storm-beaten trees. Harriet was attracted to a few dwarf spruces that
were standing in a drift of recently fallen snow. Although these
dwarfed little trees were more than a hundred years old, they were so
short that the little mountain-climber who stood by them was taller
than they. After stroking one of the trees with her hand, Harriet
stood for a time in silence, then out of her warm childish nature she
said, "What brave little trees to live up here where they have to
stand all the time in the snow!" Timber-line, with its strange tree
statuary and treeless snowy peaks and crags rising above it, together
with its many kinds of bird and animal life and its flower-fringed
snowdrifts, is one of nature's most expressive exhibits, and I wish
every one might visit it. At an altitude of about eleven thousand
seven hundred feet we came to the last tree. It was ragged, and so
small that you could have hidden it beneath a hat. It nestled up to a
boulder, and appeared so cold and pitiful that Harriet wanted to know
if it was lost. It certainly appeared as if it had been lost for a
long, long time.
Among the crags Harriet and I kept sharp watch for mountain sheep, but
we did not see any. We were fortunate enough, however, to see a flock
of ptarmigan. These birds were huddled in a hole which narrowly
escaped being trampled on by Top. They walked quietly away, and we had
a good look at them. They were almost white; in winter they are pure
white, while in summer they are of a grayish brown. At all times
their dress matches the surroundings fairly well, so that they have
a protective coloring which makes it difficult for their enemies to
see them.
At an altitude of twelve thousand five hundred feet the horses were
tied to boulders and left behind. From this place to the top of the
peak the way is too rough or precipitous for horses. For a mile
Harriet and I went forward over the boulders of an old moraine. The
last half-mile was the most difficult of all; the way was steep and
broken, and was entirely over rocks, which were covered with a few
inches of snow that had fallen during the night.
We climbed slowly; all good climbers go slowly. Harriet also
faithfully followed another good mountain rule,--"Look before you
step." She did not fall, slip, or stumble while making the climb. Of
course we occasionally rested, and whenever we stopped near a flat
rock or a level place, we made use of it by lying down on our backs,
straightening out arms and legs, relaxing every muscle, and for a time
resting as loosely as possible. Just before reaching the top, we made
a long climb through the deepest snow that we had encountered. Though
the sun was warm, the air, rocks, and snow were cold. Not only was the
snow cold to the feet, but climbing through it was tiresome, and at
the first convenient place we stopped to rest. Finding a large, smooth
rock, we lay down on our backs side by side. We talked for a time and
watched an eagle soaring around up in the blue sky. I think Harriet
must have recalled a suggestion which I made at timber-line, for
without moving she suddenly remarked, "Mr. Mills, my feet are so cold
that I can't tell whether my toes are wiggling or not."
Five hours after starting, Harriet stepped upon the top, the youngest
climber to scale Long's Peak. The top is fourteen thousand two hundred
and fifty-nine feet above the sea, is almost level, and, though rough,
is roomy enough for a baseball game. Of course if the ball went over
the edge, it would tumble a mile or so before stopping. With the top
so large, you will realize that the base measures miles across. The
upper three thousand feet of the peak is but a gigantic mass, almost
destitute of soil or vegetation. Some of the rocks are flecked and
spotted with lichens, and a few patches of moss and straggling,
beautiful alpine flowers can be found during August. There is but
little chance for snow to lodge, and for nearly three thousand feet
the peak rises a bald, broken, impressive stone tower.
While Harriet and I were eating luncheon, a ground-hog that I had fed
on other visits came out to see if there was anything for him. Some
sparrows also lighted near; they looked hungry, so we left some bread
for them and then climbed upon the "tip-top," where our picture was
taken.
From the tip-top we could see more than a hundred miles toward any
point of the compass. West of us we saw several streams that were
flowing away toward the Pacific; east of us the streams flowed to the
Atlantic. I told Harriet that the many small streams we saw all grew
larger as they neared the sea. Harriet lived at the "big" end of the
Arkansas River. She suddenly wanted to know if I could show her the
"little end of the Arkansas River."
[Illustration: ON THE TIP-TOP OF LONG'S PEAK]
After an hour on top we started downward and homeward, the little
mountain-climber feeling happy and lively. But she was careful, and
only once during the day did she slip, and this slip was hardly her
fault: we were coming off an enormous smooth boulder that was wet from
the new snow that was melting, when both Harriet's feet shot from
under her and she fell, laughing, into my arms.
