Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MRS. JAMES EDWIN MORRIS.]
A PACIFIC COAST VACATION
BY MRS. JAMES EDWIN MORRIS
_Illustrated from Photographs Taken En Route
by James Edwin Morris_
THE Abbey Press
PUBLISHERS
114 FIFTH AVENUE
LONDON NEW YORK MONTREAL
* * * * *
Copyright, 1901, by THE Abbey Press
* * * * *
Dedicated to Alaska’s Beautiful Daughter,
MISS EDNA MCFARLAND
Linked in my memory of those sea-girt shores where snow-crowned
mountains tower like castles old; where wild cataracts hurl their
waters down rugged cliffs to the sea; where sea gulls mingle their
cries with the rushing torrents; where frost giants stride up and down
the land; where the Aurora flames through the long winter nights, will
ever be the name of this gifted daughter of Alaska.
FOREWORD
If you ask what motive she who loved these scenes had in essaying to
portray them with pen and camera, she would reply that like the Duke of
Buckingham, when visiting the scene where Anna of Austria had whispered
that she loved him, let fall a precious gem that another finding it,
might be happy in that charméd spot where he himself had been.
CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD
CHAPTER
I. AUF WIEDERSEHEN 1
II. PLENTY OF ROOM 34
III. OFF FOR ALASKA 46
IV. FIRST VIEWS 59
V. FURTHER GLIMPSES 72
VI. GOLD FIELDS 85
VII. MUIR GLACIER 91
VIII. SITKA 103
IX. ALASKA 116
X. FAREWELL TO SKAGWAY 129
XI. WASHINGTON AND OREGON 137
XII. OFF FOR CALIFORNIA 160
XIII. SAN FRANCISCO 173
XIV. CALIFORNIA FARMS AND VINEYARDS 187
XV. YOSEMITE 191
XVI. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 210
XVII. HERE AND THERE ON THE COAST 217
XVIII. WALLA WALLA VALLEY 224
XIX. HISTORICAL REFERENCES 228
XX. YELLOWSTONE PARK 236
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Junction of the Mississippi and Black Rivers 9
Falls of Saint Anthony 11
Falls of Minnehaha 13
Old Fort Snelling 15
Roadway, Soldiers’ Barracks, Fort Snelling 17
Entering the Cascade Range 35
Lava Beds in Washington 37
Tangle of Wild Fern in a Washington Forest 39
Mount Rainier 41
Street in Tacoma, Washington 45
Parliament House, Victoria 51
Gorge of Homathco 53
Light House, Point Robert 55
Fjords of Alaska 57
Fishing Hamlet of Ketchikan 59
Fort Wrangel, Alaska 63
Chief Shake’s House, Fort Wrangel 67
Entering Wrangel Narrows 71
Douglas Island, Looking Toward Juneau 73
Silver Bow Cañon, Juneau. (_By permission of F.
Laroche, photographer, Seattle, Washington_) 75
Old Russian Court House, Juneau 77
Street in Juneau 79
Greek Church, Juneau 81
Indian Chief’s House, Juneau 83
Summit of the Selkirk Range, at Head of Yukon River.
Old Glory Waves Beside the British Flag 85
The Skagway Enchantress 89
Skagway, Showing White Pass 91
Muir Glacier (section of) 93
Greek Church, Killisnoo 99
Kitchnatti 101
Sitka--Soldiers’ Barracks, Old Russian Warehouse and
Greek Church on the right, Indian Village on the
left, Russian Blockhouses Beyond, and Mission
Schools in the Distance. (_By permission of
F. Laroche, photographer, Seattle, Washington_) 103
Indian Avenue, Sitka 105
Blockhouse on Bank of Indian River, Sitka, Alaska 107
Rapids, Indian River, Sitka 113
Where Whales and Porpoises Poke Their Noses Up
Through the Brine 119
Steamer Queen Leaving Juneau 133
Alps of America 135
Government Locks on the Columbia River 143
Rapids, Columbia River 145
Farm on the Bank of the Columbia River, Below the
Dalles, Oregon 147
Scene on an Oregon Farm in the Willamette Valley 151
Roadway in Oregon 153
Climbing the Shasta Range 163
The Highest Trestle in the World, near Muir’s Peak,
Shasta Range 165
Mount Shasta. (_By permission of F. Laroche,
photographer, Seattle, Washington_) 167
Street Scene in Chinatown, San Francisco 177
Museum in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco 181
Early Morning, Yosemite Valley 189
Wawona Valley 191
Oldest Log Cabin in the Sequoia Grove, Mariposa
County, California. Old Columbia in the Foreground 193
Half Dome and Merced River 195
Merced River, Yosemite Valley 197
Yosemite Falls 199
El Capitan 201
Bridal Veil Falls and the Three Brothers (solid rock) 203
Mirror Lake, Sleeping Water 205
Yosemite Falls, Showing Floor of the Valley 207
Sunrise in Yosemite Valley 209
Entering Hell Gate Cañon 233
Liberty Cap and Old Fort Yellowstone 235
Hotel Mammoth, Hot Springs, Yellowstone Park 237
Old Faithful Geyser, Yellowstone Park, Just Before
an Eruption 239
Yellowstone Lake 241
Camping on the Shore of Lake Yellowstone 243
Paint Pots on Shore of Yellowstone Lake 245
Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone 247
Gibbon River Falls 249
Micky and Annie Rooney 251
* * * * *
A Pacific Coast Vacation
CHAPTER I AUF WIEDERSEHEN
Off to see the land of icebergs and glaciers; the land I have often
visited in my imagination. It seems but yesterday that the first
geography was put into my hands. O, that dear old geography, the silent
companion of my childhood days.
