THE CANADIAN ROCKIES AND THE SELKIRKS.
[Illustration: Howe Pass.]
Since our arrival at Calgary we have been manœuvring to see by what
means we could escape the start at 2 o'clock in the morning. As the
C.P.R. has only one train westward each day, you must continue your
journey at the same time as you previously arrived. Now we have
received permission to travel by a freight train, and Mr. Niblock, the
Superintendent of the division, has kindly lent us his private car.
The freight train was due between six and seven o'clock, and it was
somewhat annoying, as we had risen at 5 o'clock, to have to wait about
the platform at the station until nine. Early as it was, the town was
astir with sportsmen in their buggies with their guns and dogs, off for
a day's shooting on the prairie. For this bright morning is the 1st of
September, _their 12th of August_, and there will be massacre amongst
the prairie chickens ere nightfall. The shooting is open to all, and
you may roam over anybody's land.
We can see the "Rockies" for the first time this morning. Since we
have been at Calgary the mountains have sulked in clouds and mist, and
Calgary does not, as some people would have you believe, lie _under_
the Rockies, but fifty miles away. In the clear morning air, they
appear nearer to us than they really are.
We are soon well into the foot-hills, those grassy rounded slopes,
which are the first rising ground from off the prairie, and which lead
up to and end in the Rocky Mountains. The blue Bow river flows merrily
in the valley; there are hundreds of horses and cattle feeding on these
river terraces, for there are ranches lying up to and under the foot of
the Rockies.
The great amphitheatre of mountains, which has been coming nearer by
leaps and bounds, is beginning to impress us with its barren purple
scars, and just as we are entering among them our guard stops the
train, and takes us out to see the Kananaskis Falls in the Bow river.
We hear their dull and distant thunder before we see the clear mountain
torrent, sliding down over ledges of rock, forming a long white-flecked
rapid, before taking a final leap over a precipice. The conductor then
invites us to climb up into the caboose, and scrambling up, we are
perched inside the turret of the van, where there are windows that
command the view on all sides. We share this elevated position with the
brakesman, who is ready to run along the platform on the top of the
waggons, and turn on the brakes, for each waggon has a separate one,
connected with a wheel at the top. We subsequently discussed whether to
give this amiable conductor a tip, but came to the conclusion that it
was superfluous, on learning from the car attendant that his salary,
calculated at three cents a mile, gave him an income of 500_l._ a year.
We are now breaking through the outer barrier of the Rockies, and
penetrating deeper into the mountains by a valley. The railway is
challenging the monarchs, for they rise up on every side and could so
easily crush us, as we wander through the green valley by the side
of the Bow river, our travelling comrade for many days to come. Its
waters are pale emerald green now, but later on will be milk-blue with
the melting snow and ground-up moraine, brought down by its mountain
tributaries.
[Illustration: Kananaskis Falls.]
We shoot "the gap," described as "two vertical walls of dizzy height."
It would be truer to say that the line turns sharply round a projection
of rock, whilst a mountain approaches from the other side. It is a
fraud! At Canmore we rest an hour. As we get out of the cars, the
intense stillness of the valley strikes us. We look up to, and are
covered by the shadows of the three well-defined slanting peaks of the
Three Sisters and the Wind mountain. When we start again the mountains
continue to increase in grandeur, though I think that Baroness
Macdonald's rhapsodies quoted in the Annotated Time Table, exaggerate
the beauty of this part of the Rockies. It is curious to notice the
remarkable difference between the two ranges we are passing through.
Those to the left are fantastically broken into varied shapes and forms
penetrated by crevasses, full of deep blue and purple-red shadows.
Whilst the range to the right is formed of grey and white hoary-headed
peaks, and look brilliantly cold and white, in the strong sunlight.
[Illustration: Cascade Mountain.]
We approach the Cascade Mountain. "This enormous mass seems to advance
towards us and meet us." It entirely blocks our further progress, and
the train seems to be going to travel up it. We appear to touch it, but
in reality it is many miles away. This Cascade Mountain gives you more
idea than anything else of the colossal proportion of the mountains,
which you lose by proximity, and by their uniformly large scale. It
also shows you the deception caused by the clearness of the atmosphere.
For the silver cascade which we see falling down its side is ten feet
across, and yet it looks like a thread of cotton. The mountain we could
well-nigh touch is five miles or more away. It is a striking sensation.
[Illustration: Cascade Mountain, Banff.]
