and in a most interesting and effective way. Seeing the predicament we
were in, and appreciating the gravity of the situation, those
nimble-witted lads picked up a couple of clubs from the street, and,
getting in the rear of our champing steeds, began to pound them over the
haunches. For small boys they delivered sturdy blows. Now, if there is
anything that will make a burro move dexterously out of his tracks, it
is to get behind him with a club and beat a steady tattoo on his hams
and legs. No sooner did the boys begin to apply their clubs in good
earnest than our burros began to print tracks in quick succession on the
dusty road, and we went gayly through the town, the lads making a merry
din with their shouts and whacks, mingled with the patter of hoofs on
the street. It was so dramatic that even the women came to their doors
to witness the pageant. We tried not to laugh, and so did the delicately
mannered spectators, but I suspect that a good deal of laughing was done
on the sly, in spite of the canons of etiquette.
At length the obliging lads became a little too accommodating. They used
their persuasives upon the donkeys so vigorously that they--the
donkeys--started off on a lope, a sort of awkward, lop-sided gallop.
Now, if there is anything that is beyond the ability of Master Jack,
especially if he is old, it is to canter and at the same time preserve
his equilibrium. It is evident that he is not built to make a
rocking-chair of his back bone. So a little comedy was enacted, all
involuntary on the part of the _dramatis personae_. Suddenly
Turpentine--that was the name of the little gray burro ridden by my boy
companion--took a header, sending his youthful rider sprawling to the
ground, where he did not remain a moment longer than good manners
demanded. Fortunately he succeeded in disengaging his feet from the
stirrups and directing his movements in such a way that the animal did
not fall upon him. But poor Turpentine, what of him? He tumbled clean
over his head upon his back, and I want to confess in all candor that
one of the most instructive and interesting "animal pictures" I have
ever seen, including those done by Landseer, Rosa Bonheur, and Ernest
Thompson Seton, was that little iron-gray, long-eared donkey lying on
his back on the street and clawing the air with his hoofs. And he clawed
fast, too--fairly sawed the air. For once in his life Turpentine, the
snail paced, was in a hurry; for once he moved with more celerity than
grace. It threw us into spasms of laughter to see him exert himself so
vigorously to reverse his position--to get his feet down and his back
up. A cat could not have done it with more celerity. You never would
have believed him capable of putting so much vim and vigor into his
easy-going personality. After chopping the air with his hoofs for a
second or two, he succeeded in righting himself, and was on his feet in
less time than it takes to tell it. There he stood, as meek as Mary's
lamb, trying to look as if he had never turned an undignified somersault
in all his tranquil life.
We started on our journey again, and presently, to our intense relief,
reached the border of the town, thanked the lads who had expedited our
march along the street, and proceeded on our way up the valley. We soon
settled down to taking our burros philosophically, and erelong they were
going calmly on the even tenor of their way, and afterwards we had
little trouble with them, and actually became quite attached to the
gentle creatures before our joint pilgrimage drew to an end.
It is time to pass from quadrupeds to bipeds. While our feathered
friends were not so abundant in the wilder regions as we might have
wished, still we had almost constant avian companionship along the way.
The warbling vireos were especially plentiful, and in full tune, making
a silvery trail of song beside the dusty road. We had them at our elbow
as far as Graymont, where we made a sharp detour from the open valley,
and clambered along a steep mountain side, with a deep, wooded gorge
below us. Here the vireos suddenly decided that they could escort us no
farther, as they had no taste for crepuscular canyons and alpine heights.
Not a vireo was seen above Graymont, which has an altitude of nearly ten
thousand feet. We left them singing in the valley as we turned from it,
and did not hear them again until we came back to Graymont.
Almost the same may be said of the broad-tailed humming-birds, whose
insect-like buzzing we heard at frequent intervals along the route to a
shoulder of the mountain a little above Graymont, when it suddenly
ceased and was heard no more until we returned to the same spot a few
days later. House-wrens, willow thrushes, Brewer's blackbirds, and
long-crested jays were also last seen at Graymont, which seemed to be a
kind of territorial limit for a number of species.
