Early Days in the Canadian Rockies

Walter D. Wilcox

IT is strange how some impressions retain their vivid and beauti- ful character throughout one’s life, while others that might seem of equal interest pass from memory all too soon. I can never forget my first view of the Selkirks and Canadian Rockies. It was in 1891 that, returning from a visit to Alaska, our train was working its way up the W. slope of the Selkirks. The broad slopes of balsam and fir, snow-white torrents far below, and silvery glaciers touching the blue sky, aroused my utmost admiration.

At Glacier House I met for the first time that little group of pioneers that made this their summer home. They were the Vauxes, the Schaffers, the Allens and others who were accustomed to gather every evening round a blazing fire and read selections from Green’s Among the Selkirk Glaciers just as our forefathers were wont to read a daily chapter from the Bible. The place was beautifully laid out with fountains and flower gardens, while in the distance one could see the white mass of the Great Glacier and the towering pyramid of Mt. Sir Donald. But, owing to the very few trails and the great density of the forest growth there were only two classes of visitors to Glacier. One was that of the hardy mountain climbers, not to be deterred by any obstacle; and the other, those of more quiet tastes who were content to take photographs, gather wild flowers, or write books on botany.

This feeling of confinement and lack of spatial opportunity soon made me transfer my affections to the Main Range, E. of the Columbia, where there were more open forests and even these made easier by Indian trails. Banff was a rather primitive place when I first visited it in 1891. The main street was lined with log houses and small stores, and made more colorful by Indians in native costume, Mounted Police, and visitors from the old country, Australia and India. The hotel was a large frame structure of four or five stories. The central part was open from the office on the ground floor through to the roof and, except for the height, the whole place had somewhat the same atmosphere of grandeur and hospitality that one finds in Sir Walter Scott’s descriptions of the ancient Norman and Saxon castles. Mr. Mathews was manager for many years and was most popular, as he was a genial host possessed of a vast fund of good stories.

Lake Louise at this time was still more primitive. One had to be called in the cold dawn, eat a breakfast of toast and coffee and take the morning train to Laggan, as the L. L. station was called at that time. The road up to the lake ran through a burnt forest and was the worst I have ever seen outside of a lumber camp. The train was usually, but not always, met by a buckboard with two horses, and the fastest runners among the visitors got a ride. The rest had to walk. There was a log hut on the lake shore but no accommodations for over night in 1891. One day the hut burned down when Mr. Astley, who was in charge, happened to be absent. Sam Allen and I spent the summer of 1893 in tents on the lake shore while a new chalet was in progress of construction. There was a small dock and one or two row boats on the lake shore, but the area near it was a dismal stump-filled swamp, a breeding place for myriads of mosquitoes as well, in strong contrast to the well kept lawns and flower beds of the present day.

Perhaps it is only fair to say that Astley was my first outfitter, but that depends on what might properly be called an outfit. When we think of the present-day camp comforts, with pneumatic mattresses, warm sleeping bags, excellent food and service, the miseries of those early days seem like a glimpse of the dark ages. For our first trip into Paradise Valley, Astley gave us two sorry looking cayuses, one of which had a saddle, the other none, one blanket for each two men, and the larder in about the same proportion. The two Indian boys who were our guides deserted the first day. Not to be outdone by such little things we led our horses through a pathless forest, blazing our way as we went and then endured five nights on the cold rocks of upper Paradise Valley before we turned back. But, our trail had disappeared—we had blazed the trees on the wrong side!

When the new chalet at the lake was completed in 1894, there was available to visitors for the first time a simple but decent manner of living. Interesting travellers from all parts of the world began to arrive. Among the first, and in fact long before this time, was Col. O’Hara, who came every year to that beautiful lake which has since been named for him. Somewhat of a recluse, he preferred to spend his time in wild spots far from the madding crowd. Then there was Prof. Fay with his unbounded energy and enthusiasm for mountaineering. The Vauxes came to Lake Louise in the earliest days, but I think they preferred Field. Later came Habel with all kinds and sizes of aneroid barometers, determined to measure the altitude of Lake Louise to the last inch.

In the ’90s, and later, Field was one of the popular resorts. The hotel was virtually a railroad station but there were few trains to disturb one’s rest and quiet. Under the care of the Mollison sisters the dining room was a fairyland of well set tables, decorated with wild flowers, and made even more tempting by a delicious menu. The Natural Bridge and Emerald Lake were the only interesting places to be visited.

