The seasons for visiting National Parks are spring, summer, autumn,
and winter! Morning, noon, the sunset hour, under the stars and with
the moon--all times, each in its way, are good for rambling in these
places of instruction and delight. I have climbed numerous peaks by
moonlight and starlight, and have stood on the summit of the
Continental Divide with the winter moon. Nature is good at all times.
Rainy days, gray days, windy days, all have something for you not
ordinarily offered. So, too, have the sunny winter days when upon the
dazzling snow fall the deep-blue shadows of the pines. Forget the
season and the weather; visit the Parks when you can stay there
longest.
One day heavy clouds rested upon the snowy earth around my cabin, nine
thousand feet above sea-level. In these, and in the falling snow, I
started up the Long's Peak trail, in what now is the Rocky Mountain
National Park. I wished to measure the storm-cloud's vertical depth
and to observe its movements. Only a ravine and instinct enabled me to
snow-shoe through the blinding, flying snow and almost opaque
sheep's-wool cloud. The cloud was three thousand feet thick.
Suddenly, at twelve thousand feet, the depth of snow became markedly
less. Within a few rods I burst through the upper surface of the cloud
into brilliant sunshine! Not a bit of snow or cloud was there above
this upper level.
From a high ridge I watched the top surface of the storm-cloud as it
lay before me in the sun--a silvery expanse of unruffled sea, pierced
by many peaks. Half a mile above towered vast, rugged Long's Peak.
Like a huge raft becalmed in a quiet harbor, the cloud-sea moved
slowly and steadily, almost imperceptibly, a short distance along the
mountains; then, as if anchored in the center, it swung in easy
rotation a few degrees, hesitated, and slowly drifted back.
Occasionally it sank, very slowly, several hundred feet, only to rise
easily to its original level.
With wonder I long watched this beautiful sunny spectacle, finding it
hard to realize that a blinding snow was falling beneath it. Later I
learned that this snowfall was thirty inches deep over several hundred
thousand square miles; but it fell only below the altitude of twelve
thousand feet and not on the high peaks.
Mountain-tops have more sunshine and fewer storms than the lowlands.
The middle slopes of a peak regularly receive heavier falls of rain
and snow than does the summit.
The rugged mountains in all Parks are wonderful in the snow. Snowshoe
excursions, climbs, skiing--all the sports of winter--may be enjoyed
in these magnificent wilds. Mountains in winter hold splendid
decorations--sketches of black and white, ice architecture, rare
groups that form a wondrous winter exhibition. Forests, cañons,
meadows, plateaus and peaks, where hills of snow and gigantic snow
cañons form dazzling structures and new topography, are marvelous
exhibitions. The thousand and one decorations of frost and
snow-flowers are treasures found only under the winter sky.
During a high wind one winter, as I fought my way up Long's Peak,
above timber-line I was pelted with gravel and sand till the blood was
drawn. The milling air-currents simply played with me as they swept
down from the heights. I was knocked down repeatedly, blown into the
air, and then dropped heavily, or rolled about like some giant's toy
as I lay resting in the lee of a crag. Standing erect was usually
impossible and at all times dangerous. Advancing was akin to swimming
a whirlpool. At last I reached the buzzing cups of an air-meter I had
previously placed in Granite Pass, twelve thousand feet above
sea-level. This instrument was registering the awful wind-speed of one
hundred and sixty-five miles an hour! It flew to pieces later during a
swifter spurt.
[Illustration: LONG'S PEAK FROM CHASM LAKE
ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK]
Although I intended going no farther, the wild and eloquent elements
lured me to keep on to the summit of the peak, nearly three thousand
feet higher. All my strength and climbing knowledge were necessary to
prevent me from being blown into space. Gaining each new height was a
battle. Forward and upward I simply wrested my way with an invisible,
tireless contestant who seemed bent on breaking my bones or hurling me
into unbanistered space.
