By
Car and Cowcatcher
Part II.
From Murray’s Magazine, 1 February 1887, VOL. I., NO. III. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, Dec. 2015.
This is an interesting article, penned by the wife of Sir John A. MacDonald, Canada's first Prime Miniter. It is often referred to but I believe this is the first time it is posted on the web!!! Just as a note, when she refers to 'cars', the reference is to a train car./drf
From Calgary to Laggan I had travelled in the car of the
engine, accompanied by a victimized official. Perched on a little feather
bench, well in front, and close to the small windows, I had enjoyed an
excellent opportunity of seeing everything. Besides this, I had gained a great
deal of useful information about engines, boilers, signals, &c., which may
come in “handy” some day. During our stoppages the engineer and firemen had not
failed to explain these things, and I had even ventured to whistle “caution” at
a “crossing.” The signal went very well for an amateur, but the Chief’s quick
ear had detected a falter and at the next halt he sent a peremptory message,
desiring me “not to play tricks,” which, addressed to a discreet
matron, was really quite insulting. I had even questioned the engineer as to
the probable effect of a bad collision while I occupied this post. He promptly
suggested, “most likely killed;” and added reflectively, as he carefully oiled
an already dripping valve, “which would be a bad job”!
When I announced my
desire to travel on the cowcatcher, Mr E—seemed to think that a very bad job
indeed. To a sensible, level-headed man as he is, such an innovation on all
general rules of travelling decorum was no doubt very startling. He used many
ineffectual persuasions to induce me to abandon the idea and almost said I
should not run so great a risk; but at last, being a man of few words, and
seeing time was nearly up, he so far relented as to ask what I proposed using
as a seat. Glancing round the station platform I beheld a small empty
candle-box lying near, and at once declared that was “just the thing.” Before
Mr. E—could expostulate further, I had asked a brakesman to place the
candle-box on the buffer-beam, and was on my way to the “Jamaica” to ask the Chief’s permission.
The Chief, seated on a low chair on the rear platform of the car, with a rug
over his knees and a magazine in his hand, looked very comfortable and content.
Hearing my request, after a moment’s thought, he pronounced the idea “rather
ridiculous,” then remembered it was dangerous as well, and finally asked if I
was sure I could hold on. Before the words were well out of his lips, and
taking permission for granted by the question, I was again standing by the cowcatcher,
admiring the position of the candle-box, and anxiously asking to be helped on.
Before
I take my seat, let me try, briefly, to describe the “Cowcatcher.” Of course every
one knows that the buffer-beam is that narrow, heavy iron platform, with the
sides scooped out, as it were, on the very fore-front of the engine over which
the headlight glares, and in the corner of which a little flag is generally
placed. In English engines, I believe, the buffers proper project from the
front of this beam. In Canadian engines another sort of attachment is arranged,
immediately below the beam, by which the engine can draw trains backwards as
well as forwards. The beam is about eight feet across, at the widest part, and
about three feet deep. The description of a cowcatcher is less easy. To begin
with, it is misnamed, for it catches no cows at all. Sometimes, I understand,
it throws up on the buffer-beam whatever maimed or mangled animal it has
struck, but in most cases it clears the line by shoving forward, or tossing
aside, any removable obstruction. It is best described as a sort of barred iron
beak, about six feet long, projecting close over the track in a V shape,
and attached to the buffer-beam by very strong bolts. It is sometimes sheathed
with thin iron plates in winter, and acts then as a small snow-plough.
Behold
me now, enthroned on the candle-box, with a soft felt hat well over my eyes,
and a linen carriage-cover tucked round me from waist to foot. Mr. E—had seated
himself on the other side of the headlight. He had succumbed to the inevitable,
ceased further expostulation, disclaimed all responsibility, and, like the
jewel of a Superintendent he was, had decided on sharing my peril! I turn to
him, peeping round the headlight, with my best smile. “This is lovely,” I triumphantly announce,
seeing that a word of comfort is necessary, “quite lovely; I shall travel on this
cowcatcher from summit to sea!”
Mr.
Superintendent, in his turn, peeps round the headlight and surveys me with solemn
and resigned surprise. “I—suppose—you—will,” he says slowly, and I see that he
is hoping, at any rate, that I shall live to do it!