Another half-hour and we reach Banff. As a whole, I think this part of
the scenery disappointing, but people talk so much about it, because it
is their first experience of the mountains, coming as it does too after
a thousand miles of prairie.
We are hot and tired after our journey, and have long to wait for "the
rig," which is repeatedly telephoned for. When it does appear it is
drawn by a vicious roan, fresh from a ranche, which shies and bolts in
a terrifying way. There are two miles of a badish road, which we do not
see for the clouds of dust that accompany us. This dust is the drawback
to Banff. The mountains have not come up to our expectations. Will it
be so also with Banff? To-morrow will show.
_Wednesday, September 2nd._--A day to be remembered. A day of complete
satisfaction.
Cradled in the stillness of the mountains, closed in by them in
solemnity and darkness, the babble of the Bow River joining its waters
with the Spray, we fell asleep. This morning, the sun of a most perfect
day awakes us, and the sound of the rushing waters is the first to
greet our ears. My windows form two sides of the room, and I dress with
the sun streaming in at the one and the breeze at the other, and a
panorama of mountains seen from them both. The air is exhilarating to
intoxication; the atmosphere intensely clear. We do nothing all day, we
live in the companionship of the mountains.
We have been with them in the early morning, when the pale-rose tints,
the opalescent blue, the delicate pearl-grey, lay lightly on their
rugged summits, and made them seem so near and tender. We have seen
them in the heat of noon, looking strong and hard, with black shadows
in the crevasses and their great stony veins and muscles standing out
in relief in the sunshine. They seem full of manhood, defiant, and
self-sufficient. We have watched these same mountains in the glamour of
declining days, soften again as the shadows steal up the pine woods,
leaving patches of sunlight. One side of the valley is in gloom, whilst
the other is bathed in golden light. Their grey peaks stand out as if
cut with a sharp-edged knife against the even paleness of the sky. A
few fir trees at their summit look like green needle-points, and the
trail of pines climbing up the mountain, like soldiers marching in
single file trying to scale the fortress heights.
[Illustration: BIRDS EYE VIEW OF BANFF FROM TUNNEL MTN.]
In the centre of the valley, there are two great mountains, and as
I write they are becoming wrapped in purple-blue gloom, with sable
shadows in their granite sides, and whilst the valley is in darkness,
the peaks are still bright with the last gleams of fading daylight.
Behind this mountain again, there are three acute peaks, which stand
from behind its dark shoulder, and they are rosy-red with an Alpine
after-glow.
As we sit out after dinner in the gloaming, the mountains are still
dimly visible. They have lost their individuality, and their soft full
outlines are limned against the luminous sky. Stars rise from behind
them; there is one of intense brightness, and several shooting ones
make a bright pathway across the mountains.
There are mountains of every description at Banff. It is this variety
that gives such charm to the place. Some are entirely clothed with
pines, others partly so, with barren summits. Others again are nothing
but rock and granite from base to summit, from earth _almost_ to
heaven, and down their sides there are marked deep slides, where the
rock and limestone has crumbled into an avalanche of stone and dust.
The changes on their unchanging surfaces are the most beautiful.
Like human nature, hard on the surface, they have hidden soft and
susceptible moods. The pine-clad mountains are sunnier and more
pleasing, but it is those of adamantine rock that fascinate you.
They say that no view is perfect without water. The Bow River here
gives the poetry of motion, and makes music to echo against the hills.
It has the most perfect miniature falls I ever saw. They are pretty,
yet not tame; they are noisy, yet not thundering; they murmur and
quarrel without producing soul-agonizing sounds. They charm, but do not
exercise the dangerous fascination of Niagara. Their water is creamy
blue in the sunlight, and cerulean in the shadow of the ravine, down
which in bars and trails of foam it rushes, until it throws itself over
the fall, in a snow-white cloud, flecking the rocks on the banks with
froth.
[Illustration: BOW VALLEY.]
All the mountains have names--such as the Twin Brothers, the Sentinel,
the Devil's head; but these names are meaningless. You know and grow
to love each by its own individual characteristic. The hotel in their
midst scarcely mars the scene, for it is a picturesque structure
perched on a natural platform, built of yellow wood, and with a roof of
warm red shingles, and green trellises to cover the foundations. Its
situation is so perfect that you scarcely improve your view, or want
to drive about the valleys. You may, perhaps, come a little nearer to
the mountains, or see their reverse sides. There is one, however, the
Twin Brethren, which gains by coming near to it, because you can stand
absolutely under a mammoth rampart of granite, shot straight into mid
air, horizontally upward. It strikes fear into you as you gaze up to
it, and as with these mountains comparison is the only thing which
gives you even the remotest idea of their superb size, a great rock,
as big as a small hill in itself, broke off some years ago and lies on
the ground, amid smaller stones, as we ought to call them, but which
are really large rocks. We can trace the exact place where it cracked
away from the symmetry of rock, leaving an unseemly cavity and a long
moraine of _débris_. The air is so dry that everything is like tinder.
