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Bungalow camps in the Canadian Pacific Rockies Canadian Pacific Railway Company; Thornley, Betty 1924

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 I."
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H   ; 111 I BUNGALOW CAMPS
In the Canadian Pacific Rockies.
Wapta Camp—Overlooking beautiful Lake Wapta, just west
of the Great Divide. Centre for Alpine climbing, drives, pony-
rides, and hikes to Lake O'Hara, the Yoho Valley, the Kicking
Horse Canyon, etc.
Accommodation for 50. Station, Hector (just across the lake). Postal Address, Wapta Camp, Hector, B.C.
Lake O'Hara Camp—This Alpine lake, of exquisite coloring and
charm, is a splendid climbing, riding and walking centre. Excursions
to Lake McArthur and Lake Oesa, or over Abbot Pass to Lake Louise.
Accommodation for 28. Reached by trail from Hector (7 miles). Postal Address, Lake O'Hara Camp, Hector, B.C.
Yoho Valley Camp—At the most delightful location in Yoho
Valley, facing Takakkaw Falls. Excursions to the tipper valley or
over Yoho Pass to Emerald Lake.
Accommodation for 28. Reached by road from Field (11 miles) or Wapta
Camp (13 miles) or by trail from Emerald Lake (7 miles). Postal Address, Yoho
Valley Camp, Field, B.C.
Twin Falls Rest, in the upper valley, Summit Lake Rest, on the Yoho Pass,
and Kicking Horse Canyon Rest, near Yoho Station, are reached from Yoho Valley
Camp.
Emerald Lake Chalet—A bungalow camp extension to this
cosy chalet hotel, which is situated on beautiful Emerald Lake,
at the foot of Mount Burgess. Boating, trout fishing, riding, hiking,
climbing and pony trips over Yoho Pass, etc.
Accommodation (including hotel) for 60. Reached by good automobile road
from Field (7 miles).    Postal Address, Emerald Lake Chalet, Field, B.C.
Moraine Lake Camp—At the head of the Valley of the Ten
Peaks. Good trout fishing, climbing, riding and hiking to Consolation Lakes, Paradise Valley, Wenkchemna Pass, etc.
Accommodation for 20. Reached by road from Lake Louise (9 miles). Postal
Address, Moraine Lake Bungalow Camp, Lake Louise, Alta.
Storm Mountain Bungalow Camp—First stop on the new
Banff-Windermere automobile highway, the most spectacular
automobile road in America. Wonderful panoramic views of Castle
Mountain and other peaks.
Accommodation for 18. 26 miles from Banff. Postal Address, Storm Mountain Bungalow Camp, Castle Mountain, Alta.
Vermilion River Camp—Second stop on this road. Fine fishing
in the Vermilion River, and magnificent mountain climbing.
Accommodation for 18. 50 miles from Banff. Postal Address, Vermilion River
Bungalow Camp, Castle Mountain, Alta.
Sinclair Hot Springs Camp—Third stop on this road. Swimming in Radium Hot Springs Pool, hiking and climbing, and wonderful views of the Selkirks.
Accommodation for 14. 91 miles from Banff, 13 miles from Lake Windermere
Camp. Postal Address, Sinclair Hot Springs Bungalow Camp, Radium Hot
Springs, B.C.
Lake Windermere Camp—A popular bungalow camp on the
shore of the.loveliest warm water lake of British Columbia. Riding,
motoring, golf, swimming, boating and excursions to the glaciers of
the Selkirks.
Accommodation for 50. Reached either by rail from Golden (74 miles) or from
Cranbrook (93 miles), or by automobile from Banff over the Banff-Windermere
Road (104 miles). Postal Address, Lake Windermere Bungalow Camp, Invermere, B.C.
The above camps are open from July 1st to September 15th,
and are operated on the American plan. Rates on application. Armstrong Roberts Photo
Starting off on the trail to Lake O'Hara from the community house of Wapta Bungalow Camp
BUNGALOW CAMPS IN
THE CANADIAN PACIFIC ROCKIES
By Betty Thornley
THIS morning isn't in the least like other mornings. For it isn't hard to
get up. Indeed, it would be impossible to stay in bed, even though
the three fat red blankets feel so good. There's a thrill and a tingle to
the air.    Something says, "Come out!"
It isn't the bold slate-grey bird with a trim white cap on his head who just
landed on the window-sill. And it isn't the gopher he chased under the verandah for spite.    Maybe it was a mountain  .   .   .
Anyhow, here you are, out on the floor poking a big armful of clean bright
wood into the little round stove with the draught that nearly pulls you up the
chimney. There are dollars and metropolitan dollars' worth of that wood in
the box behind the door. But it's all yours—whew!—isn't the fire good?
July? Yes, of course it's July. And if you had a paper (which Heaven and
the C.P.R. forbid), you'd see that New York was prostrated and Chicago
couldn't even moan. But it's chilly here at six o'clock—blessedly, gorgeously
chilly. For you're at Wapta Camp in the Canadian Pacific Rockies, almost
at the top, on the Great Divide, where people talk of heat-waves in the
reminiscent tones of grandfather and the Civil War.
It's too early for breakfast, so you tuck some triscuits into your pocket and
Page One
PRINTED IN CANADA Mnafcx
!|^B#f#;v:
"Your brown and beige bungalow with blue curtains"
a bit of chocolate, and slip out of your brown and
beige bungalow with the blue curtains. Over your
shoulder you look at all the other little bungalows
backed into the mountain with a green lake at their toes; you fill your lungs
down to the last lazy quarter-inch with Rocky Mountain air; and if you don't
fly then and there, it's because you know walking is going to be so much more
fun. For this is your first morning. And you're going to Sherbrooke Lake.
If you were sensible, like most people, you'd have breakfast first and ride up.
But you can't wait to be sensible.   You never could!
That Walk to Sherbrooke Lake in the Morning
The tops of the mountains are blotted out in cloud that smokes slowly off
and up as you look at it . .   The hills are red with Indian Paintbrush.
There isn't a sound The road skirts round the green lake,
dives into the trees, goes up—up—and turns into a trail-—up—up—till, at your
first breathless stop, you can see Lake Wapta like a mislaid piece of a green
puzzle-map, and a tiny foolish train with a puff of white marabou smoke,
crawling around its giant saucer-curve.
Then you pass behind an outlying buttress, and there isn't any lake, any
camp, any railroad. Just you. And trees. And millions of flowers. And
something quick and soft that scuttles through the underbrush. And the
trail ... Is there anything so fascinating, so beckoningly not-to-be-
resisted as a trail errant?
