerous. Only in the western valleys also

is found that pest of British Columbia forests, the Devil's Club--a

plant with large, broad leaves and a stem covered with spikes. Amongst

the moist undergrowth it grows to a height of from five to six feet,

trailing its stems in every direction and emitting a dank, unwholesome

smell. Woe betide any one who with bare hand should roughly seize one

of those stems, for the spikes enter the flesh, and, breaking off,

produce poisoned wounds which fester. But whilst cutting trail it is

impossible to prevent the long, twisted roots flying up occasionally,

leaving their detestable thorns in all parts of one's body.

Sometimes instead of these virgin forests the trail--and this

is especially true when one is near a pass at 6000 feet or 7000

feet--passes along wide expanses of meadow, with small rhododendron

bushes and clumps of pines every here and there. Masses of flowers

can be seen in every direction, many kinds of anemone, large yellow

daisies, and many others. Near the watershed of a pass beautiful lakes

of pure blue water are often found, and in a quiet summer afternoon the

long slanting shadows and the reflection of pines, peaks, and glaciers

lie still in the clear water. The contrast of colours often is almost

dazzling. One instance in particular I shall never forget: it was in

a valley thirty miles north of the line called Bear Creek, near two

lakes where some years before a fire had burnt out several square

miles of forest. The gaunt, shining black stems of the trees formed a

curious but fitting background--shining like black satin--for the mass

of brilliant golden yellow daisies that were in full bloom amongst the

stones at their feet. There was no green of grass, in fact no other

colour except that of the sky. This blaze of golden orange against

satin black tree trunks, with a sapphire sky beyond, formed a contrast

of colours but rarely seen in a landscape.

These burnt forests are one of the worst obstacles for delaying a party

with horses. For a few years the ground is cleared excellently; but

soon an undergrowth of pines springs up, then for many years the burnt

dead trunks, which never seem to rot after having been charred by the

fire, and the new thick undergrowth, make often a mile a day with a

pack team good work. Often even without burnt timber to delay one,

the progression up an unknown valley is very tedious. In 1900, whilst

exploring the Bush valley on the western side of the mountains, our

first view of the valley held out hopes to us that we should soon get

to the head waters and the snow peaks fifteen miles away. Stretched

out at our feet, as we looked down from a neighbouring hill, lay the

valley, wide and level. There were no canyons or defiles that might

necessitate lengthy détours up precipitous hill-sides. The valley was

open and flat. It is true we saw some muskegs at the sides, but along

the level bottom stretched shingle flats, with streams all tangled

together, looking like a skein of ravelled grey wool thrown down

between the dull green hills, whilst the main river, winding first

toward one hillside and then towards the other, sometimes branching,

again reuniting, formed a veritable puzzle of interlacing channels,

islands of pebbles, stretches of swamps, and small lakes all hopelessly

intermingled. The first ten miles up that valley took us ten days'

incessant work. Our way was alternately through immense timber, dense

thickets of willows, through swamps, streams, small lakes, along

insecure river banks, climbing up the hill-sides, jumping logs, cutting

through fallen trees and undergrowth so thick one could hardly see

a yard ahead, splashing, fighting, and worrying ahead; we had an

experience of almost everything that could delay us, and whether the

woods, the streams, or the muskegs were worst, it was impossible to say.

So the days go by, and often real mountaineering is a luxury which

has to be left till the last. But we were the pioneers; now the

trails are partly made, and the way to get at the peaks is known,

therefore the expenditure of time in arriving at any particular spot

can be calculated with much greater certainty. But with this gain in

time-saving comes also the lost pleasure of the uncertainty of an

unknown land; now the country is being mapped and all the peaks are

being named.

However, it will be many a long year before much real change can be

made in the valleys that lie thirty or more miles from the line; also

the snow peaks, the marvellously clear atmosphere, the woods, lakes,

and scenery will remain the same. After a long day through these

valleys of the Canadian Rocky Mountains one will be just as able to

pitch one's tent and enjoy over the camp fire the stories of the hour,

to eat one's dinner with the mountaineer's appetite, to smoke by the

light of the smouldering logs, and to go to sleep safely, surrounded by

these mysterious and dark forests.

