MR. EVERTS'S THIRTY-SEVEN DAYS OF PERIL.
On the day that I found myself separated from the company, and for
several days previous, our course had been impeded by the dense growth
of pine forest, and occasional large tracts of fallen timber frequently
rendering our progress almost impossible. Whenever we came to one of
these immense windfalls, each man engaged in the pursuit of a passage
through it, and it was while thus employed, and with the idea that I
had found one, that I strayed out of sight and hearing of my comrades.
We had had a toilsome day. It was quite late in the afternoon. As
separations like these had frequently occurred, it gave me no alarm,
and I rode on, fully confident of soon rejoining the company, or of
finding their camp. I came up with the pack-horse, which Mr. Langford
afterwards recovered, and tried to drive him along. But failing to
do so, and my eyesight being defective, I spurred forward, intending
to return with assistance from the party. This incident tended to
accelerate my speed. I rode on in the direction which I supposed had
been taken, until darkness overtook me in the dense forest. This was
disagreeable enough, but caused me no alarm. I had no doubt of being
with the party at breakfast the next morning. I selected a spot for
comfortable repose, picketed my horse, built a fire, and went to sleep.
The next morning I rose at early dawn, saddled and mounted my horse,
and took my course in the supposed direction of the camp. Our ride of
the previous day had been up a peninsula jutting into the lake, for the
shore of which I started, with the expectation of finding my friends
camped on the beach. The forest was quite dark, and the trees so thick,
that it was only by a slow process I could get through them at all.
In searching for the trail I became somewhat confused. The falling
foliage of the pines had obliterated every trace of travel. I was
obliged frequently to dismount, and examine the ground for the faintest
indications. Coming to an opening, from which I could see several
vistas, I dismounted for the purpose of selecting one leading in the
direction I had chosen, and leaving my horse unhitched, as had always
been my custom, walked a few rods into the forest. While surveying
the ground my horse took fright, and I turned around in time to see
him disappearing at full speed among the trees. That was the last I
ever saw of him. It was yet quite dark. My blankets, gun, pistols,
fishing-tackle, matches--everything, except the clothing on my person,
a couple of knives, and a small opera-glass were attached to the saddle.
I did not yet realize the possibility of a permanent separation from
the company. Instead of following up the pursuit of their camp, I
engaged in an effort to recover my horse. Half a day's search convinced
me of its impracticability. I wrote and posted in an open space several
notices, which, if my friends should chance to see, would inform them
of my condition and the route I had taken, and then struck out into
the forest in the supposed direction of their camp. As the day wore on
without any discovery, alarm took the place of anxiety at the prospect
of another night alone in the wilderness, and this time without food
or fire. But even this dismal foreboding was cheered by the hope that
I should soon rejoin my companions, who would laugh at my adventure,
and incorporate it as a thrilling episode into the journal of our
trip. The bright side of a misfortune, as I found by experience, even
under the worst possible circumstances, always presents some features
of encouragement. When I began to realize that my condition was one
of actual peril, I banished from my mind all fear of an unfavorable
result. Seating myself on a log, I recalled every foot of the way I had
travelled since the separation from my friends, and the most probable
opinion I could form of their whereabouts was, that they had, by a
course but little different from mine, passed by the spot where I had
posted the notices, learned of my disaster, and were waiting for me
to rejoin them there, or searching for me in that vicinity. A night
must be spent amid the prostrate trunks before my return could be
accomplished. At no time during my period of exile did I experience so
much mental suffering from the cravings of hunger as when, exhausted
with this long day of fruitless search, I resigned myself to a couch
of pine foliage in the pitchy darkness of a thicket of small trees.
Naturally timid in the night, I fully realized the exposure of my
condition. I peered upward through the darkness, but all was blackness
and gloom. The wind sighed mournfully through the pines. The forest
seemed alive with the screeching of night birds, the angry barking of
coyotes, and the prolonged, dismal howl of the gray wolf. These sounds,
familiar by their constant occurrence throughout the journey, were now
full of terror, and drove slumber from my eye-lids, but above all
this, however, was the hope that I should be restored to my comrades
the next day.
Early the next morning I rose unrefreshed, and pursued my weary way
over the prostrate trunks. It was noon when I reached the spot where
my notices were posted. No one had been there. My disappointment was
almost overwhelming. For the first time, I realized that I was lost.
Then came a crushing sense of destitution. No food, no fire; no means
to procure either; alone in an unexplored wilderness, one hundred and
fifty miles from the nearest human abode, surrounded by wild beasts,
and famishing with hunger. It was no time for despondency. A moment
afterwards I felt how calamity can elevate the mind, in the formation
of the resolution "not to perish in that wilderness."
The hope of finding the party still controlled my plans. I thought,
by traversing the peninsula centrally, I would be enabled to strike
the shore of the lake in advance of their camp, and near the point of
departure for the Madison. Acting upon this impression, I rose from
a sleepless couch, and pursued my way through the timber-entangled
forest. A feeling of weakness took the place of hunger. Conscious of
the need of food, I felt no cravings. Occasionally, while scrambling
over logs and through thickets, a sense of faintness and exhaustion
would come over me, but I would suppress it with the audible
expression, "This won't do; I _must_ find my company." Despondency
would sometimes strive with resolution for the mastery of my thoughts.
I would think of home--of my daughter--and of the possible chance of
starvation, or death in some more terrible form; but as often as these
gloomy forebodings came, I would strive to banish them with reflections
better adapted to my immediate necessities. I recollect at this time
discussing the question, whether there was not implanted by Providence
in every man a principle of self-preservation equal to any emergency
which did not destroy his reason. I decided this question affirmatively
a thousand times afterwards in my wanderings, and I record this
experience here, that any person who reads it, should he ever find
himself in like circumstances, may not despair. There is life in the
thought. It will revive hope, allay hunger, renew energy, encourage
perseverance, and, as I have proved in my own case, bring a man out of
difficulty, when nothing else can avail.
It was mid-day when I emerged from the forest into an open space at
the foot of the peninsula. A broad lake of beautiful curvature, with
magnificent surroundings, lay before me, glittering in the sunbeams.
It was full twelve miles in circumference. A wide belt of sand formed
the margin which I was approaching, directly opposite to which, rising
seemingly from the very depths of the water, towered the loftiest peak
of a range of mountains apparently interminable. The ascending vapor
from innumerable hot springs, and the sparkling jet of a single geyser
added the feature of novelty to one of the grandest landscapes I ever
beheld. Nor was the life of the scene less noticeable than its other
attractions. Large flocks of swans and other waterfowl were sporting
on the quiet surface of the lake; otters in great numbers performed
the most amusing aquatic evolutions; mink and beaver swam around
unscared, in most grotesque confusion. Deer, elk, and mountain sheep
stared at me, manifesting more surprise than fear at my presence among
them. The adjacent forest was vocal with the songs of birds, chief of
which were the chattering notes of a species of mocking-bird, whose
imitative efforts afforded abundant merriment. Seen under favorable
circumstances, this assemblage of grandeur, beauty, and novelty would
have been transporting; but jaded with travel, famishing with hunger,
and distressed with anxiety, I was in no humor for ecstasy. My tastes
were subdued and chastened by the perils which environed me. I longed
for food, friends, and protection. Associated with my thoughts,
however, was the wish that some of my friends of peculiar tastes could
enjoy this display of secluded magnificence, now, probably, for the
first time beheld by mortal eyes.