With a mighty snort, a terribly big throb, and a shrieking
whistle, No. 374 moves slowly forward. The very small population of Laggan have
all come out to see. They stand in the hot sunshine, and shade their eyes as
the stately engine moves on. “It is an awful thing to do!” I hear a voice say,
as the little group lean forward; and for a moment I feel a thrill that is very
like fear; but it is gone at once, and I can think of nothing but the novelty,
the excitement, and the fun of this mad ride in glorious sunshine and
intoxicating air, with magnificent mountains before and around me, their lofty
peaks smiling down on us, and never a frown on their grand faces!
The pace quickens gradually, surely, swiftly, and then we are
rushing up to the summit. We soon stand on the “Great Divide” 5300 feet above sea-level—between
the two great oceans. As we pass, Mr. E—by a gesture, points out a small river
(called Bath Creek, I think) which, issuing from a lake on the narrow
summit-level, winds near the track. I look, and lo! the water, flowing eastward towards the Atlantic side,
turns in a moment as the Divide is passed, and pours westward down the Pacific slope!
Another
moment and a strange silence has fallen round us. With steam shut off and
brakes down, the 6o-ton engine, by its own weight and impetus alone, glides
into the pass of the Kicking Horse River, and begins a descent of 2800 feet in
twelve miles. We rush onward through the vast valley stretching before us,
bristling with lofty forests, dark and deep, that, clinging to the mountain
side, are reared up into the sky. The river, widening, grows white with dashing
foam, and rushes downwards with tremendous force. Sunlight flashes on
glaciers, into gorges, and athwart huge, towering masses of rock crowned with
magnificent tree crests that rise all round us of every size and shape.
Breathless—almost awe-stricken—but with a wild triumph in my heart, I look from
farthest mountain peak, lifted high before me, to the shining pebbles at my
feet! Warm wind rushes past; a thousand sunshine colours dance in the air. With
a firm light hand grasping the iron stanchion, and my feet planted on the
buffer beam, there was not a yard of that descent in which I faltered for a
moment. If I had, then assuredly in the wild valley of the Kicking Horse
River, on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, a life had gone out that day! I did not
think of danger, or remember what a giddy post I had. I could only gaze at the
glaciers that the mountains held so closely, 5000 feet above us, at the trace
of snow avalanches which had left a space a hundred feet wide massed with torn
and prostrate trees; on the shadows that played over the distant peaks; and on
a hundred rainbows made by the foaming, dashing river, which swirls with
tremendous rapidity down the gorge on its way to the Columbia in the valley
below.
There
is glory of brightness and beauty everywhere, and I laugh aloud on the
cowcatcher, just because it is all so delightful!
We have
left the North-West Territories, and are now in the Province of British
Columbia. Field—Ottertail—Leanchoile flit past
us. Steam has been up for ten miles now; we have left the Kicking
Horse Pass
behind us and are gliding into the wide Columbia Valley,
full of rich, new beauty, of green tall waving grass and blue water. A lower
range of the Rockies, streaked and capped with
snow, stretches away on either side. The roadway is very level, and the rails
gleam before us, narrowing in a distant point to a silver thread. I hear the
engineer piling in fuel, and whistle with shrillest note. Then, with trebly quickened
pace, we dart along in the sunshine. For a second only I feel a quickening of
the heart-pulse, and a hot colour mounts to my face, but it is gone in a
moment, and I am none the worse for that “spurt” at the rate of fifty miles an
hour.
Halted
at Palliser. The Chief and his friends walked up to the cowcatcher to make a
morning call. I felt a little “superior” and was rather condescending. Somewhat
flushed with excitement, but still anxious to be polite, I asked “would the
Chief step up and take a drive?” To the horror of the bystanders he carelessly
consented, and in another moment had taken the place of Mr. E—, the latter
seating himself at our feet on the buffer-beam. There was a general
consternation among our little group of friends and the few inhabitants of
Palliser—the Chief rushing through the flats of the Columbia on a cowcatcher! and, worse still,
possibly even among the wild Selkirk Mountains—those mountains of which
scarcely three years before, in his charming book, ‘From old Westminster
to New,’ my friend Mr. Sandford Fleming had said, “no one has been through the
western slope of the Selkirks”! Every one is horrified. It is a comfort to the
other occupant of the buffer to find some one else wilful, and as we steamed
away towards Donald, at the eastern base of the Selkirks, I felt not so bad
after all!
