IN THE COLD GREEN MOUNTAINS
The Nasse River, like the Skeena and the Stikeen, rises in the
interior mountains, and flows in a south-westerly direction, breaking
through the coast range into the Pacific Ocean, not far from the
mouth of the Stikeen.
It is a much smaller stream than the Skeena, which is, moreover,
immensely larger than the maps show. We believed we were about to
pass from the watershed of the Nasse to the east fork of the Iskoot,
on which those far-shining prairies were said to lie, with their
flowery meadows rippling under the west wind. If we could only reach
that mystical plateau, our horses would be safe from all disease.
We crossed the Cheweax, a branch of the Nasse, and after climbing
briskly to the northeast along the main branch we swung around over a
high wooded hog-back, and made off up the valley along the north and
lesser fork. We climbed all day, both of us walking, leading our
horses, with all our goods distributed with great care over the six
horses. It was a beautiful day overhead--that was the only
compensation. We were sweaty, eaten by flies and mosquitoes, and
covered with mud. All day we sprawled over roots, rocks, and logs,
plunging into bogholes and slopping along in the running water, which
in places had turned the trail into an aqueduct. The men from Duluth
had told no lie.
After crawling upward for nearly eight hours we came upon a little
patch of bluejoint, on the high side of the hill, and there camped in
the gloom of the mossy and poisonous forest. By hard and persistent
work we ticked off nearly fifteen miles, and judging from the stream,
which grew ever swifter, we should come to a divide in the course of
fifteen or twenty miles.
The horses being packed light went along fairly well, although it was
a constant struggle to get them to go through the mud. Old Ladrone
walking behind me groaned with dismay every time we came to one of
those terrible sloughs. He seemed to plead with me, "Oh, my master,
don't send me into that dreadful hole!"
But there was no other way. It must be done, and so Burton's sharp
cry would ring out behind and our little train would go in one after
the other, plunging, splashing, groaning, struggling through.
Ladrone, seeing me walk a log by the side of the trail, would
sometimes follow me as deftly as a cat. He seemed to think his right
to avoid the mud as good as mine. But as there was always danger of
his slipping off and injuring himself, I forced him to wallow in the
mud, which was as distressing to me as to him.
The next day we started with the determination to reach the divide.
"There is no hope of grass so long as we remain in this forest," said
Burton. "We must get above timber where the sun shines to get any
feed for our horses. It is cruel, but we must push them to-day just
as long as they can stand up, or until we reach the grass."
Nothing seemed to appall or disturb my partner; he was always ready
to proceed, his voice ringing out with inflexible resolution.
It was one of the most laborious days of all our hard journey. Hour
after hour we climbed steadily up beside the roaring gray-white
little stream, up toward the far-shining snowfields, which blazed
back the sun like mirrors. The trees grew smaller, the river bed
seemed to approach us until we slumped along in the running water. At
last we burst out into the light above timber line. Around us
porcupines galloped, and whistling marmots signalled with shrill
vehemence. We were weak with fatigue and wet with icy water to the
knees, but we pushed on doggedly until we came to a little mound of
short, delicious green grass from which the snow had melted. On this
we stopped to let the horses graze. The view was magnificent, and
something wild and splendid came on the wind over the snowy peaks and
smooth grassy mounds.
We were now in the region of great snowfields, under which roared
swift streams from still higher altitudes. There were thousands of
marmots, which seemed to utter the most intense astonishment at the
inexplicable coming of these strange creatures. The snow in the
gullies had a curious bloody line which I could not account for. A
little bird high up here uttered a sweet little whistle, so sad, so
full of pleading, it almost brought tears to my eyes. In form it
resembled a horned lark, but was smaller and kept very close to the
ground.
We reached the summit at sunset, there to find only other mountains
and other enormous gulches leading downward into far blue canyons. It
was the wildest land I have ever seen. A country unmapped,
unsurveyed, and unprospected. A region which had known only an
occasional Indian hunter or trapper with his load of furs on his way
down to the river and his canoe. Desolate, without life, green and
white and flashing illimitably, the gray old peaks aligned themselves
rank on rank until lost in the mists of still wilder regions.