Forest fires are frequent, and we mark their track up the mountain
sides and see the smoke of one or two. A few mutilated trees are all
that are left of the magnificent primeval forest, and the pines we see
are a second and third growth.
[Illustration: BANFF SPRINGS HOTEL, CANADIAN NATIONAL PARK.]
Though the mountains stand around so silent and stately, there is a
great unrest beneath them. A volcano burns below, which may break forth
at any time, for Banff has several hot mineral pools and springs, sure
indication that the earth here is only an upper crust, with hell-fire
beneath.
The temperature of these springs is 127 degrees Fahrenheit, and there
are baths for the outer man, and taps of water for the inner.
[Illustration: The Pool. Hot Springs, Banff.]
_Thursday, September 3rd._--A day of blankest disappointment. A cruel
change from yesterday. From early morning the mountains have been
blurred and blotted out by an impenetrable haze of smoke. The sun,
though ready to give us all it did yesterday, has not shone, and has
been only a fiery ball suspended in the air. It is caused by a forest
fire raging destruction, it may be, many miles from here, but the
smoke, from the smouldering, spreads and hangs like a curtain, lasting
often for many days. We canoed up the Bow River to the pretty Vermilion
Lakes.
_Friday, September 4th._--I could not resist a peep out of my window
at four o'clock. The outlook was more promising I thought, and went
back to bed cheered. We left the hotel at six. Cold despair settled on
us all, for the mountains loomed gloomily through a colourless haze.
Exceedingly cold and depressed, we huddled into the sheltered corner
of the Observation Car, a car for the view, open on all sides. I had
heard so much of the magnificent scenery that I had looked forward
keenly to this crossing of the Rockies, and it seemed I was to be
disappointed. After all, it is only like the disappointments you meet
with in life, as, nine times out of ten, the thing most wished for, is
a disillusionment when it comes.
Range after range of mountains is unfolding before us. They approach:
we pass immediately under them, and they recede, only to give place
to others as grand and massive. All are of solid rock, colossal
masonry piled up to magnificent proportions, their zeniths crowned
with pinnacles and spires, with square and round and pointed towers.
In one place you distinctly see the steps leading up to a broken
column. The most impressive one is Castle Mountain, though the
isolated helmet-shaped peak of Lefroy, 11,200 feet, is the loftiest.
This mountain stands in solitary majesty by itself in the valley.
There is no ascending or descending range near it. You can see the
battlements, with their loop-holes regularly jagged out at the summit
of the bastions, and a tower at either end. They are faintly yet
clearly discernible. It is truly a Giant's Keep, and I think the finest
mountain in the range, though they are all so sublime and grand in this
wonderful valley that it is scarcely fair to discriminate. Running
concurrently with the track is our dear old friend, the Bow. We have
lived continuously with it for three days, and feel quite friendly
towards it.
Soon we see the beginning of the glacier range, and feel the awe
inspired by those eternal ice-bound regions where winter reigns for
ever, and none can live, and where even nature cannot vegetate. The
glaciers lie frozen on to their surface, finding foothold in a crevasse
or basin, hollowed out probably by their own action. Under one of these
glaciers lie the Trinity of Lakes, called the Lonely Lakes of the
Rocky Mountains, one beneath the other, with Lake Agnes touched by the
glacier. At Laggan we have a heavier engine attached, and extra bolts
and brakes screwed on.
We begin the ascent of the Rockies; the crossing of the Great Divide.
It is gradual and not nearly such a dramatic incident as the crossing
of the Great Divide of the Americans. In fact, the gradients are so
gently engineered that, though the engine makes a great noise about
it, you scarcely believe you have reached the top, and are looking for
something more exciting when you see the wooden arch at the summit,
on which is inscribed "The Great Divide." In this case it alludes
mockingly to the tiny stream which here divides and flows towards the
Atlantic on one side, and the Pacific on the other. There is here a
deep green lake, called Summit Lake.