The Columbia Valley is very charming, heavy clumps of
trees breaking its cool, green surface. A quiet little paradise it looks, lying
clasped between two mountain ranges. The Columbia River said to be 1200 miles
long, rises in the Rockies, passes through the
levels between the two mountain ranges, and finally flows southward into American
territory. It is crossed by the C. P. R. nine or ten times.
Our
days now begin to seem “always in the afternoon.” We have gained three hours
since arriving at Port Arthur, on the eastern
end of Lake Superior; and my travelling clock, which is still Ottawa time, is now three hours slow. It was
set by eastern standard time, which extends to Port Arthur. Central standard time is then in
use, with its added hour, for 694 miles to Broadview. There, by mountain
standard time, we gain another hour, and enjoy it for 759 miles to Donald. At
Donald we feel our lives are perceptibly lengthening by the arrival of Pacific
standard time, which gives us a “last hour” until we reach the sea.
But
still further liberties have been taken with old Father time, hitherto
considered so inexorable. Discarding the old-fashioned A.M. and P.M. the
officials and time-tables of the Canadian Pacific count their hours as numbers
go, so that 1 P.M. is
Thirteen o’clock, 2 P.M. Fourteen
o’clock—reaching twenty-four o’clock at midnight. It is very convenient, and
far more expressive than the old figures, which oblige one to stop and think—is
it morning or evening? But I must confess the “Jamaica’s” cook, little John, looked
decidedly astonished when I first ordered dinner at sharp 20 o’clock.
To
secure for our party an uninterrupted view of the country through which the
Canadian Pacific passes from Winnipeg to Vancouver, arrangements
had been made by which our Special remained stationary at night. It was also
kindly managed that a Superintendent always travelled with us, and though we
had sorrowfully parted with Mr. E—at Donald, he had been well replaced, and his
successor agreed to our plan of travelling from 8 A.M. to 8 P.M. An
early cup of tea left us good appetites for a very substantial breakfast at
11.30, during an hour’s halt, when the railway “hands” dined at some station to
which their supplies had been telegraphed for, or from their own commissariat
arrangements in the baggage car. Between 5 and 6 o’clock we always managed to
tarry for afternoon tea, and when comfortably settled on a siding for the
night, dinner was announced about 8.30. Our small porter, who, though hardly
five feet high, was full of energy and skill, kept the table very well
provided. He foraged for supplies on every occasion, was always greatly
distressed when anything lacked, and required consolation instead of reproof when
matters went wrong in the cooking department.
To
resume the journey. Our destination to-night is Revelstoke, at the western base
of the Selkirks, 78 miles from Donald at the eastern base. Towards Revelstoke
we are now travelling, and as the train nears the valley or pass by which the
mountains are entered, we find their towering outlines in some degree obscured
by the smoke of forest fires which, owing to the unusually dry season, have
burned unchecked for some weeks past. The spark from a passing engine, a
“Smudge” or small smoky fire, lit by railway labourers to keep off mosquitoes,
or a neglected camp-fire, spreads so rapidly among the brushwood, twigs, and
fallen leaves in these vast forests, that large tracts of magnificent woodland
are destroyed in a short time, and the atmosphere becomes smoky and dull for
miles and miles around.
Leaving
the north branch of the Columbia we strike
sharply westward, and enter the “Beaver” pass, which leads towards the summit
of the Selkirk Range. A prospect wildly magnificent lies
before us as we ascend. Impressions formed on a buffer-beam are difficult to
convey; I almost despair of conveying mine. Imagine thundering along upon the
front of a railway engine, in the heart of a stupendous mountain range!
Hundreds of feet above us, forest-covered heights tower grandly; forest-filled
valleys lie hundreds of feet below. Looking upwards and beyond these masses of
darkly wooded mountains, I see near me glaciers glittering in sunlight, and
ranges of cliffs, streaked, tipped or outlined with snow around them. Looking
far away below and still onward, I see trackless valleys stretching to the
sunset between gigantic mountains—the soft afternoon light crimsoning the mist
that floats about them. In the sky, on every side rise tall serrated peaks,
from which glaciers slope and pinnacles gleam with strange, unearthly beauty.