"Hello, Top, I am glad to see you," said Harriet when we came to the
horses. While riding homeward I told Harriet that I had often climbed
the peak by moonlight. On the way down she said good-bye to the little
trees at timber-line, the squirrels, and the ouzel. When I at last
lifted Harriet off old Top at the cabin, many people came out to greet
her. To all she said, "Yes, I'm tired, but some time I want to go up
by moonlight."
Midget, the Return Horse
In many of the Western mining-towns, the liverymen keep "return
horses,"--horses that will return to the barn when set at liberty,
whether near the barn or twenty miles away. These horses are the pick
of their kind. They have brains enough to take training readily, and
also to make plans of their own and get on despite the unexpected
hindrances that sometimes occur. When a return horse is ridden to a
neighboring town, he must know enough to find his way back, and he
must also be so well trained that he will not converse too long with
the horse he meets going in the opposite direction.
The return horse is a result of the necessities of mountain sections,
especially the needs of miners. Most Western mining-towns are located
upon a flat or in a gulch. The mines are rarely near the town, but are
on the mountain-slopes above it. Out of town go a dozen roads or
trails that extend to the mines, from one to five miles away, and
much higher than the town. A miner does not mind walking down to the
town, but he wants to ride back; or the prospector comes in and wants
to take back a few supplies. The miner hires a return horse, rides it
to the mine, and then turns the horse loose. It at once starts to
return to the barn. If a horse meets a freight wagon coming up, it
must hunt for a turnout if the road is narrow, and give the wagon the
right of way. If the horse meets some one walking up, it must avoid
being caught.
The San Juan mining section of southwestern Colorado has hundreds
of these horses. Most of the mines are from one thousand to three
thousand feet above the main supply-points, Ouray, Telluride, and
Silverton. Ouray and Telluride are not far apart by trail, but they
are separated by a rugged range that rises more than three thousand
feet above them. Men often go by trail from one of these towns to the
other, and in so doing usually ride a return horse to the top of the
range, then walk down the other side.
[Illustration: A MINER ON A RETURN HORSE]
"Be sure to turn Jim loose before you reach the summit; he won't
come back if you ride him even a short distance on the other side,"
called a Telluride liveryman to me as I rode out of his barn. It seems
that the most faithful return horse may not come back if ridden far
down the slope away from home, but may stray down it rather than climb
again to the summit to return home. The rider is warned also to
"fasten up the reins and see that the cinches are tight" when he turns
the horse loose. If the cinches are loose, the saddle may turn when
the horse rolls; or if the reins are down, the horse may graze for
hours. Either loose reins or loose cinches may cripple a horse by
entangling his feet, or by catching on a snag in the woods. Once
loose, the horse generally starts off home on a trot. But he is not
always faithful. When a number of these horses are together, they
will occasionally play too long on the way. A great liking for grass
sometimes tempts them into a ditch, where they may eat grass even
though the reins are up.
The lot of a return horse is generally a hard one. A usurper
occasionally catches a horse and rides him far away. Then, too often,
his owner blames him for the delay, and for a time gives him only
half-feed to "teach him not to fool along." Generally the return horse
must also be a good snow horse, able to flounder and willing to make
his way through deep drifts. He may be thirsty on a warm day, but he
must go all the way home before having a drink. Often, in winter, he
is turned loose at night on some bleak height to go back over a lonely
trail, a task which he does not like. Horses, like most animals and
like man, are not at ease when alone. A fallen tree across the trail
or deepened snow sometimes makes the horse's return journey a hard
one. On rare occasions, cinch or bridle gets caught on a snag or
around his legs, and cripples him or entangles him so that he falls
a victim to the unpitying mountain lion or some other carnivorous
animal.
I have never met a return horse without stopping to watch it as
far as it could be seen. They always go along with such unconscious
confidence and quiet alertness that they are a delight to behold. Many
good days I have had in their company, and on more than one occasion
their alertness, skill, and strength have saved me either from injury
or from the clutches of that great white terror the snow-slide.