The lake was at least one thousand feet lower than the highest point of
the peninsula, and several hundred feet below the level of Yellowstone
Lake. I recognized the mountain which overshadowed it as the landmark
which, a few days before, had received from General Washburn the
name of Mount Everts; and as it is associated with some of the most
agreeable and terrible incidents of my exile, I feel that I have more
than a mere discoverer's right to the perpetuity of that christening.
The lake is fed by innumerable small streams from the mountains, and
the countless hot springs surrounding it. A large river flows from
it, through a cañon a thousand feet in height, in a southeasterly
direction, to a distant range of mountains, which I conjectured to be
Snake River; and with the belief that I had discovered the source of
the great southern tributary of the Columbia, I gave it the name of
Bessie Lake, after the
"Sole daughter of my house and heart."
During the first two days, the fear of meeting with Indians gave me
considerable anxiety; but, when conscious of being lost, there was
nothing I so much desired as to fall in with a lodge of Bannocks or
Crows. Having nothing to tempt their cupidity, they would do me no
personal harm, and, with the promise of reward, would probably minister
to my wants and aid my deliverance. Imagine my delight, while gazing
upon the animated expanse of water, at seeing sail out from a distant
point a large canoe containing a single oarsman. It was rapidly
approaching the shore where I was seated. With hurried steps I paced
the beach to meet it, all my energies stimulated by the assurance it
gave of food, safety, and restoration to friends. As I drew near to
it it turned towards the shore, and oh! bitter disappointment, the
object which my eager fancy had transformed into an angel of relief
stalked from the water, an enormous pelican, flapped its dragonwings
as if in mockery of my sorrow, and flew to a solitary point farther up
the lake. This little incident quite unmanned me. The transition from
joy to grief brought with it a terrible consciousness of the horrors
of my condition. But night was fast approaching, and darkness would
come with it. While looking for a spot where I might repose in safety,
my attention was attracted to a small green plant of so lively a hue
as to form a striking contrast with the deep pine foliage. For closer
examination I pulled it up by the root, which was long and tapering,
not unlike a radish. It was a thistle. I tasted it; it was palatable
and nutritious. My appetite craved it, and the first meal in four
days was made on thistle-roots. Eureka! I had found food. No optical
illusion deceived me this time; I could subsist until I rejoined my
companions. Glorious counterpoise to the wretchedness of the preceding
half-hour!
Overjoyed at this discovery, with hunger allayed, I stretched myself
under a tree, upon the foliage which had partially filled a space
between contiguous trunks, and fell asleep. How long I slept I know
not; but suddenly I was roused by a loud, shrill scream, like that of
a human being in distress, poured, seemingly, into the very portals of
my ear. There was no mistaking that fearful voice. I had been deceived
by and answered it a dozen times while threading the forest, with the
belief that it was a friendly signal. It was the screech of a mountain
lion, so alarmingly near as to cause every nerve to thrill with
terror. To yell in return, seize with convulsive grasp the limbs of
the friendly tree, and swing myself into it, was the work of a moment.
Scrambling hurriedly from limb to limb, I was soon as near the top as
safety would permit. The savage beast was snuffing and growling below,
apparently on the very spot I had just abandoned. I answered every
growl with a responsive scream. Terrified at the delay and pawing of
the beast, I increased my voice to its utmost volume, broke branches
from the limbs, and, in the impotency of fright, madly hurled them at
the spot whence the continued howlings proceeded.
Failing to alarm the animal, which now began to make the circuit of
the tree, as if to select a spot for springing into it, I shook, with
a strength increased by terror, the slender trunk until every limb
rustled with the motion. All in vain. The terrible creature pursued
his walk around the tree, lashing the ground with his tail, and
prolonging his howlings almost to a roar. It was too dark to see, but
the movements of the lion kept me apprised of its position. Whenever I
heard it on one side of the tree I speedily changed to the opposite--an
exercise which, in my weakened state, I could only have performed
under the impulse of terror. I would alternately sweat and thrill with
horror at the thought of being torn to pieces and devoured by this
formidable monster. All my attempts to frighten it seemed unavailing.
Disheartened at its persistency, and expecting every moment it would
take the deadly leap, I tried to collect my thoughts, and prepare for
the fatal encounter which I knew must result. Just at this moment it
occurred to me that I would try silence. Clasping the trunk of the tree
with both arms, I sat perfectly still. The lion, at this time ranging
round, occasionally snuffing and pausing, and all the while filling the
forest with the echo of his howlings, suddenly imitated my example.
This silence was more terrible, if possible, than the clatter and crash
of his movements through the brushwood, for now I did not know from
what direction to expect his attack. Moments passed with me like hours.
After a lapse of time which I cannot estimate, the beast gave a spring
into the thicket and ran screaming into the forest. My deliverance was
effected.
Had strength permitted, I should have retained my perch till daylight,
but with the consciousness of escape from the jaws of the ferocious
brute came a sense of overpowering weakness which almost palsied
me, and made my descent from the tree both difficult and dangerous.
Incredible as it may seem, I lay down in my old bed, and was soon lost
in a slumber so profound that I did not awake until after daylight.
The experience of the night seemed like a terrible dream; but the
broken limbs which in the agony of consternation I had thrown from
the tree, and the rifts made in the fallen foliage by my visitant in
his circumambulations, were too convincing evidences of its reality.
I could not dwell upon my exposure and escape without shuddering and
reflecting that probably like perils would often occur under less
fortunate circumstances, and with a more fatal issue. I wondered what
fate was in reserve for me--whether I would ultimately sink from
exhaustion and perish of starvation, or become the prey of some of
the ferocious animals that roamed these vast fastnesses. My thoughts
then turned to the loved ones at home. They could never know my fate,
and would indulge a thousand conjectures concerning it, not the least
distressing of which would be that I had been captured by a band of
hostile Sioux, and tortured to death at the stake.
I was roused from this train of reflections by a marked change in the
atmosphere. One of those dreary storms of mingled snow and rain, common
to these high latitudes, set in. My clothing, which had been much torn,
exposed my person to its "pitiless peltings." An easterly wind, rising
to a gale, admonished me that it would be furious and of long duration.