I always think that the supreme moments of a mountaineer's existence

are, more often, not whilst battling with the great mountains, but

afterwards, when the struggle is done and the whole story is gone over

again quietly by a camp fire. Violent action no doubt appeals to many

people, but the delightful sense of content that wraps one round after

a long and successful day on the mountains, after the victory has

been won, is a very pleasant sensation. One such evening I remember

in the Bush valley when no victory had crowned our efforts. We were

returning, in fact, from an attempt to reach Mount Columbia which

had proved an undoubted failure; still somehow I felt that although

beaten, we had been honourably beaten, we had struggled hard, but two

things had failed us--time and provisions--and we were retracing our

steps towards civilisation. The camp that evening had been pitched

on the banks of the Bush river. In the foreground, water and shingle

stretched in desolate fashion westward to where ridges of dark pine

woods sloped down from dusky peaks above, sending out point after point

to strengthen the forms of the middle distance; whilst beyond, far away

across the Columbia, the Selkirk mountains raised their snow peaks into

the calm, clear sky, a mysterious land unexplored and unknown. Through

a rift in the clouds in the far west shone the setting sun, tinging the

dull grey clouds overhead and the stealthily flowing river below with

its many-coloured fires. A faint evening breeze softly moved the upper

foliage, a couple of inquisitive chipmunks were chattering near at

hand, and a small stream could be heard whispering amongst the thickets

near the banks of the river.

The great gnarled trunks of pine and fir, festooned with moss, fungi,

and grey lichen, the dead, drooping branches, and the half fallen,

decaying trunks propped up in dreary, melancholy array, caught for a

moment the sunset's ruddy glow, whilst the mysterious shadows of the

dense forest darkened by contrast. It was one of those evenings

'When, upon a tranced summer night,

Those green robed senators of mighty woods,

Tall oaks, branch charmed to the earnest stars,

Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,

Save from one gradual solitary gust,

Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,

As if the ebbing air had but one wave.'

Such evenings compensate one for many a wet, dreary day spent amongst

the mountains. Nature suddenly offers them to the traveller without

any toil on his part. He has only to sit watching, surrounded by the

dark forest, the stretch of waters, and the ever-changing glory of

the setting sun; then, unmindful of the worry of yesterday, or the

uncertainties of to-morrow, amidst the great stillness, he feels with

absolute conviction one thing and one thing only--that it is good to

be alive and free. Civilised life no doubt teaches us much, but when

one has once tasted the freedom of the wilds, a different knowledge

comes. The battling with storm, rain, cold, and sometimes hunger, and

the doubt of what any day may bring forth, these at least teach that

life--that mere existence--is beyond all price.

THE ALPS

'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,

while the evil days come not, nor the years draw

nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in

them.'--_Ecclesiastes._

Many years ago I remember quoting once some paragraphs which seemed at

the time to portray so exactly the attitude of certain people towards

the Alps, that they were instantly plucked from their seclusion, for

the purpose of enforcing some rather flippant and idle remarks of my

own. These flippant efforts of mine, I may add, were not intended to

be taken seriously. The paragraphs, however, were written in 1868, and

can be found in the _Alpine Journal_.[L] I now presume to use them

once more. 'So far as the Alps are concerned, we can now, I fear,

expect nothing free altogether from the taint of staleness. For us the

familiar hunting grounds exist no longer as they once existed.' Again:

'Those waters of oblivion which have overwhelmed the Jungfraus and

Finsteraarhorns of our youth.' And, 'It only remains for us to dally

awhile with the best recollections of the now degraded mountains.'

As I have said, when I first quoted these sentences I did not believe

one word of them. It is true that then I was younger and more

enthusiastic; moreover, the Alps were new to me, and I was still able

to appreciate to the full the beauties of that region of streams,

glaciers, and snow peaks: then the sun still shone, then the morning

and the evening, arrayed in their coat of many colours, called either

to action or bid a cheerful good-night, and even then the fleeting

clouds, flung abroad like 'banners on the outer wall,' would often make

me stop and watch, till the mists dissolved into thin air left the high

battlements of the mighty mountains once more clear against the blue

sky. Yes! although I quoted these paragraphs, yet at that period, to

me it was impious to question the sway of the monarchs of the earth.

Degraded mountains, taint of staleness, waters of oblivion, Jungfraus

overwhelmed, a truly depressing picture! but when one comes to examine

into the real truth of the matter, the fact remains that the mountains

are still there, and really after all in much the same condition as

they were fifty years ago. Of course one must admit that many parts

of Switzerland below the snow line and some infinitesimal bits higher

up possibly have been degraded, but not by a natural process. This

degradation is the work of the animal, Man; and it is difficult to say

why he alone of all the inhabitants of this world, wherever he sets

himself down, should always besmirch and befoul the face of Nature.