The February morning that I rode "Midget" out of Alma began what
proved to be by far the most delightful association that I have ever
had with a return horse, and one of the happiest experiences with
nature and a dumb animal that has ever come into my life.
I was in government experiment work as "State Snow Observer," and
wanted to make some observations on the summit peaks of the
"Twelve-Mile" and other ranges. Midget was to carry me far up the side
of these mountains to the summit of Hoosier Pass. A heavy snow had
fallen a few days before I started out. The wind had drifted most of
this out of the open and piled it deeply in the woods and gulches.
Midget galloped merrily away over the wind-swept ground. We came to
a gulch, I know not how deep, that was filled with snow, and here I
began to appreciate Midget. Across this gulch it was necessary for us
to go. The snow was so deep and so soft that I dismounted and put
on my snowshoes and started to lead Midget across. She followed
willingly. After a few steps, a flounder and a snort caused me to look
back, and all I could see of Midget was her two little ears wriggling
in the snow. When we reached the other side, Midget came out breathing
heavily, and at once shook her head to dislodge the snow from her
forehead and her ears. She was impatient to go on, and before I could
take off my snowshoes and strap them on my back, she was pawing the
ground impatiently, first with one little fore foot and then with the
other. I leaped into the saddle and away we went again. We had a very
pleasant morning of it.
About eleven o'clock I dismounted to take a picture of the snowy slope
of Mt. Silverheels. Evidently Midget had never before seen a kodak.
She watched with extraordinary interest the standing of the little
three-legged affair upon the ground and the mounting of the small
black box upon it. She pointed her ears at it; tilted her head to one
side and moved her nose up and down. I moved away from her several
feet to take the picture. She eyed the kodak with such intentness that
I invited her to come over and have a look at it. She came at once,
turning her head and neck to one side to prevent the bridle-reins,
which I had thrown upon the ground, from entangling her feet. Once by
me, she looked the kodak and tripod over with interest, smelled of
them, but was careful not to strike the tripod with her feet or to
overturn it and the kodak with her nose. She seemed so interested that
I told her all about what I was doing,--what I was taking a picture
of, why I was taking it, and how long an exposure I was going to give
it; and finally I said to her: "To-morrow, Midget, when you are back
in your stall in the barn at Alma, eating oats, I shall be on the
other side of Mt. Silverheels, taking pictures there. Do you
understand?" She pawed the ground with her right fore foot with
such a satisfied look upon her face that I was sure she thought
she understood all about it.
From time to time I took other pictures, and after the first
experience Midget did not wait to be invited to come over and watch
me, but always followed me to every new spot where I set the tripod
and kodak down, and on each occasion I talked freely with her, and
she seemed to understand and to be much interested.
Shortly after noon, when I was taking a picture, Midget managed to
get her nose into my mammoth outside coat-pocket. There she found
something to her liking. It was my habit to eat lightly when rambling
about the mountains, often eating only once a day, and occasionally
going two or three days without food. I had a few friends who were
concerned about me, and who were afraid I might some time starve to
death. So, partly as a joke and partly in earnest, they would mail me
a package of something to eat, whenever they knew at what post-office
I was likely to turn up. At Alma, the morning I hired Midget, the
prize package which I drew from the post-office contained salted
peanuts. I did not care for them, but put them into my pocket. It was
past noon and Midget was hungry. I was chattering away to her about
picture-taking when, feeling her rubbing me with her nose, I put my
hand around to find that she was eating salted peanuts from my big
coat-pocket. Midget enjoyed them so much that I allowed her to put
her nose into my pocket and help herself, and from time to time, too,
I gave her a handful of them until they were all gone.
Late in the afternoon, Midget and I arrived at the top of Hoosier
Pass. I told her to look tired and I would take her picture. She
dropped her head and neck a little, and there on the wind-swept pass,
with the wind-swept peaks in the background, I photographed her. Then
I told her it was time to go home, that it was sure to be after dark
before she could get back. So I tightened the cinches, fastened up the
bridle-rein over the horn of the saddle, and told her to go. She
looked around at me, but did not move. Evidently she preferred to stay
with me. So I spoke to her sternly and said, "Midget, you will have
to go home!" Without even looking round, she kicked up her heels and
trotted speedily down the mountain and disappeared. I did not imagine
that we would meet again for some time.
