The artist may paint you a bit of sky, a little water, a few trees, and
mayhap a bluebird or a merry brown thrush, but can he paint the gently
moving restless air or the storm that sweeps down the mountainside, the
murmur, the ripple, the roar of the river, the whir of the bluebird’s
wing as it rises to flight, or the thrush’s song?
It is beyond the power of brush or pen to paint the wilderness, the
beauty, the weirdness, the awful grandeur of this land of Malebolge,
sulphurous pits and boiling lakes, a fit dwelling place for Minos,
infernal judge; the elusive beauty of a playing geyser, the iridescent
sparkle of the water as it leaps the rocky precipice and pours down
the mountain’s great throat, or the diabolical scene of the famous Mud
Geyser where,--
“Bellowing there groaned
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn
By warring wings. The stormy blast of hell
With restless fury drives the spirits on,
Whirled round and dashed amain with sore annoy.
When arriving before the ruinous sweep,
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans.”
With horrible groanings the thick sulphurous mass is driven against the
sides of the deep crater.
“Wherefore delay in such a mournful place?
We came within the fosses deep, that moat
This region comfortless, the walls appeared
As they were framed in iron, we had made
Wide circuit ere we reached the place where loud
The mariner (guide) vehement cried
‘Go forth, the entrance is here.’”
--DANTE.
[Illustration: HOTEL MAMMOTH, HOT SPRINGS, YELLOWSTONE PARK.]
We had circled the Mammoth Hot Springs, down a way by a ladder we
entered the Devil’s kitchen. This is a defunct geyser. The way was
dark and the air hot as the heat penetrated the walls from the Hot
Springs. The water of these springs is rich in minerals, copper, iron
and sulphur. As the water boils over and evaporates it leaves deposits
on the rims fretting them with a delicate frost work of varied and
beautiful hues. Cream and salmon deepening into rich shades of red,
brown, green and yellow.
The Cleopatra Spring is one of the most beautiful. Located on a mound
forty feet high and covering an area of three-quarters of an acre,
the deep blue water, the sparkling white basin with its pale yellow
frost-fretted rim rivals the touch of the artist’s brush.
Just below the springs the broad level tract in front of the United
States barracks covers a treacherous burnt-out area. We were standing
on a veranda of the hotel observing the maneuvers when one of the
cavalry horses broke through the thin crust. His rider recovered him
and they were off before the treacherous ground gave way. A rope was
brought and the soldiers lowered one of their comrades, who dropped
thirty-five feet before he struck a landing place. Investigation showed
the entire platte to be dangerously honeycombed.
Through the Golden Gate we enter Kingman’s Pass. The stupendous walls
of golden yellow rock rise sheer hundreds of feet high on either side.
Just as we turned a point in the road such “Ohs” and “Ahs” as the
Rustic Falls of the Gardener River burst on our sight. The river falls
sixty feet into a series of shallow basins of moss covered rock. To
the sides of the basin cling wavering ferns and delicate spray-kissed
flowers.
The most wonderful mountain in the world stands on the shore of Beaver
Lake. A glass mountain of pure jet black glass, rising skyward in
basalt like columns from one hundred to two hundred and fifty feet. The
black glass streaked here and there with red and yellow glistens in the
sunshine as peak and pinnacle catch, imprison and reflect the sun’s
rays.
Large blocks have become detached from time to time forming a glass
slide into the lake. Obsidian is a species of lava. Pliny says this
glass was first found in Ethiopia, but the only glass mountain in the
world stands on the shore of Beaver Lake. The Indians used this glass
for arrow heads and in making sharp-edged tools.
The swampy, lily-padded margin of Beaver Lake is haunted by wild
geese. This lake is the beaver’s own. These industrious little animals
constructed it by damming up Green Creek for a distance of two miles.
Some thirty dams sweep in graceful curves from side to side each having
a fall from two to six feet.
[Illustration: OLD FAITHFUL GEYSER, YELLOWSTONE PARK, JUST BEFORE AN
ERUPTION.]