None of the discouragements I had met with dissipated the hope of
rejoicing my friends; but foreseeing the delay, now unavoidable, I knew
that my escape from the wilderness must be accomplished, if at all,
by my own unaided exertions. This thought was terribly afflicting,
and brought before me, in vivid array, all the dreadful realities of
my condition. I could see no ray of hope. In this condition of mind I
could find no better shelter than the spreading branches of a spruce
tree, under which, covered with earth and boughs, I lay during the two
succeeding days; the storm, meanwhile, raging with unabated violence.
While thus exposed, and suffering from cold and hunger, a little
benumbed bird, not larger than a snow-bird, hopped within my reach. I
instantly seized and killed it, and, plucking its feathers, ate it raw.
It was a delicious meal for a half-starved man.
Taking advantage of a lull in the elements, on the morning of the
third day I rose early and started in the direction of a large group
of hot springs which were steaming under the shadow of Mount Everts.
The distance I travelled could not have been less than ten miles.
Long before I reached the wonderful cluster of natural caldrons, the
storm had recommenced. Chilled through, with my clothing thoroughly
saturated, I lay down under a tree upon the heated incrustation until
completely warmed. My heels and the sides of my feet were frozen. As
soon as warmth had permeated my system, and I had quieted my appetite
with a few thistle-roots, I took a survey of my surroundings, and
selected a spot between two springs sufficiently asunder to afford heat
at my head and feet. On this spot I built a bower of pine branches,
spread its incrusted surface with fallen foliage and small boughs,
and stowed myself away to await the close of the storm. Thistles were
abundant, and I had fed upon them long enough to realize that they
would, for a while at least, sustain life. In convenient proximity
to my abode was a small, round, boiling spring, which I called my
dinner-pot, and in which, from time to time, I cooked my roots.
This establishment, the best I could improvise with the means at hand,
I occupied seven days--the first three of which were darkened by one of
the most furious storms I ever saw. The vapor which supplied me with
warmth saturated my clothing with its condensations. I was enveloped
in a perpetual steam bath. At first this was barely preferable to the
storm, but I soon became accustomed to it, and before I left, though
thoroughly parboiled, actually enjoyed it.
I had little else to do during my imprisonment but cook, think,
and sleep. Of the variety and strangeness of my reflections it is
impossible to give the faintest conception. Much of my time was given
to devising means for escape. I recollected to have read, at the time
of their publication, the narratives of Lieutenant Strain and Doctor
Kane, and derived courage and hope from the reflection that they
struggled with and survived perils not unlike those which environed
me. The chilling thought would then occur, that they were not alone.
They had companions in suffering and sympathy. Each could bear his
share of the burden of misery which it fell to my lot to bear alone,
and make it lighter from the encouragement of mutual counsel and aid
in a cause of common suffering. Selfish as the thought may seem,
there was nothing I so much desired as a companion in misfortune. How
greatly it would alleviate my distress! What a relief it would be to
compare my wretchedness with that of a brother sufferer, and with him
devise expedients for every exigency as it occurred! I confess to the
weakness, if it be one, of having squandered much pity upon myself
during the time I had little else to do.
Nothing gave me more concern than the want of fire. I recalled
everything I had ever read or heard of the means by which fire could
be produced; but none of them were within my reach. An escape without
it was simply impossible. It was indispensable as a protection against
night attacks from wild beasts. Exposure to another storm like the one
just over would destroy my life, as this one would have done, but for
the warmth derived from the springs. As I lay in my bower anxiously
awaiting the disappearance of the snow, which had fallen to the depth
of a foot or more, and impressed with the belief that for want of fire
I should be obliged to remain among the springs, it occurred to me
that I would erect some sort of monument, which might, at some future
day, inform a casual visitor of the circumstances under which I had
perished. A gleam of sunshine lit up the bosom of the lake, and with
it the thought flashed upon my mind that I could, with a lens from my
opera-glasses, get fire from Heaven. Oh, happy, life-renewing thought!
Instantly subjecting it to the test of experiment, when I saw the smoke
curl from the bit of dry wood in my fingers, I felt, if the whole world
were offered me for it, I would cast it all aside before parting with
that little spark. I was now the happy possessor of food and fire.
These would carry me through. All thoughts of failure were instantly
abandoned. Though the food was barely adequate to my necessities--a
fact too painfully attested by my attenuated body--I had forgotten the
cravings of hunger, and had the means of producing fire. I said to
myself, "I will not despair."
My stay at the springs was prolonged several days by an accident
that befell me on the third night after my arrival there. An unlucky
movement while asleep broke the crust on which I reposed, and the hot
steam, pouring upon my hip, scalded it severely before I could escape.
This new affliction, added to my frost-bitten feet, already festering,
was the cause of frequent delay and unceasing pain through all my
wanderings. After obtaining fire, I set to work making preparations for
as early departure as my condition would permit. I had lost both knives
since parting from the company, but I now made a convenient substitute
by sharpening the tongue of a buckle which I cut from my vest. With
this I cut the legs and counters from my boots, making of them a
passable pair of slippers, which I fastened to my feet as firmly as I
could with strips of bark. With the ravellings of a linen handkerchief,
aided by the magic buckle-tongue, I mended my clothing. Of the same
material I made a fish-line, which, on finding a piece of red tape in
one of my pockets better suited to the purpose, I abandoned as a "bad
job." I made of a pin that I found in my coat a fish-hook, and, by
sewing up the bottoms of my boot-legs, constructed a very good pair of
pouches to carry my food in, fastening them to my belt by the straps.
Thus accountered, on the morning of the eighth day after my arrival
at the springs I bade them a final farewell, and started on my course
directly across that portion of the neck of the peninsula between
me and the southeast arm of Yellowstone Lake. It was a beautiful
morning. The sun shone bright and warm, and there was a freshness
in the atmosphere truly exhilarating. As I wandered musingly along,
the consciousness of being alone, and having surrendered all hope of
finding my friends, returned upon me with crushing power. I felt, too,
that those friends, by the necessities of their condition, had been
compelled to abandon all efforts for my recovery. The thought was full
of bitterness and sorrow. I tried to realize what their conjectures
were concerning my disappearance; but could derive no consolation
from the long and dismal train of circumstances they suggested.
Weakened by a long fast, and the unsatisfying nature of the only food
I could procure, I know that from this time onward to the day of my
rescue, my mind, though unimpaired in those perceptions needful to
self-preservation, was in a condition to receive impressions akin to
insanity. I was constantly travelling in dream-land, and indulging in
strange reveries such as I had never before known. I seemed to possess
a sort of duality of being, which, while constantly reminding me of the
necessities of my condition, fed my imagination with vagaries of the
most extravagant character. Nevertheless I was perfectly conscious of
the tendency of these morbid influences, and often tried to shake them
off, but they would ever return with increased force, and I finally
reasoned myself into the belief that their indulgence, as it afforded
me pleasure, could work no harm while it did not interfere with my
plans for deliverance. Thus I lived in a world of ideal happiness, and
in a world of positive suffering at the same time.