Some literary and inquiring spirit should write a monograph on the

subject.

[Illustration: _A Crevasse on Mont Blanc._]

What sight is more depressing than the gaunt, soot-begrimed trees

that struggle for a pitiful existence around our centres of so-called

civilisation? Where can a more squalid picture be either seen or

imagined than a back slum in one of our manufacturing towns where the

teeming millions are born, bred, and die? The inhabitants of a London

back street never see this earth as Nature made it, beyond perhaps

occasionally a green field. They know nothing of the great face of the

world. What do mountains, streams, pinewoods, and lakes ruffled by

the wind, mean to them? they only have seen the lower Thames and its

mud banks. Expanses of heather moorland where the birds, the breezes,

and the many summer scents wander to and fro: probably their nearest

approach to these is Hampstead heath and oranges! The nations of the

East can teach Western civilisation several things, and the people of

the Staffordshire Black Country would not lose were they to copy some

of the methods of living in Japan.

Now the worst of all this is that as the nations expand and

communication becomes easier, the several, as yet unspoilt, corners

of the world, where man has not yet 'forked out' Nature, are in grave

danger of being swept bodily into civilisation's net. Unfortunately

the majority of mankind is hopelessly lacking in imagination, they are

incapable of accommodating themselves to their environment, trying

always instead to force their surroundings to fit their own small ideas.

Brighton becomes more civilised in direct ratio as it becomes more

like London; and Switzerland--that is to say, where many unimaginative

tourists go, and nowadays they go to most places from Lucerne to the

tops of the highest mountains--is thus degraded. It becomes a herding

place during August for the nations, each brings his own special

atmosphere, his family, his newspaper, and himself. The money pours

in, the state becomes civilised, and the hotels flourish. If Zermatt

possessed first-class beer halls, a golf course, and plenty of motor

cars, a very large number of the German, English, and French tourists

would gladly amuse themselves each with his particular native pastime,

and would never bother themselves about whether Monte Rosa was covered

with ice and snow, or was merely a mud heap, or whether glaciers,

Matterhorns, Dent Blanches were or were not.

It would be foolish to deny that the interest of mankind in man must

necessarily be stronger than the mere abstract pleasure obtained from

the contemplation of wild and beautiful scenery. So it follows that

when a vast concourse gathers, such as is seen during the season at

Zermatt, mankind naturally dominates the environment, and the study of

man, not of scenery, prevails. This must be so. Take, for instance, any

of our best novelists: of course they deal with people, not things.

When Clive Newcome and J. J. (artists too, if you please) crossed the

Alps, does Thackeray give us a long account of the scenery? Certainly

not: the whole matter is disposed of at once, and in a sentence they

are whisked from Baden to Rome. On the other hand, the descriptions of

the beauties of Nature by Sir Walter Scott or by Wordsworth, who reads

them now except with an occasional yawn? Far more interesting, and

properly so too, are narratives of real, live people, their thoughts,

their hopes, their disappointments. _Soldiers Three_ appeals to every

one; but should one begin to talk about the merits of Claude and

Turner as painters of hills, and even quote some of Ruskin's very

finest passages about Alps and Archangels, your neighbour at _table

d'hôte_ will either think that you are a great bore, or, perhaps, an

extremely clever person; but will be far more interested, when the

old lady opposite begins to tell how Mr. Jones was caught that very

afternoon proposing to Miss Robinson, and how the Bishop of X. is

really coming to stop at the hotel for a few days. All this is meant

to show that by far the greater number of the hordes that invade

Switzerland every year does not in reality take any interest at all,

or at best a very feeble one, in the only really national dish that

Switzerland has to offer. They neither care for it, nor do they

understand it.

