Mount Deltaform, described by Wilcox as the "most difficult mountain
yet ascended in the Canadian Rockies;" and of Wilcox's own climb up
Mount Temple, but both are readily accessible in the _Rockies of
Canada_. Some idea of the magnitude of the task of scaling Deltaform
may be got from the fact that an unusually strong climbing party
consisting of Professor H. C. Parker, Dr. A. Eggers, and the Swiss
guides Hans and Christian Kaufmann, were nearly twenty-two hours in
conquering the peak, "after a reconnaissance and repulse two days
before."
This sketch of mountain-climbing in the main range of the Canadian
Rockies, designed merely to give as far as possible in the words of
the actors, some idea of the experiences incident to this king of
sports, may close with an account of the first ascent of Crows Nest
Mountain, one of the most difficult climbs in the Southern Canadian
Rockies. P. D. McTavish tells the story in the _Canadian Alpine
Journal_, 1907.
In August, 1905, Mr. McTavish, with three friends, reached the base of
the mountain and after several attempts which ended in quite
impossible precipices, found a great crevice leading up about 400 feet
and "resembling the space left in a whole cheese when a thin
wedge-shaped piece has been removed." After resting for a time, they
climbed up to a dome of rock which had obstructed their view. "With
some difficulty we surmounted this, and found ourselves at the base of
a beautifully straight, but very perpendicular, chimney, about six
feet in width and two hundred feet high. This offered possibilities,
so we immediately proceeded to climb to the top. Arriving there, a
short shaly slope led to a similar chimney, up which we climbed. We
now found ourselves at the top of the first circular band which
begirts the mountain, and felt that victory was within our grasp.
"For some time we encountered a series of steep, rocky slopes and
perpendicular faces, which led to a long slope of about one thousand
feet, after which the climbing again became fairly difficult, but for
only a short time, as we had reached the final dome, and at 12.15
o'clock we stood upon the summit." The entire climb had occupied about
four hours.
[Illustration: THE ASSAULT. _Byron Harmon_]
[Illustration: VICTORY AT LAST. _Byron Harmon_]
[Illustration: THE MONARCH OF THE ROCKIES. (_From a painting by George
Horne Russell_) _Grand Trunk Pacific Railway Company_]
[Illustration: SNOW MUSHROOMS _Byron Harmon_]
[Illustration: ICICLES ON MOUNT ROBSON. (_50 feet long_)_George
Kinney_]
X
CLIMBING IN THE SELKIRKS
Although W. S. Green had made an attempt in 1888, it was not until two
years later that the giant of the Selkirks, Mount Sir Donald, was
conquered. In July, 1890, Carl Sulzer and Emil Huber, of the Swiss
Alpine Club, set out one morning about 4 o'clock from their camp at
timber line, determined to find a way to the summit of the magnificent
peak that shot up into the sky from their very feet. They had already
studied the mountain from several points, and had selected a route
that looked promising.
Crossing a small glacier, they turned up a couloir or gully
terminating in a cave, above which the cliffs rose almost
perpendicularly. The last part of the couloir became so narrow that
the climbers had to force their way up by propping their bodies in the
angle against the rocks on either side.
After a short rest, they started climbing up to the rocks of the
southern ridge. It was stiff work in places even for such experienced
mountaineers, but finally they reached the main crest and "gazed
beyond the undulating tops of the foothills, upon the far-stretched
row of blue peaks of the Rocky Mountains." Following the arete, or
steep ridge of the mountain, and overcoming more than one difficulty
as they went, they finally stood upon the summit, 10,800 feet above
the sea.
From this isolated point they had a wonderful view of the Selkirks,
with the main range of the Rockies in the distance. "The finest view
presented itself in the southwest and south. Above the undulations of
the Asulkan and Illecillewaet glaciers and opposite a deep valley, the
fine group of Mount Dawson arose with its two corner-pillars, Mount
Donkin and Mount Fox. But the most beautiful mountain of all appeared
above the opening between Mount Dawson and Mount Donkin. It was Mount
Purity, very properly so called, a snow mountain of the finest order."
Building a cairn to commemorate the first ascent of Sir Donald, and
burying in it a bottle containing a record of the climb, ending with
the jubilant words, "Three cheers for Switzerland," they retraced
their way down the mountain, and were enthusiastically received at
Glacier House, news of the first big climb in the Selkirks being
immediately telegraphed east and west.
