THE WILD SHEEP
(_Ovis montana_)
The wild sheep ranks highest among the animal mountaineers of the
Sierra. Possessed of keen sight and scent, and strong limbs, he dwells
secure amid the loftiest summits, leaping unscathed from crag to crag,
up and down the fronts of giddy precipices, crossing foaming torrents
and slopes of frozen snow, exposed to the wildest storms, yet
maintaining a brave, warm life, and developing from generation to
generation in perfect strength and beauty.
Nearly all the lofty mountain-chains of the globe are inhabited by wild
sheep, most of which, on account of the remote and all but inaccessible
regions where they dwell, are imperfectly known as yet. They are
classified by different naturalists under from five to ten distinct
species or varieties, the best known being the burrhel of the Himalaya
(_Ovis burrhel_, Blyth); the argali, the large wild sheep of central
and northeastern Asia (_O. ammon_, Linn., or _Caprovis argali_); the
Corsican mouflon (_O. musimon_, Pal.); the aoudad of the mountains of
northern Africa (_Ammotragus tragelaphus_); and the Rocky Mountain
bighorn (_O. montana_, Cuv.). To this last-named species belongs the
wild sheep of the Sierra. Its range, according to the late Professor
Baird of the Smithsonian Institution, extends “from the region of the
upper Missouri and Yellowstone to the Rocky Mountains and the high
grounds adjacent to them on the eastern slope, and as far south as the
Rio Grande. Westward it extends to the coast ranges of Washington,
Oregon, and California, and follows the highlands some distance into
Mexico.”[1] Throughout the vast region bounded on the east by the
Wahsatch Mountains and on the west by the Sierra there are more than a
hundred subordinate ranges and mountain groups, trending north and
south, range beyond range, with summits rising from eight to twelve
thousand feet above the level of the sea, probably all of which,
according to my own observations, is, or has been, inhabited by this
species.
Compared with the argali, which, considering its size and the vast
extent of its range, is probably the most important of all the wild
sheep, our species is about the same size, but the horns are less
twisted and less divergent. The more important characteristics are,
however, essentially the same, some of the best naturalists maintaining
that the two are only varied forms of one species. In accordance with
this view, Cuvier conjectures that since central Asia seems to be the
region where the sheep first appeared, and from which it has been
distributed, the argali may have been distributed over this continent
from Asia by crossing Bering Strait on ice. This conjecture is not so
ill founded as at first sight would appear; for the Strait is only
about fifty miles wide, is interrupted by three islands, and is jammed
with ice nearly every winter. Furthermore the argali is abundant on the
mountains adjacent to the Strait at East Cape, where it is well known
to the Tschuckchi hunters and where I have seen many of their horns.
On account of the extreme variability of the sheep under culture, it is
generally supposed that the innumerable domestic breeds have all been
derived from the few wild species; but the whole question is involved
in obscurity. According to Darwin, sheep have been domesticated from a
very ancient period, the remains of a small breed, differing from any
now known, having been found in the famous Swiss lake-dwellings.
Compared with the best-known domestic breeds, we find that our wild
species is much larger, and, instead of an all-wool garment, wears a
thick over-coat of hair like that of the deer, and an under-covering of
fine wool. The hair, though rather coarse, is comfortably soft and
spongy, and lies smooth, as if carefully tended with comb and brush.
The predominant color during most of the year is brownish-gray, varying
to bluish-gray in the autumn; the belly and a large, conspicuous patch
on the buttocks are white; and the tail, which is very short, like that
of a deer, is black, with a yellowish border. The wool is white, and
grows in beautiful spirals down out of sight among the shining hair,
like delicate climbing vines among stalks of corn.
The horns of the male are of immense size, measuring in their greater
diameter from five to six and a half inches, and from two and a half to
three feet in length around the curve. They are yellowish-white in
color, and ridged transversely, like those of the domestic ram. Their
cross-section near the base is somewhat triangular in outline, and
flattened toward the tip. Rising boldly from the top of the head, they
curve gently backward and outward, then forward and outward, until
about three fourths of a circle is described, and until the flattened,
blunt tips are about two feet or two and a half feet apart. Those of
the female are flattened throughout their entire length, are less
curved than those of the male, and much smaller, measuring less than a
foot along the curve.