The first page to which I opened pictured an iceberg, with a polar
bear walking right up the perpendicular side, and another bold fellow
sitting on top as serenely as Patience on a monument.
“What was an iceberg? What were the bears doing on the ice and what did
they eat? Was that the sun shining over yonder? Why didn’t it melt the
ice and drop the bears into the sea? No, that was not the sun, it was
the aurora borealis. Aurora? Who was she and why did she live in that
cold, cold country, the home of Hoder, the gray old god of winter?”
The phenomenon of the aurora was explained to us, but to our childish
imagination Aurora ever remained a maiden whose wonderful hair of
rainbow tints lit up the northern sky.
We talked of Aurora, we dreamed of Aurora, and now we are off to see
the charming ice maiden of our childhood fancy.
Off to Alaska. For years we have dreamed of it; for days and weeks
we have breakfasted on Rocky Mountain flora, lunched on icebergs and
glaciers and dined on totem poles and Indian chiefs.
Much of the charm of travel in any country comes of the glamour with
which fable and legend have enshrouded its historic places.
America is rapidly developing a legendary era. Travel up and down the
shores of the historic Hudson and note her fabled places.
The “Headless Hessian” still chases timid “Ichabods” through “Sleepy
Hollow.” “Rip Van Winkle,” the happy-go-lucky fellow, still stalks the
Catskills, gun in hand. The death light of “Jack Welsh” may be seen
on a summer’s night off the coast of Pond Cove. “Mother Crew’s” evil
spirit haunts Plymouth, while “Skipper Ireson” floats off Marble Head
in his ill-fated smack.
With a cloud for a blanket the “Indian Witch” of the Catskills sits on
her mountain peak sending forth fair weather and foul at her pleasure,
while the pygmies distil their magic liquor in the valley below.
“Atlantis” lies fathoms deep in the blue waters of the Atlantic, and
the “Flying Dutchman” haunts the South Seas.
We have our Siegfried and our Thor, whom men call Washington and
Franklin. Our “Hymer” splits rocks and levels mountains with his
devil’s eye, though we call him dynamite.
Israel Putnam and Daniel Boone may yet live in history as the Theseus
and Perseus of our heroic age.
Certainly our country has her myths and her folk lore.
In time America, too, will have her saga book.
Yonder, Black Hawk, chief of the Sac, Fox, and Winnebago Indians, made
his last stand, was defeated by General Scott, captured and carried to
Washington and other cities of the East, where he recognized the power
of the nation to which he had come in contact. Returning to his people,
he advised them that resistance was useless. The Indians then abandoned
the disputed lands and retired into Iowa.
Just north of Chicago we passed field after field yellow with the bloom
of mustard. Calling the porter I asked him what was being grown yonder.
He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face lighted up with the
inspiration of a happy thought as he replied:
“That, Madam, is dandelion.”
“O, thank you; I suppose that they are being grown for the Chicago
market?” said I, knowing that dandelion greens with the buds in blossom
and full bloom are considered a delicacy in the city.
“No, Madam,” answered my porter wise, “I don’t think them fields is
being cultivated at all.”
I forebore to point out to him the well kept fence and the marks of the
plow along it, but brought my field glasses into play and discovered
that the disputed fields had been sown to oats, but the oats were being
smothered out by the mustard.
Wisconsin is a beautiful state. Had the French government cultivated
the rich lands of the Mississippi valley and developed its mineral
resources as urged by Joliet, Wisconsin might still be a French
territory. But all his plans for colonization were rejected by the
government he served. A map of this country over which Joliet traveled
may be seen in the Archives de la Marine, Paris, France, to-day.
The soil is light and farming in Wisconsin is along different lines
from that of her sister state, Illinois. In every direction great dairy
barns dot the landscape. Corn is grown almost entirely for fodder. The
seasons here are too short to mature it properly. In planting corn for
fodder it is sown much as are wheat and oats.