To the geologist, however, the fossil beds high on the slopes of Mt. Stephen were something that should not be missed. Here, spread over a considerable area, every stone is full of trilobites and other fossils. I realized that these deposits should be of paramount interest to my friend, Dr. Walcott, at that time secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. I made several vists to the beds and with the aid of four or five section-hands got down enough stone to fill a barrel which was shipped to Washington. Dr. Walcott was most enthusiastic when he examined these specimens. While all the species were known to him the shale was of such fine texture that details were sharp and clear. A few years later this scientist who was the world authority on Lower Silurian life came to the mountains, discovered newer and better beds, and with his hammer and chisel brought to light connecting links between the crustaceans and fishes, hitherto unknown to science.

Douglas Dick was an interesting figure of those days. His favorite resort was Field, for the Mollisons were the only women in the world of whom he had no fear. Neither tiger nor grizzly could strike more terror into the heart of the average man than a pretty girl could inspire in this old bachelor, who was reputed to have been a wealthy Ceylon tea planter and the victim of an unfortunate love affair. Many a time have I seen him make a dash out of the dining room at Banff, sometimes by way of a window, upon the arrival of some group of femininity, and thence by first train to Field. Yet, withal he was a most delightful companion on the trail or in the woods. When, on rare occasions, he deigned to visit Banff, he indulged in the extraordinary custom of taking a midnight swim in the icy waters of the Bow below the hotel. One morning the hospitable and popular manager of the hotel, Mr.

Mathews, said to me, rather excitedly, “Have ye seen Douglas Dick? He said he was going for a swim last night, but no one has seen him since.” Telegrams were sent to Field. He was not there. The alarm was spread as Tom Wilson and the Mounted Police started a search. Three days later his body was found several miles down the river.

The C. P. R. officials, from the president down to the humblest section hand, were all very kind to us in allowing their permanent guests at the several hotels to ride on freight trains or even in locomotives. This was a great convenience, as, in the earlier days there was only one train a day. A wire to Supt. Niblock would always bring a favorable response. I remember one engineer, Carey by name, who, many a time when running “light,” would blow the whistle, stop and pick us up, sometimes far from any station. Then there was Erickson, the section foreman with his railway velocipede, ever ready to take us on interesting trips up and down the railroad as long as they did not interfere with his work. One of the best trips was to take the morning freight from Field to the top of the Great Divide, go up to Lake O’Hara and return in the evening on a small flat car which would slide all the way down the “big hill.” This was exciting enough when crossing trestles hundreds of feet above roaring torrents, but, all the more so when we realized that one of the wheels was only held in place by the track, as it had no pin. Col. O’Hara was accustomed in this way to visit his lake by taking the morning freight. One time he was a little delayed in finding his camera and rushed out to find that the train had already left. Happening to be in a somewhat irascible mood he started to write a telegram of protest to headquarters. About that time a terrible explosion was heard and word was brought back that the engine he intended to ride in had blown up, killing both fireman and engineer. We can imagine what happened to the telegram.

As much and more has been told and written about Tom Wilson, than most any other man in the Canadian Rockies, and anything that could be set down here would be largely repetitious. I always loved to visit the hospitable Wilson home in Banff. It was a simple log shack set a little way back from the main street. It was a treat to hear Tom tell about his experiences and travels in the mountains. He had a photographic memory and could describe in detail every view and every twist in any trail he had ever traversed. He seemed to enjoy such memories. Yet all the time there was a merry twinkle of humor lurking in his eye and he was always ready for a good laugh. Tom outfitted my first real trip in the mountains, that to Mt. Assiniboine. Bill Peyto, Tom’s right hand man, was head packer and the other men were Harry Lang and Ralph Edwards. I soon grew to admire Peyto, one of the outstandingly interesting characters of the Canadian Rockies. He was efficient, daring, highly imaginative, an excellent man with the horses and a good friend. He spoke in the low, quiet voice of the true westerner, but even so he spoke rarely. His forte was doing things, not talking about them.

