In The Mountains
In the gray of the early morning, hours before the dwellers on Fairlands
Heights thought of leaving their beds, Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange made
ready for their going.
The burro, Croesus--so named by the novelist because, as the famous writer
explained, "that ancient multi-millionaire, you know, really was an
ass"--was to be entrusted with all the available worldly possessions of
the little party. An arrangement--the more experienced man carefully
pointed out--that, considering the chief characteristics of Croesus, was
quite in accord with the customs of modern pilgrimages. Conrad Lagrange,
himself, skillfully fixed the pack in place--adjusting the saddle with
careful hand; accurately dividing the weight, with the blankets on top,
and, over all, the canvas tarpaulin folded the proper size and neatly
tucked in around the ends; and finally securing the whole with the, to the
uninitiated, intricate and complicated diamond hitch. The order of their
march, also, would place Croesus first; which position--the novelist,
again, gravely explained, as he drew the cinches tight--is held by all who
value good form, to be the donkey's proper place in the procession. As he
watched his friend, the artist felt that, indeed, he was about to go far
from the ways of life that he had always known.
When all was ready, the two men--dressed in flannels, corduroys, and
high-laced, mountain boots--called good-by to Yee Kee, respectfully
invited Croesus to proceed, and set out--with Czar, the fourth member of
the party, flying here and there in such a whirlwind of good spirits that
not a shred of his usual dignity was left. The sun was still below the
mountain's crest, though the higher points were gilded with its light,
when they turned their backs upon the city made by men, and set their
faces toward the hills that bore in every ridge and peak and cliff and
crag and canyon the signature of God.
As Conrad Lagrange said--they might have hired a wagon, or even an
automobile, to take them and their goods to some mountain ranch where they
would have had no trouble in securing a burro for their wanderings A team
would have made the trip by noon. A machine would have set them down in
Clear Creek Canyon before the sun could climb high enough to look over the
canyon walls. "But that"--explained the novelist, as they trudged
leisurely along between rows of palms that bordered the orange groves on
either side of their road, and sensed the mystery that marks the birth of
a new day--"but that is not a proper way to go to the mountains.
"The mountains"--he continued, with his eyes upon the distant
heights--"are not seen by those who would visit them with a rattle and
clatter and rush and roar--as one would visit the cities of men. They are
to be seen only by those who have the grace to go quietly; who have the
understanding to go thoughtfully; the heart to go lovingly; and the spirit
to go worshipfully. They are to be approached, not in the manner of one
going to a horse-race, or a circus, but in the mood of one about to enter
a great cathedral; or, indeed, of one seeking admittance to the very
throne-room of God. When going to the mountains, one should take time to
feel them drawing near. They are never intimate with those who hurry. Mere
sight-seers seldom see much of anything. If possible,"--insisted the
speaker, smiling gravely upon his companion,--"one should always spend, at
least, a full day in the approach. Before entering the immediate presence
of the hills, one should first view them from a distance, seeing them from
base to peak--in the glory of the day's beginning, as they watch the world
awake; in the majesty of full noon, as they maintain their calm above the
turmoil of the day's doing; and in the glory of the sun's departure, as it
lights last their crests and peaks. And then, after such a day, one should
sleep, one night, at their feet."
The artist listened with delight, as he always did when his friend spoke
in those rare moods that revealed a nature so unknown to the world that
had made him famous. When the novelist finished, the young man said
gently, "And your words, my friend, are almost a direct quotation from
that anonymous book which my mother so loved."
"Perhaps they are, Aaron"--admitted Conrad Lagrange--"perhaps they are."
So it was that they spent that day--in leisure approach--the patient
Croesus, with his burden, always in the lead, and Czar, like a merry
sprite, playing here and there. Several times they stopped to rest beside
the road, while provident Croesus gathered a few mouthfuls of grass or
weeds. Many times they halted to enjoy the scene that changed with every
step.
