Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Frontispiece: AT THAT INSTANT THE BEAR CAME TO LIFE.]
A
MOUNTAIN
BOYHOOD
_by_ JOE MILLS
Author of "The Comeback"
Illustrated by
ENOS B. COMSTOCK
J. H. SEARS & COMPANY, Inc.
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
J. H. SEARS & CO., INCORPORATED
COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY
THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA (INC.)
MANUFACTURED COMPLETE BY THE
KINGSPORT PRESS
KINGSPORT, TENNESSEE
_United States of America_
TO
THE ONE WHO MADE THIS
BOYHOOD POSSIBLE
MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. GOING WEST
II. GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH WILD COUNTRY AND ANIMALS
III. FIRST CAMP ALONE--EXPLORING
IV. DANCING ACROSS THE DIVIDE
V. TRAPPING--MOUNTAIN-TOP DWELLERS
VI. A LOG CABIN IN THE WILDS--PRIMITIVE LIVING
VII. GLACIERS AND FOREST FIRES
VIII. THE PROVERBIAL BUSY BEAVER
IX. MOUNTAIN CLIMBING
X. MODERN PATHFINDERS
XI. OFF THE TRAIL
XII. DREAMERS OF GOLDEN DREAMS
XIII. THE CITY OF SILENCE
XIV. BEARS AND BUGBEARS
XV. ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
At that instant the bear came to life . . . . _Frontispiece_
I plunged downward, struggling frantically
I sat down by the fiddler and dozed
I glimpsed his flaming eyes and wide-open, fang-filled mouth
Sheep and rock dropped straight toward me
Never before had the ring of an ax echoed in Silent Valley
"See all fools ain't dead yit," he observed
The memory of that race for life is still vividly terrifying
Every fall I watched Mr. and Mrs. Peg at their repairs
They turned tail and came racing back, straight toward me
Out of the dust of years, we dug the history of a buried past
A MOUNTAIN BOYHOOD
CHAPTER ONE
GOING WEST
Father and mother settled on the Kansas prairie in the early fifties.
At that time Kansas was the frontier. Near neighbors were twenty miles
or more apart. There was no railroad; no stages supplied the vast
unsettled region. A few supplies were freighted by wagon. However,
little was needed from civilized sources, for the frontier teemed with
game. Myriads of prairie chickens were almost as tame as domestic
fowls. Deer stared in wide-eyed amazement at the early settlers.
Bands of buffalo snorted in surprise as the first dark lines of sod
were broken up. Droves of wild turkey skirted the fringes of timber.
Indians roamed freely; halting in wonder at the first log cabins of the
pioneers.
In my father's old diary I found the following:
June, 1854.
Drove through from Iowa to Kansas by ox team. Located four days' drive
south of Portsmouth.* Not much timber here.
* Later Kansas City.
October, 1854.
Just returned from visit to our nearest neighbor, John Seeright, a
day's drive away. Took the chickens and cow along and stayed several
days.
Father told me that the early settlers did not like a region after it
got "settled up." He laughed heartily when he said this. It is quite
true nevertheless; as soon as a region became "settled up," the
pioneers were ready to push on again into the unknown. They loved the
frontier--it held adventure, hazard always, mystery, ofttimes, romance,
life. They moved ahead of and beyond civilization--even the long arm
of the law did not penetrate their wilderness fastnesses. Their
experience--so numerous books cannot hold them all--have become history.
It is not strange that my parents welcomed the gold rush of '59. It
called them once more into the farther wilderness, the vaster unknown.
When news of the finding of gold in the Rockies came across the plains,
legions of adventurers trailed westward. The few roads that led across
the rolling prairies to the Rockies were soon deep-cut. Wagons trains
strung out across the treeless land like huge, creeping serpents moving
lazily in the sun. Joyfully the adventurers went--happy, courageous.
They were the vanguards of civilization, pushing ever to the West.
To my lifelong regret, my boyhood came after the gold rushes were over;
the buffalo bands had passed for the last time; the Indian fighting
ended. However, these exciting events were still fresh in the memory
of my parents. When neighbors came to visit us, long hours were spent
in talking over and comparing experiences. I thrilled as my father
told of climbing Long's Peak, the eastern sentinel of the Rockies--of
Estes Park, teeming with trout and game. I thought then that I had
been born too late--that all the big things in the world were past
history. I feared then that even the Rockies would lose their wildness
before I could explore them.
