How's Your Point of View?

A Glimpse of the Famous Canadian Rockies From the Angle of the Tourist

COREY FORD

IT'S no good. I can't go it. All the way across the continent now, and still 1 can't get the hang of it. Through the Canadian Rockies from Calgary to Kamloops, visited Banff and Lake Louise, been everywhere, seen everything, done all the conventional places; and I'm not a Tourist yet. The whole trip is a flat failure. I might as well have stayed at home.

And I've tried so very hard. I've made every effort to be one of them. I wear my plusfours like everyone else, my kodak bumps at my (left) hip, my cap slouches over my (right) car at just the orthodox angle; I call the porter "George" and the conductor "Chief"; and I spend the bulk of my time in the Observation Car seated on the back of my neck, with my coat-collar turned up and a cigar between my teeth, frowning at the time-table. But still it doesn't fool any one. I'm not a Tourist, and they know it. I simply don't belong.

Each year they come flocking in drove after drove ("luxurious hotels; comfortable bungalow camps; hiking, fishing, golfing") to these Canadian Pacific Rockies ("most remarkable mountain range in the world, 650 miles, magnificent scenery") where they may roam amid this vast scenic display ("snowy peaks, glaciers, foaming torrents, canyons, lakes like vast sapphires and amethysts set in pine-clad mountains") for a month of rest and sport ("nature's playground"). So I flocked with the rest. I wanted to play, too.

On the face of it, the whole thing seemed simple enough. I had seen Tourists before, from a distance, and they didn't seem very different from any one else. There was apt to be a set look to their faces, to be sure; and I had noticed that they frequently travelled in flocks, like sheep, behind a guide who read to them from a book. But I saw no reason why I couldn't gnaw my lip and trot along with the best of them. I thought I had simply to buy my ticket, and join in the fun. Which was where I made my big mistake.

FOR being a tourist, as such, is probably the most difficult profession in the world. People devote whole lifetimes to it. The more serious Tourists have vast libraries of books, pamphlets, time-tables and maps; and they chart out their course with maritime precision. There is a whole set of standards, and an entire code of ethics you and I know nothing about. A professional Tourist, such as you meet in the Canadian Rockies, knows at a glance the right mountain to climb and the proper glacier to photograph. He has the best adjectives on the tip of his tongue. He knows just what to write on post-cards. He can cram the largest number of activities into the smallest space of time; at Lake Louise he can ride, swim, fish, hike, golf, motor, tennis, tea, pick wild-flowers, do enough work for a dozen men, and dress in time for dinner. He is familiar with the names and addresses of all the better mountains. In a word, he knows the Point of View.

And right there is where the big trouble with me lies: I can't get the Tourist Point of View. Somehow I lack the right attitude toward things. I can't decide when a mountain is merely a mountain, and when it is Scenery. I've never discovered what constitutes a View. I am forever looking at the wrong waterfall, or photographing a mountain that hasn't a name—and a mountain without a name simply isn't done. For example, I spent a half hour at Banff staring at the glint of sun on a crag above me, when all the time I should have been looking at Cascade Mountain. They were very nice about it afterward at the hotel; but I could hear them whisper behind my back. I was the laughing-stock of the place.

So far as I can tell, from what I have seen, a View is a wooden platform built on the side of a canyon, around which is a flat railing gouged with initials, dates, and sections of names such as "Smi" or "Arthur F. Je". You can tell it anyway by the empty kodak-boxes scattered over the floor.

On the other hand, a Scene is two or more persons in bloomers who are wearing each other's hats. This Scene is usually grinning very broadly and squinting a little. One member is in the act of tipping a bottle to the lips of a tall girl with wire spectacles, and another is seated cross-legged in the center holding a pennant lettered: "Montclair, N. J." (In 8,657,000 Scenes photographed last summer, over six million contained pennants lettered: "Montclair, N. J." Don't ask me why.)

I have no idea what Scenery is. Nothing much, 1 guess.

YOU would think it would be enough to be familiar with these technical points; but this is only the beginning of What Every Tourist Should Know. You may be able to distinguish a View from a Scene; but unless you know how to duck your knees and twist your head and squint your eyes in the professional manner, you are not a Tourist yet. You won't fool any one.

You can always tell the sex of an angleworm, they say, provided you look at it from the right angle; and I suppose it is the same way with mountains. It all depends how you look at them. Not the View, but the Point of View is the important thing.

You should see us rush up in a beefy stampede from the Sightseeing Bus, trampling each other underfoot in an eager surge to the very brink of the canyon. For a brief second we recoil at the edge in a conventional blink of awe. The ecstasy passes. At once we are a twisting, contorting mass, turning our heads, squinting our eyes, stooping over and looking between our legs, inspecting the prospect from every available angle. With a whirr and a click a hundred cameras are drawn into position, trained, and fired. The group turns as cne with a sigh of relief, rushes into the adjacent souvenir-stores; and the screen door slams with a shivering finality behind us. Only the muffled scratch! scratch! of a hundred pens on a hundred post-cards mars the tranquillity of nature. A single exposed negative lifts and falls, swerves and droops as it zigzags its way like a bird into the gaping canyon far, far below.

From a careful inspection of these various positions, I have isolated four or five of the prevailing Tourist Angles. These may be varied according to the individual taste, or figure; but the most typical points of view are as follows:

First Position, 180°. Tourist faces mountain, feet together, toes outward, hands clasped left in right upon abdomen. Bend head at a right angle to the left, resting left cheek on left shoulder, and shut right eye. Exclamation: "Oh."

