clambered downward foot by foot, now balancing upon the narrow ledge,
5000 feet of space at our right hand; then scrambling down a broken
wall-end, the rocks so friable that handhold after handhold had to be
abandoned, and often half a dozen tested before a safe one could be
found; now, when the ridge became too jagged or too sheer, making our
cautious way along a tiny ledge or down the face itself, clinging to
the cold buttresses, our fingers tightly clutching the scant
projection of some icy knob, or digging into small interstices between
the rocks; anon, an ice-slope had to be negotiated with laborious
cutting of steps in the hard wall-like surface; and again, cliff after
cliff must be reconnoitred, its slippery upper rim traversed until a
cleft was found and a gymnastic descent effected to the ice-bound
declivity that fell away beneath its base.
"For close upon 2000 feet the utmost skill and care were imperative at
every step; for scarcely half a dozen could be taken in that distance
where an unroped man who slipped would not inevitably have followed
the rejected handholds and debris, that hurtled down in leaps and
bounds to crash in fragments on the rocks and boulders far below."
Beside this daring climb down the steep north arete of Assiniboine may
be placed an even more perilous incident of the descent of Mount Bryce
the following year. Outram had made the ascent with the Swiss guide
Christian Kaufmann, taking eleven hours to reach the summit. With a
long and difficult climb down the mountain in prospect, and a
particularly dangerous cliff to be negotiated, which had been
troublesome enough on the way up and would be much more dangerous now,
they spent very little time on the summit.
"It was almost dark," says Outram, "when we approached the well
remembered cliff, which had been continually on our minds, and to
reach which before nightfall had been the object of our hasty,
foodless march. But we arrived too late. And now the question arose as
to the wisest course to take. We were on the horns of a dilemma. To go
on meant descending practically in the dark a cliff which we had
deemed so difficult by daylight as almost to be deterred from
undertaking it at all. But on the other hand, a night out 10,000 feet
above the sea, without the smallest vestige of shelter, on the exposed
sky-line of a ridge swept by an arctic wind, with boots and stockings
saturated and certain to freeze (and possibly the feet inside as well)
before the dawn could aid us on our way, and almost destitute of food,
offered a prospect particularly uninviting. I left the decision to
Kaufmann. The risk was practically his alone. For me, descending first
with the good rope in his trusty grasp, there was no danger, even
should I slip or fail to find a hold, except for the short distance
where both would be upon the face at the same time. For him, a slip, a
lost grip or a broken hold might mean destruction. But he voted for
advance, and at any rate I could make a trial and report upon my
personal sensations before his turn arrived. So I turned my face
towards the rock, slipped over the edge, and entered on the fateful
climb.
"It will be long before I lose the recollection of those seventy feet
of cliff. Drawn out for one long hour of concentrated tension were the
successive experiences of hopeless groping in the dark depths for
something to rest a foot upon, of blind search all over the chilled
rocky surface for a knob or tiny crack where the numbed fingers might
find another hold, of agonizing doubt as to their stability when
found, of eerie thrill and sickening sensation when the long-sought
support crumbled beneath the stress and hurtled downward into the
blackness of space, whilst the hollow reverberations of its fall
re-echoed through the silence. Then the strain of waiting on the best,
but very questionable, protuberances for several tense minutes of
motionless suspense, whilst the exigencies of the rope compelled
Christian to climb down fifteen or twenty feet, and I could move
again. At long last came the marvellous relief of feeling solid and
sufficient standing-room once more, followed by the still more trying
period of inactivity, the patient intensity of watching and hauling in
the slack as the rope came slowly and spasmodically down, telling of
Christian's gradual descent, the strained anxiety lest any accident
should happen to my comrade, and, finally, the thankfulness of seeing
his figure looming close above and in a few moments standing by my
side, and we could breathe again."
[Illustration: MOUNT ASSINIBOINE. (_The Matterhorn of the Rockies_)
_Mary M. Vaux, W. S. Vaux, and G. Vaux, Jr._]
[Illustration: EMPEROR FALLS. _R. C. W. Lett_]
[Illustration: MOUNT EDITH. _A. Knechtel_]
[Illustration: TOWERS OF MOUNT BABEL. (_Consolation Valley_) _A. O.