One of the most interesting trips I ever took with Peyto was late in the fall of 1898. During August and part of September I had been laid up with typhoid. I went to the Adirondacks to recuperate and as soon as I could walk two miles in any one day I took the train for the west and arrived at Banff on the first of October. Tom Wilson got me an outfit with Peyto, Harry Lang and five horses. I happened to meet Sir William Van Horne by chance at the hotel. He said, “Wilcox, what are you doing out here so late in the season?” I replied that I was putting the finishing touches to a case of typhoid, by taking a three weeks’ trip into the mountains.

“Better take a big grub pile,” said he, “You may not get back till spring.”

Sir William’s prophecy nearly came true. We were out seventeen days and on fourteen of them there was wind, hail or snow. We went up the Bow, took the middle fork of the Saskatchewan and crossed the Howse Pass. Deep down in the canyon of Blaeberry River it snowed for two days harder than ever. When the storm was over we could see snow 4 ft. deep on the Baker Pass high above us. Peyto disappeared for half a day and came back saying that he had located the trail nearly to the top of the pass and thought we could get through. This we did the next day, thanks to Peyto’s enterprise and determination. It was a fearful struggle and we had to break snow for the horses all the way to the pass. The snow was 4 ft. deep on the summit, there was absolutely nothing of pasture for the horses and in the morning our tent ropes were like steel cables. But our troubles were over. It was all down hill to Field and by afternoon we were among the autumnal glories of the low country. As to the ill effects of typhoid, they had completely disappeared.

Three men who seem to me outstanding, are Peyto, Fred Stephens and Tom Lusk. It might seem invidious to omit a host of others, such as the always cheerful Ross Peecock, the erudite Bob Campbell or humorous George Haskins. Then there are many whose company on the trail has been denied me, such as Jim Brewster and Jim Simpson, but we have made up for lost time in other places.

Tom Lusk was a broncho buster from Texas, and a wonderful man with horses. There were no sore backs in his outfits and for this reason Tom Wilson had great confidence in him. Lusk was a short, slightly built man and like many of his kind rather taciturn and a bit shy. He always had a pipe in his mouth and, on one rare occasion when we could spare it, I offered Tom a snack of Scotch. “No thanks,” said he, “if you let me have the whole bottle I’ll take it, but what good does one drink do a man anyway ?”

Fred Stephens, the Michigan lumberman, was a wizard with an axe and he had unending determination. If he could not get his party through a bad bit of country no one could. He cut a way through the forests of the upper Kicking Horse Canyon and got Habel, as the first tourist, if I am not mistaken, into the Yoho. Again, when we were at Fortress Lake looking for Mt. Brown and Mt. Hooker, it was absolutely essential for us to reach the other end of that body of water. One side of the lake was an impassable down-fall of timber. The other was a steep slope covered with snow-bent alders and willows. Just the same Stephens got us across the lake. In two days, with Barrett’s help, he built a raft that would hold four men and a lot of equipment. There were roughly hewn oars, and a mast, to which we could attach a pack- cover for a sail. With two men rowing constantly we reached the far end of the lake in four and a half hours.

Henry Bryant, president of the Geographical Society of Philadelphia, and I once made an interesting trip to the country south of Mt. Assiniboine. Going up the most westerly head of the Spray, we turned S. and went down into the fire-swept valley of the Palliser. We intended to continue down this river till we could, if possible, locate a pass over the main range, as all that was new country. We failed to locate the South Kananaskis Pass as it must come down on the gravel washes in some obscure place, but this was fortunate as it forced us far S. We got into some very beautiful country, while searching everywhere for a pass. The one we finally discovered was highly interesting photographically and rather steep on the side towards the Elk River. Climbing, photographing and taking angles for a map, we stayed here several days before turning N. to the Kananaskis Lakes, where we camped for ten days.

Bryant with unusual imagination had brought along a collapsible canoe, light and strong and with no visible indication that it might collapse far from shore. We camped on the upper lake, which is quite large and dotted with wooded islands. Unfortunately this lake has no fish in it. The lower lake is surrounded by burnt timber but is alive with trout. Here it was that Bryant was sitting in his canoe on the first afternoon, casting a fly and smoking a pipe when a band of seventy-five Stoney Indians in full war costume suddenly appeared marching along the shore. One can imagine their surprise at seeing a human being 50 miles from the nearest settlement and a boat where no boat had ever been before. They began to shout:

“Hey, you no fish here. This Stoney Indian Lake. You fish other lake.”

