Our stage in the San Juan Mountains had just gained the top of the
grade when an alert, riderless pony trotted into view on a near-by
ridge. Saddled and bridled, she was returning home down a zigzag trail
after carrying a rider to a mine up the mountain-side. One look at
this trim, spirited "return horse" from across a narrow gorge, and she
disappeared behind a cliff.
A moment later she rounded a point of rocks and came down into the
road on a gallop. The stage met her in a narrow place. Indifferent to
the wild gorge below, she paused unflinchingly on the rim as the
brushing stage dashed by. She was a beautiful bay pony.
"That is Cricket, the wisest return horse in these hills," declared
the stage-driver, who proceeded to tell of her triumphant adventures
as he drove on into Silverton. When I went to hire Cricket, her owner
said that I might use her as long as I desired, and proudly declared
that if she was turned loose anywhere within thirty miles she would
promptly come home or die. A trip into the mountains beyond Telluride
was my plan.
A "return horse" is one that will go home at once when set free by the
rider, even though the way be through miles of trailless mountains. He
is a natural result of the topography of the San Juan Mountains and
the geographic conditions therein. Many of the mines in this region
are situated a thousand feet or so up the precipitous slopes above the
valleys. The railroads, the towns, society, are down in the
cañons,--so near and yet so far,--and the only outlet to the big world
is through the cañon. Miners are willing to walk down from the
boarding-house at the mine; but not many will make the vigorous
effort, nor give the three to four hours required, to climb back up
the mountain. Perhaps some one wants to go to a camp on the opposite
side of the mountain. As there is no tunnel through, he rides a return
horse to the summit, turns the horse loose, then walks down the
opposite side. The return horse, by coming back undirected, meets a
peculiar transportation condition in a satisfactory manner.
The liverymen of Silverton, Ouray, and Telluride keep the San Juan
section supplied with these trained ponies. With kind treatment and
experience the horses learn to meet emergencies without hesitation.
Storm, fallen trees, a landslide, or drifted snow may block the
way--they will find a new one and come home.
The local unwritten law is that these horses are let out at the
owner's risk. If killed or stolen, as sometimes happens, the owner
is the loser. However, there is another unwritten law which places
the catching or riding of these horses in the category of
horse-stealing,--a serious matter in the West.
I rode Cricket from Silverton to Ouray, and on the way we became
intimately acquainted. I talked to her, asked questions, scratched the
back of her head, examined her feet, and occasionally found something
for her to eat. I walked up the steeper stretches, and before evening
she followed me like a dog, even when I traveled out of the trail.
For the night she was placed in a livery-barn in Ouray. Before going
to bed I went out and patted and talked to her for several minutes.
She turned to watch me go, and gave a pleasant little whinny as the
barn-door closed.
Telluride and Ouray are separated by a mountain that rises four
thousand feet above their altitude. By trail they are twelve miles
apart; by railroad, forty miles. Many people go by trail from one to
the other, usually riding to the summit, one half the distance, where
the horse is set free, and walking the rest of the way.
When Cricket and I set out from Ouray, we followed the road to the
Camp Bird Mine. We met horses returning with empty saddles, each
having that morning carried a rider from Ouray to the mine. Three of
these horses were abreast, trotting merrily, sociably along, now and
then giving a pleasant nip at one another.
[Illustration: CRICKET AT THE SUMMIT OF THE PASS]
We stopped at the Camp Bird Mine, and while in the office I overheard
a telephone inquiry concerning a return horse, Hesperus, who had
been sent with a rider to the summit and was more than an hour
overdue. Half a mile above the mine we met Hesperus coming
deliberately down. He was not loafing, but was hampered by a loose
shoe. When he reached the Camp Bird barn he stopped, evidently to have
the shoe removed. As soon as this was done, he set off on a swinging
trot down the trail.
As Cricket and I went forward, I occasionally gave her attention, such
as taking off her saddle and rubbing her back. These attentions she
enjoyed. I walked up the steep places, an act that was plainly to her
satisfaction. Sometimes I talked to her as if she were a child, always
speaking in a quiet, conversational manner, and in a merry
make-believe way, pretending that she understood me. And doubtless she
did, for tone is a universal language.
At the summit Cricket met some old friends. One pony had been ridden
by a careless man who had neglected to fasten the bridle-reins around
the saddle-horn,--as every rider is expected to do when he starts the
pony homeward. This failure resulted in the pony's entangling a foot
in the bridle-rein. When I tried to relieve him there was some lively
dodging before he would stand still enough for me to right matters.