As the train winds sharply round the mountain sides, always along a steep
precipice, every possible sense of fear is lost in wonder and delight.
We are
now 5000 feet above the sea-level, in Rogers’
Pass—so called from the discoverer, Major Rogers. His explorations, carried on
only about five or six years ago amid incredible hardships, and with undaunted
perseverance, proved that a practicable pass led from the valleys of the Beaver
and a small stream called the Bear over the summit of the Selkirks, and down
the western slope through the valley of the Ille-cille-waet River.
Perhaps no part of the line is more extraordinary, as evincing daring
engineering skill, than this Pass, where the road-bed curves in loops over trestle-bridges of immense height, at the
same time rapidly descending. In six miles of actual travelling the train only
advances two and half miles, so numerous are the windings necessary to get
through this canyon.
As I
sit looking forward down the Pass I can see long trestle-bridges below, and yet
on a line with
the one we are crossing at the moment! They show above the forest, sharply
distinct, so far below, that for a moment my heart beats quickly as I feel
the brakes tighten, and the engine bear on with a quiet, steady, slower rush
round and down and over, while I look through the trestle-beams into the
hurrying foam of waters 150 feet below.
Over
Surprise Creek the trestle is 180 feet high, but I peeped down into it quite
unconcernedly, not without a certain satisfaction to find I had such a “good
head.” At Stoney Creek the trestle is 286 feet
above a most glorious ravine. The effect was here much heightened by huge,
vapoury smoke-clouds hanging in fantastic shapes about the immense valley, and
a certain vagueness of distant misty outline which, in the warm tender evening
light, was inexpressibly beautiful. At no spot did we find anything more
magnificent than the view before us at Stoney Creek.
Truth compels me to say I crossed this trestle on foot—from no nervous
reluctance, however. A hundred feet or so make no difference after a little
experience in looking through and over trestle-bridges from a cowcatcher? The
Chief wanted to inspect this bit of work, and the train halting for the
purpose, some of the party walked over, of whom I was one.
Our
journey through these passes was full of pleasant little incidents, too
numerous to mention here. “Construction” being hardly yet finally completed
through the Selkirks, gangs of labourers were still at work. Some of their
temporary homes, in stationary railway cars on sidings built for the purpose,
were not so picturesque as the hamlets inhabited by others where log cabins
nestled under tall cedars, and tents were pitched by rippling streams.
It was
pleasant to see the warm welcome given to the Chief by these “dwellers in the
wilderness.” As the Special passed, and the Chief was observed sitting on the
end platform, the echoes rang with their lusty cheers. Expecting his arrival
(the Special was of course telegraphed from station to station), they were
generally found standing by twenties and thirties on their car roofs, in angles
of rock, and even in overhanging trees, saluting him with loud huzzas. In some
places the labour-gangs, busy on the road-bed, gave kindly welcome by standing
in line, waving pick and shovel in default of flags, and in quieter spots two
or three solitary workmen would run together on some high bank above us, and
cheer vociferously.
A new feature
in the landscape hereabouts were the camps of Chinese labourers—a certain air
of neatness about them; their poor tents carefully pitched and closed; their
tin cooking-vessels, sand-rubbed and shining, generally arranged on rustic
tables just outside. We saw large numbers of these singular-looking people
working in gangs under a white superintendent, not only on the road-bed, but in
building snow-sheds, which are found necessary for winter travel. We were told
that an ingenious railway superintendent had suggested taking the summer line outside the snow-sheds, so that the scenery might not
be hidden from view, which bright idea is, I believe, to be carried out
forthwith.
These
Chinese navvies, all ridiculously alike in form and feature, wearing queer little
blue-and-white gowns, baggy trousers, wooden shoes, and thick flat straw hats,
give a foreign air to the scene. Standing mute, wide-eyed and expressionless,
their shovels all held at the same angle, ready to begin on the gravel the
instant we had passed, they had a curious effect, as of some mechanical
apparatus with an awful semblance of humanity. And yet we know theirs is the
oldest civilization in the known world! How fortunate it is that all nations do
not express civilization in the same way!
