OUR CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS
We camped in a broad and sunny valley, with lovely grassy meadows,
groups of firs and tapering spruces; where clear streams of ice-cold
water wound their way through thickets of alder and willows. Across a
lake was a snow-capped peak, with foaming cataracts falling over
timbered cliffs, and a hanging valley where the slopes of two mountains
met in a massive rock wall.
That evening the fish were rising in the lake. After picketing my
horse, I lost no time in getting out my rod and fly-book to fish the
outlet, where the current was broad and swift. From a high bank at the
mouth I made my first cast. The water was clear and many fish in sight,
darting hither and thither over a bottom of clean sand and gravel, with
pebbles of many shapes and colors shining in the sunlight.
Soon I had a strike. My line tightened and there came a holding back, a
palpitation of the rod. Then a big tail flashed in the sunlight and
thrashed the surface. It was an open river with good going along the
shore. I gave my fish plenty of line and held him in the current.
Before long I had a four-pound Dolly Varden flopping on the pebbly
shore. I caught several Dolly Vardens, and then a double catch of brook
trout, a two-pound and a one-pound fish. My largest brook trout weighed
three pounds.
We pitched our lodges near the lake, in a meadow where wild geranium
and blue camas were in bloom. Little Creek and his wife were in one of
the tepees, Onesta and Nitana and their small daughter Yellow Mink in
the other. I slept outside under a pine tree and on the shore of the
lake. Overhead were the feathery arms of the tree, with clusters of
cones at the ends of the branches. The ground was covered with fragrant
pine needles, piles of cone scales and shells where the squirrels had
been feasting.
From my bed I watched the stars come slowly out above the dark
battlements of the mountains. Overhead the nighthawks were feeding,
pitching about and diving with a rushing sound of their wings. I saw a
flock of ducks on the lake and a solitary beaver swimming in the
twilight. After dark the night wind began to blow, sighing through the
branches of my pine tree. I heard the lapping of water along the sandy
shore, roar of an avalanche, and the distant thunder of cataracts
wind-borne across the lake.
There is no sweeter chorus than the songs of birds in the early
northern dawn. I heard thrushes and purple finches in the willows and
Western yellow-throats and evening grosbeaks in groves of quaking
aspen. Along the lake-shore the dominant singers were the white-crowned
sparrows with sweet and uplifted melody.
After sunrise I had a swim luxuriously cold. I dove deep and gazed
through the depths of the clear green water, while little bubbles
floated around my body; then came up into the sunlight and floated on
my back, gazing into a sky of deepest blue. For a moment I lay still
and my body seemed to leave me; then swam into the lake, cutting
through the clear cold water until I landed on a sandy beach, where the
sun felt hot on my back and I tingled from head to foot.
My Indian friends never burdened themselves with work. They lay in the
sun for hours and did not work until they felt like it. We cut the
straight and slender trees of lodge-pole pine for tepee poles, peeling
off the bark and standing them in the sun to dry. The women also
gathered plants and herbs in meadow and forest, both for eating and
healing; and they helped me make a botanical collection [3] of my own.
For vegetables they gathered wild onions, wild potatoes, cow parsnip,
bitterroot and prairie turnip. But the camas was their favorite
vegetable. It had a root like a small potato and had a sweet flavor.
They roasted the stalks of the cow parsnip, when they were tender and
juicy in the spring; and dried the leaves of bearberry for tobacco,
also pipsissewa or princess pine. They used a lichen that grows on pine
trees as yellow dye, a pore fungus for cleaning buckskin, and yellow
orthocarpus for dyeing skins. For eye inflammation they used the
blossoms of horsemint, the long plumed avens for coughs, Oregon grape
for stomach trouble, and gum plant for the liver.
One day I went with Little Creek for a hunting trip on the mountains.
He took his rifle and I my camera for pictures. Little Creek was a good
guide. He had the instinct of an Indian for traveling in the forest and
a wonderful memory for landmarks. He was a fountain of shrewd wisdom
and something of a philosopher.