A change in the wind and an overcast sky, accompanied by cold, brought
with them a need of warmth. I drew out my lens and touchwood, but alas!
there was no sun. I sat down on a log to await his friendly appearance.
Hours passed; he did not come. Night, cold freezing night, set in, and
found me exposed to all its terrors. A bleak hill-side sparsely covered
with pines afforded poor accommodations for a half-clad, famishing man.
I could only keep from freezing by the most active exertion in walking,
rubbing, and striking my benumbed feet and hands against the logs. It
seemed the longest, most terrible night of my life, and glad was I
when the approaching dawn enabled me to commence retracing my steps to
Bessie Lake. I arrived there at noon, built my first fire on the beach,
and remained by it, recuperating for the succeeding two days.
The faint hope that my friends might be delayed by their search for
me until I could rejoin them now forsook me altogether. I made my
arrangements independent of it. Either of three directions I might take
would effect my escape, if life and strength held out. I drew upon the
sand of the beach a map of these several courses with reference to my
starting-point from the lake, and considered well the difficulties each
would present. All were sufficiently defined to avoid mistake. One was
to follow Snake River a distance of one hundred miles or more to Eagle
Rock bridge; another, to cross the country between the southern shore
of Yellowstone Lake and the Madison Mountains, by scaling which I could
easily reach the settlements in the Madison Valley; and the other,
to retrace my journey over the long and discouraging route by which
I had entered the country. Of these routes the last mentioned seemed
the least inviting, probably because I had so recently traversed it,
and was familiar with its difficulties. I had heard and read so much
concerning the desolation and elemental upheavals and violent waters
of the upper valley of the Snake, that I dared not attempt to return
in that direction. The route by the Madison Range, encumbered by the
single obstruction of the mountain barrier, was much the shortest, and
so most unwisely, as will hereafter appear, I adopted it.
Filling my pouches with thistle-roots, I took a parting survey of the
little solitude that had afforded me food and fire the preceding ten
days, and with something of that melancholy feeling experienced by
one who leaves his home to grapple with untried adventures, started
for the nearest point on Yellowstone Lake. All that day I travelled
over timber-heaps, amid tree tops, and through thickets. At noon I
took the precaution to obtain fire. With a brand which I kept alive by
frequent blowing, and constant waving to and fro, at a late hour in the
afternoon, faint and exhausted, I kindled a fire for the night on the
only vacant spot I could find amid a dense wilderness of pines. The
deep gloom of the forest, in the spectral light which revealed on all
sides of me a compact and unending growth of trunks and an impervious
canopy of sombre foliage; the shrieking of night-birds; the super
naturally human scream of the mountain lion, the prolonged howl of the
wolf, made me insensible to all other forms of suffering.
The burn on my hip was so inflamed that I could only sleep in a sitting
posture. Seated with my back against a tree, the smoke from the fire
almost enveloping me in its suffocating folds, I vainly tried, amid the
din and uproar of this horrible serenade, to woo the drowsy god. My
imagination was instinct with terror. At one moment it seemed as if, in
the density of a thicket, I could see the blazing eyes of a formidable
forest monster fixed upon me, preparatory to a deadly leap; at another
I fancied that I heard the swift approach of a pack of yelping wolves
through the distant brushwood, which in a few moments would tear me
limb from limb. Whenever, by fatigue and weakness, my terrors yielded
to drowsiness, the least noise roused me to a sense of the hideousness
of my condition. Once, in a fitful slumber, I fell forward into the
fire, and inflicted a wretched burn on my hand. Oh! with what agony I
longed for day!
A bright and glorious morning succeeded the dismal night, and brought
with it the conviction that I had been the victim of uncontrollable
nervous excitement. I resolved henceforth to banish it altogether,
and, in much better spirits than I anticipated, resumed my journey
towards the lake. Another day of unceasing toil among the tree-tops
and thickets overtook me, near sunset, standing upon a lofty headland
jutting into the lake, and commanding a magnificent prospect of the
mountains and valley over an immense area. In front of me, at a
distance of fifty miles away, in the clear blue of the horizon, rose
the arrowy peaks of the Three Tetons. On the right, and apparently in
close proximity to the eminence I occupied, rolled the picturesque
range of the Madison, scarred with clefts, ravines, gorges, and cañons,
each of which glittered in the sunlight or deepened in shadow as the
fitful rays of the descending luminary glanced along their varied rocky
irregularities. Above where I stood were the lofty domes of Mounts
Langford and Doane, marking the limits of that wonderful barrier which
had so long defied human power in its efforts to subdue it. Rising
seemingly from the promontory which favored my vision was the familiar
summit of Mount Everts, at the base of which I had dwelt so long, and
which still seemed to hold me within its friendly shadow. All the vast
country within this grand enclosure of mountains and lake, scarred
and seamed with the grotesque ridges, rocky escarpments, undulating
hillocks, and miniature lakes, and steaming with hot springs, produced
by the volcanic forces of a former era, lay spread out before me like a
vast panorama.
I doubt if distress and suffering can ever entirely obliterate all
sense of natural grandeur and magnificence. Lost in the wonder and
admiration inspired by this vast world of beauties, I nearly forgot
to improve the few moments of remaining sunshine to obtain fire. With
a lighted brand in my hand, I effected a most difficult and arduous
descent of the abrupt and stony headland to the beach of the lake.
The sand was soft and yielding. I kindled a fire, and removing the
stiffened slippers from my feet, attached them to my belt, and wandered
barefoot along the sandy shore to gather wood for the night. The dry,
warm sand was most grateful to my lacerated and festering feet, and for
a long time after my wood-pile was supplied, I sat with them uncovered.
At length, conscious of the need of every possible protection from the
freezing night atmosphere, I sought my belt for the slippers, and one
was missing. In gathering the wood it had become detached and was lost.
Darkness was closing over the landscape, when, sorely disheartened with
the thought of passing the night with one foot exposed to a freezing
temperature, I commenced a search for the missing slipper. I knew I
could not travel a day without it. Fearful that it had dropped into
the lake, and been carried by some recurrent wave beyond recovery, my
search for an hour among fallen trees and bushes, up the hill-side and
along the beach, in darkness and with flaming brands, at one moment
crawling on hands and feet into a brush-heap, another peering among
logs and bushes and stones, was filled with anxiety and dismay. Success
at length rewarded my perseverance, and no language can describe the
joy with which I drew the cause of so much distress from beneath the
limb that, as I passed, had torn it from my belt. With a feeling of
great relief I now sat down in the sand, my back to a log, and listened
to the dash and roar of the waves. It was a wild lullaby, but had no
terrors for a worn-out man. I never passed a night of more refreshing
sleep. When I awoke my fire was extinguished save a few embers, which
I soon fanned into a cheerful flame. I ate breakfast with some relish,
and started along the beach in pursuit of a camp, believing that if
successful I should find directions what to do, and food to sustain me.
