ourselves all exceedingly fatigued, and, much to the satisfaction of
the whole party, we encamped. The spot we had chosen was a broad, flat
rock, in some measure protected from the winds by the surrounding
crags, and the trunks of fallen pines afforded us bright fires. Near
by was a foaming torrent which tumbled into the little lake about one
hundred and fifty feet below us, and which, by way of distinction, we
have called Island Lake. We had reached the upper limit of the piney
region; as above this point no tree was to be seen, and patches of snow
lay everywhere around us on the cold sides of the rocks. The flora
of the region we had traversed since leaving our mules was extremely
rich, and among the characteristic plants the scarlet flowers of the
_Dodecatheon dentatum_ everywhere met the eye in great abundance.
A small green ravine, on the edge of which we were encamped, was
filled with a profusion of alpine plants in brilliant bloom. From
barometrical observations made during our three days’ sojourn at this
place, its elevation above the Gulf of Mexico is 10,000 feet. During
the day we had seen no sign of animal life; but among the rocks here
we heard what was supposed to be the bleat of a young goat, which we
searched for with hungry activity, and found to proceed from a small
animal of a gray color, with short ears and no tail,--probably the
Siberian squirrel. We saw a considerable number of them, and, with the
exception of a small bird like a sparrow, it is the only inhabitant
of this elevated part of the mountains. On our return we saw below
this lake large flocks of the mountain goat. We had nothing to eat
to-night. Lajeunesse with several others took their guns and sallied
out in search of a goat, but returned unsuccessful. At sunset the
barometer stood at 20.522, the attached thermometer 50°. Here we had
the misfortune to break our thermometer, having now only that attached
to the barometer. I was taken ill shortly after we had encamped,
and continued so until late in the night, with violent headache and
vomiting. This was probably caused by the excessive fatigue I had
undergone and want of food, and perhaps also in some measure by the
rarity of the air. The night was cold, as a violent gale from the north
had sprung up at sunset, which entirely blew away the heat of the
fires. The cold and our granite beds had not been favorable to sleep,
and we were glad to see the face of the sun in the morning. Not being
delayed by any preparation for breakfast, we set out immediately.
On every side as we advanced was heard the roar of waters and of a
torrent, which we followed up a short distance until it expanded into a
lake about one mile in length. On the northern side of the lake was a
bank of ice, or rather of snow covered with a crust of ice. Carson[10]
had been our guide into the mountains, and agreeably to his advice we
left this little valley and took to the ridges again, which we found
extremely broken and where we were again involved among precipices.
Here were ice fields; among which we were all dispersed, seeking each
the best path to ascend the peak. Mr. Preuss attempted to walk along
the upper edge of one of these fields, which sloped away at an angle
of about twenty degrees; but his feet slipped from under him, and he
went plunging down the plane. A few hundred feet below, at the bottom,
were some fragments of sharp rock, on which he landed, and, though he
turned a couple of somersets, fortunately received no injury beyond a
few bruises. Two of the men, Clément Lambert and Descoteaux, had been
taken ill, and lay down on the rocks a short distance below; and at
this point I was attacked with headache and giddiness, accompanied by
vomiting, as on the day before. Finding myself unable to proceed, I
sent the barometer over to Mr. Preuss, who was in a gap two or three
hundred yards distant, desiring him to reach the peak, if possible, and
take an observation there. He found himself unable to proceed further
in that direction, and took an observation where the barometer stood
at 19.401, attached thermometer 50° in the gap. Carson, who had gone
over to him, succeeded in reaching one of the snowy summits of the main
ridge, whence he saw the peak towards which all our efforts had been
directed towering eight or ten hundred feet into the air above him.
In the meantime, finding myself grow rather worse than better, and
doubtful how far my strength would carry me, I sent Basil Lajeunesse
with four men back to the place where the mules had been left.