We begin the descent by a succession of perfectly equal curves that
incline first to the right and then to the left, bearing us downwards
all the time. And now comes what is by far the most memorable scene in
the Rockies. It is deeply impressive, and is only too swiftly passed.
It is called the Kicking Horse Pass. We must turn for a moment from
the sublime to the ridiculous for the origin of this name. When the
party of surveyors reached the summit of the pass a white pony kicked
off its pack. This gave it the name, which will now always cling to
it. We cross the Wapta river on to its left side, and plunge wildly,
recklessly, into a deep gorge. Deeper and deeper we rush down into the
canyon, darker and more impressive the situation becomes as we cling
to the mountain side, whilst the river tears down yet deeper than us,
until it appears a caldron of foaming silver in the gloom at the bottom
of the gorge. And, look, up on one side is a perpendicular mountain
of which, so far down are we, we cannot see the summit; on the other,
there are those supremely graceful spires of Cathedral Mount, pointing
with silent finger to the sky. If you look down into that immensity
of depth, and then up as far as the eye can reach, this is what you
see. First, the silver river gleaming in its black channel; on a level
and opposite to you a bank of bright green moss and ferns and tangled
growth; then tiers and tiers of pine trees wending skywards, until
they reach the base of the rock, whence spring those airy towers.
The great Duomo head of Mount Stephen beyond forms a superb dome to
these sentinel spires that are so light and gracefully poised in such
close proximity to heaven. Straight, in front, and shutting in this
marvellous gorge, is the angular peak of Mount Field. Just past the
summit there are a number of graves of men who died of mountain fever,
which broke out whilst they were making the line.
[Illustration: MOUNT STEPHEN, THE KING OF THE CANADIAN ROCKIES.]
Mount Stephen, called after the first President of the Railway, Lord
Mount-Stephen, absorbs our attention next. It is certainly the most
superb mountain of the Rockies. On its "swelling shoulder" is seen
a shining green glacier, "which is slowly pressing forward and over
a vertical cliff of great height." The cyclopean masses of rock are
richly veined in red and purple. As the train humbly creeps round the
base, the summit is entirely lost to us. Opposite are the swelling
mountains of the Van Horne range; they touch the muddy, shingly bed of
a river.
We breakfast at the pretty hotel at Field, and feel disgusted that
the claims of nature must be satisfied, whilst Mount Stephen in its
glorious might and strength, and its limitless surface of adamantine
rock, raises its hoary zenith immediately above us. We made the
greatest mistake in not staying a day here, and, by ascending a
neighbouring mountain, being still more impressed with its colossal
proportions.
On leaving Field, we travel between the "orderly array of peaks of the
two ranges of Otter-Tail and the Beaver Foots."
At Palliser, the driver allows us to ride on the engine through the
Second Kicking Horse Pass. It runs madly down into growing darkness,
closer and higher the mountains draw. The boiling river disputes the
narrow chasm with us, and it is a hand-to-hand struggle in which the
line has frequently to give up to the river, and to cross over from
side to side to gain a footing. The engine tears wildly down hill,
reeling round the sharp curves at an angle of 20°, with the train
doubling itself. You cannot hear yourself speak for the noise of the
foaming river and the panting of the engine. As we plunge into the
dread darkness of a tunnel, the engine whistles, and the echo is dying,
dying, dead, to us--as we are lost in blackness. It is wonderful to
see the driver control this huge, puffing, black monster by a gentle
pressure on two valve handles, which it resents with an indignant
snort. We emerge into light and space again at Golden. We come suddenly
back to a commonplace life, as represented by this wooden mining
village. It is farewell to the Rockies.
I think most people have an idea that the engineering feats of the
Pacific Railway were performed in the crossing of the Rockies. They
do not realize, any more than we did, that we have another and far
more difficult range to surmount, before reaching the Pacific coast.
The Selkirk range is more beautiful and grander. It has more snow and
glacier peaks than the Rockies.
We are in a green valley, with the Selkirks dimly seen to the left,
whilst the Rockies are diminishing to a low range to the right, and we
have found a new river in the broad Columbia. We are reminded that we
have crossed the Great Dividing Watershed, for this river is running
the opposite way down to the ocean.