The search which I was making lay in the direction of my pre-arranged
route to the Madison Mountains, which I intended to approach at their
lowest point of altitude.
Buoyed by the hope of finding food and counsel, and another night of
undisturbed repose in the sand, I resumed my journey along the shore,
and at noon found the camp last occupied by my friends on the lake.
I struck their trail in the sand some time before I came to it. A
thorough search for food in the ground and trees revealed nothing,
and no notice to apprise me of their movements could be seen. A
dinner-fork, which afterwards proved to be of infinite service in
digging roots, and a yeast-powder can, which would hold half a pint,
and which I converted into a drinking-cup and dinner-pot, were the only
evidences that the spot had ever been visited by civilized man. "Oh!"
thought I, "why did they forget to leave me food!" It never occurred to
me that they might have cached it, as I have since learned they did,
in several spots nearer the place of my separation from them. I left
the camp in deep dejection, with the purpose of following the trail of
the party to the Madison. Carefully inspecting the faint traces left of
their course of travel, I became satisfied that from some cause they
had made a retrograde movement from this camp, and departed from the
lake at a point farther down stream. Taking this as an indication that
there were obstructions above, I commenced retracing my steps along
the beach. An hour of sunshine in the afternoon enabled me to procure
fire, which, in the usual manner, I carried to my camping-place. There
I built a fire, and to protect myself from the wind, which was blowing
violently, lashing the lake into foam, I made a bower of pine boughs,
crept under it, and very soon fell asleep. How long I slept I know
not, but I was aroused by the snapping and cracking of the burning
foliage, to find my shelter and the adjacent forest in a broad sheet
of flame. My left hand was badly burned, and my hair singed closer
than a barber would have trimmed it, while making my escape from the
semicircle of burning trees. Among the disasters of this fire, there
was none I felt more seriously than the loss of my buckle-tongue knife,
my pin fish-hook, and tape fish-line.
The grandeur of the burning forest surpasses description. An immense
sheet of flame, following to their tops the lofty trees of an
almost impenetrable pine forest, leaping madly from top to top, and
sending thousands of forked tongues a hundred feet or more athwart
the midnight darkness, lighting up with lurid gloom and glare the
surrounding scenery of lake and mountains, fills the beholder with
mingled feelings of awe and astonishment. I never before saw anything
so terribly beautiful. It was marvellous to witness the flash-like
rapidity with which the flames would mount the loftiest trees. The
roaring, cracking, crashing, and snapping of falling limbs and burning
foliage was deafening. On, on, on travelled the destructive element,
until it seemed as if the whole forest was enveloped in flame. Afar
up the wood-crowned hill, the overtopping trees shot forth pinnacles
and walls and streamers of arrowy fire. The entire hill-side was an
ocean of glowing and surging fiery billows. Favored by the gale, the
conflagration spread with lightning swiftness over an illimitable
extent of country, filling the atmosphere with driving clouds of
suffocating fume, and leaving a broad and blackened trail of spectral
trunks shorn of limbs and foliage, smoking and burning, to mark the
immense sweep of its devastation.
Resolved to search for a trail no longer, when daylight came I selected
for a landmark the lowest notch in the Madison Range. Carefully
surveying the jagged and broken surface over which I must travel to
reach it, I left the lake and pushed into the midst of its intricacies.
All the day, until nearly sunset, I struggled over rugged hills,
through windfalls, thickets, and matted forests, with the rock-ribbed
beacon constantly in view. As I advanced it receded, as if in mockery
of my toil. Night overtook me with my journey half accomplished. The
precaution of obtaining fire gave me warmth and sleep, and long before
daylight I was on my way. The hope of finding an easy pass into the
valley of the Madison inspired me with fresh courage and determination;
but long before I arrived at the base of the range, I scanned
hopelessly its insurmountable difficulties. It presented to my eager
vision an endless succession of inaccessible peaks and precipices,
rising thousands of feet sheer and bare above the plain. No friendly
gorge or gully or cañon invited such an effort as I could make to scale
this rocky barrier. Oh for the faith that could remove mountains! How
soon should this colossal fabric open at my approach! What a feeling
of helpless despair came over me with the conviction that the journey
of the last two days had been in vain! I seated myself on a rock upon
the summit of a commanding hill, and cast my eyes along the only route
which now seemed tenable--down the Yellowstone. How many dreary miles
of forest and mountain filled the terrible panorama! I thought that
before accepting this discouraging alternative I would spend a day in
search for a pass. Twenty miles at most would take me into the Madison
Valley, and thirty more restore me to friends who had abundance.
Supposing that I should find plenty of thistles, I had left the lake
with a small supply, and that was entirely spent. I looked in vain for
them where I then was.
While I was thus considering whether to remain and search for a passage
or return to the Yellowstone, I experienced one of those strange
hallucinations which many of my friends have misnamed insanity,
but which to me was Providence. An old clerical friend, for whose
character and counsel I had always cherished peculiar regard, in some
unaccountable manner seemed to be standing before me, charged with
advice which would relieve my perplexity. I seemed to hear him say, as
if in a voice and with the manner of authority:
"Go back immediately, as rapidly as your strength will permit. There is
no food here, and the idea of scaling these rocks is madness."
"Doctor," I rejoined, "the distance is too great. I cannot live to
travel it."
"Say not so. Your life depends upon the effort. Return at once.
Start now, lest your resolution falter. Travel as fast and as far as
possible--it is your only chance."
"Doctor, I am rejoiced to meet you in this hour of distress, but doubt
the wisdom of your counsel. I am within seventy miles of Virginia. Just
over these rocks, a few miles away, I shall find friends. My shoes are
nearly worn out, my clothes are in tatters, and my strength is almost
overcome. As a last trial, it seems to me I can but attempt to scale
this mountain or perish in the effort, if God so wills."
"Don't think of it. Your power of endurance will carry you through. I
will accompany you. Put your trust in Heaven. Help yourself and God
will help you."
Overcome by these and other persuasions, and delighted with the idea
of having a travelling companion, I plodded my way over the route I
had come, intending at a certain point to change it so as to strike
the river at the foot of the lake. Stopping after a few miles of
travel, I had no difficulty in procuring fire, and passed a comfortable
night. When I resumed my journey the next day the sun was just rising.
