THE CASCADES

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

he Cascade Mountains in British Columbia are a veritable cascade of Nature's wonders and are in truth more astonishingly breathtaking in their Winter garb than Walt Disney ever conceived in his fantasies of Nature.

Journey with me then this one afternoon in February along some forty odd miles of scenic snake-like trails though they are but a small part of the extensive Cascades. This setting, impressed on a receptive mind cries out for expression, the ultimate in form and beauty laid out unobtrusively, silently yet transiently, for all who care to see. All too soon the sun, warm and his rays increasing, impinging his lifegiving yet destructive beams on this pattern of shimmering white, will slash the canvas. Its almost ethereal likeness will fade, the white no longer white but a faded grey like soiled linen. Those myriad designs of fluffy snow seeking rest on branches, on pine leaves and in every conceivable tree-nook and cranny - the snows which, timeless and leisurely sifted down to be enticed weblike by the merest of obstructions, will all have vanished in a noisy farewell of rushing tears.

Pause then, while the face of beauty is radiant and at this moment no mirror, other than this, Nature's own, reflected such features so utterly placid and serene. Drink of this cup of elixir till the mind in sudden ecstasy catches a fleeting glimpse of a greater vision. One is silent yet one sees in that pure white tapestry those intricate touches of a Master Hand. No painter however gifted depicted such a scene as this. Its grandiose scale, its pallor of unsurpassed white, all this and more etched on the mind as with indelible pencil. In quiet thought and deep marvel on those staggering vistas, those ominous depths and on the absolute and all pervading calm of hazy and smoke tinted spaces.

Four or five giant pines dripping with snow stand like sentinels at the very threshold of this journey into contentment. They are overwhelming in their three dimensional perspective as if conscious of the key position they hold. In a wavy line they verily appear to be advancing towards you, towering in size while you who are moving are not actually conscious of it. Truly an optical illusion.

This afternoon not one shadow marred the snow's white face. The blazing sun, tinge of red, deep in his blue and cloudless realm, threw his ruddy and searching beams into huge and tiny spaces. The slightest murmur of a breeze in whimsical mood bestirs himself and lightly sifts powdery snow from some precarious perch. It hovers misty fine and the breeze, reluctant to disturb further such a perfect setting, dies in his tracks. The mist wholly without guidance yet responds to gravity's tiny whisperings. Still as a painted picture is the forest.

Imagine a crazy rut scooped out by some monster chasing another. Think of such a labyrinth of trails blazed out of virgin snows where the face of the road itself is nowhere seen; a road of two-car passing width. Four to six feet of snow pushed aside by the plow forms a deceiving guard rail on the outer edge whose other side in many places drops steeply to valleys far below where little cabins and trees are but tiny smudges in black and white. Huge pine and cedar trees straight as plumb lines here and there rear up from the depths their tops above the trail.

The unpredictable road eases down describing every conceivable turn, romps back on itself, meanders along for a while in contended mood then climbs again. So it goes and follow it faithfully. The prospect, an everchanging one, holds the viewer in happy and receptive anticipation. Now watch carefully for a U-turn at the end of a down-grade the turn obscured as white on white gives no hint of an opening. The full twist of the wheel if followed through would surely take us post haste to kingdom come, so reverse and try again. That's better and now we are climbing again on a slippery trail; a continuous tree barricade now forms on our right and over on our left, over that white rough-hewn wall of false security is a one way pass to the domain of space. We are like pygmies in a seemingly endless rut, riding miniature toys, unseen, worming along on a lost way, hugging the steep sides of mountains on narrow chipped-out balconies. Now we move between shaded avenues of trees mostly evergreens and for a while we are acutely conscious of being crowded in; of an overabundance of white. We are overwhelmed by a feeling that these trees will come to life and extend to us a cascade of welcome - another magnificent illusion. It is a dead and fairy-like world.

Over there see a deadwood tree with a bear-like form of snow hugging its leaning trunk and close by a striking replica of an enormous seashell nicely balanced in the fork between two branches. Rotted trees, their tops lopped off and their branches broken with the weight of snow, yet have arms extended and stand forlorn like whited scarecrows. Others in a group appear to be deeply engrossed in their own silence. All around as far as the eye can see white-capped mountain peak after peak vie for supremacy and the awe-inspiring chasms of nothingness in between bring forth a torrent of wild praise or, like the tremendous voids themselves - nothing.

If the impact is silence then the mind and intellect keyed to greater perception could indeed be tuned to God and the Universe. Silence instilled and imposed on a receptive being by this tangible "silence of white" is in truth on the threshold of deeper thinking into the "Intangibles." Climb then on top of this snow guard by the road-side; feast and be fascinated by this rugged view from such a lofty pinnacle. Years ago I stood on the edge of the Niagara Gorge below the falls on a flat rock jutting out and below me 160 feet almost straight down ran the river, a wide band of turbulent water swift and foaming. It was dwarfed to mill-stream size and demeanor by my height above it. The distance to the opposite bank was equally as far. A sense of finality swept over me and involuntarily I pulled back. The feeling of "being on the brink" with its host of unnamed fears was hard to shake off.

This panorama of snow didn't present such a stark reality. It was softened by trees studded in deep expanses of white. Grandeur without those exquisite touches of the imagination (which ever crowd the true Nature lover) is as meaningless as facing a rare sunset blindfolded. Flimsy wisps of wood smoke idled in suspension, fused with dull coppery sunlight and the aroma of charred wood carry over to the trail. In shadow the evergreens arrayed in their snowy mantles burst on the eyes in startling relief almost unbelievable. A tableau of tall white sentinels, undercoat of green on a huge white stage; still life but always the illusion of a moving landscape.

In one place four elk, knee deep in snow, stand facing the road but some distance back. They turn tail after we pass in no seeming hurry.

In spite of rising grades the white and narrowed way is inevitably leading us down, down to the end of Paradise Valley. The mountains rear behind us and steep and lofty fronts loom ominously close before us, the trees hugging the mountain face at a shallow angle. It seems we have reached the end of the road; a cul-de-sac and we are the head of a pin about to be rammed and bent by contact with a tree cushion. We marvel at its height and closeness; it appears to be almost on top of us; an overpowering giant girthed in snow. At the last moment and under his very nose we are plucked from his clutches; we are spirited away and down, down down to the lower reaches. With an acute feeling of loss the spell of the enchanted hours is cast off. The jewelled and studded wrap is laid aside and a consolation prize is offered us in the humdrum of the bare and undulating road.

The fastnesses and solitude of mountain retreats is for the bears, the deer, the mountain elk, the birds and all the lesser animals. For the record we saw no birds large or small during the whole trip.

The film records the sequence of events but memory cannot be lost, filched or burnt and time will but add radiance. The page is turned, the book closed and shelved and the common run claims us. One backward and lingering scan and thanks be for the memories as we speed away and comes to my mind writ crystal clear the lines of that well known hymn:

"Unto the Hills around do I lift up my longing eyes."