HUNTING THE BIGHORN IN BRITISH COLUMBIA. 



STANLEY WASHBURN. 



Away up in Northwestern Canada, over 

 ioo miles from the boundaries of civiliza- 

 tion, there is a region hemmed in by great 

 mountain ranges of rugged rocks and 

 snow-capped glaciers. Up to within a few 

 years this country had never been pene- 

 trated by white men, and even now there 

 are many valleys and inaccessible nooks 

 and corners that no human eye has ever 

 beheld. There mountain sheep dwell in 

 great bands, undisturbed by the rifle of the 

 hunter and the prying eye of the tourist. 

 Yet this security, which has sheltered the 

 timid sheep through numberless genera- 

 tions, is soon to pass forever before the 

 invasion of civilization and the still more 

 devastating advance of the lawless and 

 butchering bands of Indians that flood the 



to drink and on whose shores they bask in 

 the sun. A few hundred yards farther is 

 a sharp turn, and we stand on a ledge fall- 

 ing away hundreds of feet. Around the 

 base of this ledge foams a mountain 

 stream, turning sharply down the valley, 

 which stretches away at our feet. This is 

 the valley of the headwaters of the Bra- 

 zean, which has been entered by white men 

 but twice. A few years ago a party pushed 

 a short way down this stream, and last 

 summer it was again explored for some 40 

 or 50 miles by an expedition, of which I 

 was a member. Between the valleys of the 

 Saskatchewan and the Brazean there is a 

 pass, which has hitherto been supposed im- 

 passable, but which last summer was 

 crossed for the first time with pack horses. 



A VALLEY IN THE SHEEP HILLS. 

 150 miles North of Loggon, on the Canadian Pacific Railway. 



mountains every fall, slaughtering the 

 game in every direction. But even the In- 

 dian, who, with his squaw, papooses and 

 few ponies, penetrates well nigh every 

 nook and cranny in the mountains, has not 

 yet reached this country, with the excep- 

 tion of old Jimmie, who for years held the 

 secret of the passes in this district. 



In this vast region is a valley, within a 

 radius of 10 miles of which 3 great rivers 

 head — the Athabasca, pouring its waters 

 into the Arctic ocean ; the Saskatchewan, 

 which flows into Hudson's bay, and the 

 Brazean, tributary to the Saskatchewan. 



This valley is about 7 miles in length, 

 growing narrower and narrower toward 

 its upper end. Great barren peaks rise 

 sharply on both sides. At the head of this 

 valley is a little basin, perhaps half a mile 

 across. Nestled down amidst the rocks 

 and mossy, stunted foliage that one finds 

 above the timber line (for the altitude 

 there is over 6,000 feet) are a few cold, 

 clear pools where the mountain sheep love 



i6g 



In this defile one of the members of the 

 party shot one of the finest specimens of 

 mountain sheep I have ever seen. It was 

 early in the fall, and the rams were mov- 

 ing a good deal alone, as could easily be 

 seen from the frequent tracks of single 

 animals in the soft ground about the 

 pools and streams. About one o'clock the 

 outfit crossed the head of the Brazean, and 

 were wending their way along an old sheep 

 trail, winding among the great boulders 

 lodged on the side of the mountain. The 

 15 horses were strung out over a consider- 

 able distance, and the unevenness and 

 roughness of ground made it most difficult 

 for the pack animals to pick their way. At 

 a bend in the trail, on a pile of loose rock 

 and gravel not 100 yards away from the 

 first pack horse, lay a great ram, asleep in 

 the sun. In a moment we were all hurry- 

 ing to the front, unloosening our rifles and 

 filling our magazines as we ran. At the 

 unusual sound the ram was on his feet 

 with a bound. For a moment he stood, 