Toward the end of the same month, Herr Huber, accompanied by Messrs.
Topham and Forster, of the English Alpine Club, made the first ascent
of Mount Purity, which had been named by Topham. They camped on the
western slopes of the mountain, and set out for the summit about
sunrise the following morning. The climb was a comparatively easy one
to such seasoned mountaineers, and two hours' work brought the party
to the summit.
Meanwhile Herr Sulzer was attacking another virgin peak, which he had
named Swiss Peak. He had but one companion, with little or no
experience in mountain-climbing, so that the attempt was a somewhat
daring one.
Clambering up a series of grassy slopes and rock ridges, and crossing
a glacier, they encountered steep rocks which afforded interesting
though cautious climbing. A steep ice-slope now blocked further
progress, and had to be negotiated by cutting "deep steps into the
blue ice, which was as hard as glass." An hour's hard work brought
them to the rocks on the opposite side. A comparatively easy climb
along the ridge finally conducted them to the summit.
"The day," says Sulzer, "was perfectly clear. As far as the eye could
see were innumerable mountain peaks all around. In the southern
foreground the ice-girdled, central mass of the Selkirks, with its
northern marking stone, the bold, fascinating Sir Donald, appeared
especially beautiful. In the east, beyond the lower Selkirk peaks, the
long row of haughty Rockies lay spread in partly rounded, partly
broken shapes--a scene which I shall never forget. Sharply outlined,
dark rock masses interchanged with lofty snow-tops; all showed clearly
and glistened in the furthest distance, where, only fading, their
faint outlines were lost in the horizon. The northern groups showed
some particularly high peaks, and immense snow and ice-fields. Stately
mountain chains in the west completed the scope." Herr Sulzer supposed
the high peaks in the north to be Mount Brown and Mount Hooker, the
famous peaks near the headwaters of the Athabaska which David Douglas
the botanist estimated in 1827 to be between 16,000 and 17,000 feet in
height, and which Professor A. P. Coleman of Toronto visited in 1893
and found to be about 9000 feet! In 1890, of course, they were still
supposed to be the highest peaks in the Canadian Rockies, and many an
ambitious mountain-climber hoped some day to stand upon their
remote summits.
As the reputed eminence of these now rather despised mountains was
universally received for well-nigh three-quarters of a century, and is
still recorded in a number of very respectable books of reference, it
may not be without interest to quote Douglas's own account, as found
in his Journal:
"Being well rested by one o'clock," (he was then at the summit of
Athabaska Pass), "I set out with the view of ascending what seemed to
be the highest peak on the north. Its height does not appear to be
less than sixteen thousand or seventeen thousand feet above the level
of the sea. After passing over the lower ridge I came to about 1200
feet of by far the most difficult and fatiguing walking I have ever
experienced, and the utmost care was required to tread safely over the
crust of snow.
"The view from the summit is of too awful a cast to afford pleasure.
Nothing can be seen in every direction as far as the eye can reach
except mountains towering above each other, rugged beyond
description.... This peak, the highest yet known in the northern
continent of America, I feel a sincere pleasure in naming 'Mount
Brown,' in honour of R. Brown, Esq., the illustrious botanist.... A
little to the southward is one nearly the same height, rising into a
sharper point; this I named Mount Hooker, in honour of my early
patron, the Professor of Botany in the University of Glasgow. This
mountain, however, I was unable to climb."
Dr. J. Norman Collie, in commenting on this passage, says: "If Douglas
climbed a seventeen-thousand-feet peak alone on a May afternoon, when
the snow must have been pretty deep on the ground, all one can say is
that he must have been an uncommonly active person. What, of course,
he really did was to ascend the Mount Brown of Professor Coleman,
which is about nine thousand feet high. These two fabulous Titans,
therefore, which for nearly seventy years have been masquerading as
the monarchs of the Canadian Rockies, must now be finally deposed."
In a letter from Mr. A. L. Mumm, of the English Alpine Club, who did
some climbing in the Canadian Rockies in the autumn of 1913, he
mentions that he climbed Mount Brown, and his aneroid made the height
8950 feet. Lest the humiliated mole-hill should fade away altogether,
he is willing to admit that the accepted elevation of 9050 feet is
probably correct. As for Mount Hooker, no one seems to have thought
it worth while to climb it. In fact there is no great certainty as to
which of the mountains about Athabaska Pass was Douglas' Mount Hooker.