However, several species--as species, of course, not as
individuals--convoyed us all the way from Georgetown to the timber-line
and, in some instances, beyond. Let me call the roll of these faithful
"steadies": Mountain hermit thrushes, gray-headed juncos, red-shafted
flickers, pine siskins, western robins, Audubon's and Wilson's warblers,
mountain bluebirds and white-crowned sparrows. Of course, it must be
borne in mind that these birds were not seen everywhere along the upward
journey, simply in their favorite habitats. The deep, pine-shadowed
gorges were avoided by the warblers and white-crowned sparrows, whilst
every open, sunlit, and bushy spot or bosky glen was enlivened by a
contingent of these merry minnesingers. One little bird added to our
list in the gorge above Graymont was the mountain chickadee, which was
found thereafter up to the timber-line.
It was sometime in the afternoon when we reached Graymont, which we
found to be no "mount" at all, as we had expected, but a hamlet, now
mostly deserted, in a narrow valley in sight of several gray mountains
looming in the distance. Straight up the valley were some snow-mantled
peaks, but none of them was Gray's; they did not beckon to us from the
right direction. From the upper part of the hamlet, looking to our left,
we saw a frowning, snow-clad ridge towering like an angry giant in the
air, and we cried simultaneously, "Gray's Peak!" The terrific aspect of
that mountain sent a momentary shiver through our veins as we thought of
scaling it without a guide. We were in error, as we afterwards found,
for the mountain was Torrey's Peak, not Gray's, which is not visible
from Graymont, being hidden by two intervening elevations, Mount Kelso
and Torrey's Peak. There are several points about a mile above Graymont
from which Gray's serene peak is visible, but of this we were not aware
until on our return trip, when we had learned to recognize him by his
calm and magisterial aspect.
As evening drew on, and the westering sun fell below the ridges, and the
shadows deepened in the gorges, making them doubly weird, we began to
feel very lonely, and, to add to our misgivings, we were uncertain of
our way. The prospect of having to spend a cold night out of doors in a
solitary place like this was not very refreshing, I am free to confess,
much as one might desire to proclaim himself a brave man. Presently our
eyes were gladdened by the sight of a miner's shack just across the
hollow, perhaps the one for which we were anxiously looking. A man at
Graymont had told us about a miner up this way, saying he was a "nice
man" and would no doubt give us accommodation for the night. I crossed
the narrow foot-bridge that spanned the booming torrent, and found the
miner at home. Would he give two way-worn travellers a place to sleep
beneath his roof? We had brought plenty of food and some blankets with
us, and all we required was four walls around us and a roof over our
heads. Yes, he replied, we were welcome to such accommodation as he had,
and he could even give us a bed, though it "wasn't very stylish." Those
were among the sweetest and most musical words that ever fell on my ear.
Having tethered our burros in a grassy cove on the mountain side, and
cooked our supper in the gloaming among some rocks by the bank of the
brawling stream, we turned into the cabin for the night, more than
grateful for a shelter from the chill winds scurrying down from the
snow-capped mountains. The shack nestled at the foot of Mount Kelso,
which we had also mistaken for Gray's Peak. As we sat by the light of a
tallow candle, beguiling the evening with conversation, the miner told
us that the mountain jays, colloquially called "camp robbers," were
common around his cabin, especially in winter; but familiar as they
were, he had never been able to find a nest. The one thing about which
they insist on the utmost privacy is their nesting places. My friend
also told me that a couple of gray squirrels made the woods around his
camp their home. The jays would frequently carry morsels of food up to
the branches of the pines, and stow them in some crevice for future use,
whereupon the squirrels, always on the lookout for their own interests,
would scuttle up the tree and steal the hidden provender, eating it with
many a chuckle of self-congratulation.
Had not the weather turned so cold during the night, we might have slept
quite comfortably in the miner's shack, but I must confess that, though
it was the twenty-eighth of June and I had a small mountain of cover
over me, I shivered a good deal toward morning. An hour or so after
daylight four or five mountain jays came to the cabin for their
breakfast, flitting to the ground and greedily devouring such tidbits as
they could find. They were not in the least shy. But where were their
nests? That was the question that most deeply interested me. During the
next few days I made many a long and toilsome search for them in the
woods and ravines and on the steep mountain sides, but none of the birds
invited me to their houses. These birds know how to keep a secret.