The principal crops of this great state are flax, oats, hops, and I
might add ice. Large ice houses are seen on every side. Much of the
country is yet wild. Acres of virgin prairie just now aglow with wild
flowers, take me back to my childhood, when we spent whole days on the
prairie, “Where the great warm heart of God beat down in the sunshine
and up from the sod;” where Marguerites and black-eyed Susans nodded
in the golden sunshine, and the thistle for very joy tossed off her
purple bonnet.
Here and there in northern Illinois and Wisconsin kettle holes mark the
track of the glaciers that once flowed down from the great névé fields
of Manitoba and the Hudson lake district.
In traveling across Wisconsin one is reminded of the time when witches,
devils, magicians, and manitous held sway over the Indian mind.
Milwaukee is a name of Indian origin,--Mahn-a-wau-kie, anglicized into
Milwaukee--means in the language of the Winnebagoes, rich, beautiful
land.
According to an Indian legend the name comes from mahn-wau, a root of
wonderful medicinal properties. The healing power of this root, found
only in this locality, was so great that the Chippewas on Lake Superior
would give a beaver skin for a finger length piece.
The market place now stands on the site of a forest-clad hill, which
had been consecrated to the Great Manitou. Here tomahawks were belted
and knives were sheathed. Here the tribes of all the surrounding
country met to hold the peace dance which preceded the religious
festival. At the close of the religious services each Indian carried
away with him from the holy hill a memento to worship as an amulet.
It was the greatest wish, the most passionate desire of every Indian to
be buried at the foot of this hill on the bank of the Mahn-a-wau-kie.
Recent investigation has shown that Wisconsin was the dwelling place of
strange tribes long before the advent of the Indian.
The Dells of the Wisconsin river was a favorite resort of the Indian
manitous. Yonder is a chasm fifty feet wide, across which Black Hawk
leaped when fleeing from the whites. He surely had the aid of the
nether world.
In this beautiful region, hemmed in by rugged bowlder cliffs, lies a
veritable Sleepy Hollow. In a dense wood back of the cliff stands the
mythical “lost cabin.” Many have lost their way searching for it. The
strange thing about it is that they who have once found it are never
able to find it again. Weird stories are told about it. Its logs are
old and strange, different from the wood of the dark old forest in
which it stands. There are stories afloat that it is haunted by its
former inhabitants, who move it about from place to place.
At the foot of this rugged cliff lies Devil’s lake. At the head of this
fathomless body of water is a mound built in the form of an eagle with
wings outspread. Here, no doubt, lies buried a great chief. Nothing is
left in Wisconsin to-day of the Indian but footprints,--mounds, graves,
legends and myths.
At Devil’s Lake lived a manitou of wonderful power. This lake fills the
crater of an extinct volcano. Now this manitou, so the tale runs, piled
up those heavy blocks of stone, which form the Devil’s Doorway. He
also set up Black Monument and Pedestaled Bowlder for thrones where he
might sit and view the landscape o’er when on his visits to the earth.
These visits have ceased, since the white man possesses the country.
One day this wonderful manitou aimed a dart at a bad Indian and missing
him, cleft a huge rock in twain, which is now known as Cleft Rock. At
night, long ago, he might have been seen sitting on one of his thrones
or peeping out of the Devil’s Doorway watching the dance of the frost
fairies or gazing at the aurora flaming through the night.
Every night at midnight Gitche Manitou appears in the middle of the
lake.
In days gone by a strange, wild creature, known as the Red Dwarf,
roamed the region of the great lakes, haunting alike the lives of red
man and white.
The snake god, the stone god, the witch of pictured rocks, were-wolves
and wizards held sway in that charméd region where San Souci, Jean
Beaugrand’s famous horse, despite his hundred years, leaped wall of
fort and stockade at pleasure.
[Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE MISSISSIPPI AND BLACK RIVERS.]
At LaCrosse we crossed Black river into Minnesota and shortly after
crossed the Mississippi. LaCrosse, although French, originally, means
a game played by the Indian maidens on the ice. The heights on either
side of the Mississippi river remind one of the Catskills along the
Hudson. Indeed, the scenery is very similar. You easily imagine yonder
cliffs to be the palisades. Here, a spur of the Catskills range and the
little valley between might be Sleepy Hollow. But you miss the historic
places--Washington’s headquarters, Tarrytown, West Point and others.
Like forces produce like results. When you have seen the Hudson river
and its environs you have seen the upper Mississippi.
St. Paul and Minneapolis form the commercial center of the North.
Although the ground freezes from fifteen to sixteen feet, the concrete
sidewalks and pavements show no effect of the touch of Jack Frost’s icy
fingers. The street-cars here are larger and heavier than any I have
ever seen. Then, too, they have large wheels, and that sets them up so
high. This is on account of the snow, which lasts from Thanksgiving to
Easter, good sleighing all the time.
