not express it at all. "It is a whole country, populous with mountains.
It is as if an ocean of molten granite had been caught by instant
petrifaction when its billows were rolling heaven-high."
[Illustration: CREST OF VETA MOUNTAIN.]
Nevertheless, popular language divides the system into certain great
lines. The "Front Range" extends irregularly from Long's Peak to Pike's
Peak, then fades out. The "Main" or "Snowy Range," which is the
continental watershed or "divide," begins at the northern boundary, in
the Medicine Bow Mountains: but in the center of the State breaks out of
all regularity into several branches, so that it is only by
ascertaining where the headwaters of the Atlantic and Pacific streams
are separated, that one can tell how to trace the backbone of the
continent, for many of the spurs contain peaks quite as lofty as the
central chain. Thus the splendid line of the Sangre de Cristo, running
southeastward, only divides the drainage of the Rio Grande from that of
the Mississippi; yet the highest peak in Colorado belongs to it. The
main chain, on the contrary, trends southwestward from the parallel
groups in the heart of the State, only to become mixed up into half a
dozen branches, all of enormous height and bulk, down in the
southwestern corner. Even this is not all, for westward to Utah the
whole area is filled with vast uplifts, standing in isolated groups,
serving as cross-links, or lying parallel with the general
north-and-south lines of great elevation. "I suppose," says Ludlow,
"that to most Eastern men the discovery of what is meant by crossing the
Rocky Mountains would be as great a surprise as it was to myself. Day
after day, as we were traveling between Denver and Salt Lake, I kept
wondering when we should get over the mountains. Four, five, six days,
still we were perpetually climbing, descending or flanking them; and at
nightfall of the last day, we rolled down into the Mormon city through a
gorge in one of the grandest ranges in the system. Then, for the first
time, after a journey of six hundred miles, could we be said to have
crossed the Rocky Mountains."
Because we had ascended and descended Veta Pass, therefore, and saw on
our left the seemingly insurmountable barrier which yesterday stood at
our right, we had by no means got beyond the Rockies; for out there
"mountain billows roll westward, their crests climbing as they go: and
far on, where you might suppose the Plains began again, break on a
spotless strand of everlasting snow."
VI
SAN LUIS PARK.
The plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air.
--TENNYSON.
San Luis Park, exceeding in size the State of Connecticut, is identified
with the earliest and most romantic history of Colorado. It was here
that brave old pioneer, Colonel Zebulon Pike, established his winter
quarters almost a century ago, and was captured by the Mexican forces,
for at that time all this region was Spanish territory. It was here the
northernmost habitations of the Mexican people, the ranches at Conejos,
Del Norte, and all along between, were placed, and so became the first
farms in what now is Colorado. Here were pastured the first herds and
flocks of the early settlers, and the great Maxwell grant, whose
ownership has been the subject of so much litigation, included a large
portion of this park. To this region, long ago Governor Gilpin directed
the attention of immigrants, and lauded it as the "garden of the world."
Gardening is practicable here, without doubt; but colonists have found
other parts of the State so much more favorable, that, in spite of its
superior advertising, the park has kept nearly its pristine innocence of
agriculture outside of the old Mexican estates along the principal
streams.
That Colorado can ever produce cereals enough for the sustenance of a
large population is doubtful. The great rarity and dryness of the
atmosphere; the light rainfall, and almost instant disappearance of
moisture; the large proportion of alkaline constituents in the earth,
and the climate caused by great altitude, seem to handicap this region
when compared with the Mississippi valley or the Pacific coast. By
irrigation only, can agriculture thrive in this State; and the amount of
arable land that can be cultivated without enormous expenditure for
irrigating canals can hardly be considered wide enough to long supply
the local population, which increases faster than the acreage under the
plow is extended. The nature of the soil, and the effect of the short,
hot seasons, under careful regularity of watering, combine, however, to
make the product of Colorado farms extremely heavy to the acre, and of
the finest quality in every article grown.
