sick; others suffer with bleeding at the nose, and others are so
overcome with exhaustion and weakness that they cannot enjoy the superb
panorama spread out before them. However you may account for it, my
youthful comrade and I, in spite of our arduous climb, were in excellent
physical condition when we reached our goal, suffering no pain whatever
in eyes, head, or lungs. The bracing air, rare as it was, soon
exhilarated us, our temporary weariness disappeared, and we were in the
best of trim for scouring the summit, pursuing our natural history
hobbies, and revelling in the inspiring cyclorama that Nature had reared
for our delectation.
My pen falters when I think of describing the scene that broke upon our
vision. I sigh and wish the task were done. The summit itself is a
narrow ridge on which you may stand and look down the declivities on
both sides, scarcely having to step out of your tracks to do so. It is
quite different from the top of Pike's Peak, which is a comparatively
level plateau several acres in extent, carpeted, if one may so speak,
with immense granite rocks piled upon one another or laid side by side
in semi-systematic order; whereas Gray's, as has been said, is a narrow
ridge, composed chiefly of comparatively small stones, with a sprinkling
of good-sized boulders. The finer rocks give the impression of having
been ground down by crushing and attrition to their present dimensions
in the far-away, prehistoric ages.
A short distance to the northwest frowned Torrey's Peak, Gray's
companion-piece, the twain being connected by a ridge which dips in an
arc perhaps a hundred feet below the summits. The ridge was covered with
a deep drift of snow, looking as frigid and unyielding as a scene in the
arctic regions. Torrey's is only a few feet lower than Gray's--one of my
books says five. Mention has been made of its forbidding aspect. It is
indeed one of the most ferocious-looking mountains in the Rockies, its
crown pointed and grim, helmeted with snow, its sides, especially east
and north, seamed and ridged and jagged, the gorges filled with snow,
the beetling cliffs jutting dark and threatening, bearing huge drifts
upon their shoulders. Torrey's Peak actually seemed to be calling over
to us like some boastful Hercules, "Ah, ha! you have climbed my
mild-tempered brother, but I dare you to climb me!" For reasons of our
own we declined the challenge.
The panorama from Gray's Peak is one to inspire awe and dwell forever in
the memory, an alpine wonderland indeed and in truth. To the north,
northwest, and west there stretches, as far as the eye can reach, a vast
wilderness of snowy peaks and ranges, many of them with a rosy glow in
the sunshine, tier upon tier, terrace above terrace, here in serried
ranks, there in isolated grandeur, some just beyond the dividing
canyons, others fifty, sixty, a hundred miles away, cyclopean, majestic,
infinite. Far to the north, Long's Peak lifts his seamed and hoary
pyramid, almost as high as the crest on which we are standing; in the
west rise that famous triad of peaks, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton,
their fanelike towers, sketched against the sky, disputing the palm with
old Gray himself; while a hundred miles to the south Pike's Peak stands
solitary and smiling in the sun, seeming to say, "I am sufficient unto
myself!" Between our viewpoint and the last-named mountain lies South
Park, like a paradise of green immured by guardian walls of rock and
snow, and far to the east, beyond the billowing ranges, white, gray, and
green, stretch the limitless plains, vanishing in the hazy distance. In
such surroundings one's breast throbs and swells with the thought of
Nature's omnipotence.
_PANORAMA FROM GRAY'S PEAK--NORTHWEST_
_The picture includes the northern spur of Gray's Peak, with the
dismantled signal station on its crest. The main ridge of the peak
extends out to the left of the signal station. The summit is so situated
as to be exposed to the sun the greater part of the day; hence, although
it is the highest point in the region, there is less snow upon it in
summer than upon many of the surrounding elevations. Looking northwest
from the signal station, the eye falls upon a wilderness of snow-clad
peaks and ranges, some standing in serried ranks, others in picturesque
disorder. It is truly an arctic scene, summer or winter. Yet it is the
summer home of the brown-capped leucosticte and the white-tailed
ptarmigan, which range in happy freedom over the upper story of our
country._
[Illustration]
The summit of Gray's Peak is a favorable viewpoint from which to study
the complexion, the idiosyncrasies, if you please, of individual
mountains, each of which seems to have a personality of its own. Here is
Gray's Peak itself, calm, smiling, good-natured as a summer morning;
yonder is Torrey's, next-door neighbor, cruel, relentless, defiant,
always threatening with cyclone or tornado, or forging the thunder-bolts
of Vulcan. Some mountains appear grand and dignified, others look like
spitfires. On one side some bear smooth and green slopes almost to the
top, while the other is scarred, craggy, and precipitous.