Wheeler_]
V
INCOMPARABLE LAKE LOUISE
Thirty-five miles west of Banff on the Canadian Pacific Railway, and
still in the Rocky Mountains Park, is the village of Laggan. You may
make the journey by train or motor, in either case enjoying a
succession of magnificent views of mountain peaks on either side,
culminating in the majestic Mount Temple. From Laggan a tramway or a
somewhat dusty ride or drive of two or three miles up the mountain
side brings you to the Chalet, on the shores of Lake Louise; but if
you are wise you will take the woodland trail and walk. The trail
winds up through the woods, cool and fragrant, with wildflowers about
you on every side, charming glimpses of forest glades and mountain
torrents, and far above the aeolian music of the breeze in the tree
tops. The trail ends at the Chalet, a rambling, picturesque, and
thoroughly comfortable hotel, crowded with tourists from the ends of
the earth. Your thoughts are not, however, of hotel or tourists as you
look beyond the trees, and get your first vivid impression of what is
probably the most perfect bit of scenery in the known world. A lake of
the deepest and most exquisite colouring, ever changing, defying
analysis, mirroring in its wonderful depths the sombre forests and
cliffs that rise from its shores on either side, the gleaming white
glacier and tremendous, snow-crowned peaks that fill the background of
the picture, and the blue sky and fleecy cloud overhead. Year after
year you may revisit Lake Louise, and wander about its shores through
all kinds of weather; you will never exhaust the variety of its
charms. It changes from day to day, from hour to hour, from moment to
moment. It responds instantly to every subtle change of cloud, wind or
atmosphere; it has one glory of the sunrise and another of sunset; it
offers you one picture under the brilliant noonday sun, another under
heavy clouds, another through driving mists, or rain, or snow; but
always incomparably beautiful, and always indescribable.
Let us see how it has appealed to different men, who have visited it
at different times and under varied conditions. As long ago as 1888
William Spotswood Green, of the British Alpine Club, climbed up
to the shores of Lake Louise on his way back from a season's
mountain-climbing in the Selkirks. "I was," he says, "quite
unprepared for the full beauty of the scene. Nothing of the kind could
possibly surpass it. I was somewhat reminded of the Oeschinen See in
Switzerland, but Lake Louise is about twice as long, the forests
surrounding it are far richer, and the grouping of the mountains is
simply perfection."
"Lake Louise," says Walter Dwight Wilcox, "is a realisation of the
perfect beauty of nature beyond the power of imagination."
Sir James Outram quotes the final verdict of one whom he describes as
"a close observer of nature and enthusiastic lover of the
picturesque," to this effect: "I have travelled in almost every
country under heaven, yet I have never seen so perfect a picture in
the vast gallery of Nature's masterpieces." And Outram himself writes:
"As a gem of composition and of colouring it is perhaps unrivalled
anywhere. To those who have not seen it words must fail to conjure up
the glories of that 'Haunted Lake among the pine-clad mountains,
forever smiling upward to the skies.' A master's hand indeed has
painted all its beauties; the turquoise surface, quivering with
fleeting ripples, beyond the flower-strewn sweep of grassy shore; the
darkening mass of tapering spruce and pine trees, mantling heavily
the swiftly rising slopes that culminate in rugged steeps and beetling
precipices, soaring aloft into the sun-kissed air on either side; and
there, beyond the painted portals of the narrowing valley, rich with
the hues of royal purple and of sunset reds, the enraptured gaze is
lifted to a climax of superb effects, and the black walls of Mount
Lefroy, surrounded by their dazzling canopy of hanging glaciers, and
the wide gable-sweep of Mount Victoria, resplendent with its spotless
covering of eternal snow, crown the matchless scene. The azure dome of
heaven, flecked with bright, fleecy clouds like angel's wings,
completes the picture."
Tom Wilson seems to have been the first white man to visit the shores
of Lake Louise. At least his is the first visit of which there is any
record. According to Wilcox, he camped with a pack train near the
mouth of the Pipestone in 1882, when some Stony Indians came along and
placed their tepees near him. "Not long after, a heavy snow-slide or
avalanche was heard among the mountains to the south, and in reply to
inquiry one of the Indians named Edwin, the Gold Seeker, said that the
thunder came from a 'big snow mountain above the lake of little
fishes'. The next day Wilson and Edwin rode through the forests to
the lake of little fishes, which was named subsequently for the
Princess Louise," then in Canada as the wife of the Governor General,
the late Duke of Argyll.