Another pony was eating grass by walking in the bottom of a narrow
gully and feeding off the banks. Commonly these horses are back on
time. If they fail to return, or are late, there is usually a good
reason for it.
The trail crossed the pass at an altitude of thirteen thousand feet.
From this point magnificent scenes spread away on every hand. Here we
lingered to enjoy the view and to watch the antics of the return
ponies. Two of them, just released, were rolling vigorously, despite
their saddles. This rolling enabled me to understand the importance of
every liveryman's caution to strangers, "Be sure to tighten the
saddle-cinches before you let the pony go." A loose cinch has more
than once caught the shoe of a rolling horse and resulted in the
death of the animal. A number of riderless ponies who were
returning to Telluride accompanied Cricket and me down the winding,
scene-commanding road into this picturesque mining town.
I spent a few days about Telluride riding Cricket up to a number of
mines, taking photographs on the way. Whenever we arrived at an
exceptionally steep pitch, either in ascending or in descending,
Cricket invited me to get off and walk. Unbidden she would stop. After
standing for a few seconds, if I made no move to get off, she turned
for a look at me; then if I failed to understand, she laid back her
ears and pretended to bite at my feet.
One day we paused on a point to look down at a steep trail far below.
A man was climbing up. A riderless pony was trotting down. Just as
they met, the man made a dash to catch the pony. It swerved and struck
with both fore feet. He dodged and made another bold, swift grab for
the bridle-rein, but narrowly missed. He staggered, and, before he
could recover, the pony wheeled and kicked him headlong. Without
looking back, the pony trotted on down the trail as though nothing had
happened. For a moment the man lay stunned, then, slowly rising, he
went limping up the slope.
A well-meaning tenderfoot, that afternoon in Telluride, saw a
riderless pony and concluded that he had broken loose. After lively
work he cornered the pony in an alley and caught it. The owner
appeared just as the stranger was tying the pony to a hitching-post. A
crowd gathered as the owner, laughing heartily, dragged the stranger
into a saloon. I leaped off Cricket and went into the saloon after
them. To the astonishment of every one Cricket also walked in.
We left Telluride one sunny October morning with a sleeping-bag and a
few supplies. I had made plans to have a few days for the study of
forest conditions around Lizard Head and Mt. Wilson. In the
neighborhood of Ophir Loop, the first night out, the moonlight on the
mountains was so enchanting that I rode on until nearly morning.
Cricket and I were chummy. The following afternoon, while waiting for
sunset over Trout Lake, I lay down for a sleep on the grass in a
sun-filled opening surrounded by clumps of tall spruces. Trusting
Cricket to stay near, I threw her bridle-rein over her head to the
ground and thus set her free. In the sunny, dry air I quickly fell
asleep. An hour later, a snorting explosion on the top of my head
awakened me. Though I was somewhat startled, the situation was
anything but alarming. Cricket was lying beside me. Apparently, while
dozing, she had dropped her head against mine, and had snorted while
her nostrils were against my ear.
We wandered far from the trail, and, after a few perfect days in the
mountain heights, big clouds came in and snow fell thickly all night
long. By morning it was nearly two feet deep, and before noon several
snow-slides were heard. Being a good rustler, Cricket had all the
morning been pawing into the snow, where she obtained a few mouthfuls
of snowy grass. But she must be taken where she could get enough to
eat.
After thirty-six hours of storm we started down a cañon out of the
snowy wilderness under a blue sky. No air stirred. The bright sun cast
purple shadows of the pines and spruces upon the clean white snow.
After a few hours we came to a blockade. The cañon was filled with an
enormous mass of snow. A snow-slide had run in from a side gulch. We
managed to get into the upper edge of this snow, where it was thin and
not compressed.
Cricket fought her way through in the most matter-of-fact manner,
notwithstanding her head and neck were all that showed above the snow.
As these return horses are often caught out in deep drifts, it is
important that they be good "snow horses." She slowly forced her way
forward, sometimes pawing to make an opening and again rearing and
striking forward with both fore feet. From time to time she paused to
breathe, occasionally eating a mouthful of snow while she rested. All
the time I talked encouragingly to her, saying, "Of course you can
make it!" "Once more!"
When more than halfway through the snow-slide mass, one of the
saddle-cinches caught on the snag of a fallen log and held her fast.
Her violent efforts were in vain. Wallowing my way along the rocks
several yards above, I descended to her side, cut both saddle-cinches,
threw the saddle and the sleeping-bag off her back, and removed the
bridle. Cricket was thus left a naked horse in the snow.