The day was serene and beautiful, the sky a deep indigo, unflecked with
clouds, save a few filmy wracks here and there, and the breeze as balmy
as that of a May morning in my native State. So quiet was the alpine
solitude that on all sides we could hear the solemn roar of the streams
in the ravines hundreds of feet below, some of them in one key and some
in another, making almost a symphony. For several hours we tarried, held
by a spell. "But you have forgotten your ornithology!" some one reminds
me. No one could blame me if I had. Such, however, is not the case, for
ornithology, like the poor, is never far from some of us. The genial
little optimists that had been hopping about on the snow on the
declivities had acted as our cicerones clear to the summit, and some of
them remained there while we tarried. Indeed the leucostictes were quite
plentiful on the mountain's brow. Several perched on the dismantled
walls of the abandoned government building on the summit, called
cheerily, then wheeled about over the crest, darted out and went
careering over the gulches with perfect aplomb, while we watched them
with envious eyes, wishing we too had wings like a leucosticte, not that
we "might fly away," as the Psalmist longed to do, but that we might
scale the mountains at our own sweet will. The favorite occupation of
our little comrades, besides flying, was hopping about on the snow and
picking up dainties that were evidently palatable. Afterwards we
examined the snow, and found several kinds of small beetles and other
insects creeping up through it or about on its surface. Without doubt
these were leucosticte's choice morsels. Thus Nature spreads her table
everywhere with loving care for her feathered children. The general
habits of the rosy finches are elsewhere depicted in this volume. It
only remains to be said that they were much more abundant and familiar
on Gray's Peak than on Pike's Peak,--that is, at the time of my
respective visits to those summits.
[Illustration: _Thistle Butterfly_]
[Illustration: _Western White_]
To omit all mention of the butterflies seen on this trip would be proof
of avian monomania with a vengeance. The lad who was with me found a
number of individuals of two species zigzagging over the summit, and
occasionally settling upon the rocks right by the fields of snow. What
kind of nectar they sipped I know not, for there were no flowers or
verdure on the heights. They were the Painted Lady or Thistle Butterfly
(_Pyrameis cardui_) and the Western White (_Pieris occidentalis_). He
captured an individual of the latter species with his net, and to-day it
graces his collection, a memento of a hard but glorious climb. The
descent of the mountain was laborious and protracted, including some
floundering in the snow, but was accomplished without accident. A warm
supper in the miner's shack which we had leased prepared us for the
restful slumbers of the night.
Although the weather was so cold that a thin coating of ice was formed
on still water out of doors, the next morning the white-crowned sparrows
were singing their sonatas long before dawn, and when at peep of day I
stepped outside, they were flitting about the cabins as if in search of
their breakfast. The evening before, I left the stable-door open while I
went to bring the burros up from their grazing plat. When I returned
with the animals, a white-crown flew out of the building just as I
stepped into the entrance, almost fluttering against my feet, and
chirping sharply at what he seemed to think a narrow escape. He had
doubtless gone into the stable on a foraging expedition.