All that remains certain is that no peak in the neighbourhood remotely
approaches the height given by the well-meaning botanist.
We may return to Herr Sulzer for a moment to note a curious incident
that he mentions in connection with an expedition to a point west of
Mount Tupper. "Seated on the highest elevation," he says, "I began to
sketch a portion of the view, while black thunderclouds sailed towards
the ridge from the valley. Suddenly, two stone slabs next to me and
standing opposite each other begin to make a humming noise, the metal
holder of my sketching pencil buzzes and my pick begins to crackle
strongly, especially when I grasp it. Simultaneously, a slight rain
sets in and my fingers, also moistened by the rain, buzz. My companion
is taken by a sudden fright and is incapable of uttering a sound. The
cause of this phenomenon was clear to me at once, although I was not
fully aware of the degree of danger which it might include. We were in
an electric cloud. I remembered to have heard a few thunder reports a
short time before, issuing from the same cloud which had now reached
us. The main volume of electricity stored up in it had escaped by
lightning. The rest escaped when it reached the ridge, and to some
extent, we ourselves involuntarily acted as conductors to the earth. A
direct danger, therefore, was not present; for if the electric tension
had still been great enough to generate lightning flashes, such would
have been ejected before the clouds themselves touched the ridge.
Nevertheless, the phenomenon was so strong that when I touched the
pick on its metal mount, I felt a strong shock, and at night the play
of sparks would undoubtedly have been visible."
The Minute Book at Glacier House contains an account of the first
ascent of Mount Tupper, by Wolfgang Koehler, of Leipzig, in 1906. A
translation of the narrative appeared in the _Canadian Alpine
Journal_, 1909, from which the following is taken:
Koehler made the expedition with two Swiss guides, Edouard Fuez, Jr.,
and Gottfried Fuez. They walked from Glacier to Rogers Pass, and
climbed up the trail to a hut provided for mountain-climbers, where
they spent the night.
"The night was wonderfully beautiful, a cloudless sky and brilliant
moonlight. Moreover, to be surrounded by the dear, beautiful
mountains! How one's heart goes out to them! Towards 4 A. M. we got
up, breakfasted, and started off at 5 A. M. We took the direction at
first immediately behind the hut, then turned off to the right, and
across the little icy creek, looking up to Rogers, Swiss and Fleming
Peaks, Mount Tupper, Sifton and Grizzly. It was always up and then
down again. We had innumerable gullies and streams to cross, until we
reached the ridge at the end of two hours. We rested, and then started
again, always following the ridge over icy blocks."
So they made their way, with more or less difficulty, until they
reached a point where more serious problems confronted them. There
were several possible routes, all involving pretty stiff climbing. One
was finally selected as the most promising.
"In the middle of the right wall was a broad chimney, if only we could
get up there direct. Two ridges appeared running parallel, which
seemed to make the ascent possible. We climbed to the first ridge,
next to the chimney, then up the first ridge in the chimney itself. So
far we were still right. With the help of three picks and four hands
Edouard got up a little higher, but quickly came down again. That
could not be the right way. He tried then to go direct by the chimney,
but that was not practicable, and so he had to come back.
"In between was Gottfried, who had successfully climbed up and stood
in the chimney. I followed, Gottfried continued on, but a shower of
big and small stones came down. It seemed as if everything was rotten,
and, in spite of great care, not one of us could avoid bringing down
the stones. We now went on the outside, round the rock, and came to a
big flat, climbed a little broken chimney, and then got over a large
rock. Soon we stood again before the wall. One piece appeared somewhat
loose, and formed a breach, which gave us sufficient hold to get on to
a small platform. From there it was a short, somewhat overhanging
climb to the higher platform. 'This is the sort of place for people
with long legs,' Edouard called out (I am 6 ft. 4 in.). 'Alas, we
little ones have no chance.'