When after two hours she had made her way out, I went for the saddle
and sleeping-bag. As it was impossible to carry them, I attached the
bridle to them and wallowed my way forward, dragging them after me.
Meantime Cricket was impatiently waiting for me and occasionally gave
an encouraging hurry-up neigh.
When I had almost reached her, a mass of snow, a tiny slide from a
shelving rock, plunged down, sweeping the saddle and the bag down into
the cañon and nearly smothering me. As it was almost night, I made no
attempt to recover them. Without saddle or bridle, I mounted Cricket
and went on until dark. We spent the night at the foot of an
overhanging cliff, where we were safe from slides. Here we managed to
keep warm by a camp-fire. Cricket browsed aspen twigs for supper. I
had nothing. A number of slides were heard during the night, but none
were near us.
At daylight we again pushed forward. The snow became thinner as we
advanced. Near Ophir Loop, we passed over the pathway of a slide where
the ground had been swept bare. Having long been vigilant with eyes
and ears for slides, while on this slide-swept stretch, I ceased to be
alert. Fortunately Cricket's vigilance did not cease. Suddenly she
wheeled, and, with a quickness that almost took her from beneath me,
she made a frantic retreat, as a slide with thunderous roar shot down
into the cañon. So narrowly did it miss us that we were heavily
splashed with snow-fragments and almost smothered by the thick,
prolonged whirl of snow-dust. Cricket's vigilance had saved my life.
The masses of snow, stones, and broken timber brought down by this
slide blockaded the cañon from wall to wall. These walls were too
steep to be climbed, and, after trying until dark to make a way
through the wreckage, we had to give it up.
We spent a cold night alongside a cliff. Cricket and I each ate a few
willow twigs. The night was of refined clearness, and from time to
time I moved away from the pungent camp-fire smoke to look at the
myriads of stars that pierced with icy points the purple sky.
[Illustration: LOOKING EASTWARD FROM LIZARD HEAD]
The clear morning brought no solution of my problem of getting Cricket
through. I could not abandon her. While she was trying to find
something to eat, I made my way up a side gulch, endeavoring to find a
way for her to the summit. From the top we could get down beyond the
slide blockade. After a time a way was found that was impossible for
her at only one point. This point was a narrow gulch in the summit. I
climbed along a narrow ledge, swept bare by the slide, then turned
into a rocky gulch which came in from the side. I was within fifteen
feet of success. But this was the width of a rocky gulch. Beyond this
it would be comparatively easy to descend on the other side of the
slide wreckage and land in the road to Telluride.
But how was Cricket to get to the other side of this gorge? Along the
right I made my way through great piles of fallen fire-killed timber.
In places this wreckage lay several logs deep. I thought to find a way
through the four or five hundred feet of timber-wreckage. Careful
examination showed that with much lifting and numerous detours there
was a way through this except at four places, at which the logs that
blocked the way were so heavy that they could not be moved. Without
tools the only way to attack this confusion of log-masses was with
fire. In a short time the first of these piles was ablaze. As I
stepped back to rub my smoke-filled eyes, a neigh came echoing to me
from the side cañon below.
Cricket had become lonesome and was trying to follow me. Reared in the
mountains, she was accustomed to making her way through extremely
rugged places, over rocks and fallen trees. Going to the rim of the
cañon, I looked down upon her. There she stood on a smoothly glaciated
point, a splendid statue of alertness. When I called to her she
responded with a whinny and at once started to climb up toward me.
Coaching her up the steep places and along narrow ledges, I got her at
last to the burning log obstruction. Here several minutes of wrestling
with burning log-ends opened a way for her.
The two or three other masses were more formidable than the first one.
The logs were so large that a day or more of burning and heavy lifting
would be required to break through them. More than two days and nights
of hard work had been passed without food, and I must hold out until a
way could be fought through these other heavy timber-heaps. Cricket,
apparently not caring to be left behind again, came close to me and
eagerly watched my every move. To hasten the fire, armfuls of small
limbs were gathered for it. As limbs were plentiful on the other side
of the gorge, I went across on a large fallen log for a supply,
shuffling the snow off with my feet as I crossed. To my astonishment
Cricket came trotting across the slippery log after me! She had been
raised with fallen timber and had walked logs before. As she cleared
the edge, I threw my arms around her neck and leaped upon her back.
Without saddle, bridle, or guiding, she took me merrily down the
mountain-side into the wagon-road beyond the snow-slide blockade. At
midnight we were in Telluride.