We crossed a valley to the base of a mountain; then went slowly up the
steep slope, stopping to rest and smoke and listen to the birds, to see
the trees and flowers and look for signs of game. I heard a Gambel
sparrow singing among the spruces. It closely resembles the
white-crowned sparrow and is related to our Eastern white-throat. But
its song has only three notes which are of different tones, like the
sounding of clear bells. Many squirrels chattered at our approach and
ceased from hiding cones to watch us pass. We raised some blue grouse,
saw signs of wapiti and moose and the splay footprints of a wolverine,
called “Mountain Devil” by the Indians, because of its meanness and
wonderful cunning.
We went through a chain of meadows with masses of wild flowers of many
shades and colors, crimson, yellow, pink and blue, growing luxuriantly
among the tall grasses. A warm wind swept across their faces, bearing a
delicious fragrance that reminded me of the sweet clover fields of our
Eastern States in June.
Deep down in the soft grass were anemones and lady’s-slipper, and along
streams masses of pink wild heliotrope, bluebells, and shooting
stars—vivid little red flowers that held their pointed yellow noses
downward towards the ground. In the woods were tiny twin flowers,
golden arnica growing high above the forest floor, and clematis with
lovely purple blossoms, festooning with its vines the shrubs and logs
and lower branches of trees. The Indian called clematis “Ghost’s
Lariat,” because it catches people and trips them up in the dark.
In the forest the largest trees were Engelmann spruce and Douglas fir,
growing in scattered groups, some one hundred feet in height. But the
chief tree was the lodge-pole pine, tall, slender, and clean-shafted.
Near timber-line many trees were broken, having been thrown by the
southwest wind. The forest became open and the trees shorter, till we
passed from the cover and came to battered and storm-twisted
“limber-pines.” Some of them were centuries old, undersized and
imperfect, with trunks only a foot in diameter and several feet in
height; some trailed on the ground, like serpents and long-bodied
animals; others, in exposed places on the mountain side, looked like
tattered and wind-torn banners, with branches all flung out on one side
of the trunk.
On the high slopes it was still early spring; the flowers followed
close upon retreating snowdrifts. There the growing season is so brief,
the spring and autumn flora bloom together. High up I saw blossoms in
all their vernal freshness, that had long ago faded on the prairies.
Along the borders of streams and in mossy bogs, the swamp laurel was in
flower, its blossoms rosy pink, also snow buttercups and the Western
globeflower. Close by a snowbank, I saw a carpet of yellow snow lilies,
a belt of solid gold, false forget-me-nots and chalice cups of
cream-white blossoms and fluffy gold-green centers.
We followed an old game trail across an upland meadow, through a carpet
of heath and heather with delicate pink flowers. On the rocks were
colored lichens; dainty wind-flowers bloomed in every sheltered nook.
In crevices of cliffs were maidenhair ferns, and in moist meadows the
fragrant alpine lady fern.
Little Creek was a tireless climber and as sure-footed as a mountain
goat. We crossed snowdrifts, ledges, broken rock and treacherous shale,
climbing along frowning red precipices where I dared not look down, but
kept my eyes on the sky and rock wall. Finally, we gained the summit
and stood at the edge of a cliff, where the mountain fell abruptly a
thousand feet. Far below in the valley lay our miniature camp, with its
white lodges on the lake-shore. Everywhere were snow-clad peaks and
glistening glaciers, rock-strewn ridges and gorges with rushing
streams, forest slopes and valley lakes of emerald and blue. Far off
the green ocean of the prairie stretched into the eastern horizon and
hundreds of miles beyond.
About us was a wilderness of solitude and silence, not a sound of bird
or beast, only the rushing of the summit wind. Dark blue was the sky;
the air pine-scented, clear and luminous, uplifting the soul and
attuning it to the majesty of our surroundings.
Pointing to a mountain that overlooked the plains, Little Creek said:
“That is the place where Swift Eagle died.”
“How did he come to die there?” I asked.
“He was wounded in a fight with the Flathead Indians,” replied Little
Creek. “He was the leader of a band of warriors. Early one summer they
crossed the mountains after horses. They came to a Flathead camp in a
park, which was surrounded by forest. That night, when they were ready
to make off with the horses of the Flatheads, Swift Eagle came upon an
Indian of the Nez Percé tribe, who was after the same horses. He was a
famous chief named Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot, but Swift Eagle did not know
this.
“The Nez Percé saw the Blackfoot chief and rushed at him with his war
club. They fought hand-to-hand. Swift Eagle struck the stranger with
his knife. But before he died, the Nez Percé swung his terrible war
club and hit Swift Eagle.
