FIVE WOMEN ON THE TRAIL

BY ZEPHINE HUMPHREY

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARY W. ADAMS

HE tourists on the earlymorning eastboundtrain, pulling into Lag-gan one July day,thanked their lucky starswhen they swarmed outon the station platform,

according to their inquiring wont, and founda pack train in preparation. At once theyadjusted their cameras and formed in asemi-circle about the scattered piles of"outfit." "Who—where—why—howlong?" began their excited questions, whiletheir eyes stared round and eager. For mypart, I could not find it in my heart to re-sent their intrusive curiosity; I, too, waslost in wonder. Of this pack train I formeda part, and I was presently going off with iton a three weeks' trip into the wilderness.

There were five of us in the party, fivewomen and two guides. A saddle-ponyapiece of course, and five pack-horses,making a cavalcade of twelve. Even inthis unconventional region of freedom andenterprise, the Amazonian proceeding wascounted sufficiently eccentric, and our famehad spread through the hotels. "What!Not a man in the party? Dear, dear!"with politely puzzled and ominous shak-ings of the head. But Mr. Weston and Mr.Cobell, our two guides, glanced a shrewdamusement at each other when these mis-givings came their way. Perhaps theyshared them, with a different emphasis.

It was all a matter of dream and unbeliefto me; I was passive in the energetic handsof startling circumstance. To be lifted outof a quiet existence in decorous New Eng-

land and transported to this amazingregion was as if one had died and gone— no,not to Heaven, but to Walhalla, sloughingoff eras and civilizations as well as localities.I had never had the least belief in the wholeexperience from the time Doe had said tome, in the spring, in New York: "Whydon't you come to the Canadian Rockieswith me this summer?" and I, opening mymouth to deprecate the impossible sugges-tion, had surprised myself by replying:"Why not!"

The curious wardrobes which we hadpurchased shortly thereafter, had notdispelled my illusion. Such astonishinggarments! First there had been thewaterproof boots, enormous constructionsof pale green leather, which laced almost tothe knees. It is not an easy matter, itseems, to find waterproof boots which aretrue to their name, but Doe had worn thisparticular variety before, and she knewthat they would not leak. She was alsoexperienced enough to purchase them of acapable size, sufficient to contain comfort-ably several layers of heavy stocking. Thesoles were nearly an inch thick and wereclosely hobnailed.

The material for our skirts and knicker-bockers we selected after much thought.Doe's was brown woolen gabardine andmine gray cotton ditto. I should not makethe choice again; I found the fabric toolight and too stiff. Much more acceptableseemed to me the heavy men's suiting ofwhich the skirts of our three companionswere made. But Doe was satisfied withher selection, and would make it again.The pattern on which the skirts were con-structed was that set forth by Mrs. Setonin " A Woman Tenderfoot." Not a dividedskirt at all, but an ordinary straight, short

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skirt, made to open behind and before in adouble-breasted manner, almost to thewaist. In the saddle, the two sides of theskirt fall open across the horse; in camp, bymeans of a series of little-clasps, the skirt isclosed and becomes a walking costume.Doe and I described this arrangement toour tailor, and he apprehended the notionshrewdly, adding a useful detail of his owninvention in the shape of tapes inside theskirt to go around the knee. Doe had aloose box jacket made of the same materialas her skirt, and she found it quite invalu-able—waterproof, light, and warm. I con-tented myself with a sweater, but anothertime I should have a jacket, too, or, better,a buskskin coat.

Our waists were made of plain grayflannel, cut long and straight, with nowaist-bands low, turnover collars, andbright ties for sole adornment. Flannel isthe only stuff for wilderness shirtwaists; itis warmer in cold weather and cooler in hotthan any other fabric, and is easily washed.

A rubber poncho we had apiece, and aduffle-bag. Other minor articles I shallmention further on in my narrative. Thechief garments have been described.