It is but a short breathing space, for almost at once the mountains
close together, and we are in another of those lovely gorges, each one
of which, would make famous any railway. Through a perfectly formed
natural gateway of rock, so narrow that it can be crossed by a slender
sapling, the tempestuous waters of the Beaver River hurry to join the
Columbia. This is a smiling little valley, full of blue-green pines,
mingling with the tender greens of young poplars, and the yellow moss
and lichens covering the rocks. From this valley we pass into the heart
of the Selkirks.
We have become accustomed to the line climbing up the mountain side,
and we can tell how rapidly we are now doing this by the dwindling of
the Beaver River, by whose side we were a minute ago, and which is now
far away down in the valley. Its pale green waters trace out the most
perfect curves of the letter S, and flow in a park with pine woods. And
it is all so far away--down, down--and would be such a terrific fall.
Immediately opposite to us are the mountains, and we are equal to about
half way up them, and through the haze they appear to us so very near,
and so very large. The panorama is magnificent; the detailed picture
is impressive, when, from gazing down boundless depths, the eye is
lifted through miles of pine forests, up to grey crags, too high for
vegetation.
Growing by the side of the line there are gigantic pines, Douglas fir
and cedar. They are so straight, without curve, or be knot, that one
cannot help thinking what splendid masts they would make for some big
ship. Many of their tops are on a level with us, whilst, by peering
down, we can with difficulty see their roots. But like all these
Canadian forests, the finest trees are dismembered or mutilated by
burning, and their graceful, fringe-like foliage is often brown and
singed.
The railway is now going to cross several deep gullies on wooden
trestle-bridges. These bridges appear frail and weak for the purpose,
the valleys being deep, and the trains so heavy. They creak and groan
ominously as the train passes on them. Water-butts and a watcher
are stationed on them, in case of fire from a spark of the engine.
The Stony Creek Bridge, over a sleep V-shaped valley, is one of the
loftiest railway bridges in the world; hundreds of square yards of
timber were used in its construction, and it rests on three piers, 295
feet above the ravine. We have enchanting peeps up these bright green
gullies, with their noisy rills jumping and scrambling down anyhow, so
long as they reach the bottom of the valley, and we rush to one side of
the car to be pleased by this, and then to the other, to be frightened
by gazing into space.
Roger's Pass, the culminating beauty of the Selkirks--named after the
engineer--is approaching. There are two mountains, Mount Macdonald
and Mount Hermit, but they are so mighty, that if you have not seen
them you have no chance of picturing them to yourself. To give you
some idea of their colossal proportions, Mount Macdonald is one mile
and a quarter in a vertical line above the railway. The bottom is
a stone's throw from the car. Mount Hermit is equal in size on the
other side. These mountains were united, but some great convulsion of
nature has split them apart. This is a moment in your existence, and
you would give much to prolong it; the scene is indescribable. The
other mountains of this pass are covered with snow, and seven or eight
thousand feet above us are many glistening glaciers, pure as crystal.
It is sad that this part of the line is spoilt by the snow-sheds,
constructed of massive timber, and into which we are shot and blinded
with smoke and coal grit, emerging frequently to get glimpses of these
wonderful mountains, with their pale-blue and green glaciers hanging
above us,--glimpses which are imprinted on the memory for long, as we
shoot into another of these exasperating snow-sheds. It is ungrateful
to grumble at them, for the difficulties of this part of the line, with
snow in winter, are enormous, and we must always bear in mind that were
it not for the enterprise of the Company we should not at this moment
be sitting comfortably in a car, passing through the finest scenery in
the world. There may be grander, but it has yet to be discovered.
Emerging from Roger's Pass, by a deep bend on the mountain side, we
have a sudden transition into the fir-clad valley of the Illicilliwaet,
the river of this name far below, and for many miles seeking the bottom
of the valley, the railway doing likewise. Straight ahead the white
ghost of the great glacier of the Selkirks.
We left the train here, and stayed at the pretty Swiss chalet of the
Glacier house. It lies half-way up the valley and under the glacier,
with the hoary peak of Sir Donald frowning down on it.
The afternoon had cleared up, there was even a gleam of sunshine,
and the first thing to do was to walk up to the Glacier, through a
beautiful pine forest, whose interlacing branches are covered with
hanging trails of white moss, resembling an old man's beard. The ground
is soft, and covered with a bright-brown saw-dust from the decaying
trunks that lie around. We cross the path of a mighty avalanche, which,
sweeping down from a mountain below Sir Donald, hurled itself across
the valley, huge rocks, trunks of trees and _débris_ being piled across
the pathway. The green moraine on the mountain shows how soon nature
recoups herself. There are wild gooseberry and currant bushes, and we
eat plentifully of wild raspberries and blueberries.
