THE PASSING OF THE BEANS
At noon, the rain slacking a little, we determined to pack up, and
with such cheer as we could called out, "Line up, boys--line up!"
starting on our way down the trail.
After making about eight miles we came upon a number of outfits
camped on the bank of the river. As I rode along on my gray horse,
for the trail there allowed me to ride, I passed a man seated
gloomily at the mouth of his tent. To him I called with an assumption
of jocularity I did not feel, "Stranger, where are you bound for?"
He replied, "The North Pole."
"Do you expect to get there?"
"Sure," he replied.
Riding on I met others beside the trail, and all wore a similar look
of almost sullen gravity. They were not disposed to joke with me, and
perceiving something to be wrong, I passed on without further remark.
When we came down to the bank of the stream, behold it ran to the
right. And I could have sat me down and blasphemed with the rest. I
now understood the gloom of the others. _We were still in the valley
of the inexorable Skeena._ It could be nothing else; this tremendous
stream running to our right could be no other than the head-waters of
that ferocious flood which no surveyor has located. It is immensely
larger and longer than any map shows.
We crossed the branch without much trouble, and found some beautiful
bluejoint-grass on the opposite bank, into which we joyfully turned
our horses. When they had filled their stomachs, we packed up and
pushed on about two miles, overtaking the Manchester boys on the
side-hill in a tract of dead, burned-out timber, a cheerless spot.
In speaking about the surly answer I had received from the man on the
banks of the river, I said: "I wonder why those men are camped there?
They must have been there for several days."
Partner replied: "They are all out of grub and are waiting for some
one to come by to whack-up with 'em. One of the fellows came out and
talked with me and said he had nothing left but beans, and tried to
buy some flour of me."
This opened up an entirely new line of thought. I understood now that
what I had taken for sullenness was the dejection of despair. The way
was growing gloomy and dark to them. They, too, were racing with the
wolf.
We had one short moment of relief next day as we entered a lovely
little meadow and camped for noon. The sun shone warm, the grass was
thick and sweet. It was like late April in the central West--cool,
fragrant, silent. Aisles of peaks stretched behind us and before us.
We were still high in the mountains, and the country was less wooded
and more open. But we left this beautiful spot and entered again on a
morass. It was a day of torture to man and beast. The land continued
silent. There were no toads, no butterflies, no insects of any kind,
except a few mosquitoes, no crickets, no singing thing. I have never
seen a land so empty of life. We had left even the whistling marmots
entirely behind us.
We travelled now four outfits together, with some twenty-five horses.
Part of the time I led with Ladrone, part of the time "The Man from
Chihuahua" took the lead, with his fine strong bays. If a horse got
down we all swarmed around and lifted him out, and when any question
of the trail came up we held "conferences of the powers."
We continued for the most part up a wide mossy and grassy river
bottom covered with water. We waded for miles in water to our ankles,
crossing hundreds of deep little rivulets. Occasionally a horse went
down into a hole and had to be "snailed out," and we were wet and
covered with mud all day. It was a new sort of trail and a terror.
The mountains on each side were very stately and impressive, but we
could pay little attention to views when our horses were miring down
at every step.
We could not agree about the river. Some were inclined to the belief
that it was a branch of the Stikeen, the old man was sure it was
"Skeeny." We were troubled by a new sort of fly, a little
orange-colored fellow whose habits were similar to those of the
little black fiends of the Bulkley Valley. They were very poisonous
indeed, and made our ears swell up enormously--the itching and
burning was well-nigh intolerable. We saw no life at all save one
grouse hen guarding her young. A paradise for game it seemed, but no
game. A beautiful grassy, marshy, and empty land. We passed over one
low divide after another with immense snowy peaks thickening all
around us. For the first time in over two hundred miles we were all
able to ride. Whistling marmots and grouse again abounded. We had a
bird at every meal. The wind was cool and the sky was magnificent,
and for the first time in many days we were able to take off our hats
and face the wind in exultation.