The geyser basins are places of unusual interest and beauty. No scene
in the park is lovelier than these areas of bubbling pools, boiling
lakes and steaming geysers, at sunrise, when the columns of white
steam, tinged to a roseate hue by the rising sun, ascending against the
background of dark green pines. Presently,--
“There came o’er the perturbed waves
Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made
Either shore tremble, as if a wind
Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung,
That ’gainst some forest driving with all his might,
Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls
Afar; then, onward passing proudly sweeps
His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.”
--DANTE.
Thus warned we moved away just as Old Faithful shot his boiling waters
skyward.
“Ask thou no more
Now ’gin rueful wailings to be heard.
The gloomy region shook so terribly
That yet with clammy dews chill my brow.
The sad earth gave a blast.”
--DANTE.
And steam and water shot up a column two hundred feet high. The Giant
Geyser was playing.
“We the circle crossed
To the next steep, arriving at a well
That boiling pours itself down a foss
Sluiced from its source.”
--DANTE.
This well is the formidable Excelsior Geyser which pours its waters
into the Fire Hole River.
[Illustration: YELLOWSTONE LAKE.]
The Paint Pots are springs which boil incessantly their pasty clay,
which boiling over hardens, building up a rim around the pot. In one
group of seventeen pots are as many different colors.
The center pot is a pearl gray, while grouped about it are smaller pots
of various shades of pink, gray, chocolate, yellow, red, lavender,
emerald and sapphire blues and white, mortar thousands of years old
that would make the heart of a plasterer glad. Here is a plaster which
when hardened, whether by sun or fire, never cracks.
Of a somewhat different character are the chocolate jugs on the banks
of the Fire Hole River. These springs are rich in iron. The sediment
hardens as the water pours out, building up gradually a brown jug-like
cone.
The Blue Mud Pot is quite as interesting as the Paint Pots. Its
circular basin is twenty feet in diameter. The mud is about the
consistency of thick plaster. This mud pot presents a beautiful picture
as the puffs of mud burst with a thud-like noise giving off perfect
little rings which recede to the sides of the crater. This spring is
strongly impregnated with alum. In this vicinity is a spring of pure
alum water and several of sulphate of copper.
These springs are clear and deep, having beautiful basins, the rims of
which are lined with incrustations of brilliant colors.
In a gloomy wood we came to the Devil’s frying pan, a shallow, hot,
boiling spring which sputters, sizzles and hisses equal to any
old-time, three legged skillet, sending out sulphurous odors that would
delight the nostrils of Lucifer himself.
Hell’s half acre is quite as interesting as its name. Here in times
gone by Excelsior Geyser shook the earth.
One lovely morning we mounted to our seats in the stage coach, the
driver cracked his whip over the heads of the leaders, six creamy white
horses pricked up their ears, sprang forward at a gallop and we were
off to the Continental Divide.
We had just crossed a glade where deer were grazing when a hail storm,
a mountain hail storm, overtook us. In five minutes the ground was
white, the hail laying two inches deep, and such hail, an Illinois hail
storm is tame in comparison.
The horses plunged forward, the hail was left behind, and we paused on
the Great Divide. Down from this watershed the waters flow east and
west.
The lovely Lake Shoshone comes into view and presently we are standing
on its shore looking down through its blue waters. The elevation of
this lake is greater than that of its royal neighbor, the Yellowstone.
[Illustration: CAMPING ON THE SHORE OF LAKE YELLOWSTONE.]
This most lovely of all American lakes, the Yellow Stone, is perched
high in the very heart of the mountains, its blue waters lapping the
base of cold, snow-capped peaks, rivals in beauty the far famed Lake
Maggiore.
On these beautiful shores fair Nausicaa with her golden ball might have
deigned to tread the mazes of the ball-dance.
The elevation of this lake is marvelous for its size. Drop Mount
Washington, the highest peak in the White Mountains, into the center of
it and the summit would be swept by a current half a mile deep.
This lake affords royal sport. Here are the most beautiful fish in the
world, the rainbow trout.
Through a pine-clad gorge flanked by high bluffs the impetuous
Yellowstone River makes its way until it leaps the great falls and
plunges down three hundred and fifty feet to the cañon below.
On the sides of the spray-washed walls grow mosses and algæ of every
hue of green, ochre, orange, brown, scarlet, saffron and red. On rugged
peaks are brown eagles’ nests.
The Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone, would you describe this marvelous
gorge, language is inadequate, words are poor.
Would you paint it, on your palette place all colors yet produced by
the ingenuity of man. Mix them with rainbow drops. The pale faced moon
will lend a shade, the stars another and the sun still another as he
drops blood-red down through the mists of the sea. Stir and mix with
matchless skill until you have of colors half a hundred and shades as
many more. Now boldly dash the stupendous walls, castles, pinnacles,
turrets, columns, and minarets where already they are gleaming a bright
vermilion as they from Vulcan’s fiery furnace issued long ago.
When you have these colors fixed let Phaethon drive down the gorge in
his chariot of fire leaving behind the gleam and the glow of it.
[Illustration: PAINT POTS ON SHORE OF YELLOWSTONE LAKE.]
Here, the Sioux chiefs, crouching by their camp fires muttered their
griefs and their woes. Here Rain in the Face cried out in revenge,
revenge on the White chief with the Yellow Hair.
Yonder lay Sitting Bull with his three thousand warriors hidden in
cleft and cave. Into the fateful snare dashed the White chief with his
pitiful three hundred men. Like a mountain torrent Sitting Bull and his
braves swept down upon that gallant band, and but one was left to tell
the story of the Little Big Horn, but one to tell of the gallant stand
of Custer and his brave men.
Only two survived of all that noble band, one, Curly, the half-breed
scout, and the other, “Comanche,” the horse of Captain Keogh. Comanche
was found several miles from the battle field with seven wounds. He
recovered and the secretary of war detailed a soldier as his attendant.
Here, too, the Crow took revenge when driven back by the white man.
Here they peopled the boiling, hissing springs and the steaming geysers
with evil spirits, while beyond the mountains lay the Happy Hunting
Ground.
A small remnant of this band gathered at the head of the Grand Cañon
and there resolved with Spartan courage to die rather than be removed
to a distant land there to die of homesickness and longing for the blue
sky and the breath of the sweet air of their beloved mountains.
They built a raft and set it afloat at the foot of the Upper Falls
feeling the peace and security that the mountains give, but they were
rudely awakened one morning by the sharp crack of the white man’s
rifle, the soldiers were upon them. Hastily boarding their raft they
pushed it out into mid-stream. The strong current gathered the craft
tossing it and pitching it onward on its foamy crest. The soldiers gaze
in wonder, forgetting to fire. On, on, faster whirls that frail craft
while above the wild roar of the water floats the death song.
Beyond, yawns a chasm three hundred and fifty feet deep, the death
chant is lost amidst the roar of the mighty torrent. The hardened
soldier shudders as that lone adventurous craft, freighted with the
remnant of a powerful people, is gathered in the arms of that mighty
torrent, hurled over the brink and dashed to pieces on the cruel rocks
below, where the Maid of the Mist washed white each red man’s soul.
[Illustration: GRAND CAÑON OF THE YELLOWSTONE.]
On June twenty-seventh last, word was telegraphed over the country
that a new geyser had burst forth from an old crater about fifty feet
from the famous Fountain Geyser. The eruption played from two hundred
to two hundred and fifty feet high.
Tired, stage tired, we were snug in comforts and blankets and
sound asleep one night in August at the Fountain hotel, when about
twelve o’clock gongs sounded, bells rang and porters went running
about pounding on the doors and crying, what seemed to our sleepy
imagination, “Fire,” but presently we heard distinctly the words, the
new geyser is playing. “The new geyser is playing,” went echoing down
the corridors.
In ten minutes every tourist was out, in all sorts of costumes from
blanket to full dress, either shivering on the long veranda or hurrying
down to the basin to see the new geyser play, and right royally he did
it, too.
Upward into the black night shot a stupendous column of water three
hundred feet high. The porters were the first to arrive and playing
their red calcium lights on the wonderful body of falling water gave us
a display of fire and water that must be seen to be appreciated. The
now flaming vermilion column rose steadily upward, seemingly through
the red glare three hundred feet, the delicate, rose colored steam
rising much higher, swayed in the breeze, now falling, now lifting, now
floating away into the black night a rosy cloud.