As you stand under the Glacier, you see that it has filled in the side
between two mountains, and the white rounded outline at the summit is
exquisitely pure. It is where it joins the crumbling moraine that it
is most beautiful, because here there are caves of intense blue, of
pale green, and of that indescribable opaque aquamarine, only seen in
perfection in the horseshoe bend at Niagara. From these ice caverns,
from under the glacier, torrents of water are always pouring forth.
It is the echo from the mountains, that makes such a little volume of
water cause such a roaring, rushing sound. Looking down in proud cold
sadness on the glacier, is the blue-grey peak of Sir Donald. It is such
a cold, unsympathetic peak, rearing its barren head so proudly above
its compatriots. Facing homewards, there is that other snow-capped
range, with Ross peak and an immense glacier on its shoulder. They are
fields of ice and snow untrodden by the foot of man, and covered with
eternal snows. As you look round this perfect valley, you are so shut
out from the world, that you wonder how you ever entered it. The two
iron bands at the platform by the hotel form the only link beyond those
impassable walls.
A gentle gloom settles down over the valley. We stroll about after
dinner, amidst the deathlike stillness of the mountains, broken only by
the murmuring from out the darkness of the ice stream. Looming closely
above us, overhanging as if it would slide down, is the dead and white
ghost of the glacier. We sleep under its shadow.
[Illustration: GREAT GLACIER, CANADIAN ROCKIES.]
The glorious morning sunshine is touching Sir Donald and the snow
peaks, whilst the valley we are in lies so deep down, that it is still
in shadow. The pleasure of awakening in such glorious surroundings
makes us feel the pleasure of living.
We spend the morning in climbing a mountain to Mirror Lake, winding up
and up in the shade Of the red-stemmed cedars, and at each precipitous
curve, the snow-sheets on the line dwindle, and we seem to get more on
a level with the surrounding mountains. The Ross Peak and Range look
specially beautiful to-day. The crevasses are so strongly marked with
blue shadows, the peaks are such a soft silver grey, and in the very
bosom of Mount Ross is the virgin snow of a pure glacier, fit house
for the Ice Maiden. I have never any wish to explore mountains such
as these. There is a feeling that we desecrate them by trying to come
nearer to them, and that nature never meant us to know them, except
from below, and then only with admiration akin to awe. I like to feel
that their summits are untrodden by human foot, that they have been so
for ages, and will continue so until the end of time.
On descending, we were glad to find we had two more hours at Glacier,
the west-bound train being late.
[Illustration: The Loops.]
Directly the train leaves Glacier it begins to drop down into the
valley below, by leaps and bounds, so quickly do we run from side
to side of the valley by "the Loops." These Loops describe circles
across the valley, and first we face and touch the base of the Ross
Peak, then return, by doubling back a mile or more, until we lie under
the Glacier House. We describe yet one more loop, and then the train
shoots head-foremost into the valley. Looking back and marvelling how
the train can possibly mount up this deep pine-filled ravine, you
see the great gashes cut across it by the railway embankment. We are
rushing downwards at great speed, but not at greater speed than the
Illicilliwaet River, which races us. It foams and gushes as we steam
and whistle, and so we go down the gorge together, until we are deep in
the gloom of its cold shades. We thunder through snow-sheds and over
delicate trestle-bridges until we are buried in the Albert Canyon. Here
we get out to see the Illicilliwaet compressed into a rocky defile
of inky depth and blackness. It foams with anger. We pass other and
similar canyons, and so on for another hour, with ever varying and
beautiful scenery.
Then a change creeps over the mountains, they are all round on their
summits and mostly covered entirely with dense fir forests. There are
no more rock and ice-bound peaks. They are opening out a little. Now,
as we get lower down, we begin to see some specimens of those splendid
fir trees, for which British Columbia is famous. Again, these dreadful
forest fires have ravaged them. The river and railway have descended
the valley together, and continue side by side on the plain, until at
length the last curve is rounded, and we run into Revelstoke. As we
walk on the platform we feel such a difference in the temperature. The
Pacific air is so soft and warm after the keen dryness of the mountain
atmosphere. We meet the Columbia River again after a day's absence. It
has been flowing round the northern extremity of the Selkirks, whilst
we have been crossing their summit, and has grown into a navigable
river. The observation car is taken off, sure sign that the crossing of
the Selkirks is a thing of the past.