Half an hour.   Three-quarters.   A crow caws And you climb
into a ghost-forest, silver-grey dead trees on a great bare hillside, all their
tiny down-curved branches eerily perfect. But no leaves ever again. They
died years and years ago in a forest fire. Cr-r-reak, they say, cr-r-reak, as the
wind sings over them under the far blue sky, and a marmot whistles^.
The Dominion Parks Commission ought to take them on tour across the continent as an object lesson.
And then at last you round the mountainside into a high upland meadow.
The whole world is full of the sound of water—a thin elfin trickle underfoot
Page Two from a glacial stream that has branched so often it chuckles at itself—a great
breathless flashing roar whirling valley ward through the trees away off to the
left—you can catch a glimpse of it here and there, a storm of white in its teeth.
You're walking on springy moss full of white heather-flowers, moss that smells
like all the Harris tweeds in the world, cut through with the thin cold of
glaciers And you don't need the trail any more, because that chill
malachite thing at the end of the valley is the lake itself, shut between brown
mountains and the fir-green of the trees.
You come to the margin, and you sit on a dead silver-grey log and cup your
hand and drink. Colder than ice-water. Better than any water there ever
was, with a rim of glass at the lip. Then you go back and lie down with your
nose in the heather. Your body's tired. Your soul is miles away from thought
of any kind to which you've been accustomed. You've just sense enough
to be drowsily thankful that nothing ever managed to kill you while you
were growing up, and working hard enough to earn the right to go to sleep
again at eight o'clock if you wanted to    .
By and by, having eaten all the triscuits, you've moved to skirt back by
the pointed-treed little forest that rises behind the lake .     .    Pale yellow
columbines stand like elf-lamps on the brown floor. If you were your own
remote ancestor, you'd doubtless kneel there in the doorway of that strange
cathedral and say your prayers    ...
So you go down the trail, heather in your pocket, your coat over your arm.
Singing. Not out loud, like a Latin. But under your breath. You can't
sing, you know—you never could.  But you've just got to.
Cabins by the lake shore at Lake Wapta Bungalow Camp
Armstrong Roberts Photo
Page Three Round the Camp Fire, at Lake O'Hara
Four Weeks to Get Young In!
And all this soul-and-body entertainment, this smoothing you out and
tuning you up, has taken place before breakfast—on your first day. And
you've got four—f-o-u-r—agelong weeks of it ahead!
That evening, up at the community house with its gay flowers and chintzes
everywhere, yellow and green and brown like the woods themselves, you join
the ring around the blazing logs in the great stone fireplace.    All you did,
Page Four "The custom of O'Hara is to float out over the still cool depths"
yourself, after your strenuous climb, was to get
settled in your bungalow and take a little trot on a
white horse called "Tommy" who knew the Yoho
road as a lady knows her own drawing-room.    But these people can talk loftily
of trails and lakes and passes, of miles and guides and levels, after the manner
of old-timers.
So, listening to them, you determine to set out for Lake O'Hara Camp in the
morning. Tommy, faithful beast, will appear at nine sharp. ... So you
go down the hill to your bungalow early.
In the night you wake to the sound of rain on the roof—whispering rain—
the soothingest sound in the world. Poor apartment dweller that you are,
you haven't heard that sound since your childhood in the big old house with
the dim attic where you used to go and lie on your tummy under the high-
peaked window and hear the rain falling on Treasure Island and the Jungle
Book. . . . You're years nearer to that time to-night than you were a
week ago. . . .   The mountains did it.
Across Nine Miles—O'Hara Beckons
The trail to O'Hara  after   rain   is   a  long   trail,   a  muddy  trail.
But
Page Five Tommy doesn't care. And you,
sitting at ease on his philosophic
back, mile after twisting mile, feel
your mind float out between the
trees, across the blue-grey distances,
till it comes to rest on those eternal
hills that hump their amazing backs
into the sky. Why is it you can't
describe a mountain or paint it, or
photograph it convincingly? You
can get the shape and the colour of
it—in a sense you can get the
height and the girth. But no one
ever put the sheer weight, the un*
believable mass of the thing, on any
bit of paper or board.
Here is the tame and solid earth
of the plainsman's knowing, and it
has suddenly protruded itself, it has
risen up, it hangs over. Who can
say it will stay there, this giant bulk
that blocks the heavens? And yet,
serene and still, the miracle continues with the snows upon its
head!
In no way does the trail prepare
you for O'Hara itself, roofed over
with trees as the path is for most
of the miles. You realize that you're somehow working in behind that right-
hand rampart of Mt. Victoria, that you've seen from the verandah of the
Chateau at Lake Louise. But it's all so immense. You begin to think O'Hara
has retired up some secluded valley, laughing at tourists in its Irish-green
sleeve. But you make a sudden twist to the left, Tommy climbs nobly with
an eager look in his eye, and—you're there!
Some people say Lake Louise is the loveliest thing in the mountains. But
they haven't seen O'Hara—a thousand feet higher, a million meadows
greener, and so much nearer to those still white peaks. John S. Sargent said
he'd never get tired looking at it. Lucky man, Sargent, with a painter's eye
that could carry it all away.
You aren't a painter, but you're bound to have some queer experiences with
that little picture postcard of O'Hara that goes home with you in your trunk.
You're going to find magic in its flat black and white pattern—something that
Alpine Hut on Abbott Pass
-..-.--■   '-':■    '    '    '
Bungalow Camp at Lake O'Hara
Frank Photo
Page Six Lake McArthur—"The mountain snow trickles down around the strange blue lake"
you can stare your way into, so that you walk right out of your steam-heated
apartment, walk with your eyes, back into the space and the colour, back into
the breath of the spruce and the smell of water, and the high peace of it, back
into that cool golden afternoon when you walked half-way round the lovely
limpid thing hidden away where no one ever saw it, century after century.
There were six kinds of moss on one little fat flat rock you sat on. And you
looked down through the water, so clear it hardly seemed to be there at all,
and you saw a white crab-thing a quarter of an inch long, looking like the
bleached ninety-second cousin of a lobster, digging himself a hole in the pale
grey dust that used to be Mt. Victoria, and burying himself head first.
Then it came to you as never before, what an extraordinary thing this universe
is. And you wondered if Mt. Victoria knew it, and the crab. Perhaps,
being simple souls, they knew far more about it than you did. . . . All of
which will come back to you, mountain and dust and crab, as you look at the
picture postcard when you get it safely home.
Things to Eat, and Things to Do
Meals in the mountains are all good. But meals at O'Hara take on an
extra special wonder by virtue of the fact that everything has to be brought in
over that nine-mile trail. Yet you have whatever your heart could desire,
including salad and fresh fruit. And when you catch a glimpse of partial
explanation in the smiling yellow face in the kitchen, you think again of the
strangeness of a world that has Canton in it—and those miles of tunnelled
streets under the bambop awnings—and this great spacious nothingness,
given to God and the bears!