Naturally, therefore, the majority with their outside influence, with

their own objects, ends, and atmosphere, entirely swamps the small

remainder who appreciate the natural beauties of the land, and who

fifty years ago practically held undivided possession. In those days

the tourists, and they were few in the land, did not in the least mind

suffering certain minor hardships owing to the absence of hotels: it

was nothing compared with the pleasure that they obtained from the free

life and the scenery; also, should they be mountaineers and scale some

of the till then unvisited summits, on their descent into the valleys

they were looked upon with wonder by the simple village folk and the

herders of cattle of the small hamlets; these inhabitants would crowd

round, when with arm extended and finger pointing to the distant peak

of snow they described how yesterday, at such a time, they and their

friend the chamois hunter of the district were on its summit. This

sort of thing has most certainly gone, gone for ever. In this respect

the Alps are as dead as Queen Anne--they have been overwhelmed in the

waters of oblivion. The self-sufficient modern traveller now holds

undivided sway in the chief central places of the Alps; and were it

possible for him to impress his puny individuality on the great crags

and the snow-fields of the mountains, to interfere with the colours

of the sunset or the dawn, or to compel the clouds, then perhaps

we might agree with the bitter cry of Ruskin, who, speaking of the

artistic creative faculty of the present day, says that we 'live in

an age of base conceit and baser servility--an age whose intellect

is chiefly formed by pillage, and occupied in desecration; one day

mimicking, the next destroying, the works of all noble persons who made

its intellectual or art life possible to it: an age without honest

confidence enough in itself to carve a cherry-stone with an original

fancy, but with insolence enough to abolish the solar system, if it

were allowed to meddle with it.'

Fortunately they cannot meddle with the mountains and the snow-fields.

Still, as in those bygone days, man there is a mere speck. The peaks

are as high and the snows as deep. Above, the glories of the sunset

and the sunrise are the same, amidst the ice, the snow, and the black

rocks; there the taint, and the adverse influence of this invasion of

civilisation, is unfelt, although it may have overwhelmed the valleys

below. The Jungfrau and the Finsteraarhorn still are as untouched and

unspoiled, as far from vulgarisation as in the days when they were

first conquered.

It is only when we descend from the mountains, and at the huts once

more enter into contact with this other world, that the change begins

to be felt, or when we have returned to our hotel, donned our dress

clothes, and are seated before a bad imitation of a dinner, that we

finally recognise that the waters of the great modern sea of vulgarity

and mediocrity have engulfed us.

Forty years ago Switzerland, or at least the finest part of

Switzerland, belonged to the tourist or traveller, call him which you

will, who really cared for the healthy, out-of-door existence and

the scenery; and to the mountaineer, who, as a rule, appreciated both

the natural grandeur of the Alps, and at the same time the pleasure

of spending his holidays high up amidst the ice and snow. At that

time we find in the _Alpine Journal_ (a record of mountain adventure)

endless papers on the climbing and the exploration of the Alps. But

if we examine the pages of the _Alpine Journal_ of to-day, a distinct

scarcity of papers on the Alps is at once apparent. In the year 1900,

out of fourteen articles only five dealt with the Alps, for there

nowadays exploration and new climbs are almost impossible. Moreover,

records of mere mountain adventure without any description of an

ascent of some unconquered peak have become too common. Therefore

it is not remarkable that the mountaineer is driven further afield,

preferring to win laurels amidst new ranges. But still the Alps are

both broad and wide, and after all it is only along certain lines

that the great civilised mob disports itself. It is true that all the

mountains have been ascended, but surely that only destroys a minor

attraction; moreover, fortunately almost anywhere on the Italian side

of the watershed one is free from that lamentable state of affairs that

obtains at such places as Chamonix, Grindelwald, and Zermatt; and

should the mountaineer possess a tent and a sleeping-bag he can always

camp out, thus being entirely free. There are places on the south side

of Mont Blanc, in the Rutor or in the Grand Paradiso district, in the

Valpelline, and in many others, where delightful camps can be made and

where one would hardly ever see a stranger for weeks together. There

the mountaineer can live practically undisturbed in his own hunting

ground of peaks, passes, and glaciers.

Amongst the most pleasant recollections I have of the Alps are those

connected with our camps. We always had sleeping-bags, and I may say

that during all the years I spent climbing with Mummery only twice have

I slept in a hut with him.

There are few more pleasurable sensations than to be comfortable and

warm under the lee of some great boulder, watching the stars as they

slowly move westward; or to sit by a camp fire after the sun has set,

and to recall all the enjoyment of the climb just finished; a feeling

of most profound contentment with everything in the world steals over

the party; the conversation becomes more and more disjointed as first

one and then another turns over and sleeps.

When I look back and think of all the various places where Mummery,

Hastings, Slingsby, and I have slept out in the open, far away from the

haunts of men, and remember how we enjoyed ourselves, I for one would

go back year after year to the Alps if those times could be brought

back again. In those days the glass of time, when shaken, ran in golden

sands. Now all that is left of them is the memory.

