442 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Deo. 29, 1887. 



THE BOCK CLIMBERS. 



I. — BY ST. MARY'S LAKES. 



T AND of the Blackfoot, the Kootenay and the Stony! 



Once more ruy foot presses thy stubborn soil; once 

 more I breast the steeps of thy beetling- mountains; once 

 more sounds in my ear the roar of the blasts which rush 

 forth from thy storm-breeding gorges. Again I gaze 

 upon thy narrow wind-swept lakes, thy walls of rock, 

 thy glacier-bearing basins; again look up to the peaks 

 where dwell mid ice and snow and storm the agile sheep, 

 the slow-moving goat and the white-tailed ptarmigan; 

 again listen to the cries of the fowl that float upon thy 

 waters or soar above them. The trumpet tones of the 

 swans, the clangor of the geese, the whistling of the wild 

 ducks' wings, the wailing note of the sea gull and the 

 wild shriek of tho loon are sweet music to my ears. 



Since last I beheld thee many the moons that have 

 waxed and waned. Snows have fallen and melted, but 

 at length I am here once more. 



Well has the image of this land dwelt in my memory. 

 Mountain and valley, aspen-clad ridge and wooded point, 

 lake and stream — T recognize ye all. 



How often, hi dreams of the night or day, have I revis- 

 ited these scenes during the years that have passed since 

 last I left these happy shores. How often, in fancy, 

 have I seated myself on some rock on the point of old 

 Singleshot and gazed over the beautiful scene! The two 

 great lakes, the rocky walls of the sky-reaching moun- 

 tains which inclose them, the gray slide rock at my feet, 

 the brown expanse of level prairie at the Inlet, the dark 

 pine-clad foothills and the yellow grass of the little parks, 

 the matchless blue of the unclouded sky were all present 

 to my view as though they had been realities. From far 

 down the gorge at my feet I would seem to hear the faint 

 roll of the ruffed grouse, as he summoned — in vain at this 

 season — his harem to his side, and then, at first indistinct, 

 but each moment more plainly heard and calling all my 

 senses into alertness, would come the rattle of the shale 

 which told me that a sheep was picking its way with 

 dainty step over the slide rock, or was bounding with 

 nervous leaps from rock to rock up or down the moun- 

 tainside. But always before the crucial moment came 

 when the noble game should present itself to rhy eye, the 

 vision faded and I found that the St. Mary's Lakes were 

 far away. 



I have dreamed too of Swift Current; have viewed from 

 the crest of the Show Mountain that straight narrow 

 valley lying between frowning black precipices, patched? 

 here and there with snow; have looked upon its many 

 lakes and seen upon its mountain sides the white goats 

 feeding; have longed to reach its glaciers, hitherto 

 inaccessible to me, and have awakened to find that the 

 duties of a busy working w r orld must be taken up. 



Now all is changed. I drearn no longer. Before me 

 are the familiar scenes so often thought of. From where 

 I sit, I can see the lakes, the mountains, the peaks of 

 Swift Current with their white banks of snow and their 

 blue-tinted glaciers; can see where the stream debouches 

 into the valley of the St. Mary's River; know that within 

 ten miles of the cam p are sheep and goats; that in the lakes, 

 into which from my seat I can cast a pebble, are lurking 

 the great sullen trout; know in fine that all the opportu- 

 nities of which I have so often dreamed and for which I 

 have so longed are now before me. And this knowledge 

 gives me a thrill of delight so keen that its pleasure is 

 almost a pain, a delight of which I cannot speak without 

 seeming to exaggerate, and which will be comprehended 

 only by him to whom long association with the grandest 

 things in nature lias given a love for them which he can 

 never put into words. 



Land of the Blackfoot, the Kootenay, and the Stony, 

 well do I love thee. I love thy pleasant valleys, thy deep 

 blue lakes, thy rushing streams, but above all thy frown- 

 ing mountains. 