A ram and ewe that I obtained near the Modoc lava-beds, to the
northeast of Mount Shasta, measured as follows:
_Ram._ _Ewe._
_ft._ _in._ _ft._ _in._
Height at shoulders 3 6 3 0
Girth around shoulders 3 11 3 3¾
Length from nose to root of tail 5 10¼ 4 3½
Length of ears 0 4¾ 0 5
Length of tail 0 4½ 0 4½
Length of horns around curve 2 9 0 11½
Distance across from tip to tip of horns 2 5½
Circumference of horns at base 1 4 0 6
The measurements of a male obtained in the Rocky Mountains by Audubon
vary but little as compared with the above. The weight of his specimen
was 344 pounds,[2] which is, perhaps, about an average for full-grown
males. The females are about a third lighter.
Besides these differences in size, color, hair, etc., as noted above,
we may observe that the domestic sheep, in a general way, is
expressionless, like a dull bundle of something only half alive, while
the wild is as elegant and graceful as a deer, every movement
manifesting admirable strength and character. The tame is timid; the
wild is bold. The tame is always more or less ruffled and dirty; while
the wild is as smooth and clean as the flowers of his mountain
pastures.
The earliest mention that I have been able to find of the wild sheep in
America is by Father Picolo, a Catholic missionary at Monterey, in the
year 1797, who, after describing it, oddly enough, as “a kind of deer
with a sheep-like head, and about as large as a calf one or two years
old,” naturally hurries on to remark: “I have eaten of these beasts;
their flesh is very tender and delicious.” Mackenzie, in his northern
travels, heard the species spoken of by the Indians as “white
buffaloes.” And Lewis and Clark tell us that, in a time of great
scarcity on the head waters of the Missouri, they saw plenty of wild
sheep, but they were “too shy to be shot.”
A few of the more energetic of the Pah Ute Indians hunt the wild sheep
every season among the more accessible sections of the High Sierra, in
the neighborhood of passes, where, from having been pursued, they have
become extremely wary; but in the rugged wilderness of peaks and
cañons, where the foaming tributaries of the San Joaquin and King’s
rivers take their rise, they fear no hunter save the wolf, and are more
guileless and approachable than their tame kindred.
While engaged in the work of exploring high regions where they delight
to roam I have been greatly interested in studying their habits. In the
months of November and December, and probably during a considerable
portion of midwinter, they all flock together, male and female, old and
young. I once found a complete band of this kind numbering upward of
fifty, which, on being alarmed, went bounding away across a jagged
lava-bed at admirable speed, led by a majestic old ram, with the lambs
safe in the middle of the flock.
In spring and summer, the full-grown rams form separate bands of from
three to twenty, and are usually found feeding along the edges of
glacier meadows, or resting among the castle-like crags of the high
summits; and whether quietly feeding, or scaling the wild cliffs, their
noble forms and the power and beauty of their movements never fail to
strike the beholder with lively admiration.
Their resting-places seem to be chosen with reference to sunshine and a
wide outlook, and most of all to safety. Their feeding-grounds are
among the most beautiful of the wild gardens, bright with daisies and
gentians and mats of purple bryanthus, lying hidden away on rocky
headlands and cañon sides, where sunshine is abundant, or down in the
shady glacier valleys, along the banks of the streams and lakes, where
the plushy sod is greenest. Here they feast all summer, the happy
wanderers, perhaps relishing the beauty as well as the taste of the
lovely flora on which they feed.
[Illustration: SNOW-BOUND ON MOUNT SHASTA.]
