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UNEXPLORED
By ALLEN CHAFFEE
Author of "Lost River, the Adventures of Two Boys in the Big Woods,"
"The Travels of Honk-a-Tonk," "Twinkly Eyes" (3 vols.), "Fleet-Foot,"
"Trail and Tree Top," and "Fuzzy Wuzz, the Little Brown Bear of
the Sierras."
Illustrated by William Van Dresser
[Illustration: Spitfire began to double in his best bucking form.
--Page 15]
Milton Bradley Company
Springfield, Massachusetts
1922
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Copyright, 1922
By Milton Bradley Company
Springfield, Massachusetts
Bradley Quality Books
Printed in United States of America
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TO
H. F. B.,
Who would still be a boy,
Were he a thousand years of age.
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INTRODUCTION
A pack-burro camping trip in an unexplored region of the high Sierras
results in a series of adventures for three boys in the late teens, a
young Geological Survey man and the old prospector who guides them.
They meet bears and catch rainbow trout, are carried to fight fire by the
Forest Service Air Patrol, and trail the incendiaries through a
labyrinthian limestone cave. They ride in a lumber camp rodeo and
experience earthquakes and avalanches. And in the glacier-gouged canyons,
the giant Sequoias, and sulphur springs, they trace the story of the
geological formation of the earth, and its evolution from the days of
dinosaurs.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Rodeo 1
II The Camping Trip 31
III Living off the Wilderness 58
IV With the Air Patrol 84
V A Daring Feat 95
VI The Incendiaries 110
VII The Cave 134
VIII The Snow-Slide 154
IX Ted's Fossil Dinosaur 163
X How the Earth Was Made 176
XI The Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes 201
XII Gold! 226
Glossary and Pronouncing Dictionary
of Geological Terms Used and Key
to Geologic Time 263
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UNEXPLORED
CHAPTER I
THE RODEO
Ted Smith, flinging his long legs off a frisky bay, grinned delightedly
as his eye caught a flag-decked touring car.
"Are you riding?" called the boy at the wheel.
"Sure AM!" drawled the ranch boy. "How about yourself?"
"Betcher life, Old Kid!" Ace King flung himself to the ground, disclosing
the fact of his new leather chaps--a contrast to Ted's overalls.
Greetings followed between Ted and Senator King in the back seat, and
Pedro Martinez, a black-eyed young fellow who sat a pinto pony alongside.
The slanting rays of California sunshine were fanned by a breeze from
Huntington Lake, as the crowd sifted about the corral fence at Cedar
Crest. The prevailing khaki of the dusty onlookers gave way at intervals
to a splash of color. An Indian in a purple shirt was borrowing the
orange chaps of another broncho-buster; he had drawn number two from the
hat. Most of the cowmen offset their "two-quart" sombreros with
brilliant-hued bandannas knotted loosely at their throats. A few wore
chaparreras in stamped leather, and a few in goatskin--red or black or
tan--though most let it go at plain blue overalls. One of the machines
drawn up beside the soda-pop stand fluttered a flag on its nose. For the
Fourth was to be marked by a reading of the Declaration of Independence
before the rodeo and barbecue. (The day had begun with a Parade of
Horribles, in which every last lumberman took part, chanting the marching
song to an accompaniment of well-belabored frying-pans.)
Unbidden, a band of unspeakably unwashed Digger Indians, attired in gay
and ill-assorted rags, appeared, and seated themselves on the opposite
hillside, beaming vacuously as the ox was put in the pit to roast
(together with two smaller carcasses that the camp cook winkingly
designated as wild mutton, though he was careful to bury the antlers
against the possible advent of the Forest Ranger).
The rodeo master, a megaphone-voiced blond giant, in high-heeled riding
boots and spurs that made him limp when he walked, careened up and down
the dusty field on a high-stepping bay, while two lasso men in
steel-studded belts and leather cuffs helped round the range stock into
the adjoining small corral.
An unbroken two-year-old with wild, rolling eyes tried to climb the fence
when the rope tightened on his throat, and a sleek mule kicked out in a
way that left a red mark on the flank of a lean white mare. Then one of
the bulls in a separate corral shoved his head under the lower of the two
log bars that fenced him in and lifted--lifted,--but could not break
through.
"Riding, old Scout?" Ted asked the young Spanish-Californian.