The French and Indian have left to this region a nomenclature
peculiarly its own. There is Bear street and White Bear street. In the
shop windows are displayed headgear marked Black Bear, White Bear and
Red Cloud. There are on sale Indian dolls, Indian slippers, French
soldier dolls, Red Indian tobacco, showing the influence still existing
of the two peoples. One sees many French faces and hears that language
quite often on the streets and in the cars.
The falls of St. Anthony are at the foot of Fifth street in
Minneapolis. The water does not come leaping over, but pours over
easily and smoothly in one solid sheet. On either bank of the river are
located the largest flouring mills in the world. Not a drop of the old
Mississippi that comes sweeping over the falls but pays tribute in
furnishing power for these mills. Huge iron turbine wheels that twenty
men could not lift are turned as easily as a child rolls a hoop.
[Illustration: FALLS OF SAINT ANTHONY.]
On the site of these mills long ago were camped the Dakotas. They had
just come down from another village where one of the men had married
another wife and brought her along. The woman was stronger than the
savage in wife number one, and when the Indians broke camp and packed
up their canoes and goods for the journey to the foot of the falls, the
forsaken wife, taking her child, leaped into a canoe and rowed with
a steady hand down stream toward the falls. Her husband saw her and
called to her, but she seemed not to hear him and she did not even turn
her head when his comrades joined him in his cries. On swept the boat,
while the broken-hearted wife sang her death-song. Presently the falls
were reached. The boat trembled for a moment, then turning sideways,
was dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
Minnesota was the land of Gitche Manitou the Mighty and Mudjekeewis.
Mackinack was the home of Hiawatha and old Nokomis. There Gitche
Manitou made Adam and Eve and placed them in the Indian Garden of Eden.
One day Manitou or Great God made a turtle and dropped it into Lake
Huron. When it came up with a mouth full of mud, Manitou took the mud
and made the island of Mackinack.
As we steamed up the Mississippi to the falls of Minnehaha we had a
good view of the bank swallows in their homes in the sandstone banks
along the river. The action of the air on sandstone hardens a very
thin crust on the surface, and when this is scraped off one can easily
dig into the bank. The swallows are geologists enough to know this and
hundreds of them have dug holes in the perpendicular walls. Here the
chattering, noisy little cave-dwellers fly in and out all day long,
flying up over the cliffs and away in search of food or resting in the
shrubbery which grows in the water near by. It is a pretty sight to see
the happy little fellows skim the water. It makes you wish that you,
too, had wings.
At the entrance of Minnehaha park we were greeted by a merry wood
thrush, whose voice is melodious beyond description. There he sat on a
swaggy limb not ten feet from us. We were familiar with his biography
and recognized him by his brown and white speckled coat. We advanced
cautiously. We had come six hundred miles to see him and I think he
knew it, too, for when we were so near that we could have taken him in
our hands he recognized our presence by nodding his graceful head first
this way, then that, and sang on. We spent some ten minutes with him,
then “_bon voyage_” he sang out as we passed on.
[Illustration: FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.]
Three miles above Minneapolis are the beautiful falls of Minnehaha,
Laughing Water. These falls are beautiful beyond the power of my pen to
describe. The water does not pour over, but comes leaping and dancing,
like one great shower of diamonds, pearls, sapphires and rubies. The
vast sheet of water sixty-five feet high reminds one of a bridal veil
decked with gems and sprinkled with diamond dust.
“Where the falls of Minnehaha
Flash and gleam among the oak trees,
Laugh and leap into the valley.”
It was here that Hiawatha came courting the lovely maiden Minnehaha.
The falls are surrounded by a government park. Hurrying along through
glen and dale, looking for the falls, we met a party of young ladies
who were having a picnic in the park.
I accosted one of them, “Beg pardon, Mademoiselle, can you tell me
where to find the falls?”
She looked astonished for a moment. “The falls of what?”
“The falls of Minnehaha.”
“O, I don’t know; never heard of her,” replied my maiden fair as she
turned and tripped away.
It has always seemed so strange to me that people living near places of
interest are oftentimes ignorant of the fact.
We next met a youth of some fourteen summers, who knew the history of
St. Paul, Minneapolis and their environs. He could tell you all about
the big mills, the soldiers, the barracks and old Fort Snelling. He
knew the story of Minnehaha, too; had been to the falls hundreds of
times, and knew the Song of Hiawatha as he knew his alphabet. Gitche
Manitou had but to set his foot on the earth and a mighty river flowed
from his tracks. Mudjekeewis was a great warrior, but Hiawatha was
his hero. It was with genuine regret that we bade good-by to this
interesting youth.