Second Position, 90°. Tourist faces mountain, assuming same position as (1), except that hands are placed on hips, left hand on left hip and right hand on right hip. (Gentleman may vary this by placing left hand on left hip and right hand on the right hip of 'the lady standing beside him, followed by a poke on the nose.) Bend head to the right, assuming an angle halfway between the vertical ^d the horizontal, and shut left eye. Exclamation: "My."

Third Position, 360°. Tourist turns back to mountain and stoops over in what would be a polite bow if he were not facing the wrong way. Clasp left ankle with left hand and right ankle with right hand, gripping the temples between the knees, and stare upside down between the legs. Keep both eyes open, particularly if you are near the edge. Exclamation: "George, help me up, I'm getting dizzy."

Fourth Position., 270°. Standing with back to view, Tourist assumes position (4), elevating left shoulder and placing head beneath left elbow, clasp left shin with right hand and grasp right ear firmly between left thumb and forefinger. Half-shut eyes. Exclamation: "Personally I feel like a damn fool, how do you feel?"

Fifth Position, 0°. Place the sit-spot firmly on the seat of a comfortable arm-chair on the hotel porch, facing desired view. Elevate both legs, until the left toe is on a level with the left eye and the right toe is on a level with the right eye, resting' heels on balcony railing. Fold arms left in right, rest the back of the neck on a plush cushion, light a cigar and shut both eyes tight. Exclamation: "Ah . . . boy!"

FROM Calgary the snub-nosed engine of the C. P. R. moseyed its inquisitive way, mile after mile into the heart of these vast Rockies. It rooted about the foot of dizzy mountain-heights, burrowed through black tunnels, growled and shook down echoing canyons, sniffed at the shore of glass-green lakes, and wormed its black belly across spidery trestles that looked down upon cloud-packed valleys and the tiny streams meandering below.

And as this incredible sea of grey stone rolled and tossed, heaved and plunged over half a continent of valleys and peaks and glaciers, combing higher and ever higher to the westward in a mounting succession of whitecapped breakers, we in the Observation Car began to wriggle and twist and show signs of growing excitement. Somebody spied a moose. With a stifled gasp the school-teacher from Alabama abruptly identified a mountain. The man who had been over the route before began to reveal in measured monotone what lay ahead. The elderly gentleman beside me fished out his time-table; and we were off. Every Tourist for himself.

Continued on page 122

(Continued from page 94)

". . . guess this is Morley, we're due at Morley at 7:32, and it's after that now. Let's see, we're due at Seebe at 8:16 but we're twenty minutes late now. . . ."

". . . isn't it a gem, my dear? Isn't it a perfect jewel? Can you bear it? Just like a fairy's tear-drop, isn't it zx-quisite, isn't it . . ."

". . . grade's been reduced 2.2 per cent, see, you go under this mountain and turn a complete figure '8', here, it says: 'The track enters the second tunnel, 2922 feet long, under Mount Ogden (8795 feet) and again turning a complete circle . . .' "

". . . that big mountain over there, porter, is that Mount Field, are you sure? But it says Cathedral Mountain. . . ."

". . . haven't seen anything yet. Haven't seen a thing, boy. This is nothing, you wait till you get past Field,wait till you see the Columbia River and . . ."

". . . isn't it too sheer, my dear, it's so beautiful it simply tears you, isn't that cloud a picture, like an elfin bridal-veil. . . ."

". . . longest tunnel in America, it says here: 'Not only eliminated track curvature to an amount corresponding to seven complete circles, but also ...'"

"Quick! Back there! No, there, can't you see? Well, it's gone now. I think itwas a moose. ..."

". . . but wait till you see the Selkirks, boy; they're mountains, I'm here to tell you, they make these hills look sick, why . . ."

". . . think it's Cathedral Mountain, I know it's either Cathedral Mountarn or else Mount Bosworth because . .

"There, see them? See them? Quick, no, up higher . . . mountain; sheep! Don't you see them?"

". . . 'lowered the summit by 55 feet, reduced the length of the line; by 4)4 miles . . . tunnel is doubletracked and measures 29 feet from side to side and 21)4 feet from . . .' " ". . . takes your breath away, m dear, it simply prostrates you, it's beautiful, it's like an old castle, can't you picture the knights in armor and ..."

". . . a yak/ Where I'm pointing. . . ."

". . . the last time we came over it was much clearer, this is very misty now, you folks can't see anything, why, I've seen these mountains when they were so clear

". . . see, we're twenty-four minutes behind, this is Revelstoke, we were due here at 10:16 and it's . . ."

". . . one is Mount Stephen and one is Mount Dennis, but I don't know which. Porter! which one is ..."

"OooOO! Look. . . . No, it's only a cow."

"My dear, isn't it absolutely like a. turquoise, it's so zx-quisitt it simply gnaws one, isn't it . . ."

By this time we were a wriggling, frantic mass, waving arms, pointing fingers, clicking kodaks; chattering, jabbering, squealing; twisting our heads, craning our necks, squinting our eyes in all the approved positions. We turned our heads on one side and shut the left eye. We placed our hands on our hips and shut the right eye. With one accord we stooped over side by side in a long line and put our heads between our knees, and stared upside down between our legs over the rail. ...

I have never known just how it happened. Probably just at that moment the train lurched ever so slightly. • And in regaining my balance I must have given the Tourist next to me the least little shove.