And first of all, to thee, the Chief Mountain, salutation 

 and reverence. AVonderful, sublime, unchanging, thy 

 dark head rises above the clouds, and overlooks the land. 

 Grim thou art and frowning; stem and forbidding 

 when the black storm clouds cluster about thy summit 

 and settle down over thy precipitous sides, yet canst thou 

 smile kindly beneath a calm blue sky or when the rays 

 of the rising or setting sun softly kiss thy peak and lend 

 a benignity to thy majestic grandeur. 



And beyond are other mountains; those about Swift 

 Current, Show Mountain and Appekunny's Mountain, 

 and a score of others. Then Flat Top and old Singleshot, 

 and Otu Komi and Goat Mountain, and Going to the Sun, 

 and across the lake Red Eagle and Little Chief, Kootenay 

 and Divide. To all of you salutation and reverence. Ye 

 stand as ye have ever stood and shall ever stand, firm 

 and immutable. Upon what scenes have ye looked? 

 What changes have gone on under your solemn eyes. 



Speak to us. Tell us of the past. Portray to us one 

 of the incidents that ye have beheld since the time 

 when, with fierce groanings and with labor that seemed 

 like the end of all things, our common mother bringing 

 forth fire and smoke gave birth to you, mighty ones. 

 Speak to us of those earlier days when strange beasts 



known to us only from their bones, browsed upon your 

 foothills, or clambered over the steeps which we now 

 traverse. Or tell us of later times when the people cov- 

 ered the prairie and the buffalo gave food for all, when 

 the smoke from the lodges rose by every stream, and 

 there was plenty in the land, before the report of a gun 

 had awakened ill-omened echoes, and when the white 

 face was unknown. 



Tell us of tho people, whence they came and how the 

 tribes were divided; what was their life in the ancient 

 days, how did they hunt, with whom warred they? Ye 

 have seen it all. Ye know, and if ye would reply, could 

 solve these mysteries, but ye are silent, or if ye speak, our 

 ears are too dull to comprehend your- answer. Of your 

 own history our eyes tell us something. We know that 

 those peaks now exalted to heaven were once the bottom 

 of the deepest ocean, and to-day, fastened in your rocks 

 we see the forms of .strange dwellers in those ancient 

 seas, perfect as they were in life. And on your slopes 

 portions of the shores of bays and estuaries are preserved, 

 and the marks of the ripples on the quiet beaches and the 

 cracks in the sun-dried mud still show the spot where 

 once the salt tide ebbed and flowed. But we would know 

 more than your history. We would know what ye have 

 seen, what has gone on before ye. We ask in vain. 



About a glowing camp-fire on the shores of the St. 

 Mary's Lakes are seated three persons well known to 

 the readers. They are H. G. Dulog, the Rhymer, 

 Appekunny, the Piegan, and Old Yo. Their camp is 

 pitched in a little grove of aspens close to a brook of clear 

 water. Behind them rise sharply the grass-covered hills, 

 and before them is the broad lake with the shadowy 

 mountains beyond. The flickering firelight plays on the 

 white tent and casts curious shadows among the trees 

 about it. It is very quiet; even the soft lipping of the 

 water on the pebbly beach, a sound seldom wanting in 

 this wind-swept valley, is stilled to-night. At intervals 

 the footfall of one of the horses is heard from the dark- 

 ness without the circle of firelight, or the swishing sound 

 of a picket rope dragged over the grass as one of them 

 shifts his position. The men are silent. It is the magic 

 hour after dinner, when, tired after a long day's march, 

 their appetites satisfied, they are content to sit still and 

 be lazy. 



The trip that has just begun has long been in the minds 

 of all of them, and now that what has been so often 

 talked and written about is before them, they are ponder- 

 ing over it, and one of them, at least, is wondering 

 whether their glowing anticipations are to be realized. 



