THE SIWASH ROCK


Unique, and so distinct from its surroundings as to suggest rather
the handicraft of man than a whim of Nature, it looms up at the
entrance to the Narrows, a symmetrical column of solid grey stone.
There are no similar formations within the range of vision, or
indeed within many a day's paddle up and down the coast. Amongst
all the wonders, the natural beauties that encircle Vancouver,
the marvels of mountains, shaped into crouching lions and brooding
beavers, the yawning canyons, the stupendous forest firs and cedars,
Siwash Rock stands as distinct, as individual, as if dropped from
another sphere.

I saw it first in the slanting light of a redly setting August sun;
the little tuft of green shrubbery that crests its summit was black
against the crimson of sea and sky, and its colossal base of grey
stone gleamed like flaming polished granite.

My old tillicum lifted his paddle-blade to point towards it. "You
know the story?" he asked. I shook my head (experience has taught
me his love of silent replies, his moods of legend-telling). For a
time we paddled slowly; the rock detached itself from its background
of forest and shore, and it stood forth like a sentinel--erect,
enduring, eternal.

"Do you think it stands straight--like a man?" he asked.

"Yes, like some noble-spirited, upright warrior," I replied.