458 
FOREST 
AND 
STREAM 
OCTOBER, 1917 
THE GHOST-GOAT OF HOODOO CANYON 
NEWTON NEWKIRK RELATES HIS EXPERIENCES WITH A 
GHOST-GOAT IN THE HEART OF THE CANADIAN ROCKIES 
By NEWTON NEWKIRK 
P ARALLELING the main line oi the 
C. P. R., in its descent beyond the 
Canadian Rockies’ watershed, in Brit¬ 
ish Columbia, the Kicking Horse River 
kicks itself down the grade westward. 
At an isolated point on the railway here¬ 
abouts is a little red building close beside 
the track. This red building is perhaps 15 
The Hermit of Leanchoil gave Billy and 
me a joyous welcome when we rode in 
feet square, of only one story and two 
rooms. On the east and west ends of the 
building in big, white letters, which can be 
read by the nude eye for half a mile, is 
the word, “Leanchoil”—which means noth¬ 
ing in particular to me. This is not a sta¬ 
tion—it is merely a telegrapher’s coop, but 
the C. P. R., had to call it something. I’d 
have called it “Lonesome Box” if I’d been 
running the christening! 
Inside the red shack is a human being. 
He sleeps, cooks, eats, works and day¬ 
dreams month after month within that 2x4 
box. On two pegs above his clicking keys 
rests a rifle. Sometimes a moose, or a 
grizzly, or a goat, or a sheep, or a moun¬ 
tain lion tries to cross the track at this 
point. Sometimes the animal gets across 
the track and sometimes it does not. If 
not, then the telegrapher has moose, bear, 
goat, sheep or lion steak for supper! 
Now southward from Leanchoil about 15 
miles as the crow flies (unless the crow 
loops the loop and does a lot of side-trips 
on the wing) is the entrance to Hoodoo 
Canyon which is the particular Canyon 
where this tale took place. 
I have gone to all the above trouble to 
identify the exact spot, so that if you ever 
happen out that way and entertain any 
doubts as to the truth of this tale, you can 
verify the location. In other words, follow 
the Kicking Horse westward to Leanchoil, 
turn southward and travel for 15 miles, 
then face eastward and follow Hoodoo 
Canyon until you come to where everything 
I am going to relate happened ! 
When Billy McNeil (guide) put the 
brakes on our broncs and brought the pack- 
train to a stop at Leanchoil, the telegrapher 
rushed out with joy. He pulled Billy 
(whom he knew) off the lead-pony and 
hugged him. Then he grabbed me and I 
thought he was gonna kiss me!—but he 
didn’t. I’m pretty particular about lettin’ 
every strange man I meet kiss me, I’ll tell 
you those! 
The poor guy was only lonely, that was 
all. As he made a fuss over us a slimy 
lookin’ polkadot lizard crawled out from 
under the shack and I was just gonna step 
on it when he gimme a push. “Don’t you 
hurt my Lizzie!” he says pickin’ up the 
lizard and caressing her. “She’s one of my 
pets—ain’t you Lizzie?” he went on. Then 
I began to appreciate the poor guy’s isola¬ 
tion and felt sorry for him. When a man 
begins makin’ friends with first cousins of 
snakes and horned toads, I figure he must 
be some lonely. 
It was past 1 P. M., when we dragged 
ourselves away from Leanchoil and turned 
the heads of our cayuses southward for 
Hoodoo Canyon. It was 5 P. M., and the 
Canyon was in shadow before we stopped to 
make permanent camp beside a brook in the 
heart of the Hoodoo. Packs were unlim¬ 
bered from the ponies which were hobbled 
and turned loose to find their suppers. 
Billy selected a camp-site surrounded by 
good grazing. For the next hour we were 
so busy that I had hardly time to rubber 
up at the rough-stuff which hemmed in our 
little valley—the snow-capped summits of 
Some genius ought to invent a non-skid 
soap which can be safely stepped on 
the highest peaks were yet bathed in the 
dying sun, but down iu our snuggery the 
mid-October evening zephyrs which came 
creeping up the Canyon were not uncom¬ 
fortably cool as we worked at pitching the 
teepee, chopping wood and rustling supper. 
After darkness fell we built up a cheer¬ 
ful blaze in the center of the teepee, filled 
our pipes and lounged on our blankets be¬ 
side the camp-fire to discuss the hunting 
prospect. What I particularly hankered 
for was an old rip-snorter of a Rocky 
Mountain Goat. I made it plain to Billy 
that I didn’t come the distance I had for 
any average-sized goat, either—he must be 
the grand god-father of all B. C. goats with 
record horns and whiskers so long that it 
would be apparent he hadn’t had a shave in 
17 years!—no other goats need apply! 
I didn’t have much hope of a grizzly, 
because we were not in a very good grizzly 
country, but there is always a chance of 
stumbling on one of these monarchs of the 
rock-slides and my mind was fully made up 
that if a “griz” got to steppin’ on my heels 
too blamed gay, I would turn and rend him 
with my trusty 35-automat. 
Before turning in I went out to the brook 
for a drink. The lofty line of crags and 
peaks looked black and sinister against the 
scarcely less dark expanse of star-studded 
sky. What impressed me most was the 
ominous silence of the Canyon. The wind 
had died down to nothing—a vast hush 
hung on every hand—there seemed no liv¬ 
ing, breathing thing in this silent sepulcher, 
or, if there were, they were listening, as I 
was. It was a relief when from far up the 
Canyon there came to my ears the tiny 
starting of a rock-slide—the faint tinkle of 
pebbles at first, then the heavier bombard¬ 
ment of larger rocks dislodged as th$r 
bounded down the mountain side to find 
rest in the black depths. 
“Some ole goat,” whispers I to myself, 
“gettin’ up to turn ’round and lie down 
again, who didn’t watch his step. ‘Hoodoo 
Canyon’ is right!” Then I returned to the 
teepee and bunked up. 
Next morning I was up with the birds, 
but I guess Billy beat both the birds and 
me to it, for he had an outside fire going 
and was making ready to boil the coffee. 
When I went over the brook to wash my 
dirty face, I laid a cake of soap on a flat 
rock beside a pool and began rolling up my 
sleeves. Just as I got ’em rolled up I in¬ 
advertantly stepped on the cake of soap 
with a wet, slippery mocasin, described a 
curve in the air and sat down above my 
belt in water only 10 degrees above the 
freezing point! As I crawled dripping 
from the pool I caught site of Billy doubled 
up beside the fire like as if he had the 
cramps. Leaking like a sieve, I mozied 
over to him. “Are you sick?” says I. 
“No,” gasps Billy, “I’m not sick.” “Then 
wot are you crying about?” says I. “I’m 
not cryin’ neither,” says he; “I’m laffin’.” 
“Tell me wot you are laffin’ at so I can laff, 
too?” says I very severe. “Ain’t a cake of 
soap the slipperyest durn thing anyhow!” 
chortles Billy. “Aw, you go to blazes!” 
snaps I, then I backed up to the fire to 
get warm. Just for spite I resolved not to 
wash my face until the next morning. 
After breakfast Billy and I sat down on 
a log near camp and, with our glasses, gave 
Hoodoo Canyon a careful going over for 
I nearly sprained my eye-sight on the big¬ 
gest goat that ever wore whiskers 