Anything but feathered Apollos, they have a kind of ghoulish aspect,
making you think of the apparitional as they move in their noiseless way
among the shadowing pines. There is a look in their dark, deep-set eyes
and about their thick, clumpy heads which gives you a feeling that they
might be equal to any imaginable act of cruelty. Yet I cannot say I
dislike these mountain roustabouts, for some of their talk among
themselves is very tender and affectionate, proving that, "whatever
brawls disturb the street," there are love and concord in jay household
circles. That surely is a virtue to be commended, and cannot be claimed
for every family, either avian or human.
At 4.30 that morning I crept out of bed and climbed far up one of the
mountain sides--this was before the jays came to the cabin. The wind
blew so icy from the snow-clad heights that I was only too glad to wear
woollen gloves and pin a bandanna handkerchief around my neck, besides
buttoning up my coat collar. Even then I shivered. But would you believe
it? The mosquitoes were as lively and active as if a balmy breeze were
blowing from Arcady, puncturing me wherever they could find a vulnerable
spot, and even thrusting their sabres through my thick woollen gloves
into the flesh. They must be extremely hardy insects, for I am sure such
arctic weather would send the mosquitoes of our lower altitudes into
their winter hiding-places. People who think there are no mosquitoes in
the Rockies are reckoning without their hosts. In many places they
assaulted us by the myriad until life among them became intolerable, and
some were found even in the neighborhood of perpetual snow.
Raw as the morning was, the hermit thrushes, mountain chickadees,
Audubon's warblers, gray-headed juncos, and ruby-crowned kinglets were
giving a lively rehearsal. How shy they were! They preferred being
heard, not seen. Unexpectedly I found a hermit thrush's nest set in
plain sight in a pine bush. One would have thought so shy a bird would
make some attempt at concealment. It was a well-constructed domicile,
composed of grass, twigs, and moss, but without mortar. The shy owner
was nowhere to be seen, nor did she make any outcry, even though I stood
for some minutes close to her nest. What stolidity the mountain birds
display! You could actually rob the nests of some of them without
wringing a chirp from them. On two later visits to the place I found
Madame Thrush on her nest, where she sat until I came quite close, when
she silently flitted away and ensconced herself among the pines, never
chirping a syllable of protest or fear. In the bottom of the pretty crib
lay four deep-blue eggs. Afterwards I found one more hermit's nest,
which was just in process of construction. In this case, as in the
first, no effort was made at concealment, the nest being placed in the
crotch of a quaking asp a rod or so above the trail, from which it could
be plainly seen. The little madame was carrying a load of timbers to her
cottage as we went down the trail, and sat in the nest moulding and
putting her material in place as I climbed up the steep bank to inspect
her work. Then she flew away, making no demonstration while I examined
the nest.
Having eaten our breakfast at the miner's cabin, my youthful companion
and I mounted our "gayly caparisoned steeds," and resumed our journey
toward Gray's Peak. The birds just mentioned greeted us with their
salvos as we crept along. It was not until we had almost reached the
timber-line that Gray's Peak loomed in sight, solemn and majestic,
photographed against the cobalt sky, with its companion-piece, Torrey's
Peak, standing sullen beside it. The twin peaks were pointed out to us
by another miner whom we met at his shack just a little below the
timber-line, and who obligingly gave us permission to "bunk" in one of
the cabins of what is known as "Stephen's mine," which is now
abandoned--or was at the time of our visit. Near the timber-line, where
the valley opens to the sunlight, we found a mountain bluebird flitting
about some old, deserted buildings, but, strangely enough, this was the
last time we saw him, although we looked for him again and again. Nor
did we see another mountain blue in this alpine eyrie.