"We now came back again to the ridge, came to a little _gendarme_
(isolated rock tower or pinnacle) with a beautiful outlook down the
valley, and climbed on, until we suddenly came to a wide platform. We
had all three expected that the last piece to the summit would be
especially difficult. It looked so from the distance, but when we
came to it quite an easy way appeared of getting up. We stepped over
one sharp knife-edged ridge, 'tight-rope dancing' we called it, and
with a loud hurrah, reached the summit.... Would that many could see
and experience the joy of this beautiful mountain as I have done.
_Aufwiedersehen_!"
[Illustration: CLIMBING MOUNT RESPLENDANT. _P. L. Tait_]
[Illustration: SUMMIT OF MOUNT RESPLENDANT. (_11,173 feet above the
sea_) _P. L. Tait_]
[Illustration: CLIMBING AMONG THE SERACS. _R. C. W. Lett_]
XI
AFIELD IN JASPER
Hitherto we have been wandering about what may be called the Southern
Group of the Canadian National Parks, along the main line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway. There remain two parks, Jasper and Robson,
lying on either side of Yellowhead Pass, famous in the annals of the
fur-trade as Tete Jaune. Through both run the lines of the new
transcontinental railways, the Grand Trunk Pacific and the Canadian
Northern, on their way to the Pacific coast. These two parks may for
convenience be called the Northern Group, although only one is
strictly speaking a national park, Robson being under the jurisdiction
of the Provincial Government of British Columbia. Tete Jaune Pass and
Tete Jaune Cache are said to commemorate the personality of a veteran
Indian trader or trapper whose yellow hair made him conspicuous in a
country where black was the prevailing hue. Jasper Park is named after
a famous trader of the North West Company, Jasper Hawes, the site of
whose trading fort may still be seen on the banks of the Athabaska,
though every vestige of the buildings has long since disappeared.
Jasper House, as it was called, was still standing when Milton and
Cheadle went through the mountains in 1862. They describe it as "a
neat white building, surrounded by a low palisade, standing in a
perfect garden of wild flowers, backed by dark green pines which
clustered thickly round the bases of the hills." Ten years later, when
Sandford Fleming examined the pass as a possible route for the
Canadian Pacific Railway, the post had been abandoned and the
buildings were falling into decay. A mile or two east of Jasper, the
headquarters of the park, one is shown a grassy mound which represents
all that remains of another old trading post, Henry House. Here two
routes through the mountains forked, one leading up to Yellowhead
Pass, and the other to Athabaska Pass.
The peculiar charm of Jasper Park, and of its sister reservation on
the western side of the Pass, is in the fact that it is almost virgin
ground. As a Park it is very young indeed, and there has not yet been
time to improve upon nature. Lest this should suggest a touch of
sarcasm, let us admit at once that nature can be improved upon when
the improvement takes the form of practicable trails into the heart of
the mountains, and the opening of such trails is one of the principal
objects of the Canadian Parks authorities. Nevertheless, however one
may appreciate the convenience of a good trail, there is a joy
unspeakable to the natural man in getting out into the wilderness, if
possible where no man has been before, but at least where nothing
exists to remind him of the noisy civilisation he has managed to
escape from for a time. And that is what you will find in Jasper Park:
no automobiles, no stage coaches, no luxurious hotels, no newspapers,
no luxuries of any kind, and very few conveniences; but a sufficiency
of plain food, the intoxicating air of the mountains to eat it in, and
the mountains themselves ever about and above you. What more could a
tired man ask? What more could any man ask?
At least so two eastern city men thought as they awoke one glorious
August morning to find their train crossing the eastern boundary of
Jasper Park, with Brule Lake sparkling ahead and the curious outlines
of Folding Mountain dominating the landscape to the south. At a little
station called Pocahontas, a few miles beyond the western end of the
lake, they were dumped off unceremoniously with their luggage, and
welcomed by a stalwart park officer who had rashly undertaken to look
after them for the next few days, and particularly to pilot them out
to the Miette hot springs. While he trotted off to round up his
ponies, the two "tenderfeet" had leisure to look about them.
Pocahontas, what there is of it, nestles at the foot of Roche Miette,
a great frowning bastion of rock dropping sheer for nearly a thousand
feet toward the waters of the Athabaska. They tell you in the
mountains that it was named after a trapper who managed to clamber up
its precipitous sides many years ago, perhaps in chase of a mountain
goat, and sat himself down on the extreme edge with his feet dangling
over the thousand foot drop. No doubt the situation afforded him the
same satisfaction that is experienced by those praiseworthy citizens
whose names one sees carved on the extreme end of a log overhanging
the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara. Posterity has rather a rude name for
such heroes.