Page Seven ":   .        ■■■•..";.■.'.;-.■■;>:'>
ill
That evening is dedicated to the sunset and the raft.    For the -\   ,
custom of O'Hara is to float out over the cool still depths to see y A:
those violent cerise banners flung across from crag to crag, and watch them
distil into gold, and fade into purple as the stars come out. If there's a moon
—oh, little moon over O'Hara, we could give a million dollars for you willingly,
if you'd only shine down our street at home! But you wouldn't come away
from Cathedral, and Odaray, and Hungakee, and the Wiwaxy Peaks.
Upstairs to Lake McArthur
Next morning, the trip to Lake McArthur undoubtedly divides the sheep
from the goats, though we leave it to you to name your own company. The
wise of this world lie snug abed till the conventional breakfast hour, after which
horses appear. But the fools rise up at dawn (while one thermometer says
37° and the other 21°), and push boldly out into a dew-starred meadow with a
little slim cloud out of the sky parked right in front of the dining-room, sitting
on the grass!
After a breakfast that seems impossible when you return to sea-level
appetite, you go up—up—upstairs till you see the camp shrink into little gay
yellow toy-houses, and you feel as though you must be going to take lunch
with Orion and the Great Bear. Then you come into an upland meadow with
mountains on all sides, and a little clear stream trickling across it, lined and
Page Eight £»fm^im,
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i U MiU
.■>)'■**'       frilledHwith white^ flowers  and  yellow  flowers;
|5< spaced, too, with  nice well-behaved  stepping-
stones that wouldn't think of turning over.
Then you hoist yourself up another brown
aerial staricase, and you come out onto another meadow all
strewn with huge grey rocks.  On the hugest of these sits a fat
fC brown marmot, as big as a dog, with cream-coloured head and
I shoulders and a pair of eyes that could see the moon. . . .    Look!
There are three more furry heads up beside him, marmot kittens, as
playful as real kittens and far more curious. Then he whistles like nothing
else you ever heard (thin, high, shrill, eerie in that lost place), and there are
no kittens.   There never were, he wishes you to feel. . . .
You swing out on to a mountainside for your last and stiffest climb, with an
immense and secret valley to the right, a valley that clouds could sail in, and
hundred-year forests hide at the bottom of, a valley glissaded with enormous
mountains, their heads all powdered, and so very near.
You go around the corner of that mountain—up over a great rockslide—
up—up—till your heart beats in your ears and your feet walk on top of each
other, and—you're out on the last great tableland where there's neither
peaceful stream, nor huge rock, nor whistling marmot—nothing but infinite
silence, and white heather, and great tongues of snow in the hollows, and at
the end of the meadow, a towering whiteness with a frozen lake at its feet.
Frozen until the middle of July.
Blue. Bluer than anything you ever thought could be. Frosted blue,
melted a bit at the edges, but even there, laced with long faint crystal fingers
that might turn it back to ice as you watched.
Page Nine w
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'Whichever way you go there's a wonderful
lunch waiting for you"
Are You Hot?    Are You Cold?    Both!
And here is where you realize that fairy-tale combination you've always
dreamed about—to be warm and cool at the same time. You can wade in
crunchy snow—with blossoms on each side of it. While you feast your eyes
on enough ice for all the long cold drinks of a thirsty world—the thin silk shirt
on your back is still wet from the climb. And when you sit down against a
huge and heavenly chilly grey stone—you have to tilt your brown felt hat-
brim down to keep the shouting blue-glorious sky out of your eyes, and the
high and shining sun!
Page Ten § i
,: :;;&:
Armstrong Roberts Photo
Tea House at Summit Lake, Yoho Pass
Lie down in the heather, you poor complex, city-
wearied thing. Let the little soft tinkling voices whisper to you as the mountain snow trickles down, not in
a single stream, but everywhere at once, around this
strange blue lake. Here is the home of the ultimate
peace. Nothing to disturb the wonder of the first day
of creation before the Lord made the mosquito. . . .
Go to sleep in the sun!
The Things They Do at O'Hara
/ If you're a true mountaineer, you'll stay many
days at O'Hara, taking the Ottertail trail that branches
off on the way to McArthur; climbing to Lake Oesa;
perhaps even going up over Abbott Pass to Louise, though this trip is easier
done from the other side; or over Opabin Pass to the Valley of the Ten
Peaks. Quite half the people who stay at O'Hara come over the passes—with
Swiss guides, of course—and the camp-fire is surrounded with tales o' nights,
and in the morning, you mustn't be surprised if you're waked with the sound
of a real yodel!
After O'Hara, a few lazy days at Wapta again (with a blazing hot
bath at nights), and then there comes the morning when you call for Tommy
to ride to Yoho Camp—thirteen miles—from which point you're going over the
pass to Emerald Lake, where your bags will precede you by train.
Page Eleven "H
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At Wapta Bungalow Camp
'That evening, up at the Community house with its gay flowers and chintzes everywhere, yellow and green and
brown like the woods themselves, you join the ring around the blazing logs in the great home fireplace."
Page Twelve
Page Thirteen On the
Road to
Yoho
There are
few roads where you
can trot in these so-
rocky mountains, but
this is one of them, and
as you follow the old railway line, superseded to-day by
the famous four levels of the spiral
tunnels, you're glad that Tommy has
wings as well as brains in his feet.    The
Kicking Horse River plunges along through
its valley, beside the road at first, then far,
far down in one roaring cascade after
another, till by the time you reach
the big pink rock opposite the mouth
of Yoho Valley, its brawling hardly rises
up to you at all, out of the tall old forest
that lines the bottom like green moss.
Mt. Stephen is behind you, an elephant-nosed
Page Fourteen
Emerald Lake—"The Camp de Luxe" Emerald Lake—On the verandah of the club house
giant with his head in the mists and a few thousand tons of blue ice on his
shoulder. He has a full-grown silver mine scored into that long trunk, but it
looks like a bridge of matches that ends in a swallow's hole. In front, the
valley opens—enormous green gash in the world—a valley you'd not be surprised to see all the angels of God come riding down on comets. A far gleam
of blue—light on a thousand acres of never-melted snow—the flash of the
Yoho—and you have to choose whether you'll let Tommy keep to the road
like a gentleman, or drop over the edge where the telephone poles go down,
and follow the one-strand wire (like Eric's golden thread), till you come to the
upper bridge into the valley.   Whichever way you go, it's heavenly going.
