Part 20

Yale, which is so completely shut in by high, frowning mountain walls on every side that the sun touches the village only during part of the day, has lost its importance since it ceased to be a terminus, and seems at present to be inhabited chiefly by Indians and half-breeds. The train is invaded by a bevy of half-breed girls with baskets of splendid apples and pears, which could not be beaten for size and flavor in any of our States, and indicate a possible use for these mountain regions in the future. And now the train plunges into the midst of the series of terrific gorges which constitute the Frazer Cañon, and which make this railway literally the most gorge-ous in the world. Here were appalling engineering difficulties to overcome, which no private corporation without the most liberal government support could have undertaken. Yet the builders had to be thankful even for this wild and rugged cañon dug out by the Frazer River, without which the Cascade range would have been impassable. The palace cars of the Canadian Pacific, which contain all the best features of the Pullman cars, with home improvements, have a special observatory, with large windows, at the end of the train, whence the cañon should be viewed; but to see it at its best one must sit on the rear platform, so as to see at the same time both of the wild and precipitous cañon walls, between which the river rushes along as if pursued by demons. At every curve you think the gorge must come to an end, but it only grows more stupendous, and the river, lashed into foam and fury, dashes blindly against the rocks which try to arrest its course. These rocks, ten to thirty feet wide and sometimes twice as long, form many pretty little stone islands in the middle of the torrent, and are a characteristic feature of the cañon scenery. Numerous tunnels, resembling those on the Columbia River, are built through arches seemingly projecting over the river. The train plunges into them recklessly, but always comes out fresh and smiling on the other side, although it seems that if the bottom of the tunnel should by any chance drop out, the train would be precipitated into the river below.

Once in a while the river takes a short rest, and in these comparatively calm stretches hundreds of beautiful large red fish can be seen from the train, in the clear water, struggling up stream. With their dark backs and bright red sides they form a sight which is none the less interesting when you are told that they are “only dog-salmon,” which are not relished by whites, though the Indians eat them.

The train stops for supper at North Bend, and here we are once more impressed with the fact that although we are in America, we are not in the United States. At our own stations, as soon as the train stops, there is a grand rush for the dining-room, the waiters dump half-a-dozen small dishes before each passenger, who attacks them nervously, with one eye on the door and his ears pricked up for the bell. It would be useless to extend the dining-time more than fifteen or twenty minutes, for in five minutes most of the small dishes are empty and in ten or twelve minutes not a soul is left at the tables, though the _restaurateur_ has called out repeatedly, “Plenty of time,” “Departure of the train will be announced.”

How differently they manage things on British soil! There passengers sit down, unfold their napkins leisurely, while the waiter-girl brings on the soup. There is a regular _menu_, of so many courses, each of which is brought on separately. The conductor, after disposing of his share of the feast, waits at the door till the last passenger has of his own free will left the table, picking his teeth, and then calls out “All aboard.” Time, forty-five minutes; and at other stations similar scenes are enacted, with never less than half an hour for a meal. Yet the train is always on time.

It must be admitted that it is not very difficult to be on time when the average speed for the first day is only seventeen miles an hour. There is danger from the boulders which may roll on the track from the steep cañon sides, and occasionally you see a sign along the track telling the engineer to “GO CAUTIOUSLY—FOUR MILES AN HOUR.” All the dangerous ground, however, is covered by walkers, who go over the track an hour before each passenger train.

During the night east-bound passengers will inevitably miss the fine scenery along the Thompson River, with the Thompson and Black cañons; but it should be stated that the time-table in both directions has been so arranged that the best part of the route is traversed in the daytime; and that consequently no radical change will perhaps ever be made. Passengers who are willing to get up at six may still see part of the Thompson River and get some fine views of Shuswap Lake as the train skirts its shores. Here, obviously, would be the place for lovers of sport to get off, for vast flocks of ducks and geese rise from the water as the train rushes past. About ten o’clock the train arrives at Craigellachie, which is notable as the spot where the rails from the east and west met, and where the last spike on this great continental road was driven in, on November 7, 1885.

Scenic wonders now succeed one another with bewildering rapidity throughout the day. This second day, in fact, represents the climax of the trip, and the attention is not allowed to flag for a second. However much such a confession may go against the grain of patriotism, every candid traveller must admit that there is nothing in the United States in the way of massive mountain scenery (except perhaps in Alaska) to compare with the glorious panorama which is unfolded on this route. Within thirty-six hours after leaving Vancouver we traverse three of the grandest mountain ranges in America,—the Cascades, Selkirks, and Rockies,—all of them the abode of eternal snow and glaciers, and all of them traversed through by cañons which vie with each other in terrific grandeur.