"'Fraid I'd ride the ground," admitted Pedro, with a gesture of his
plump, manicured hands.
"Yeh!--Saw-horse's HIS mount!" jollied Ace, though the pinto looked by no
means spiritless. (And to himself he added: "Likely promised his mother
not to. Gee! I'd like to cut him loose from her apron strings for about
three months and see how he'd pan out!")
"_He's_ got too much sense to risk his bones," championed the Senator, (a
heavy, florid man with a leonine mass of white curly hair and Ace's
daring black eyes).
Just then a petite young woman rode up, her bobbed curly hair and
sun-flushed cheeks topping a red silk blouse joined to her khaki riding
breeches by a fringed sash that reached half way to her elkskin boots.
"I say, Rosa, are you riding?" greeted Ace. The girl shook her head
merrily. "Dad, that's Pierre La Coste's sister,--you know, he's
fire-lookout on Red Top. Used to be one of our Scouts when we lived in
Peach Cove."
"Yeh, we used to call him Pur-r-r," supplemented the ranch boy.
"And that's the horse Ranger Radcliffe's been trying to give her," added
Ace, sotto voce. "Isn't he a beauty?"
"And she won't have him?" laughed the Senator.
"Won't have man or beast."
Ace, now studying geology at the University of California, though he had
traveled widely since the old ranch days, still counted Ted, sandy
haired, thin and freckled, struggling to make his mother's fruit ranch a
go, his chum. Pedro, a neighbor of the old days, was his roommate in the
fraternity house at Berkeley. All three ran to greet Norris, a young man
in the uniform of the U. S. Geological Survey (son of the Forest
Supervisor), who now appeared, galloping beside Ranger Radcliffe. For he
was to pilot them on a camping trip into the high Sierras in a week or
two.
The first entry was just being led forth to be saddled as the fifth and
final member of their expedition arrived on the scene, afoot,--Long
Lester, a lanky, bewhiskered old prospector in soft felt hat, clean but
collarless "b'iled shirt," vest, cartridge belt and corduroy "pants,"
thrust into the tops of ordinary hob-nailed boots.
"Well, you broncho-busters, out in the center!" megaphoned the man on the
big bay. "Five more riders here!--Two-fifty to ride and seven-fifty more
to go up!" Three men came forward. "We want two more entries. If you
pull-leather or fall off, two-fifty. If a fellow rides a bull with one
hand hold, he gets seven-fifty. Ten dollars if you go up!"
Ace and Ted exchanged glances as they started forward.
"You're sure courtin' trouble," called the Senator.
"I reckon I am," grinned Ted, "but I'm broke."
"You'll have to pay your winnings to get your bones mended."
"I'll take a chance!"
King laughed. Most of the horses he recognized as having been ridden
before. But he was secretly resolved if Ace drew a bad one, to exercise
his parental authority.
The chums drew from the hat, Ace taking the last name. He started as he
looked at his slip. "The white-faced bull," read Ted over his shoulder.
"Gee! Don't tell Dad!" breathed Ace. "What's yours?"
"Spitfire!"
The older boy emitted a long-drawn whistle.
"All right, broncho boys," megaphoned the starter.
The first entry, rearing and snorting, with two lassos about his neck,
had finally been blind-folded and caparisoned.
"Johnny White from Fresno, on Old Ned from Northfork," rang the
announcement. An Indian in overalls swung himself into the saddle
simultaneously with the snatching away of lassos and blinders.
The horse tucked his head almost between his knees, and leaped into the
air, bowing his back and grunting with each jump, while the dust rose
till no one could tell whether the rider was on or off. Then the horse
galloped to the opposite side of the corral and his unwelcome incumbent
was perceived picking himself sheepishly out of the dust.
"Henry Clark from Table Mountain, on the pinto from Cascada," the next
entry was shortly announced. The Indian in the purple shirt stepped
forward, gorgeous in his borrowed chaps.
"Some buckaroo!" grinned Ted.
The pony, not quite so thin as most of the range stock, blinked startled
eyes, and the fireworks began. The gorgeous one, barely surviving the
first buck, and seeing himself riding for a fall in all his finery, leapt
nimbly to the ground while the pony went on bucking. He landed right side
up--with no damage to the purple shirt. A derisive jeer greeted
this--fiasco.