There are motor roads, of course, from Wapta to Field—from Field to
Emerald—from Field to Yoho. And if you're tired, or lazy, or not so young'in
your legs as you are in your eyes, you can let the specially-licensed chauffeur
give you a most marvellous trip of it around those hairpin curves. But in any
case, you come at last to the wide valley opposite the twelve-hundred-foot
drop of Takakkaw—Takakkaw, like spun glass, like silver fire—Takakkaw
that springs out of the enormous inert mass of Daly Glacier like the soul out
of the body—only Takakkaw hasn't yet learned to go up, despite the fact
that you never saw water so ethereal.
Yoho Bungalow Camp is cradled in the roar of the falls—you hear it all day
long as you explore the nearer points; its great undertone fills the bowl of the
night as you lie in bed in the cheerful yellow lamplight, while the stove sisses
a bit, and—
Page Fifteen mmiMmmim-	
The top of the world at Storm Mountain Bungalow Camp
" From the verandah you can see Storm, of course, the long slag walls of the Sawback Range—Castle Mountain,
too, and looking down the road to the southwest, peak after peak, peak after peak"
Do You Walk to Yoho Glacier—or Ride ?
Before you know, it's morning. There are so many things to do, and
you've such oceans of pep—what shall you do first? Walk the seven miles
to Yoho Glacier? Or ride? Over the road that loses itself in acres of stones,
criss-crossed by a raging little glacial stream divided into a dozen streamlets—
on through a stately avenue of trees like the approach to a great castle—up
a hill, where the road runs out into a trail—down the hill again, beside a little
lost lake—and so on to Laughing Falls, not very high, but sweet and cold and
chuckly—across the rushing ice-grey Yoho River on a two-log bridge—up
another hill—then, suddenly, the glacier, humped up huge and white, a
glacier you can walk on, for it has no crevasses since it lies in a cup. . . .
Lunch, in plebeian bites. Hot coffee. Heavens, how good it tastes! . . .
And back home, they're trickling round the corner for iced something-or-other
—what there is left of them.
For the Favourite of the Cods
If you're a favourite of the gods, you may get up on the right-hand wall of
the Yoho Valley some day and walk that lovely upland meadow that slopes to
Fairy Lake, sky-high where the glaciers are. You may even walk on the Daly
ice field itself—mile after frozen mile, stretching from Mt. Balfour to Mt.
Niles. It isn't so cold in the sunshine; and you could come down over behind
Sherbrooke Lake and surprise them all at Wapta! But this, of course, you
could never do alone, or even with an ordinary guide, for there are no trails
there. Only instinct, in the brains of men who were born to know the way
of the rocks and the snows. But one of them might take a notion to be nice
to you. . . .   You never can tell!
The left-hand side of the Valley, though—ah, that's for one and all.
Tommy sighs when he thinks of it, for the climb is about like going up a flagpole.    But he does it to the High Line Trail, and then you have your choice
Page Sixteen :ililll fesia   1^
p of going north to Twin Falls, walking astride the ridge-
r :;> -" pole of the world, up level with the top of Takakkaw
and the gleaming miles of Daly—or turning south and
west toward Summit Lake and Yoho Pass, the road to
Emerald.
-,;" Lunch on the Ridgepole
Whichever way you go, there's a wonderful lunch waiting
v-\ for you, for there's a cabin at Twin Falls and a little teahouse
at Summit Lake.    Summit, strange as it may seem, is warm
enough to swim in, walled round with solemn firs, though it's a bit like
slipping into the heart of an emerald to dive into such preposterously
green water.
After lunch begins the ride over Yoho Pass, which soon terminates (for the
compassionate) in a walk, zigzag, zigzag, down a scarred tremendous valley
with a gushing fall on one side, and Emerald Lake as green as green glass,
square cut, at the bottom. Great ramparts of snow-striped mountains cut
the skyline to the south, and it's the biggest panorama you've seen—a thing
of far distances and dizzying colour—a giant world in which you creep like a
little brown upright fly leading a white four-footed fly, zigzag, zigzag,
down the interminable playways of the mountain storms.
Camping de Luxe at Emerald Lake
Emerald is the camp de luxe, where some of the bungalows that cluster
around the Chalet have private baths. There's a clubhouse, too, with a floor
as good as any hotel floor in the mountains, and an orchestra. There are
tennis courts, and ladies in real riding boots that couldn't possibly be climbed in
and aren't going to be, and boats on that astounding green lake, and fish in it.
Anything that you could do from Yoho could be done from Emerald too.
And if you're the Emerald kind of person, here it is you'll settle with a sigh of
content. If you never do anything but perch on the clubhouse verandah and
look down at the lake, it will be quite worth any journey you may have taken.
But you can be as strenuous as you like, for you can go over Burgess Pass and
come down into Field; you can climb Mt. Stephen, the most-climbed peak in
the mountains, and dig your own geology from the 150-foot-thick fossil beds;
you can go back to O'Hara, to McArthur, to Oesa, to the Ottertail; you can
even take the train to Leanchoil and explore the Ice River Valley, a place
where very few people know enough to go at all.
On the Banff-Lake Windermere Motor Road
But perhaps you want an entire change of scene, something to do that
doesn't in the least concern itself with horses or climbing.   If so, you'll take a
Page Seventeen trip down the Banff-Lake Windermere
motor road, that 110-mile dream-come-true
that lets the traveller into land so new that
many of the mountains aren't named yet,
and almost none of the trails are fixed for
guideless tourists. Once beyond the five-
mile-on-either-side-of-the-highway that constitutes the long ribbon of Kootenay Park,
anyone who wants may shoot sheep and
bear and goats in season, to say nothing of
deer and moose; and anyone who wants
may fish at any time, inside the Park or
out, and never come trophyless home.
The road was opened on June 30th,
1923, and history began there, so far as the
modern world is concerned. But, if you
chance on an old-timer you'll hear tales of
Kootenays and Blackfeet, of the Priest's
mine and the Ochre beds, of long-dead
prospectors and silent chiefs, that will make
a shadowy background—a bit melancholy,
but wholly picturesque—for the white-
floored tree-bordered, mountain-crowned
miles of the present.
You can start from Banff or from Louise, but the road proper begins midway between them, at Castle Mountain, and pitches southwest and steeply
upward into the untrodden wilds.
'If you want to see a bear you have only to
wander off the road in the cool of the evening."
The Top of the World at Storm Mountain Bungalow Camp
You were a chattering party when you left the hotel—a heterogeneous
crowd intent only on another trip. But somehow, as the motor climbs, climbs,
and the miles reel off under your tires, the talk dies away.
This new world into which the road has bored its way is a world older than
Time, yet, in some vivid and tremendous fashion, still unfinished. That
scarred skyline seems as though it might break in a black wave and sweep
down on life as we know it, with the crash of suns-—surely nothing so vital,
so full of power, could be fixed forever. . . . done. These huge creatures of
granite and snow that crouch together above the tiny track, these mountains
in among whom you've dared to come—you've never seen so many together,
so close—herds of mountains, one behind the other, looking over each other's
shoulders, enormous, inert, yet—alive. . . . You feel as though you'd slipped
through the hole in the wall—gone into the land where we only go in dreams.