Toward night, however, mosquitoes became troublesome in their
assaults, covering the horses in solid masses. Strange to say, none
of them, not even Ladrone, seemed to mind them in the least. We felt
sure now of having left the Skeena forever. One day we passed over a
beautiful little spot of dry ground, which filled us with delight; it
seemed as though we had reached the prairies of the pamphlets. We
camped there for noon, and though the mosquitoes were terrific we
were all chortling with joy. The horses found grass in plenty and
plucked up spirits amazingly. We were deceived. In half an hour we
were in the mud again.
The whole country for miles and miles in every direction was a series
of high open valleys almost entirely above timber line. These
valleys formed the starting-points of innumerable small streams which
fell away into the Iskoot on the left, the Stikeen on the north, the
Skeena on the east and south. These valleys were covered with grass
and moss intermingled, and vast tracts were flooded with water from
four to eight inches deep, through which we were forced to slop hour
after hour, and riding was practically impossible.
As we were plodding along silently one day a dainty white gull came
lilting through the air and was greeted with cries of joy by the
weary drivers. More than one of them could "smell the salt water." In
imagination they saw this bird following the steamer up the Stikeen
to the first south fork, thence to meet us. It seemed only a short
ride down the valley to the city of Glenora and the post-office.
Each day we drove above timber line, and at noon were forced to
rustle the dead dwarf pine for fire. The marshes were green and
filled with exquisite flowers and mosses, little white and purple
bells, some of them the most beautiful turquoise-green rising from
tufts of verdure like mignonette. I observed also a sort of crocus
and some cheery little buttercups. The ride would have been
magnificent had it not been for the spongy, sloppy marsh through
which our horses toiled. As it was, we felt a certain breadth and
grandeur in it surpassing anything we had hitherto seen. Our three
outfits with some score of horses went winding through the wide,
green, treeless valleys with tinkle of bells and sharp cry of
drivers. The trail was difficult to follow, because in the open
ground each man before us had to take his own course, and there were
few signs to mark the line the road-gang had taken.
It was impossible to tell where we were, but I was certain we were
upon the head-waters of some one of the many forks of the great
Stikeen River. Marmots and a sort of little prairie dog continued
plentiful, but there was no other life. The days were bright and
cool, resplendent with sun and rich in grass.
Some of the goldseekers fired a salute with shotted guns when, poised
on the mountain side, they looked down upon a stream flowing to the
northwest. But the joy was short-lived. The descent of this
mountain's side was by all odds the most terrible piece of trail we
had yet found. It led down the north slope, and was oozy and slippery
with the melting snow. It dropped in short zigzags down through a
grove of tangled, gnarled, and savage cedars and pines, whose roots
were like iron and filled with spurs that were sharp as chisels. The
horses, sliding upon their haunches and unable to turn themselves in
the mud, crashed into the tangled pines and were in danger of being
torn to pieces. For more than an hour we slid and slewed through this
horrible jungle of savage trees, and when we came out below we had
two horses badly snagged in the feet, but Ladrone was uninjured.
We now crossed and recrossed the little stream, which dropped into a
deep canyon running still to the northwest. After descending for some
hours we took a trail which branched sharply to the northeast, and
climbed heavily to a most beautiful camping-spot between the peaks,
with good grass, and water, and wood all around us.
We were still uncertain of our whereabouts, but all the boys were
fairly jubilant. "This would be a splendid camp for a few weeks,"
said partner.
That night as the sun set in incommunicable splendor over the snowy
peaks to the west the empty land seemed left behind. We went to sleep
with the sound of a near-by mountain stream in our ears, and the
voice of an eagle sounding somewhere on the high cliffs.
The next day we crossed another divide and entered another valley
running north. Being confident that this _was_ the Stikeen, we camped
early and put our little house up. It was raining a little. We had
descended again to the aspens and clumps of wild roses. It was good
to see their lovely faces once more after our long stay in the wild,
cold valleys of the upper lands. The whole country seemed drier, and
the vegetation quite different. Indeed, it resembled some of the
Colorado valleys, but was less barren on the bottoms. There were
still no insects, no crickets, no bugs, and very few birds of any
kind.