To behold once more the beauties of these mountains, 

 to live over again for a little while, and in good company, 

 the old free life of other days, to take some.of the myriad 

 trout that swarm here, to kill a few wildfowl and 

 grouse, to clamber to the summits of these towering 

 peaks in pursuit of sheep and goats, and thus to regain 

 lost vigor — these are some of the motives that have 

 brought together this little eompany in their camp by the 

 St. Mary's Lakes. 



One face is missing that should be brightened by this 

 camp-fire; one eye keen to read the secrets of mountain 

 and plain does not gleam here; one arm, steady to hold 

 the rifle, casts no shadow. Where is that Skeedee chief? 

 Where is La-shar-u-kittibutz? Far away on the banks of 

 the Loup Fork, in the ancient home of his people, he sits 

 in his lodge alone. 



Some of the men had traveled far to reach this camp. 

 The Rhymer came from the west, from California, by 

 way of British Columbia, over the Canadian Pacific Rail- 

 road. From the south came Appekunny, that Piegan, 

 traveling on horseback over the yellow prairie, dotted 

 here and there with white buffalo skulls, headstones that 

 mark the resting places of a race once numerous, now 

 gone forever. Yo had come furthest of all, from the 

 Atlantic coast, by way of Montreal, over the Canadian 

 Pacific. Traveling nowadays is made so easy that, if one 

 but knows where he wants to go. his journey is a pleas- 

 ure rather than a fatigue. So even the railroad journey 

 had been delightful. The road, though it has only been 

 in operation two years, rides more smoothly and easily 

 than many an older one, and the comfortable. sleeping 

 cars are fitted up with all the most modern conveniences, 

 among which a bathroom is especially deserving of men- 

 tion. The excellent dining cars furnish capital meals, 

 and the service throughout is very good. 



The travelers by rail had met Appekunny at Lethbridge, 

 in Alberta, Northwest Territory, and there had left 

 civilization for their camp on the lakes. How delightful 

 it was to escape from the confinement of the cars, to 

 assist in packing the wagon, and at last to spring on the 

 back of a good horse — no matter if he does give occa- 

 sionally a spring to one side, as if he wished to get rid of 

 Iris rider— to round up the loose horses and mules and to 

 send them dashing along the road, away from the town, 

 down the valley, up the hill, and then out on the broad 

 prairie, while the slow wagon followed far behind. The 

 swift swinging gallop sends the blood coursing through 

 the veins with the speed of years ago, and the hurrying 

 herd in front calls up in one mind memories of other 

 days, when on a prairie far to the south and east two 

 men rode for a day and a half behind a band of horses, 



recovered from the cunning Sioux by a craft that matched] 

 their own. And then the lodges pitched among the wil-1 

 lows along the stream, the barking Indian dogs, the herds] 

 of ponies, the little parties of Bloods which they passed, J 

 and whose red or blue leggings and blankets biightened I 

 the. landscape, made the travelers forget for a moment I 

 the changes that had taken place in twenty years. For] 

 a moment they were young again. 



" Ha ! Penuk-wi-um , are you there ?" shouts Appekunny, 1 

 as they pass a lodge pitched close to the road, and a cry, 1 

 half a growl and half a roar, tells them that the fat chief \ 

 is within. They laugh merrily as they sweep on. They 

 have not forgotten how Penuk-wi-um killed the elk.* 



Five or six days' travel brought them to the lakes, and 

 now that their goal is reached, on this first night, before 

 they have fished or hunted, they recline a,t ease about the 

 fire, and this camp calls up memories of a hundred others, 

 which in past days have been pitched anywhere over this, 

 broad continent from the ice-bound north, south to the 

 tablelands of Mexico, and from the Atlantic on the one 

 side to the Pacific on the other. For these three men are 

 "old-timers" in the mountains. They have borne their 

 part in the development of the wonderful new West, and 

 the foot of one or other of the three has been the first to 

 penetrate into more than one corner of the land up to 

 that time unexplored. If the story of then- wanderings 

 could be fitly told it would form an interesting volume. 