At last you swing around a curve, and the biggest mountain of them all
sweeps into view. Some of the peaks must despise the names they've been
given—names of mere men and women, chance likenesses to unimportant
things—little names that mean nothing in the shadowy mind of so vast a
creature.    But this mountain is well named.    Storm.
A million tons of rock went to its making, a million years to its rearing, a
million storms to the carving of its great head, powdered with snow. No trees
to soften it, except the trees in the hills that break about its feet. Always a
cloud behind it.    Always a wandering wind.
And yet—opposite the mountain, perched by the side of the road, five hundred feet above the valley floor, there stands Storm Mountain Bungalow Camp.
And in the paradox of those firstandlast wordslies the secret of theplace. All that
there is in us that thrills to the storm—all that craves rest—yearns to the wind-
bare hill-top, where the main bungalow sits, inscrutable, and takes us in for tea.
Page Eighteen From the verandah
you can  see  Storm,   of
course, and all the burnt-
cinder pinnacles, the long slag
walls  of  the  Sawback  Range
with cloud shadows drifting across
them—grey,   violet,   mist-coloured,
black.    Castle Mountain, too.    And,
looking down the road to the  south-west, peak after
peak, peak after peak—treed or treeless, black or snow-
crowned—vista after vista that flings together miles of
far-off mountain-top in a little dip between two nearer
giants.    If you aren't a real Alpinist, you can never see
another such view in all the Rockies or the Selkirks.    It
has an austere grandeur that makes it kin to those snowbound miles far above timberline that few people but
the Swiss guides ever see.
No wonder you decide to break your motor trip to :t
stay overnight—over many nights. There's the
three-mile trail to Boom Lake—and right on over
into the Valley of the Ten Peaks if you're adventurous enough. The motor road goes on to Vermilion,
and from that point you can get back, over
many spectacular mountain miles, to Lake
O'Hara and Wapta Camp. Storm Mountain
Bungalow Camp will soon be the centre of many
trails that ray out like the spokes of a magic ^P
wheel. But the fishing won't
be any better in the creek
than it is to-day, and the suri
rise will be no more wonderfi
than it always has been from
this solemn top of the world,
where the day begins with a
primeval immensity that
shakes whatever soul you
happen to have. The dripping
grey chill, the hush, the mist
in the valleys, and then, pink
over the Sawbacks—flames
over the Sawbacks—the sun! No man who stays in bed till the fit and proper
time is ever as cold as you are just before the miracle. But no man with his
nose in the pillow ever felt like an archangel at any time, and—you did. No
wonder the morning stars sang together. They were lucky to be able to express
what they felt!
But there comes a day when the road beckons, and off we go by motor,
At Vermilion Crossing
'The river turns sharply, and here in the bend of its cool
and foamy arm there is another camp"
Page Nineteen m
At Sinclair Hot Springs Bungalow Camp
under a high blue sky, to meet the Vermilion River, born almost on the toes
of Storm, but destined to rush into the cold arms of the Kootenay far to the
south. Having met it, we wind about and about in its company, thankful
that it dug such a spectacular yet convenient valley for itself just where we
wanted to go.
Always we can see peaks that have never been climbed—when the road
engineers came first in 1910, the country hadn't even been surveyed! Always
we can look down long valleys that cry for our cameras. . . . But the motor
whirls on, carrying us deeper into the shut-in world of gorge and crag and
glacier.
At Marble Canyon there is a gash in the rock three hundred feet deep, and
a trail to the Paint Pots, those mysterious round wells of colour from which
the Kootenays of the old days used to get their sacred ochre, and trade it to
the plains Indians for more mundane things. To-day, an efficient little teahouse makes the X that marks the spot where many a motor-tourist stays
for a meal, or for the night.
Big Game at Vermilion Crossing
A few miles farther on, at Vermilion Crossing, the river turns sharply to
the south-west, and here, in the bend of its cool and foamy arm, there's another
camp, log-cabin set where the Kootenays themselves used to rest before
they crossed. This is the very middlemost middle of the big game country.
Page Twenty If you want to see a bear,
you have only to wander
off the road in the cool of
the evening. You may
even be surprised by a fantasia on pie-plates in the
grey dawn as the staff
chases away a huge and
furry clown who insists on
kicking the milk pail around
because he's failed to reach
the ham. You're in the
Park, you see, and so is he.
Liberty, equality and fraternity include the pursuit
of hams. But if you're a
hunter—well, it isn't so
easy for him to carry a
foot-rule in his eye and
judge just when he's got
his hind-leg on the wrong
side of the magic five-mile
line. And there are always
guides to be had who know
where to locate not only
bears of all sizes, but sheep
and goats and deer.
Fishing, too, can be had
around Vermilion. And
as soon as the trail over
Wolverine Pass has been
completed—the very latest
and most spectacular wrinkle in the Rockies' multiple face—even the thirty-
third degree mountaineer is bound to be happy because he has a four-day trip
ahead of him that not only includes the bleak grandeur of the Pass, but the
toes of Mt. Goodsir, the Ottertail Valley, McArthur Creek, and Lake McArthur
itself, with O'Hara as the final goal.
Sinclair Canyon on the Banff-Lake Windermere
automobile road
From Vermilion to Sinclair Canyon
As the Vermilion and the Kootenay approach each other, the most picturesque part of the trip begins, and the road winds along the high ridge
between the two rivers, cunningly graded and skilfully bent, caught to the
mountainside as only a genie or an inspired engineer could do it. Here, too,
is where you see that terrific object lesson, five miles long, that weird study in
black and grey, in lines and spots, that used to be a forest before Kootenay
Park was established. But now it's an infinite series of slim skeletons
that will soon be as silvered as those at Sherbrooke Lake. No wonder the
Parks Commission has placed a black-rimmed sign-board at each end of that
pathetic cemetery. Carelessness. That's what did it. . . . And when you
take these jackknife turns it's just as well to remember that there are other
forms of the disease than those concerned with cigarettes.
And then comes the level valley of the Kootenay and the long forest aisles—
a different world and a kinder. Here is where you'll see a deer, perhaps—
or a deer and two little fawns, startled and big-eyed and keen to get away,
but not really frightened. Here is where you see flowers among the timber,
and campers among the flowers.