As we
go onward, smoke increases around us; the smell of burning wood grows
disagreeable, and as evening falls we can see tall trees in the distance
glowing with flame, and tracts of level ground hotly smoking. It was sad to
behold what had been lofty cedars prostrate in charred masses, and fire
steadily advancing among the bright blueberry patches, the tall bracken covers,
and the tangled growth of wild flowers and fern.
Near
one of these places we had a little adventure. As we swept into a narrow
valley, almost overhung with trees, the smoke seemed to grow dense before us,
and in the centre of the track appeared a little red flag. I knew enough of “flagging”
signals to understand this meant “Danger,” and in an instant after I felt the
brakes tighten. Clutching the friendly iron bar closely lest I should be “spun
off” by the impetus of a halt, I peered forward as we “slowed,” and beheld
distant flame reddening the. gloom beyond. A signalman appeared as we came to a
standstill. He was one of a small gang told off to watch the fires and prevent
them spreading to the sleepers, or in any way injuring the track. Telling the
engineer that, a little farther on, fire had advanced quite near the line, he
ran back to his post. Here was a delightful opportunity for a new sensation!
One of our party was by my side on the cowcatcher, and agreed to face the
rush. The engineer went on to inspect, and returned very dubious about the
safety of our position
at all events; but I succeeded so well in impressing him with an idea of our
safety, that he made preparations to go forward. And a very new and very hot
sensation it certainly was to fly through a bush-fire on a cowcatcher, as we
did, with bent heads and closely gathered skirts, to avoid breathing the heated
air or catching fire.
Since
the time of our journey, however, the road has been entirely completed, and so
large a space cleared on either side the line, that fallen trees or flames at
close quarters are impossible.
The
wild and magnificent canyon of the Ille-cille-waet is now leading us to
Revelstoke, at the second crossing of the Columbia.
This river, rising in Rogers’
Pass, pours through a grand defile in wild rapids, enclosed by majestic
mountains, surging past rocky and gravelly shores, as it leaps and foams onward
through a tangled mass of vegetation. We cross and recross the stream several
times. Everywhere, as usual, lovely snowy peaks, crests, walls and slopes,
tower above forest, river, and wild gorge, and rest against the sky. The
evening shadows that shroud the canyon, darken the water, and creep up the
mountain side, leave these delicious outlines untouched; they only seem to grow
dim, as the stars come out and encircle each fading tip with gems.
The gloom
is profound after nightfall; but we are very happy at Revelstoke “on the
siding.” Little John, the porter, has provided a splendid dinner, spite of his
dejection caused, I believe, from seeing no prospect of getting fresh eggs for
breakfast!
I was
glad when we moved out next morning, and left Revelstoke to her smoky solitude.
The weather was clear and cool. Above the mist I could see the sky pearly blue,
and the air was fragrant with the odour of pine and spruce.
Following
the valley of the Eagle River, we wind gaily through the cedar forests of the
Gold Range, gemmed with lakes blue and
shining, its tall, darkly clothed summits often lit by small cascades gleaming
through the trees. Crossing and recrossing the Eagle
River seven or eight times, we reach
the Sicamous Narrows, into which its dark hurrying
waters are emptied. We presently sweep into an immense valley, through which,
for many miles, the line skirts beautiful stretching lakes—grand sheets of blue
water, glacier fed, lying in the folds of the Gold Range, These lakes close, as
it were, into the. south branch of the Thompson River.
Many tunnels lie in our way as we rush by them, and during a halt I am told one
of the tunnels is “wet.” This being interpreted, means that the arching rock is
full of springs, which pour on the train as it passes. An umbrella and
waterproof are therefore necessary for me,—now sole occupant of the cowcatcher;
and with praiseworthy economy I take off my hat, tuck it safely under my wraps,
and prepare to encounter the “wet” tunnel thus equipped! We plunge into a few
moments’ darkness,—water splashing and dripping on every side; and as we emerge
into sunlight again, and stop just beyond the tunnel, I see a party of young
English sportsmen standing near the roadside. They have evidently just climbed
the bank, guns in hand, leaving a large canoe with two Indian paddlers on the
lake below. Fine, tall young Saxons they are, in sporting attire somewhat the
worse for long travel, but very conventional in style notwithstanding. Just
imagine the feelings with which these well-regulated young men beheld a lady,
bareheaded, and with an umbrella, seated in front of an engine, at the mouth of
a tunnel in the Gold Range of British Columbia! I am sorely afraid I laughed
outright at the blank amazement of their rosy faces, and longed to tell them
what fun it was; but not being “introduced, you know,” I contented myself with
acknowledging their presence by a solemn little bow—which was quite
irresistible under the circumstances!