"He sure wasn't goin' to dust them ice-cream pants," laughed one of the
crowd hanging over the fence. The Indian signified a desire to try again.
After a couple more riders were called, he was given the same mount again.
This time he saved his finery by grabbing hold with both hands.
"Pulling leather only gets two-fifty," adjudged the megaphone man.
"He sure had a good hand hold," gurgled Ted. "Pretty hard on the wrists,
isn't it, Henry?"
"Wait till we get you a medal!" boomed Ace.
Next came a white rider, who won the nick-name "Easy Money" by riding a
mule up with a surcingle, then another Indian,--they were mostly the
youngsters working on local pack-trains,--who began by straddling the
neck of his mount and ended by going over the animal's head, landing flat
on his back. A momentary hush, and the fence lizards began collecting
around the limp form. The Indian's round brown face had turned gray.
"Stand back and give 'm air," megaphoned the starter, fanning him with
his hat. Some one brought water, then the Indian opened his eyes, and
presently signified a desire to get up. He was helped to his feet. "He's
all right," was the final verdict as the little group led off the field.
"Somebody give 'm a cigarette." The Indian leaned against the corral
fence nonchalantly, lighting up, though with fingers that shook the flame
out of several matches.
"Gee!" nudged Ace. "Dad's motioning us, and if he knows I've drawn that
bull, he'll sure----"
"You're nineteen."
"Aw, he's the Gov'ner, just the same. If you had one you'd see. Let's
stick here behind this bunch till my turn comes 'round."
"Sure you'd better try it?" Ted laid a hand on his chum's shoulder.
"Sure thing! What's the use of living if you never take a chance?
Besides, you've got a reg'lar rocking-horse yourself, huh?" he scoffed.
"That's all right, I was born ridin'," Ted made light of it.
It was now time for the bay bull. As a saddle swings around on anything
but a horse, it is easier to ride bulls and mules with a surcingle. It
took three men to get the bull into the saddling pen, two with lassos and
one with a pole, but the strap was finally adjusted around his chest, and
the mount made.
One Shorty Somebody was the rider. And Shorty rode him,--stuck clear
across the corral. But there the bull torpedoed the middle log of the
fence and went straight through, scraping Shorty off.
Straight into a startled ring of spectators plowed the enraged beast,
sending horses whirling and pedestrians dodging for their lives. The
petite Rosa's mount got to dancing, and finally staged a petite runaway
on his own account, but Rosa kept her head and a tight rein. A small boy
scrambled into a low-branching tree. But three lassos and a dozen mounted
men finally headed off the bull and got him into a smaller corral.
Ted looked inquiringly at Ace, but the Senator's son evidently had his
blood up. The white-faced bull, meantime, was again trying to thrust his
massive shoulders beneath the lower bar.
Two mules came next on the program, one rider bringing his mount to terms
so quickly that people were laying bets it was just a pack-mule, while
the other stuck when his jumped the fence.
Ranger Radcliffe, galloping back beside Rosa's now docile mount, waved a
hand to the boys. Then a murmur rippled through the loungers that
encircled the corral, as the white-faced bull was called for. Ace's
nerves began to tingle.
This bull had been kept in close confinement for several days past, and
it had not improved his temper. They had to throw him to put on the
straps.
"Hold him!--Hold him!" at intervals percolated through the hum of voices,
as the great brute lay panting in the saddling pen, his eyes ringed with
infuriated white, his snorting breath--audible thirty feet away--sending
spirals of dust scudding before his nose.
"Well, what do you say? Say it quick! I'm betting on the bull," King was
challenging the Ranger, little dreaming who the rider was to be.
This bull was to be ridden with a saddle and one hand hold. The gate of
the saddling pen cracked as its occupant tried to rise.
"You folks around the fence, you had better look out!" megaphoned the
starter. "This 'ere bull may not look where he's a-goin'!"
The gate cracked again. A woman nearby screamed. Two men with lassos
ready waited on either side, their mounts aquiver. Ace's ruddy face had
grown strangely lined, but he stood his ground.
"The fellow that rides that bull is sure foolhardy," the Senator was
remarking, pulling his hat further over his iron-gray brows against the
slant of the sun. Then the Ranger rode up with Rosa, and she was invited
to a seat behind the fluttering flag.
"Either that or almighty sandy," amended Radcliffe.
