Two or three years since, a couple of divines, imbued, doubtless, with a
spirit of adventure, found their way up one of the tributaries of the
Blue. They discovered a lake nestled away in the grand old hills, and in
about the last place one would think of looking for a lake. They called
it Black Lake, very appropriately, and when they made known their
discovery there were found some of those disagreeable two-legged animals
who are never surprised at anything, and who knew, of course, that “the
lake had been there all the time.” The ministers, however, took away
with them the credit of the discovery, though but few people manifested
any interest in the matter. As a result of the indifference, the merits
of the lake have been but little talked about, and when mentioned at
all, it has been treated with a sort of indefiniteness, as a place that
had been heard of, but was not known, except that it was “up there,
somewhere,” in the rugged range of the Blue. One was, and is, also,
always reminded by the would-be informant that “a couple of preachers
found it;” in that particular sort of tone that at once conveys the
impression that, because a preacher was instrumental in making the
discovery, it must be a kind of slough of despond, or an eight-by-ten
waterhole, or a beaver pond, with a few decayed water-lilies mourning
round the margin. It may be that there is much skepticism hereaway
concerning the general level-headedness of gentlemen in orders, where
our mountain scenery is involved. Your “rugged frontiersman”—to whom
these grandeurs are every-day affairs, still new every day, and not the
less revered—worships in silence, and is apt to think your enthusiast
off his tender feet the moment he opens his mouth. “There is no use
trying to do the subject justice by attempting to describe what you see.
Just look about you, realize that you are not the greatest thing in
creation, and, with a chastened spirit, go tell your friends to come and
see and worship.” So your gentlemen in flannel shirt and foxed breeches
would recommend, and they mean well. But if enthusiasm is pardonable at
all, it may be overlooked in a man fresh from his books and his daily,
dull routine, suddenly set down in the midst of such evidences of God’s
handiwork as one finds here. The ordained discoverers of Black Lake did
not, evidently, adopt the reticent method of expressing their veneration
for the grand surroundings, and their delight at the beautiful lake so
unexpectedly revealed to them. They were unquestionably very
enthusiastic, and consequently more the object of doubt. If they had
said simply: “We found a lake up there, just under the base of that
cone-shaped peak,” and pointed out the mountain, there would have been a
dozen visitors to the spot before the end of the summer. Your pioneer
would have told it that way, and that would have been notoriety. As it
was, Grand Lake, the Twin Lakes, and other known lakes in the mountains,
made Black Lake a possibility. A few have taken the trouble to go in
search of it, the Doctor, who is no tenderfoot, and myself, a little
younger, among the number.
The trip determined upon, the next step was to make preparation. The
experience of my indefatigable Mentor enabled him to speedily devise all
plans and complete them. A pack animal was at once forthcoming, and upon
it were secured four days’ provisions, a coffee pot, frying-pan, two tin
cups, a pair of blankets and a rubber poncho; the limited number of
utensils inculcating a lesson in economy—a practical illustration of
what we need and what we think we must possess to be happy. With our
four days lares and penates thus secured and armed with our fishing
tackle, a bright August morning saw us in the saddle and on the road.
The first few miles of our route were by the Indian trail, already
familiar as far as Williams’ Fork, thence up the long mesa bordering
that stream, toward Ute Mountain. Bands of antelope frequently starting
up and scampering away refuted the insinuation of another young
gentlemen in glasses and lavender pants who had been hunting up and down
the high roads for a week, within half a mile of the Springs, and
“couldn’t find any game in the Park.” The same young gentleman told me
that he had seen what he understood to be sage hens, but could not kill
them with a rifle—he must have something larger—and then wanted to
know of me if there were no “sage roosters.” I told him there were, lots
of ’em; that they were web-footed, had ruffles round their necks and
wore lavender-colored legs at this season; whereat he expressed himself
satisfied and said he would find one. I expect to see him chased into
camp some day by a mountain woodchuck—then we’ll have another bear
story. While I am writing this, that same young man is fishing in the
Grand in sight of my tent; he has waded out and is standing knee deep,
whipping the stream just where a hot sulphur spring bubbles up throwing
the steam above the surface. He, too, has a valuable rod. I wish he had
to stay there enjoying his homeopathic sulphur bath till the fellow with
the club could come along and kill him.