A
somewhat similar incident occurred next day during our journey in the valley of
the Fraser River. The Special stopped at a station
where a mule train was just starting for some distant gold mines, laden with
miners’ supplies. It was very interesting to see the sturdy animals all packed
and ready, standing in regular order, waiting for the word of command from
their driver, which they instantly obeyed, all filing along at equal distances
with the air of quadrupeds of superior intelligence, who had made up their
minds to avoid hurry or confusion. It chanced to be one of our halts at
tea-time, and, as usual, my cup of tea and slice of bread-and-butter were
brought to the buffer-beam. I had just been presented with two large bouquets
which lay in my lap. While I leisurely sipped my tea, there suddenly appeared
before me a very thin, tall, melancholy-looking American, having something to
do with the pack train now slowly winding off through the mountains. Never
shall I forget the expression in that man’s face as he steadily regarded me,
seated composedly on the cowcatcher, surrounded with flowers, a plate of
bread-and-butter on a candle-box near by, taking afternoon tea. To remain
silent was impossible.
“Good
evening,” I said.
The man
nodded, and drew a long breath.
“Have
you came far?” he asked, after a long pause.
“From
other side of the Rockies,” I answered
carelessly, as if speaking of a stroll round a village—“three
hundred miles or so.”
“Did
you come that way down the Thompson?” he next asked, a little anxiously.
“O
yes—and I am going to the sea.”
“You ain’t afraid likely?” he continued, looking more melancholy
than ever.
“Not at
all.”
“Now,
look here,” he said, pausing between each word, “it’s real dangerous. I would
not do this thing for a lot of money!” then, thrusting his hands into his
pockets with a civil, “Good evening, Missis,” he disappeared round the engine!
But I
must now go back to the Special, which has by this time reached Kamloops, where
the north branch of the Thompson joins the branch we have been travelling near,
and they flow together—one beautiful Thompson!—to join the Fraser at Lytton.
Ninety-four
miles of the C. P. R. lie between Kamloops
and Lytton. At Kamloops
the scenery changes abruptly and entirely. From thence through the canyon of
the Thompson to Lytton, where we strike the canyon of the Fraser, we seem in a
different world. Huge sand-hills, almost devoid of grass, roll in uniform
succession on either side the wide, rapidly flowing river. Some of these hills
are thinly covered with short coarse bunches of greyish grass; a peculiar kind
of red pine-tree clothes others from base to crown. These trees stand apart in
curious rows, as if they had been set in line, and, mounting the steep
hillsides, all leaning one way, have the effect of a large army toiling upward
and around the mighty canyon’s fold as far as eye can see.
Remarkable
contrasts of colour make these parts very striking. The country sloping away
before me in billowy sandhills, which wear every tint of brown from pale to
chocolate, is brightened only by the Thompson’s brilliant green waters, and arched
over by a sort of dull China-blue sky. At some distance above Kamloops we had passed over green park-like
flats extending to the water on the right. Through these we had made good
time, and pleasant it was to be flying across that new country in warm sunlight!
In this
section of the canyon rain scarcely ever falls, which, accounts for the
remarkable brown tint visible everywhere. There are indeed very green
fields—large emerald patches—which are irrigated at great cost from the heights
above. The diligent Chinamen own most of these bright spots, to which a new
charm is added by their brown surroundings. We were told at a station near Kamloops that only two heavy showers of rain had fallen in
nine years, which I felt to be another injustice to poor Ireland, who has so many more
showers than are good for her!
Never
to be forgotten is that ride, all alone, on the cowcatcher down the valley of
the Thompson! Though strong of nerve and will, the sight of those slender
rails—always on a heavy down grade—gleaming on the precipice brink as far as I
could see ahead, was somewhat startling—not a bush or blade to break the edge
of the stern declivities, or to soften the dull-coloured steeps that rose from
the ledge we travelled on. However, no failing of heart—no reeling of brain
must be allowed. No human succour could come near—no cry could be heard, no
sign seen—but then! how glorious was the feeling of daring risk, the thrill of
shooting downwards with the flashing of sunlight and the glancing of water
before me, and that immense shadowless expanse at my feet!