Like a streak of lightning the bull arose, jaws slavering. One mighty
crack and he had burst the gate, a plunge and he was plowing his way
across the field, trailing a rope that still held his saddle horn. The
starter raced after, his big bay holding back with all his might on the
rope. The dust blew chokingly into the faces of those on the Senator's
side of the corral. Then the bull caught sight of that fluttering red,
white and blue.
For one awful instant Rosa found those staring white-rimmed eyes glaring
straight into her own. The bull's next leap would carry him over the
fence and into the machine. She blanched, but sat silent. Pedro, drawn up
beside her on his pinto, felt paralyzed. The Senator threw his engine on
as if to back away.
"Hold him!--HOLD him!" shrilled the starter, pounding back. The rope on
the saddle horn--would it hold? Then a lasso was thrown, tightening
neatly around the hind legs of the runaway.
"Got him stretched now!" came the triumphant shout, as the bull went down
with an infuriated snort, and lay there, chest heaving, while the
vaqueros made him fast.
"The ride's off,--nobody goin' to ride _him_ to-day!" decided the man on
the bay. The bull was relieved of his saddle and headed protestingly back
into the small corral.
Ace King's face was set in deep lines. He had been all nerved up to his
ride. Now that it was off, his knees felt shaky, and he climbed to a seat
on the top rail. And Pedro flushed to hide his pallor.
But Ted's time was yet to come. One rider in between, whose horse piled
him on the ground, and the announcement came: "Ted Smith from Peach Cove,
rides Spitfire from Huntington Lake."
"I'm sorry for that kid," stated Long Lester, who leaned lankily over the
gate, thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest. "Want up, little miss?" and he
helped a child to a vantage point beside him.
"Go to it, old pal!" Ace thumped the contestant breath-takingly.
"Spitfire! O-o-wah-hoo-o!" bellowed a group of cow-boys, in imitation of
the falsetto Indian yell.
"Oo-wah-hoo-oo-oo!" the Indians bettered them.
Senator King honked in joyous abandon. Pedro's dark eyes flashed. "Spunky
kid!" commented Radcliffe. "I'm betting he'll ride him straight up!"
"He'll be killed!" Rosa shivered.
"Not with those long legs to get a grip with," the Ranger reassured her.
"Ain't that hoss a dinger!" admiringly Long Lester demanded of the
assemblage, as Spitfire danced forth with three lassos trying to hold him
for the blinders. Again he tried to climb the fence, eyes wide, nostrils
quivering.
"I'm just itchin' to ride him," Ted replied to Ace's questioning gaze.
Every nerve in his wiry body was keyed electrically. Then the saddle was
adjusted, Ted was in the stirrups, and the blinder was jerked free.
"R-r-ready! Let 'er go!" was megaphoned.
About that time things began to happen. Spitfire, as if feeling that his
reputation needed demonstrating, began to double in his best bucking form.
"_Ride_ him, Ted!" yelled Ace. "Hey, Ted rides him, eh?"
"Scratch him!" contributed Long Lester, who believed in spurs. "Say,
he's a-scratchin' him up and down!--Ya-hooooooo!" as Ted rode him
up again and again, both arms free, slapping him hip and shoulder,
hip and shoulder with his sombrero. Zip!--_Zip!_--ZOOM!--Around and
around they went, the mustang snorting loudly with each bounce, lathering
in his effort to unseat his rider. But Ted had grown to his back.
The broncho stopped, exhausted, flanks heaving.
"SOME riding!" gasped Pedro.
Then a shout went up. Ted was champion rider of the rodeo!
To the ranch boy's amazement, he now found his long legs dangling from a
seat on the shoulders of his two college friends, while they marched
about to the tune of "A Jolly Good Fellow,"--Norris himself laughingly
joining in the chorus, and Long Lester thumping him breath-takingly
between the shoulder blades.
That was the day the camping trip had been planned. It was also the day
Ace's little Spanish 'plane, wirelessed from its hanger in
Burlingame,[1] had given them all a surprise, and a trial sail. The
pilot arrived shivering in leather jacket and heavy cap, woolen muffler
and goggles, with similar wraps for Ace, whose leather chaps now served a
purpose. For the intense cold of the upper levels it was necessary for
the pilot to lend his outer apparel, as each of the prospective camp
mates in turn took the observer's seat, with Ace piloting.