Their road led always upward, with a gradual, easy grade; and by noon they
had left the cultivated section of the lower valley for the higher,
untilled lands. The dark, glossy-green of the orange and the lighter
shining tints of the lemon groves, with the rich, satiny-gray tones of the
olive-trees, were replaced now by the softer grays, greens, yellows, and
browns of the chaparral. The air was no longer heavy with the perfume of
roses and orange-blossoms, but came to their nostrils laden with the
pungent odors of yerba santa and greasewood and sage. Looking back, they
could see the valley--marked off by its roads into many squares of green,
and dotted here and there by small towns and cities--stretching away
toward the western ocean until it was lost in a gray-blue haze out of
which the distant San Gabriels, beyond Cajon Pass, lifted into the clear
sky above, like the shore-line of dreamland rising out of a dream sea.
Before them, the San Bernardinos drew ever nearer and more
intimate--silently inviting them; patiently, with a world old patience,
bidding them come; in the majestic humbleness of their lofty spirit,
offering themselves and the wealth of their teaching.
So they came, in the late afternoon, to that spot where the road for the
first time crosses the alder and cottonwood bordered stream that, before
it reaches the valley, is drawn from its natural course by the irrigation
flumes and pipes.
The sound of the mountain waters leaping down their granite-bouldered way
reached the men while they were yet some distance. Croesus pointed his
long ears forward in burro anticipation--his experience telling him that
the day's work was about to end. Czar was already ranging along the side
of the creek--sending a colony of squirrels scampering to the tree tops,
and a bevy of quail whirring to the chaparral in frightened flight. The
artist greeted the waters with a schoolboy shout of gladness. Conrad
Lagrange, with the smile and the voice of a man miraculously recreated,
said quietly, "This is the place where we stop for the night."
Their camp was a simple matter. Croesus asked nothing but to be released
from his burden--being quite capable of caring for himself. A wash in the
clear, cold water of the brook; a simple meal, prepared by Conrad Lagrange
over a small fire made of sticks gathered by the artist; their tarpaulin
and blankets spread within sound of the music of the stream; a watching of
the sun's glorious going down; a quiet pipe in the hush of the mysterious
twilight; a "good night" in the soft darkness, when the myriad stars
looked down upon the dull red glow of their camp-fire embers; with the
guarding spirit of the mighty hills to give them peace--and they lay down
to sleep at the mountain's feet.
There is no sleeping late in the morning when one sleeps in the open,
under the stars. After breakfast, the artist received another lesson in
packing, and they moved on toward the world that already seemed to dwarf
that other world which they had left, by one day's walking, so far below.
A heavy fog, rolling in from the ocean in the night, submerged the valley
in its dull, gray depths--leaving to the eye no view but the view of the
mountains before them, and forcing upon the artist's mind the weird
impression that the life he had always known was a fantastically unreal
dream.
And now,--as they approached,--the frowning entrance of Clear Creek Canyon
grew more and more clearly defined. The higher peaks appeared to draw back
and hide themselves behind the foothills, which--as the men came closer
under their immediate slopes and walls--seemed to grow magically in height
and bulk. A little before noon, they were in the rocky vestibule of the
canyon. On either hand, the walls rose almost sheer, while their road,
now, was but a narrow shelf under the overhanging cliffs, below which the
white waters of the stream--cold from the snows so far above--tumbled
impetuously over the boulders that obstructed their way--filling the
hall-like gorge with tumultuous melody. Soon, the canyon narrowed to less
than a stone's throw in width. The walls grew more grim and forbidding in
their rocky nearness. And then they came to that point where, on either
side, great cliffs, projecting, form the massive, rugged portals of the
mountain's gate.
First seen, from a point where the road rounds a jutting corner on the
extreme right, the projecting cliffs ahead appear as a blank wall of rock
that forbids further progress. But, as the men moved forward,--the road
swinging more toward the center of the gorge,--the cliffs seemed to draw
apart, and, through the way thus opened, they saw the great canyon and the
mountains beyond. It was as though a mighty, invisible hand rolled
silently back those awful doors to give them entrance.