In one rocky gully the uprising winds became so irresistible that I
had to reverse ends and proceed with feet out ahead as bracers and
hands following as anchors. There was no climbing from here on: the
blast dragged, pulled, and floated me ever upward to the sunny,
wind-sheltered Narrows. The last stretch was a steep icy slope with a
precipice beneath. Casting in my lot with the up-sweeping wind, I
pushed out into it and let go. Sprawling and bumping upward, I had
little else to do but guide myself. At last I stood on the top and
found it in an easy eddy--almost a calm compared to the roaring
conditions below. Far down the range great quantities of snow were
being explosively hurled into the air, then thrown into spirals and
whirls that trimmed the peak-points with gauzy banners and silky
pennants, through which the sunlight played splendidly.
Stirring and wild, wonderful scenes are encountered during storms on
mountain-tops, by the lakeshore, and in cañons. The dangers in such
times and places are fewer than in cities. Discomforts? Scarcely. To
some persons life must be hardly worth living. If any normal person
under fifty cannot enjoy being in a storm in the wilds, he ought to
reform at once.
In the intensity and clash of the elements there is a vigorous
building environment. The storms furnish energy, inspiration, and
resolution. There are no substitutes "just as good," no experiences
just as great.
One rainy June day I started up a dim steep trail toward the
headwaters of the river St. Vrain, near timber-line in what is now the
Rocky Mountain National Park. While enjoying the general downpour and
its softened noise through the woods, I was caught in a storm-center
of wrangling winds and waters, and was almost knocked down. Like a
sapling, I bowed streaming in the storm. Later, as I sat on a sodden
log, reveling in the elemental moods and sounds, a water-ouzel began
to sing, but I heard little of his serene optimistic solo above the
roar of the wind and stream.
The storm raged louder as I approached timber-line. Clouds dragged
among the trees. I could see nothing clearly. Every breath was like
swallowing a wet sponge. Then a wind-surge rent the clouds and let me
glimpse the blue sun-filled sky. I climbed an exceptionally tall
spruce. A comic Frémont squirrel scolded in rattling, jerky chatter as
I rose above the sea of clouds and trees. Astride the slender
tree-top, I felt that the wind was trying hard to dislodge me, but I
held on. The tree quivered and vibrated, shook and danced; we charged,
circled, looped, and angled. Nowhere else have I experienced such
wild, exhilarating joy. In the midst of this rare delight the clouds
rose, the wind calmed, and the rain ceased. Then suddenly a blinding,
explosive crash almost threw me from my observatory. Within fifty feet
a tall fir was split to the ground. Quickly climbing back to earth, I
eagerly examined the effects of the lightning-stroke. With one wild
blow, in a second or less it had wrecked a century-old tree.
Although I have rarely known lightning to strike the heights, I have
frequently experienced peculiar electric shocks from the air. I have
never known such electrical storms to prove fatal nor to leave ill
effects; and they may be beneficial. The day before the famous Poudre
Flood, in May, 1904, I was traveling along the Continental Divide
above timber-line near Poudre Lakes. While resting I was startled by
the pulsating hum, the intermittent _buzz-z-z-z_ and _zit-zit_ and the
vigorous hair-pulling of electricity-laden atmosphere.
Presently my right arm was momentarily cramped, and my heart seemed to
lurch several times. These electric shocks lasted only about two
seconds, but recurred every few minutes. The hair-pulling,
palpitation, and cramps seemed slightly less when I fully relaxed on
the ground. When I tried to climb, I found myself muscle-bound from
the electricity. Points of dry twigs momentarily exhibited tips of
smoky blue flame, and sometimes similar flame encircled green twigs
below the lower limbs.