Within sight and sound of the farm where I was born, a number of Civil
War skirmishes took place. The eastern Kansas border during the trying
time of the early sixties was perhaps the worst place in all the world
to live. Raiding parties plundered on both sides of the
Kansas-Missouri line. My mother watched the battle of Mine Creek from
the dooryard; saw the soldiers streaming by, and prayed fervently as
the tide of battle swayed back and forth. My father was fighting in
that battle. These frontier conflicts were still the favorite topics
of conversation at neighborhood gatherings when I was a little boy. I
listened breathlessly to them and lived them over in my imagination.
Of all the tales recounted around our fire, I loved that of the gold
rush of '59 best--my father and mother had participated in it--and I'm
sure that story moved me most of all to obey Horace Greeley's
injunction.
The wagons, in the beginning of the journey, formed a train, keeping
close together for mutual protection. As they neared the Rockies, they
scattered, each party following its individual route. Late in the
summer, high up in the mountains near Breckenridge, Colorado, my father
fell ill of "mountain fever." My mother, who weighed less than one
hundred pounds, alone drove the pony team back across the plains to
eastern Kansas. Many weeks were spent en route. Sometimes they camped
for a night with westward-bound wagons; then resumed the eastward
journey alone. Buffalo, migrating southward, literally covered the
prairie--at times, so dense were their ranks, my mother had to stop the
team to let the herds go by.
One experience of this trying trip, often related by my father, filled
me with lasting admiration for my plucky mother.
"We were camped one night beneath some cottonwoods beside a wide,
shallow stream," father would say, "and I was unable to move from my
bed in the wagon. Your mother cared for the team, started a fire, and
got supper. Shortly after dark, and before supper was ready, a dozen
Indians filed solemnly into our camp and sat down facing the fire.
They said nothing, but followed your mother's every movement with
watchful eyes. If your mother tasted the brew in the brass kettle,
every Indian eye followed her hand, and every Indian licked his lips
eagerly. The brass kettle was about the only cooking utensil we
possessed, and your mother guarded it carefully.
"This night the kettle held a savory stew of buffalo meat. When the
stew was done, your mother set it off the fire to cool. During a few
seconds--while her back was turned--the kettle vanished. From the
shelter of the wagon I saw an Indian reach out stealthily and slip it
beneath his blanket. The next moment your mother was facing the silent
circle with blazing eyes. And there, hundreds of miles from a
settlement, with no help at hand, she defied a dozen Indians. In spite
of the fact that she weighed just ninety-two pounds, she swept around
the circle slapping the surprised braves, pulling their hair and
demanding the kettle. She noticed that the chief was sheltering
something beneath his blanket. At once she gave his blanket a jerk.
The hot brew spilled over the surprised redskin's legs. There was a
yell that rent the stillness. The fellow leaped high into the air, and
vanished into the night, leaving the brass kettle behind him."
Little did my parents realize that their recounted experiences would
eventually lead me, still a boy, to venture into new regions.
At ten years of age I hazarded the statement that I was old enough to
shift for myself; that I was going West to live the rest of my life in
the Rocky Mountains. But my parents, in order to frighten me out of my
plans, told me that Indians still infested the wilds; that terrible
bull buffaloes and horrible grizzly bears roamed the wilderness.
These attempts to frighten me only strengthened my desire for adventure
and my determination to seek it. When all else failed I was told that
I was too young to strike out for myself. At last father put his foot
down firmly, a sign that his patience was at an end--so I postponed my
adventure.
The day finally came when I was aboard a train, heading westward,
toward the mountains of my dreams. I possessed twenty dollars, my
entire savings. During the journey I hardly slept, but kept watch out
the window for the first glimpse of the Rockies. I have no
recollection that there were sleeping cars at that time; anyhow, my
thin little purse afforded no such gross extravagance if I had known.
I recall that the individual seat of the chair-car gave me much
concern. I had considerable trouble adjusting it--putting it up and
laying it down.
Beside me in the companion seat rode a man of middle age, bearded,
roughly dressed, who took keen interest in my destination. He was
located, I learned, over the Continental Divide in that vast region
beyond Grand Lake. He talked of the forests of uncut timber near his
homestead, of the fertile valleys and grassy parks that would
eventually support cattle herds. "Some day," he predicted, "there'll
be a railroad built between Denver and Salt Lake City; and when it
comes it's bound to pass close to my claim."