I went on, and at timber-line on Mt. Lincoln I built a camp-fire and
without bedding spent the night by it. The next day I climbed several
peaks, took many photographs, measured many snowdrifts, and made many
notes in my notebook. When night came on, I descended from the crags
and snows into the woods, built a fire, and spent the night by it,
sleeping for a little while at a time. Awakening with the cold, I
would get up and revive my fire, and then lie down to sleep. The next
day a severe storm came on, and I was compelled to huddle by my fire
all day, for the wind was so fierce and the snow so blinding that it
would have been extremely risky to try to cross the craggy and
slippery mountain-summits. All that day I stayed by the fire, but that
night, instead of trying to get a little sleep there, I crawled into a
newly formed snowdrift, and in it slept soundly and quite comfortably
until morning. Toward noon the storm ceased, but it had delayed me a
day. I had brought with me only a pound of raisins, and had eaten
these during the first two days. I felt rather hungry, and almost
wished I had saved some of the salted peanuts that I had given Midget,
but I felt fresh and vigorous, and joyfully I made my way over the
snowy crest of the continent.
Late that night I came into the mining-town of Leadville. At the hotel
I found letters and a telegram awaiting me. This telegram told me that
it was important for me to come to the Pike's Peak National Forest at
the earliest possible moment.
After a light supper and an hour's rest, I again tied on my snowshoes,
and at midnight started to climb. The newly fallen snow on the steep
mountain-side was soft and fluffy. I sank so deeply into it and made
such slow progress that it was late in the afternoon of the next day
before I reached timber-line on the other side. The London mine lay a
little off my course, and knowing that miners frequently rode return
horses up to it, I thought that by going to the mine I might secure a
return horse to carry me back to Alma, which was about thirteen miles
away. With this in mind, I started off in a hurry. In my haste I
caught one of my webbed shoes on the top of a gnarly, storm-beaten
tree that was buried and hidden in the snow. I fell, or rather dived,
into the snow, and in so doing broke a snowshoe and lost my hat. This
affair delayed me a little, and I gave up going to the mine, but
concluded to go to the trail about a mile below it, and there
intercept the first return horse that came down. Just before I reached
the trail, I heard a horse coming.
As this trail was constantly used, the snow was packed down, while the
untrampled snow on each side of it lay from two to four feet deep.
Seeing that this pony was going to get past before I could reach the
trail, I stopped, took a breath, and called out to it. When I said,
"Hello, pony," the pony did not hello. Instead of slackening its pace,
it seemed to increase it. Knowing that this trail was one that Midget
had often to cover, I concluded as a forlorn hope to call her name,
thinking that the pony might be Midget. So I called out, "Hello,
Midget!" The pony at once stopped, looked all around, and gave a
delighted little whinny. It was Midget! The instant she saw me, she
tried to climb up out of the trail into the deep snow where I was, but
I hastened to prevent her. Leaping down by her side, I put my arm
around her neck, and told her that I was very glad to see her, and
that I wanted to ride to Alma. Her nose found its way into my
coat-pocket. "Well, Midget, it is too bad. Really, I was not
expecting to see you, and I haven't a single salted peanut, but if you
will just allow me to ride this long thirteen miles into Alma, I will
give you all the salted peanuts that you will be allowed to eat. I am
tired, and should very much like to have a ride. Will you take me?"
She at once started to paw the snowy trail with a small fore foot, as
much as to say, "Hurry up!" I took off my snowshoes, and without
waiting to fasten them on my back, jumped into the saddle. In a
surprisingly short time, and with loud stamping on the floor, Midget
carried me into the livery barn at Alma.
When her owner saw a man in the saddle, he was angry, and reminded me
that it was unfair and illegal to capture a return horse; but when he
recognized me, he at once changed his tone, and he became friendly
when I told him that Midget had invited me to ride. He said that as
she had invited me to ride I should have to pay the damages to her.
I told him that we had already agreed to this. "But how in thunder
did you catch her?" he asked. "Yesterday Pat O'Brien tried that,
and he is now in the hospital with two broken ribs. She kicked him."
I said good-bye to Midget, and went to my supper, leaving her
contentedly eating salted peanuts.