Before the Selkirks are reached the train passes the Columbia or Gold range, through the Eagle Pass, so called because it was discovered by watching an eagle’s flight. Eagle Pass is a poetic and appropriate name, and yet I think it would be well to re-name this mountain pass and call it Mirror Lake Cañon, because that would call the attention of tourists to what is its most characteristic feature, which may otherwise be overlooked. There are four lakes and many smaller bodies of water in this valley, in whose placid surface the finely sloped mountain ridges and summits of the pass are reflected with marvellous distinctness, so that here, as in the Yosemite Mirror Lake, the copy is more lovely than the original. Some of the mountain sides reflected in these mirrors are naked rocks, others are covered with living evergreen trees, and others still with dead trees. In the mirror these dead forests look hardly less beautiful than the living ones; but in the original the eye dwells with more pleasure on the green forests which here, and almost everywhere in British Columbia, grow with the rank luxuriance of a Ceylon jungle. The soil under these dense tree-masses, consisting of decayed pine and fir needles, a foot deep and always moist, makes a paradise for lovely mosses and ferns. Here, also, is the home of the bear, and one would not have to walk far in this thicket to encounter a grizzly, black, or cinnamon bruin.

On emerging from the Mirror Lake Cañon, a great surprise awaits the passengers. The Columbia River—to which they had fancied they had said a final farewell when they were ferried across it on the way from Portland to Tacoma—suddenly comes upon the scene again, as clear and as picturesque as ever; and even at this immense distance from its mouth still large enough to require a bridge half a mile long to cross it. A few hours later the train again crosses the Columbia, at Donald, where the river has become much smaller than it seems that it should in such a short distance. To get an explanation of this circumstance, it is interesting to glance at the map, and notice what an immense curve northward the Columbia has made in this interval in order to find a passage through the Selkirk range; and in thus encircling the snowy Selkirks it has, of course, added to its volume the contents of innumerable glacier streams and mountain brooks. Its real sources are southeast of Donald, on the summit of the Rockies, separated by but a short distance from springs which run down on the eastern side and find their way through the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. Thus do extremes meet. It would be difficult to find anything so curious in the course of any other river as this immense, irregular parallelogram which the Columbia here describes from its sources to Arrow Lake.

Fortunately, railroad builders are not quite as dependent as rivers on deep cañons for getting over mountain barriers; hence our train is not obliged to follow the Columbia in its great sweep around the Selkirks, but proceeds comparatively straight across this range towards the Rockies proper, via the Albert Cañon, at an elevation of 2845 feet, in which the train makes a brief stop to enable passengers to look down into a flume in which the river, narrowed by the walls to twenty feet, rushes along three hundred feet directly beneath them.

The snow-peaks of the Selkirks are now looming up on all sides, and the atmosphere becomes more bracing and Alpine as the train slowly creeps up the mountain side, doubling up on itself in a loop. The Glacier House is reached before long, and here every tourist who has time to spare should get off and spend a day or two, since next to Banff, in the National Park, this is the finest point along the whole route, scenically speaking, while the air is even more salubrious, cool, and intoxicating than at Banff, owing to the nearness of the glacier. It would be difficult, even in Switzerland, to find a more romantic spot for a hotel than the location of the Glacier House. High peaks rise up on every side, so finely moulded, so deeply mantled with snow, and presenting such various aspects from different points of view, that we forget our disgust at the fact that, as usual in the West, these grand eternal peaks have been named after ephemeral mortals,—Browns, Smiths, and Joneses. The Grizzly and Cougar mountains are more aptly named, as these animals will long continue to abound in the impenetrable forests which adorn these peaks below the snow-line. Looking from the hotel towards the glacier, to the left is a peak which looks like the Matterhorn, the most unique mountain in Switzerland; and what is still more striking, at its side is another, smaller peak, which is an exact copy of the Little Matterhorn.

The greater part of the Selkirk region is still entirely unexplored; and good mountain climbers who scorn to reascend the Swiss peaks, which have long since all been measured, named, and labelled, may here have their pick of first ascents. But they will miss the conveniences of the Swiss Alps,—well-informed guides, and hotels with all modern conveniences. Not even a satisfactory map has existed heretofore, and an Englishman, W. S. Green, who published a book called “Among the Selkirk Glaciers” (1890) was obliged to make his own map which is added to his volume. It is tantalizing to read of Alpine paradises, “which no being higher than a bear had entered before” Mr. Green and his companion, and of “a perfect ocean of peaks and glaciers,” etc., which they could see on elevated points. Who knows but that a hundred years hence there will be as many visitors to the Selkirks every summer as now crowd into Switzerland?