At dawn I caught my first sight of the great snow-covered peaks, a
hundred miles away, rearing rose-red in the early morning light. At
first I mistook those misty ranges for cloud banks, lighted by the
rising sun. Then, as we drew nearer and day wore on, I made them out.
Toward noon I reached Fort Collins, Colorado, fifty miles from Long's
Peak, where there was no stage connection with Estes Park, but
Loveland, a town fifteen miles south, had a horse stage that made three
trips a week. The fare, I learned, was quite prohibitive, three
dollars for something more than thirty miles. The walk would be
interesting, I decided. But the old canvas bag, containing all my
worldly possessions, was too bulky and awkward to be carried. After
some hours of dickering, I paid eight dollars for a second-hand
bicycle, tied the bag on the handle bars and started for the Mecca of
my dreams.
That first journey to the mountains was filled with thrills. The old
stage road shot up successive mountain ranges, and plunged abruptly
down into the valleys between. There was no Big Thompson route then;
instead, the road ascended Bald Mountain, climbed the foothill range,
crossed the top, then dropped into Rattlesnake Park. It squirmed up
Pole Hill, a grade so steep that I could scarcely push up my wheel. Up
and down, up and down, it seesawed endlessly. The afternoon wore on;
each successive slope grew harder, for my legs were weary. Twice,
braking with one foot on the front crotch and sliding the wheel, I had
pitched headlong over the handle bars. Upon two descents that were too
precipitous to venture unballasted, I tied fair-sized pine trees to the
rear of my craft to act as drag-anchors.
As darkness came on I coasted down a sharp pitch to a little brook. In
the aspens that bordered the road was a range cow standing guard beside
a newborn calf. Across the road, like grisly shadows among the trees,
skulked several coyotes. The calf half rose, wabbled, and went down.
Three times it attempted to rise, grew weaker, and at last gave up the
struggle. With the waiting coyotes in mind, I leaned my wheel against
a bowlder and went to its rescue. Several things happened at once.
The half-wild range cow misunderstood my good intentions. She was
accustomed to seeing men on horseback; and one afoot was strange. She
charged headlong. I dodged quickly aside but not in time to escape
entirely. She raked me with her sharp horns. There was a wild race
through the aspens; I leading, but the cow a close second, her horns
menacing me at every leap, while I doubled and backtracked sharply
about among the trees. I had no chance to "tree"; though no mountain
lion was ever more willing, for Mrs. Cow was too near. Only Providence
and my agility saved me from an untimely end. At last the cow halted,
for she was getting too far from her calf. She shook her horns after
me menacingly, turned and hurried back toward where her offspring lay.
Each mile I covered impressed upon me more and more that there is not
even a distant relationship between mountain miles and my Kansas
prairie miles. The latter are ironed out flat, the former stand on
end, cease to be miles and become trials. Slowly the shadows filled
the canyons, and came creeping up the slopes. I gazed in awesome wonder
at the beauty of my land of dreams. My legs, cramped almost past
pedaling, still kept on--for my goal, my mountains, were at hand.
Exaltation of spirit overcame exhaustion of body.
At no time had I given any particular thought to what would happen when
I arrived; so far my whole attention had been centered on reaching the
Rockies. Such trivialities as no job, no relatives, practically no
money, made little impression upon my Rocky-bound mind.
Long after nightfall I reached the crest of Park Hill, the last barrier
to Estes Park. The moon shone full upon the valley below, and upon the
snow-capped mountains beyond. The river murmured softly as its shining
folds curled back and forth across the dark green meadow, suddenly
vanishing between dark canyon walls. Coyotes raised their eerie voices;
across the canyon, from the cliffs of Mount Olympus, an owl hooted
gloomily. Before me loomed the Rockies, strangely unreal in the
moonlight and yet very like the mountains of my imagination. I gazed,
spellbound. My dream was realized.
It was midnight when, completely exhausted, I stopped before an old log
cabin. Dogs charged out, barking furiously at the strange thing I rode
and nipping at my legs; but I was too weary to remember distinctly even
now what happened. I must have tumbled off my wheel for I learned
afterward that I was picked up and put to bed; but for hours I tossed
about, my body racked with pain, my thoughts jumbled. But boys must
sleep, and I slept at last.