"The San Luis valley," says a recent report to the Government, "bears
witness to the wealth of the produce returned by the soil under proper
cultivation. In following up the Rio Grande, the Mexicans ascended
divers tributary waters, and upon these and along the main river can
their apologies for farms be seen. Generally content with simple
existence, but little variety in the products of their land is observed.
The turning of the earth with oxen and a sharpened stick, the threshing
by flail and trampling under foot, and the crushing of the grain between
stones, can be so frequently seen, that the charm of novelty is lacking
and one's curiosity is soon satiated. Progress is not their hope or
desire, and, content to eke out a bare subsistence, their ambition does
not extend beyond a _baile_, or the tripping of the 'light fantastic,'
with surroundings that are here, as a rule, far from enchanting.
"Their cultivation of the ground tells of eastern origin and traditions,
and is by irrigation from _acequias_ or canals. Smaller ditches at
intervals lead out from the main, and furrows of earth of varying
height, connected thereto, are raised at stated points parallel to one
another, cutting up the entire area into many patches nearly square and
of small extent. With the planting of the seed and the main ditch
filled, all the smaller outlets and various sections being
simultaneously overflowed, the entire area is carefully submerged, the
little furrows confining the water in each section. To the inexperienced
farmer, the first successful irrigation of his land is a matter of
considerable labor and pains. Besides the thorough moistening of the
earth, obtained by the gradual settling of the waters, a fertilizing
process is at the same time ensured. These streams carry in solution
much rich and valuable material from the denudation of sections drained
in their passage, which is left in deposit like a substratum of manure.
The latter is never used, the farmer depending on irrigation for the
supply of those constituents extracted from the soil in the growth of
produce.
"The Rio Grande descends from seven thousand seven hundred and fifty
feet at Del Norte, to seven thousand four hundred on leaving the State
for New Mexico. Upon its western side numbers of locations are along the
Piedra Pintada, which sinks a few miles from the Rio Grande, the Alamosa
and La Jara, but chiefly along the Conejos, the most thickly settled of
all its tributaries; upon the eastern side are the Trinchera, Culebra,
Costilla, the Culebra above San Luis being on this side the seat of
largest habitation. In the upper part of San Luis valley is situated the
finest land of the section, with the mountain range encircling it upon
the east, north and west. Exposed only upon the south, whence do not
come the heavy snow storms and coldest winds, it contains the best lands
for cereal and other productions. Drained by the San Luis creek, and the
Saguache, its tributary, the ranchmen who have located along the streams
have been rewarded for their labor by very abundant crops of all kinds.
Throughout the valley large herds of cattle find ample sustenance, the
property mainly of Americans, while numerous flocks of sheep of Mexican
ownership, are driven to and fro. The valley of the Conejos, with its
affluents, San Antonio and Los Pinos creeks, is a most fertile region.
Several miles east of Conejos, during the highest stages of the rivers,
in June, water from the San Antonio finds its way into the former river
above the latter's mouth, forming an island. This section is especially
rich, and there exists almost a natural irrigation, the Mexican ranchmen
raising large crops of all kinds at the cost of but little labor
therefor.
"The Alamosa and La Jara, during the lower parts of their courses upon
the plains, run side by side. At the foothills they diverge, the head of
the Alamosa being in the northwest, its course throughout in a generally
narrow and very deep cañon, while the upper waters of the La Jara are
due west. All the portions of the former that are available for
agriculture, are its banks on the plain and a short part of its
cañon-valley within the foothills, upon which the Mexican ranches are
found. Upon the La Jara are a few more Americans than upon the former
the ranch-owners being mainly, however, of Mexican descent. A tributary
is called by the geographer North Fork, but is locally known as Aguas
Calientes or Hot Springs Creek, and where its land is represented as
suitable for grazing only, it is found in reality to be adapted to the
agriculture of the Mexicans, ranches at intervals being passed along its
banks.