Our burros were tethered for the day in a grassy hollow, our effects
stowed away in the cabin aforesaid, which we had leased for a few days;
then, with luncheon strapped over our shoulders and butterfly net and
field-glass in hand, we started happily up the valley afoot toward the
summit of our aspirations, Gray's Peak, rising fourteen thousand four
hundred and forty-one feet above the level of the sea. In some scrubby
pine bushes above timber-line several Audubon's warblers were flitting
and singing, living hard by the white fields of snow. Still farther up
the hollow Wilson's warblers were trilling blithely, proclaiming
themselves yet more venturesome than their gorgeous cousins, the
Audubons. There is reason for this difference, for Wilson's warblers
nest in willows and other bushes which thrive on higher ground and
nearer the snowy zone than do the pines to which Audubon's warblers are
especially attached. At all events, _Sylvania pusilla_ was one of the
two species which accompanied us all the way from Georgetown to the foot
of Gray's Peak, giving us a kind of "personally conducted" journey.
Our other brave escorts were the white-crowned sparrows, which pursued
the narrowing valleys until they were merged into the snowy gorges that
rive the sides of the towering twin peaks. In the arctic gulches the
scrubby copses came to an end, and therefore the white-crowns ascended
no higher, for they are, in a pre-eminent sense, "birds of the bush."
Subsequently I found them as far up the sides of Mount Kelso as the
thickets extended, which was hundreds of feet higher than the snow-bound
gorges just mentioned, for Kelso receives more sunshine than his taller
companions, particularly on his eastern side. Brave birds are these
handsome and musical sparrows. It was interesting to see them hopping
about on the snow-fields, picking up dainties from the white crystals.
How lyrical they were in this upper mountain valley! As has been said,
for some unaccountable reason the white-crowns in the vicinity of
Georgetown were quite chary of their music. Not so those that dwelt in
the valley below Gray's and Torrey's peaks, for there they trilled their
melodious measures with a richness and abandon that were enchanting.
On reaching the snow-belt, though still a little below the limit of
copsy growths, we saw our first pipits, which, it will be remembered, I
had encountered on the summit of Pike's Peak two years before. In our
climb up Gray's Peak we found the pipit realm and that of the
white-crowned sparrows slightly overlapping. As soon, however, as we
began the steep climb above the matted copses, the white-crowns
disappeared and the pipits grew more abundant. At frequent intervals
these birds would suddenly start up from the ground, utter their
protesting "Te-cheer! te-cheer!" and hurl themselves recklessly across a
snowy gulch, or dart high into the air and let their semi-musical calls
drop and dribble from the turquoise depths of the sky. Did the pipits
accompany you to the summit of the peak? I half regret to admit that
they did not, but ceased to appear a good while before the summit was
attained. This is all the more remarkable when it is remembered that
these birds were extremely abundant on the crest of Pike's Peak, where
they behaved in a "very-much-at-home" way.
However, there was ample compensation in the ascent of Gray's Peak. As
we clambered up the steep and rugged side of the mountain, sometimes
wading snow up to our knees, then making a short cut straight up the
acclivity to avoid the snow-banks, unable to follow the trail a large
part of the way, we were suddenly made aware of the presence of another
fearless feathered comrade. With a chirp that was the very quintessence
of good cheer and lightness of heart, he hopped about on the snow,
picking dainties from his immaculate tablecloth, and permitting us to
approach him quite close before he thought it worth while to take to
wing. We were happy indeed to meet so companionable a little friend, one
that, amid these lonely and awe-inspiring heights, seemed to feel so
much at ease and exhibited so confiding a disposition. Was it fancy or
was it really true? He appeared to be giving us a hospitable welcome to
his alpine home, telling us we might venture upward into cloudland or
skyland without peril; then, to make good his assurance, he mounted
upward on resilient wings to prove how little danger there was. We were
doubly glad for our little seer, for just then we needed someone to
"prophesy smooth things" to us. The bird was the brown-capped
leucosticte or rosy finch. Thus far I have used the singular number, but
the plural would have been more accurate, for there were many of these
finches on the acclivity and summit, all of them in a most cheerful
mood, their good will and cordial welcome giving us a pleasant feeling
of comradery as we journeyed together up the mountain side.
Our climb up Gray's Peak was a somewhat memorable event in our
experience, and I am disposed to dwell upon it. The valley which we had
followed terminates in a deep gorge, filled with drift snow the year
round, no doubt, and wedging itself between Gray's and Torrey's
shoulders and peaks. Here the melting snows form the head waters of
Clear Creek, whose sinuous course we had followed by rail, foot, and
burro from the city of Denver.
