The way to Waterton Lakes, several hours from Cardston, lay through the tithe lands of the Church,--a mile north, a mile west, and so on, with the monotonous regularity of section roads. Then suddenly emerging from the barren country, we found ourselves again in the Rockies. We motored past a chain of glassy mountain lakes, each one full to the brim with trout, so we had been told. The air sparkled; late July here in the north had the tang of autumn through the golden sun. Forests of pine edged the shores of the lakes. The same sharply notched peaks we had known at Glacier Park guarded their solitude. This park, under the care of the Canadian government, lies in the hinterland of Glacier. Over its ranges a pack train can make its way in a few days from one park to the other, and a still quicker route is by the intermittent motorboat which carries passengers back and forth during the summer. By road it takes a day or more of rough prairie traveling. With much the same type of scenery as Glacier Park, though perhaps less dramatic, Waterton Lakes should be far more widely visited than they are. These two lovely parks, naturally a continuation of each other, should and could be easily linked more closely together. At present the accommodations of Waterton Lakes are far inferior to those of Glacier. A few ex-saloons (Alberta “went dry”) offer sandwiches and near beer, but the gaudy paper decorations on the walls, covered with flies, and the inevitable assortment of toothpicks, catsup and dirty cruets on the soiled cloths, are successful destroyers of appetite. I was told that the railroad which had developed Glacier Park so intelligently, building the few necessary hotels with dignity and charm, offered to extend the developments to Waterton Lakes, but that Canada, fearing her tourists would thereby be diverted into the “States,” jealously refused the offer. A short-sighted decision, certainly, for the flood of tourists coming from the States would have been far greater than that turned in the other direction. Toby and I pitched our little tent on a delightful pebbled beach, planning to stay several days, if the fishing were as good as it had been reported. But after a fruitless--or fishless--afternoon of dangling our lines in the water, with no profit except the sight of the hills which guarded the blue sparkle, we returned to our tent at sunset with no prospect of food. We had depended too rashly upon our skill at angling. Hunger can take all the joy out of scenery.