The day was spent in exploring the valley and steep mountain sides. A
robin's nest was found a little below the timber-line on the slope of
Mount Kelso. In the woods a short distance farther down, a gray-headed
junco's nest was discovered after a good deal of patient waiting. A
female was preening her feathers on a small pine-tree, a sure sign that
she had recently come from brooding her eggs. Presently she began to
flit about from the tree to the ground and back again, making many
feints and starts, which proved that she was embarrassed by my
espionage; but at last she disappeared and did not return. With
quickened pulse I approached the place where I had last seen her. It was
not long before she flew up with a nervous chirp, revealing a pretty
domicile under a roof of green grass, with four daintily speckled eggs
on the concave floor. I noticed especially that the doorway of the tiny
cottage was open toward the morning sun.
At the timber-line there were ruby-crowned kinglets, mountain
chickadees, and gray-headed juncos, while far above this wavering
boundary a pair of red-shafted flickers were observed ambling about
among the bushes and watching me as intently as I was watching them. I
climbed far up the side of Mount Kelso, then around its rocky shoulder,
following an old trail that led to several abandoned silver mines, but
no new birds rewarded my toilsome quest, although I was pleased to learn
that the pipits and leucostictes did not give the "go-by" to this grand
old mountain, but performed their thrilling calisthenics in the air
about its slopes and ravines with as much grace as they did on the
loftier mountain peaks the day before. A beautiful fox and three cubs
were seen among the large stones, and many mountain rats and a sly mink
went scuttling about over the rocks.
[Illustration: _Junco_
"_Under a roof of green grass_"]
On the morning of June 30 the white-crowns, as usual, were chanting
their litanies long before day broke. We left the enchanting valley that
morning, the trills of the white-crowns ringing in the alpenglow like a
sad farewell, as if they felt that we should never meet again. On our
way down the winding road we frequently turned to gaze with longing
eyes upon the snowy summits of the twin peaks, Gray's all asmile in the
sunshine, and Torrey's--or did we only imagine it?--relenting a little
now that he was looking upon us for the last time. Did the mountains and
the white-crowns call after us, "Auf wiedersehen!" or was that only
imagination too?
PLEASANT OUTINGS
[Illustration: PLATE VII
RUDDY DUCK--_Erismatura rubida_
(Lower figure, male; upper, female)]
One of our pleasantest trips was taken up South Platte Canyon, across
South Park, and over the range to Breckenridge. The town lies in the
valley of the Blue River, the famous Ten Mile Range, with its numerous
peaks and bold and rugged contour, standing sentinel on the west. Here
we found many birds, but as few of them were new, I need not stop to
enter into special detail.
At the border of the town I found my first green-tailed towhee's nest,
which will be described in the last chapter. A pair of mountain
bluebirds had snuggled their nest in a cranny of one of the cottages,
and an entire family of blues were found on the pine-clad slope beyond
the stream; white-crowned sparrows were plentiful in the copses and far
up the bushy ravines and mountain sides; western chippies rang their
silvery peals; violet-green swallows wove their invisible fabrics
overhead; juncos and Audubon's warblers proclaimed their presence in
many a remote ingle by their little trills; and Brewer's blackbirds
"chacked" their remonstrance at every intrusion into their demesnes;
while in many a woodsy or bushy spot the long-crested jays rent the air
with their raucous outcries; nor were the broad-tailed hummers wanting
on this side of the range, and of course their saucy buzzing was heard
wherever they darted through the air.
An entire day was spent in ascending and descending Peak Number Eight,
one of the boldest of the jutting crags of the Ten Mile Range; otherwise
it is called Tillie Ann, in honor of the first white woman known to
scale its steep and rugged wall to the summit. She must have been a
brave and hardy woman, and certainly deserves a monument of some kind in
memory of her achievement, although it falls to the lot of few persons
to have their deeds celebrated by a towering mountain for a memorial.
While not as high by at least a thousand feet as Gray's Peak, it was
fully as difficult of access. A high ridge of snow, which we surmounted
with not a little pride and exhilaration, lay on its eastern acclivity
within a few feet of the crest, a white crystalline bank gleaming in the
sun. The winds hurtling over the summit were as cold and fierce as old
Boreas himself, so that I was glad to wear woollen gloves and button my
coat-collar close around my neck; yet it was the Fourth of July, when
the people of the East were sweltering in the intense heat of their low
altitudes. It was a surprise to us to find the wind so much colder here
than it had been on the twenty-eighth of June on the summit of Gray's
Peak, which is considerably farther north. However, there may be times
when the meteorological conditions of the two peaks are reversed,
blowing a gale on Gray's and whispering a zephyr on Tillie Ann.
