When the traveler from California has crossed the Sierra and gone a
little way down the eastern flank, the woods come to an end about as
suddenly and completely as if, going westward, he had reached the
ocean. From the very noblest forests in the world he emerges into free
sunshine and dead alkaline lake-levels. Mountains are seen beyond,
rising in bewildering abundance, range beyond range. But however
closely we have been accustomed to associate forests and mountains,
these always present a singularly barren aspect, appearing gray and
forbidding and shadeless, like heaps of ashes dumped from the blazing
sky.
But wheresoever we may venture to go in all this good world, nature is
ever found richer and more beautiful than she seems, and nowhere may
you meet with more varied and delightful surprises than in the byways
and recesses of this sublime wilderness—lovely asters and abronias on
the dusty plains, rose-gardens around the mountain wells, and resiny
woods, where all seemed so desolate, adorning the hot foothills as well
as the cool summits, fed by cordial and benevolent storms of rain and
hail and snow; all of these scant and rare as compared with the
immeasurable exuberance of California, but still amply sufficient
throughout the barest deserts for a clear manifestation of God’s love.
Though Nevada is situated in what is called the “Great Basin,” no less
than sixty-five groups and chains of mountains rise within the bounds
of the State to a height of about from eight thousand to thirteen
thousand feet above the level of the sea, and as far as I have
observed, every one of these is planted, to some extent, with
coniferous trees, though it is only upon the highest that we find
anything that may fairly be called a forest. The lower ranges and the
foothills and slopes of the higher are roughened with small scrubby
junipers and nut pines, while the dominating peaks, together with the
ridges that swing in grand curves between them, are covered with a
closer and more erect growth of pine, spruce, and fir, resembling the
forests of the Eastern States both as to size and general botanical
characteristics. Here is found what is called the heavy timber, but the
tallest and most fully developed sections of the forests, growing down
in sheltered hollows on moist moraines, would be regarded in California
only as groves of saplings, and so, relatively, they are, for by
careful calculation we find that more than a thousand of these trees
would be required to furnish as much timber as may be obtained from a
single specimen of our Sierra giants.
The height of the timberline in eastern Nevada, near the middle of the
Great Basin, is about eleven thousand feet above sea level;
consequently the forests, in a dwarfed, storm-beaten condition, pass
over the summits of nearly every range in the State, broken here and
there only by mechanical conditions of the surface rocks. Only three
mountains in the State have as yet come under my observation whose
summits rise distinctly above the treeline. These are Wheeler’s Peak,
twelve thousand three hundred feet high, Mount Moriah, about twelve
thousand feet, and Granite Mountain, about the same height, all of
which are situated near the boundary line between Nevada and Utah
Territory.
In a rambling mountaineering journey of eighteen hundred miles across
the state, I have met nine species of coniferous trees,—four pines, two
spruces, two junipers, and one fir,—about one third the number found in
California. By far the most abundant and interesting of these is the
_Pinus Fremontiana_,[18] or nut pine. In the number of individual trees
and extent of range this curious little conifer surpasses all the
others combined. Nearly every mountain in the State is planted with it
from near the base to a height of from eight thousand to nine thousand
feet above the sea. Some are covered from base to summit by this one
species, with only a sparse growth of juniper on the lower slopes to
break the continuity of these curious woods, which, though dark-looking
at a little distance, are yet almost shadeless, and without any hint of
the dark glens and hollows so characteristic of other pine woods. Tens
of thousands of acres occur in one continuous belt. Indeed, viewed
comprehensively, the entire State seems to be pretty evenly divided
into mountain ranges covered with nut pines and plains covered with
sage—now a swath of pines stretching from north to south, now a swath
of sage; the one black, the other gray; one severely level, the other
sweeping on complacently over ridge and valley and lofty crowning dome.
The real character of a forest of this sort would never be guessed by
the inexperienced observer. Traveling across the sage levels in the
dazzling sunlight, you gaze with shaded eyes at the mountains rising
along their edges, perhaps twenty miles away, but no invitation that is
at all likely to be understood is discernible. Every mountain, however
high it swells into the sky, seems utterly barren. Approaching nearer,
a low brushy growth is seen, strangely black in aspect, as though it
had been burned. This is a nut pine forest, the bountiful orchard of
the red man. When you ascend into its midst you find the ground beneath
the trees, and in the openings also, nearly naked, and mostly rough on
the surface—a succession of crumbling ledges of lava, limestones,
slate, and quartzite, coarsely strewn with soil weathered from them.
Here and there occurs a bunch of sage or linosyris, or a purple aster,
or a tuft of dry bunch-grass.
