Turn east again, across a labyrinth of mountain and forest. A blast of hot air rises from one spot—a highly effective kind of hot air, too. That smelter pours out sixty million pounds of refined zinc in a year—nearly the whole zinc production of Canada.
That broad valley where two rivers meet, the Columbia and the Kootenay, was filled with dense jungle a few years ago. It has been transformed into a garden, by the co-operative industry of the Doukhobors. This is the headquarters of their community. That black snake winding for miles up to the head of a waterfall is their new irrigation pipe-line, and that big building beside the railway is their jam factory.
Higher, now! Ten thousand feet up, and still we have to twist and turn to avoid the higher peaks. We are nearing the Great Divide of the Continent. A sea of Rocky Mountains, piercing the azure sky with spires and domes and pyramids of white and grey, till sunset magic changes all to flaming red; mountains towering over glaciers and snowfields, which pour their torrents down through pine-clad glens and dark ravines. A lake of brilliant blue, set in a royal ring of snow-soft pearls and glacial diamonds. That is Lake Louise: many travellers call it the most beautiful spot in this rich land of beauties. More lakes, more cataracts, more glaciers, more peaks that pierce the sky; a land of myriad marvels; a treasure house of all that is grand and beautiful.
The crack of a rifle, and a mountain lion rolls down the slope, as the echo volleys from cliff to cliff. The big-game hunter’s paradise, this; the paradise of tourists, alpine climbers, artists, and all who cannot be satisfied with anything short of perfection.
“I have been there and still would go, It’s like a little heaven below.”
Hundreds of peaks have never yet been climbed, and many daring alpinists come in every year to win fresh victories over the mountains, with the help of Swiss guides who live in those picturesque chalets perched on a height overlooking the Columbia, back there at Golden.
We are not the only navigators of the upper air to enjoy this bird’s-eye view of the earthly paradise. As we glide down the eastern slope of the mountains another airplane sweeps up to meet us—and now it is past and away to patrol the high forest. It comes from High River, near the Prince of Wales’s Canadian home. There, as well as at Winnipeg and Vancouver, the Department of National Defence keeps up stations of the Royal Canadian Air Force. Its fliers carry out many useful operations, such as patrolling the coast against drug and liquor smuggling and illegal fishing; carrying surveyors and their supplies, and treaty money for Indian tribes; aerial photography, especially for the survey of water-powers; and, most of all, patrolling the forest on the watch against fires. Many a fire that might have done untold mischief has thus been discovered and checked before it could get beyond control. By wireless telephone a flying plane has sent back word of such a fire to the station 190 miles away.