Looking round after the antelope resulted in our losing the trail. We
started in the direction to cross it, but, with the exasperating
contrariness peculiar to the country, traveled parallel with it for more
than a mile, and until we ran into a body of timber which the Doctor
knew the trail had nothing to do with. Then we struck off at right
angles. I told the Doctor that he was heading for camp; he said he
intended to make camp about six o’clock. I urged him not to be
discouraged, that we might yet reach our destination, and that I did not
like to be disappointed. But he trotted on, in silence, found the trail
within two hundred yards and turned into it. By this time I did not know
Ute Mountain from Gray’s Peak. We jogged on to the timber clothing the
hills on the north side of Ute Pass, crossed a little brook, left a
blind trail to the right, recrossed the brook, and in about five minutes
we were playing circus among a lot of fallen timber, with no more sign
of a trail in sight than there was a prospect of our getting out of the
blasted place inside a week. Had the devil been really a man of genius,
instead of covering Job with boils, destroying his flocks and killing
his relatives, he would some forenoon have inveigled that much abused
patriarch up a steep mountain side and deposited him in about forty
acres of fallen timber. Then when Job’s dinner-hour came round he would
have tried to get out of that, and after about ten minutes of that kind
of pastime he would have begun to realize that old Mrs. Job would be
looking for him with the same kind of disposition they keep dinner
waiting for us in these days. Just then the devil would have gained his
point.
I ventured to ask the Doctor, while he and his horse were crawling
through a symmetrical masterpiece of accidental log-architecture, if he
knew where the trail was. I was deferential, knowing the subject of
trails was to him a delicate one. He said, of course, he knew where it
was; on the other side of the brook. Encouraged by his affability, I
then inquired why he had left it; he said there were some rough places
ahead of us, and that he wanted to drill the horses a little before we
reached them. Then I asked him if he didn’t think we had better go back
to the Springs and give me an opportunity to employ a broncho breaker to
drill my horse; he said if I did not break my dashed neck before I got
out of that I might do so. All this time I was trying to follow him
round, between, under and over dead tree, wondering what sort of
battle-field was in store for me if this was only a parade ground. We
finally, deployed by a perpendicular-horizontal-right-and-left-oblique,
gained the other side of the brook and the trail. Then the Doctor said
that we were all right, in a tone that carried conviction.
We jogged on, up hill and down, through timbered land and little
meadows, by the sides of deep gorges and under huge cliffs, now in the
sunlight and again through such dense forests of heavy firs that night
seemed to have set in, until we reached the summit of the Pass, and
looked beyond upon the massive and frowning Blue River range, riven in
mighty fissures, its sharp peaks kissing the azure sky, its great gorges
filled with the eternal snows, now rosy under the rays of the setting
sun, and over all brooding a solemn stillness that bade the heart bow in
humility and reverential awe. In such a presence if a man does not
realize his own utter insignificance, he is justified in believing that
“all things are created for him,” even office. Toiling slowly down, we
reached the Blue, now, however, yellow with the work of the gold hunter,
crossed it, and made camp before dark. After supper, and tired with our
day’s ride, we spread our blankets under the great roof fretted with
golden fire, and slept the sleep of the weary.
The sun was scarcely out of bed next morning before we were astir, and
on the road to Roaring Fork. A boisterous name, truly, and indicating
nearly five miles of cascade. Since the discovery of the lake it is
sometimes called Black Lake Creek, but the noisy name is more apt.
Crossing the Fork we followed up the right bank, without any trail, for
about four miles, at which point we deemed it advisable to camp, picket
our horses and proceed on foot. We reached the lake after a tiresome
climb of a few hundred yards, afterwards, of course, discovering a much
easier route from our camp, and over which we might have ridden the
horses to our destination.
The lake is about a mile by three-quarters in size, a narrow point
jutting out at the foot giving it somewhat the shape of a crescent.
Along the margin, when the lake is perfectly calm, the bottom seems to
shelve to irregular distances, when the light color of the crystal water
suddenly changes to a hue almost black, at once suggestive of
precipitous and tremendous depths, and which, no doubt, prompted the
giving of its name. To the left, its base lapped by this gem of the
mountains, rises a cone-shaped spur of the range with summit far above
timber-line, and its rugged clefts filled with snow. In front of you the
main range, seemingly lower only because more distant, with rocky,
snow-crowned heads overtopping the velvety-looking firs that reach down
to the western margin; and from out the dense foliage coming and
receding upon the pure air is the music of falling waters. For there is
hidden there a beautiful fall, with its source far away in front of you
in those great snow fields; in one place having a perpendicular descent
of fifty feet or more, and in another dashing and tumbling down its
precipitous bed over huge boulders for hundreds of feet, like a great
artery pouring crystal life and beauty into the little queen below. And
on the right, yet another mighty mountain, with verdant base and
snow-crowned head, sloping gradually away behind the nearer hills. It
must, indeed, have been a revelation and a glad surprise to the man who
first discovered it, as it was to us who went not to be surprised, but
for another pleasant purpose.