When the winter storms set in, loading their highland pastures with
snow, then, like the birds, they gather and go to lower climates,
usually descending the eastern flank of the range to the rough,
volcanic table-lands and treeless ranges of the Great Basin adjacent to
the Sierra. They never make haste, however, and seem to have no dread
of storms, many of the strongest only going down leisurely to bare,
wind-swept ridges, to feed on bushes and dry bunch-grass, and then
returning up into the snow. Once I was snow-bound on Mount Shasta for
three days, a little below the timber line. It was a dark and stormy
time, well calculated to test the skill and endurance of mountaineers.
The snow-laden gale drove on night and day in hissing, blinding floods,
and when at length it began to abate, I found that a small band of wild
sheep had weathered the storm in the lee of a clump of Dwarf Pines a
few yards above my storm-nest, where the snow was eight or ten feet
deep. I was warm back of a rock, with blankets, bread, and fire. My
brave companions lay in the snow, without food, and with only the
partial shelter of the short trees, yet they made no sign of suffering
or faint-heartedness.
In the months of May and June, the wild sheep bring forth their young
in solitary and almost inaccessible crags, far above the nesting-rocks
of the eagle. I have frequently come upon the beds of the ewes and
lambs at an elevation of from 12,000 to 13,000 feet above sea-level.
These beds are simply oval-shaped hollows, pawed out among loose,
disintegrating rock-chips and sand, upon some sunny spot commanding a
good outlook, and partially sheltered from the winds that sweep those
lofty peaks almost without intermission. Such is the cradle of the
little mountaineer, aloft in the very sky; rocked in storms, curtained
in clouds, sleeping in thin, icy air; but, wrapped in his hairy coat,
and nourished by a strong, warm mother, defended from the talons of the
eagle and the teeth of the sly coyote, the bonny lamb grows apace. He
soon learns to nibble the tufted rock-grasses and leaves of the white
spirsea; his horns begin to shoot, and before summer is done he is
strong and agile, and goes forth with the flock, watched by the same
divine love that tends the more helpless human lamb in its cradle by
the fireside.
Nothing is more commonly remarked by noisy, dusty trail-travelers in
the Sierra than the want of animal life—no song-birds, no deer, no
squirrels, no game of any kind, they say. But if such could only go
away quietly into the wilderness, sauntering afoot and alone with
natural deliberation, they would soon learn that these mountain
mansions are not without inhabitants, many of whom, confiding and
gentle, would not try to shun their acquaintance.
[Illustration: HEAD OF THE MERINO RAM (DOMESTIC).]
In the fall of 1873 I was tracing the South Fork of the San Joaquin up
its wild cañon to its farthest glacier fountains. It was the season of
alpine Indian summer. The sun beamed lovingly; the squirrels were
nutting in the pine-trees, butterflies hovered about the last of the
goldenrods, the willow and maple thickets were yellow, the meadows
brown, and the whole sunny, mellow landscape glowed like a countenance
in the deepest and sweetest repose. On my way over the glacier-polished
rocks along the river, I came to an expanded portion of the cañon,
about two miles long and half a mile wide, which formed a level park
inclosed with picturesque granite walls like those of Yosemite Valley.