From this high point we could see our friends, the Manchester boys,
on the north slope two or three miles below us at timber line. Weak
in the knees, cold and wet and hungry as we were, we determined to
push down the trail over the snowfields, down to grass and water. Not
much more than forty minutes later we came out upon a comparatively
level spot of earth where grass was fairly good, and where the
wind-twisted stunted pines grew in clumps large enough to furnish
wood for our fires and a pole for our tent. The land was meshed with
roaring rills of melting snow, and all around went on the incessant
signalling of the marmots--the only cheerful sound in all the wide
green land.
We had made about twenty-three miles that day, notwithstanding
tremendous steeps and endless mudholes mid-leg deep. It was the
greatest test of endurance of our trip.
We had the good luck to scare up a ptarmigan (a sort of piebald
mountain grouse), and though nearly fainting with hunger, we held
ourselves in check until we had that bird roasted to a turn. I shall
never experience greater relief or sweeter relaxation of rest than
that I felt as I stretched out in my down sleeping bag for twelve
hours' slumber.
I considered that we were about one hundred and ninety miles from
Hazleton, and that this must certainly be the divide between the
Skeena and the Stikeen. The Manchester boys reported finding some
very good pieces of quartz on the hills, and they were all out with
spade and pick prospecting, though it seemed to me they showed but
very little enthusiasm in the search.
"I b'lieve there's gold here," said "Chihuahua," "but who's goin' to
stay here and look fer it? In the first place, you couldn't work fer
mor'n 'bout three months in the year, and it 'ud take ye the other
nine months fer to git yer grub in. Them hills look to me to be
mineralized, but I ain't honin' to camp here."
This seemed to be the general feeling of all the other prospectors,
and I did not hear that any one else went so far even as to dig a
hole.
As near as I could judge there seemed to be three varieties of
"varmints" galloping around over the grassy slopes of this high
country. The largest of these, a gray and brown creature with a
tawny, bristling mane, I took to be a porcupine. Next in size were
the giant whistlers, who sat up like old men and signalled, like one
boy to another. And last and least, and more numerous than all, were
the smaller "chucks" resembling prairie dogs. These animals together
with the ptarmigan made up the inhabitants of these lofty slopes.
I searched every green place on the mountains far and near with my
field-glasses, but saw no sheep, caribou, or moose, although one or
two were reported to have been killed by others on the trail. The
ptarmigan lived in the matted patches of willow. There were a great
many of them, and they helped out our monotonous diet very
opportunely. They moved about in pairs, the cock very loyal to the
hen in time of danger; but not even this loyalty could save him.
Hunger such as ours considered itself very humane in stopping short
of the slaughter of the mother bird. The cock was easily
distinguished by reason of his party-colored plumage and his pink
eyes.
We spent the next forenoon in camp to let our horses feed up, and
incidentally to rest our own weary bones. All the forenoon great,
gray clouds crushed against the divide behind us, flinging themselves
in rage against the rocks like hungry vultures baffled in their
chase. We exulted over their impotence. "We are done with you, you
storms of the Skeena--we're out of your reach at last!"
We were confirmed in this belief as we rode down the trail, which was
fairly pleasant except for short periods, when the clouds leaped the
snowy walls behind and scattered drizzles of rain over us. Later the
clouds thickened, the sky became completely overcast, and my
exultation changed to dismay, and we camped at night as desolate as
ever, in the rain, and by the side of a little marsh on which the
horses could feed only by wading fetlock deep in the water. We were
wet to the skin, and muddy and tired.
I could no longer deceive myself. Our journey had become a grim race
with the wolf. Our food grew each day scantier, and we were forced to
move each day and every day, no matter what the sky or trail might
be. Going over our food carefully that night, we calculated that we
had enough to last us ten days, and if we were within one hundred and
fifty miles of the Skeena, and if no accident befell us, we would be
able to pull in without great suffering.