Later that day I came to North Specimen Mountain. There the electrical
waves weakened or entirely ceased while I was in shadow, but they
remained quite serious in the sun. I breathed only in gasps, and my
heart was violent and feeble by turns. I felt as if cinched in a steel
corset. After sundown I was again at ease and free from this strange
electrical colic, which often worries or frightens strangers the first
time they experience it. I soon forgot my own electrical experiences
in the enjoyment that night of the splendidly brilliant electric
effects beneath the enormous mountain-range of cloud-forms over the
foothills. Its surface shone momentarily like incandescent glass, and
occasionally down the slopes ran crooked rivers of gold.
I have had the good fortune to see geysers by sunlight, by moonlight,
during gray stormy days, and also while the earth around them was
covered with snow.
By moonlight the mountainous National Parks are enchanted lands.
There is a gentleness, a serenity, and a softness that is never known
in daylight. Many a time I have explored all night long. The trail is
strangely romantic when across it fall the moon-toned etchings of the
pines. The waterfalls, crags, mountain-tops, forest glades, and alpine
lakes have marvelous combinations of light and shade, and they stir
the senses like music. I wish that every one might see in the
moonlight the Giant Forest in the Sequoia National Park, or
timber-line in the Rocky Mountain National Park. By moonlight the Big
Trees will stir you with the greatest elemental eloquence. Those who
go up into the sky on mountains in the moonlight will have the
greatest raptures and make the highest resolves.
Miss Edna Smith is one of the most appreciative outdoor women I ever
have known. Years ago I urged her to know the mountains at night. Here
is one of her accounts of a night experience:--
At supper-time the chances seemed against a start. It was raining.
Later the rain stopped, but the full moon was almost lost in a
heavy mist and the light was dim. Mr. S. N. Husted, the guide,
thought an attempt to ascend Long's Peak hardly wise. At eleven
o'clock I went to Enos Mills for advice. He said, "Go." So we
mounted our ponies and started, chilled by the clammy fog about
us.
After a short climb we were in another world. The fog was a sea of
silvery clouds below us and from it the mountains rose like
islands. The moon and stars were bright in the heavens. There was
the sparkle in the air that suggests enchanted lands and fairies.
Halfway to timber-line we came upon ground white with snow, which
made it seem all the more likely that Christmas pixies just within
the shadows might dance forth on a moon-beam.
Above timber-line there was no snow, but the moonlight was so
brilliant that the clouds far below were shining like misty lakes,
and even the bare mountainside about us looked almost as white as
if snow-covered.
As we left our ponies at the edge of the Boulder Field and started
across that rugged stretch of débris spread out flat in the
brilliant moonlight, we found the silhouette of Long's Peak thrown
in deep black shadow across it. Never before had that bold
outline seemed so impressive.
At the western edge of Boulder Field there was a new marvel. As we
approached Keyhole, right in the center of that curious nick in
the rim of Boulder Field shone the great golden moon. The vast
shadow of the peak, made doubly dark by the contrast, made us very
silent. When we emerged from Keyhole and looked down into the
Glacier Gorge beyond, it was hard to breathe because of the wonder
of it all. The moon was shining down into the great gorge a
thousand feet below and it was filled with a silvery glow. The
lakes glimmered in the moonlight.
Climbing along the narrow ledge, high above this tremendous gorge,
was like a dream. Not a breath of air stirred, and the only sound
was the crunch of hobnails on rock. There was a supreme hush in
the air, as if something tremendous were about to happen.
Suddenly the sky, which had been the far-off blue of a moonlit
night, flushed with the softest amethyst and rose, and the stars
loomed large and intimately near, burning like lamps with
lavender, emerald, sapphire, and topaz lights. The moon had set
and the stars were supreme.
The Trough was full of ice and the ice was hard and slippery, but
the steps that had been cut in the ice were sharp and firm. We
had no great difficulty in climbing the steep ascent. We emerged
from the Trough upon a ledge from which the view across plains and
mountain-ranges was seemingly limitless.