At
Lytton we enter the Fraser canyon, and pass from green to dark-brown waters,
rolling fiercely with tremendous impetus through mountains and gorges that in
dim evening light look positively awful!
We stay
an hour at Lytton, a small place where we are gazed at by many Chinese, and
proceed to North Bend, at which being a
divisional point, we stop for the night.
Having
lingered, too long at Lytton, we soon find darkness closing around us in that
tremendous canyon which for twenty-seven miles holds the Fraser in its depths,
and along the side of which we now travel, mere specks in that vast solitude of
mountain-precipice, black with wild rugged rocks, and awful with immense
shadows. The train proceeds slowly. A lookout man sits with me on the
buffer-beam, and the Comptroller, unmindful of his interesting young family at
home in Ottawa
with an admirable sense of duty, shares with us the risks of that night-ride
along the Fraser!
Our
present Superintendent, who joined us at Kamloops,
exhausted a dictionary of entreaty that I would abandon the buffer-beam, and
has now retired, in useless indignation, to the comforts of his private car. I
am perfectly aware it is exceedingly dangerous, and that the smallest jar from
a stone on the track, a too sudden curve, or the slightest giddiness or loss of
strength, will almost certainly end my mortal career; but the wild spell of the
moment is strong upon me, and I sit watching the stars gleam out over the
mountain crests and the foam flash white 150 feet below, with a moved and
swelling heart! How mysterious it all is—how awful in its silence as we stop
midway, and I stand erect on the cowcatcher to look at the grand shadow-covered
outlines that soar into the night sky!
“Just here,” says a voice at my elbow, “Bill Jones went clean
over.”
This is
very sepulchral, but I know the speaker is the look-out-man, and ask anxiously,
“What happened?”
“Bill
was running a gravel train,” the voice goes on,—“left the car at North Bend, and was bound for Lytton—full tilt with the
engine right along here.” I see a hand point to the wooded precipice 100 feet
down:—“She took a jump, and went down head first into the river—Bill and all.
The brakesman, he jumped off; but Bill was awful shook.”
“Not
killed?”
“Oh, no; he’s living down in Yale, serving out drugs—all right,
only his broken leg ain’t so long as the other.”
Pondering
on this remarkable story, and wondering at Bill’s good luck in escaping so
well, I travel a mile or two further, enjoying the soft night wind as it rushes
against my face, the odour of dewy leaves, the sound of rushing water, and the
beauty of that starry strip of sky above, in contrast with the dark mountain’s
edge—when suddenly, a series of sharp, pistol-like shots burst around us, and I
feel the brakes clasping. Another instant and we are enveloped in a fog, as it
seems to me, which rises all round us after a mysterious sound of rushing, that
has hardly ceased when we stop. A signal man comes forward out of the gloom,
holding his lamp aloft. The conductor is before us in an instant. “What is
wrong?” he asks. Only a little landslip, bringing gravel and stones on the
track, which have to be cleared before we can go on our way, but telling only
too plainly of possible danger to passengers on the cowcatcher, should one of
the larger stones, dislodged from the mountain side, throw our engine from the
track.
Pleasant was the warm brightness of the “Jamaica,” as I entered it at North
Bend, very hungry, somewhat tired, but triumphant. The Chief was
much interested in my account of the “front view,” as we sat talking; but I
grew drowsy in the middle of my story, and found myself wandering on about Bill
Jones engine, and the stars above the mountain, in a confused sort of way that
suggested it was time for tired travellers to go to bed.
Our
last day’s journey, from North Bend to Port Moody, is most interesting as well
as wild, varied, and very beautiful, 117 miles of canyon, valley, level meadow
and soft, rolling woodland,—all charming in bright sunlight, under a brilliant
sky.
The
constant succession of fine days and clear nights during our trip, which
occupied exactly a fortnight, is nothing remarkable in these latitudes. The
heartbreaking “wet summers” which are so common in Great Britain seem unknown here;
and during my 600 miles on the cowcatcher, except occasionally when the sun
shone hotly at midday, I never experienced any inconvenience from heat or cold.