Fortunately I live in a village where theCanadian Rockies are as little known as themountains of the moon. I had thereforeeverything in the way of comment to helpout my sense of illusion and nothing toprecipitate my great vague expectations.The sedate New England community heldup hands of horror. The Canadian Rockies!Where, what are they? In the face of thegeneral bewilderment, I obligingly strovefor explicitness, laying the stress now onthe Rocky Mountains, now on Canada, withthe result that the Saint Lawrence Riverfrantically forced its way through Coloradoin the distressed imaginations of my audi-tors. Then, when, as a last resort, Iadded: "Just above Idaho, you know," theconfusion was complete. I began to losemy own geographical bearings, so recentlyacquired, and was more than ever con-vinced that this thing could not be, thisdeparture into strange unknown lands,enchanted, beyond the world.

When we stood on the shore of LakeLouise, I was no further awakened. It isdifficult to describe the effect of thoseWestern mountains. Apply a New Eng-land vocabulary to the Canadian Rockies,

and you have at first a silence. One isobliged to discard all one's accustomedphrases and let the mind lie open and bare,to be informed anew. Which experienceis in itself of course sufficiently refreshing.

They are not sentimental mountains atall: they did not encourage the reveries towhich I have always been prone. I satmyself down before them at once, to takethem with meditation (poor little lost mind,casting about for its usual customs!), butthey refused to be taken. Instead, theythreatened to overwhelm me, thrusting andstriding about the sky in such bold, brokenlines, looming so terribly near and vast,their gaunt sides sheer and rugged. "Ho!what are you, little creature?" they said."Sitting and doing nothing down there!Wait till we step upon you!" And a greatavalanche boomed and thundered down theside of Victoria. I jumped to my feet in aterrible hurry, and went and sought outDoe.

"Doe, can't we climb a mountain, ride ahorse, or do something?"

And Doe smiled her most exquisite smile.Who should understand better than she theworkings of the vigorous mountains?

"I thought so," she said. "We'll go onto Glacier, and get a guide, and climbAfton."

Which we proceeded to do.That was the way to take them, it seemed

—so far as one little human mind couldhope to take them at all. Their threaten-ing manner disappeared, and they becamehigh summoning comrades, urging us, lur-ing us on our way, as we climbed up amongthem. Such crowds of them, such closecompanies, with only the sheerest, narrow-est valleys to part them one from other!We seemed to be climbing them all at once,they approached and presided so. Im-patient, imperial creatures, they, youngand untamed to submission. They shakeoff the forest about their knees, and thesnow from their steep crests. But theglaciers cling with a crawling persistence,overhanging the sheer abysses, edging theirtortuous way. And the forest, too, has asavage will which can often not be denied.Gaunt and ragged, it winds its way up overthe lower rocky slopes, covering them witha dark green verdure, which is not soft likeour Eastern woods, but which suits themountains well. A strange forest, like all

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the strange land. At first I could notremember what it was of which it remindedme, but I finally knew it was Dante's"selva oscura." So dark and harsh, withthe long straight lines of the sprucesdensely marking the shadows, and blackstrings of matted moss hanging from treeto tree—one might well find one's way fromsuch direful haunts to the infernal regions.Yet the beauty of Dante was likewise there,the hovering lure of mystery, vanishing,persistent. It was also like the Morte d'Ar-thur, the enchantments of Merlin. And,of course, it was like the Nibelungenlied.Many old stories of mankind began to tellthemselves over to me with a new meaning,as I climbed those rough and difficult ways,among those towering crags. How I wishedI were Madame Nordica, to give theWalküre's cry!

But better still than the climbing ofmountains was the rare opportunity whichcame to us presently. Mrs. Selwin, afriend of Doe's, had been a frequenter of theCanadian Rockies for some fifteen years.All the usual short trips she had taken,some of them several times. Now at last

her ambition was shaping itself for an en-terprise hitherto untried by the femininetourist. She was going north to theKootenay Plains, over the Pipestone Pass.Two friends had agreed to accompany her;would Doe and I also come along and sharethe fine adventure? Would we! Doe'seyes sparkled, as she turned away from thetelephone, having received the excitingmessage. But I—what a doubtful tender-foot! She shook her head over me for twohours before I could persuade her of mysufficient prowess, and even then she con-sented merely because she is one of thoserare and priceless friends who understandthe glorious necessity of taking risks in thisworld. She ordered a horse, and bade meride, until I was black and blue and lameand stiff and aching in every joint. It ismy first and last advice to anyone intendinga trip to the Canadian Rockies: learn howto ride in time.