The hotel cat hurried to the scene of action but lost his bearings and
stood fascinated by the magic scene, the hot spray falling about him
until some one picked him up and carried him out of danger.
In the reception hall of this hotel an old fashioned fireplace filled
with glowing pine logs sent out showers of welcoming sparks. A big
green back log sang again the anthem of the wild storm-swept mountain
forest, while outside the rain came down in torrents.
The most wonderful features of the Rocky Mountains lie within the
confines of Yellowstone Park. The world’s oldest rocks, granite,
gneisse and basalt are found here. Later dynamic action held sway and
the region became the center of mountain building on a grand scale.
Rocky beds tossed up and down. Next came the reign of Vulcan. Fire
held sway. Volcanic materials overflowed the region. Next came the ice
age, when glaciers plowed down the mountain sides. Just now the
hydrothermal agents are most active.
[Illustration: GIBBON RIVER FALLS.]
After miles of mountain climbing and five hundred more of staging in
the heart of the Rockies, through groves of pine firs, spruce and
cedar, along streams and lakes bordered by aspen, willow and wild
flowers, through glades and glens, ravines and gorges, one begins to
get some idea of the vastness, ruggedness and grandeur of the mountains
and the delicacy of the climate. One begins to understand how in
average summer temperature of sixty degrees pinks, geraniums, orchids,
mosses, roses and lilies, alternately bathed in sunshine and snow,
bloom on, reaching a perfection beyond that of our prairie flowers.
The mountain thistles are beautiful beyond compare. The delicate purple
blossoms are borne on slender stems, the dainty green leaves touched
with white, drooping gracefully, give the plant more the appearance of
an orchid than of the common weed it is.
Over in Hayden valley roam fifty head of buffalo, all that is left of
that royal band, the fine for killing one of which is five hundred
dollars. Deer and elk roam ravine and mountain side, sleek, fat
fellows that make you glad that they are under Uncle Sam’s protection.
We passed a group of deer in a wooded ravine, their smooth coats
shining like satin in the sunshine as they gazed at us out of pathetic
brown eyes that had something of the human in them.
“I couldn’t kill one of them innocent creatures if the law permitted
me,” said the driver, who was an old mountaineer and loved the things
of the mountains.
Now and then one sees a mountain lion. The less noble game abound also,
the fox, martin, beaver, woodchuck and gopher. Ground squirrels run
about the hotels and camps in search of food. Under our window one
evening three of these little animals were having a tug of war over a
bread crust. The crust at last divided, one lost his hold and the other
two ran away with the spoil.
The gray squirrels are very numerous, showing little fear of the
passer-by as they run along playing tag or race up and down the trunks
of great trees.
The Rocky Mountain quail differs from our own in being larger and
having a crest on its head.
Both Black and Cinnamon bear haunt the vicinities of the hotels and
camps in search of food. A big black fellow was pointed out to us one
morning who had stolen a ham from one of the camps the night before.
The ham had disappeared and there stood Bruin waiting for a chance
to steal another. One of the men walked up to him and gave him a
slice of bacon, which he took from his hands. When he had eaten it he
looked inquiringly about for more. This time the meat was hung up in
a tree. Bruin sniffed the odor, located the bacon, climbed the tree,
knocked the meat down and came down and ate it. Then he sat down on his
haunches, folding his paws and looking up at his new-found friend as if
asking for more.
[Illustration: MICKY AND ANNIE ROONEY.]
At the Fountain hotel are two cubs, Micky and Anna Rooney. They are
very fond of sugar. When offered any food they stand up and reach out
their paws for it or they will take it out of your hand.
Micky is a happy rollicking fellow, but Anna is more sedate, quick of
temper and free in the use of her paws when angry. When offended she
climbs to the top of her pole and sitting down on the board nailed
there refuses to come down for anything less than a lump of sugar.
As these bears are still mere babies they are fed milk from a bottle.
They stand up, clasp the bottle in their paws and proceed to drink the
milk through a hole in the cork.
One evening something was wrong with Micky’s bottle. While the
attendant was fixing it Micky dropped on his haunches, folded his paws
across his chest, holding his head first on one side then on the other,
looking very wise the while. The attendant being somewhat slow, Micky
dropped to the ground but never once took his eyes off that bottle.