[Illustration: OLD FORT SNELLING.]
Our next visit was to old Fort Snelling, three miles out from St.
Paul. This fort was built in 1820. It is round, two stories high
and is constructed of stone. The old fort, of course, is not used
now. The regular soldiers stationed here are located in delightful
quarters. The barracks are just beyond the old fort. The hospital is a
large, commodious building of stone. The parade field is a delightful
bit of rolling prairie. The barracks are quite deserted now, most of
the regiment being in the Philippines. Only a small detachment of
twenty-five troops remains to take care of the property. Fort Snelling
was the rendezvous of the Chippewas and the Sioux in the old days of
Indian occupation.
While the two tribes smoked the pipe of peace and made protestations of
friendship they might not intermarry.
At one of these meetings a Sioux brave won the heart of a Chippewa
maiden. Their love they kept a secret, but when the tribes met again
at old Fort Snelling a quarrel arose among the young warriors which
resulted in the death of a Sioux.
The Sioux fell upon the Chippewas with the cry of extermination.
In the midst of battle lover and loved one met, but for a moment. They
were swept apart and the young warrior knew that the fair maiden lived
only in the land of shadows.
There dwells in the river at the falls of Saint Anthony a dusky Undine.
She was once a mermaid living in a placid lake, longing for a soul
which the good Manitou finally promised her upon her marriage with a
mortal. The mortal appeared one day in the form of a handsome Ottawa
brave, and to him the beautiful mermaid told her tale of woe. The two
were wed. The mermaid received her soul and the form of a human, but
her new relatives disliked her. They quarreled over her and at last the
Ottawas and the Adirondacks fought over her, and threw her into the
river. There she lives to this day, thankfully giving up her soul for
the peace and quiet of a mermaid’s life.
This is the home of the pine and the birch. The white melilotus grows
rank in the byways of Minneapolis.
[Illustration: ROADWAY, SOLDIER’S BARRACKS, FORT SNELLING.]
The horse may not have to go, but the bicycle has surely come to stay.
A unique figure on the streets of St. Paul is a window washer, black as
the ace of spades, mounted on a wheel. Rags of all sorts and conditions
hang from his pockets. He carries his brushes aloft _a la_ “Sancho
Panza.” He rides up to the curbstone, dismounts, leans his steed
against the curb, washes his windows and rides away at a pace that
would make Don Quixote’s sleepy squire open his eyes in amazement.
A beautiful morning in June finds us aboard the Great Northern Flyer,
bound for the Pacific coast. We were soon up on the river bluffs. Here
is some fine farming land, the only drawback being the lack of well
water. The geological formation is entirely different from that of
Indiana and Illinois, where water may be had on the bluffs as easily as
lower down toward the riverbed. Here the underground water current lies
on a level with the bed of the river and a well must go down five or
six hundred feet through the bluff before water is obtained.
Our route here follows the Mississippi, which in places is jammed with
rafts of logs on their way down to the saw mills. Each log bears the
owner’s mark. One sees many logs, big fellows worth ten or fifteen
dollars, which have slipped from their rafts and like independent boys,
get lost in all sorts of places.
George Monte was an Indian lumberman of the north. He worked at a chute
where the logs were floated down to the river and held back by a gate
until it was time to send them through _en masse_. When all was ready
the foreman ordered the log drivers to open the gate. One chilly night
the order came to open the gate. The night was dark and the men drew
lots to see who should attempt the dangerous feat. Monte drew what was
to him the fatal slip. Without a word he opened the door and passed
out into the night. The jam was broken and the logs passed through,
but hours passed and Monte failed to return. Then his companions went
in search of him. Investigation showed that the big gate which sank
by its own weight when the pins had been removed, was held by some
obstruction. The object was removed with long spike-poles and proved
to be the mangled body of Monte. The chute was soon abandoned, for
every night at midnight his ghost walks the banks. His moans can be
distinctly heard above the swish and lap of the water.
On the Coteau des Prairies (side of the prairies) in Minnesota,
pipe-stone, a smooth clay, from which hundreds of Indians have cut
their pipes, forms a wall two miles long and thirty feet high. In front
of the wall lie five big bowlders dropped there by the glaciers. Under
these bowlders lies the spirit of a squaw, which must be propitiated
before the stone is cut. This quarry was neutral ground for all the
tribes. Here knives were sheathed and tomahawks belted. To this place
came the Great Spirit to kill and eat the buffalo of the prairies.
The thunder bird had her nest here and the clashing of the iron wings
of her young brood created the storms. Once upon a time, when a snake
crawled into the nest to steal the young thunderers, Manitou, the Great
Spirit, seized a piece of pipe stone and pressing it into the form
of a man, hurled it at the snake. The clay man missed the snake and
struck the ground. He turned to stone and there he stood for a thousand
years. He grew to manhood’s stature and in time another shape, that of
a woman, grew beside him. One day the red pair wandered away over the
plains. From this pair sprang all the red people.