Professor A. P. Coleman, of Toronto University, who has spent many
summers in the Canadian Rockies, and to whom we are indebted for one
of the most comprehensive and entertaining narratives of exploration
in this fascinating field, visited Lake Louise two years after Tom
Wilson. "I scrambled along its shores," he says, "then unnamed and
without marks of human habitation where the comfortable chalet now
rises." Many of us would give a good deal to treasure in our memory a
picture of Lake Louise sans chalet and sans tourists.
About a quarter of a century ago the Canadian Pacific Railway built an
unpretentious log inn on the shores of the lake, with accommodation
for a few guests. This was destroyed by fire in 1893. It was rebuilt
the following year, and has been repeatedly enlarged to meet the
demands of an ever-growing stream of tourists, the last addition
costing somewhere in the neighbourhood of half a million dollars. The
railway has also provided a good road and trail from Laggan up to the
Chalet, and opened several trails to points of interest about the
lake. These have since been improved and extended in every direction
by the Canadian government.
It is doubtful if any other spot in the mountains accommodates itself
so generously to all tastes and capacities as does Lake Louise. If you
are hopelessly indolent, you may stroll down to the shore, over a
carpet of wildflowers, and lazily enjoy the matchless picture of
Lefroy and Victoria with the gem of a lake in the foreground. Or a
half-mile's walk along the excellent trail that skirts the right-hand
side of the lake will prove a revelation of ever-changing and always
superb views. The walk may be extended to the farther end of the lake,
and back by the other side where the path climbs along the steep slope
of Fairview Mountain. An alternative trip, and a particularly
delightful one in the early morning or the evening twilight, is to
take one of the boats at the Chalet and row to the end of the lake and
back. The distance is extraordinarily deceptive. It looks but a
stone's-throw, yet when you have rowed three-quarters of a mile you
find that you are not much more than half-way. You look up on either
side to the towering cliffs, and feel like a water beetle in the
bottom of a gigantic cup. And what a wonderful liquid is contained in
this cup; so clear that you grow dizzy as you gaze down and down into
its unfathomable depths, and so marvellously steeped in colour that it
is impossible to believe as you dip into it that your hand will not
come up the same deep turquoise.
From the end of the lake a trail leads to the foot of Victoria
Glacier, opening up an ever-changing panorama of dazzling snow-fields
and terrific precipices. This way lies the road of the experienced
mountaineers who with skill and daring win their way to the summits of
these giants far up amid the clouds. It was by this road and the
Lefroy Glacier that Wilcox some years ago unexpectedly discovered
Paradise Valley.
A good trail now leads from the Chalet around Saddle Mountain to
Paradise Valley, but one of the finest views of the valley with dainty
Lake Annette and the gigantic guardian peaks that tower above, Temple,
Aberdeen, Sheol and the Mitre, can be obtained from Saddle Mountain,
reached by an easy trail. One does not readily forget the exquisite
view that rewards the climber as he reaches the summit of the Saddle
and stands on the edge of a thousand-foot precipice that drops sheer
to the valley, and yet seems insignificant when the eye goes up and up
to the glittering peak of Temple Mountain soaring thousands of feet
above. The very contrast of the frowning walls that shut it in on
every side lends an additional charm to the fairyland that lies at
their feet, a perfect picture of green meadows, blue lake and silvery
streams, most appropriately named Paradise Valley.
From the Saddle a zigzag trail leads to the summit of Fairview
Mountain, from which one may look down upon Lake Louise whose
ever-shifting shades of blue and green seem even deeper and richer
than seen from the shore.
From the Chalet again a ride or climb up the trail that branches off
on the right-hand side of the lake brings one to Mirror Lake and Lake
Agnes. The distance to the former is about two miles, and a little
more to Lake Agnes. Mirror Lake lies at the foot of a curious rock
called the Beehive, and Lake Agnes is reached by a short climb up the
slope of the mountain. The lakes themselves are well worth the climb,
but one is rewarded as well with entirely new views of the encircling
peaks, and tramps through a bewildering garden of Alpine flowers among
which one finds the antennaria and bryanthus, which so curiously
resemble edelweiss and purple heather.