In other words we could have the scenery, while they preferred something more substantial. These Indians were on their way to visit a friendly tribe in the Kootanie country and next day the whole file passed near our camp which was near the trail. Dressed as they were in their gayest costumes they made a magnificent display, but what interested us most were the little babies of two or three riding in baskets on the quieter ponies.

From the very first I always carried a camera of some kind in the mountains. Photographic records are a constant delight and serve to keep pleasant experiences alive in memory. Starting with a small camera I gradually worked up to an 11 x 14, which with the glass plates formerly used, made a heavy load. With such a camera one does not waste shots. The perfect composition is worked out and the precise moment waited for. Rudolph and I climbed Mt. Niblock with only two plates and Chris and I got the Big Bertha, as we called it, to the top of Mt. Temple. After such strenuous exertions, dark-room preparations are made as if they were a religious ceremony, and as the first negative comes out of the hypo one is more excited than when hunting grizzlies.

On photographic trips to places near Lake Louise I used a black canvas tent 6 ft. high, by 4 ft. square, in which I could change plates or develop, at any time of day or night. This idea provided an opportunity of getting any particular scene at its best. One could wait for hours or even days till such time as clouds and water reflections were perfect and develop the plates immediately after. Upon one occasion Jim Wood and I spent a week near the Giant Steps Falls in Paradise Valley. This was partly to get the falls when running full, and partly in order to clean up the scenery which had one blemish. There was a dead tree which leaned out and cut into the view, on one side of the falls, and we decided that it had to be felled. Unfortunately the tree stood on a steep bank, with little or no good footing for an axeman and at the base the trunk was more than 3 ft. in diameter. Jim and I worked on it for two solid days before we got it down. How I longed for Fred Stephens!

We were richly rewarded a few days later when I secured one of the best pictures I have ever made. A Chinook wind came up and filled the sky with writhing, swirling bits of torn cloud-like wisps of cotton wool, that made a wild background entirely harmonious with the dashing water.

Val Fynn and I had many hobbies in common and we became fast friends shortly after we first met. We took many short trips and climbs often accompanied by Fred Armbrister, who has done such admirable work with his photography. Val and I were a fairly well-balanced team as he was little less than a Swiss guide on rocks or snow, while my own fondness for “bushwhacking,” or beating a way through the woods without loss of direction-sense, came in handy in the lower valleys.

I recall a delightful trip we once made. Taking the bus to Moraine Lake we spent the night at the camp and next morning walked through the lovely Consolation Valley and over the pass to the glaciers back of Mt. Fay. These are quite extensive and in one place a steep and rather sharp ridge divides the icefield into two parts. This ridge must be crossed in order to reach the alpine hut in Prospectors Valley. Arrived at the top it looked as if we had gotten into a rather difficult situation. On the other side was a vertical cliff nearly 100 ft. deep that seemed impassable. But Fynn was not stumped for long. Edging along a narrow ledge, he called to me to follow. This ledge took us to a steep gully filled with ice and rocks, but with care we got down to the glacier far below. At nightfall we reached the camp and found Edward Feuz there with a party. It is wonderful how good a steak and bacon can be under such circumstances. The next day we crossed the barren and rocky Wenkchemna Pass in a wild storm with hail, thunder and lightning, and arrived rainsoaked and nearly frozen at the Moraine Lake camp. But it was not long till the warmth and comfort within and a delicious dinner restored us to normalcy.

Belmore Browne, the artist, got a tremendous amount of pleasure out of the mountains. He loved to camp out with friends or his family. He could pack and ride his horses with skill, cook an excellent meal and set up a comfortable camp by himself. We became good friends as was natural between two men who were both interested in depicting the beauty of nature, I with my camera and he with his marvellous paintings.

One day, in early autumn, Browne told me about a pretty lake, tucked away somewhere in the forest a few miles W. of Banff. This lake was very near the road to Lake Louise, but so thoroughly concealed that not one person in a thousand knew of its existence. Browne invited Armbrister and myself to spend two or three days at the lake, where we could all devote ourselves to our particular artistic hobbies in a delightful spot. The day of our arrival was one of rare autumnal beauty. Under a sky of cerulean blue, the small, round lake resembled an emerald surrounded by the gold of aspens and maples already touched by the frosts of a dying summer. It was not long before we had set up our teepee and arranged our equipment and larder within. While Browne was busily at work on a painting, Armbrister wandered off on one side of the lake and I the other. I came upon a beaver work-house among some aspen poplars and marvelled at the large-sized logs they had felled and cut for their houses. Shortly after, I saw a remarkable rare incident— a beaver swimming at midday and under a bright sun! I was lucky in getting some excellent movie shots and also the splash, with a boom, when the animal slapped the water before going under.