While Micky was waiting for his supper Anna had finished hers and was
thrusting her paws into the pockets of the attendant in search of candy
and sugar.
At another hotel was a Bruin and her two babies. When these youngsters
refused to enter the bath tub provided for them the mother would coax
them to the edge of the tub, push them in, hold them down and give them
a good scrub.
The National Park should be extended one hundred miles farther south to
the Black-Hole country. The park game descends to the Black-Hole during
the winter where the hunters lay in wait for it. In this way park
buffalo were nearly exterminated.
Of the natural wonders of the world our country possesses namely:
Niagara, Yellowstone Park, Yosemite, Grand Cañon of the Colorado, and
the Glacial Coast of Alaska. The Mammoth Cave might take sixth rank,
but leaving it out we will not go to Europe, but to the Himalayas for
one and to the Andes for the other.
The petrified forests are equally as interesting as the geysers.
Southwest of Pleasant Valley is a small grove of petrified trees. Near
Hell-roaring Creek is a massive promontory, composed of conglomerates,
and numerous beds of sandstones and shales. Throughout these strata are
numerous silicified remains of trees. Many of the trees are standing
upright just as they grew.
On the northern side of Amethyst Mountain is another section of strata
nearly two thousand feet high. The ground here is strewn with trunks
and limbs of trees which have been petrified into a clear white agate.
In one place rows of tree trunks stand out on the ledge like the
columns of an old ruin. Farther down the mountain side are prostrate
trunks fifty feet long. The strata in which these trunks are found is
composed of coarse conglomerates, greenish sandstone and indurated clay.
These strata contain many vegetable and animal remains. Branches,
roots, snakes, fishes, toads and fruits. Among these petrified objects
one finds the most beautiful crystallizations of all shades of red
from the delicate rose to a deep crimson. As to the trees the woody
structure is in many cases well preserved.
Just beyond the eastern boundary of the park lies the Hoodoo region of
the Shoshone Mountains. Here, in the very heart of the old Rockies the
banshee, ghosts and goblins of all the region round about hold high
jinks.
The scenery is wild and rough. The Goblin Mountain itself is over ten
thousand feet high and a mile long. The storms of ages have carved the
conglomerate breccia and volcanic rocks into the most strange, weird
and fantastic shapes.
The vivid imagination of the Indian sees in these gigantic forms,
beasts, birds and reptiles. Here a couchant tiger and there the huge
figure of a Thunder Bird. Yonder a hungry bear sits on his haunches
waiting for a passing Indian. In the moonlight strange spectral shapes
seem to pass in and out these weird labyrinths. The rocks are all
shades and colors. Mysterious sounds in the air above add interest to
the most weird scene in the Rockies, a fit setting for the witch scene
in Macbeth.
In yonder dark cavern the huge cauldron might boil and bubble as the
fire lights up the faces of the sinister three who stir the grewsome
mess, while around yon black bowlder stealthily steals guilty Macbeth.
Which of the grand scenes do I treasure the most? I do not know. I
cannot tell. Each in turn holds, fascinates, and enthralls the mind.
Each becomes in the language of Keats:
“An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.”
THE END
* * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
The Travels of a Water Drop
is a volume of sketches, studies from nature. The travels and
adventures of this particular Water Drop are so interestingly written
that it ought to occupy a prominent place in children’s classics. Each
sketch in the book is a gem in its way. For scientific accuracy and
literary beauty this little volume is recommended to nature lovers.
Cloth, small 12mo. Fifty Cents.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
The single footnote has been moved to the end of its chapter.
Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned.
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.
Both Skaguay and Skagway appear in the original text, and the spelling
Skaguay has been standardized to Skagway.
Both Wrangle and Wrangel appear in the original text, and the spelling
Wrangle has been standardized to Wrangel.
Both “Blackfoot village” and “Blackfeet village” appear in the original
text, and the spelling “Blackfeet village” has been standardized to
“Blackfoot village.”
End of Project Gutenberg's A Pacific Coast Vacation, by Ida Dorman Morris