All along the way on the white surface of the blazed trees were
messages left by those who had gone before us. Some of them were
profane assaults upon the road-gang. Others were pathetic inquiries:
"Where in hell are we?"--"How is this for a prairie route?"--"What
river is this, anyhow?" To these pencillings others had added
facetious replies. There were also warnings and signs to help us keep
out of the mud.
We followed the same stream all day. Whether the Iskoot or not we did
not know. The signs of lower altitude thickened. Wild roses met us
again, and strawberry blossoms starred the sunny slopes. The grass
was dry and ripe, and the horses did not relish it after their long
stay in the juicy meadows above. We had been wet every day for nearly
three weeks, and did not mind moisture now, but my shoes were rapidly
going to pieces, and my last pair of trousers was frazzled to the
knees.
Nearly every outfit had lame horses like our old bay, hobbling along
bravely. Our grub was getting very light, which was a good thing for
the horses; but we had an occasional grouse to fry, and so as long as
our flour held out we were well fed.
It became warmer each day, and some little weazened berries appeared
on the hillsides, the first we had seen, and they tasted mighty good
after months of bacon and beans. We were taking some pleasure in the
trip again, and had it not been for the sores on our horses' feet and
our scant larder we should have been quite at ease. Our course now
lay parallel to a range of peaks on our right, which we figured to be
the Hotailub Mountains. This settled the question of our position on
the map--we were on the third and not the first south fork of the
Stikeen and were a long way still from Telegraph Creek.
THE LONG TRAIL
We tunnelled miles of silent pines,
Dark forests where the stillness was so deep
The scared wind walked a tip-toe on the spines,
And the restless aspen seemed to sleep.
We threaded aisles of dripping fir;
We climbed toward mountains dim and far,
Where snow forever shines and shines,
And only winds and waters are.
Red streams came down from hillsides crissed and crossed
With fallen firs; but on a sudden, lo!
A silver lakelet bound and barred
With sunset's clouds reflected far below.
These lakes so lonely were, so still and cool,
They burned as bright as burnished steel;
The shadowed pine branch in the pool
Was no less vivid than the real.
We crossed the great divide and saw
The sun-lit valleys far below us wind;
Before us opened cloudless sky; the raw,
Gray rain swept close behind.
We saw great glaciers grind themselves to foam;
We trod the moose's lofty home,
And heard, high on the yellow hills,
The wildcat clamor of his ills.
The way grew grimmer day by day,
The weeks to months stretched on and on;
And hunger kept, not far away,
A never failing watch at dawn.
We lost all reckoning of season and of time;
Sometimes it seemed the bitter breeze
Of icy March brought fog and rain,
And next November tempests shook the trees.
It was a wild and lonely ride.
Save the hid loon's mocking cry,
Or marmot on the mountain side,
The earth was silent as the sky.
All day through sunless forest aisles,
On cold dark moss our horses trod;
It was so lonely there for miles and miles,
The land seemed lost to God.
Our horses cut by rocks; by brambles torn,
Staggered onward, stiff and sore;
Or broken, bruised, and saddle-worn,
Fell in the sloughs to rise no more.
Yet still we rode right on and on,
And shook our clenched hands at the clouds,
Daring the winds of early dawn,
And the dread torrent roaring loud.
So long we rode, so hard, so far,
We seemed condemned by stern decree
To ride until the morning star
Should sink forever in the sea.
Yet now, when all is past, I dream
Of every mountain's shining cap.
I long to hear again the stream
Roar through the foam-white granite gap.
The pains recede. The joys draw near.
The splendors of great Nature's face
Make me forget all need, all fear,
And the long journey grows in grace.
THE GREETING OF THE ROSES
We had been long in mountain snow,
In valleys bleak, and broad, and bare,
Where only moss and willows grow,
And no bird wings the silent air.
And so when on our downward way,
Wild roses met us, we were glad;
They were so girlish fair, so gay,
It seemed the sun had made them mad.