We were now better acquainted with the topography of the country; and
I directed him to bring back with him, if it were in any way possible,
four or five mules, with provisions and blankets. With me were Maxwell
and Ayer; and, after we had remained nearly an hour on the rock, it
became so unpleasantly cold, though the day was bright, that we set out
on our return to the camp, at which we all arrived safely, straggling
in one after the other. I continued ill during the afternoon, but
became better towards sundown, when my recovery was completed by the
appearance of Basil and four men, all mounted. The men who had gone
with him had been too much fatigued to return, and were relieved by
those in charge of the horses; but in his powers of endurance Basil
resembled more a mountain goat than a man. They brought blankets and
provisions, and we enjoyed well our dried meat and a cup of good
coffee. We rolled ourselves up in our blankets, and, with our feet
turned to a blazing fire, slept soundly until morning.
_August 15._--It had been supposed that we had finished with the
mountains; and the evening before it had been arranged that Carson
should set out at daylight, and return to breakfast at the Camp of
the Mules, taking with him all but four or five men, who were to stay
with me and bring back the mules and instruments. Accordingly, at the
break of day they set out. With Mr. Preuss and myself remained Basil
Lajeunesse, Clément Lambert, Janisse, and Descoteaux. When we had
secured strength for the day by a hearty breakfast, we covered what
remained, which was enough for one meal, with rocks, in order that
it might be safe from any marauding bird, and, saddling our mules,
turned our faces once more towards the peaks. This time we determined
to proceed quietly and cautiously, deliberately resolved to accomplish
our object, if it were within the compass of human means. We were
of opinion that a long defile which lay to the left of yesterday’s
route would lead us to the foot of the main peak. Our mules had been
refreshed by the fine grass in the little ravine at the island camp,
and we intended to ride up the defile as far as possible, in order
to husband our strength for the main ascent. Though this was a fine
passage, still it was a defile of the most rugged mountains known,
and we had many a rough and steep slippery place to cross before
reaching the end. In this place the sun rarely shone. Snow lay along
the border of the small stream which flowed through it, and occasional
icy passages made the footing of the mules very insecure; and the rocks
and ground were moist with the trickling waters in this spring of
mighty rivers. We soon had the satisfaction to find ourselves riding
along the huge wall which forms the central summits of the chain. There
at last it rose by our sides, a nearly perpendicular wall of granite,
terminating 2,000 to 3,000 feet above our heads in a serrated line
of broken, jagged cones. We rode on until we came almost immediately
below the main peak, which I denominated the Snow Peak, as it exhibited
more snow to the eye than any of the neighboring summits. Here were
three small lakes of a green color, each of perhaps a thousand yards
in diameter, and apparently very deep. These lay in a kind of chasm;
and, according to the barometer, we had attained but a few hundred feet
above the Island Lake. The barometer here stood at 20.450, attached
thermometer 70°.
We managed to get our mules up to a little bench about a hundred feet
above the lakes, where there was a patch of good grass, and turned
them loose to graze. During our rough ride to this place, they had
exhibited a wonderful surefootedness. Parts of the defile were filled
with angular, sharp fragments of rock,--three or four and eight or ten
feet cube,--and among these they had worked their way, leaping from one
narrow point to another, rarely making a false step, and giving us no
occasion to dismount. Having divested ourselves of every unnecessary
encumbrance, we commenced the ascent. This time, like experienced
travellers, we did not press ourselves, but climbed leisurely, sitting
down as soon as we found breath beginning to fail. At intervals we
reached places where a number of springs gushed from the rocks, and
about 1,800 feet above the lakes came to the snow line. From this point
our progress was uninterrupted climbing. Hitherto I had worn a pair of
thick moccasins, with soles of _par flêche;_ but here I put on a light
thin pair, which I had brought for the purpose, as now the use of our
toes became necessary to a further advance. I availed myself of a sort
of comb of the mountain, which stood against the wall like a buttress,
and which the wind and the solar radiation, joined to the steepness of
the smooth rock, had kept almost entirely free from snow. Up this I
made my way rapidly. Our cautious method of advancing in the outset had
spared my strength; and, with the exception of a slight disposition to
headache, I felt no remains of yesterday’s illness. In a few minutes we
reached a point where the buttress was overhanging, and there was no
other way of surmounting the difficulty than by passing around one side
of it, which was the face of a vertical precipice of several hundred
feet.