Ted was used to flying with him,--had, indeed, given him the nick-name
which all had now adopted, as a compliment to his exploits as a birdman.
But to the other three it was a new experience. He invited Norris first.
Their route lay like a map below them, as they winged their way across
the sky, steering first due South till the rim of King's River Canyon
threatened to suck them down into its depths, then circling to the East
till they could see Mt. Whitney rising snow-capped above the surrounding
peaks, and back to the waiting boys.
Long Lester ventured next, and as he afterwards expressed it, he thought
he was riding on the back of his neck as they soared into the blue deeps
above them, while the ocean of the atmosphere tossed them about
capriciously. This time Ace, running her into the cold strait above the
river, headed her down canyon to within a hundred feet of the forest top,
his grit based on sound mechanical training; his daring counterbalanced
by his cool headed precision. He tried no stunts, however, as he had
promised his father to indulge in no aerial acrobatics under 1,000 feet.
When they finally returned to terra firma, right side up with care, the
old prospector expressed himself as nowise envious of Elijah.
Pedro belted himself in with a lack of enthusiasm that Long Lester did
not fail to note with sympathy, and away they soared, fearlessly on Ace's
part, whose eyes, ears and lungs were in the pink of condition. But to
the Spanish boy came first a dizzy, seasick feeling, coupled with a
conviction that he could not draw breath against the head wind, then a
chill that penetrated even the pilot's uniform, as he watched the earth
recede beneath them. The motor purred as they gained momentum and the
propellers whirred noisily, and the changing air pressures so affected
the stability of the light craft that he felt half the time as if they
were lying over on their side. He also reflected that, should the engine
stall, their descent would be a matter of seconds only. In the dry heat
they had been traveling with what seemed terrific speed. He protested
once, but Ace did not hear him.
Then in the cold of the higher altitude, their speed was reduced and
traveling was smoother. When at last the great white bird dropped back
almost on the spot from which they had started,--the distinguishing feat
of the Spanish 'plane,--he was almost a convert, though as Lester said,
"a little green about the gills." When later the opportunity came to try
it again, he abdicated in favor of Ted.
Norris assured them that there is air for 50 miles above the earth, and
sometimes a tidal wave of atmosphere reaching as high as 200 miles,
though after it gets about 190 degrees below zero, less is known about
it. Its density is reduced fully half at 18,000 feet,--half a mile above
the highest peaks, like Mt. Whitney, but though the air of high altitudes
is more buoyant, the cold none the less reduces the speed of the air
cruiser.
While they were eating they discussed their itinerary.
Norris had the large trail maps of both Sierra and Sequoia National
Forests. These he laid out and pieced together into one big sheet ten
feet long. On these maps were marked out the good camp grounds, and where
bears, or deer, quail or grouse, might be found, where supplies were
obtainable, or pack and saddle stock, guides and packers, or Forest
ranger stations (little cabins flying a flag from their peaks, to make
them show up on the map).
There were the "roads passable for wagons," "trails passable for pack
stock," and "routes passable for foot travel only." There were areas
marked with varying tiny green tufts of grass labeled "meadows where
stock grazing is permitted," and "meadows where it is not permitted,"
"meadows fenced for the free use of the traveling public" and "meadows
fenced for the use of Forest Rangers only."
Diminutive green pine trees indicated forest areas particularly
interesting, striped red areas signalized National Forest timber sales,
cut over or in operation, black triangles denoted Forest Service fire
outlook stations, and a drawing that looked like a woodshed showed where
Forest Service fire fighting tools had been cached in various
out-of-the-way places. "TLP" indicated the free Government telephone
boxes, red doughnutty-looking circles meant good mountains to climb, with
some indication of the safest routes to the top, areas marked out in red
diamonds were labeled as geographically interesting, and those in green
as botanically of more than ordinary interest.
A green feathery-looking line meant a canyon, a green triangle a
waterfall, a plain green line a stream offering good fishing, and a
broken green line a stream stocked with young fish, while an X meant a
barrier impassable by fish, though what that meant, not one of them could
say.
There were various other marks, such as a hub surrounded by the spokes of
a wheel (whatever it was intended for), the key to which explained that
from that point a good view was to be obtained.
But what most attracted their attention, all up and down the crest of the
Sierra Nevada as it stretched from North, North-West to South,
South-East, were the wide green areas "of special scenic interest," most
of which was marked "UNEXPLORED!" in great warning red letters.