A short distance north of Lake Agnes is the Little Beehive, a mere
knob on the mountain, from which, however, a magnificent view is
obtained of a far-flung panorama of tremendous, snow-clad mountains,
blue lakes, green forest slopes and sparkling glaciers. "I have
never," says Wilcox, "seen this glorious ensemble of forests, lakes
and snow fields surpassed in an experience on the summits of more than
forty peaks and the middle slopes of as many more in the Canadian
Rockies." And, as he adds, the viewpoint is accessible to even the
most indifferent climbers, or may be managed on horseback.
From the Chalet, also, a trail of ten miles leads to the Valley of the
Ten Peaks and Moraine Lake, or the valley may be reached by a carriage
road which extends to the foot of the lake. Another trail runs from
Moraine Lake around an imposing cliff known as the Tower of Babel to
Consolation Valley, and still another leads in the opposite direction
to Wenkchemna Glacier.
A somewhat longer expedition from Lake Louise is by trail west to the
height of land at Stephen, then down the picturesque Valley of the
Kicking Horse, and up Cataract Creek on the western side of Mount
Victoria, to Lake O'Hara. This, however, takes one into Yoho Park, of
which something will be said in the next chapter.
[Illustration: PARADISE VALLEY. (_From the Saddleback_) _Canadian
Pacific Railway Company_]
[Illustration: GIANT STEPS. (_Head of Paradise Valley_) _Canadian
Pacific Railway Company_]
[Illustration: LAKE LOUISE. _G. and W. Fear_]
[Illustration: MORAINE LAKE. _Mary M. Vaux, W. S. Vaux, and G.
Vaux, Jr._]
VI
THE VALLEY OF THE YOHO
Travelling west on the main line of the Canadian Pacific Railway, we
cross the continental divide at or near Stephen. The actual summit is
marked by a rustic arch. From the steep mountainside comes a little
stream which branches above; the two branches flow through the arch
and then separate, one bound for the Pacific the other for the
Atlantic.
This arch marks not only the height of land but also the boundary
between Rocky Mountains Park and Yoho Park, the former in the Province
of Alberta, the latter in British Columbia. An hour's run brings us to
the headquarters of Yoho Park at Field, with Mount Stephen's massive
dome far above, six thousand four hundred feet from where we stand.
With Field as a starting-point we can reach by road or trail all the
principal points of interest in the park, the Kicking Horse Canyon and
the Natural Bridge, Mount Stephen and the famous fossil beds, Emerald
Lake, the Amiskwi Valley, Lake O'Hara, Lake Oesa and Lake McArthur,
and the wonderful valley from which the park takes its name, with its
exquisitely beautiful waterfalls.
At Field, as at Banff in Rocky Mountains Park and Glacier in Glacier
Park, a number of Swiss guides are stationed throughout the season,
for the benefit of those who enjoy the pleasures of mountain-climbing.
Mount Stephen, on account of its accessibility and the magnificent
views that reward the mountaineer, is the most climbed peak in the
Canadian Rockies. Unlike some of its huge neighbours, such as
Cathedral Mountain, Lefroy, Deltaform, Hungabee and Goodsir, it is
within the capacity of any reasonably energetic man or woman, with or
without experience in mountain-climbing, provided one has the
assistance of a competent guide.
In the autumn of 1904 Mount Stephen was climbed under conditions that
could not be recommended to any but the most expert and clearheaded of
mountain-climbers. Rev. George Kinney was then at Field, and had gone
for a solitary ramble to the fossil beds on Mount Stephen. After
several hours spent in gathering trilobites he ate his lunch, and then
the desire seized him to get some pictures from the summit of the
mountain. Shouldering his two cameras he set out to climb the peak.
"It only took a few minutes," he says, "to climb to the top of the
spur immediately above the fossil bed and to get above the last of the
struggling timber growth, when there burst into view a scene that
beggars description: Cathedral Mountain, its perpendicular heights
searching the very heavens, formed one unbroken wall of a vast
amphitheatre. There, ridge on ridge, tier on tier, the parallel
ledges, cushioned with snow, rose in countless numbers for thousands
of feet. In such places as these the spirits of the mountain sit and
watch the changing scenes of the hills in the vast arena before them.
