Newfoundland to Cochin China

Soon we see the beginning of the glacier range, and feel the awe inspired by those eternal ice-bound regions where winter reigns for ever, and none can live, and where even nature cannot vegetate. The glaciers lie frozen on to their surface, finding foothold in a crevasse or basin, hollowed out probably by their own action. Under one of these glaciers lie the Trinity of Lakes, called the Lonely Lakes of the Rocky Mountains, one beneath the other, with Lake Agnes touched by the glacier. At Laggan we have a heavier engine attached, and extra bolts and brakes screwed on.

We begin the ascent of the Rockies; the crossing of the Great Divide. It is gradual and not nearly such a dramatic incident as the crossing of the Great Divide of the Americans. In fact, the gradients are so gently engineered that, though the engine makes a great noise about it, you scarcely believe you have reached the top, and are looking for something more exciting when you see the wooden arch at the summit, on which is inscribed "The Great Divide." In this case it alludes mockingly to the tiny stream which here divides and flows towards the Atlantic on one side, and the Pacific on the other. There is here a deep green lake, called Summit Lake.

We begin the descent by a succession of perfectly equal curves that incline first to the right and then to the left, bearing us downwards all the time. And now comes what is by far the most memorable scene in the Rockies. It is deeply impressive, and is only too swiftly passed. It is called the Kicking Horse Pass. We must turn for a moment from the sublime to the ridiculous for the origin of this name. When the party of surveyors reached the summit of the pass a white pony kicked off its pack. This gave it the name, which will now always cling to it. We cross the Wapta river on to its left side, and plunge wildly, recklessly, into a deep gorge. Deeper and deeper we rush down into the canyon, darker and more impressive the situation becomes as we cling to the mountain side, whilst the river tears down yet deeper than us, until it appears a caldron of foaming silver in the gloom at the bottom of the gorge. And, look, up on one side is a perpendicular mountain of which, so far down are we, we cannot see the summit; on the other, there are those supremely graceful spires of Cathedral Mount, pointing with silent finger to the sky. If you look down into that immensity of depth, and then up as far as the eye can reach, this is what you see. First, the silver river gleaming in its black channel; on a level and opposite to you a bank of bright green moss and ferns and tangled growth; then tiers and tiers of pine trees wending skywards, until they reach the base of the rock, whence spring those airy towers. The great Duomo head of Mount Stephen beyond forms a superb dome to these sentinel spires that are so light and gracefully poised in such close proximity to heaven. Straight, in front, and shutting in this marvellous gorge, is the angular peak of Mount Field. Just past the summit there are a number of graves of men who died of mountain fever, which broke out whilst they were making the line.

Mount Stephen, called after the first President of the Railway, Lord Mount-Stephen, absorbs our attention next. It is certainly the most superb mountain of the Rockies. On its "swelling shoulder" is seen a shining green glacier, "which is slowly pressing forward and over a vertical cliff of great height." The cyclopean masses of rock are richly veined in red and purple. As the train humbly creeps round the base, the summit is entirely lost to us. Opposite are the swelling mountains of the Van Horne range; they touch the muddy, shingly bed of a river.

We breakfast at the pretty hotel at Field, and feel disgusted that the claims of nature must be satisfied, whilst Mount Stephen in its glorious might and strength, and its limitless surface of adamantine rock, raises its hoary zenith immediately above us. We made the greatest mistake in not staying a day here, and, by ascending a neighbouring mountain, being still more impressed with its colossal proportions.

On leaving Field, we travel between the "orderly array of peaks of the two ranges of Otter-Tail and the Beaver Foots."

At Palliser, the driver allows us to ride on the engine through the Second Kicking Horse Pass. It runs madly down into growing darkness, closer and higher the mountains draw. The boiling river disputes the narrow chasm with us, and it is a hand-to-hand struggle in which the line has frequently to give up to the river, and to cross over from side to side to gain a footing. The engine tears wildly down hill, reeling round the sharp curves at an angle of 20°, with the train doubling itself. You cannot hear yourself speak for the noise of the foaming river and the panting of the engine. As we plunge into the dread darkness of a tunnel, the engine whistles, and the echo is dying, dying, dead, to us—as we are lost in blackness. It is wonderful to see the driver control this huge, puffing, black monster by a gentle pressure on two valve handles, which it resents with an indignant snort. We emerge into light and space again at Golden. We come suddenly back to a commonplace life, as represented by this wooden mining village. It is farewell to the Rockies.