Whenever I was disposed, as was often the case, to question the wisdom
of the change of routes, my old friend appeared to be near with words
of encouragement, but his reticence on other subjects both surprised
and annoyed me. I was impressed at times, during the entire journey,
with the belief that my return was a fatal error, and if my deliverance
had failed should have perished with that conviction. Early this day
I deflected from my old route and took my course for the foot of the
lake, with the hope, by constant travel, to reach it the next day. The
distance was greater than I anticipated. Nothing is more deceptive
than distance in these high latitudes. At the close of each of the two
succeeding days, my point of destination was seemingly as far from me
as at the moment I took leave of the Madison Range, and when, cold
and hungry, on the afternoon of the fourth day, I gathered the first
food I had eaten in nearly five days, and lay down by my fire near the
debouchure of the river, I had nearly abandoned all hope of escape.
At daybreak I was on the trail down the river. The thought I had
adopted from the first, "I will cot perish in this wilderness," often
revived my sinking spirits, when, from faintness and exhaustion, I felt
but little desire for life. Once, while struggling through a field of
tangled trunks which seemed interminable, at one of the pauses I found
myself seriously considering whether it was not preferable to die there
than renew the effort to proceed. I felt that all attempt to escape
was but a bitter prolongation of the agony of dissolution. A seeming
whisper in the air, "While there is life there is hope; take courage,"
broke the delusion, and I clambered on. I did not forget to improve
the mid-day sun to procure fire. Sparks from the lighted brands had
burned my hands and crisped the nails of my fingers, and the smoke from
them had tanned my face to the complexion of an Indian. While passing
through an opening in the forest I found the tip of a gull's wing; it
was fresh. I made a fire upon the spot, mashed the bones with a stone,
and consigning them to my camp kettle, the yeast-powder box, made half
a pint of delicious broth. The remainder of that day and the night
ensuing were given to sleep.
I lost all sense of time. Days and nights came and went, and were
numbered only by the growing consciousness that I was gradually
starving. I felt no hunger, did not eat to appease appetite, but to
renew strength. I experienced but little pain. The gaping sores on my
feet, the severe burn on my hip, the festering crevices at the joints
of my fingers, all terrible in appearance, had ceased to give me the
least concern. The roots which supplied my food had suspended the
digestive power of the stomach, and their fibres were packed in it in a
matted, compact mass.
Not so with my hours of slumber. They were visited by the most
luxurious dreams. I would apparently visit the most gorgeously
decorated restaurants of New York and Washington; sit down to immense
tables spread with the most appetizing viands; partake of the richest
oyster stews and plumpest pies; engage myself in the labor and
preparation of curious dishes, and with them fill range upon range
of elegantly furnished tables until they fairly groaned beneath
the accumulated dainties prepared by my own hands. Frequently the
entire night would seem to have been spent in getting up a sumptuous
dinner. I would realize the fatigue of roasting, boiling, baking, and
fabricating the choicest dishes known to the modern _cuisine_, and in
my disturbed slumbers would enjoy with epicurean relish the food thus
furnished even to repletion. Alas! there was more luxury than life in
these somnolent vagaries.
It was a cold, gloomy day when I arrived in the vicinity of the falls.
The sky was overcast and the snow-capped peaks rose chilly and bleak
through the biting atmosphere. The moaning of the wind through the
pines, mingling with the sullen roar of the falls, was strangely in
unison with my own saddened feelings. I had no heart to gaze upon a
scene which a few weeks before had inspired me with rapture and awe.
One moment of sunshine was of more value to me than all the marvels
amid which I was famishing. But the sun had hid his face and denied me
all hope of obtaining fire. The only alternative was to seek shelter
in a thicket. I penetrated the forest a long distance before finding
one that suited me. Breaking and crowding my way into its very midst, I
cleared a spot large enough to recline upon, interlaced the surrounding
brushwood, gathered the fallen foliage into a bed, and lay down with a
prayer for sleep and forgetfulness. Alas! neither came. The coldness
increased through the night. Constant friction with my hands and
unceasing beating with my legs and feet saved me from freezing. It was
the most terrible night of my journey, and when, with the early dawn, I
pulled myself into a standing posture, it was to realize that my right
arm was partially paralyzed, and my limbs so stiffened with cold as to
be almost immovable. Fearing lest paralysis should suddenly seize upon
the entire system, I literally dragged myself through the forest to
the river. Seated near the verge of the great cañon below the falls,
I anxiously awaited the appearance of the sun. That great luminary
never looked so beautiful as when, a few moments afterwards, he emerged
from the clouds and exposed his glowing beams to the concentrating
powers of my lens. I kindled a mighty flame, fed it with every dry
stick and broken tree-top I could find, and without motion, and almost
without sense, remained beside it several hours. The great falls of
the Yellowstone were roaring within three hundred yards, and the awful
cañon yawned almost at my feet; but they had lost all charm for me. In
fact, I regarded them as enemies which had lured me to destruction, and
felt a sullen satisfaction in morbid indifference.
My old friend and adviser, whose presence I had felt more than seen
the last few days, now forsook me altogether. But I was not alone.
By some process which I was too weak to solve, my arms, legs, and
stomach were transformed into so many travelling companions. Often
for hours I would plod along conversing with these imaginary friends.
Each had his peculiar wants which he expected me to supply. The
stomach was importunate in his demand for a change of diet--complained
incessantly of the roots I fed him, their present effect and more
remote consequences. I would try to silence him with promises, beg of
him to wait a few days, and when this failed of the quiet I desired,
I would seek to intimidate him by declaring, as a sure result of
negligence, our inability to reach home alive. All to no purpose--he
tormented me with his fretful humors through the entire journey. The
others would generally concur with him in these fancied altercations.
The legs implored me for rest, and the arms complained that I gave them
too much to do. Troublesome as they were, it was a pleasure to realize
their presence. I worked for them, too, with right good will, doing
many things for their seeming comfort which, had I felt myself alone,
would have remained undone. They appeared to be perfectly helpless
of themselves; would do nothing for me or for each other. I often
wondered, while they ate and slept so much, that they did not aid
in gathering wood and kindling fires. As a counterpoise to their own
inertia, whenever they discovered languor in me on necessary occasions,
they were not wanting in words of encouragement and cheer. I recall
as I write, an instance where, by prompt and timely interposition,
the representative of the stomach saved me from a death of dreadful
agony. One day I came to a small stream issuing from a spring of mild
temperature on the hill-side, swarming with minnows. I caught some
with my hands, and ate them raw. To my taste they were delicious. But
the stomach refused them, accused me of attempting to poison him, and
would not be reconciled until I had emptied my pouch of the few fish
I had put there for future use. Those that I ate made me very sick.
Poisoned by the mineral in the water, had I glutted my appetite with
them as I intended, I should doubtless have died in the wilderness, in
excruciating torment.
[Illustration: IMAGINARY COMPANIONS.]