"The entire course of the La Jara may be likened in its direction to a
huge frying-pan in outline, the long handle upon the plain extending to
the Rio Grande, the basin within the foothills to its source. Before
reaching the plains the stream flows to the south, east, and north, the
latter part in a steep, precipitous cañon, strewed with basaltic, which
the road avoids. This road, built by the county over a natural route, is
in good order, and affords the residents of the lower river easy access
to its upper part, which, as we ascend and pass over the intervening
rolling foothills, we find within a lovely valley, called by the
Mexicans _El Valle_, to which they resort for hay. The volcanic rocks
strewn along the foothills, well timbered with piñon, we leave behind us
as we descend into the valley, a basin eroded from the general plateau
by the waters of the stream, which has cut for itself, in its lower and
more rapid descent, a small but impassable cañon. This valley, several
miles long and of a varying width of from three-fourths to one and a
half miles, is a beautiful spot, and has been located upon by several
persons for cattle ranches. The grazing is very fine, and so nearly
level is the land, that the stream, here small and at its headwaters,
pursues a most tortuous course. Trout are found more abundantly than at
any other point."
While we can scarcely compliment the syntax of the report above quoted,
the facts are trustworthy.
Fairly out into the valley, where Ute creek, Sangre de Cristo, and one
or two other streamlets unite to form the Trinchera, stands an old
military post, Fort Garland. In one of the cañons near by was a still
older one, Fort Massachusetts, now abandoned or used only as a cavalry
cantonment when a larger body of troops is assembled here than there are
barracks for. In 1852 and 1856, the dates when the two forts
respectively were founded, the Indians--Utes, Apaches, Comanches, and
Navajoes--were all troublesome, and the men were kept very busy in
scouting, if not in resisting attacks. Now the crumbling buildings of
adobe shelter only a score or so of men, and serve merely as a depot of
supplies, a large amount of government stores being guarded here. Fort
Garland is a pretty place, and from it will be likely to make his start
anybody who wishes to ascend old Sierra Blanca, the loftiest peak in
Colorado, whose triple head stands grandly opposite and near the
railway; the United States Geological Survey is his sole predecessor.
* * * * *
Long ere this we had become domesticated in our cars, and now I may
digress sufficiently to jot down a little description of them. As I have
said, there were three, and we spoke of them as our "train." The first
was a parlor-car. It usually ran in the rear, and gave us the advantage
of a lookout behind, something worth having among the mountains. This
car was not homelike enough to suit us, however, so we rarely occupied
it, when we were stationary, except as a bedroom for our masculine
guests. But when running, this car was our resort. Into it we would
hustle the Madame's sewing-basket and fancy work, a lot of books and
papers, spy-glasses, wraps, and luncheon, and have the gayest of times
as we sped along, unconfined by limited space, unsolicitous about
baggage or appearances, unannoyed by other passengers, and above all,
thank heaven! safe from the peanut-boy. If we were to run at night we
converted it into a sleeper. Curtains were hung up at intervals, making
staterooms; easy chairs were faced, a stool placed between them, then a
mattress spread across, forming a capital bed; or else we simply cleared
a place on the floor, spread our mattresses down, and camped. Usually
both methods were followed by different occupants. It was snug, there
was good ventilation, and we slept such slumbers as seemed to prove us
in the poet's category of the "just." Where a long stay was made, cots
were set up, and the car became a bed-room exclusively. I doubt whether
our porter enjoyed it, though, as much as we. He rarely rode upon its
easy springs, and he had a constant fight with circumstances to keep it
neat.
[Illustration: SPANISH PEAKS, FROM VETA PASS.]
The other two sections of our train were box cars, fresh from the shops,
and of the most improved pattern. All through the trip, I may say in
advance, they rode splendidly, though often attached to express trains
which rattled them along at twice the speed the maker ever intended.
Each of these cars had a door cut in one end, and these door-way ends
were placed in juxtaposition and remained so always. At first two
elaborate platforms were hinged to one of the cars, bridging the space
between them; but they were smashed on almost the first curve, after
which we laid a series of boards down from one buffer-head to the other
and took them up whenever we moved--that is, if the porter didn't forget
it, or get left. Here comes in the chronicle of our steps, the portable
stairway by which we ascended and descended to and from our elevated
house; _sed revocare gradus_,--"but to recall those steps" in their
entirety would, I fear, be a hopeless task. The first set we had fell
under the wheels and immediately became of no further interest to us.