The Glacier Hotel will always remain a popular point, because it is so near a great glacier of almost Alaskan dimensions. It is only about a mile thence to the foot of the glacier, which has the moraine of huge boulders, the gaping crevasses, the stream at the end, and all the other accessories of ice-rivers. At noon, on a warm day, when the ice melts rapidly, the roar of the glacial stream can be distinctly heard far away; but as the sun sinks lower, the water flows more scantily, and at night the brook is silent or merely whispers.

The principal difference between the Swiss Alps and the Selkirk range lies in the aspect of the mountain sides below the snow-line. These, in Switzerland, are green meadows dotted with browsing cows; while here they consist of superb forests of giant cedars, with bears in place of cows, and presenting one unbroken mass of dark green, except where an avalanche has tobogganed down and opened what seems at a distance like a roadway, but is found to be a battle-field strewn with the corpses of cedars three and four feet in diameter.

The most imposing view of such a mountain forest, unbroken by a single avalanche path, is obtained from the snow-sheds just above the hotel. Sitting outside these sheds and looking toward the left, you see a vast mountain slope covered with literally millions of dark green trees. Why has none of the world’s greatest poets ever been permitted to gaze on such a Selkirk forest, that he might have aroused in his unfortunate readers who are not privileged to see one, emotions similar to those inspired by it? But I fear that neither verse nor photographs, nor even the painter’s brush, can ever more than suggest the real grandeur of such a forest scene. This mountain is not snow-crowned in September, but its wooded summit makes a sharp green line against the snow-peaks beyond and above. From this summit down to the foot stand the green giant cedars, as crowded as the yellow stalks in a Minnesota wheatfield. But in place of the flat monochrome of a wheatfield, our sloping forest presents a most fascinating color spectacle. The slanting rays of the sun tinge the waving tree-tops with a deeply saturated yellowish green, curiously interspersed with a mosaic of dark, almost black streaks and patches of shade, due to clouds and other causes, and the whole edged by the dazzling snow.

If we descend and enter this forest, a cathedral-like awe thrills the nerves. Daylight has not the power to penetrate to the ground hidden by this dense mass of tree-tops rising two hundred to three hundred feet into the air—except that an occasional ray of sunlight may steal in for a second, like a flash of lightning. And the carpet on which this forest stands! In America we rarely see a house, even of a day-laborer, without a carpet: why, then, should these royal trees do without one? The carpet is itself a miniature forest of ferns and mosses, luxuriating in riotous profusion on an ever-moist soil, the products of thousands of generations of pine needles. Nor is this carpet a monochrome, for the green is varied by numerous berries of various kinds, most of which are red, as they should be—the complementary color of green. But there are also acres of blueberries as large as cherries; and if you will tear off a few branches of these and bring them to the young bear chained up near the Glacier Hotel, he will be very grateful, and you will find it amusing to watch him eating them.

There is music, too, in this Forest Cathedral, which is heard to best advantage from the elevated gallery occupied by the snow-sheds. It takes a trained ear to distinguish the steady, rippling _staccato_ sound of a snow-fed mountain brook from the prolonged _legato_ sigh of a pine forest, swelling to _fortissimo_, and dying away by turns. In the romantic spot we have chosen, these sounds are blended, the music of the torrents being caught up by the sloping forest as by a huge sounding-board, and increased in loudness by being mingled with the mournful strains of the tree-tops, as orchestral colors are blended by modern masters. Those err who say there is no music in nature. It is not in “Siegfried” alone that the _Waldweben_ is musical, that leaves sing as well as birds, while the thunder occasionally adds its loud _basso profundo_.

The æsthetic exhilaration which we owe to these poetic sights and sounds is intensified by the salubrious breezes which waft this music to our ears. Born among the clouds and glaciers, they are perfumed in passing across the forests, warmed by the sun’s rays in passing over the valley; and every breath of this elixir adds a day to one’s life. It is not surprising that mountains should make the best health resorts; for do they not themselves understand and obey the laws of health? They keep their heads cool under a snow-cap, their feet warm in a mossy blanket, and their sides covered with a dense _fir_ overcoat.

In comparing the Alpine scenes of British Columbia with those of Switzerland, I should have noted one more advantage in favor of the former, namely, the rows and groups of giant cedars through the spaces between which glimpses of the snow ridges and peaks, and of the green slopes leading up to them, are caught. This always adds a lovely frame to the picture, and gives infinite variety. Even the stumps and fallen trees in the foreground, whether they are the result of an avalanche or left there by the builders of the railroad, add an element of wildness and desolation which harmonizes better with Alpine scenery than meadows, cows, and dairy huts.