Page Twenty-one M,  * %-
"'■ -%   '
"It's a centre for a whole summer's rest and exploration"
And then you climb again to Sinclair Pass, sweeping upward in great curves. You pass the Iron Gates, those grim
rose-henna guardians of this inner world. You drop down to
Sinclair Hot Springs in the narrow gorge of the canyon. And you go for a swim
in the pool. Imagine wanting a temperature of 110° in July! But the high
winds of the mountains have made it seem the pleasantest thing that could
happen to you—or perhaps the very pleasantest is the cup of tea and the flaky
little hot biscuits you get in the pretty community house of the bungalow
camp on the top of the hill after you're all dressed and civilized again.
Lake Windermere Camp at the End of the Road
Next morning it doesn't take long to drop, circling like a great bird, to the
valley levels where Lake Windermere lies peaceful after all the emotional
climaxes of the mountains.
There's something hard to describe about this huge trench that the
Columbia River has dug between the Rockies and the Selkirks. The two
ranges tower, white-headed above their bench lands and their river reaches,
facing each other across a great green gulf, mountains of another world, as
aloof and ever-beautiful as one's memories of childhood. Lake Windermere
lies, warm and still, in the middle under skies that are always blue. There
are flowers and flowers and more flowers. There are lazy bells again, as the
cows graze. . . . But none of these things quite accounts for the feeling of
Elysian ease that makes the very soul of the place. When you go in swimming,
you turn over on your back and float, and look into the high blue.    When
Page Twenty-two you fish—well, you do catch something every time, but you wouldn't much
care if you didn't. When you motor, you're willing to loaf. Truly, a lotus-
land.
There's a golf course. There are tennis courts. There are motor launches
on the lake, and rumours of an old river boat that will take her serene course
under the orange moon while the people dance. There's the David Thompson
Fort where town gatherings and dances are held, and you can study the Indian
in the craftwork he has left. There are guides and horses and outfits for you
to go shooting in season, either into the Selkirks or up Vermilion way. Or you
can find ducks yourself, hundreds of them, almost anywhere in the valley.
And as for side trips—nobody who has ever seen a cool and breathless
picture of the Lake of the Hanging Glaciers will want to miss that astonishing
thing if he can spare the time and is good for fording rivers. But even if he
isn't, there will still be Toby Canyon with its three-hundred-foot high bridge
and the Paradise mines beyond, eight thousand feet in air—and Radium Hot
Springs—and Swansea Peak—and—that's just a beginning. Indeed, as you
settle down in your bungalow at Lake Windermere Camp by the lake shore, it
comes to you that this isn't a place to visit and rush away from. It's a centre
for a whole summer's rest and exploration. Which is what the old-timers felt
when you were too young to know where the Rocky Mountains were.
In the Valley of the Ten Peaks
But there's one more bungalow camp we haven't seen, and if you're a
true bird of passage you'll fly north again over the Banff-Lake Windermere
Road (or round by train from Invermere to Golden, where you'll be on the
main line), and when you finally get off at Louise, you'll motor over to the
Valley of the Ten Peaks, where the green-blue waters of Moraine Lake lie
below the high-pitched mountains and the ramparts of Babylonian brick. A
glacier reaches over the top of the world like a huge white paw, blue-green at
the tip; and there's a bungalow camp on a bench of the hills above the lake.
There are trails that time has smoothed into a kindness possessed by few
trails in the Rockies—the trail around the lake—the trail to Consolation Lake
in its still, park-like valley where there are always birds, and flowers, and good
fishing, and marmots peering at you over the tops of their ancestral halls—-the
trail to Wenkchemna Lake and Pass—the trail over Sentinel Pass to Lake
Louise with lovely Paradise Valley on the way, and the grim pit of Sheol, and
Saddleback, where you'll
have one of the world's
best cups of tea no
matter when you make
port, and a chance to
buy interesting souvenirs, as unexpected as
flowers in a bird's nest.
In the Snows of
Abbott Pass
But the thing you've
simply got to do (unless
the doctor certifies you a
bad heart case, or you're
grey-headed in your
soul) is to engage a Swiss
guide, ride in from Moraine  the  night   before
and Stay at the Chateau, Community House, Lake   Windermere Bungalow Camp
Page Twenty-three take next morning's trail to the end of Lake Louise, and go up that white
stairway of the gods, Victoria Glacier, to the Alpine hut on Abbott Pass. For
if you've never climbed above the timberline before, above the snowline, up
into the thin clear air where all the little streams freeze tight at night, and your
coffee's made with melted snow, and you get six three-point blankets to keep
warm—undoubtedly your destiny calls for the experience.
After you've had your dinner that night and the guides sit down in the
lamplight, turn up your coat collar, take your blankets and go out to the one
level thing that isn't snow—the bit of grey rockslide as cold as cold hell.
On one side of you the smooth immensity of the white Pass curves like a
gigantic back, down, down into the dim gulf from which you climbed. On
the other side the world drops off, a thousand feet. Lean over and look down
to Lake Oesa, true apple-green jade, lying at the bottom of a grey cup, with
a frill of startling ochre-coloured rock around it and a fan of white glacier.
An iceberg floats in it. . . . There are three other lakes on different levels
between this unearthly thing and Lake O'Hara, where the trees begin.
Yet even here in the Pass, you're not at the top of the world; you're in a
trench between the giants of the range that still tower above you—Mt. Lefroy
on one side and Mt. Victoria on the other, tawny-yellow, blunt-headed,
enormous still.
The sun has gone. Strange lacquer red and golden fires fly in the sky.
There's a storm over the Selkirks, and a steel-blue line cuts down from nowhere
into nowhere. . . .
Cold. . . . Draw the red blankets around you as you sit on the rockslide.
You're no bigger than the smallest of all the rocks, and what do you matter?
There's a mountain over there whose cyclopean top looks like a walled city,
dark, lifeless, left from another age, with the snow creeping up to cover it as
one day it will cover the world.   .   .   .
A star comes out, pure green in the faint pink. And at last the moon,
turning those miles of peaks to ebony and silver, turning the tiny light in the
house to orange in every window.
Come in. You can't describe it.   Your soul needs a roof over it.
Moraine Lake Bungalow Camp—"On the bench of hills above the lake"
Page Twenty-four  J take r
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(
Page Iwenty-ioui CANADIAN  PACIFIC  AGENCIES
THROUGHOUT THE WORLD
CANADA  AND   UNITED  STATES
Atlanta Ga.—E. G. Chesbrough, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept . 49 N. Forsyth Sf
Banff     Alta—J. A.  McDonald C P.R. Station
RpilinWham ' " Wash.—S. B. Freeman, City Passenger Agent 1252 Elk St.
Boston  Mass.— L. R. Hart, Gen. Agt  Pass. Dept 405 Boylston St.
Brandon "' ' ' Man .—R. Dawson,  District Pass. Agt Smith Block
Buffalo    NY.—H. R. Mathe wson, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 160 Pearl St.
ralirarv        AJta —J. E. Proctor,   District Pass. Agt  . . . .C.P.R. Station
Chicago    111.—T. J. Wall, Gen. Agt. Rail Traffic 71E Jackson Blvd.
