been highly successful, if one may judge by the present condition of the Stoneys, who are honest, truthful, and but little given to the vices of civilization. Even to this day the visitor may see them at Banff dressed in partly civilized, partly savage attire, or on rare occasions decked out in all the feathers and beaded belts and moccasins that go to make up the sum total of savage splendor.

Our attention comes at last to Dr. Hector, who was connected with the Palliser expedition. It is exceedingly unfortunate that the blue-book in which the vast amount of useful information and interesting adventure connected with this expedition is so clearly set forth should be now almost out of print. There are no available copies in the United States or Canada and but very few otherwise accessible. Dr. Hector followed up the Bow River and passed the region now occupied by Banff in the year 1858. He was accompanied by the persevering and ever popular botanist, Bourgeau. Under the magic spell of close observation and clear description, the most commonplace affairs assume an unusual interest in all of Dr. Hector’s reports. It is very evident that game was much more abundant in those early days than at present. For instance, Dr. Hector’s men shot two mountain sheep near the falls of the Bow River, which are but a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. Likewise when making a partial ascent of the Cascade Mountain, Dr. Hector came on a large herd of these noble animals, concerning which so many fabulous tales of their daring leaps down awful precipices have been told. He also mentions an interesting fact about the death of a mountain goat. An Indian had shot a goat when far up on the slope of Cascade Mountain, but the animal, though badly wounded, managed to work its way around to some inaccessible cliffs near the cascade. Here the poor animal lingered for seven days with no less than five bullets in its body, till at length death came and it fell headlong down the precipice.

Bow River and Cascade Mountain.

The climate of Banff during the months of July and August is almost perfection. The high altitude of 4500 feet above the sea-level renders the nights invariably cool and pleasant, while the mid-day heat rarely reaches 80° in the shade. There is but little rain during this period and in fact there are but two drawbacks,—mosquitoes and forest-fire smoke. The mosquitoes, however, are only troublesome in the deep woods or by the swampy tracts near the river. The smoke from forest fires frequently becomes so thick as to obscure the mountains and veil them in a yellow pall through which the sun shines with a weird light.

An effect of the high northern latitude of this part of the Rocky Mountains is to make the summer days very long. In June and early July the sun does not set till nine o’clock, and the twilight is so bright that fine print can be read out doors till eleven o’clock, and in fact there is more or less light at midnight.

In June and September one never knows what to expect in the way of weather. I shall give two examples which will set forth the possibilities of these months, though one must not imagine that they illustrate the ordinary course of events. In the summer of 1895, after having suffered from a long period of intensely hot weather in the east, I arrived at Banff on the 14th of June. It was snowing and the station platform was covered to a depth of six inches. The next day, however, I ascended Tunnel Mountain and found a most extraordinary combination of summer and winter effects. The snow still remained ten or twelve inches deep on the mountain sides, though it had already nearly disappeared in the valley. Under this wintry mantle were many varieties of beautiful flowers in full bloom, and, most conspicuous of all, wild roses in profusion, apparently uninjured by this unusually late snow-storm. I made a sad discovery near the top of the mountain. Seeing a little bird fly up from the ground apparently out from the snow, I examined more closely and observed a narrow snow-tunnel leading down to the ground. Removing the snow I found a nest containing four or five young birds all dead, their feeble spark of life chilled away by the damp snow, while the mother bird had been, even when I arrived, vainly trying to nurse them back to life.

This storm was said to be very unusual for the time of year. The poplar trees in full summer foliage suffered severely and were bent down to the ground in great arches, from which position they did not fully recover all summer, while the leaves were blighted by the frost. As a general rule, however, mountain trees and herbs possess an unusual vitality, and endure snow and frost or prolonged dry weather in a remarkable manner. The various flowers which were buried for a week by this late storm appeared bright and vigorous after a few warm days had removed the snow.

Toward the end of September, 1895, there were two or three days of exceptionally cold weather, the thermometer recording 6° Fahrenheit one morning. I made an ascent of Sulphur Mountain, a ridge rising about 3,000 feet above the valley, on the coldest day of that period. The sun shone out of a sky of the clearest blue without a single cloud except a few scattered wisps of cirrus here and there. The mountain summit is covered with a few straggling spruces which maintain a bare existence at this altitude. The whole summit of the mountain, the trees, and rocks were covered by a thick mantle of snow, dry and powdery by reason of the severe cold. The chill of the previous night had condensed a beautiful frost over the surface of the snow everywhere. Shining scales of transparent ice, thin as mica and some half-inch across, stood on edge at all possible angles and reflected the bright sunlight from thousands of brilliant surfaces. This little glimpse of winter was even more pleasing than the view from the summit, for the mountains near Banff do not afford the mountain climber grand panoramas or striking scenery. They tend to run in long regular ridges, uncrowned by glaciers or extensive snowfields.

A never failing source of amusement to the residents of Banff, as well as to those more experienced in mountain climbing, is afforded by those lately arrived but ambitious tourists who look up at the mountains as though they were little hills, and proceed forthwith to scale the very highest peak on the day of their arrival. A few years ago some gentlemen became possessed of a desire to ascend Cascade Mountain and set off with the intention of returning the next day at noon. Instead of following the advice of those who knew the best route, they would have it that a course over Stoney Squaw Mountain, an intervening high ridge, was far better. They returned three days later, after having wandered about in burnt timber so long that, begrimed with charcoal, they could not be recognized as white men. It is not known whether they ever so much as reached the base of Cascade Mountain, but it is certain that they retired to bed upon arriving at the hotel and remained there the greater part of the ensuing week.

Cascade Mountain, however, is a difficult mountain to ascend, not because there are steep cliffs or rough places to overcome, but because almost every one takes the wrong slope. This leads to a lofty escarpment, and just when the mountaineer hopes to find himself on the summit, the real mountain appears beyond, while a great gulf separates the two peaks and removes the possibility of making the ascent that day.

Banff, with its fine drives and beautiful scenery, its luxurious hotels and delightful climate, will ever enjoy