The usual succession of birds was seen as we toiled up the slopes and
steep inclines, some stopping at the timber-line and others extending
their range far up toward the alpine zone. In the pine belt below the
timber-line a pair of solitaires were observed flitting about on the
ground and the lower branches of the trees, but vouchsafing no song. In
the same woodland the mountain jays held carnival--a bacchanalian revel,
judging from the noise they made; the ruby-crowned kinglets piped their
galloping roundels; a number of wood-pewees--western species--were
screeching, thinking themselves musical; siskins were flitting about,
though not as numerous as they had been in the piny regions below Gray's
Peak; and here for the first time I saw olive-sided flycatchers among
the mountains. I find by consulting Professor Cooke that their breeding
range is from seven thousand to twelve thousand feet. A few juncos and
ruby-crowned kinglets were seen above the timber-line, while many
white-crowned sparrows, some of them singing blithely, climbed as far up
the mountain side as the stunted copses extended.
Oddly enough, no leucostictes were seen on this peak. Why they should
make their homes on Pike's and Gray's Peaks and neglect Tillie Ann is
another of those puzzles in featherdom that cannot be solved. Must a
peak be over fourteen thousand feet above sea-level to meet their
physiological wants in the summery season? Who can tell? There were
pipits on this range, but, for some reason that was doubtless
satisfactory to themselves, they were much shyer than their brothers and
sisters had been on Gray's Peak and Mount Kelso; more than that, they
were seen only on the slopes of the range, none of them being observed
on the crest itself, perhaps on account of the cold, strong gale that
was blowing across the snowy heights. A nighthawk was sailing in its
erratic course over the peaks--a bit of information worth noting, none
of these birds having been seen on any of the summits fourteen thousand
feet high. These matters are perhaps not of supreme interest, yet they
have their value as studies in comparative ornithology and are helpful
in determining the _locale_ of the several species named. In the same
interest I desire to add that mountain chickadees, hermit thrushes,
warbling vireos, and red-shafted flickers belong to my Breckenridge
list. Besides, what I think must have been a Mexican crossbill was seen
one morning among the pines, and also a large hawk and two kinds of
woodpeckers, none of which tarried long enough to permit me to make
sure of their identity. The crossbill--if the individual seen was a bird
of that species--wore a reddish jacket, explored the pine cones, and
sang a very respectable song somewhat on the grosbeak order, quite
blithe, loud, and cheerful.
On our return trip to Denver we stopped for a couple of days at the
quiet village of Jefferson in South Park, and we shall never cease to be
thankful that our good fairies led us to do so. What birds, think you,
find residence in a green, well-watered park over nine thousand feet
above sea-level, hemmed in by towering, snow-clad mountains? Spread out
around you like a cyclorama lies the plateau as you descend the mountain
side from Kenosha Pass; or wheel around a lofty spur of Mount Boreas,
and you almost feel as if you must be entering Paradise. It was the
fifth of July, and the park had donned its holiday attire, the meadows
wearing robes of emerald, dappled here and there with garden spots of
variegated flowers that brought more than one exclamation of delight
from our lips.
_SOUTH PARK FROM KENOSHA HILL_
_A paradise of green engirdled by snow-mantled mountains, making a
summer home for western meadow-larks, Brewer's blackbirds, desert horned
larks, and western Savanna sparrows._
[Illustration]
Before leaving the village, our attention was called to a colony of
cliff-swallows, the first we had seen in our touring among the
mountains. Against the bare wall beneath the eaves of a barn they had
plastered their adobe, bottle-shaped domiciles, hundreds of them, some
in orderly rows, others in promiscuous clusters. At dusk, when we
returned to the village, the birds were going to bed, and it was
interesting to watch their method of retiring. The young were already
grown, and the entire colony were converting their nests into sleeping
berths, every one of them occupied, some of the partly demolished ones
by two and three birds. But there were not enough couches to go round,
and several of the birds were crowded out, and were clinging to the side
of the wall on some of the protuberances left from their broken-down
clay huts. It was a query in my mind whether they could sleep
comfortably in that strained position, but I left them to settle that
matter for themselves and in their own way.
