At last we reached the cove with a shelving sandy beach, but it was pitch dark and the rain was coming down, so I fear I was rather short with poor Lansdown, who had kept promising the camping ground a few yards round every point we passed.
September 19th. The camping ground as seen in the daylight was an ideal one. There was no undergrowth, and a grassy glade in the shelter of the great trees was a perfect site for the tents. A head wind had got up and the rain was still pouring down, so the prospects were not very encouraging, but still by tacking and rowing we made about seven miles when we were picked up by Mr. Chambers' launch and taken on to the head of the inlet where the Kingcome River falls into the sea. The scenery all up the inlet was very fine. The hills got more and more perpendicular as the head of the inlet was approached, and were clothed with dense forest down to the water's edge. Down the ravines from the hill-tops 3,000 feet high poured great waterfalls, and rain-clouds and mist swept over the tops of the hills, giving from time to time a glimpse of distant snow-covered peaks some 6,000 feet high.
The evening was fine and by 6 o'clock we were anchored in the river opposite a few settlers' houses.
We found Lansdown's old house, somewhat dilapidated but habitable. There was abundance of sweet hay and it was a luxury to spread my blanket on a hay-strewn dry wooden floor with a rainproof roof over my head.
Most of the settlers, including Lansdown's strapping brother, came round to have a chat and to hear the news from the outside world. They seem to have a fairly easy time chiefly raising cattle, for the delta formed by the washed-down detritus from the hills was a rich white soil on which a fine crop of grass was raised. There were a good number of wild duck about, and the settlers were a sporting lot, so they amused themselves with the evening flighting and with occasional trips up Mount Kingcome, which overshadowed the valley, after goat, deer and bear.
September 20th. It was a fine morning and the snow-covered peaks of Mount Kingcome about 6,000 feet above us, where we hoped to find our goats, were glistening in the morning sun.
Smith was hors de combat—I had offered to send him home from Alert Bay, but he said he was quite fit to go on. I think he was a bit nervous when he saw the climb before him, for carrying a pack up the steep mountain was no joke.
I was fortunate enough to secure the services of Harry Kirby, one of the settlers who knew the country well and he was willing to take Smith's place; a better man after goat I could not wish to have. He was very deaf and somewhat outspoken. Looking me over he said, "You are too stout for goat," which I rather felt to be true, though the trip after wapiti had fined me down considerably. I was, however, in hard condition by this time, and half-way up when we stopped for a midday meal, he quietly remarked, "I think after all you will do," and so my character as a prospective goat-hunter was restored.
MORNING MISTS ON MOUNT KINGCOME
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