Next morning, pushing the wheel slowly, I headed for the most remote
ranch in the region, that lay at the foot of Long's Peak. Progress was
slow and painful for my body was stiff and sore; the road I followed
wound upward, climbing steadily to higher altitude. Frequently I
halted to rest, and spent my time of respite searching the mountains
with eager, appraising eyes, planning explorations among them. Toward
noon I came to the ranch I sought, located nine miles from the nearest
neighbor, at nine thousand feet altitude, and surrounded by rugged
mountains. Above it rose Long's Peak, up and up into the clouds, to
more than fourteen thousand feet. The rancher was the Reverend E. J.
Lamb, one of the early settlers of Estes Park. The Parson, as he was
known, was more than six feet tall, straight as a lodge-pole pine
physically--and even more so spiritually. He wore a long, flowing
beard, rose habitually and unprotestingly at four in the morning--a man
of diverse talents and eccentricities.
CHAPTER TWO
GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH WILD COUNTRY AND ANIMALS
Parson Lamb's ranch consisted of a fenced garden tract surrounded on
every side for miles by high mountains that shut it in. There was
heavy forest on the slopes above the ranch; and out of these came many
lively little streams that were almost as cold as their parent
snowbanks.
I hoarded my few remaining dollars. The Parson gave me room and board,
in return for which I helped about the place, doing various chores,
such as wood-splitting and clearing land for more garden, and
occasionally going the nine miles to the village for the mail. My work
took only a small part of my time, leaving me free to explore the
near-by region, with its deep, evergreen forests, and the wild animals
which lived in them.
Many were the tales the tall, rawboned Parson told of his early pioneer
days (for he had lived there since the early seventies, and was a
loquacious old fellow), as he and his wife, Jane, and I sat beside the
granite fireplace, when the coals glowed low and the shadows scurried
here and there over the rough logs of the cabin walls. He had been
shot and nearly killed by a bandit, gored by a bull, dragged by a
frightened horse, and bitten by a bear. Upon one lonely excursion far
from any settlement, he had been followed by a huge, stealthy, mountain
lion.
Harrowing as were these tales, the one that made me shiver despite the
radiant pitch knots, was that of his perilous descent of the precipice
on Long's Peak. Time has not changed the character of that face--it is
sheer and smooth and icy now, as then. He was probably the first man
to attempt its descent, and I was always weak and spent when he ended
his story of it, so vividly did he portray its dangers. I sat tense,
digging my nails deep into my palms, living through every squirm and
twist with him, from the moment he slid down from the comparatively
safe "Narrows" to the first niche in the glassy, precipitous wall,
till, after many nearly-the-last experiences, he landed safely at its
foot. That adventure had almost cost him his life, for he had once
missed his foothold, slipped and slid and had hung suspended by one
hand for a long, terrible moment.
Always I sat with eyes glued upon the story-teller, thrilling as he
talked, planning secretly to emulate his example, proving some of his
statements by daily short excursions. However, the Parson was not
always away on trips. Sometimes he guided visitors to the top of the
Peak or worked on the trail to its summit. He chopped wood, worked in
the garden, hunted stray cattle or horses. Frequently he rode off with
his Bible under his arm, for he was a circuit rider, carrying the
gospel into the wilderness. He gave good, if free, advice, officiated
at weddings and funerals, at barn-raisings and log-rollings. He
preached or worked as the notion moved him; lingered in one place or
rode long trails to fulfill his mission. His own ranch was thirty
miles from the railroad, but many of his calls were made on settlers
even more remote.
Gradually I extended the scope of my explorations, frequently spending
the night abroad, carrying a pair of worn and faded blankets and a
little food. A number of times I climbed Long's Peak alone. On these
trips to high country I scouted the high-flung crest of Battle
Mountain, Lady Washington, Storm Peak, and Mount Meeker; explored
Glacier Gorge, investigated Chasm Lake, and from the top of Peak and
Meeker looked down into Wild Basin to the south.
I sketched a rude map of the great basin in my notebook and named it
"Land of Many Waters," because of the scores of small streams that
trickled down its inclosing mountain sides. The oval bowl I estimated
to be fifteen miles long by about half as wide, its sides formed of
mountain slopes densely wooded up to bleak timberline. Save the murmur
of falling water, or the wind upon the heights, it was a land of
silence. Small streams converged, dropped into deep canyons and reached
the river that rumbled far below. There were vivid, emerald lakes
everywhere--some lost in the woods near the river, others pocketed
behind the ridges, while still more could be seen up above naked
timberline.
