[Picture: Mount Stephen in the Rocky Mountains on the Line of the Canadian Pacific Railway]
Holt City is admirably located, to use an American phrase which I heartily detest. It is a clearance in the forest, bordered by the Bow River, which dashes foaming along. There is a shed, which does duty for a railway station; a collection of tents, in which the _employés_ of the company dwell, or which hold the large stores it collects here; a large shed for meals, a railway car, in which Mr. John Ross, the able administrator of the C.P.R. in these parts, resides with his accomplished wife; and further off are other tents, which do duty as hotels, billiard-rooms, and shops. Up here, I see little to remind me of the Old Country, except bottles of Stephens’ inks, of Aldersgate Street, London, which, says the head accountant, are the only inks on which they can rely.
We are in a valley—a valley high up among the mountains—as fair as that in which Rasselas studied to be a virtuous prince, but of a character common in the length and breadth of the Rockies. I have seen scores of valleys as fair; and yet I own the exquisite loveliness of the spot—at any rate, in summer time—is marvellous. Around me rise Alps on Alps, up into the cloudless blue. Firs, all larch and pine, in all the freshness of their new-found greenery, clothe their base; while the snow, in wreaths like marble, glistens on their dark sides or crowns their rugged peaks. It would seem as if there could be no world beyond. It is really wonderful what pleasant nooks of this kind one sees everywhere. I stopped at one such last night, a station called Canmore, which, however, seemed to be the fairest of them all—and so the fish think, as the station-master tells me he often catches speckled trout seven or eight pounds in weight. Very near are valuable sulphur and other springs, and when the railway shall be completed, I look forward to the time when Pullman cars shall come here laden with health seekers from all parts of the world, who are fond of fishing and fine air.
I had a narrow escape from not coming here at all. When we stopped at Canmore for our evening meal, I found I was utterly unable to climb back into the mail van. I may be young in heart, but, alas! I have lost somewhat of the agility of early youth. I mentioned this to the station-master and guard, who both promised me repeatedly that they would have the train drawn up for me. Knowing this, I listened unconcernedly to the cry of ‘All on board!’ Judge, then, of my horror when I saw the train gradually gliding past.