“The morn, in russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern
hill.” That was my matutinal orison as I tumbled out of bed at
Gaskill’s. The air was fragrant with the perfume of the pine, and the
hardy wild flowers were brilliant in liquid diadems. Some other fellow
would say that he ”drank in the life-giving tonic“; but I don’t drink,
so I breathed it, with my head out of the garret window, and felt as
though this world has some things to enjoy, and that fresh air is one of
them. The blue seemed nearer, and as I looked over into the Park, and
over the fir-crowned hills to the majestic piles of granite, everywhere
set off with a background of azure, I felt as though there was a mistake
somewhere in my make-up. I ought to have been born with a gift to make
the whole world feel as I did then—happy but humiliated among these
magnificent monuments of Divine greatness. I’m not a self-made man,
that’s the trouble; if I’d had the ordering of it, I’d have got up a
success. There is nothing like success, even in a fraud, until it stands
face to face with such evidences of the sublime handiwork as I looked
out upon that bright morning; then the “uses of this life” seem “flat,
stale and unprofitable,” as we use them.
But I must not forget the mules. Gaskill has a couple of cinnamon bears,
in a room at the end of the barn. I can’t say that the Devil got into
the mules, because the Devil is now ruled out; without a hell to put him
in, he is no longer of any earthly use. I am sorry to lose him, because
under certain circumstances I am a believer in intimidation; it is
wholesome. I have known a single quiet and orderly hanging in a summary
way, to make a neighborhood that would have terrorized Satan himself, as
nice and well behaved as a community of Quakers. I heard one of our
Denver preachers once say—and we all loved him—that there was “a
certain class of mortals whom it was necessary to take by the neck and
choke before they could be made ready for conviction.” The Devil has
always been useful for that purpose, and I think he could be made
available yet.
But I started to say something concerning those mules. The Devil, as I
have said, did not get into the mules, but they got scent of those
bears, and I venture the assertion that the bears discounted the Devil
in his palmiest efforts, as heretofore reported. To speak without
exaggeration, those mules were frightened; the bears were in their
heads, heels, hair and eyes; inside and out, above and below, and all
around, were bears. To those mules, it rained bears, and the atmosphere
was pregnant with bears about to be delivered. If those mules had been
human I would have thought it the worst case of delirium tremens that
ever racked a diseased imagination. As the driver expressed it: “they
was plumb crazy.” There was no crookedness about it; they were
frightened horizontally as well as straight up and down, as I suppose
the driver meant to be understood. It is impossible for me to tell what
they did or attempted. They seemed capable of any extravagance except
dying. I like to ride after mules in that condition; there is something
exhilarating in dashing down a mountain road with one’s hair
straightening out behind as though it would disappear by the roots;
careening around short curves and making lightning-like estimates of the
thousands of feet to the bottom of the gulch; picking out the softest
rocks upon which to fall; flying over boulders and becoming entangled in
tree tops fifty feet in the air, there to remain a torn and wretched
monument of indiscretion. It wouldn’t be much of a monument, but enough
to tell the tale. I thought how grand it would be, and told the driver
that I preferred to have him pick me up whole some distance down the
road; I felt confidence in my ability to control my own legs; the air
was just right for a brisk morning walk; besides, much of the pleasure
of the ride would be denied me by reason of my not having any hair to
speak of that might stream in the wind. I made these suggestions and
started. I believe the driver thought I was afraid to ride after those
mules; but that was a mistake. I intended to ride after them provided
there was anything to ride in when he should catch up to me, if he ever
did. About two miles down the range I sat on a log and waited for the
wreck. Presently I heard the rumbling of the wagon; soon it came in
sight, the driver sitting at his post singing, as well as the roughness
of the road would permit: “I want to be an angel.” I certainly thought
he did, and asked him if the mules had not tried, at least, to run away,
when they were being harnessed.
“Oh, no; they was too bad scared. You see, when they get that way they
want to stay right with me; a mule is an obstinate cuss, you know, and
only runs away for fun.”
Just then the ears of the off mule stuck out straight as the prongs of a
magnified clothes pin, and she began to dance. This time it was a ground
squirrel, not much larger than a lead-pencil. But the brake had to come
down before the mule did. Shortly after, the nigh mule went through a
like performance for a similar cause, and then they both waltzed to the
music of the Frazier. I was sorry when we got as far as Cozzens’,
because there it was plain sailing, with plenty of room to turn round
and run away in, and yet those delightful mules trotted right along
twenty-two miles to the Springs, regardless of gophers, old clothes, tin
cans and two badgers. If Gaskill’s bears had got in the way, I firmly
believe those mules would have trotted over them, or kicked them out of
the road. Kick! They could kick in pure cussedness. “I should say so.”
A mule is a natural kicker, as a rule, but this pair had so improved
upon nature’s gift, by constant practice, that they had reduced the
accomplishment to an exact science. “They can fetch anything they go
for, from a gnat on a stall post to a self-confident hostler.” “The nigh
mule can take a fly off her right ear with her nigh hind foot.” I can’t
describe how she does it, not having seen the feat performed, but the
driver explained it to me so that I understood it. From my confidence in
the veracity of the driver, but especially from my knowledge of the
mule, I am ready to be sworn. But it is about time these mules were
lost.
We have the usual complement of campers and tourists in the Park this
season. The former are mostly of our own mossbacks; but it will not do
to call the tenderfoot by any less dignified title than a tourist. I saw
one of the latter start out the other morning for a day’s sport. He had
a rifle and a shot-gun, a game-bag, a fishing rod and creel; he remarked
to me, as he climbed up on the off side of his horse, that he was pretty
well fixed for a day’s campaign. I told him I thought he was, but
suggested that he ought to take along a bass drum to beat up the game,
and, do you know, the fellow got mad and made me apologize. If he had
only kept me in front of his infernal arsenal, I never would have
modified my suggestion, but he threatened me over his shoulder, and that
looked dangerous. He came back at night, to my surprise, but brought
neither fish, flesh nor fowl; it is perhaps needless to say he was the
only disappointed party in the Park.
A strict enforcement of the game and fish law would be an advantage to
this vicinity. The Park is easy of access, and when the railroads, or
either of them now under construction, shall be completed, the Park and
its surroundings, a very paradise for sportsmen, can be made the most
attractive resort in the state. Why, it is worth a day’s journey to sit
where I do now, under the shadow of a pine whose every sigh in the cool
breeze is freighted with fragrance, and feast on the massively beautiful
scenery. A foreground of a mile or two of meadow rich in green and gold;
the beetling lava cliffs on the left, and the brown hills, studded with
great piles of granite, sloping gently down to the margins of the Grand.
The noble stream flecked with silver, rolling majestically along and
keeping time to its own melody, while away beyond lies the range for a
background, with Long’s Peak, o’ertopped with fleecy clouds to serve him
as a diadem, to be changed to a turban of rainbow tints for evening
dress. And the sunsets that gather about the head of the rugged giant!
You who view them from the other side should sit under the shadow of
Mount Bross and see the cloud tints that crown His Majesty. Your view
from the eastern side shows but the work of a tyro; from this the
accomplished task of the master. If I had the gift I spoke of, you
should see it as I do; as it is, there is nothing left but to come over
and take it in for yourself. You can have a change of programme every
day, and when you tire of the pictures, if you can, it is easy climbing
a few hundred feet to find a dozen others just as grand and no twins. I
suppose many a fellow has glanced over his shoulder up the Grand and
seen a mountain with a notch in it, no more, not even a patch of color.
But ten to one of these have seen something more and yet made a hearty
meal of flitch and potatoes.
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