From St. Paul to Fargo not a stalk of corn was to be seen, but there
was field after field of fine wheat. This part of Minnesota is much
more thickly settled than immediately around St. Paul and Minneapolis.
Morehead in Minnesota and Fargo, across the line in Dakota, are
thriving towns. The country here looks like Illinois. The lay of the
land is the same and groves and houses dot the landscape. Here dwelt
the Dakota tribes from which the states of Dakota and Minnesota take
their names. Here came Hiawatha and his bride, Minnehaha, whom he won
at St. Paul when the tribe was visiting that country, for Minnehaha was
a Dakota girl, you remember.
Hiawatha’s fight with his father began on the upper Mississippi and the
bowlders found there were their missiles. Hiawatha fought against him
for many long days before peace was declared between them.
The evil Peace Father had slain one of Hiawatha’s relatives. He engaged
him in combat all the hot day long. They battled to no purpose, but the
next day a woodpecker flew overhead and cried out, “Your enemy has but
one vulnerable point; shoot at his scalp-lock.” Hiawatha did this and
the Peace Father fell dead. Taking some of the blood on his finger the
victor touched the woodpecker on the head and the red mark is seen on
every woodpecker to this day.
Dakota as well as Wisconsin has her Devil’s Lake, about which hang
many legends, but unlike that of Wisconsin the Great Spirit, Gitche
Manitou, does not appear in the middle of it every night at twelve
o’clock.
Indians as well as whites believe in a coming Messiah. In 1890 a frenzy
swept over the northwest, inspiring the Indians to believe that the
Messiah, who was no less than Hiawatha himself, and who was to sweep
the white people off the face of the earth, would soon arrive. Dakota
was the meeting ground of the tribes. Sitting Bull, a Sioux chief, told
them in assembly that he had seen the wonderful Messiah while hunting
in the mountains. He told them that having lost his way, he followed
a star which led him to a wonderful valley, where he saw throngs of
chiefs long dead, as they appeared in a spirit dance. Christ was there,
too, and showed him the nail wounds in his hands and feet and the place
where the spear pierced his side. Then the old rogue returned to his
people and taught them the ghost dance, which caused the whites so much
trouble.
Dakota is a beautiful state. The land along the route of the Great
Northern railway lies more level than in Minnesota. The crops are
looking well in this region. There seems to be but one drawback to
farming here and that is the famous Russian thistle imported a few
years ago. The principal crops are oats, barley and wheat. Rye bread
is plenty and good, too. Out there on the broad cheek of the Dakota
prairie the weeds are holding high revelry. Some of the same old weeds
we have at home and many which are new to the writer. Wild ducks build
their nests in the tall grass of the ponds just as they did in Illinois
thirty years ago.
At Minot, Dakota, we set our watches to Mountain time, turning them
back one hour. We arrived at Minot at 11:10 P. M., remained fifteen
minutes and left at 10:25. At 9:15 o’clock the sun was just sinking in
the west. It does not get dark here, only twilight. At 10 o’clock the
moon came up and we bade good night to Saturday.
Sunday we spent in the Bad Lands of Montana. “Hell with the fires
out” is the popular name given to the Bad Lands in the wild, fearless
nomenclature of the west. It is an ancient sea bottom. The lower strata
is clay and the one above it is sand. They are wild and rugged beyond
description. The action of the air, wind and storm have worn them into
towers, citadels and fantastic peaks.
The highly colored scoria rocks crop out here and there, adding a
beauty of their own. Summer and winter, long before the advent of the
white man the coal mines in this region were burning. Looking down into
the fiery furnace one may see the white-hot glow of the coal and the
heated rocks glowing with a white heat. Rattlesnakes wriggle through
the short grass. Quails and grouse fly up and away.
There is a banshee in the Bad Lands whose cries chill your blood if you
happen to hear her, which I did not. She is most frequently seen on a
hill south of Watch Dog Butte, in Dakota, her flowing hair and her long
arms tossing in wild gestures, make a weird picture in the moonlight.
Cattle will not remain near the butte and cowboys fear the banshee and
her companion, a skeleton that walks about and haunts the camps in the
vicinity. Leave a violin lying near and he will seize it and away,
playing the most weird music, but you must not follow him, for he will
lead you into pits and foot falls. The explanation of all this is the
phosphorus found in this vicinity, which glows in the night air.
Standing Rock agency is the best known of our frontier posts. The rock
from which the post takes its name is only about three feet high and
two feet in width. This rock was once a beautiful Indian bride who
starved herself to death upon her husband marrying a second wife. After
her death the Great Manitou turned her to stone, and here she stands to
this day.
