VOL. XX

No. 1

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell; To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd.

-Byron.

T is claimed that mountains are preeminently restful. No doubt they are soothing to nerves racked and tortured by the din of city life. The solemn, silent grandeur of the Rocky Mountains does calm with an infinite peace.

Yet, if you go to Field, in British Columbia, that charming spot cleft right into the heart of the Rockies, where a cluster of houses stand built on a plateau in the valley of the Kicking Horse, surrounded north, east, south and west by massive, crinulated towers

then perhaps you will agree with me that, though the glorious serenity of such stupendous bastions of

rock is most restful, still, the Rocky Mountains are too enthralling, too imposing, too everchanging, to allow us to long remain inert beneath their wondrous shadows. The

shifting lights that fall full from a cloudless sky upon the gaunt bare ramparts of those giant hills, so aptly named the "Rockies," and show us in bold relief broad streaks of white and yellow, patches of rich red, brown, purple and ultramarine, deep-cut fissures where indigo shadows nestle densely dark, and pointed cones whose apexes are wreathed with a wisp of snow-these shifting lights, I claim, arouse admiration too entrancing to be easily set at rest. They first excite our sense of the beautiful, then arrest our attention -we ponder-we unconsciously start on a train of lofty thought, inspired by their up-stretching peaks.

Then turn to the other side of the picture. Between thick fir trees you catch a glimpse of some widespreading glacier, gleaming green as an emerald in the sun, its merciless ice-spurs cloaked with a soft snow mantle, its supernal purity bespeaking the whiteness of the soul of a little child. Can you look on such a scene-and rest? Do you not rather feel that God's pulpit is up there on the massive crags? Do you not hear the Gospel of Nature.

preached anew from the perfect hills?

It is the Divine Lesson taught by Nature as it left the hand of the Creator. The level world has been marred by man, by sin, by sorrow, by suffering. The mountains are ever pure, and sweet, and holy; steadfast and calm above all strife; untainted by time; unspotted by humanity. This is the secret of their unresting restfulness. They teach humility to the soul of man.

Not long ago I stayed for a time at the Mount Stephen House at Field, a centre for mountaineering, fishing, shooting and photography that is second to none in the region. From a woman's point of view it is an especially fascinating place. If you are an expert climber, there are ascents well worthy of your alpen-stock and ice-pick; mountains whose lower limbs are clothed with skirts of deep green fir trees, and whose stony faces look down upon you from a height of ten and eleven thousand feet. Tucked in

between these lofty and up-shooting peaks lie many glaciers, immense snowfields, and out-stretching névés, dazzlingly white, seductively radiant in the sunshine.

The first ascent of Mount Stephen by a lady was made on July 21st, 1900, by Miss Vaux, of Philadelphia, and since then two other ladies, Miss Cunningham and Miss Barker, have shared with her the honour of scaling this fine peak. To the average man-mountaineer Stephen presents few serious difficulties, but it is quite the stiffest climb ever accomplished by a woman in the Rocky Mountains. Of course, there are a number of smaller ascents in the vicinity of Field, which any lady stout of heart, steady of nerve, and sure of foot, arrayed in sensible climbing costume, may successfully attempt-the Emerald Group, Wapta Peak, Mount Field, and a dozen others.

I am frequently asked questions regarding the sort of clothes a woman should wear on such expeditions, and,