A gradual mental introversion grew upon me as physical weakness
increased. The grand and massive scenery which, on the upward journey,
had aroused every enthusiastic impulse of my nature, was now tame and
spiritless. My thoughts were turned in upon myself--upon the dreadful
fate which apparently lay just before me--and the possible happiness
of the existence beyond. All doubt of immortality fled in the light of
present realities. So vivid were my conceptions of the future that at
times I longed for death, not less as the beginning of happiness than
as a release from misery. Led on by these reflections, I would recall
the varied incidents of my journey--my escape from the lion, from fire,
my return from the Madison Range--and in all of them I saw how much I
had been indebted to that mysterious protection which comes only from
the throne of the Eternal. And yet, starving, foot-sore, half blind,
worn to a skeleton, was it surprising that I lacked the faith needful
to buoy me above the dark waters of despair, which I now felt were
closing around me?
In less serious moods, as I struggled along, my thoughts would revert
to the single being on whom my holiest affections centred--my daughter.
What a tie was that to bind me to life! Oh! could I be restored to her
for a single hour, long enough for parting counsel and blessing, it
would be joy unspeakable! Long hours of painful travel were relieved
of physical suffering by this absorbing agony of the mind, which, when
from my present standpoint I contrast it with the personal calamities
of my exile, swells into mountains.
To return from this digression. At many of the streams on my route I
spent hours in endeavoring to catch trout, with a hook fashioned from
the rim of my broken spectacles, but in no instance with success. The
tackle was defective. The country was full of game in great variety. I
saw large herds of deer, elk, antelope, occasionally a bear, and many
smaller animals. Numerous flocks of ducks, geese, swans, and pelicans
inhabited the lakes and rivers. But with no means of killing them,
their presence was a perpetual aggravation. At all the camps of our
company I stopped and recalled many pleasant incidents associated with
them.
One afternoon, when approaching "Tower Falls," I came upon a large
hollow tree, which, from the numerous tracks surrounding it, and the
matted foliage in the cavity, I recognized as the den of a bear. It
was a most inviting couch. Gathering a needful supply of wood and
brush, I lighted a circle of piles around the tree, crawled into the
nest, and passed a night of unbroken slumber. I rose the next morning
to find that during the night the fires had communicated with the
adjacent forest, and burned a large space in all directions, doubtless
intimidating the rightful proprietor of the nest, and saving me from
another midnight adventure.
At "Tower Falls" I spent the first half of a day in capturing a
grasshopper, and the remainder in a fruitless effort to catch a mess
of trout. In the agony of disappointment, I resolved to fish no more.
A spirit of rebellion seized me. I determined that thistles should
thenceforth be my only sustenance. "Why is it," I asked of myself,
"that in the midst of abundance, every hour meeting with objects which
would restore strength and vigor and energy, every moment contriving
some device to procure the nourishment my wasting frame required, I
should meet with these repeated and discouraging failures?" Thoughts
of the early teaching of a pious mother suppressed these feelings.
Oh! how often have the recollections of a loved New England home, and
the memories of a happy childhood, cheered my sinking spirits, and
dissipated the gathering gloom of despair! There were thoughts and
feelings and mental anguishes without number, that visited me during my
period of trial, that never can be known to any but my God and myself.
Bitter as was my experience, it was not unrelieved by some of the most
precious moments I have ever known.
Soon after leaving "Tower Falls," I entered the open country. Pine
forests and windfalls were changed for sage brush and desolation, with
occasional tracts of stunted verdure, barren hillsides, exhibiting
here and there an isolated clamp of dwarf trees, and ravines filled
with the rocky _debris_ of adjacent mountains. My first camp on this
part of the route, for the convenience of getting wood, was made near
the summit of a range of towering foot-hills. Towards morning a storm
of wind and snow nearly extinguished my fire. I became very cold; the
storm was still raging when I arose, and the ground white with snow. I
was perfectly bewildered, and had lost my course of travel. No visible
object, seen through the almost blinding storm, reassured me, and there
was no alternative but to find the river and take my direction from its
current. Fortunately, after a few hours of stumbling and scrambling
among rocks and over crests, I came to the precipitous side of the
cañon through which it ran, and with much labor, both of hands and
feet, descended it to the margin. I drank copiously of its pure waters,
and sat beside it for a long time, waiting for the storm to abate,
so that I could procure fire. The day wore on, without any prospect
of a termination to the storm. Chilled through, my tattered clothing
saturated, I saw before me a night of horrors unless I returned to
my fire. The scramble up the side of the rocky cañon, in many places
nearly perpendicular, was the hardest work of my journey. Often,
while clinging to the jutting rocks with hands and feet, to reach a
shelving projection, my grasp would unclose and I would slide many feet
down the sharp declivity. It was night when, sore from the bruises I
had received, I reached my fire; the storm, still raging, had nearly
extinguished it. I found a few embers in the ashes, and with much
difficulty kindled a flame. Here, on this bleak mountain side, as well
as I now remember, I must have passed two nights beside the fire, in
the storm. Many times during each night I crawled to the little clump
of trees to gather wood, and brush, and the broken limbs of fallen
tree-tops. All the sleep I obtained was snatched from the intervals
which divided these labors. It was so harassed with frightful dreams as
to afford little rest. I remember, before I left this camp, stripping
up my sleeves to look at my shrunken arms. Flesh and blood had
apparently left them. The skin clung to the bones like wet parchment.
A child's hand could have clasped them from wrist to shoulder. "Yet,"
thought I, "it is death to remain; I cannot perish in this wilderness."
Taking counsel of this early formed resolution, I hobbled on my course
through the snow, which was rapidly disappearing before the rays of
the warm sun. Well knowing that I should find no thistles in the
open country, I had filled my pouches with them before leaving the
forest. My supply was running low, and there were yet several days
of heavy mountain travel between me and Botelers' Ranch. With the
most careful economy, it could last but two or three days longer. I
saw the necessity of placing myself and imaginary companions upon
allowance. The conflict which ensued with the stomach, when I announced
this resolution, required great firmness to carry through. I tried
wheedling and coaxing and promising; failing in these, I threatened to
part company with a comrade so unreasonable, and he made no further
complaint.
Two or three days before I was found, while ascending a steep hill, I
fell from exhaustion into the sage brush, without the power to rise.
Unbuckling my belt, as was my custom, I soon fell asleep. I have
no idea of the time I slept, but upon awaking I fastened my belt,
scrambled to my feet, and pursued my journey. As night drew on I
selected a camping-place, gathered wood into a heap, and felt for my
lens to procure fire. It was gone. If the earth had yawned to swallow
me I would not have been more terrified. The only chance for life was
lost. The last hope had fled. I seemed to feel the grim messenger who
had been so long pursuing me knocking at the portals of my heart as I
lay down by the side of the wood-pile, and covered myself with limbs
and sage brush, with the dreadful conviction that my struggle for life
was over, and that I should rise no more. The floodgates of misery
seemed now to be opened, and it rushed in a living tide upon my soul.