Glasgow, Montana, lies in the midst of the Sioux reservation. Like the
Spartans of old, these warriors of the plains dwell in tents during a
part of every year. Just beyond the town tepees now dot the landscape
where for a brief space the red man forgets the things taught him by
his white brother and resumes his old wild ways, but at the approach
of winter he abandons his tent and returns to his log cabin and to
civilization.
The Indian costume is a mixture of savage and civilized dress, looking
more like that of the Raggedy Man than any other.
Blackfoot is a village in the heart of the Blackfeet reservation, lying
just west of that of the Sioux. These people, like the ancient Greeks,
reverence the butterfly.
“Ah!” exclaim these red children of nature when they see one of these
Psyches of the prairie flitting from flower to flower over the green
meadow, “ah, see him now. He is gathering the dreams which he will
bring to us in our sleep.”
If you see the sign for the butterfly which is something like a maltese
cross painted on a lodge, you will know that the owner was taught
how to decorate his lodge, in a dream by an apunni,--butterfly. A
Blackfeet woman embroiders a butterfly on a piece of buckskin and ties
it on her baby’s head when she wishes to put it to sleep. Wrapped in
their blankets the Indians stood about Blackfoot village as we came in
reminding us of Longfellow’s address to “Driving Cloud:”
“Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s
Narrow and populous street, as once by the margin of rivers
Stalked those birds unknown which have left to us only their
footprints.
What in a few short years will remain of thy race but footprints?
How canst thou tread these streets, who hast trod the green turf of
the prairies?
How canst thou breathe this air who hast breathed the sweet air of
the mountains?”
When one has trod the velvety green turf of the prairies and breathed
the sweet air of the mountains he is quite ready to sympathize with
“Driving Cloud.”
The government schools for the Blackfeet Indians are located in a
valley beyond Blackfoot village. The schools are conducted exactly as
our public schools are, only that the Blackfeet children must go to
school ten months in the year. Think of that, boys and girls. During
July and August these dusky redskins get a vacation, which they spend
with their parents and for the time being return to the savage state.
The agent told me they were always quite wild upon their return to
school after two months of hunting, fishing and living in tepees.
Now and then a fine covey of quails or prairie chickens flies up and
away. How glad they would make a sportsman’s heart!
With our glasses we see easily two hundred miles in this rarefied
atmosphere. I discovered several coyotes running along a ledge in the
Bad Lands that I could not see at all with my naked eye. The Sweet
Grass mountains, sixty miles away on the Canadian line, loom up so
plainly that they appear to be only two miles distant. With the aid of
the glasses we could see the vegetation and rocks on the sides of the
mountains quite plainly.
The United States geological survey reports Montana the best watered
state in the Union. It has more large rivers than all of the states
west of the Mississippi combined. Milk river is five hundred miles
long. This valley is one of the finest in Montana. Here irrigation is a
perfect success.
Here one sees the cowboy in all his picturesqueness. The saddle is your
true seat of empire. Montana cattle bring a big price in the Chicago
market. The top price paid in 1897 was five dollars per hundredweight,
and was paid to George Draggs for a shipment from Valley county. I
would almost be willing to live in the Bad Lands if I might always
have my table supplied with the juicy mountain beef which we have been
eating since we arrived at St. Paul.
This is a fine sheep as well as cattle country.
Montana is not all sage brush, coyotes and rattlesnakes.
Montana has according to the report of the secretary of the interior
seventy million acres of untillable lands. A great portion of this land
can be reclaimed by irrigation.
We passed the Little Rockies sixty miles to the north (the distance
looked to be only about two miles). The Bear Paw mountains are west
of these. The Indians are very superstitious about the mountains. The
great spirit, Manitou, they tell us, broke a hole through the floor of
heaven with a rock and on the spot where it fell he threw down more
rocks, snow and ice until the pile was so high that he could step from
the summit into heaven.
After the mountains were completed, Manitou by running his hands over
their rugged sides, forced up the forests. Then he plucked some leaves,
blew his breath upon them and gave them a toss in the air and lo they
sailed away in the breezy blue birds. His staff he turned into beasts
and fishes. The earth became so beautiful he decided to live on it and
starting a fire in Mt. Shasta he burned it out for a wigwam.
An interesting part of life on the plains is the prairie dog and his
town, the streets of which were not laid out by an engineer. Each dog
selects the site of his home to suit his taste. The houses are about
the size of a wagon wheel, almost perfectly round. As the train whirls
by they sit on top of their houses looking much like soldiers standing
guard. The dogs are three times as large as a gopher and of a pale
straw color. As one walks toward them, down they go through the door,
but they are very curious and presently back they come for another
look. They are agile and graceful in movement. One handsome fellow lay
on the projecting sill of a house basking in the sun. We approached
very near before he saw us. The flies were annoying him. He shook his
head and blinked his eyes at the flies, paying little attention to us.