Down through the middle of it poured the beautiful river shining and
spangling in the golden light, yellow groves on its banks, and strips
of brown meadow; while the whole park was astir with wild life, some of
which even the noisiest and least observing of travelers must have seen
had they been with me. Deer, with their supple, well-grown fawns,
bounded from thicket to thicket as I advanced; grouse kept rising from
the brown grass with a great whirring of wings, and, alighting on the
lower branches of the pines and poplars, allowed a near approach, as if
curious to see me. Farther on, a broad-shouldered wildcat showed
himself, coming out of a grove, and crossing the river on a flood-jamb
of logs, halting for a moment to look back. The bird-like tamias
frisked about my feet everywhere among the pine-needles and seedy
grass-tufts; cranes waded the shallows of the river-bends, the
kingfisher rattled from perch to perch, and the blessed ouzel sang amid
the spray of every cascade. Where may lonely wanderer find a more
interesting family of mountain-dwellers, earth-born companions and
fellow-mortals? It was afternoon when I joined them, and the glorious
landscape began to fade in the gloaming before I awoke from their
enchantment. Then I sought a camp-ground on the river-bank, made a
cupful of tea, and lay down to sleep on a smooth place among the yellow
leaves of an aspen grove. Next day I discovered yet grander landscapes
and grander life. Following the river over huge, swelling rock-bosses
through a majestic cañon, and past innumerable cascades, the scenery in
general became gradually wilder and more alpine. The Sugar Pine and
Silver Firs gave place to the hardier Cedar and Hemlock Spruce. The
cañon walls became more rugged and bare, and gentians and arctic
daisies became more abundant in the gardens and strips of meadow along
the streams. Toward the middle of the afternoon I came to another
valley, strikingly wild and original in all its features, and perhaps
never before touched by human foot. As regards area of level
bottom-land, it is one of the very smallest of the Yosemite type, but
its walls are sublime, rising to a height of from 2000 to 4000 feet
above the river. At the head of the valley the main cañon forks, as is
found to be the case in all yosemites. The formation of this one is due
chiefly to the action of two great glaciers, whose fountains lay to the
eastward, on the flanks of Mounts Humphrey and Emerson and a cluster of
nameless peaks farther south.
[Illustration: HEAD OF ROCKY MOUNTAIN WILD SHEEP.]
The gray, boulder-chafed river was singing loudly through the valley,
but above its massy roar I heard the booming of a waterfall, which drew
me eagerly on; and just as I emerged from the tangled groves and
brier-thickets at the head of the valley, the main fork of the river
came in sight, falling fresh from its glacier fountains in a snowy
cascade, between granite walls 2000 feet high. The steep incline down
which the glad waters thundered seemed to bar all farther progress. It
was not long, however, before I discovered a crooked seam in the rock,
by which I was enabled to climb to the edge of a terrace that crosses
the cañon, and divides the cataract nearly in the middle. Here I sat
down to take breath and make some entries in my note-book, taking
advantage, at the same time, of my elevated position above the trees to
gaze back over the valley into the heart of the noble landscape, little
knowing the while what neighbors were near.
After spending a few minutes in this way, I chanced to look across the
fall, and there stood three sheep quietly observing me. Never did the
sudden appearance of a mountain, or fall, or human friend more forcibly
seize and rivet my attention. Anxiety to observe accurately held me
perfectly still. Eagerly I marked the flowing undulations of their
firm, braided muscles, their strong legs, ears, eyes, heads, their
graceful rounded necks, the color of their hair, and the bold,
upsweeping curves of their noble horns. When they moved I watched every
gesture, while they, in no wise disconcerted either by my attention or
by the tumultuous roar of the water, advanced deliberately alongside
the rapids, between the two divisions of the cataract, turning now and
then to look at me. Presently they came to a steep, ice-burnished
acclivity, which they ascended by a succession of quick, short,
stiff-legged leaps, reaching the top without a struggle. This was the
most startling feat of mountaineering I had ever witnessed, and,
considering only the mechanics of the thing, my astonishment could
hardly have been greater had they displayed wings and taken to flight.
“Surefooted” mules on such ground would have fallen and rolled like
loosened boulders. Many a time, where the slopes are far lower, I have
been compelled to take off my shoes and stockings, tie them to my belt,
and creep barefooted, with the utmost caution. No wonder then, that I
watched the progress of these animal mountaineers with keen sympathy,
and exulted in the boundless sufficiency of wild nature displayed in
their invention, construction, and keeping. A few minutes later I
caught sight of a dozen more in one band, near the foot of the upper
fall. They were standing on the same side of the river with me, only
twenty-five or thirty yards away, looking as unworn and perfect as if
created on the spot. It appeared by their tracks, which I had seen in
the Little Yosemite, and by their present position, that when I came up
the cañon they were all feeding together down in the valley, and in
their haste to reach high ground, where they could look about them to
ascertain the nature of the strange disturbance, they were divided,
three ascending on one side the river, the rest on the other.