Leaving the town, we soon found that the irrigated meadows and
bush-fringed banks of the stream made habitats precisely to the taste of
Brewer's blackbirds, which were quite plentiful in the park. My
companion was "in clover," for numerous butterflies went undulating over
the meadows, leading him many a headlong chase, but frequently getting
themselves captured in his net. Thus occupied, he left me to attend to
the birds. At the border of the village a little bird that was new to me
flitted into view and permitted me to identify it with my glass. The
little stranger was the western savanna sparrow. South Park was the only
place in my Colorado rambles where I found this species, and even his
eastern representative is known to me very imperfectly and only as a
migrant. The park was fairly alive with savannas, especially in the
irrigated portions. I wonder how many millions of them dwelt in this
vast Eden of green almost twice as large as the State of Connecticut!
The little cocks were incessant singers, their favorite perches being
the wire fences, or weeds and grass tufts in the pastures. Their voices
are weak, but very sweet, and almost as fine as the sibilant buzz of
certain kinds of insects. The pretty song opens with two or three
somewhat prolonged syllables, running quite high, followed by a trill
much lower in the scale, and closes with a very fine, double-toned
strain, delivered with the rising inflection and a kind of twist or
jerk--"as if," say my notes, "the little lyrist were trying to tie a
knot in his aria before letting it go." More will be said about these
charming birds before the end of this chapter.
The western meadow-larks were abundant in the park, delivering with
great gusto their queer, percussive chants, which, according to my
notes, "so often sound as if the birds were trying to crack the whip."
The park was the only place above the plains and mesas where I found
these gifted fluters, with the exception of the park about Buena Vista.
It would appear that the narrow mountain valleys, green and grassy
though they are, do not appeal to the larks for summer homes; no, they
seem to crave "ampler realms and spaces" in which to spread their wings
and chant their dithyrambs.
Where the natural streams and irrigating ditches do not reach the soil
of the park it is as dry and parched as the plains and mesas. In fact,
the park is only a smaller and higher edition of the plains, the
character of the soil and the topography of the land in both regions
being identical. Never in the wet, fresh meadows, whether of plain or
park, only on the arid slopes and hillocks, will you find the desert
horned larks, which are certainly true to their literary cognomen, if
ever birds were. How they revel in the desert! How scrupulously they
draw the line on the moist and emerald areas! Surely there are "many
birds of many kinds," and one might appropriately add, "of many minds,"
as well; for, while the blackbirds and savanna sparrows eschew the
desert, the horned larks show the same dislike for the meadow. In
shallow pits dug by themselves amid the sparse buffalo grass, the larks
set their nests. The young had already left their nurseries at the time
of my visit to the park, but were still receiving their rations from the
beaks of their elders. On a level spot an adult male with an uncommonly
strong voice for this species was hopping about on the ground and
reciting his canticles. Seeing I was a stranger and evidently interested
in all sorts of avian exploits, he decided to give an exhibition of what
might be called sky-soloing, as well as dirigible ballooning. Starting
up obliquely from the ground, he continued to ascend in a series of
upward leaps, making a kind of aerial stairway, up, up, on and up, until
he was about the size of a humming-bird framed against the blue dome of
the sky. So far did he plunge into the cerulean depths that I could just
discern the movement of his wings. While scaling the air he did not
sing, but having reached the proper altitude, he opened his mandibles
and let his ditty filtrate through the ether like a shower of spray. It
could be heard quite plainly, although at best the lark's song is a
weak, indefinite twitter, its peculiar characteristic being its carrying
quality, which is indeed remarkable.