Then our invaluable forager found this second set, and thereby saddled
himself with a responsibility he never could shake off. The whole Denver
and Rio Grande railway corporation seemed to be bent on their
destruction. Time fails me to tell of the numberless occasions when they
were apparently crushed by some jar of the cars, as they stood in
position at a station, and of the wrenchings that required a new
hammering and more spikes to correct. But watched jealously by the
porter, and lashed securely on the end of the car when we moved, they
survived it all, and gave us _facilis decensus_ from first to last.
One of these box-cars became kitchen and commissary office. A partition
was thrown across one-third of the distance from the end, forming a room
for our porter and also a place of storage for our supplies. There was
everything in there, from a pepper-box to a mattress, and from a
lamp-chimney to a Winchester rifle. It had a table which might have been
let down, two windows, and sundry racks and clothes-hooks. The remaining
two-thirds of the car was devoted to the kitchen. One corner contained a
monstrous ice-chest, and opposite it stood a huge wood-and-coal box,
which it was the constant ambition of our boy to keep piled with
kindling stuff almost to the ceiling; the result being, that frequently
his improvised racks would come to pieces with the jarring of some rapid
run, and the fuel be heaped up "mighty promiscuous" on the floor. The
other corners of the kitchen held a fair-sized cooking-stove, securely
bolted, and, lastly, an iron water-tank, as large as a barrel and
mounted on a stand. With this water-tank we had a long contest. The face
of our first colored cook, never much more cheerful than the big end of
a coffin, took on a doubly rueful aspect at the conclusion of our first
day out. The tank had been well filled before starting, but the cover
fitted so loosely that half a barrel or so of the liquid splashed out,
and the floor of the car was like a little sea. The Photographer
generously sacrificed a blanket to spread across underneath the cover,
and we were careful afterward not to fill the tank quite to the top; but
it always shot jets and sprays down the back of your neck when you least
expected, if you went near it when in motion. Then one day the faucet
burst, and deluged the place with a stream like that from a hose-pipe.
Next it fell to leaking, and so to the end of the trip we had that
persistently mischievous tank to contend with. Beside the stove stood a
narrow cupboard, the top of which was intended to be the kitchen-table;
but we found water leaking through into the flour, etc., underneath, and
so built another table, hinging it to the opposite side of the car,
between the tank and the fuel box. There were plenty of shelves and
racks; and, the two side-doors having been fastened shut, the walls of
the car were soon garnished with all sorts of wares that could be hung
up. After a week it was learned how to stow everything so well that
almost no breakage occurred.
The dining-car was exactly similar in size, twenty-four feet long by
seven feet wide. It had four windows, and we used to slide back the
great doors on one or both sides when the weather was warm and pleasant.
If cool or stormy we locked them, wedged them tight and caulked the
cracks, yet could never quite keep out the gales. The wind, I found,
bloweth not only where "_it_ listeth," but also where _I_ listed. We
thought it a very cheerful place, as we entered this snug home--for it
was the "living-room" of the train--after a hard tramp, or gathered
about the dinner table in the strong rays of mail lamps, and the softer
light from railway candles. The gayly striped _portiére_ shutting off
the Madame's little nook of a bed-room at the rear end of the car; the
bright oilcloth that covered the floor; the rich oak-brown of the paint
on the door-frames, wainscoting, and stanchions that at frequent
intervals supported the roof; the ruddy glow of the Turkey-red cloth
filling all the panels, and the pictures, books, Indian pottery,
burnished firearms and bits of decoration here and there, made a picture
that never lost its cheer and air of comfort. Here were my friendly
books and writing-desk, with all the little literary appliances, and
pigeon-holes full of manuscript, memoranda and correspondence. Here was
the easy chair behind the spindle-shaped, upright stove. Here was the
Madame's rocking-chair and her work-stand, while the parted curtains let
us peep into a diminutive but carefully convenient boudoir just behind
her. Here stood her wardrobe--a trunk which lost its identity under the
warm zigzags of a Navajo blanket; and here our hospitable dining-table,
around which, perched on camp-stools, we ate good food with royal
appetites, drank red wine with keen delight, and summoned all the imps
of fun to laugh with us over quips and quirks to which, no doubt, the
mad spirit of the day lent more wit than the brains of their makers.