The main band, headed by an experienced chief, now began to cross the
wild rapids between the two divisions of the cascade. This was another
exciting feat; for, among all the varied experiences of mountaineers,
the crossing of boisterous, rock-dashed torrents is found to be one of
the most trying to the nerves. Yet these fine fellows walked fearlessly
to the brink, and jumped from boulder to boulder, holding themselves in
easy poise above the whirling, confusing current, as if they were doing
nothing extraordinary.
[Illustration: CROSSING A CAÑON STREAM.]
In the immediate foreground of this rare picture there was a fold of
ice-burnished granite, traversed by a few bold lines in which
rock-ferns and tufts of bryanthus were growing, the gray cañon walls on
the sides, nobly sculptured and adorned with brown cedars and pines;
lofty peaks in the distance, and in the middle ground the snowy fall,
the voice and soul of the landscape; fringing bushes beating time to
its thunder-tones, the brave sheep in front of it, their gray forms
slightly obscured in the spray, yet standing out in good, heavy relief
against the close white water, with their huge horns rising like the
upturned roots of dead pine-trees, while the evening sunbeams streaming
up the cañon colored all the picture a rosy purple and made it
glorious. After crossing the river, the dauntless climbers, led by
their chief, at once began to scale the cañon wall, turning now right,
now left, in long, single file, keeping well apart out of one another’s
way, and leaping in regular succession from crag to crag, now ascending
slippery dome-curves, now walking leisurely along the edges of
precipices, stopping at times to gaze down at me from some flat-topped
rock, with heads held aslant, as if curious to learn what I thought
about it, or whether I was likely to follow them. After reaching the
top of the wall, which, at this place, is somewhere between 1500 and
2000 feet high, they were still visible against the sky as they
lingered, looking down in groups of twos or threes.
Throughout the entire ascent they did not make a single awkward step,
or an unsuccessful effort of any kind. I have frequently seen tame
sheep in mountains jump upon a sloping rock-surface, hold on
tremulously a few seconds, and fall back baffled and irresolute. But in
the most trying situations, where the slightest want or inaccuracy
would have been fatal, these always seemed to move in comfortable
reliance on their strength and skill, the limits of which they never
appeared to know. Moreover, each one of the flock, while following the
guidance of the most experienced, yet climbed with intelligent
independence as a perfect individual, capable of separate existence
whenever it should wish or be compelled to withdraw from the little
clan. The domestic sheep, on the contrary, is only a fraction of an
animal, a whole flock being required to form an individual, just as
numerous flowerets are required to make one complete sunflower.
Those shepherds who, in summer, drive their flocks to the mountain
pastures, and, while watching them night and day, have seen them
frightened by bears and storms, and scattered like wind-driven chaff,
will, in some measure, be able to appreciate the self-reliance and
strength and noble individuality of Nature’s sheep.
Like the Alp-climbing ibex of Europe, our mountaineer is said to plunge
headlong down the faces of sheer precipices, and alight on his big
horns. I know only two hunters who claim to have actually witnessed
this feat; I never was so fortunate. They describe the act as a diving
head-foremost. The horns are so large at the base that they cover the
upper portion of the head down nearly to a level with the eyes, and the
skull is exceedingly strong. I struck an old, bleached specimen on
Mount Ritter a dozen blows with my ice-ax without breaking it. Such
skulls would not fracture very readily by the wildest rock-diving, but
other bones could hardly be expected to hold together in such a
performance; and the mechanical difficulties in the way of controlling
their movements, after striking upon an irregular surface, are, in
themselves, sufficient to show this boulder-like method of progression
to be impossible, even in the absence of all other evidence on the
subject; moreover, the ewes follow wherever the rams may lead, although
their horns are mere spikes. I have found many pairs of the horns of
the old rams considerably battered, doubtless a result of fighting. I
was particularly interested in the question, after witnessing the
performances of this San Joaquin band upon the glaciated rocks at the
foot of the falls; and as soon as I procured specimens and examined
their feet, all the mystery disappeared. The secret, considered in
connection with exceptionally strong muscles, is simply this: the wide
posterior portion of the bottom of the foot, instead of wearing down
and becoming flat and hard, like the feet of tame sheep and horses,
bulges out in a soft, rubber-like pad or cushion, which not only grips
and holds well on smooth rocks, but fits into small cavities, and down
upon or against slight protuberances. Even the hardest portions of the
edge of the hoof are comparatively soft and elastic; furthermore, the
toes admit of an extraordinary amount of both lateral and vertical
movement, allowing the foot to accommodate itself still more perfectly
to the irregularities of rock surfaces, while at the same time
increasing the gripping power.