“It was night, and the Blackfoot warriors found their chief lying
beside the body of the Nez Percé. They recognized the war club. It was
made from the huge antler of a bull elk and was different from all
others. They knew it belonged to the famous chief, Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot.
“Then they made a litter of poles and carried Swift Eagle across the
mountains. After they had passed the summit, he opened his eyes. His
warriors told him he would soon be home. But he said:
“‘My children, it is useless to carry me farther. Before I started on
this trip I had a strong dream that I would never come back alive.’
“He told them to take him to a high cliff on that mountain. He died
there and his followers left beside him the war club of the Nez Percé
chief.”
After the story we sat awhile on the summit to look out over the
plains, and then descended into a basin, a beautiful amphitheater with
a peaceful little lake, clusters of pines and a moist green meadow with
a sheep-lick. In the meadow were golden snow lilies, sky-blue
forget-me-nots, and the rose-red monkey flower, growing close to a cold
brook that came leaping down the mountain. At the head of the basin was
a lofty rock wall, with silvery waterfalls and a great gray glacier,
close to the saw-tooth cliffs of the Continental Divide.
Then we lay silently behind some stunted spruces and watched the
sheep-lick for game. We saw some conies on the slide-rock, a timid
little rabbit-people who live among the rocks at timber-line. They
scampered about, squeaking and running back and forth with grass and
flowers in their mouths. From a rock-cliff a hoary marmot came waddling
across a barren slope to his feeding grounds on the green turf. He was
gray in color, with short legs and heavy body and a white band round
his nose.
The only sound was the singing of a waterfall at the head of the lake,
and of the brook flowing softly through the grass. Suddenly a stone
came tumbling down, followed by a rattling of shale; a small ram came
into view, making his way leisurely along the mountain, stopping now
and then to take a bite of grass. The spot where he had chosen to feed
was beyond our range and without cover to approach. But the wind was
favorable. Then Little Creek crawled among the rocks to get near enough
for a shot. Finally I saw him lie flat, and with elbows resting on the
ground, he took aim and fired. The ram leaped into the air and started
up the mountain with wonderful speed. At several more shots it scarcely
seemed to touch the ground, but bounded along and disappeared among the
high cliffs.
Then we left the basin and followed the gorge of a mountain torrent,
which descended into the valley. We came down through a series of parks
and meadows with many kinds of grasses, the brightest greens I have
ever seen; and an open forest of alpine firs, with long-pointed crowns
and blue-green leaves and bark so pale and smooth their trunks seemed
carved from stone.
We came upon two black-tail deer, a buck and a doe, and, as we had the
wind in our favor, we approached under cover of the forest to within
one hundred yards. Little Creek rested his rifle in a forked tree and
fired. At the shot the buck stretched out his limbs and bounded away,
running in a zigzag course, then round and round until he fell dead.
And, after cutting up the carcass, we took the meat back to camp.
By our camp-fire my Indian friends talked about a trip to Canada.
Nomads by nature, they loved to wander and were happier on the move.
They liked trips of all kinds, to hunt and fish and visit friends; but
most of all to go among their northern relatives, the Bloods, North
Piegans and North Blackfoot.
Said my Indian sister: “We should start right away; the weather is warm
and clear; this is the best time of year to travel.”
“But we cannot get a permit from our Agent,” replied Onesta. “And
besides the North-West Mounted Police would stop us at the Line. I know
Indians who tried to cross into Canada and were stopped. The police
turned them back and they had to come home.”
For a moment there was silence; and then I said: “Your Agent is my
friend. From him I have a pass to go whither I please. You can all come
with me and we will make the north trip together.”
Then Onesta was glad and said: “We will take you to our friends and
relatives among the Blood Indians, to the tribe of the North Piegans
and camp of Brings-Down-the-Sun. He is my uncle and I shall ask him to
help you. He lives with his children and grandchildren in a camp on Old
Man’s River. He is the wisest of all our medicine men; and knows more
than any one about our legends and worship of the Sun.”
“Let us go at once,” I replied. “I want to visit that uncle of yours.”
Then were all happy and like children they showed it. They wanted to
start next morning at the rising of the sun.