Before finishing with this part of our travels, I should recommend
anyone to profit by our experience, and to stay one day at Field, and
to allow of sufficient time for two days at Glacier, as I think anyone
would consider it quite worth while to take a freight train back to
Golden, returning a second time over the Selkirks by the next day's
train. There is a great want (which is, I believe, in process of being
supplied) of a detailed guidebook, and by next year doubtless the
increased traffic will warrant an additional train a day.
We think that we have seen the last of the mountains, but a few minutes
after leaving Revelstoke, and crossing the Columbia, we are entering
the Gold Range.
It is getting dusk, we are satiated with mountains, and I am as weary
of writing about them as you, forbearing reader, of reading these
descriptions. Night comes to relieve us both. One is glad, however, to
think that this Gold Range "seems to have been provided by nature for
the railway, in compensation perhaps for the enormous difficulties that
had to be overcome in the Rockies and Selkirks." At Craigellachie the
last spike of the Canadian Pacific Line was driven on November 7th,
1885. With what rejoicings and triumph the surveyors and engineers must
have seen the finish of their long and desperate struggle. We pass
through a forest fire this night, and see isolated trunks smouldering
like fiery cones, whilst others in falling send out a shower of sparks,
that kindle fresh flames in many places.
[Illustration: Frazer Cañon above Spuzzum.]
We awake the next morning in the Fraser Canyon, and are going through
magnificent scenery for many hours. We hang over the side of the
canyon, and look down on the waters swirling and rushing at our feet,
whilst over and over again the rocks seem to bar our progress, and we
either rush into a tunnel, or creep round them on ledges of rock with
the help of trestle-bridges. Breakfast at North Bend, like everything
that the C.P.R. does, is excellent, for when they are not able to run a
dining car over the mountains, they provide excellent meals at hotels,
such as this, and those at Field and Glacier, all of which are run by
the company.
[Illustration: Frazer Cañon.]
[Illustration: Frazer Cañon.]
We fly over the fertile plains of Columbia, and run on to Burrard's
Inlet by Port Moody. This is the beginning of the sea,--so soon to
be our home for some time. We see much lumber lying about the low
wooded banks opposite, and floating by the shore. We turn a corner,
run quickly by the railway workshops, and amidst clouds of dust reach
Vancouver. It is a great comfort to wash, unpack, and to settle down
for two quiet days.
"And what do you think of our city?" is the question addressed to
all newcomers by the residents of Vancouver. This question is the
invariable opening to a conversation, we have noticed, by the residents
of all new cities. In this case it is very pardonable, as five years
ago the site of Vancouver was a smoking plain. A fire had swept away
the newly-risen city. As soon as it was known that the C.P.R. intended
Vancouver to be the terminus to their 3000 miles of railway, building
recommenced with renewed vigour. Like everyone else, we are astonished
by the number of streets and handsome stone buildings. The vacant
building sites that we see amongst them, are the object of much booming
and land speculation. Cordova is now the principal street, but, as
it is low down on the wharf, at no distant date it will probably be
abandoned to offices and wholesale warehouses, whilst Hastings Street,
on the block higher up, will be the fashionable avenue. Real Estate
offices abound in Vancouver, and everyone appears to dabble more or
less in land speculation. Newcomers are always bitten, and up to the
moment of sailing we hesitated (but finally rejected) about becoming
possessors of a corner block in Cordova Street. There have been many
successful speculations and large sums made in an incredibly short
space of time. Ten per cent. is what everybody expects on their
investments. Opinions are still divided as to whether Vancouver really
has so great a future before it. Some say it is already over-built.
The harbour of Vancouver is thought sufficiently beautiful to be
compared to that of Sydney. It is a perfect site for a city, with the
wooded ranges of mountains rising on the further shore of the harbour,
though it was not until sunset of the second day of our arrival, that
the clouds rolled away sufficiently for us to see them. The two peaks,
called the Lions, are wonderfully faithful outlines of the lions in
Trafalgar Square. The Indian Mission village lying under the mountains,
looks clean and bright.
Vancouver has a beautiful park. We drove eight miles round one
afternoon and were delighted with it. It is the virgin forest preserved
in its natural forest glades, with magnificent Douglas firs, spruce,
white pine, cypress, aspen poplar, mountain ash, and giant cedar,
whilst bracken ferns and moss grow luxuriantly on the decaying trunks.
