The Young Alaskans in the Rockies by Emerson Hough (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

wet as we can get anyway. There are no bad streams now, but the trail is awful of itself—side-hills and brûlè, and in and out of the water all along the lake side. But we’ve got to pass it some time. Suppose we make the best of a bad bargain, and see if we can get to the lower end of the lake to-day?”

The boys all agreed to this, and so the party pushed on, but they found later that the prediction of their leader was quite true, for none of them had ever seen so fearful a trail as that along the north shore of Moose Lake. But even as it grew darker in the deep valley at last they broke through the farther edge of the heaviest timber, picked their way through a wide strip of brûlè, crossed the last dangerous face of rock side, and emerged into an open area where some sort of camp at last was possible. Here they dismounted, all ready to agree that this was the worst day any of them had ever seen on the trail.

“Well,” said Uncle Dick, chuckling, “I pushed pretty hard to-day, but I had to make up for that lost day we spent hunting goats. To tell the truth, I didn’t think we could get this far on to-day, and so I just count we’re even on the goat-hunt. Besides, we are now past the worst part of our troubles. To-morrow I promise you something worth all the hard work we’ve undergone.”

“What’s that?” demanded Jesse. “Some more hunting?”

“Certainly not. You’ve another guess, Jesse. Something better than that.”

“You don’t mean sheep or grizzly?”

“Something bigger than grizzly, even.”

“That,” said Rob, “must be a mountain.”

“Quite right. I’m going to show you the greatest mountain in all the Canadian Rockies, and one of the greatest mountains on this continent. It isn’t known very much to-day, but soon Mount Robson will be one of the show-places of this whole country. The Indians have always called it the biggest of all these mountains, time out of mind.”

“What time shall we see it?” inquired Rob.

“That depends a great deal. It’ll be about fourteen miles down the trail to the Grand Fork Valley. Looking right up that, we’ll be staring into the face of old Robson. I only hope the rain will be done by that time, so that the sun will shine and give us a fair view. It’s very rarely that one ever sees Mount Robson clear to the top. But sufficient for to-day are the evils, I presume. Let’s see if we can make ourselves comfortable in camp to-night.”

“One thing,” said John, that night, “this horse business isn’t going to last forever. I hope the Canoe River isn’t as bad as the Fraser, for I’m getting ready to get into a boat once more. I’ve changed my mind a little.”

“I wonder where the Canoe River got its name, Uncle Dick?” queried Rob.

“That I cannot tell you. There are some canoes on the Fraser which came up from the Pacific way, and there are some canoe birches in these woods, this side of the summit. Now, whether some of the old traders one day made a birch-bark canoe and ran that stream I can’t tell. But that is the name given to it by the traders, and I suppose they got it from the earlier traders who crossed this country.

“John,” he added, “this is a hard place for you to bring up your map. I’ll excuse you from your map-making until we have a drier camp than this.”

XV THE GREAT MOUNTAIN

Happily on the next day the weather relented and the sun greeted them when they were ready for their breakfast, although all the trees were dripping wet. Uncle Dick was very much rejoiced.

“We’ll see Robson to-day if this sun holds,” said he. “Let’s hurry on.”

“There you go!” grumbled John. “Uncle Dick, you always are finding one reason or other for being in a hurry.”

“Well, everything in here is in a hurry,” was his uncle’s answer. “All the water’s in a hurry, and all the engineers are in a hurry. But, speaking of that, you may notice that below the lake here the slopes are not quite so steep. The river is getting wider. By and by it will be so tame that you really can run a boat on it. The Tête Jaune Cache was what you might call the head of water transportation on the west side—as far as the canoes dared attempt the Fraser going east. From the Tête Jaune Cache it is possible to make a canoe journey up and down the river between that point and Fort George, although every time one makes the journey he takes his own chances.”

“Is the Canoe River a very bad river, then?” demanded John.

“Well, as to that, she’s jammed and drifted and overhung and fast, but not so bad as the Peace River was in many places,” replied Uncle Dick. “I don’t think we need have much anxiety as to that part of our journey. At least, we’ll not worry about it yet, for worrying doesn’t get anybody anything. I only hope that Mount Robson will not put on his cap until we get down to the lower end of the Grand Fork Valley.”

They found their trail now as it had been described, less dangerous. Indeed, there was but one risky crossing, that of a rock slide which ran down sheer to the river-bank, where a misstep might have been fatal. They kept steadily on until at length they opened up the wide valley of the Grand Fork, a tributary which comes down from the great peaks which surround the noble mountain known as Robson.

When at last the full view up this valley unfolded before them they pulled up and paused, not saying a word. It was a wonderful sight that lay before them, one of the most wonderful in all the great Rockies. On every hand ran frowning slopes crowned with dark forest growth, flanked here and there by the yet darker shadows of the passing clouds. But towering above all, and dwarfing all rivalry, there stood before them one great, noble, white-topped peak, unshaded by any clouds. As the boys gazed at it instinctively they took off their caps.

“That’s Robson!” said Uncle Dick, smiling. “Any way you look at it it’s big. Here you see a sheer wall of bare rock, thousands of feet. The approach is steep as the roof of a house, as you can see. All over it in every little valley there are glaciers. Any way you approach it it’s hard going when you try to climb old Robson—’Yuh-hai-has-kun,’ the Indians called it, ‘the mountain with the stairs.’ But when they tried to climb it they never could quite find the stairs. So far no one has made the ascent.[1]