It was this part of the map that most fascinated the little camping
party. Why should they choose a route that was all cut and dried for
them, as it were,--where each day they would know when they started out
just about where night would find them and what they would meet with on
the way? Who wanted their views labeled anyway? That was all very well,
very thoughtful of the Forest Service, for inexperienced campers, who
would probably never venture into the unknown. But to Ace, the airman, to
Ted, with his experienced wild-craft, and to Pedro the romanticist, no
less than to the young Yale man whose thirst for far places had led him
into the U. S. Geological Survey, the Mystery of the Unexplored called,
with a lure that was not to be denied. Long Lester, they knew, was game
for anything,--for had he not prospected through these mountains all his
life? There was practically no place the sure-footed burros could not go,
and there was no danger they were not secretly and wickedly tingling to
encounter.
It was a wild region, as rough and as little known as anything from
Hawaii to Alaska,--only different. The John Muir Trail, named for the
explorer,--a "way through" rather than a trail,--stretched along the
crest of the range, the roughest kind of going, (absolutely a horseback
trip, it was generally pronounced), and from its glacier-capped peaks,
from 14,500 foot Mt. Whitney, to the even more difficult though less
lofty Lyell, ran the Kings' River, North, Middle, and canyoned South
Forks, the Kern and the Kaweah, the Merced and the San Joaquin,--to name
only the largest.
Unlike the older Eastern ranges, the Sierra is laid out with remarkable
regularity, the one great 12,000- to 14,000-foot divide, with its
scarcely lower passes, giving off ridges on the Western slope like the
teeth of a coarse granite comb. Between ridges, deep, glacier-cut
canyons, "yo-semities," (to employ the Indian name), with their swift,
cascading rivers make North to South travel difficult, though one can
follow one side of the openly forested canyons to the very crest of the
main ridge.
Here and there was a grove of Big Trees, varying in size from the Giant
Forest of Sequoia National Park to the few mediocre specimens at Dinkey
Creek. But as a rule the hot, irrigated valleys of the Sacramento and San
Joaquin gave way to patches of the small oaks and pines of the foothills,
and these in turn, several thousand feet higher up the Western slopes, to
yellow pine and incense cedar, Sequoias and giant sugar pines. Higher
still came the silver fir belt, and after that, the twisted Tamaracks and
dwarfed and storm-tossed mountain pines, reaching often in at least a
decorative fringe along the rock cracks to the very peaks, all the way up
to 12,000 feet. (Tree line in the White Mountains of New Hampshire comes
soon after 5,000.) Above that, of course, only snow and ice could clothe
the slopes.
Hell-for-Sure Pass was one name that attracted Ace's eye on the map. He
judged that it must mean stiff going,--but even had they actually planned
to climb that way, he would have preferred to wait and discover for
himself the reason for its nomenclature. There was also Deadman Pass,
(another name to tickle the imagination), Electra Peak, Thousand Island
Lake, The Devil's Post Pile, Volcanic Ridge, Crater Creek, Stairway
Creek, Fawn Meadow,--and dangerously near, Bear Meadow,--Vermilion
Cliffs, Piute Pass, Disappearing Creek, Lost Canyon, Table Mountain,
(reminiscent of the Bret Harte days), Deadman Canyon, (flavoring more
strongly of the gold days of '49), and Rattlesnake Creek, (doubtless
deserving the title.)--To say nothing of such ordinary features as 13,500
foot University Peak, (a mere wave of the sea of peaks surrounding
champions Lyell and Whitney), Diamond Peak, 13,000 feet, Mt. Baxter,
likewise around 13,000, Mt. Pinchot, and a score of others (occurring at
short intervals in a solid phalanx). Whoever wants to climb a mountain
everybody climbs, seemed to be the final verdict of the party. There are
other peaks almost as high as Whitney, (certainly quite high enough to
suit the most fastidious sportsman), and probably even more difficult of
ascent. Why not discover something new under the sun? In other words, why
not strike off at random into the Unexplored? They would head right into
the thick of the thickest green patch on the map, and wander as fancy
dictated. If they felt like climbing, they would climb. If they felt like
lazing, (as Pedro put it), they would laze. If they came to a river they
could cross, all right. If they could not cross, why, all right, who
cared?