It was in those days long ago, that I remember, how on one perfect

evening at the beginning of August, we camped high up by the side of

the Brenva glacier, having been well prepared for struggling with the

tremendous southern face of Mont Blanc by the delightful dinners of M.

Bertolini. The sun went down behind the Pétéret ridge--a ridge which

always seems to me to be unsurpassed in the Alps--and we hoped that

in another twenty-four hours we should be on the other side of the

great mountain. But one of the great charms of mountaineering is its

uncertainty, and instead of twenty-four it was forty-eight hours before

we arrived at the Grands-Mulets. It would be distinctly perverting the

truth to say that, at the time, we enjoyed the whole of our expedition,

but often have I during winter evenings recalled that climb. I cannot

now reproduce the unpleasant sensations, but the satisfaction and

recollection of success becomes more pleasing as lapse of years adds

enchantment to the memory of that fierce battle with Mont Blanc. I

shall never forget how, hour after hour, Mummery, following a wrong

direction of E. Rey's (who, as it turned out afterwards, had never

been up Mont Blanc by this Brenva route), persistently kept towards

the left; how at last the hard blue ice became so steep that it was

almost impossible to cut steps in it; and how the ice also had a sticky

feel when touched with the fingers, for we were in the shadow of the

mountain.

Unfortunately we were 1500 feet from the summit; and as the daylight

was only good for a few more hours, we had reluctantly to turn and

make our way down that icy staircase. At one place where Hastings had

thrown a portion of his breakfast into a small crevasse, we carefully

recovered the discarded provisions, coming at last, just before

darkness enveloped everything, to a small rock jutting out of that

almost vertical face. The Brenva glacier was thousands of feet below

us. One of the penalties of guideless climbing is that when prolonged

step-cutting has to be undertaken, no amateur can compete with a

first-class guide. Naturally, therefore, nights out on the mountains

are often the price paid. Our penance on this particular expedition

was to sit on that rock all night. The cold was intense, and it was

not till the sun had risen next day that we were capable of moving.

Once started, the blood began again to circulate, and keeping this time

more to the right, a passage was forced with very great difficulty

indeed through the almost overhanging edge of the great snow cap of

Mont Blanc. In more than one place we had to use the axes forced home

to their heads as a staircase for the first man. It was a magnificent

climb, in fact the finest I have ever had. That ice world on the south

side of Mont Blanc is on a larger scale than anything I know of outside

the Himalaya. On the afternoon of the third day out from Courmayeur

I arrived on the summit by crawling up on my hands and knees. But

although the ascent had taken so long, the descent was accomplished

much more expeditiously. In two hours we reached the Grands-Mulets.

There, being supplied with omelette after omelette, I basely refused to

roam any further; but Hastings and Mummery, unsatisfied, rushed down

the remainder of the mountain, to lose themselves in the pine woods

below in the darkness, reaching Couttet's and luxury late that night.

If I was to recount all the splendid expeditions that we were taken by

Mummery--how we sometimes failed, but much more often succeeded--this

chapter could be made into a dozen; and yet, in spite of all these

ascents, my knowledge of the Alps is extremely limited.

Curiously, however, I have found that sometimes those who most loudly

complain of the Alps being played out are quite unacquainted with, or

at least have never attempted, most of those ascents which it was my

good fortune to make with Mummery. Certainly they were mostly made in

the Mont Blanc range, a part which does not seem to commend itself

so much to mountaineers of the present day as the eastern portion of

the Alps. Yet where can be found anywhere else, in the whole range,

rock pinnacles that are finer than the Aiguille Noire de Pétéret. Few

people know that its west face is a sheer precipice of several thousand

feet. In 1899 I was camping for a couple of days with Major Bruce and

Harkabir Thapa, just opposite to it on the ridge between the Brouillard

and Fresnay glaciers. It was then I watched a slab of rock fall from

about twenty feet below the summit. It was a mass weighing perhaps

fifty or a hundred tons. For over 1000 feet it touched nothing, then

striking on a ledge it burst into a thousand fragments with a noise

like thunder, and hardly one of the fragments touched rock again, but

descended straight to the snows of the Fresnay glacier beneath.

We were investigating the south-west corner of Mont Blanc, intending

if possible to make the ascent by the continuation of the Brouillard

ridge. With this prospect in view, we ascended the Brouillard glacier

to near the top of the Aiguille l'Innominata, but went no further.