From
Lytton to Port Hammond we follow the Fraser. As I write here in my quiet room, those grand gorges unfold before me
again as they did on the day I saw them, full of soft cloud-shadows moving over
mountain sides, of massive cliffs rising a hundred feet from the road-bed, crowned
with forest, of dashing wild waters hissing among huge boulders in depths
below. A softer landscape now lies before me, as I dream of graceful hillsides,
sloping to green meadows, and woodland glorious with the magnificent foliage of
British Columbia—of a great lake with park-like clumps of trees decking its
green islands,—of deep bays set in sylvan beauty, where tranquil water reflects
white cloudlets floating in the blue above, and toys with the delicate foliage
that rests on its fair bosom!—Just at such a spot we killed a pig. This was how it happened. Having been told that one of my chief
dangers on the buffer-beam was the possibly sudden arrival of an animal’s body
killed by the cowcatcher and thrown into my lap, I was always on the look-out
for such a catastrophe, and much consoled to find that when, as in the valley
of the Thompson, cows persisted in crossing our way, the engineer slackened
speed, and whistled until they disappeared. But this pig, evidently of a coy
and shrinking nature, did not reveal himself until death was close at hand.
With the “Secretary” on my “guest’s” candle-box, I was enjoying the beauty of
the scene just described, when the roadway immediately before us swarmed with
little black pigs, which had darted from bushes growing near the track. There
was a squeak, a flash of something near, and away we went, leaving one poor
little sacrificed beauty lying dead on the road behind us. The Secretary
averred that the body had struck him in passing; but as I shut my eyes tightly
almost as soon as the pigs appeared, I cannot bear testimony to the fact.
Yale beautifully situated on the Fraser. So near and precipitous
are the mountains here, that in twenty-one miles after leaving Yale we pass
through eighteen tunnels. Every turn was a picture, and every picture was new.
The morning air was sweet and pure; dew sparkled everywhere, and my only grief
was the prospect of ending our journey.
We passed many hamlets, chiefly composed of miners’ houses, and
many Chinese camps, on the gravelly shores of the Fraser far below, where the
Celestials were washing sand for gold, or drying salmon on queer racks made of
branches and logs, thrust into the lock crevices. Some of these “curing” places
were on a large scale, and hundreds of salmon, cut open and pressed flat,
dangled over the water.
At Harrison
Lake and Ruby Creek the scenery is especially beautiful. I think
it was near the former that, as we rounded a curve, Mount Baker suddenly
appeared on the horizon—14,000 feet of snowy shoulders, pink in sunlight, with
peaks like frozen breath rising straight into the sky.
Now nearly 3000
miles from our starting-point, Ottawa,
we are nearing Port Moody on Burrard Inlet, where, alas! I must bid good-bye to
candle-box and cowcatcher, and content myself with an easy-chair on the deck of
a steamer bound for Victoria.
The Canadian
Pacific line was not completed beyond Port Moody at the time I write of. Now it
has been carried forward fourteen miles further to its real terminus—and no
fairer spot can be found anywhere, I think, than the site of the infant city of
Vancouver.
On we go, speeding
forward to the coast, meeting the sweet breath of ocean mingled with rich scent
of pine boughs, then delicate tips waving welcome as we pass—on, on, steadily,
swiftly down to the sea! More speed, and we fly forward, past rock and river,
slope, grass-land, and lakelet; more speed, and the blending of forest colours
grows bewildering in the summer air; still more, and it is all one line of
mingled blues and greens as we sweep down to the sparkling beauty of that
distant ocean, and see the flash of its bright waters on the red sands of a bay
below!
Agnes Macdonald.
Mount
Robson, said to be the highest peak yet discovered in the Canadian Rockies, is
perhaps the most talked of mountain
in 
It was too slow a pace
for approach to the storied mountain, and the minutes passed wearily. The
superintendent came from his private compartment and we complained of the
delay in 
One thought had come
into mind at the moment the snowclad peak had peeped through the clouds. Awe
was there—scorn for the puny
things of men. And with it came almost a blush for the two men who dared to breast
that height. Kinney shows to the world an intrepid mountain climber, a man of
iron nerve and muscle and daring. But that first thrill of awe drove away even
respect for the man who would break through those clouds, drive his hob nails
into that virgin snow, glory in violating the mountain holy of holies. It was
temerity, not bravery.