Abruptly, upon the inner side of the narrow passage the canyon widens to
many times the width of the outer vestibule; and the road, crossing the
creek, curves to the left; so that, looking back as they went, the two men
saw the mighty doors closing again, behind them--as they had opened to let
them in. It was as though that spirit sentinel, guarding the treasures of
the hills, had jealously barred the way, that no one else from the world
of men might follow.
Aaron King stopped. Drawing a deep breath, and removing his hat, he turned
his face from that mountain wall, upward to the encircling pine-fringed
ridges and towering peaks. He had, indeed, come far from the world that he
had always known.
Conrad Lagrange, smiling, watched his friend, but spoke no word.
Clear Creek Canyon is a deep, narrow valley, some fifteen miles in length,
and approaching a mile in its greatest width; lying between the main range
of the San Bernardinos and the lower ridge of the Galenas. The lower end
of the canyon is shut in by the sheer cliff walls, and by the rugged
portals of the narrow entrance; the upper end is formed by the dividing
ridge that separates the Clear Creek from the Cold Water country which
opens out onto the Colorado Desert below San Gorgonio Pass and the peaks
of the San Jacintos. Perhaps two miles above the entrance the canyon
widens to its greatest width; and in this portion of the little
valley,--which extends some five miles to where the walls again draw
close,--located on the benches above the boulder-strewn wash of Clear
Creek, are the homes of several mountain ranchers, and the Government
Forest Ranger Station.
At the Ranger Station, they stopped--Conrad Lagrange wishing to greet the
mountaineer official, whom he had learned to know on his former trip. But
the Ranger was away somewhere, riding his lonely trails, and they did not
tarry.
Just above the Station, they left the main road to follow the way that
leads to the Morton Ranch in the mouth of Alder Canyon--a small side
canyon leading steeply up to a low gap in the main range. Beyond Morton's,
there is only a narrow trail. Three hundred yards above the ranch corral,
where the road ends and the trail begins, the buildings of the
mountaineer's home were lost to view. Except for the narrow winding path
that they must follow single file, there was no sign of human life.
For three weeks, they knew no roads other than those lonely, mountain
trails. At times, they walked under dark pines where the ground was
thickly carpeted with the dead, brown needles and the air was redolent
with the odor of the majestic trees; or made their camps at night, feeding
their blazing fires with the pitchy knots and cones. At other times, they
found their way through thickets of manzanita and buckthorn, along the
mountain's flank; or, winding zigzag down some narrow canyon wall, made
themselves at home under the slender, small-trunked alders; and added to
the stores that Croesus packed, many a lusty trout from the tumbling, icy
torrent. Again, high up on some wind-swept granite ridge or peak, where
the pines were twisted and battered and torn by the warring elements, they
looked far down upon the rolling sea of clouds that hid the world below;
or, in the shelter of some mighty cliff, built their fires; and, when the
night was clear, saw, miles away and below, the thousands of twinkling
star-like lights of the world they had left behind. Or, again, they halted
in some forest and hill encircled glen; where the lush grass in the
cienaga grew almost as high as Croesus' back, and the lilies even higher;
and where, through the dark green brakes, the timid deer come down to
drink at the beginning of some mountain stream. At last, their wanderings
carried them close under the snowy heights of San Gorgonio--the loftiest
of all the peaks. That night, they camped at timber-line and in the
morning,--leaving Croesus and the outfit, while it was still dark,--made
their way to the top, in time to see the sun come up from under the edge
of the world.
So they were received into the inner life of the mountains; so the spirit
that dwells in that unmarred world whispered to them the secrets of its
enduring strength and lofty peace.
From San Gorgonio, they followed the trail that leads down to upper Clear
Creek--halting, one night, at Burnt Pine Camp on Laurel Creek, above the
falls. Then--leaving the Laurel trail--they climbed over a spur of the
main range, and so down the steep wall of the gorge to Lone Cabin on Fern
Creek. The next day, they made their way on down to the floor of the main
canyon--five miles above the point where they had left it at the beginning
of their wanderings.