Faithful Scotch
I carried little Scotch all day long in my overcoat pocket as I rode
through the mountains on the way to my cabin. His cheerful, cunning
face, his good behavior, and the clever way in which he poked his
head out of my pocket, licked my hand, and looked at the scenery,
completely won my heart before I had ridden an hour. That night he
showed so strikingly the strong, faithful characteristics for which
collies are noted that I resolved never to part with him. Since then
we have had great years together. We have been hungry and happy
together, and together we have played by the cabin, faced danger in
the wilds, slept peacefully among the flowers, followed the trails
by starlight, and cuddled down in winter's drifting snow.
On my way home through the mountains with puppy Scotch, I stopped for
a night near a deserted ranch-house and shut him up in a small
abandoned cabin. He at once objected and set up a terrible barking and
howling, gnawing fiercely at the crack beneath the door and trying to
tear his way out. Fearing he would break his little puppy teeth, or
possibly die from frantic and persistent efforts to be free, I
concluded to release him from the cabin. My fears that he would run
away if left free were groundless. He made his way to my saddle, which
lay on the ground near by, crawled under it, turned round beneath it,
and thrust his little head from beneath the arch of the horn and lay
down with a look of contentment, and also with an air which said,
"I'll take care of this saddle. I'd like to see any one touch it."
[Illustration: SCOTCH NEAR TIMBER LINE]
And watch it he did. At midnight a cowboy came to my camp-fire. He had
been thrown from his bronco and was making back to his outfit on foot.
In approaching the fire his path lay close to my saddle, beneath which
Scotch was lying. Tiny Scotch flew at him ferociously; never have I
seen such faithful ferociousness in a dog so small and young. I took
him in my hands and assured him that the visitor was welcome, and in
a moment little Scotch and the cowboy were side by side gazing at
the fire.
I suppose his bravery and watchful spirit may be instinct inherited
from his famous forbears who lived so long and so cheerfully on
Scotland's heaths and moors. But, with all due respect for inherited
qualities, he also has a brain that does a little thinking and meets
emergencies promptly and ably.
He took serious objection to the coyotes which howled, serenaded, and
made merry in the edge of the meadow about a quarter of a mile from my
cabin. Just back of their howling-ground was a thick forest of pines,
in which were scores of broken rocky crags. Into the tangled forest
the coyotes always retreated when Scotch gave chase, and into this
retreat he dared not pursue them. So long as the coyotes sunned
themselves, kept quiet, and played, Scotch simply watched them
contentedly from afar; but the instant they began to howl and yelp, he
at once raced over and chased them into the woods. They often yelped
and taunted him from their safe retreat, but Scotch always took pains
to lie down on the edge of the open and remain there until they became
quiet or went away.
During the second winter that Scotch was with me and before he was two
years of age, one of the wily coyotes showed a tantalizing spirit and
some interesting cunning which put Scotch on his mettle. One day when
Scotch was busy driving the main pack into the woods, one that trotted
lame with the right fore leg emerged from behind a rocky crag at the
edge of the open and less than fifty yards from Scotch. Hurrying to
a willow clump about fifty yards in Scotch's rear, he set up a broken
chorus of yelps and howls, seemingly with delight and to the great
annoyance of Scotch, who at once raced back and chased the noisy
taunter into the woods.
The very next time that Scotch was chasing the pack away, the crippled
coyote again sneaked from behind the crag, took refuge behind the
willow clump, and began delivering a perfect shower of broken yelps.
Scotch at once turned back and gave chase. Immediately the entire pack
wheeled from retreat and took up defiant attitudes in the open, but
this did not seem to trouble Scotch; he flung himself upon them with
great ferocity, and finally drove them all back into the woods.
However, the third time that the cunning coyote had come to his rear,
the entire pack stopped in the edge of the open and, for a time,
defied him. He came back from this chase panting and tired and
carrying every expression of worry. It seemed to prey upon him to
such an extent that I became a little anxious about him.
One day, just after this affair, I went for the mail, and allowed
Scotch to go with me. I usually left him at the cabin, and he stayed
unchained and was faithful, though it was always evident that he was
anxious to go with me and also that he was exceedingly lonely when
left behind. But on this occasion he showed such eagerness to go that
I allowed him the pleasure.