[Illustration: THE SAGE LEVELS OF THE NEVADA DESERT]
The harshest mountainsides, hot and waterless, seem best adapted to the
nut pine’s development. No slope is too steep, none too dry; every
situation seems to be gratefully chosen, if only it be sufficiently
rocky and firm to afford secure anchorage for the tough, grasping
roots. It is a sturdy, thickset little tree, usually about fifteen feet
high when full grown, and about as broad as high, holding its knotty
branches well out in every direction in stiff zigzags, but turning them
gracefully upward at the ends in rounded bosses. Though making so dark
a mass in the distance, the foliage is a pale grayish green, in stiff,
awl-shaped fascicles. When examined closely these round needles seem
inclined to be two-leaved, but they are mostly held firmly together, as
if to guard against evaporation. The bark on the older sections is
nearly black, so that the boles and branches are clearly traced against
the prevailing gray of the mountains on which they delight to dwell.
The value of this species to Nevada is not easily overestimated. It
furnishes fuel, charcoal, and timber for the mines, and, together with
the enduring juniper, so generally associated with it, supplies the
ranches with abundance of firewood and rough fencing. Many a square
mile has already been denuded in supplying these demands, but, so great
is the area covered by it, no appreciable loss has as yet been
sustained. It is pretty generally known that this tree yields edible
nuts, but their importance and excellence as human food is infinitely
greater than is supposed. In fruitful seasons like this one, the pine
nut crop of Nevada is, perhaps, greater than the entire wheat crop of
California, concerning which so much is said and felt throughout the
food markets of the world.
The Indians alone appreciate this portion of Nature’s bounty and
celebrate the harvest home with dancing and feasting. The cones, which
are a bright grass-green in color and about two inches long by one and
a half in diameter, are beaten off with poles just before the scales
open, gathered in heaps of several bushels, and lightly scorched by
burning a thin covering of brushwood over them. The resin, with which
the cones are bedraggled, is thus burned off, the nuts slightly
roasted, and the scales made to open. Then they are allowed to dry in
the sun, after which the nuts are easily thrashed out and are ready to
be stored away. They are about half an inch long by a quarter of an
inch in diameter, pointed at the upper end, rounded at the base, light
brown in general color, and handsomely dotted with purple, like birds’
eggs. The shells are thin, and may be crushed between the thumb and
finger. The kernels are white and waxy-looking, becoming brown by
roasting, sweet and delicious to every palate, and are eaten by birds,
squirrels, dogs, horses, and man. When the crop is abundant the Indians
bring in large quantities for sale; they are eaten around every
fireside in the State, and oftentimes fed to horses instead of barley.
Looking over the whole continent, none of Nature’s bounties seems to me
so great as this in the way of food, none so little appreciated.
Fortunately for the Indians and wild animals that gather around
Nature’s board, this crop is not easily harvested in a monopolizing
way. If it could be gathered like wheat the whole would be carried away
and dissipated in towns, leaving the brave inhabitants of these wilds
to starve.
Long before the harvest time, which is in September and October, the
Indians examine the trees with keen discernment, and inasmuch as the
cones require two years to mature from the first appearance of the
little red rosettes of the fertile flowers, the scarcity or abundance
of the crop may be predicted more than a year in advance. Squirrels,
and worms, and Clarke crows, make haste to begin the harvest. When the
crop is ripe the Indians make ready their long beating-poles; baskets,
bags, rags, mats, are gotten together. The squaws out among the
settlers at service, washing and drudging, assemble at the family huts;
the men leave their ranch work; all, old and young, are mounted on
ponies, and set off in great glee to the nut lands, forming cavalcades
curiously picturesque. Flaming scarfs and calico skirts stream loosely
over the knotty ponies, usually two squaws astride of each, with the
small baby midgets bandaged in baskets slung on their backs, or
balanced upon the saddle-bow, while the nut baskets and water jars
project from either side, and the long beating-poles, like
old-fashioned lances, angle out in every direction.
Arrived at some central point already fixed upon, where water and grass
is found, the squaws with baskets, the men with poles, ascend the
ridges to the laden trees, followed by the children; beating begins
with loud noise and chatter; the burs fly right and left, lodging
against stones and sagebrush; the squaws and children gather them with
fine natural gladness; smoke columns speedily mark the joyful scene of
their labors as the roasting fires are kindled; and, at night,
assembled in circles, garrulous as jays, the first grand nut feast
begins. Sufficient quantities are thus obtained in a few weeks to last
all winter.
The Indians also gather several species of berries and dry them to vary
their stores, and a few deer and grouse are killed on the mountains,
besides immense numbers of rabbits and hares; but the pine-nuts are
their main dependence—their staff of life, their bread.
Insects also, scarce noticed by man, come in for their share of this
fine bounty. Eggs are deposited, and the baby grubs, happy fellows,
find themselves in a sweet world of plenty, feeding their way through
the heart of the cone from one nut chamber to another, secure from rain
and wind and heat, until their wings are grown and they are ready to
launch out into the free ocean of air and light.