I returned, thrilled with the thought of exploring Wild Basin, sought
the Parson and told him my ambition. At first he was much amused, but
when he found I was serious he grew grave.
"There's no neighbors over that way," he objected. "If anything
happens, you'll be beyond help." Even though he was older and much
more experienced, I thought him hardly qualified, after his own
foolhardy adventures, to discourage me; but I decided to wait until
fall before setting out. This delay would enable me to know more about
the mountains, to add to my experience, and better fit me to cope with
the emergencies of that inviting, great unknown--Wild Basin.
Everywhere I found strange birds and animals, and began to get
acquainted with them. The handsome, black and white, long-tailed
magpies were much like the crows I had known in Kansas, so far as
wariness was concerned. The Rocky Mountain long-crested jays, quite
unlike our prairie jays, much more brilliant in coloring, their
gorgeous coats of turquoise blue and black flashing in the sunshine,
were continually bickering, and following me through the woods to see
what I was about. Chickadees and nuthatches were always inspecting the
trees for food, running up and down, paying no attention to me and
going about their business with cheerful little chirrups that expressed
their contentment. Occasionally a crow flew up the valley with raucous
calls; and sometimes a raven pursued his way toward the deeper woods.
Meadow larks and robins were everywhere.
Woodpeckers and flickers did their bit to keep vermin off the trees,
and performed daily operations on trunk and limb, removing borers and
beetles that had penetrated beneath the bark, thus saving the lives of
many evergreen monarchs. Around ten and eleven thousand feet there
were campbirds, Canada jays, friendly and inquisitive; on first
acquaintance they often took food from my hands, and helped themselves
freely of any food accessible in camp. They were unruffled, flitting
softly from tree to tree, with little flapping, calling low, and in a
sweetly confidential tone.
However friendly I found the birds, the big game animals were extremely
wary. I mentioned the fact to the Parson.
"They've been shot at," was his explanation. "Every time they've come
in contact with men they've suffered. They know men are dangerous,
always have guns."
In spite of the Parson's observations we always had wild game hanging
in the log meat house; there was never any question about securing
whatever we wanted in that line. Except during the winter months, deer
could be had with little effort. But the elk had practically vanished;
occasionally a lone survivor strayed into the ranch valley. There were
bears, of course, shy and fearful, in the rough, unsettled country. We
had great variety of meat, venison, Bighorn sheep, grouse, ptarmigan,
wild pigeon, sometimes squirrel and, rarely, bear steaks.
Wherever I went, even in the far-away places where few men had ever
been, the deer and elk and bear were very wild, and I found it
impossible to approach them unless the wind was from them to me, and I
moved forward carefully hidden. I spent many eventful days, walking,
climbing, sitting motionless to watch the scampering chipmunks, or to
invite the birds up close. Thus, a little at a time, I came to know
the habits of the wild folks I met; learned their likes and
dislikes--the things that excited their curiosity, and that frightened
them away in panic.
Upon my first climb to the top of Long's Peak alone, I halted above
timberline and stared about in amazement at the wide stretches of
rock-strewn slopes. From a distance these had appeared no larger than
a back yard, but a close-up revealed they were miles across; and
instead of being barren, were a series of hanging gardens, one above
another, each of different shape and size, and all green with grass and
with a hundred different kinds of wild flowers waving in the sunshine.
I counted more than fifty varieties, none of which I knew, and still
they seemed endless.
Usually I wandered off the trail to follow birds or animals. In the
arctic-like zone above were birds entirely strange to me, and animals
that never came down to the valley of the ranch. It was not long
before I discovered that nearly all birds and animals live at a certain
zone of altitude, rarely straying above or below it.
Occasionally I heard a queer "squee-ek." It sounded close, yet its
maker was invisible. Many times I looked up, searching the air
overhead for the elusive "squee-eker." At last I came upon a bunch of
grass, no larger than a water pail, and stopped to examine it. Grass
and flowers had been piled loosely in an irregular heap, resembling a
miniature haystack.
"Something making a nest," I observed aloud.
"Squee-ek," denied a shrill voice almost at my elbow.