But we must not linger too long at the Glacier House and amid the Selkirks, for another range of the Rockies, equally grand, awaits us beyond. I have mentioned the curve on which the snow-sheds are built, just above the hotel, whence such a fine view of peaks and forests is to be obtained. We who have been able to stop over a day have had time to enjoy this view at leisure. But those who are unable to interrupt their journey would have missed one of the finest sights in America had it not been for the most commendable wisdom and liberality which prompted the builders of the Canadian Pacific Railroad to construct a second track outside of the snow-sheds, which is used in summer, so that every passenger can, for a moment at least, feast his eyes on this incomparable scene. Of all commendable features of the Canadian road which I have had occasion to praise, this one most merits imitation on some of our “American” railways, unless an exception be the delightfully convenient “Time-Table,” in form of a forty-four page booklet, which is given free to passengers, and which contains brief notes on all the stations and principal scenic points, while the hour at which the train arrives at each is printed in the margin, both for east-bound and for west-bound trains.

On passing the snow-sheds it is interesting to study their appearance and note with what an apparently lavish waste of timber they have been constructed. But it must be remembered that timber is more than abundant here, and that the trees that had to be cut down to make room for the track more than sufficed for all the sleepers, sheds, and other protective bulwarks against snow, landslides, or avalanches. The log-remnants, lying about on both sides of the track, will soon be covered with mosses and ferns and add a new element of loveliness to the scene. And there is another way in which the railway atones to the vegetable kingdom for the damage caused by passing through the forests. As the train speeds along, its suction whirls into the air, like snowflakes, the light-winged seeds ripening along the track; and thus it becomes a great distributer of herbs and flowers.

Twenty minutes after leaving the Glacier House the train reaches its highest point on the Selkirks,—4275 feet. Then the descent begins, and we leave the vicinity of the glaciers, though the snow-peaks that give rise to them continue for hours to gladden the sight. What had seemed more or less isolated peaks near by, are now seen to be merely the highest points of a vast conglomeration of mountain ridges, which are thrown into ever-new groups as the train winds along the mountain sides. In rapid succession several bridges are passed, built over brooks several hundred feet below. To the right, far below us, is a long, narrow valley, painted a mellow golden yellow by the setting sun (it sets here at three); and winding through it is the Beaver River, which from this height looks as small as if it were seen through an inverted spy-glass. Glimpses of the Rockies are now caught, and at 16.45 o’clock Donald is reached, where we once more cross the Columbia, which starts out hence for its grand curve around the Selkirks. The river here is about as large as the Rhine at Schaffhausen, and yet the passengers discover to their amazement that even here it is navigable, and that if they wish to make a hundred-mile trip, which is said to equal in grandeur any part of the Columbia River, they need only stop over at Golden City, two hours beyond Donald, and take the small weekly boat which runs from that station up the river, charging six dollars for the round trip. Golden City owes its name to a former mining excitement, but its present appearance suggests that Golden Fizzle would be a more appropriate name.

For the greater part of the two hours which the train requires to go from Donald to Golden City it passes along the bank of the Columbia River; and there is, perhaps, no part of the whole route where grandeur and beauty are so admirably united as here, especially in the autumn. The grandeur lies in the snowy summits which frame in this Columbia valley—the Selkirks on one side, the Rockies on the other. The beauty lies in the river itself and in the young trees and bushes along its banks, dressed in fall styles and colors, some as richly yellow as a golden-rod, others as deeply purple or crimson as fuchsias or begonias, the yellow predominating. These colored trees occur in groups and streaks along the river, and in isolated patches on the mountain sides, where they might be mistaken for brown mosses or lichen-covered rocks. There may be as beautifully colored trees in our Eastern forests, but they are not mixed, as here, with young evergreen pines, nor have they a framework of snow-mountains, like these, to enhance their beauty. High up on the ridges there is another variety of trees of a beautiful russet color set off by a deep blue sky. Talk of color symphonies! Here they are—miles of them—long as a Wagner trilogy, and as richly orchestrated! Even the masses of blackened logs and stumps—if one can set aside for a moment all thought of pity for the poor charred trees, so happy before the fire in their green luxuriance, and of the sad waste of useful timber—enhance the charm of this scene by contrast.

I have said that the time-table of the Canadian Pacific Railway is so arranged that the finest scenery is passed in daylight, in both directions; but of course there must be exceptions, and, as a matter of fact, as long as the road crosses the three great mountain ranges of the Cascades, Selkirks, and Rockies, there is hardly a mile which does not offer something worth seeing. Consequently, as darkness again closes in soon after leaving Golden, east-bound passengers must resign themselves to lose sight of the Kickinghorse Cañon, the Beaverfoot and Ottertail mountains, the large glacier on Mt. Stephen, etc.,—which is all the more provoking as they have to sit up anyway till midnight, when Banff is reached; for of course, every tourist who is in his right senses and not a slave to duty gets off here to spend a few days in the Canadian National Park.