Sometimes it is a procession of sheep, or goats, or deer, or bear, or
the eagle gracefully sailing. Sometimes it is the frisking mountain
rat, or the whistling marmot, or the busy haymaker curing his crops of
hay on the hot rocks of the slide. Or again it is the grand orchestra
of the hills, breaking forth in the roar of the avalanche, the scream
of the wind, the fall of the cataract, or the crumbling of the peaks.
"For a mile or more it was easy going over a gentle slope covered with
rocks and snow. The clouds had gradually broken up before the genial
warmth of the sun, and the Kicking Horse River seemed a little thread
of silver that wound, with countless twists and turns, in a level
valley below. Field, with its roundhouses and trains and big hotel
seemed but a little dot, and when an engine whistled a thousand echoes
tossed the sound from side to side, from peak to peak, from canyon to
canyon, until it was lost in immensity.
"The climb was uneventful up to the time the cliffs near the top were
reached. It had been a fairly easy slope all the way. The snow began
at timber line, and was hard enough to walk on its top. Mount Dennis
was slowly left behind and sank to a mere hillock beneath. Mounts
Field and Burgess gradually slipped down until Wapta and then the
Vice-President, with an emerald glacier in its lap, came in full view
from behind.
"By making a detour I could have found an easier way, but, having no
guide and never having been there before, I began to climb the wall of
rock immediately in front. It was a most difficult climb. The short
day was nearly ended, the warmth of the sun had given place to a raw,
cold wind, and my pack being large and heavy got in the way. Nearing
the top of this almost vertical cliff my numb fingers slipped and I
barely escaped a sheer fall of fully one hundred feet. Surmounting the
cliff, it proved but a vanguard of many. Height on height of barefaced
cliffs offered their resistance in succession, each crowned with
snow-covered ledges. Gradually, however, they were vanquished, one by
one, and at last I stood on the glory-crowned summit, ten thousand
five hundred feet above the sea.
"Mounts Field, Burgess and Wapta lay far beneath. President and
Vice-President gleamed and glistened in the near distance. Cathedral
Mountain, close by, seemed almost on a level. Here, there, everywhere,
some in groups, others in serried ranks, were massed the war-scarred
veterans of an innumerable host--the rugged remnants of a vast ancient
plateau stretching north, southeast and west, as far as the eye could
see. All this vast array of snow-clad peaks, frowning precipices,
glistening glaciers, and yawning gulfs was burnished with the glowing
hues of the setting sun. I watched him sink behind the distant fringe
of peaks in the west, and when he was gone how lonely and chill those
sombre old masses seemed. I shouted aloud, but my voice was
immediately swallowed up in that awful stillness, for there was
nothing to give it an echo.
"I did not stay long on the summit, for the raw, cold winds that had
frozen the snow in crystals several inches long chilled one to the
bone. The darkness of night began to swallow up the distant hills, and
it was necessary to get down the cliffs while there was still light to
see the way. I had gone but a short distance when, following a ledge
around more to the south, I made a grand discovery. There, filling a
steep, rugged ravine that seemed to extend all the way to Cathedral
Mountain was a smooth pathway of snow, steep as the roof of a house.
One question flashed to my mind: would it be frozen too hard? I
cautiously tried it. Yes! it was hard, but with care it could be
travelled. By launching out freely and letting the whole weight come
down on each foot at a time, the heels could be forced a couple of
inches into the solid snow. Here, indeed, was the best kind of speedy
going: swing out one foot, spring from the other, and land on the heel
in an inch or two of snow. Each stride covered a distance of several
feet, and it was possible to run down that steep precipice of snow as
fast as I liked, but my life depended on each heel getting that little
two inches of a hold; one slip would mean a fearful slide to death.
There was no danger of crevices, for it was all new snow.
"In an amazingly short time a descent of hundreds of feet had been
made, until finally the bottom of the cliffs was reached. Then I
started across and down that long, tedious slope of snow and
boulders." Finally he regained the fossil beds, picked up his
belongings, and made his way back to Field in the dark.
To climb Mount Stephen alone, and in October, is a feat that would be
considered foolhardy by any mountaineer less capable and sure-headed
than George Kinney. Mr. Kinney has since proved his mettle on a much
more formidable climb, to the summit of the monarch of the Canadian
Rockies, Mount Robson. This, however, will stand for a later chapter.