Putting hands and feet in the crevices between the blocks, I succeeded
in getting over it, and, when I reached the top, found my companions
in a small valley below. Descending to them, we continued climbing,
and in a short time reached the crest. I sprang upon the summit, and
another step would have precipitated me into an immense snow field
five hundred feet below. To the edge of this field was a sheer icy
precipice; and then, with a gradual fall, the field sloped off for
about a mile, until it struck the foot of another lower ridge. I stood
on a narrow crest, about three feet in width, with an inclination of
about 20° N. 51° E. As soon as I had gratified the first feelings of
curiosity, I descended, and each man ascended in his turn; for I would
only allow one at a time to mount the unstable and precarious slab,
which it seemed a breath would hurl into the abyss below. We mounted
the barometer in the snow of the summit, and, fixing a ramrod in a
crevice, unfurled the national flag to wave in the breeze where never
flag waved before. During our morning’s ascent we had met no sign of
animal life except the small, sparrow-like bird already mentioned. A
stillness the most profound and a terrible solitude forced themselves
constantly on the mind as the great features of the place. Here on the
summit where the stillness was absolute, unbroken by any sound, and the
solitude complete, we thought ourselves beyond the region of animated
life; but, while we were sitting on the rock, a solitary bee (_bromus,
the humble bee_) came winging his flight from the eastern valley, and
lit on the knee of one of the men.
It was a strange place--the icy rock and the highest peak of the Rocky
Mountains--for a lover of warm sunshine and flowers; and we pleased
ourselves with the idea that he was the first of his species to cross
the mountain barrier, a solitary pioneer to foretell the advance of
civilization. I believe that a moment’s thought would have made us
let him continue his way unharmed; but we carried out the law of
this country, where all animated nature seems at war, and, seizing
him immediately, put him in at least a fit place,--in the leaves of
a large book, among the flowers we had collected on our way. The
barometer stood at 18.293, the attached thermometer at 44°, giving for
the elevation of this summit 13,570 feet above the Gulf of Mexico,
which may be called the highest flight of the bee. It is certainly the
highest known flight of that insect. From the description given by
Mackenzie of the mountains where he crossed them with that of a French
officer still farther to the north and Colonel Long’s measurements to
the south, joined to the opinion of the oldest traders of the country,
it is presumed that this is the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains.
The day was sunny and bright, but a slight shining mist hung over
the lower plains, which interfered with our view of the surrounding
country. On one side we overlooked innumerable lakes and streams, the
spring of the Colorado of the Gulf of California; and on the other was
the Wind River Valley, where were the heads of the Yellowstone branch
of the Missouri. Far to the north we just could discover the snowy
heads of the _Trois Tetons_, where were the sources of the Missouri
and Columbia Rivers; and at the southern extremity of the ridge the
peaks were plainly visible, among which were some of the springs of
the Nebraska or Platte River. Around us the whole scene had one main
striking feature, which was that of terrible convulsion. Parallel
to its length, the ridge was split into chasms and fissures, between
which rose the thin, lofty walls, terminated with slender minarets
and columns, which could be clearly discerned from the camp on Island
Lake. According to the barometer, the little crest of the wall on
which we stood was three thousand five hundred and seventy feet above
that place and two thousand seven hundred and eighty above the little
lakes at the bottom, immediately at our feet. Our camp at the Two Hills
(an astronomical station) bore south 3° east, which with a bearing
afterward obtained from a fixed position enabled us to locate the
peak. The bearing of the _Trois Tetons_ was north 50° west, and the
direction of the central ridge of the Wind River Mountains south 39°
east. The summit rock was gneiss, succeeded by sienitic gneiss. Sienite
and feldspar succeeded in our descent to the snow line, where we found
a feldspathic granite. I had remarked that the noise produced by the
explosion of our pistols had the usual degree of loudness, but was not
in the least prolonged, expiring almost instantaneously. Having now
made what observations our means afforded, we proceeded to descend.
We had accomplished an object of laudable ambition, and beyond the
strict order of our instructions. We had climbed the loftiest peak of
the Rocky Mountains, and looked down upon the snow a thousand feet
below, and, standing where never human foot had stood before, felt the
exultation of first explorers. It was about two o’clock when we left
the summit; and, when we reached the bottom, the sun had already sunk
behind the wall, and the day was drawing to a close. It would have been
pleasant to have lingered here and on the summit longer; but we hurried
away as rapidly as the ground would permit, for it was an object to
regain our party as soon as possible, not knowing what accident the
next hour might bring forth.