At the base of Sheep Rock, one of the winter strongholds of the Shasta
flocks, there lives a stock-raiser who has had the advantage of
observing the movements of wild sheep every winter; and, in the course
of a conversation with him on the subject of their diving habits, he
pointed to the front of a lava headland about 150 feet high, which is
only eight or ten degrees out of the perpendicular. “There,” said he,
“I followed a band of them fellows to the back of that rock yonder, and
expected to capture them all, for I thought I had a dead thing on them.
I got behind them on a narrow bench that runs along the face of the
wall near the top and comes to an end where they couldn’t get away
without falling and being killed; but they jumped off, and landed all
right, as if that were the regular thing with them.”
“What!” said I, “jumped 150 feet perpendicular! Did you see them do
it?”
“No,” he replied, “I didn’t see them going down, for I was behind them;
but I saw them go off over the brink, and then I went below and found
their tracks where they struck on the loose rubbish at the bottom. They
just _sailed right off_, and landed on their feet right side up. That
is the kind of animal _they_ is—beats anything else that goes on four
legs.”
[Illustration: WILD SHEEP JUMPING OVER A PRECIPICE.]
On another occasion, a flock that was pursued by hunters retreated to
another portion of this same cliff where it is still higher, and, on
being followed, they were seen jumping down in perfect order, one
behind another, by two men who happened to be chopping where they had a
fair view of them and could watch their progress from top to bottom of
the precipice. Both ewes and rams made the frightful descent without
evincing any extraordinary concern, hugging the rock closely, and
controlling the velocity of their half falling, half leaping movements
by striking at short intervals and holding back with their cushioned,
rubber feet upon small ledges and roughened inclines until near the
bottom, when they “sailed off” into the free air and alighted on their
feet, but with their bodies so nearly in a vertical position that they
appeared to be diving.
It appears, therefore, that the methods of this wild mountaineering
become clearly comprehensible as soon as we make ourselves acquainted
with the rocks, and the kind of feet and muscles brought to bear upon
them.
The Modoc and Pah Ute Indians are, or rather have been, the most
successful hunters of the wild sheep in the regions that have come
under my own observation. I have seen large numbers of heads and horns
in the caves of Mount Shasta and the Modoc lava-beds, where the Indians
had been feasting in stormy weather; also in the cañons of the Sierra
opposite Owen’s Valley; while the heavy obsidian arrow-heads found on
some of the highest peaks show that this warfare has long been going
on.
In the more accessible ranges that stretch across the desert regions of
western Utah and Nevada, considerable numbers of Indians used to hunt
in company like packs of wolves, and being perfectly acquainted with
the topography of their hunting-grounds, and with the habits and
instincts of the game, they were pretty successful. On the tops of
nearly every one of the Nevada mountains that I have visited, I found
small, nest-like inclosures built of stones, in which, as I afterward
learned, one or more Indians would lie in wait while their companions
scoured the ridges below, knowing that the alarmed sheep would surely
run to the summit, and when they could be made to approach with the
wind they were shot at short range.
[Illustration: INDIANS HUNTING WILD SHEEP.]