Then I went back to the teepee to get more film for my camera. My first glance inside showed that something was radically wrong. A large hole had been torn in the side of the teepee, flour and bacon were spread over the blankets, and an entire ham had disappeared. As I was peering into the semi-darkness I began to imagine in some indescribable but uncanny way that something was right behind me. Turning quickly I was startled to see the largest black bear of all my experience, so close that I could have laid hand on him. This was the robber who had taken our provisions. It must have been his second or third trip. There was no use continuing on into the teepee. The other way was blocked. I realized that the bear must have been annoyed, not to say irritated at my presence and, what is even more important, he must have been one of very bad manners as he had torn a hole in our canvas instead of entering politely by the front door which was open. For a few moments of embarrassing quiet each of us waited for the other to move. Fortunately it was the bear. I shouted to Browne, who came on the run, and with rifle in hand we scoured the neighboring woods, but in vain.

“It’s all over,” said Browne. “We shall have to go back. It is against the law to shoot game in the Park and if we stay here the bear will be prowling around and annoying us all night.” So we returned to Banff that evening, but we had enjoyed a wonderful day, Browne had finished his painting and we had secured some very interesting photographs. But we were consoled when it began to rain in the morning and so continued for three days.

In 1927 or thereabouts Ernst Lubitsch came to the lake from Hollywood with a large company of moving picture people to portray a play called “The King of the Mountains.” Besides the mechanical force including recorders, stage setters, porters, and experts on photography, there were a number of actors including John Barrymore, Varconi and a lovely Alsatian blonde. The company remained six weeks at the lake and no expense was too much to preserve harmony, and make everyone happy, and the show a success. Guides and experts were sent out on the remote passes and hillsides in the neighboring valleys to study and approve scenes suitable to the forthcoming play. Moving picture shows, dinners and champagne suppers made the evenings glide by all too fast.

At the highest point to which horses could go, everything was unpacked and an hour or more was spent arranging loads for the porters and Swiss guides. Owing to the cumbersome cameras and heavy batteries some of the men had to struggle with loads up to 75 lbs. or more. Barrymore complained loudly, but the Alsatian in her high-heeled shoes climbed heroically over the rounded cobbles and rough stones. It was a wonder that the entire company reached the upper glacier without accident but they did.

Arrived on the pure white snow of the glacier, nearly two hours were spent arranging sets and practising preliminary scenes. The most important of all was where the villain, represented by John Barrymore, seizes the faithless wife, represented by the blonde, and dashes up the mountain side trying to escape from the angry mob. For this scene a snow slope more or less free of crevasses was selected, and all cameras pointed toward it, when a signal was given and Barrymore started on his 100 yd., up-hill dash. Now the snow was rather soft, the grade pretty steep and the altitude about 9000 ft. Barrymore was in no sense a mountain climber, but to all appearance the scene went off most successfully, except that the protagonist returned in a state of near collapse. But Lubitsch’s brow was clouded. Something had gone wrong, yet he dared not tell Barrymore. Waiting a discreet interval he went over to Mr. Barrymore and said in a quiet voice, “Well, Mr. Barrymore, I am sorry to say that we have to do that last scene once more, again,” to which the great actor replied that such an idea was the last in the world that he had in mind, though it was more tersely and shockingly expressed. Lubitsch, almost weeping, said that he was spending $10,000 a day on this enterprise, also that this was the principal scene of the play, and without it he would be ruined. In a word, Barrymore finally relented and did the scene over again.

Then followed a collation such as the snow-clad Rockies had never seen before and probably never will again. The pretty Alsatian put on a frock that would have graced a ball-room. Tarpaulins were spread out on the snow, cocktails were passed around, accompanied by sandwiches, chicken-a-la-King (which Lubitsch thought appropriate to the play) and ice cold champagne. Under a blue sky and bright sun, the helmet-shaped Mt. Lefroy and the inspiring slopes of Mt. Victoria on which avalanches were now thundering made a wonderful background for a group of people that was almost unique.