Through these various circumstances, itcame about that we sat on the edge of theplatform, waiting, on the July morning ofwhich I have spoken, while the outfit wasmade ready.

The other horses wandered away in unconcerned happy company.

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My duffle-bag I had packed the night be-fore, sternly superintended by Doe. Notmore than two garments of any kind—savehandkerchiefs—would she allow me, andgenerally it was one sole representative ofits order which was shaken down into thecanvas depths.

"We shall wash them in rivers now andthen," Doe commented briefly. "Andanyway——"

Yes, and anyway—! That was the truecamp spirit.

A pair of winter flannels I had, a pair ofbed socks, and a heavy bathrobe. Thatwas to be my sleeping costume. Then anextra flannel waist, and a change of under-clothes. A pair of old low shoes for camp—most essential articles. A pair of heavyknitted woolen stockings. The barestnecessities of the toilet in the matter ofimplements. Doe laughed at me much onaccount of my celluloid mirror and my nailscissors; and I may as well confess that Ipromptly lost the latter and that theformer became so marred with cracks acrossit in every direction that it was of small use.Doe's own mirror was just two inches indiameter, and it served her perfectly. Ihad two cakes of soap, one for toilet use andone for laundry work. Another time Ishould take two of the latter and a packageof borax to soften the hard water. Aliberal jar of cold cream I had, but camphorice would have been better. Talcumpowder; a flask of whiskey; a handy sew-ing kit. My poncho and sweater I hadkept out to tie on my saddle, as the skiesthreatened rain. Verily here was theSimple Life, I thought, as I surveyed thelong slender bag lying among the outfit,and knew that it held all my worldlypossessions for a matter of three weeks.

The rest of the outfit was, however, ap-parently not so simple. Its preparation,of course, had devolved largely on Mr.Weston. The luxurious tourist nowadayshas only to engage a guide and hand allfurther care over to him. Some statementof personal tastes there may be, but withinstrict limits, for camp food possibilities donot run the range of the markets. Theplatform groaned with our impedimenta.There were sacks of flour, pieces of bacon,cans of meat and vegetables, bags of riceand coffee and tea and beans and sugar andsalt and dried fruit, jars of marmalade, cans

of cream; blankets, blankets—such piles ofthem!—three tents, five duffle-bags, kettlesand fry-pans, a tin reflector oven, a box oftin tableware. How was it possible thatthis confusion could be reduced to the com-pass of five packs? The process was, in-deed, not immediate, and the train boreaway the reluctant tourists, craning theirnecks back out of the windows, before wewere ready to start.

It was a picturesque sight enough, andone most typical of this strange West intowhich I had been enchanted. One by one,the pack-horses came up, resignation intheir wise faces, and planted their sturdy-feet far apart for the familiar ordeal ofloading. A careful adjustment there mustbe, an exact balancing. A hundred-poundsaddle-bag on one side; very well, then, ahundred-pound saddle-bag on the other,with a firm pile of blankets between, andthe whole structure covered with a pack-mantle and strapped and roped andprodded and squeezed until no wonder thepoor beasts groaned. Then they wereturned aside to wait, their brown bulgingloads overhanging their strong little legs,and their heads looking out like turtles' infront, observing the further proceedings.Meantime Mr. Weston, in fringed buckskincoat and high-laced boots over browntrousers, kept up a steady fire of joke andcomment with those who surrounded him—with Mrs. Selwin, and the railroad men, anda guide or two who had paused to see thisparty take its way out. The very salt ofthe Western humor was on those unsmilinglips.

Mr. Cobell nodded appreciatively nowand then at some of the more outrageousstatements of his comrade, but he said littlehimself. Such attention as he had tobestow on anything but the work in handhe devoted to Lulu, his little dog, whom hewas going to take with us. The gentlecreature had never been on the trail before,and she was already perplexed and uneasyat the strange preparations. Inquiringlyshe roamed about among the piles of out-fit, seeking us out one by one, lookingwistfully up in our faces. I acknowledgeda faint foreboding stir of sympathy with thelittle beast, as I observed her disquietude,and I patted her head when she came myway. But Gypsy seized her, and knockedher down, and dragged her back and forth,

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and, as that is the way a dog should betreated, her spirits revived at once.