I think most people have an idea that the engineering feats of the Pacific Railway were performed in the crossing of the Rockies. They do not realize, any more than we did, that we have another and far more difficult range to surmount, before reaching the Pacific coast. The Selkirk range is more beautiful and grander. It has more snow and glacier peaks than the Rockies.

We are in a green valley, with the Selkirks dimly seen to the left, whilst the Rockies are diminishing to a low range to the right, and we have found a new river in the broad Columbia. We are reminded that we have crossed the Great Dividing Watershed, for this river is running the opposite way down to the ocean.

It is but a short breathing space, for almost at once the mountains close together, and we are in another of those lovely gorges, each one of which, would make famous any railway. Through a perfectly formed natural gateway of rock, so narrow that it can be crossed by a slender sapling, the tempestuous waters of the Beaver River hurry to join the Columbia. This is a smiling little valley, full of blue-green pines, mingling with the tender greens of young poplars, and the yellow moss and lichens covering the rocks. From this valley we pass into the heart of the Selkirks.

We have become accustomed to the line climbing up the mountain side, and we can tell how rapidly we are now doing this by the dwindling of the Beaver River, by whose side we were a minute ago, and which is now far away down in the valley. Its pale green waters trace out the most perfect curves of the letter S, and flow in a park with pine woods. And it is all so far away—down, down—and would be such a terrific fall. Immediately opposite to us are the mountains, and we are equal to about half way up them, and through the haze they appear to us so very near, and so very large. The panorama is magnificent; the detailed picture is impressive, when, from gazing down boundless depths, the eye is lifted through miles of pine forests, up to grey crags, too high for vegetation.

Growing by the side of the line there are gigantic pines, Douglas fir and cedar. They are so straight, without curve, or be knot, that one cannot help thinking what splendid masts they would make for some big ship. Many of their tops are on a level with us, whilst, by peering down, we can with difficulty see their roots. But like all these Canadian forests, the finest trees are dismembered or mutilated by burning, and their graceful, fringe-like foliage is often brown and singed.

The railway is now going to cross several deep gullies on wooden trestle-bridges. These bridges appear frail and weak for the purpose, the valleys being deep, and the trains so heavy. They creak and groan ominously as the train passes on them. Water-butts and a watcher are stationed on them, in case of fire from a spark of the engine. The Stony Creek Bridge, over a sleep V-shaped valley, is one of the loftiest railway bridges in the world; hundreds of square yards of timber were used in its construction, and it rests on three piers, 295 feet above the ravine. We have enchanting peeps up these bright green gullies, with their noisy rills jumping and scrambling down anyhow, so long as they reach the bottom of the valley, and we rush to one side of the car to be pleased by this, and then to the other, to be frightened by gazing into space.

Roger's Pass, the culminating beauty of the Selkirks—named after the engineer—is approaching. There are two mountains, Mount Macdonald and Mount Hermit, but they are so mighty, that if you have not seen them you have no chance of picturing them to yourself. To give you some idea of their colossal proportions, Mount Macdonald is one mile and a quarter in a vertical line above the railway. The bottom is a stone's throw from the car. Mount Hermit is equal in size on the other side. These mountains were united, but some great convulsion of nature has split them apart. This is a moment in your existence, and you would give much to prolong it; the scene is indescribable. The other mountains of this pass are covered with snow, and seven or eight thousand feet above us are many glistening glaciers, pure as crystal.

It is sad that this part of the line is spoilt by the snow-sheds, constructed of massive timber, and into which we are shot and blinded with smoke and coal grit, emerging frequently to get glimpses of these wonderful mountains, with their pale-blue and green glaciers hanging above us,—glimpses which are imprinted on the memory for long, as we shoot into another of these exasperating snow-sheds. It is ungrateful to grumble at them, for the difficulties of this part of the line, with snow in winter, are enormous, and we must always bear in mind that were it not for the enterprise of the Company we should not at this moment be sitting comfortably in a car, passing through the finest scenery in the world. There may be grander, but it has yet to be discovered.