Shakespeare says,--
"A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it."
Here work was done, too. Have I not seen the Madame busily sewing, and
quiet? Did not the Artist often paint, I know not how long, without
speaking?--I know not how long because I was so intent upon shaping
this chronicle you read. If our trip had been all picnic and void of
serious purpose, we should not have enjoyed it half so well. Charles
Lamb asked pettishly,--
"Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holiday-rejoicing spirit down?"
But surely our holiday was fraught with a deeper zest, because our not
too onerous duties now and then encroached upon our pleasures, and so
made us value merry times the higher.
[Illustration: SANGRE DE CRISTO SUMMITS.]
Well, now you may understand how and where we lived, and moved, and had
our work and play. It was a warm, snug, handsome home and office,
bed-chamber and kitchen on wheels. There were little hardships and
annoyances, no doubt, but why remember them? _Le diable est mort!_
* * * * *
The railway down San Luis Park is straight as a surveyor's line, and
trains often run at a high rate of speed with perfect safety. At
Alamosa it halted in construction for a long time. The town then became
the forwarding point for all southern Colorado and New Mexico. Very
large commission houses were placed there, enormous trains of wagons and
pack mules were coming and going, stages left daily for Lake City and
Gunnison, Saguache and Pitkin, Tierra Amarilla and the lower San Juan,
Taos and Santa Fe, and the vim and excitement of an outfitting station
prevailed. But presently the railway moved southward and westward, and
Alamosa settled down into a quiet yet prosperous place, with a local
agricultural population to back it, and the headquarters of the second
division of the railway which extends to--to--well _towards_ Mexico.
Twenty-nine miles south of Alamosa is Antonito, where the line branches
off to the San Juan country. The town is supported by the money the
railway and the passengers spend, and is quite uninteresting; but over
to the westward is the larger and older village of Conejos, which is
better, though "distance lends enchantment." Conejos means _hares_:
probably the Mexican pioneers found a superfluity of jack rabbits there.
The place has been a farming and grazing center of supplies for many
years. Along Conejos creek are numerous small Mexican ranches, good
enough types of their sort (we shall find far better ahead), but the
town itself has been Americanized until its claim to being a Mexican
plaza is about lost; nor have the innovations added to its interest in
any degree. In a real Mexican town, for example, the church is always an
entertaining place to visit, because it is ruinously ancient and
strange; but here the large, well-conditioned structure has been roofed,
painted and modernized until it is not worth a glance except from the
point of comfort and security from decay. Annexed to it is an academy
for boys, and another for girls, both under the charge of priests and
nuns of the Roman Catholic Church. These schools have no counterparts
among the Mexicans nearer than Santa Fe, and have a wide reputation.
Lacking interest for the tourist, the practical man will learn that
Conejos is a very fair business place in certain lines. It is the
headquarters of the sheep and cattle men of the San Luis Park. In sheep,
I learn that although about two hundred and fifty thousand are sold out
of the park annually, fully five hundred thousand are left. The large
majority of these are of the inferior sort called Mexican sheep, which
are worth from one dollar to one dollar and twenty-five cents a head.
The better minority sell at one dollar and fifty cents and two dollars a
head, and this minority is increasing through a constant effort to
improve the breed by introducing highly-bred Merino and Cotswold rams.
The average yield is two and a half pounds of wool annually, and the
product is shipped almost entirely to Philadelphia, for use in making
carpets. Cattle is less an industry here, because the sheep are so
numerous as to consume most of the pasturage. Something like ten
thousand head, however, are able to exist in the park and adjacent
foothills, and are sold to great advantage.