Last year I spoke with members of a party who, on behalf of the company, had just traversed the railway route across the mountains. On the beauty of the country they could not sufficiently dilate. At Yellowhead Pass, they said, you enter a vast, wild, unsubdued Alpine wonderland. It has been dedicated for ever to the use of the nation as the Jasper National Park—an expanse of indescribable grandeur, with an ocean of majestic virgin peaks comprised within the numerous well-defined ranges, snow-capped and glacier scored, which tower above a continental watershed wherein are the headwaters of five mighty rivers—the Saskatchewan, the Athabasca, the Thompson, the Columbia, and the Fraser. Also I heard of forest-clad slopes, flower-strewn passes, impressive solitudes, vast snow-fields and exquisite lakes. Far above the explorers’ heads was Roche à Miette—an imposing, sphinx-like head with a swelling Elizabethan ruff of sandstone and shales. To the east the party saw a cluster of mineral springs, two of which boil out of a mountain side in a wild secluded little valley, and have a temperature of 116 degrees. Farther on they saw Mount Geikie towering inaccessible, its summit lost in azure at a height of 11,000 feet. To the south-east lay Simpson’s Pass, in which the mighty Athabasca is born in a region of perpetual snow and a succession of glaciers. Within that pass is the “Committee’s Punch Bowl,” whereof Sir George Simpson has written: “The relative position of the opposite waters is such as to have hardly a correlative on the earth’s surface, for a small lake sends its tribute from one end to the Columbia and from the other to the Mackenzie.” Presently they arrived in sight of Mount Robson, the King of the Rockies, which had been recently scaled by the Rev. G. R. B. Kinney, of the Alpine Club of Canada. Impressions of that eminence must be given in the words of its hero. “The first party of white men (of which I was one),” says Mr. Kinney, “ever known to reach Mount Robson was organised by Dr. Coleman, of Toronto University. . . . Our first camp was in the deep shades of the cedar and hemlock on the Grand Forks, within a mile of where the branch coming in from around the north of the mountain joins the one from around the south. Because of my roving disposition, I became the explorer of the party, and my first discovery was that of the beautiful lake that bears my name. Nestling at the very foot of Mount Robson on the west, walled in on every side by majestic glacier-bearing peaks, this forest-fringed emerald gem, sentinelled by the highest and grandest mountain in all the Rockies, will rival Lake Louise for splendour. The feeling of being the first white man known to walk its shores, and looking for the first time on the glories of its brand-new wonders, filled me with a sense of awe.” The party failed to climb Mount Robson in 1907, so they returned to the task in the following summer, when again their efforts were unavailing.