THE PROSPECTOR et

came from near-by snowfields. Streams milky
or blue or peacock green came from glaciers—
ice grinding over rock.

Heavy mists often added to the dangers.
I stood at the level of eight thousand feet in
this region once with one of the oldest pro-
spectors of the canyon. He had been a great
hunter in his day. A cloud came through a
defile of the peaks heavy as a blanket. Though
we were on a well-cut bridle-trail, he bade us
pause, as one side of the trail had a sheer
drop of four thousand feet in places. ‘ Before
there were any trails, how did you make your
way here to hunt the mountain goat when
this kind of fog caught you ?’ I asked.

‘ Threw chips of stone ahead and listened,’
he answered, ‘and let me tell you that only
the greenest kind of tenderfoot ever takes risks
On a precipice.’

And nine men out of ten were such green
tenderfoots that winter of ’58-’59, when five
thousand prospectors overran the wild canyons
and precipices of the Fraser. Two or three
things the prospector always carried with
him—matches, a knife, a gun, rice, flour,
bacon, and a little mallet-shaped hammer to
test the ‘ float.’ What was the ‘float’? A
sandy chunk of gravel perhaps flaked with