We found on the point of land and down near the water’s edge, a shelter
of canvass and pine boughs, a Dutch oven, tin cans empty and full, an
old pair of boots, some fishing tackle and other evidences of man’s
presence. Besides there was a boat and a couple of rafts moored to the
beach and a fish box anchored a short distance out. We contented
ourselves with looking over these desecrations, which had on first view
taken nine-tenths of the romance out of the picture, and walked back to
camp, intent only upon the quantity of trout we were to take out of the
prolific depths.
The first hour’s effort after dinner produced only disappointment. I
could see nothing of the Caliban of the Point, and was loth to touch his
property, feeling that most men under like surroundings are always ready
to grant favors and equally quick to resent a liberty. Casting the fly
from the shore resulted in only an occasional strike, while all parts of
the lake were being aggravatingly broken into circles by the leaping
trout. Finally I worked round the point toward the outlet, somewhat
disgusted but determined to exhaust all my temptations. The first cast
there, with a red-bodied gray hackle, brought an instant rise, and I was
kept busy for half an hour, the fish varying but little in size, running
from ten to twelve inches. I did not make slow work of my part of the
business, and in less than an hour had about eight pounds of the little
fellows in my creel. The Doctor had found quarters where equal success
had attended him, so far as quantity was concerned, but as usual, he had
to catch one fine fellow larger than any I could boast. The bright
salmon color of the beauty flashed upon me irritatingly not five rods
away as he was seized upon and held up exultantly by my companion.
Satisfied with our afternoon’s sport, we returned to camp with the
prospect of a wetting from overhead. The clouds continued to thicken; we
got supper—coffee, bread and trout. You of Denver, who get trout only
in the market, have yet to learn the exquisite flavor of the fish. The
first time you eat one, properly prepared, within an hour from the time
of his capture, you will wager on your ability to eat trout only, three
times a day for a month; believe me, and I am no particular lover of
fish diet either, as you may have readily concluded. The rain had not
begun yet, and the Doctor, full of resources, had improvised a shelter
out of the rubber poncho, and with our blankets spread under it, and a
bright camp fire to take off the chill of the night air, we realized the
comforts of roughing it in genuine style. But it did not rain, and we
went to sleep; I maturing ways and means to discover the owner of the
property on the Point.
About noon next day I discovered my man, in buckskin, and lost no time
in making his acquaintance. We intended to start upon our return trip at
four o’clock; as yet, that morning, I had enticed out of the lake barely
eight trout, and had but little time left to remunerate myself for a
thirty-five mile ride. He said if I would be patient till he got some
dinner he would take me out on a raft and teach me to catch trout. I
said I was willing to learn, and he asked me to dine with him, which I
did, off bread and butter and stewed blackberries with lake water for
grog, and I have made worse meals. Then we went down and got on board
one of those rafts; it was constructed of four logs each about six
inches in diameter and eight feet long, held together by cleats and
wooden pins—a rollicking craft to put to sea in. Notwithstanding its
questionable appearance, I took my seat on a soap box to which I was
invited, and my chaperone seized his paddle and pushed the machine from
the shore into deep water. I would rather it had not been so deep, and
as I tried to see bottom and couldn’t, I thought it would be less
disagreeable to drown in ten feet of water than two hundred—your
friends could find your precious remains so much easier, and would not
be debarred the luxury of a funeral. While there was conviction in the
assurance of the captain that “the old thing” was safe, I nevertheless
handled myself gingerly. I cast my fly upon the waters with immediate
success. The skipper, inspired by my example, dropped his paddle, and
attempted competition. After a few minutes of unavailing effort, during
which time I had all I could attend to, he looked down at me with a
puzzled expression in his gray eyes, and exclaimed:
“Why, Mister, you beat all the men to catch trout I ever see; what kind
of fly you got?”
I gave him the infallible gray hackle with the red body; he took it
doubtingly, while I bore my honors meekly. After landing half a dozen
trout in quick succession, the doubter again broke silence:
“I say, Mister, have you got any of them flies to spare?”