Still larger bands of Indians used to make extensive hunts upon some
dominant mountain much frequented by the sheep, such as Mount Grant on
the Wassuck Range to the west of Walker Lake. On some particular spot,
favorably situated with reference to the well-known trails of the
sheep, they built a high-walled corral, with long guiding wings
diverging from the gateway; and into this inclosure they sometimes
succeeded in driving the noble game. Great numbers of Indians were of
course required, more, indeed, than they could usually muster, counting
in squaws, children, and all; they were compelled, therefore, to build
rows of dummy hunters out of stones, along the ridge-tops which they
wished to prevent the sheep from crossing. And, without discrediting
the sagacity of the game, these dummies were found effective; for, with
a few live Indians moving about excitedly among them, they could hardly
be distinguished at a little distance from men, by any one not in the
secret. The whole ridge-top then seemed to be alive with hunters.
The only animal that may fairly be regarded as a companion or rival of
the sheep is the so-called Rocky Mountain goat (_Aplocerus montana_,
Rich.), which, as its name indicates, is more antelope than goat. He,
too, is a brave and hardy climber, fearlessly crossing the wildest
summits, and braving the severest storms, but he is shaggy,
short-legged, and much less dignified in demeanor than the sheep. His
jet-black horns are only about five or six inches in length, and the
long, white hair with which he is covered obscures the expression of
his limbs. I have never yet seen a single specimen in the Sierra,
though possibly a few flocks may have lived on Mount Shasta a
comparatively short time ago.
The ranges of these two mountaineers are pretty distinct, and they see
but little of each other; the sheep being restricted mostly to the dry,
inland mountains; the goat or chamois to the wet, snowy glacier-laden
mountains of the northwest coast of the continent in Oregon,
Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska. Probably more than 200 dwell
on the icy, volcanic cone of Mount Rainier; and while I was exploring
the glaciers of Alaska I saw flocks of these admirable mountaineers
nearly every day, and often followed their trails through the mazes of
bewildering crevasses, in which they are excellent guides.
Three species of deer are found in California,—the black-tailed,
white-tailed, and mule deer. The first mentioned (_Cervus Columbianus_)
is by far the most abundant, and occasionally meets the sheep during
the summer on high glacier meadows, and along the edge of the timber
line; but being a forest animal, seeking shelter and rearing its young
in dense thickets, it seldom visits the wild sheep in its higher homes.
The antelope, though not a mountaineer, is occasionally met in winter
by the sheep while feeding along the edges of the sage-plains and bare
volcanic hills to the east of the Sierra. So also is the mule deer,
which is almost restricted in its range to this eastern region. The
white-tailed species belongs to the coast ranges.
Perhaps no wild animal in the world is without enemies, but
highlanders, as a class, have fewer than lowlanders. The wily panther,
slipping and crouching among long grass and bushes, pounces upon the
antelope and deer, but seldom crosses the bald, craggy thresholds of
the sheep. Neither can the bears be regarded as enemies; for, though
they seek to vary their every-day diet of nuts and berries by an
occasional meal of mutton, they prefer to hunt tame and helpless
flocks. Eagles and coyotes, no doubt, capture an unprotected lamb at
times, or some unfortunate beset in deep, soft snow, but these cases
are little more than accidents. So, also, a few perish in
long-continued snow-storms, though, in all my mountaineering, I have
not found more than five or six that seemed to have met their fate in
this way. A little band of three were discovered snow-bound in Bloody
Canon a few years ago, and were killed with an ax by mountaineers, who
chanced to be crossing the range in winter.
Man is the most dangerous enemy of all, but even from him our brave
mountain-dweller has little to fear in the remote solitudes of the High
Sierra. The golden plains of the Sacramento and San Joaquin were lately
thronged with bands of elk and antelope, but, being fertile and
accessible, they were required for human pastures. So, also, are many
of the feeding-grounds of the deer—hill, valley, forest, and meadow—but
it will be long before man will care to take the highland castles of
the sheep. And when we consider here how rapidly entire species of
noble animals, such as the elk, moose, and buffalo, are being pushed to
the very verge of extinction, all lovers of wildness will rejoice with
me in the rocky security of _Ovis montana_, the bravest of all the
Sierra mountaineers.
[1] Pacific Railroad Survey, Vol. VIII, page 678.
[2] Audubon and Bachman’s “Quadrupeds of North America.”