In the forty years between 1890 and 1930 many important changes took place. Glacier House had been practically isolated by a rerouting of the railroad track. Field, with increased traffic, had become little more than a railroad station, and Banff was more and more frequented by those who cared for everything but mountain climbing. So the Chateau at Lake Louise became almost the last outpost for mountaineers along the C. P. R. On the contrary many new camps and rest houses had been built at such places as Emerald, O’Hara and Moraine Lakes, besides the Alpine huts and others far afield, such as Jim Simpson’s place at Bow Lake, and the Assiniboine Camp.

In connection with the annual camps of the Alpine Club of Canada and those of the Trail Riders, which were models of efficiency and comfort, many new trails were opened up or old ones improved. Excellent trails were built through the Yoho, and under Hamilton’s great engineering skill Paradise Valley and the Sentinel Pass were within the reach of average walkers, while the high level trail from Moraine Lake to the Wenkchemna Pass is possibly the most spectacular and inspiring in the mountains.

In the same forty years many changes have taken place in the physical world as well. The glaciers and snowfields have retreated alarmingly and in some cases to such an extent as to detract considerably from their former beauty and grandeur. But there was another change, in this case for the better, that came about so slowly and subtly that very few observers have ever noticed it. This is the very large restoration of the forests by natural forces. During the construction days and long after, great areas of forest were burned over, in the Bow and subsidiary valleys. In 1891 a very large percentage of all the forest, from the Bow Pass to Banff, was desolated by fire. The borders of Moraine Lake and Consolation Valley were a waste of bare poles and fireweed and so was the immediate neighborhood of the Lake Louise station. To look at them now no one would guess that a fire had ever passed through those regions. Given a rest, the forest will recover. In twelve or fifteen years the spruce and jackpines give enough cover to hide the previous fire disaster.

During the ten or twelve years before Tom Wilson’s death a group of friends was gradually formed at Lake Louise who began to call themselves “Old Timers,” and such, in a way, they were. Year after year, and at one time or another, there came together such well-known visitors as Prof. Fay, Dr. Hickson, Val Fynn, Dr. Eggers, Howard Palmer, Alfred Castle, Jim Brewster, Col. Moore, Tom Wilson, and others besides myself. Then, too, were the ever present Swiss guides, Edward, Rudolph, Ernest and Chris. Armbrister’s room was known as The Junior Alpine Club and was a focal point for reunions which Tom Wilson frequented, time and again, during the season. No doubt these cheering and sometimes hilarious meetings gave him great pleasure and possibly prolonged his life.

Those who have travelled in the mountains for years must needs have suffered and enjoyed many priceless experiences. They have, no doubt, seen pack-horses roll down mountain sides, or sinking in muskegs; they may have had to fight forest fires and they certainly have endured the discomfort and irritating delays of untimely summer snow storms. But again they have had the joy of exploring regions never seen before, gazing upon lakes unknown to man, or of reaching mountain tops never previously climbed.

Whoever ventures into the heart of the wilderness must possess many qualities besides love and appreciation of nature. He must use good judgment in order to avoid hazardous situations. He must show imagination and enterprise in making plans. He must have acquired skill in whatever particular line he is interested. He must never lose his determination to succeed, and above all he must have courage when the cards are stacked against him and everything is going wrong.

It was not alone love of nature that brought Col. O’Hara across the ocean year after year, nor that lured Sam Allen on his solitary wanderings over the Opabin Pass and around Lake Oesa. It has been only through skill and courage that the Swiss guides during many years have saved themselves and their charges from countless perilous situations on dangerous mountains. It was only determination and will power that saved the life of Tom Wilson when, after breaking through an ice bridge on the Pipestone, he had to walk for hours with clothes frozen stiff at twenty below. And it was only a sublime courage that saved the life of Mrs. Stone when marooned for seven days on a narrow mountain ledge without food, making one of the outstanding adventures of all mountain history.

Among the friends who returned to Lake Louise year after year, no less than among the members of our own Alpine Club and similar organizations everywhere there is a common bond that unites us all. It is the recognition of achievement, but of similar tastes and interests. It is the keen desire to read and hear about the adventures of others rather than to tell our own. In the great world of outdoors there is no room for envy or petty jealousy. There is so much to be seen and so much to be done that life is all too short to make more than a beginning.