Gypsy and Britannia, Mrs. Selwin, Doeand I—we were the five adventurouswomen, we were the bold, brave ones. Wescrutinized each other politely, trying toget our bearings. I thought, how well weshould know one another after a day ortwo. But that supposition was only apart of my general ignorance. Anyonewho has camped out knows that peoplemay live together in the wilderness weekafter week, and yet not necessarily toucheach other's real lives at all. Is it that the

All aboard—what that meant, to besure! To set one's face away from theworld of people and things, out toward thesilent wilderness where vastness broods andsolitude lurks, where the mountains andforests have their way in sovereignty un-disputed. No wonder my little NewEngland breath came quite short with awe.

Not the least interesting members of our party were the pack-horses.

vast solitude works an individual isolation?Or that the experience is, in truth, some-thing so apart from the regular order thatwe are not ourselves while it lasts?

"All aboard!" came the cry at last, andwe ran and mounted our horses. My horsewas Eagle Plume, tall and thin, verycautious, very grave. Doe's was Grass-hopper, short and jolly. Mrs. Selwin hadEva, her fat white pet of two seasons' ex-perience. Britannia rode a mottled beast,aptly named Gravy. And Gypsy bestrodeQueeny.

that not the least interesting membersof our party were the pack-horses. Tom-my, Baldy, Hogback, Pinto and Paddywere their euphonious names, and theywere all characters. Tommy was born forleadership. He was a horse inexpressiblydroll in his look and manner. His thinbrown ears had once been pierced, whetherfor some legitimate purpose, or in merecowboy jesting, I do not know; and he hadever since gone catching them disastrouslyon trees, so that now they surmounted hiswise face in a ragged and airy condition

II

THE HORSES

We had not been out on the trail aday before it became apparent to us

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which gave him a court-jester sort of ap-pearance. The other horses cherished himkindly and obeyed him all too well.

"If Tommy can get one horse to followhim—and he always can—" Mr. Westonremarked, as he hobbled the brown frontlegs one evening on the edge of the camp,"there's nothing he won't do."

Baldy had a stringy white mane and awhite rim to his eyes. His expression wasone of profound anxiety, and he was givento the conviction that he knew a betterway through the woods than that whichthe trail indicated. So that he was con-tinually charging off on independent ad-ventures, his pack catching and scrapingamong the trees, his eyes very staring andearnest. But, fortunately, he was noleader, and the other horses tolerantlyignored his eccentric experiments.

Hogback, or Hoggy, was possessed ofan ostentatious resignation. Round andwhite and comfortable, he had a way ofgiving smothered vent to patient, inwardlamentations over the hardship of his lotwhenever any ear came his way. Left tohimself, he was quite cheerful, jogging hisfat little body along over the trail withalacrity. But, closing up with the rest ofthe party, he would begin to roll his eyes,drooping their white lids wearily, and tofetch deep sighs and groans from hiswronged and outraged inwards. His ex-pression while he was doing this was one ofsuch smug and pious forbearance that weall turned to look and laugh. But even ourridicule he endured, sighing only a littlemore deeply.

All the pack-horses had been over thistrail before and they knew it well, bettereven than Mr. Weston and Mr. Cobell.Often and often they set us right when theway was uncertain. In fact, I think theyregarded themselves as our natural guidesand protectors, and though they humblybrought up the rear when the trail lay open,a hint of trouble called them forward. Iremember well how we came to a halt oneday on the edge of the Pipestone creek.The trail led through the water before us,but the stream had deepened lately andwas now beyond our depth in this spot.Mr. Weston and Mr. Cobell went on a littleway to find a suitable ford. Immediatelyup came Tommy, his ragged ears cockedand knowing. "Lost again?" his expres-

sion said. "Well, follow me." And downhe plumped into the deep water, his pack,with our provisions and blankets, goingentirely under. We called, we com-manded, it was no use; down went Pintoobediently, and after him down wentHoggy. Mr. Weston reached us in timeto restrain Baldy and Paddy, but the harmwas largely done. Alas for our salt andmatches! Nothing could excel the com-placent satisfaction with which Tommyemerged on the opposite bank and walkedoff, dripping, along the trail, our guideand rescuer. He was probably disgustedenough when he saw us cut across theillegitimate trackless waste and rejoin himfarther on.

On another occasion we came to a pauseon the banks of a weltering flood. Thetrail had disappeared.