Crossing the canyon at the Clear Creek Power Company's intake, they took
the company trail that follows the pipe-line along the southern wall. From
the headwork to the reservoir two thousand feet above the power-house at
the mouth of Clear Creek Canyon, this trail is cut in the steep side of
the Galena range--overhanging the narrow valley below--nine beautiful
miles of it. At Oak Knoll,--where a Government trail for the Forest Ranger
zigzags down from the pipe-line to the wagon road below,--they halted.
Conrad Lagrange explained that there were three ways back to the world
they had left, nearly a month before--the pipe-line trail to the reservoir
and so down to the power-house and the Fairlands road; the Government
trail from the pipe-line, over the Galenas to the valley on the other
side; or, the Oak Knoll trail down to Clear Creek and out through the
canyon gates--the way they had come.
"But," objected Aaron King, lazily,--from where he lay under a live-oak on
the mountainside, a few feet above the trail,--"either route presupposes
our wish to return to Fairlands."
The novelist laughed. "Listen to him, Czar,"--he said to the dog lying at
his feet,--"listen to that painter-man. He doesn't want to go back to
Fairlands any more than we do, does he?"
Rising, Czar looked at his master a moment, with slow waving tail, then
turned inquiringly toward the artist.
"Well," said the young man, "what about it, old boy? Which trail shall we
take? Or shall we take any of them?"
With a prodigious yawn,--as though to indicate that he wearied of their
foolish indecision,--Czar turned, with a low "woof," toward the fourth
member of the company, who was browsing along the edge of the trail.
Whenever Czar was in doubt as to the wants of his human companions he
always barked at the burro.
"He says, 'ask Croesus'," commented the artist.
"Good!" cried the older man, with another laugh. "Let's put it up to the
financier and let him choose."
"Wait,"--said the artist, as the other turned toward the burro,--"don't be
hasty--the occasion calls for solemn meditation and lofty discourse."
"Your pardon,"--returned the novelist,--"'tis so. I will orate." Carefully
selecting a pebble in readiness to emphasize his remarks, he addressed the
shaggy arbiter of their fate. "Sir Croesus, thy pack is lighter by many
meals than when first thou didst set out from that land where we did
rescue thee from the hands of thy tormenting trader; but thy
responsibilities are weightier, many fold. Upon the wisdom of thy choice,
now, great issue rests. Thou hast thy chance, O illustrious ass, to
recompense the world, this day, for the many evils wrought by thy odious
ancestor and by all his long-eared kin. Choose, now, the way thy
benefactors' feet shall go; and see to it, Croesus, that thou dost choose
wisely; or, by thy ears, we'll flay thy woolly hide and hang it on the
mountainside--a warning to thy kind."
The well-thrown pebble struck that part of the burro's anatomy at which it
was aimed; the dog barked; and Croesus--with an indignant jerk of his
head, and a flirt of his tail--started forward. At the fork of the trail,
he paused. The two men waited with breathless interest. With an air of
accepting the responsibility placed upon him, the burro whirled and
trotted down the narrow path that led to the floor of the canyon below.
Laughing, the men followed--but far enough in the rear to permit their
leader to choose his own way when they should reach the wagon road at the
foot of the mountain wall. Without an instant's hesitation, Croesus turned
down the road--quickening his pace, almost, into a trot.
"By George!" ejaculated the novelist, "he acts like he knew where he was
going."
"He's taking you at your word," returned the artist. "Look at him go!
Evidently, he's still under the inspiration of your oratory."
The burro had broken into a ridiculous, little gallop that caused the
frying-pan and coffee-pot, lashed on the outside of the pack, to rattle
merrily. Splashing through the creek, he disappeared in the dark shadow of
a thicket of alders and willows, where the road crosses a tiny rivulet
that flows from a spring a hundred yards above. Climbing out of this
gloomy hollow, the road turns sharply to the left, and the men hurried on
to overtake their four-footed guide before he should be too long out of
their sight. Just at the top of the little rise, before rounding the turn,
they stopped. A few feet to the right of the road, with his nose at an
old gate, stood Croesus. Nor would he heed Czar's bark commanding him to
go on.