We reached our deposit of provisions at nightfall. Here was not the
inn which awaits the tired traveller on his return from Mont Blanc, or
the orange groves of South America, with their refreshing juices and
soft, fragrant air; but we found our little _cache_ of dried meat and
coffee undisturbed. Though the moon was bright, the road was full of
precipices, and the fatigue of the day had been great. We therefore
abandoned the idea of rejoining our friends, and lay down on the rock,
and in spite of the cold slept soundly.
THE WILDERNESS HUNTER
J. B. RUXTON
1845
From “Adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains.” John Murray,
London, 1847.
The grizzly bear is the fiercest of the feræ naturæ of the mountains.
His great strength and wonderful tenacity of life render an encounter
with him anything but desirable, and therefore it is a rule with the
Indians and white hunters never to attack him unless backed by a strong
party. Although, like every other wild animal, he usually flees from
man, yet at certain seasons, when maddened by love or hunger, he not
unfrequently charges at first sight of a foe; when, unless killed dead,
a hug at close quarters is anything but a pleasant embrace, his strong
hooked claws stripping the flesh from the bones as easily as a cook
peels an onion. Many are the tales of bloody encounters with these
animals which the trappers delight to recount to the “greenhorn,” to
enforce their caution as to the fool-hardiness of ever attacking the
grizzly bear.
Some years ago a trapping party was on their way to the mountains, led,
I believe, by old Sublette, a well-known captain of the West. Amongst
the band was one John Glass, a trapper who had been all his life in the
mountains, and had seen, probably, more exciting adventures, and had
had more wonderful and hair-breadth escapes, than any of the rough and
hardy fellows who make the West their home, and whose lives are spent
in a succession of perils and privations. On one of the streams running
from the “Black Hills,” a range of mountains northward of the Platte,
Glass and a companion were one day setting their traps, when, on
passing through a cherry-thicket which skirted the stream, the former,
who was in advance, descried a large grizzly bear quietly turning up
the turf with his nose, searching for yampa-roots or pig-nuts, which
there abounded. Glass immediately called his companion, and both,
proceeding cautiously, crept to the skirt of the thicket, and, taking
steady aim at the animal, whose broadside was fairly exposed at the
distance of twenty yards, discharged their rifles at the same instant,
both balls taking effect, but not inflicting a mortal wound. The bear,
giving a groan of pain, jumped with all four legs from the ground, and,
seeing the wreaths of smoke hanging at the edge of the brush, charged
at once in that direction, snorting with pain and fury.
“Hurraw, Bill!” roared out Glass, as he saw the animal rushing towards
them, “we’ll be made ‘meat’ of as sure as shootin’!” and, leaving the
tree behind which he had concealed himself, he bolted through the
thicket, followed closely by his companion. The brush was so thick,
that they could scarcely make their way through, whereas the weight and
strength of the bear carried him through all obstructions, and he was
soon close upon them.
About a hundred yards from the thicket was a steep bluff, and between
these points was a level piece of prairie; Glass saw that his only
chance was to reach this bluff, and, shouting to his companion to make
for it, they both broke from the cover and flew like lightning across
the open space. When more than half-way across, the bear being about
fifty yards behind them, Glass, who was leading, tripped over a stone,
and fell to the ground, and just as he rose to his feet, the beast,
rising on his hind feet, confronted him. As he closed, Glass, never
losing his presence of mind, cried to his companion to load up quickly,
and discharged his pistol full into the body of the animal, at the same
moment that the bear, with blood streaming from its nose and mouth,
knocked the pistol from his hand with one blow of its paw, and, fixing
his claws deep into his flesh, rolled with him to the ground.
The hunter, notwithstanding his hopeless situation, struggled manfully,
drawing his knife and plunging it several times into the body of the
beast, which, furious with pain, tore with tooth and claw the body of
the wretched victim, actually baring the ribs of the flesh and exposing
the very bones. Weak with loss of blood, and with eyes blinded with the
blood which streamed from his lacerated scalp, the knife at length fell
from his hand, and Glass sank down insensible, and to all appearance
dead.