"Must be across the river, I think," saidMr. Weston ruefully.

He spurred his horse into the rushingstream and fought his way across. We,watching behind, observed with concernhow the current swept against the pony'sside, rising to his haunches, and we beganto tuck up our skirts and take our feet outof the stirrups.

"Yes"—more rueful than ever, Mr. Wes-ton returned—"I'm afraid there's no helpfor it. Put your feet up behind as high asyou can, and hold your horses' heads up-stream, and follow where I lead."

It was as curious a sensation as I haveever had in my life to be out in the midstof that torrent. All the universe was sud-denly in swift motion. Eagle Plume and Iseemed to be gliding rapidly up-stream,while the river slipped away from us in theopposite direction. As for the banks, theyreeled and circled. Eagle Plume's heightwas sometimes my despair on the trail,but now I was thankful enough for theextra inches which lifted me from the flood,As it was, the water swirled and brokeagainst the excellent creature's chest, andhe had to push his way against it, splashinggallantly.

Once across the river, we followed thetrail with apparent success for a mile orso, then lost it utterly. No use; we mightsearch and experiment, no further way washere. Mr. Weston and Mr. Cobell returnedfrom a vain sally into the woods, perplexedand a little troubled.

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"I say, look at those horses!" cried Mr.Weston suddenly.

Tommy and Pinto and Hoggy werestanding on the edge of the river, facingacross it in one direction, their feet in anaccurate row. There was something set-tled and quite determined in their sagedemeanor. Not of themselves would theyventure into this particular stream, butthey would show us, if we cared to observe,that the trail lay once more beyond. Therewas nothing for it after that but to breastthe tide again, wading and reeling. Ismiled as it suddenly came across me, inthe midst of the giddy transit, that it wasSunday morning at home, and that at thishour the decorous community of which Iform a part was seated, orderly, in itschurch, keeping the Sabbath holy. Whathorror, could their scandalized eyes beholdme, rebellious off-shoot of their branch, thusinsanely disporting myself!

The sagaciousness of our animals oc-casioned much thoughtful care in their dis-position for the night. They must, so faras was possible, be left free to graze, andyet they must be prevented from makingoff home or from wandering to remote highpastures of which they might happen tohold the secret. Fortunately, it was alwayssufficient to deal with the few leadingspirits; the others would stay with them.Three bells were distributed through thepack. The sound of their slow intermit-tent ringing through the night on the edgeof the camp, as the horses wandered andgrazed, is one of the most vivid mem-ories of the trip. Once or twice Tommy washobbled, together with his most loyal com-rades. Their antics then, as they hoppedand jerked about their pasture, occasionedus, I am afraid, some mirth, so elaboratewere their gestures. Poor Tommy's earswaved frightfully, as he cheerfully strug-gled on his difficult way.

For the most part, they were sociablewith us, the whole friendly twelve, andhovered close about camp, watching ourproceedings with interest. Their curiositywas quite boundless, and we soon ceasedto feel any alarm at the sudden thrustingof ponies' heads over our shoulders, to seewhat we were about and if, perchance, therewas any salt going to waste. Among them-selves they were friendly, too, but withdiscrimination. Eva and Gravy were

close allies, and, when they were not feed-ing together, they were generally to befound with their heads, the one over theother, mutually keeping off flies. PoorButter, however, no one could endure.This was not his real name (I think it wasGeorgy) but Mrs. Selwin applied the titleon account of its appropriateness to hispale yellow hue. I do not know what wasthe matter with Butter; I think a cursefollowed him. Mr. Cobell rode him on thetrail with continual imprecations, and,turned out to feed at night, all the otherhorses shunned him. They were quitehateful about it too, biting him, drivinghim off. He was very humble in his ac-ceptance of his miserable lot, trying nowand then to propitiate his enemies andclose up with them, but for the most partherding alone, abject and forlorn. To addto his troubles, he had a skin which suf-fered from fly-bites to such an extent thathe was covered with lumps and sores.Poor Butter! The memory of his wretchedcondition quite brings the tears to my eyes.Mrs. Selwin and Britannia had come intocamp armed with bottles of "Citronella,"their own personal defense against theinsect world. With this ointment theysallied forth every evening to comfortButter, rubbing his afflicted chest andflanks, soothing and patting him. I hopehis spirit, as well as his skin, was cheered alittle by these ministrations.