The Brouillard is a glacier that to try and descend on a hot summer

afternoon would be foolish, to say the least of it. For, set at a very

high angle, and broken up in the wildest fashion, although presenting a

magnificent spectacle, it does not lend itself to safe mountaineering.

Harkabir was much disappointed that we refused to go on, for he thought

he could see his way up the rock escarpment at the head of the glacier,

and, were that possible, probably no more difficulty would be met with

from there to the summit. But in spite of the climber of the party

being confident we could proceed, I as conductor insisted on turning

back, being only a 'mere mountaineer.' One thing at least I was certain

of: Bertolini lived at Courmayeur, not Chamonix, and forty-year old

Barolo, together with countless other delicacies, was to be obtained

from him alone. To return, however, from the excellences of the cuisine

at Bertolini's to those of the range of Mont Blanc, should the jaded

climber of 'degraded' mountains want more rock peaks, the ascent of

the lesser Dru, in my opinion, can be repeated profitably. Not even

amongst the Dolomites can one get the sensation of dizzy height and

appalling depth to the same extent as on this mountain; moreover, there

is a most sporting though small glacier to cross before one begins the

rock ascent. Then the Charmoz and the Grépon are not to be despised.

For a most varied climb, requiring every kind of mountain craft, the

traverse of the Aiguille du Plan is to be recommended, from the Glacier

des Pèlerins over the summit, down the Glacier du Plan, and back by the

Glacier du Géant. Again, without doubt, the finest snow and ice climb

in the Alps, surrounded the whole time by superb scenery, is from the

Montanvert to the hut behind the Aiguille du Midi, thence over Mont

Blanc du Tacul and the Mont Maudit to the summit of Mont Blanc, and

down to the Grands-Mulets. Of course, I know that to recommend any one

to climb Mont Blanc will certainly be regarded as a bold suggestion by

those who have noticed a taint of staleness in the great mountains. For

of all the peaks that have been overwhelmed by the waters of oblivion,

surely Mont Blanc outrivals both the Jungfraus and the Finsteraarhorns

of the happy childhood of the Alps. Personally, however, I am a staunch

adherent of the 'ancient monarch of the mountains.' But as Leslie

Stephen says, the 'coarse flattery of the guide-books has done much

to surround him with vulgarising associations.' Surely, though, Mont

Blanc is far too magnificent, far too splendid to be much affected by

such associations, and as if to shake them off every now and then,

after he has been patted on the back by those of every nationality who

swarm over his sides, he arises in his anger, hangs out his danger

signal above his summit, and sweeps his glaciers and snows clear of the

invading crowd. The Föhn wind and the angry clouds envelop him, his

snow-fields glare with a ghastly dead white colour, and whirlwinds of

clouds, snow, and gloom descend. But the storm passes, and once more he

emerges clean and glistening in all his beauty.

But at Chamonix the Föhn wind of vulgarity seems to blow perpetually,

enveloping always the great mountain in pale and dim eclipse, and

obscuring the romance, the charm, and all honest appreciation of

the old monarch. Fortunately one can easily run away, leaving this

depressing atmosphere behind, and can bask once more in the sunshine,

and camp amidst the unspoiled valleys near the snows. Why there are

not more mountaineers who take small tents to the Alps is always to

me a mystery. For long ago most of the huts have become abominations,

whilst the free life that is afforded by camp life adds a very great

charm to mountain expeditions. Having tried it so often in the

Himalaya, in Skye, in Norway, in the Canadian Rocky Mountains, and

Switzerland, perhaps I may be biassed, but even if I never again had a

chance of climbing a first-class peak in the Alps, I would return there

to live the lazy, delightful, disreputable life in a tent, near the ice

and the snows and the pine woods, to smell the camp fire, lie on my

back all day amidst the grass and the flowers, listening to the wind,

and looking at the sky and the great silent peaks. On the other hand,

the idea of spending a month at Swiss hotels, arising in the darkness

to wander forth in a bad temper, chilled to the bone, in order merely

to finish off the remaining peaks of some district, so that I might

say I had been up them all, and therefore never be bothered to return

again--rather than perpetrate such a hideous waste of time I would go

to some secluded spot on the western coast of these islands where the

waves were for ever rolling in with that long, lazy, monotonous sweep

that is only seen on the shores of the Atlantic, and there I would

lie day after day on my back on the sands watching the ever-changing

colours of the sea.