Emerging from Roger's Pass, by a deep bend on the mountain side, we have a sudden transition into the fir-clad valley of the Illicilliwaet, the river of this name far below, and for many miles seeking the bottom of the valley, the railway doing likewise. Straight ahead the white ghost of the great glacier of the Selkirks.

We left the train here, and stayed at the pretty Swiss chalet of the Glacier house. It lies half-way up the valley and under the glacier, with the hoary peak of Sir Donald frowning down on it.

The afternoon had cleared up, there was even a gleam of sunshine, and the first thing to do was to walk up to the Glacier, through a beautiful pine forest, whose interlacing branches are covered with hanging trails of white moss, resembling an old man's beard. The ground is soft, and covered with a bright-brown saw-dust from the decaying trunks that lie around. We cross the path of a mighty avalanche, which, sweeping down from a mountain below Sir Donald, hurled itself across the valley, huge rocks, trunks of trees and débris being piled across the pathway. The green moraine on the mountain shows how soon nature recoups herself. There are wild gooseberry and currant bushes, and we eat plentifully of wild raspberries and blueberries.

As you stand under the Glacier, you see that it has filled in the side between two mountains, and the white rounded outline at the summit is exquisitely pure. It is where it joins the crumbling moraine that it is most beautiful, because here there are caves of intense blue, of pale green, and of that indescribable opaque aquamarine, only seen in perfection in the horseshoe bend at Niagara. From these ice caverns, from under the glacier, torrents of water are always pouring forth. It is the echo from the mountains, that makes such a little volume of water cause such a roaring, rushing sound. Looking down in proud cold sadness on the glacier, is the blue-grey peak of Sir Donald. It is such a cold, unsympathetic peak, rearing its barren head so proudly above its compatriots. Facing homewards, there is that other snow-capped range, with Ross peak and an immense glacier on its shoulder. They are fields of ice and snow untrodden by the foot of man, and covered with eternal snows. As you look round this perfect valley, you are so shut out from the world, that you wonder how you ever entered it. The two iron bands at the platform by the hotel form the only link beyond those impassable walls.

A gentle gloom settles down over the valley. We stroll about after dinner, amidst the deathlike stillness of the mountains, broken only by the murmuring from out the darkness of the ice stream. Looming closely above us, overhanging as if it would slide down, is the dead and white ghost of the glacier. We sleep under its shadow.

The glorious morning sunshine is touching Sir Donald and the snow peaks, whilst the valley we are in lies so deep down, that it is still in shadow. The pleasure of awakening in such glorious surroundings makes us feel the pleasure of living.

We spend the morning in climbing a mountain to Mirror Lake, winding up and up in the shade Of the red-stemmed cedars, and at each precipitous curve, the snow-sheets on the line dwindle, and we seem to get more on a level with the surrounding mountains. The Ross Peak and Range look specially beautiful to-day. The crevasses are so strongly marked with blue shadows, the peaks are such a soft silver grey, and in the very bosom of Mount Ross is the virgin snow of a pure glacier, fit house for the Ice Maiden. I have never any wish to explore mountains such as these. There is a feeling that we desecrate them by trying to come nearer to them, and that nature never meant us to know them, except from below, and then only with admiration akin to awe. I like to feel that their summits are untrodden by human foot, that they have been so for ages, and will continue so until the end of time.

On descending, we were glad to find we had two more hours at Glacier, the west-bound train being late.

Directly the train leaves Glacier it begins to drop down into the valley below, by leaps and bounds, so quickly do we run from side to side of the valley by "the Loops." These Loops describe circles across the valley, and first we face and touch the base of the Ross Peak, then return, by doubling back a mile or more, until we lie under the Glacier House. We describe yet one more loop, and then the train shoots head-foremost into the valley. Looking back and marvelling how the train can possibly mount up this deep pine-filled ravine, you see the great gashes cut across it by the railway embankment. We are rushing downwards at great speed, but not at greater speed than the Illicilliwaet River, which races us. It foams and gushes as we steam and whistle, and so we go down the gorge together, until we are deep in the gloom of its cold shades. We thunder through snow-sheds and over delicate trestle-bridges until we are buried in the Albert Canyon. Here we get out to see the Illicilliwaet compressed into a rocky defile of inky depth and blackness. It foams with anger. We pass other and similar canyons, and so on for another hour, with ever varying and beautiful scenery.