The wild flowers of Montana are as abundant and beautiful as those of
the Alps, and more varied. Shooting stars greet the spring. Dandelions
abound but do not reach full rounded perfection. The common blue
larkspur, however, revels in the cool air and warm sunshine. The little
yellow violet which haunts the woods in the eastern states makes
herself quite at home here. Blue bells nod and sway in the breeze,
little ragged sun flowers turn their faces to the sun and mitreworts
grow everywhere.
Along the shady streams wild currants flaunt their yellow flags while
hydrangea, that queen of flowers, lends a shade to the violets blooming
at her feet. Wild roses strew the ground with their delicate petals.
Stately lilies, their purple stamens contrasting strangely with their
yellow petals, are abundant. The most dainty of this fair host is the
golden saxifrage, and the most delicate gold thread, whose dainty,
slender roots resemble nothing so much as threads of pure gold.
At Havre, Montana, the Twenty-fourth United States Infantry came
aboard. They are stalwart colored soldiers who will do credit to
the uniforms they wear. They go to San Francisco, where they take
transports for Manila. The good-bys at the station between the soldiers
and their friends and relatives were pathetic indeed. Not one of the
brave fellows but acted a soldier’s part.
Just as the train was pulling out a handsome girl ran along one of the
cars to the window calling out to her sweetheart:
“O, lift me up till I kiss you again.”
We were glad when two big black hands came out through the open window
and strong arms clasped the maiden for a moment.
Every heart beat with the same thought; how many of these brave men
would return from the deadly Philippines?
We were proud of the Twenty-fourth when they bade good-by to their
friends at Havre; we were proud of them when they marched up the
street at Spokane; we are proud of them still.
The officers of this regiment are white. They and their wives came into
our car.
The conversation was enlivened with tales of camp life. When a private,
one officer was greatly annoyed by the Indians, who came day after day
to sit in the shade of his quarters, when having been on night duty he
wanted to sleep. He bought a sun-glass and when they began talking he
would sit down at the window and carelessly with the glass draw a focus
on one of his tormentor’s feet. With a yell worthy an Indian with the
bad spirit after him he would bound away, followed by his companions.
Soon they would return, when the glass would be brought into play with
the same effect. At last the Indians came to believe the house haunted
and our captain was no longer troubled by his red brothers.
After forty miles of mountain climbing we reached the summit of the
Rockies. At nine o’clock we were still in the mountains and the sun was
still shining.
The smallest owl in the world has his home in these mountains. It is
the Pigmy owl, but you must look sharply if you see him as he flits
from limb to limb and hides in the dense foliage. The Rocky Mountain
blue jay is not blue at all. His coat is a reddish brown, he sports a
black-crested cap and has black bars on his wings like his Illinois
brothers.
Flowers, ice, snow and mountain torrents spread out in one grand
panorama. Fleecy white clouds not much larger than one’s hand float up
and join larger ones at the summit of the peaks. There is no grander
scene on earth than this range of snow-capped mountains spread out in
mighty panorama, peak after peak and turret after turret glistening in
the golden sunshine against skies as blue as those of Italy.
“Come up into the mountains--come up into the blue,
Oh, friend down in the valley, the way is clear for you;
The path is full of perils, and devious, but your feet
May safely thread its windings, and reach to my retreat.
The mountains, oh, the mountains! How all the ambient air
Bends like a benediction, and all the soul is prayer.
How blithely on this summit the echoing wind’s refrain
Invites us to the mountains--God’s eminent domain.
Oh, soul below in the valley where aspirations rise
No higher than the plunging of water fowl that flies,
Come up into the mountains--come up into the blue;
Leave weary leagues behind you the lowland’s meaner view,
The autumn’s rotting verdure, the sapless grasses browned,
Come where the snows are lilies that bloom the whole year round.
Here in the subtle spirit of all these climbing hills,
Man may achieve his dreaming, and be the thing he wills.”
--_Joseph Dana Miller._
When one has felt the inspiration which the air of the mountains gives,
he feels that he may achieve his dreaming, may be the thing he wills.
Ten o’clock found us going down the western slope of the Rockies in
the twilight. Daylight comes at two o’clock in the morning. All along
the track over the mountains are stationed track walkers, who live
in little shacks. Before every train which passes over the road each
walker goes over his section to see that all is well.
All the Indians east of the Rockies located the Happy Hunting Ground
west of the mountains and those west of the divide thought it was on
the eastern side, and that every red man’s soul would be carried over
on a cob-web float.
At Spokane we turned our watches back another hour. We are now in
Pacific Coast time.