These things, however, can be done in their proper season, but until

there are restaurants all over Mont Blanc, and railways up most of

the peaks, illuminations of the Matterhorn every night by means of

electricity and coloured fires, and all the avalanches are timed to

be let loose only twice a day, namely at a morning and an afternoon

performance--until that time arrives mountaineering in the Alps will

still be worth while indulging in occasionally. Till then there will

be plenty of space for the enthusiast who likes to wander amidst the

snow-and ice-covered mountains. The ledges of rock high up, with the

grey lichen on them, will still afford a resting-place from which

the long glaciers far down below can be seen as they descend to the

green-hued woods and the hazy valleys filled with sunshine. The

overhanging cornices high above, for ever on the point of breaking off,

will still hang poised in unstable equilibrium. The storms will sweep

as frequently as of old across that mountain land, hiding for a brief

space all in gloom; the lightning flashes, the roar of the thunder, the

driving snow, and the keen biting wind will hunt the too presumptuous

climber back to lower altitudes, as they have done often before; and

afterwards the sun will again shine, dissolving the clouds, drying the

lower slopes, and showing how the old mountains have once more put on

a clean garment, which in magnificence, in glittering splendour, is as

unmatched or unequalled as the deep, glowing colour of that 'solitary

handmaid of eternity,' the open ocean, or the glories of the heavens at

dawn or at sunset. Those who have learned to understand the language of

the hills can appreciate the many-voiced calls of the mountains, and,

I am sure, are not in the least afraid that, for the present, the Alps

will be wholly ruined or degraded. For my own part, they will always

possess an attraction which I care neither to analyse nor to destroy.

I shall go back there just as the swallow at the end of summer goes

south; and if by an unfortunate combination of circumstances anything

should happen to prevent me ever returning from that world of snow,

my ghost, could it walk, would then at any rate be surrounded by

nothing common nor unclean, which might perhaps not be so should it be

compelled to wander amongst the tombstones of a London cemetery.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Vol. iv. p. 185.

THE LOFOTEN ISLANDS

'Near the outer lands of the silent mist,

The waves moan wearilie;

Yet hidden there lie the Isles of the Blest,

The lonely Isles of the Sea.'

_Olav's Quest._

Many years ago I remember the first time I read that marvellous

description of the Maelström by Edgar Allan Poe, where he tells how

a fisherman from the Lofoten Islands, driven by a hurricane, was

caught in the Maelström's grip, and descended 'into the mouth of that

terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it,

was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, speeding dizzily

round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending

forth to the winds an appalling voice--half-shriek, half-roar--such as

not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to

Heaven'; and I remember how I used to picture to myself precipitous,

polished cliffs of terrific height and grandeur encircling a writhing

pool of dusky waters; above, the rocks glowing red and golden in the

light of a stormy sunset; below, stray flakes of foam ever and again

flashing back the fiery glories of the angry sky, as they glided with

a stealthy, increasing haste for ever nearer and nearer and yet nearer

to the awful abyss of the devouring whirlpool. This, like so many tales

of one's youth, although told by that consummate artist Poe, must be

relegated to the realms of fiction.

But his description of one of the Lofoten Islands--of the 'sheer,

unobstructed precipices of black, shining rock,' against which the

ocean surf howled and shrieked, and of the endless array of gloomy

mountains, 'outstretched like ramparts of the world, hideously

craggy and barren'--is far nearer the truth; for in it is much that

is characteristic of the outer islands. But after all he has only

portrayed the Lofoten Islands when enveloped in storm. Of course,

when the south-west gales sweep on to the rock-bound coast of Röst

and Moskenesö, even Poe himself could hardly do justice to the scene,

for the battle between the great waves coming in from the open ocean

and the tremendous tides that surge past the outer islands must be

magnificent. Truly the picture would have to be of

'An iron coast and angry waves,

You seemed to hear them rise and fall

And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,

Beneath the windy wall.'

[Illustration: Lofoten.]