His companion, who, up to this moment, had watched the conflict, which,
however, lasted but a few seconds, thinking that his turn would come
next, and not having had presence of mind even to load his rifle, fled
with might and main back to camp, where he narrated the miserable
fate of poor Glass. The captain of the band of trappers, however,
despatched the man with a companion back to the spot where he lay, with
instructions to remain by him if still alive, or to bury him if, as
all supposed he was, defunct, promising them at the same time a sum of
money for so doing.
On reaching the spot, which was red with blood, they found Glass still
breathing, and the bear, dead and stiff, actually lying upon his body.
Poor Glass presented a horrifying spectacle: the flesh was torn in
strips from his chest and limbs, and large flaps strewed the ground;
his scalp hung bleeding over his face, which was also lacerated in a
shocking manner.
The bear, besides the three bullets which had pierced its body, bore
the marks of the fierce nature of Glass’s final struggle, no less than
twenty gaping wounds in the breast and belly testifying to the gallant
defence of the mountaineer.
Imagining that, if not already dead, the poor fellow could not possibly
survive more than a few moments, the men collected his arms, stripped
him even of his hunting-shirt and moccasins, and, merely pulling the
dead bear off the body, mounted their horses, and slowly followed the
remainder of the party, saying, when they reached it, that Glass was
dead, as probably they thought, and that they had buried him.
In a few days the gloom which pervaded the trappers’ camp, occasioned
by the loss of a favourite companion, disappeared, and Glass’s
misfortune, although frequently mentioned over the camp-fire, at length
was almost entirely forgotten in the excitement of the hunt and Indian
perils which surrounded them.
Months elapsed, the hunt was over, and the party of trappers were on
their way to the trading-fort with their packs of beaver. It was nearly
sundown, and the round adobe bastions of the mud-built fort were just
in sight, when a horseman was seen slowly approaching them along the
banks of the river. When near enough to discern his figure, they saw
a lank cadaverous form with a face so scarred and disfigured that
scarcely a feature was discernible. Approaching the leading horsemen,
one of whom happened to be the companion of the defunct Glass in his
memorable bear scrape, the stranger, in a hollow voice, reining in his
horse before them, exclaimed, “Hurraw, Bill, my boy! you thought I was
‘gone under’ that time, did you? but hand me over my horse and gun, my
lad; I ain’t dead yet by a dam sight!”
What was the astonishment of the whole party, and the genuine horror
of Bill and his worthy companion in the burial story, to hear the
well-known, though now much altered, voice of John Glass, who had been
killed by a grizzly bear months before, and comfortably interred, as
the two men had reported, and all had believed!
There he was, however, and no mistake about it; and all crowded
round to hear from his lips, how, after the lapse of he knew not how
long, he had gradually recovered, and being without arms, or even a
butcher-knife, he had fed upon the almost putrid carcase of the bear
for several days, until he had regained sufficient strength to crawl,
when, tearing off as much of the bear’s-meat as he could carry in his
enfeebled state, he crept down the river; and suffering excessive
torture from his wounds, and hunger, and cold, he made the best of his
way to the fort, which was some eighty or ninety miles from the place
of his encounter with the bear, and, living the greater part of the
way upon roots and berries, he after many, many days, arrived in a
pitiable state, from which he had now recovered, and was, to use his
own expression, “as slick as a peeled onion.”
A trapper on Arkansa, named Valentine Herring, but better known as
“Old Rube,” told me that once, when visiting his traps one morning
on a stream beyond the mountains, he found one missing, at the same
time that he discovered fresh bear “sign” about the banks. Proceeding
down the river in search of the lost, trap, he heard the noise of some
large body breaking through the thicket of plum-bushes which belted
the stream. Ensconcing himself behind a rock, he presently observed a
huge grizzly bear emerge from the bush and limp on three legs to a flat
rock, which he mounted, and then, quietly seating himself, he raised
one of his fore paws, on which Rube, to his amazement, discovered his
trap tight and fast.