Then a change creeps over the mountains, they are all round on their summits and mostly covered entirely with dense fir forests. There are no more rock and ice-bound peaks. They are opening out a little. Now, as we get lower down, we begin to see some specimens of those splendid fir trees, for which British Columbia is famous. Again, these dreadful forest fires have ravaged them. The river and railway have descended the valley together, and continue side by side on the plain, until at length the last curve is rounded, and we run into Revelstoke. As we walk on the platform we feel such a difference in the temperature. The Pacific air is so soft and warm after the keen dryness of the mountain atmosphere. We meet the Columbia River again after a day's absence. It has been flowing round the northern extremity of the Selkirks, whilst we have been crossing their summit, and has grown into a navigable river. The observation car is taken off, sure sign that the crossing of the Selkirks is a thing of the past.

Before finishing with this part of our travels, I should recommend anyone to profit by our experience, and to stay one day at Field, and to allow of sufficient time for two days at Glacier, as I think anyone would consider it quite worth while to take a freight train back to Golden, returning a second time over the Selkirks by the next day's train. There is a great want (which is, I believe, in process of being supplied) of a detailed guidebook, and by next year doubtless the increased traffic will warrant an additional train a day.

We think that we have seen the last of the mountains, but a few minutes after leaving Revelstoke, and crossing the Columbia, we are entering the Gold Range.

It is getting dusk, we are satiated with mountains, and I am as weary of writing about them as you, forbearing reader, of reading these descriptions. Night comes to relieve us both. One is glad, however, to think that this Gold Range "seems to have been provided by nature for the railway, in compensation perhaps for the enormous difficulties that had to be overcome in the Rockies and Selkirks." At Craigellachie the last spike of the Canadian Pacific Line was driven on November 7th, 1885. With what rejoicings and triumph the surveyors and engineers must have seen the finish of their long and desperate struggle. We pass through a forest fire this night, and see isolated trunks smouldering like fiery cones, whilst others in falling send out a shower of sparks, that kindle fresh flames in many places.

We awake the next morning in the Fraser Canyon, and are going through magnificent scenery for many hours. We hang over the side of the canyon, and look down on the waters swirling and rushing at our feet, whilst over and over again the rocks seem to bar our progress, and we either rush into a tunnel, or creep round them on ledges of rock with the help of trestle-bridges. Breakfast at North Bend, like everything that the C.P.R. does, is excellent, for when they are not able to run a dining car over the mountains, they provide excellent meals at hotels, such as this, and those at Field and Glacier, all of which are run by the company.

We fly over the fertile plains of Columbia, and run on to Burrard's Inlet by Port Moody. This is the beginning of the sea,—so soon to be our home for some time. We see much lumber lying about the low wooded banks opposite, and floating by the shore. We turn a corner, run quickly by the railway workshops, and amidst clouds of dust reach Vancouver. It is a great comfort to wash, unpack, and to settle down for two quiet days.

"And what do you think of our city?" is the question addressed to all newcomers by the residents of Vancouver. This question is the invariable opening to a conversation, we have noticed, by the residents of all new cities. In this case it is very pardonable, as five years ago the site of Vancouver was a smoking plain. A fire had swept away the newly-risen city. As soon as it was known that the C.P.R. intended Vancouver to be the terminus to their 3000 miles of railway, building recommenced with renewed vigour. Like everyone else, we are astonished by the number of streets and handsome stone buildings. The vacant building sites that we see amongst them, are the object of much booming and land speculation. Cordova is now the principal street, but, as it is low down on the wharf, at no distant date it will probably be abandoned to offices and wholesale warehouses, whilst Hastings Street, on the block higher up, will be the fashionable avenue. Real Estate offices abound in Vancouver, and everyone appears to dabble more or less in land speculation. Newcomers are always bitten, and up to the moment of sailing we hesitated (but finally rejected) about becoming possessors of a corner block in Cordova Street. There have been many successful speculations and large sums made in an incredibly short space of time. Ten per cent. is what everybody expects on their investments. Opinions are still divided as to whether Vancouver really has so great a future before it. Some say it is already over-built.