Cincinnati ". Ohio—M. E. Malone,  Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 430 Walnut St.
Cleveland        .Ohio—G. H. Griffin, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 1040 Prospect Ave.
Detroit Mich .—G. G. McKay, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept 1239 Griswold St.
Duloth " '        "     Minn.—David  Bertie,    Trav.   Passenger   Agent  Soo Line Depot
Edmonton ':.".'.'.' .' . . Alta.—C. S. Fyfe, City Ticket Agent. . .    C.P.R. Building
Fort William Ont —A. J. Boreham,   City Passenger Agt 400 Victoria Ave.
Gueioh       Ont —W. C. Tully. City  Passenger Agent 30 Wyndham St.
Halifax  N.S.—J. D. Chipman, City  Passenger Agt 17 Hollis St.
Hamilton   ' .   . Ont —A. Craig, City Passenger   Agent C or. King and James Sts.
Honolulu   "    T.H.—Theo. H. Davies & Co.
Juneau Alaska—J. L. McClosky, Agent.
Kansas City Mo.—R. G. Norris, City Pass.   Agent 601   Railway  Exchange  Bldg.
Ketchikan Alaska—F. E. Ryus, Agent.
Kingston -Ont.—F. Conway, City Passenger   Agent 180 Wellington St.
London .'.' Ont.—H. J. McCallum, City Passenger Agent 417 Richmond St.
Los Angeles ..   .Cal.—W. Mcllroy, Gen. Agt. Pass.    Dept 605 South Spring St.
Milwaukee Wis.—F. T. Sansom, City Passenger  Agent 68 Wisconsin St.
Minneapolis' ' Minn.—H. M. Tait, Gen. Agt. Pass.    Dept    . .611 2nd Ave. South
^ fR. G. Amiot, District Pass.   Agent    Windsor Station
Montreal Que.— jF c  Lydon, City Pass.  Agent 141 St. James St.
Moose Jaw Sask.—A. C. Harris, Ticket Agent Canadian Pacific Station
NelSon - ■ .B.C.—J. S. Carter, District Pass.   Agent    Baker & Ward Sts.
New York N.Y .—F. R. Perry, Gen. Agt. Rail   Traffic . .,    Madison Ave. at 44th St.
North Bay  ' ' .  Ont.—L. O. Tremblay, District Pass.   Agent 87 Main St. West
Ottawa      '.'.'. Ont.—J. A. McGill, Gen. Agt. Pass.   Dept 83 Sparks St.
Peterboro .   . . .Ont.—J. Skinner, City Passenger A gent . .  George St.
Philadelphia Pa. —R. C. Clayton, City Pass. Agt Locust St. at 15th.
Pittsburgh ... Pa.—C. L. Williams, Gen. Agent Pass.   Dept ,. 340 Sixth Ave.
Portland      '     Ore —W. H. Deacon, Gen. Agt. Pass.   Dept 55 Third St.
Prince Rupert B.C.—W. C. Orchard, General Agent.
Quebec  . Que.—C, A. Langevin, City Pass.   Agent Palais Station
Regina  Sask ,—G. D. Brophy, District Pass.   Agt Canadian Pacific Station
St  John N.B.—G. B. Burpee, District Pass.   Agent , 40  King  St.
St Louis  Mo.—Geo. P. Carbrey, Gen. Agt.   Pass. Dept 420 Locust St.
St  Paul .        • Minn.—W. H. Lennon, Gen, Agt. Pass. Dept. Soo Line . . . . . Robert & Fourth Sts.
San Francisco Cal.—F. L. Nason, Gen. Agt. Pass.   Dept 675 Market St.
Saskatoon Sask.—W. E. Lovelock, City Pass.   Agent 115 Second Ave.
Sault Ste. Marie... Ont.—J. O. Johnston, City Pass.   Agent 529 Queen St.
Seattle        Wash.—E. L. Sheehan, Gen. Agt. Pass.   Dept 608 Second Ave.
Sherbrooke Que.—J. A. Metivier, City Pass. Agt 74 Wellington St.
Skagway Alaska—L. H. Johnston, Agent.
Spokane .   . . .Wash.—E. L. Cardie, Traffic Mgr. Spokane International Ry.
Tacoma Wash.—D. C. O'Keefe, City Passenger Agent 1113 Pacific Ave.
Toronto   Ont.—Wm. Fulton, District Passenger Agt Canadian Pacific Bldg.
Vancouver B.C.—F. H. Daly, City Passenger Agent 434 Hastings St. West
Victoria      B.C.—L. D. Chetham, City  Passenger Agent 1102 Government St.
Washington D C—C. E. Phelps, District   Passenger Agent 1419 New York Ave.
Windsor Ont.—W. C. Elmer, City Passenger A gent 34 Sandwich St. West
Winnipeg Man.—J. W. Dawson, Dist. Passenger  Agent Main and Portage
EUROPE
Antwerp   Belgium—A. L. Rawlinson 25 Quai Jordaens
Belfast Ireland—Wm   McCalla    41-43   Victoria   St.
Birmingham Eng.—W. T. Treadway 4 Victoria Square
Bristol Eng.—A. S. Ray 18 St. Augustine's Parade
Brussels Belgium—C. De Mey 92 Blvd. Adolphe-Max
Glasgow. Scotland—W„ Stewart 25 Bothwell St.
Hamburg Germany—J.    H.    Gardner Gansemarkt 3
Liverpool Eng.—R. E. Swain Pier Head
„ /C.  E.  Jenkins 62-65  Charing  Cross,  S.W.   1
London ^nS-—\G. Saxon Jones 103 Leadenhall St. E.C. 3
Manchester Eng.—J. W. Maine 31 Mosley Street
Paris France—A. V.  Clark 7  Rue Scribe
Rotterdam Holland—J. S. Springett Coolsingel No. 91
Southampton Eng.—H. Taylor 7 Canute Road
ASIA
Hong Kong China—T. R. Percv. Gen'l Agt. Pass. Dept Opposite Blake Pier
Kobe Japan—A. M. Parker,   Passenger  Agent 1  Bund
Manila P.I.—J. R. Shaw, Agent 14-16 Calle David, Roxas Bldg.
Shanghai China—E. Stone, Gen.   Agt.   Pass.  Dept Palace Hotel Bldg.
Yokohama Japan—G. E. Costello, Gen. Agt. Pass. Dept Ishikawa Gomei Bldg.
AUSTRALIA,   NEW   ZEALAND, ETC.
J. Sclater, Australian and New Zealand Representative, Union House, Sydney, N.S.W.
Adelaide S.A.—Macdonald, Hamilton & Co.