As we made our way along the Narrows the drama of that day's dawn
proceeded with kaleidoscopic speed. Over the plains, apparently
without end, was a sea of billowy clouds, shimmering with golden
and pearly lights. One mountain-range after another was revealed
and brought close by the rosy glow that now filled all the sky.
Every peak, far and near, bore a fresh crown of new snow and each
stood out distinct and individual. Arapahoe Peak held the eye
long. Torrey's Peak and Gray's Peak were especially beautiful. And
far away, a hundred miles to the south, loomed up the summit of
Pike's Peak. So all-pervading was the alpine glow that even the
near-by rocks took on wonderful color and brilliance.
Such a scene could last but a short time. And it was well for us,
for the moments were too crowded with sensations to be long borne.
Soon the sun burst up from the ocean of clouds below. The lights
changed. The ranges gradually faded into a far-away blue. The
peaks flattened out and lost themselves in the distance. The
near-by rocks took on once more their accustomed somber hues. And
in the bright sunlight of the new day we wondered whether we had
seen a reality or a vision.
On the summit all was bright and warm. Long we lingered in the
sunlight, loath to leave so much beauty, but at last we began the
descent leisurely. It was a perfect trip. It seemed as if the
stage were set for our especial benefit. It was an experience that
will live with me always. At first I felt as if I could never
ascend the peak again, lest the impressions of that perfect night
should become confused or weakened. But I believe I can set this
night apart by itself. And I shall climb Long's Peak again.
To enjoy the Parks, we need but to go to them realizing that these
wilderness realms are the greatest places of safety on the earth. The
thousand dangers of the city are absent; the altitude of high
mountains is not harmful but helpful--the air is free from dust and
germs; and even the wildest and most tempestuous weather within them
will bear acquaintance.
The animals in the wilderness are not ferocious, and they wisely flee
from the coming of Christian people. Extraordinary skill is required
to get close to any wild animal. Even the camera will put the biggest
wild folk to flight! They attack only in self-defense, only when
cornered and assailed by the hunter. The animals that have survived
and left descendants are those which used their wits for flight and
not in ferocity. The grizzly constantly uses his wits to keep out of a
locality where human beings are. Wolves may once have been ferocious,
but at present the aggressive ones are those in the jungles of
nature-faking; wolves keep apart from civilization, and travelers are
not likely to go out of their way to find them. In story-books the
mountain lion crouches upon the cliff or lies in wait upon a tree-limb
to spring upon human prey; but real lions do not do this sort of
thing.
Each year thousands of people scale peaks in the Rockies, the Sierra,
and the Selkirks, or spend a less strenuous vacation in the heights,
up several thousand feet above the sea. From anæmics who stay at home
they hear the common superstition that altitude is harmful! But the
travelers return to their homes in high hopes and in vigorous health.
The heights are helpful, and the outdoors is friendly at all times.
These are splendid sources of hopefulness. They "knit up the raveled
sleave of care." They arouse new interests, give broader outlooks.
They are great blessings that every one needs.
There is a growing appreciation of the safe and sane outdoors. People
are rapidly realizing that vacations in the Parks and wild places are
needful first aids to impaired health, and also that outdoor life is
absolutely necessary for sustained or increased efficiency. From the
wilderness the traveler returns a man, almost a superman. Its
elemental songs, pictures, and stories are a language of eloquent
uplift. Go to the wilderness and get its good tidings! The wilderness
is democratic and is full of ideas. It gives efficiency and sympathy.
The mingling of all classes in the Parks is a veritable blessing; it
is one of the greatest means of preventing internal strife and also of
averting international war.
Nature is an educational stimulus of rare force. The crumbling cliff,
the glacial landscape, the wild, free clouds, birds, and trees, compel
children--old and young--to observe and to think. They bring
development and sympathy. They build the brain. They increase courage
and kindness. Scenes and sunsets, cloud and storm, the stars and the
sky, the music of wind and water, the purple forests, the white
cascades, the colored flowers, the songs of birds, the untrimmed and
steadfast trees, the shadows on the ground, the tangled grass, the
round, sunny hills, the endless streams, the magic rainbow, and the
mysterious echo--all these arouse thought, wonder, and delight in the
mind of every child; and they have been the immortal nourishment of
the great souls who have come from Mother Nature's loving breast to
bless and beautify the world.