The road is traced by the side of the sea and English Bay, and the
smell of the salt water mingles with the fragrance of the pines and
cedars. Some of these pines are colossal in girth and height, though
not equal to the big trees of the Yosemite. The cedars are great in
circumference, but not of such height, and the finest specimens are
sadly mutilated by lightning.
The seeds of eternal enmity were sown between Vancouver and Victoria
when the former became the port of the railway. This animosity is
carried to great extremes. A Victoria man will not ensure his life
in a Vancouver office. Sarah Bernhardt is coming here next week, but
because she refused the Victorians' offer of $1000 more, Victoria
has determined to boycott the performance at Vancouver, and make it
a failure. Their childish jealousy may be likened to that between
Melbourne and Sydney, and Toronto and Montreal. We are sorry not to
have time to go to Victoria. I believe it is very pretty, for everybody
out here has said: "Oh! you must see Victoria, it is so pretty, and so
_very_ English." This, abroad, is not precisely a recommendation in our
eyes.
Our last afternoon in Vancouver, we went across to Burrard's Inlet,
to see the Moodyville Saw Mills. The enormous trunks are raised,
attached to hooks, by a pulley out of the water on one side, passed
under a saw whose two wheels whirl through and cut up the timber in a
few minutes. It is sawn into three planks by another machine, laid on
rollers, passed down on the other side of the mill and shipped into the
steamer loading at the wharf. In three minutes a tree that has taken
300 years to grow (you can reckon its age, if you have patience, in the
concentric rings on the trunk), will be sawn up; in fifteen minutes
it will be cut, planed and shipped. The trees we saw operated on were
chiefly Oregon pines.
Before leaving Canadian soil, there are several things to mention,
which we have observed in travelling across the continent. Canada is
in many ways quite as much American as English. They have the American
system at hotels of making a fixed and inclusive charge of from three
to four dollars per day. They also have the varied _ménu_, which I
counted at one hotel to include fifty items. True, Oolong, Ceylon,
besides English breakfast, tea, and fancy bread of all sorts, is put
down to swell the items. Still we have often wished that the assortment
of food was smaller, but better served. The Canadians use as much ice
water, and consume as largely of fruit at all meals, as the Americans.
Carriages are as expensive as in America, the reason being that
tramways and electric cars are universally used as means of locomotion.
Their railway system of drawing-room cars, sleepers, and dining cars
are identical. Nor can their mode of speech be wholly excepted, for
true born and bred Canadian often speaks with an equally pronounced
accent as any American, and makes use of many of their expressions,
such as "on such a street, a dry-goods store," etc.
In the universal and domestic use of electric light, Canada, like
America, is twenty years ahead of us. Each little city has it, but
then this is a new country and there are no great monopolies as in
England to be considered. It is the same with the telephone. All public
buildings, offices, shops, and almost every private house in a city has
its telephone. A great amount of business is transacted through it, and
ladies use it for their daily orders to tradesmen. The convenience is
great, but the incessant tinkling of the bell invades the sanctity of
home, viz. privacy. A lady recently arrived from England rightly called
it "the scourge of the country."
As in America, domestic servants are scarcely obtainable. I found most
Canadian ladies thought themselves lucky with one servant, and in
luxury with two. A nurse is an unknown necessity to many mothers, who
tend their children entirely. This accounts for the number of children
travelling (we counted nineteen in two cars on one journey) and in
hotels. There is no one to leave them with at home. If unavoidable,
they are none the less a noisy nuisance.
Canada, if she is to be developed, requires a better line of steamers
than the Allan to compete in speed and luxury with the great New York
liners. She must be populated, and so long as the White Star and
other lines offer such far superior accommodation for the same rates
(four pounds) so long will the emigrants select that route. Every
trip the 1000 emigrants landed at New York, are 1000 able-bodied
English, Scotch, or Irish men lost to Canada. A strong government
should initiate a large immigration scheme, vote a handsome subsidy and
ask the Imperial Government to contribute a similar one. As we have
travelled from the Atlantic to the Pacific, we have passed through
thousands of miles abounding in natural resources, of mineral wealth
and lumber, lying in their primeval state, undeveloped and unpopulated,
whilst her rivals across the border are increasing rapidly the wealth
and prosperity of their country by a free immigration, only wisely
refusing to be made, like England, the "dumping" ground for the paupers
of other nations.
Canada languishes for the want of population and capital. Give them to
her, and she will become the finest country in the world, and our most
prosperous as well as most loyal colony--British to the heart.