There was rumor of vast caves that riddled the back country. There were
hot springs, soda springs,--who knew what? Good pasturage was never hard
to find. The verdant meadows left by the glacier lakes could be counted
on up to the very backs of the 9,000-foot ridges. Most of them were half
to a mile wide, and at the head waters of the big rivers, they had heard,
were meadows nearer ten miles in length.
With one exception, every lake in the Sierras is a glacier lake (that
exception being Huntington, a "made" lake four miles long that falls
three thousand feet through a flume to add power to an electric plant).
These lakes lie all the way up to as high as 8,000 feet above sea-level,
Norris's theory being that in time they will be found higher still. The
glaciers left by the last ice age naturally melted first in the lower
reaches, and as those that now cap the peaks and flow down between ridges
like the arms of a starfish, melt in their turn, they will leave their
icy, green-blue crystal pools higher and higher up the mountainsides.
Just North of Mt. Ritter, Norris told them, lies a glacier lake at an
altitude of 12,000 feet, while the glaciers still to be found are slowly,
slowly grinding out the basins of the lakes that will one day, (possibly
centuries hence), lie where now linger these evidences of the last
glacier epoch.
Where these lakes have in their turn disappeared they have left these
rich-soiled meadows. Where these level-lying meadows failed them
pasturage for their burros, Norris guaranteed that there would be plenty
of hanging meadows,--long, narrow, bowldery strips of weed enameled
verdure slanting up and down the moraine-covered canyon sides, beginning
away up at timber line, where springs the source of their life-giving
moisture.
Before the group broke up that day, word came that Rosa's brother had
broken his leg, there at the fire outlook on Red Top. (A pack-mule had
crowded his horse off the trail on the steep slope of an arroyo, and the
horse had fallen, though breaking his otherwise sure descent into the
creek below by coming sharply up against a tree trunk.)
"The worst of it is," worried Radcliffe, "with men so scarce, I don't
know who to send in his place. Besides, it's a week's horseback trip from
here,--and fires breaking every day,--and he needs a doctor."
It was not till the deed was done that Ace returned to announce, with the
smile of the cat who has licked the cream, that Rosa had insisted on
taking her brother's place. He, Ace, had found the spot from her sure
knowledge of the topography of the place. (She had kept house there for
her brother the summer before, in the wee, wind-swept cabin.) And leaving
Rosa there, as she pluckily insisted, Ace brought her brother back,
covering in minutes, as the bird flies, what it would have taken a week
to traverse on horseback. Those mountain trails corkscrew up and down the
canyon sides till instead of calling a certain distance a hundred miles
according to the map, one states it, "a week into the back-country,"--or
in the case of the trailless peaks, (among which Long Lester felt most at
home), the same distance might be a matter of a four-weeks' camping trip,
with no human habitation, and the likelihood of not even a ranch at which
to purchase supplies, in between.
Then the Senator sent the 'plane back to San Francisco, and its hangar in
Burlingame, before--as he said--his young hopeful could start anything
more. He himself was to spend the next month fishing around Kings' River
Canyon, putting up at the canvas hotel. But he took as much interest in
the camping trip as if he had been a member of it,--as, indeed, did
Ranger Radcliffe, though word of a fresh forest fire breaking cut short
his part in the powwow.
The question now arose, should they go horseback, or afoot with
pack-burros,--a string of which Long Lester yearned to pilot.
True, a mountain-bred pony will hop and slide up and down mountain ledges
that would make an Eastern horse's hair literally stand on end. They have
been born and bred to it, physically and mentally. They have been known
to sit back almost on their haunches and slide when they could get down
no other way. Some of them will walk a log twenty feet above the surface
of a stream. (The Eastern rider will find that hard to believe, until he
recalls the feats of circus horses.) But not all horses are alike, any
more than people. Why should the plains horse and the park horse and good
old Dobbin, the farm horse, be equine mountaineers and prospectors?
"Shank's horses" and the pack-burros won the final ballot,--to Pedro's
open dismay. But they would first ride the well-defined two-days'
horseback trail from Giant Forest to the Kings' River Canyon, and Giant
Forest is an automobile stage ride from Fresno, which is another short
day's ride from Huntington Lake.
(Strange are the threads of destiny! Not one of that group so much as
dreamed that they were embarking on anything but a five weeks' camping
trip.)
[Footnote 1: Pronounced Blingam.]