a corrugated mass of party colored strata twisted like a coil of serpents from far down nearly half way up the head, haunted us for days. Mighty must have been the forces that upreared and shaped such a monument. Vertical strata were piled on horizontal, and horizontal again on the vertical, as if Nature had determined to build a tower that would reach to the skies. As we passed this old warder of the valley, the sun was setting behind Roche Suette. A warm south-west wind as it came in contact with the snowy summit formed heavy clouds, that threw long black shadows, and threatened rain; but the wind carried them past to empty their buckets on the woods and prairies.
It was time to camp, but where? The Chief, Beaupre, and Brown rode ahead to see if the river was fordable. The rest followed, going down to the bank and crossing to an island formed by a slew of the river. . . . The resources of the island would not admit of our light cotton sheet being stretched as an overhead shelter, so we selected the lee side of a dwarf aspen thicket, and spread our blankets on the gravel; a good fire being made in front to cook our supper and keep our feet warm through the night. Some of us sat up late, watching the play of the moonlight on the black clouds that drifted about her troubled face as she hung over Roche Jacques; and, then we stretched ourselves out to sleep on our rough but truly enviable couch, rejoicing in the open sky for a canopy, and in the circle of great mountains that formed the walls of our indescribably magnificent bed-chamber. It had been a day long to be remembered.
September 12th. We slept soundly our first night in the mountains, and after a dip in the Athabaska and breakfast. Valad went off on horseback to try the fords. Though the river had fallen six inches since last night, he found it still too deep for pack horses, and there was nothing but to construct a raft. . . .