The trail, leaving the ravine, meandered up a shoulder of the mountain,
wheeled to the left and crept along a ridge, with some fine,
blood-curdling abysses on the eastern side; then went zigzagging back
and forth on the precipitous wall of Gray's titanic mount, until at
last, with a long pull and a strong pull, it scaled the backbone of the
ridge. All this, however, is much more easily told than done. Later in
the season, when the trail is clear of snow-drifts, sure-footed horses
and burros are ridden to the summit; but we were too early to follow the
trail even on foot. Indeed, many persons familiar with the mountains had
declared that we could not reach the top so early in the season, on
account of the large snow-banks that still covered the trail. Even the
old miner, who in the valley below pointed out the peak to us,
expressed grave doubts about the success and wisdom of our undertaking.
"See!" he said, "the trail's covered with snow in many places on the
mountain side. I'm afraid you can't reach the top, sir." I did not see
as clearly as he did, but said nothing aloud. In my mind I shouted,
"Excelsior!" and then added, mentally, of course, "Faint heart never won
fair lady or fairer mountain's crest--hurrah for the peak!" I simply
felt that if there were birds and butterflies on that sky-aspiring
tower, I _must_ see them. The die was cast; we had come to Colorado
expressly to climb Gray's Peak, and climb it we would, or have some good
reason to give for not doing so.
And now we were making the attempt. We had scarcely reached the
mountain's shoulder before we were obliged to wade snow. For quite a
distance we were able to creep along the edge of the trail, or skirt the
snow-beds by making short detours, and then returning to the trail; but
by and by we came to a wide, gleaming snow-field that stretched right
athwart our path and brought us to a standstill with the exclamation,
"What shall we do now?" Having already sunk a number of times into the
snow over our boot-tops, we felt that it would not be safe to venture
across so large an area of soft and treacherous crystals melting in the
afternoon sun and only slightly covering we knew not what deep gorges.
In some places we had been able to walk on the top of the snow, but
elsewhere it was quite soft, and we could hear the gurgling of water
underneath, and sometimes it sounded a little more sepulchral than we
liked. Looking far up the acclivity, we saw still larger snow-fields
obliterating the trail. "We can never cross those snow-fields," one of
us declared, a good deal of doubt in his tones. A moment's reflection
followed, and then the other exclaimed stoutly, "Let us climb straight
up, then!" To which his companion replied, "All right, little Corporal!
Beyond the Alps lies Italy!"
Over rocks and stones and stretches of gravel, sometimes loose,
sometimes solid, we clambered, half the time on all fours, skirting the
snow-fields that lay in our unblazed pathway; on and up, each cheering
the other at frequent intervals by crying lustily, "We can make it! We
can make it!" ever and anon throwing ourselves on the rocks to recover
our breath and rest our aching limbs; on and up we scrambled and crept,
like ants on a wall, until at length, reaching the ridge at the left a
little below the top, we again struck the trail, when we stopped a few
minutes to catch breath, made one more mighty effort, and, behold! we
stood on Gray's summit, looking down triumphantly at the world crouching
at our feet. Never before had we felt so much like Jupiter on Olympus.
_GRAY'S AND TORREY'S PEAKS_
_Gray's to the left, Torrey's to the right. As the lookout of the
photographer was nearer Torrey's than Gray's, the former appears the
higher in the picture, while the reverse is really the case. The trail
winds through a ravine at the right of the ridge in front; then creeps
along the farther side of the ridge above the gorge at Torrey's base;
comes to the crest of the ridge pretty well toward the left; then crawls
and zigzags back and forth along the titanic wall of Gray's to the
summit. In the vale, where some of the head waters of Clear Creek will
be seen, the white-crowned sparrows and Wilson's warblers find homes. A
little before the ascent of the ridge begins, the first pipits are seen;
thence the clamberer has pipit company to the point where the ridge
joins the main bulk of the mountain. Here the pipits stop, and the first
leucostictes are noted, which, chirping cheerily all the way, escort the
traveller to the summit._
[Illustration]