The fire is burning low, and Appekunny rising throws 

 two or three sticks upon it, and the loose bark of the dry 

 aspen logs catches like tinder, burns up and makes a 

 cheerful light, which rouses the others from then- dream- 

 ing and the Rhymer asks: "What Indians besides the 

 Blackfoot nation are found here. Yo?" 



"In old times," he replied, "the Blackfeet claimed only 

 the prairie, and as long as there were plenty of buffalo 

 they hunted not at all or very little in the mountains. 

 The Kootenays, who are true mountain Indians, have 

 always hunted more or less here, and so have the Stonies, 

 whose agency now is north of Calgarry, but the Blackfeet 

 and the Sarcees are true plains Indian's and always 

 depended on the buffalo. When they went into the 

 mountains it was only to cross them when they went over 

 west to steal horses from the Kootenays or the Kallis- 

 pells." 



"What or who are the Sarcees?" said the Rhymer, "I 

 have often heard of them and of the Stonies, but I have 

 no idea what their relationships are, nor where they live." 



"The Sarcees," said Appekimny, "are a small tribe of 

 Athabaskan stock, like the Apaches, who have always 

 lived with the Blackfeet and under their protection. 

 They are prairie Indians, buffalo hunters. The Blackfeet 

 call them Sak-se-po-yet, short or heavy talkers, and this 

 name has been contracted to Sak-se, and by the whites 

 corrupted to Sarcee. The Stonies are called by the 

 Blackfeet Ok'-wi-tok-su-i-tup'-i, which means literally 

 Rock afoot persons, or those who walk on the rocks. 

 They are great mountain hunters, beating even the Koote- 

 nays. They are a band of the Assinaboine Sioux, and 

 speak essentially their language." 



"Have you ever heard that the Stonier had climbed to 

 the summit of Chief Mountain?" said Yo. 



"No," was the reply, "I have never heard any Indians 

 claim to have done that. The most I have ever heard on 

 that point was what old Back-in-sight, the Kootenay 

 chief, told us two years ago, when he said that many 

 years ago some of the Kootenays climbed it. But I fancy 

 that was only tradition, and may have been nothing 

 more than boasting," 



"By the way," he continued, "I have never told you of 

 that prayer to Chief Mountain that I heard old Eagle 

 Head make last winter." 

 "No, give it to us by all means" said Yo. 

 "Eagle Head," began Appekunny, "is an old warrior 

 of the E-nuk'-siks or "Small" band of the Piegans. He 

 is old, blind and tottering. Last winter I saw him sitting 

 outside of his lodge one warm pleasant day, looking 

 toward Chief Mountain, which, as you know, the Piegans 

 regard as one of the minor gods. After a little while he 

 began to pray, and the prayer seemed to me so forcible 

 and pathetic that I wrote it out. This is what he said: 



i ' 'Hear now, you Chief of Mountains, you who stand 

 foremost; listen, I say, to the mourning of the people. Now 

 are the days truly become evil and are not as they were 

 in ancient times. But you know. You have seen the 

 days. Under your fallen garments the years are buried. 

 Then were the days full of joy, for the buffalo covered 

 the prairie, and the people were content. Warm dwell- 

 ings had they then, soft robes for coverings, and the feast- 

 ing was without end. 



" "Hear now, you Mountain Chief. Listen, I say, to the 

 mourning of the people. Their dwellings and their rai- 

 ment now are made of strange thin stuff, and the long 

 days come and go without the feast, for our buffalo are 

 gone. Useless, indeed, the dram, for who would sing 

 and dance while hunger gnawed within him. 



'Like an old blind man your people feel their way 

 along, falling over unseen things, for the gods are angry. 

 In vain the usual offering to the Sun. Where now the 

 hundred tongues, the snow white robes which always 



* See Eohest and Stream, Vol. 2 VI., p. 434. 