"The robe doth change the disposition." During summer vacations, the
all-important rainy-day costume will save endless disappointment and
worry. Rainy days will bear acquaintance--if you have clothes for the
occasion. Cheerfulness and rainy days are united by waterproofs. One
simply cannot cheerfully face a rainstorm in clothes that water will
ruin. Hats or shoes that go to pieces in a downpour, skirts with
colors that run--these mean the Waterloo of some one when the rain
comes down. But an inexpensive hat, strong boots, and a raincoat--then
let it rain!
When one is in the woods, the foremost thing to remember is the
direction back to camp. In a general way this is answered in the
familiar caution: "Stop, look, and listen!" A traveler through the
woods should occasionally stop and make sure of the direction in which
he is traveling. At every important bend in his course he should look
ahead and notice the most conspicuous landmark directly in front of
him; then, about face for a look at the most important point or
landmark that he has passed. He would thus be able, if he doubled on
his own trail, to be guided by familiar objects, just as if he had
traveled over it before in the same direction, with eyes open. Then,
too, he should look to right and left for prominent or peculiar trees,
cliffs, or other objects.
Keeping eyes thus open and mind alert is not a burden; it adds to the
pleasure along the way. Any one who has thus traveled through strange
woods should have taken a mental picture of what he has seen as he
went on, and should be able to sit down and make a rough sketch of the
locality and of his trail, showing the location of camp, the course he
has traveled from it, and the prominent objects on both sides. A fair
knowledge of woodcraft will enable any one to determine the points of
the compass. While this is important, it is of less importance than
remembering the direction to camp.
If a person gets lost, he would do well at once to climb into a
tree-top, or to the summit of the highest near-by place, and from the
commanding height survey the surrounding country. This may enable him
to see a familiar landmark. If he fails to recognize any point, let
him make a comparatively small circle with the purpose of picking up
his trail. He should be careful to avoid aimless wandering, to which
often lost people are so prone. This he may do by following along the
summit of a ridge, or down the first brook or stream he can find. Of
course, he will keep downhill in looking for running water. A few
hours, or at most a few days, of stream-side travel will bring him
where some one lives.
One is not likely to starve to death in the wilds. Starving is a slow
process, and experiences show that a fast of a few days may be
beneficial. Then, too, roots, berries, fruit, mushrooms, and tree-bark
are to be found. With nothing but these, I have repeatedly lived for
two weeks or longer, even at times when I was most active in
exploring or mountain-climbing.
If a man is hopelessly lost, and if he knows that his companions are
sure to look for him, he should stop right where he is when he finds
that he is lost, and should camp and light two signal fires, giving a
call at intervals.
Go into the Parks and get their encouragement. Among the serene and
steadfast scenes you will find the paths of peace and a repose that is
sweeter than sleep. If you are dulled and dazed with the fever and the
fret, or weary and worn,--tottering under burdens too heavy to
bear,--go back to the old outdoor home. Here Nature will care for you
as a mother for a child. In the mellow-lighted forest aisles, beneath
the beautiful airy arches of limbs and leaves, with the lichen-tinted
columns of gray and brown, with the tongueless eloquence of the
bearded, veteran trees, amid the silence of centuries, you will come
into your own.
Some time the grizzled prospector will lead his stubborn burro down
the mountain and cease the search for gold; some time the miner will
lay down his pick, blow out his lamp or his candle, and leave the
worked-out mine; some time eternal night will come upon the gas- and
coal-oil lamp; but our sunny hanging wild gardens--our Parks--are
immortal; they will give us their beauty and their inspiration
forever.