But these mere rude phases of Nature's moods do not for ever encircle

Lofoten in flying surf and with winds that shriek and howl. In the

summer months, at least, the sun shines, and often one may look in

vain over the untroubled water, rippled by the warm west wind, for

the dreaded Maelström, whose thunderous voice and angry whirlpool

for the moment is stilled; whilst in its stead a gentle murmur rises

from the clear water which possesses just sufficient motion for the

waves to lazily rise and fall against the bare rocky shore, and yet

is calm enough for the reflection of the white clouds and craggy

hill-sides to repose sleepily on its surface. From their geographical

position these islands should have a very different climate from that

which they possess; and perhaps it may be due partly to this cause

that the mountains are so craggy and barren. For the rainfall during

several months is excessive, and is quite capable of washing away any

superincumbent earth from the sides of the numerous needle-shaped peaks

that are to be found on most of the Lofoten Islands; moreover, in the

valleys the whole country has been worn down to the bone in prehistoric

times by enormous glaciers, and to-day the abnormal summer rainfall

and the frosts of the long Arctic nights are continuing the work of

denudation.

Although the Lofoten Islands are south of the North Cape, yet one does

not at once appreciate how far north they lie. From London they are

more than twelve hundred miles; and they are one hundred miles nearer

the North Pole than the northernmost part of Iceland. Moreover, most of

Siberia, Bering Straits, and Klondike are all further south than the

Lofoten Islands.

If it were not for that warm current which, starting from the Gulf of

Mexico, after thousands of miles sweeps past this northern coast of

Norway, these islands would during the whole year be covered with ice

and snow, and be surrounded by a frozen ocean.

The influence of the Gulf Stream on the temperature of the northern

coast of Norway is well illustrated by the fact that every winter the

sea round the Lofoten Islands, and even further north at Hammerfest and

the North Cape, is always open; yet in Southern Norway, six hundred

miles to the southward, the Kristiania Fjord, which the Gulf Stream

does not touch, is during the winter months covered with ice. The exact

reverse in climate is experienced in Newfoundland, the shores of which

are washed by the Labrador current, coming from the frozen north out

of Baffin Bay. In the straits of Belle Isle, which are in the same

latitude as London, and which separate Newfoundland from Labrador,

may be seen snow-drifts on the seashore even in July, whilst the bare

uplands behind are covered with far-stretching fields of snow.

The icebergs, too, which drift south on this Labrador current, are

sometimes found in such low latitudes that if on the map the latitude

were followed due east it would be found to pass through Cairo, and

not many miles north of Lahore in India. The approach to the Lofoten

Islands from the south after one has passed the Arctic Circle is

particularly grand and beautiful. The mountains, owing to excessive

prehistoric glaciation, possess forms at once curious and peculiar,

giving an individuality to the view which is lacking further south on

the Norwegian coast. Lofoten, however, is not seen till the great West

Fjord is reached; then far away across thirty miles of blue waters,

which slowly pulsate with the long waves of the open sea, appears a

wonderful land of sharp-pointed peaks that with a deep sapphire colour

outshines the deeper purple of the restless sea.

The west coast of Scotland can give similar views. Rum, Skye, and

the Hebrides, as seen from the mainland at Arisaig or Loch Maree, in

some respects resemble these islands, but the Lofoten mountains are

far wilder and far more fantastic in shape, and the number of peaks

infinitely greater than in the western islands of Scotland.

Ages ago the West Fjord must have held an enormous glacier, although it

is improbable that the great ice-sheet which then covered the country

ever was thick enough to submerge the loftier summits of the Lofoten

Islands, the highest of which now stand 4000 feet above sea-level; yet

this ice-sheet must have been thousands of feet thick, for from any

mountain-top it is easy to see how whole masses of solid rock appear to

have been cut away, leaving valleys whose cross-section is a perfect

half-circle. To those who are sceptical of what ice will do, a visit to

the mainland opposite the Lofoten Islands would prove very instructive.

Even the most gigantic of Himalayan glaciers are feeble in comparison

with an Arctic ice-sheet such as that on Greenland or on the Antarctic

continent. On Nanga Parbat I have seen a vast glacier turned to one

side by its own moraine. Near Elvegaard on the Ofoten Fjord there

exist valleys whose sides for miles are perpendicular walls of rock

sometimes a couple of thousand feet high, and which undoubtedly have

been excavated and then polished by the power of the ice.

For many years I had been anxious to see the Lofoten Islands, for I had

heard rumours that they were more beautiful than Skye and the Coolin.

But it was not till 1901 that I was able to go there. It was in good

company that I went; Woolley, Hastings, and Priestman, all of whom had

been there before in 1897, were the other members of the party. They

were able to advise where to go, how to best overcome the difficulties

of provisioning our camp, and, what was still better, were all able to

speak Norsk fluently.