But accidents on the trail are common. It is so easy to lose a couple
of horses, we were liable to delay and to accident, and the chances
were against us rather than in our favor. It seemed as though the
trail would never mend. We were dropping rapidly down through dwarf
pines, down into endless forests of gloom again. We had splashed,
slipped, and tumbled down the trail to this point with three horses
weak and sick. The rain had increased, and all the brightness of the
morning on the high mountain had passed away. For hours we had walked
without a word except to our horses, and now night was falling in
thick, cold rain. As I plodded along I saw in vision and with great
longing the plains, whose heat and light seemed paradise by contrast.
The next day was the Fourth of July, and such a day! It rained all
the forenoon, cold, persistent, drizzling rain. We hung around the
campfire waiting for some let-up to the incessant downpour. We
discussed the situation. I said: "Now, if the stream in the canyon
below us runs to the left, it will be the east fork of the Iskoot,
and we will then be within about one hundred miles of Glenora. If it
runs to the right, Heaven only knows where we are."
The horses, chilled with the rain, came off the sloppy marsh to stand
under the trees, and old Ladrone edged close to the big fire to share
its warmth. This caused us to bring in the other horses and put them
close to the fire under the big branches of the fir tree. It was
deeply pathetic to watch the poor worn animals, all life and spirit
gone out of them, standing about the fire with drooping heads and
half-closed eyes. Perhaps they dreamed, like us, of the beautiful,
warm, grassy hills of the south.
THE UTE LOVER
Beneath the burning brazen sky,
The yellowed tepes stand.
Not far away a singing river
Sets through the sand.
Within the shadow of a lonely elm tree
The tired ponies keep.
The wild land, throbbing with the sun's hot magic,
Is rapt as sleep.
From out a clump of scanty willows
A low wail floats.
The endless repetition of a lover's
Melancholy notes;
So sad, so sweet, so elemental,
All lover's pain
Seems borne upon its sobbing cadence--
The love-song of the plain.
From frenzied cry forever falling,
To the wind's wild moan,
It seems the voice of anguish calling
Alone! alone!
Caught from the winds forever moaning
On the plain,
Wrought from the agonies of woman
In maternal pain,
It holds within its simple measure
All death of joy,
Breathed though it be by smiling maiden
Or lithe brown boy.
It hath this magic, sad though its cadence
And short refrain;
It helps the exiled people of the mountain
Endure the plain;
For when at night the stars aglitter
Defy the moon,
The maiden listens, leans to seek her lover
Where waters croon.
Flute on, O lithe and tuneful Utah,
Reply brown jade;
There are no other joys secure to either
Man or maid.
Soon you are old and heavy hearted,
Lost to mirth;
While on you lies the white man's gory
Greed of earth.
Strange that to me that burning desert
Seems so dear.
The endless sky and lonely mesa,
Flat and drear,
Calls me, calls me as the flute of Utah
Calls his mate--
This wild, sad, sunny, brazen country,
Hot as hate.
Again the glittering sky uplifts star-blazing;
Again the stream
From out the far-off snowy mountains
Sings through my dream;
And on the air I hear the flute-voice calling
The lover's croon,
And see the listening, longing maiden
Lit by the moon.
DEVIL'S CLUB
It is a sprawling, hateful thing,
Thorny and twisted like a snake,
Writhing to work a mischief, in the brake
It stands at menace, in its cling
Is danger and a venomed sting.
It grows on green and slimy slopes,
It is a thing of shades and slums,
For passing feet it wildly gropes,
And loops to catch all feet that run
Seeking a path to sky and sun.
IN THE COLD GREEN MOUNTAINS
In the cold green mountains where the savage torrents roared,
And the clouds were gray above us,
And the fishing eagle soared,
Where no grass waved, where no robins cried,
There our horses starved and died,
In the cold green mountains.
In the cold green mountains,
Nothing grew but moss and trees,
Water dripped and sludgy streamlets
Trapped our horses by the knees.
Where we slipped, slid, and lunged,
Mired down and wildly plunged
Toward the cold green mountains!