The harbour of Vancouver is thought sufficiently beautiful to be compared to that of Sydney. It is a perfect site for a city, with the wooded ranges of mountains rising on the further shore of the harbour, though it was not until sunset of the second day of our arrival, that the clouds rolled away sufficiently for us to see them. The two peaks, called the Lions, are wonderfully faithful outlines of the lions in Trafalgar Square. The Indian Mission village lying under the mountains, looks clean and bright.

Vancouver has a beautiful park. We drove eight miles round one afternoon and were delighted with it. It is the virgin forest preserved in its natural forest glades, with magnificent Douglas firs, spruce, white pine, cypress, aspen poplar, mountain ash, and giant cedar, whilst bracken ferns and moss grow luxuriantly on the decaying trunks. The road is traced by the side of the sea and English Bay, and the smell of the salt water mingles with the fragrance of the pines and cedars. Some of these pines are colossal in girth and height, though not equal to the big trees of the Yosemite. The cedars are great in circumference, but not of such height, and the finest specimens are sadly mutilated by lightning.

The seeds of eternal enmity were sown between Vancouver and Victoria when the former became the port of the railway. This animosity is carried to great extremes. A Victoria man will not ensure his life in a Vancouver office. Sarah Bernhardt is coming here next week, but because she refused the Victorians' offer of $1000 more, Victoria has determined to boycott the performance at Vancouver, and make it a failure. Their childish jealousy may be likened to that between Melbourne and Sydney, and Toronto and Montreal. We are sorry not to have time to go to Victoria. I believe it is very pretty, for everybody out here has said: "Oh! you must see Victoria, it is so pretty, and so very English." This, abroad, is not precisely a recommendation in our eyes.

Our last afternoon in Vancouver, we went across to Burrard's Inlet, to see the Moodyville Saw Mills. The enormous trunks are raised, attached to hooks, by a pulley out of the water on one side, passed under a saw whose two wheels whirl through and cut up the timber in a few minutes. It is sawn into three planks by another machine, laid on rollers, passed down on the other side of the mill and shipped into the steamer loading at the wharf. In three minutes a tree that has taken 300 years to grow (you can reckon its age, if you have patience, in the concentric rings on the trunk), will be sawn up; in fifteen minutes it will be cut, planed and shipped. The trees we saw operated on were chiefly Oregon pines.

Before leaving Canadian soil, there are several things to mention, which we have observed in travelling across the continent. Canada is in many ways quite as much American as English. They have the American system at hotels of making a fixed and inclusive charge of from three to four dollars per day. They also have the varied ménu, which I counted at one hotel to include fifty items. True, Oolong, Ceylon, besides English breakfast, tea, and fancy bread of all sorts, is put down to swell the items. Still we have often wished that the assortment of food was smaller, but better served. The Canadians use as much ice water, and consume as largely of fruit at all meals, as the Americans. Carriages are as expensive as in America, the reason being that tramways and electric cars are universally used as means of locomotion. Their railway system of drawing-room cars, sleepers, and dining cars are identical. Nor can their mode of speech be wholly excepted, for true born and bred Canadian often speaks with an equally pronounced accent as any American, and makes use of many of their expressions, such as "on such a street, a dry-goods store," etc.

In the universal and domestic use of electric light, Canada, like America, is twenty years ahead of us. Each little city has it, but then this is a new country and there are no great monopolies as in England to be considered. It is the same with the telephone. All public buildings, offices, shops, and almost every private house in a city has its telephone. A great amount of business is transacted through it, and ladies use it for their daily orders to tradesmen. The convenience is great, but the incessant tinkling of the bell invades the sanctity of home, viz. privacy. A lady recently arrived from England rightly called it "the scourge of the country."