Auckland N.Z.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Brisbane    Qd.—Macdonald, Hamilton 8r Co.
Christchurch N.Z.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Dunedin N.Z.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Fremantle W.A.—Macdonald, Hamilton & Co.
Hobart Tas.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Launceston Tas.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Melbourne Vic.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.), Thos. Cook & Son.
Perth W.A.—Macdonald, Hamilton 8c Co.
Suva Fiii—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Sydney N.S.W.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.)
Wellington N.Z.—Union S.S. Co. of New Zealand (Ltd.) AVENUE   THEATRE
WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY
FRIDAY  AND   SATURDAY
APRIL   10th,   11th,   12th  and   13th,   1918
A   CHINESE   MUSICAL   COMEDY
SAN T0Y
PRESENTED BY
THE   ARCADIANS
Under the Direction of Ma R. C. Reed
PROCEEDS IN AID OF LOCAL PATRIOTIC FUNDS
"'BOBBY" invites you to join in the last chorus of
"MOTHERLAND"
"Motherland, Motherland, see thy sons at thy right hand,
Blood of Britain, strong defenders, let who will defy
One for thee, all for thee, thine to fight, or fall for thee
Children of that Motherland whose name shall never die.
The Arcadians Society is open to enroll eligible members. For
information apply to Jas. LEYLAND, Secretary, 609 Dunsmuir
Street, or B. W. Luke, Treasurer, c/o Canadian Bank of
Commerce, 501  Main Street. CASTE
The Emperor of China. .-. ,'  Bruno FRANCIS
Captain Bobbie Preston (son of Sir George Bingo
Preston) ....;.,,.. . EDGAR S.  SMITH
Yen  How   (a Mandarin) . . . . . R.   H.   BAXTER
Sir Bingo Preston (British Consul at Pynka Pong) Jas. LEYLAND
Lieut.  Harvey Tucker.  .ERNEST A. SHEFFIELD
Sing Hi (President of the Board of Ceremonies) . .CHAS. GODFREY
Fo Hop (a Chinese Student) . .,,r .7. .......... .... .FRANK BROWNE
Hu Pi'  ) T     „       f r»   t    o I Ernest Bulmer
I Jewellers or rynka Fong. ......
Wai Ho jJ"v x JX" :""'.' y Harry Rimmer
Li Hi \ ™ ^      t x (Fred Fletcher
r . -      t ( 1 artar Guards) . . . . „ , i      , _.
Li Lo ( (    John Orrell
Rice Seller. ..............  .WALTER R. WlLSON
Barber   . .    ROBERT W.  ARMSTRONG
First Mandarin S.   BENFIELD-KEMP
Second Mandarin    GEORGE HlLL
Li James C. Wallace
Poppy  (Daughter of Sir Bingo Preston). .Mrs.  Hugh Baillie
Dudley (her maid) Wednesday and Friday nights,
  . Mrs. B. Watson Luke
Thursday and Saturday nights, Mrs. CAMPBELL E. Forbes
Rose   Miss Dorothy Lobb
Wun Lung  (Perpetual Corporal of the Emperor's Own)
  Mrs. John Moran
Ko Fan (of the Emperor's Own) ......... Miss NoRAH James
Se Mei    ) T     „    , w. [ Miss Lena Snider
ci • XYr Jewellers   Wives. . ]
bhi Wen   J I
Yung Shi v
Me Koui
Siou
Shuey Pin Sing
Li  Kiang
Hu Yu
Hon.  Mrs.   Hay Stackporle MlSS  DORIS WALMSLEY
Lady Pickleton :».; - Mrs. Gordon J. McQueen
and
SJIN  T©Y    (Daughter of Yen How)
Wednesday and Friday nights. . Mrs. ARTHUR SlMMONS
Thursday and Saturday nights Mrs. Ivan BARBOR
Pas Seul in Act II. by MlSS DOROTHY LOBB
Yen How's Wives
Miss Evelyn Hewitt
Mrs. J. Harwood
Mrs. George Hill
Mrs. Godfrey Webster
Mrs. James Thompson
Miss Anna Knight
Miss Edith Gulland
ACT L
Pynka Pong
ACT IL
Hall of Dragons in Emperor's Palace, Peking
a;
members of the chorus:
Messrs.   R.   W.  Armstrong,   E.   Bulmer,   P.   Bird,  J.   Doughty,
A. E. Elliott, F. Fletcher, J. Hall, G. Hill, S. Benfield-Kemp,
B. W. Luke, J. Manning, G. J. McQueen, J. L. Northey,
J. Orrell, H. Rimmer, J. Ruddock, S. Trent, H. Watkins,
W.  Wilson.
MESDAMES L. Bacon, G. Bell, N. Burns, M. V. Cripps, A. F.
Galloway, E. Hewitt, B. Howey, E. M. Henley, G. Kelly,
F. Benfield-Kemp, C. A. Lunness, B. McQueen, E. Morley-
French, J. L. Northey, M. Oswell, B. Purser, L. Snider,
I. P. Thomson, D. Walmsley, D. Weithoff.
Stage Director Mr. R. C. Reed
Musical Director Mr. A.  E.  WHITE
Pianist Miss Annette Speer, L.A.B.
r> i vrr»     [   Designed by MADAME SuTTIE
Lostumes and Wigs <   ,-. ,   , ^ ^
)    Executed   by PARISIAN   COSTUMIERS
A.  ,      -, '    ( , Batiste Costume Co.
Modern Costumes by-{ **       n*   i-»   r-
y } Miss M. P. Ellis
Wardrobe Mistress Mrs.  J.  C.  WALLACE
Act 1. Act 2.
Scenery by. .  Edgar- MacKay Mr. E. VAUGHAN
Electric Effects by Mr. R. Hood
Furniture and effects kindly loaned by Mr. N. S. Ross, Auctioneer
Property Master  Mr. S.  LEYLAND
Dances arranged by
.Mrs. S. Benfield-Kemp
i THE ABBOTSFORD HOTEL
921  PENDER STREET, WEST
CENTRAL LOCATION
CONVENIENTLY SITUATED
FIVE MINUTES FROM THE BOATS
AND C.P.R. DEPOT. EXCELLENT
CUISINE.   COMFORTABLE ROOMS.
Tourists will find their every
requirement anticipated
PHONE, SEYMOUR 5866.
We Stand Alone for
QUALITY and SERVICE
IN THE
PRINTING PROFESSION
Established 1896
We employ none but Skilled Artizans
When  in  need  of  Commercial   Printing  of  any  kind,   phone  us,
Seymour 189
EVANS & HASTINGS PRINTING CO.
578 SEYMOUR  STREET 

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