A short walk from Pocahontas brings you to a view of one of the most
charming waterfalls in this part of the mountains. The erosion of ages
has here carved out of the face of the cliff a lofty, semi-circular
alcove, and over this background of sombre rock drops a ribbon of
sparkling diamonds. An illustration might give some idea of the scene,
but could not do justice to the peculiar grace and animation of the
fall as seen under a bright sun and swayed gently by a summer's
breeze. There are a number of beautiful waterfalls in Jasper Park,
such as those on Stony River, a tributary of the Athabaska some
distance above Pocahontas, in the Maligne Canyon, of which something
will be said later, on the south side of Pyramid Mountain, and on
Sulphur Creek above the hot springs, but none that cling to the memory
like that of the Punch Bowl.
Largely because the Southern Parks, Rocky Mountains, Yoho and Glacier,
are comparatively well known, the writer has preferred to describe
them impersonally, to picture them as far as possible as seen through
the eyes of other and more competent authorities, men who have learnt
to know them intimately. The case is different with the Northern
Parks, Jasper and Robson. Very few visitors from the outside world
have yet discovered their wonderful possibilities; indeed until very
lately they have been inaccessible except to those possessing the time
and hardihood for a long journey from Edmonton over very rough
trails. Similarly very little has been written about the Northern
Parks. For this reason the writer will venture to describe in a more
personal vein some of the characteristic features of Jasper and
Robson.
Presently the ponies arrived, and we set off on our fourteen-mile ride
to the Miette springs. The trail was a good one, so that we were not
yet in the full enjoyment of the wilderness. That was to come later.
Mile after mile we jogged along, sometimes in the open, sometimes in
the heart of the woods, winding zigzag fashion down a steep hillside,
splashing through a noisy little creek, and zigzagging up the opposite
hill. For a couple of hours Roche Miette towered above us as we swung
around his flank, and then ahead loomed up the great wall of Buttress
Mountain, with Fiddle Creek winding along its base, peacefully enough
now, so peacefully indeed that it is hard to believe the tales we are
told of its resistless fury as it rages down in the spring, filling
this wide channel from bank to bank, and turning its wonderful
canyon--200 feet of sheer black rock--into a roaring hell of waters.
The Springs themselves we did not find particularly interesting. We
listened respectfully to the information that their temperature
ranged from 112 to 128 degrees Fahrenheit, and that they possessed
valuable curative properties. After testing the upper pool we were
willing to believe that the temperature was even worse than that, and
not being rheumatic we accepted the curative properties without
question but without enthusiasm. Still it was a pleasant enough place
to loaf for a day or two, scrambling about the hills and exploring the
upper waters of Sulphur Creek, and the lower pool turned out to be
rather an agreeable thing to roll about in for a time before turning
in to our tent for the night. The big mountains, however, were still
ahead of us, and we saw the last of the little group of springs
without much regret. Within a year or two the primitive pools that
have cured the rheumatism and other ailments of generations of traders
and trappers for a hundred years or more, will be confined in neat
concrete basins, and a pipe line will carry the water down the valley
of Fiddle Creek to the Chateau Miette, one of a series of great hotels
that the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway is to build through the
mountains. Never mind, the tourists are welcome to the Miette Hot
Springs, and they may build an automobile road along the face of
Buttress Mountain if they will, so that they leave us for a time
unspoiled some of the wild spots that lie beyond.
We started back to Pocahontas rather late in the afternoon, and the
sun went down as we climbed the last hill from Fiddle Creek. Over the
shoulder of Buttress Mountain a graceful spire soared into the sky,
and as we turned in our saddles to take a last look at it before
following the trail into the woods, it grew so strangely and
wonderfully luminous that we unconsciously pulled in our horses and
stood there in silent amazement. Momentarily the light deepened, and
golden shafts shot out into the velvet sky. Then as we gazed
spell-bound, from the very heart of the golden crown, and immediately
behind the glowing peak, there rose the silver moon, and hovered for
an instant on the very summit of the mountain, a vision so glorious
that it almost brought tears to one's eyes.