On the other side of the fence, an old and long neglected apple orchard, a
tumble-down log barn, and the wreck of a house with the fireplace and
chimney standing stark and alone, told the story. The place was one of
those old ranches, purchased by the Power Company for the water rights,
and deserted by those who once had called it home. From the gate, ancient
wagon tracks, overgrown with weeds, led somewhere around the edge of the
orchard and were lost in the tangle of trees and brush on its lower side.
The two men looked at each other in laughing surprise. The burro, turning
his head, gazed at them over his shoulder, inquiringly, as much as to say,
"Well, what's the matter now? Why don't you come along?"
"When in doubt, ask Croesus," said the artist, gravely.
Conrad Lagrange calmly opened the gate.
Promptly, the burro trotted ahead. Following the ancient weed-grown
tracks, he led them around the lower end of the orchard; crossed a little
stream; and, turning again, climbed a gentle rise of open, grassy land
behind the orchard; stopping at last, with an air of having accomplished
his purpose, in a beautiful little grove of sycamore trees that bordered a
small cienaga.
Completely hidden by the old orchard from the road in front, and backed by
the foot of the mountain spur that here forms the northern wall of the
little valley, the spot commanded a magnificent view of the encircling
peaks and ridges. San Bernardino was almost above their heads. To the
east, were the more rugged walls of the upper and narrower end of the
canyon; in their front, the beautiful Oak Knoll, with the dark steeps and
pine-fringed crest of the Galenas against the sky; while to the west, the
blue peaks of the far San Gabriels showed above the lower spurs and
foothills of the more immediate range. The foreground was filled in by the
gentle slope leading down to the tiny stream at the edge of the old
orchard and, a little to the left, by the cienaga--rich in the color of
its tall marsh grass and reeds, gemmed with brilliant flowers of gold and
scarlet, bordered by graceful willows, and screened from the eye of the
chance traveler by the lattice of tangled orchard boughs.
Seated in the shade of the sycamores on the little knoll, the two friends
enjoyed the beauty of the scene, and the charming seclusion of the lovely
retreat; while Croesus stood patiently, as though waiting to be rewarded
for his virtue, by the removal of his pack. Even Czar refrained from
charging here and there, and lay down contentedly at their feet, with an
air of having reached at last the place they had been seeking.
A few days later found them established in a comfortable camp; with tents
and furniture and hammocks and books and the delighted Yee Kee to take
care of them. It had been easy to secure permission from the neighboring
rancher who leased the orchard from the Company. Conrad Lagrange, with
the man and his big mountain wagon, had made a trip to town--returning the
next day with Yee Kee and the outfit. He brought, also, things from the
studio; for the artist declared that he would no longer be without the
materials of his art.
The first day after the camp was built, the artist--declaring that he
would settle the question, at once, as to whether Yee Kee could cook a
trout as skillfully as the novelist--took rod and flies, and--leaving the
famous author in a hammock, with Czar lying near--set out up the canyon.
For perhaps two miles, the painter followed the creek--taking here and
there from clear pool or swirling eddy a fish for his creel, and pausing
often, as he went, to enjoy--in artist fashion--the beauties of the ever
changing landscape.
The afternoon was almost gone when he finally turned back toward camp. He
had been away, already longer than he intended; but still--as all
fishermen will understand--he could not, on his way back down the stream,
refrain from casting here and there over the pools that tempted him.
The sun was touching the crest of the mountains when he had made but
little more than half the distance of his return. He had just sent his fly
skillfully over a deep pool in the shadow of a granite boulder, for what
he determined must be his last cast, when, startlingly clear and sweet,
came the tones of a violin.
A master trout leaped. The hand of the unheeding fisherman felt the tug
as the leader broke. Giving the victorious fish no thought, Aaron King
slowly reeled in his line.
There was no mistaking the pure, vibrant tones of the music to which the
man listened with amazed delight. It was the music of the, to him, unknown
violinist who lived hidden in the orange grove next door to his studio
home in Fairlands.