With the rapidity of lightning, I ran over every event of my life.
Thoughts doubled and trebled upon me, until I saw, as if in vision, the
entire past of my existence. It was all before me, as if painted with a
sunbeam, and all seemingly faded like the phantoms of a vivid dream.
As calmness returned, reason resumed her empire. Fortunately, the
weather was comfortable. I summoned all the powers of my memory,
thought over every foot of the day's travel, and concluded that the
glass must have become detached from my belt while sleeping. Five
long miles over the hills must be retraced to regain it. There was
no alternative, and before daylight I had staggered over half the
distance. I found the lens on the spot where I had slept. No incident
of my journey brought with it more of joy and relief.
Returning to the camp of the previous night, I lighted the pile I had
prepared, and lay down for a night to rest. It was very cold, and
towards morning commenced snowing. With difficulty I kept the fire
alive. Sleep was impossible. When daylight came, I was impressed with
the idea that I must go on despite the storm. A flash--momentary but
vivid--came over me, that I should be saved. Snatching a lighted brand,
I started through the storm. In the afternoon the storm abated and the
sun shone at intervals. Coming to a small clump of trees, I set to
work to prepare a camp. I laid the brand down which I had preserved
with so much care, to pick up a few dry sticks with which to feed it,
until I could collect wood for a camp-fire, and in the few minutes thus
employed it expired. I sought to revive it, but every spark was gone.
Clouds obscured the sun, now near the horizon, and the prospect of
another night of exposure without fire became fearfully imminent. I sat
down with my lens and the last remaining piece of touchwood I possessed
to catch a gleam of sunshine, feeling that my life depended on it. In
a few moments the cloud passed, and with trembling hands I presented
the little disk to the face of the glowing luminary. Quivering with
excitement lest a sudden cloud should interpose, a moment passed before
I could hold the lens steadily enough to concentrate a burning focus.
At length it came. The little thread of smoke curled gracefully up
wards from the Heaven-lighted spark, which, a few moments afterwards,
diffused with warmth and comfort my desolate lodgings.
I resumed my journey the next morning, with the belief that I should
make no more fires with my lens. I must save a brand, or perish. The
day was raw and gusty; an east wind, charged with storm, penetrated my
nerves with irritating keenness. After walking a few miles the storm
came on, and a coldness unlike any other I had ever felt seized me. It
entered all my bones. I attempted to build a fire, but could not make
it burn. Seizing a brand, I stumbled blindly on, stopping within the
shadow of every rock and clump to renew energy for a final conflict
for life. A solemn conviction that death was near, that at each pause
I made my limbs would refuse further service, and that I should sink
helpless and dying in my path, overwhelmed me with terror. Amid all
this tumult of the mind, I felt that I had done all that man could do.
I knew that in two or three days more I could effect my deliverance,
and I derived no little satisfaction from the thought that, as I was
now in the broad trail, my remains would be found, and my friends
relieved of doubt as to my fate. Once only the thought flashed across
my mind that I should be saved, and I seemed to hear a whispered
command to "struggle on." Groping along the side of a hill, I became
suddenly sensible of a sharp reflection, as of burnished steel. Looking
up, through half-closed eyes, two rough but kindly faces met my gaze.
"Are you Mr. Everts?"
"Yes. All that is left of him."
"We have come for you."
"Who sent you?"
"Judge Lawrence and other friends."
"God bless him, and them, and you! I am saved!" and with these words,
powerless of further effort, I fell forward into the arms of my
preservers, in a state of unconsciousness. I was saved. On the very
brink of the river which divides the known from the unknown, strong
arms snatched me from the final plunge, and kind ministrations wooed me
back to life.
Baronet and Prichette, my two preservers, by the usual appliances, soon
restored me to consciousness, made a camp upon the spot, and while
one went to Fort Ellis, a distance of seventy miles, to return with
remedies to restore digestion and an ambulance to convey me to that
post, the other sat by my side, and with all the care, sympathy, and
solicitude of a brother, ministered to my frequent necessities. In
two days I was sufficiently recovered in strength to be moved twenty
miles down the trail to the cabin of some miners who were prospecting
in that vicinity. From these men I received every possible attention
which their humane and generous natures could devise. A good bed was
provided, game was killed to make broth, and the best stores of their
larder placed at my command. For four days, at a time when every day's
labor was invaluable in their pursuit, they abandoned their work to aid
in my restoration. Owing to the protracted inaction of the system, and
the long period which must transpire before Prichette's return with
remedies, my friends had serious doubts of my recovery.
The night after my arrival at the cabin, while suffering the most
excruciating agony, and thinking that I had only been saved to die
among friends, a loud knock was heard at the cabin door. An old man
in mountain costume entered--a hunter, whose life was spent among the
mountains. He was on his way to find a brother. He listened to the
story of my sufferings, and tears rapidly coursed each other down
his rough, weather-beaten face. But when he was told of my present
necessity, brightening in a moment, he exclaimed:
"Why, Lord bless you, if that is all, I have the very remedy you need.
In two hours' time all shall be well with you."
He left the cabin, returning in a moment with a sack filled with the
fat of a bear which he had killed a few hours before. From this he
rendered out a pint measure of oil. I drank the whole of it. It proved
to be the needed remedy, and the next day, freed from pain, with
appetite and digestion reestablished, I felt that good food and plenty
of it were only necessary for an early recovery.
In a day or two I took leave of my kind friends, with a feeling of
regret at parting, and of gratitude for their kindness as enduring as
life.
Meeting the carriage on my way, I preceded to Boseman, where I remained
among old friends, who gave me every attention until my health was
sufficiently restored to allow me to return to my home at Helena.
My heartfelt thanks are due to the members of the expedition, all of
whom devoted seven, and some of them twelve days to the search for me
before they left Yellowstone Lake; and to Judge Lawrence, of Helena,
and the friends who co-operated with him in the offer of reward which
sent Baronet and Prichette to my rescue.
My narrative is finished. In the course of events the time is not far
distant when the wonders of the Yellowstone will be made accessible to
all lovers of sublimity, grandeur, and novelty in natural scenery, and
its majestic waters become the abode of civilization and refinement;
and when that arrives, I hope, in happier mood and under more
auspicious circumstances, to revisit scenes fraught for me with such
thrilling interest; to ramble along the glowing beach of Bessie Lake;
to sit down amid the hot springs under the shadow of Mount Everts; to
thread unscared the mazy forests, retrace the dreary journey to the
Madison Range, and with enraptured fancy gaze upon the mingled glories
and terrors of the great falls and marvellous cañon, and to enjoy, in
happy contrast with the trials they recall, their power to delight,
elevate, and overwhelm the mind with wondrous and majestic beauty.