The insect problem was not one to belightly ignored by any of us. After nineo'clock the night cold grew too much forthe swarming, winged tormentors, but be-fore that we all must fight. I have seenthe horses wedge themselves into smalltrees and stand rocking back and forth, toease their pricking sides. We humanmembers of the party had the camp-firesmoke to help us. "Why not, then, asmudge for us?" inquired Tommy; andhe marshaled his forces one evening andbrought them down upon us. Tramp,tramp! what did this mean? All thehorses coming into camp? They advancedto the fire and huddled themselves in a linewith the smoke, regardless of our outcriesas they trampled our scattered belongings.Then they closed their eyes, sighed withrelief, and composed themselves to slum-ber. It was as calm a taking possessionof a desired situation as one could hope

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to witness. Mr. Weston laughed and roseto his feet.

"That's Tommy asking for a smudge,"he explained. "Come along, Sam, let'scut some boughs for them."

And Tommy waggled his torn ear at hisdozing comrades, who glanced sidewaysat him from between their half-closed lids.

I believe it was Pinto who stumbled oneday and cut his leg. The wound was notserious, and Mr. Weston turned him out,to feed, refusing our offers of cold cream.But Pinto felt low in his mind. He limpedoff with elaboration, and lay down on hisside in the grass, and stretched himself out,refusing to eat or take any notice whatever.

"Let him alone," Mr. Weston insisted." I tell you he's all right."

The other horses wandered away in anunconcerned, happy company, to drink inthe river and to graze. Not a thought fortheir fallen comrade! Like melancholyJaques, I sat down to meditate and moral-ize on this sad desertion. "Sweep on, youfat and greasy citizens." Poor Pinto liftednot his head, but gave himself up to die.Finally, on the edge of the herd, I sawBaldy turn his odd, anxious face back towhere Pinto lay. He seemed to be think-ing, considering. He took his way overthe pasture at length, paused, and re-garded the prostrate form. Not one hintof response from Pinto! So then Baldygathered his feet beneath him and laydown beside his comrade. I could not seethat he proffered any counsel, any sort ofcommunication; he merely lay there. Hemust have been hungry, too, the goodBaldy, and longing after that juicy grass.By-and-bye, Pinto raised his head very, veryfeebly, but dropped it again with an in-stant groan, having, perhaps, for the mo-ment, forgotten that his hurt was in hisleg. Baldy remained unmoved. Littleby little, at last it transpired that the suf-ferer took heart and roused himself. Hegathered himself up on his haunches, he

looked about him and feebly reached hisnose to pluck a tuft of grass; then he actu-ally rose to his feet and began to graze ina resigned, martyrlike fashion, hobblingon three legs. At which consummationBaldly rose too and took himself off, hisgood mission accomplished. If it was nota Christian Science treatment which Baldygave Pinto that day, I have no way at allof accounting for the interesting perform-ance.

They were so much our friends and allies,these staunch little mountain ponies, thatwe seemed to be a party, not of seven, butof twenty. Which computation includesLulu. Twenty people abroad in the wil-derness! No wonder the solitude fled. Iremember one day, being very tired, Ilagged behind the rest of the party andfinally slid from Eagle Plume's back toease my knees with walking. The trailwas crossing a wide, bare land, high-liftedand rolling against the mountains. I hadthought it one of the loneliest places I hadever seen in my life, as I viewed it from myhorse; but now suddenly, faring afoot,with my comrades almost out of sight, andEagle Plume behind me, I felt it to be so,too. Space and silence and solitude, howthey compassed me about! That Solitudewhose realm this whole land was—for thefirst time during the trip I stood in heractual presence and knew her for what shewas. It was a wonderful sensation. Iwould fain have sat down to consider itthen and there, with Eagle Plume's reinsover my arm. But Eagle himself haddifferent views on the subject. He whin-nied and pawed and pricked his ears long-ingly toward his vanishing comrades andpoked me with his nose until there wasnothing for it but that I should mountinto his saddle again. Then how he boreme over the waste, snuffing the air withimpatience! Alas! that was the onlytime I ever met Solitude face to face in theRocky Mountains.

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