Ten feet away upon a bowlder that rose above the rest of the rocks, sat
a small animal which at first I mistook for a young rabbit. In shape
and size he closely resembled a quarter-grown cottontail, but his ears
were different from any rabbit's, being short and round. His eyes were
beady; somehow he made me think of a rat. He ran down the rock and
climbed to another perch. Not even so much tail as a bunny--none at
all. In some respects he resembled a rabbit, a squirrel and a prairie
dog. His actions reminded me of all of them. In fact, he is sometimes
called "Rock Rabbit" and "Little Chief Hare." He may have other names
besides.
I watched the interesting little fellow for some time and later found
his actions characteristic of his tribe. He literally makes hay while
the summer shines. He is the only harvester I ever saw who works on
the run. He dashed at top speed, without stopping for breath, bit off
a mouthful of grass and again ran pell-mell for his growing stack. He
scampered down its side, then leaped from an adjacent rock to its top,
laden with his bundle of hay. Evidently he found the alpine summer
short and felt it necessary to step lively. Altitude, that convenient
scapegoat of tenderfeet, did not seem to affect his wind or his
endurance. He stacked his harvest in one corner of the field from
which he cut it. He cut flowers along with the grass. Perhaps he used
them for flavor as grandmother put rose-geranium leaves in her
crab-apple jelly. The haycock he built was about the size of a
bucket--I have since seen them as large as bushel baskets. His tiny
fields lay between bowlders; some of them were but a few inches square,
others a foot, several a yard, perhaps.
I was interested to learn if the little haycocks were blown away by the
timberline gales, so returned later, not really expecting to find them.
Nor were they in the same location, but their owners, not the wind, had
moved them. Evidently, as soon as the hay was cured, it was stored for
safe-keeping, usually beneath the overhang of a rock, away from the
wind.
I was then curious to see how the cony would transport his hay in
winter. Many of his under-rock passages would, at that season, be
filled with snow, forcing him to appear on the surface where the wind
was often strong enough to blow me over, to say nothing of what it
would do to the little midget in fur with a load of hay attached. He
met the storm situation easily. Whenever he exhausted one hayloft, he
moved his home to another. Thus he solved the transportation question
and gained a new home at the same time. Several times, upon digging
beneath the slide rock, I discovered cony dens, merely openings far
down between the jumbled rocks, beyond the reach of wind and weather.
They were of great variety, large, small, wide, narrow; all ready to
move into. They were the conies' castles, ready refuges from enemies,
their devious passages as effective as drawbridge or portcullis.
The cony is something like the heaver far down on the flats below;
working at top speed when he does work, and then resting for many
months. Outside the brief harvest period I have found him sitting idly
atop a rock, napping in the sun, dreaming apparently; thus for days and
months he is idle, always harmless--a condition that does not apply to
human beings under similar circumstances. He is energetic, ambitious,
courageous, and acrobatic. He is the scout of the mountain top, always
alert and friendly.
The altitude zone of the cony I found to be between eleven and thirteen
thousand feet. He and the Bighorn, ptarmigan, weasels and foxes are
mountain-top dwellers throughout the year. Marmots hibernate during
the long alpine winters. But the cony I have seen on sunny days in
January; his welcome "squee-ek," piercing the roar of the wind, has
greeted me on the lonely storm-swept heights when not another living
thing was in sight.
But in spite of his living in the out-of-the-way world the cony has
enemies for whom he is always watching. In summer there are hawks and
eagles, foxes and coyotes. In winter his feathered foes depart, but
the foxes remain, as do the weasels. Sitting motionless in the midst
of jumbled rocks I have faded into the bowlder fields, and thus have
been able to watch the cony and his enemies. Usually his "squee-ek"
announced the appearance of a foe before I discovered it. Then, if the
enemy was a bird or a beast, he merely hugged the rock, watching
alertly until he was discovered, then flipped out of sight to the
safety of rocky retreat, giving a defiant "squee-ek" as he went. But
if a weasel appeared...
I sat watching a cony one day in early fall as he lay in the sunshine
upon a bowlder. From somewhere below us came the distant "squee-ek" of
a relative, followed shortly by the shrill whistle of a marmot. The
cony sat up suddenly, awake and alertly watching. The signals were
repeated. Instantly the little fellow departed from his outpost and
hurried away, circling the bowlder, leaping to another, disappearing in
the rocks and reappearing again. His actions were so unusual that I
wondered what message the signals had carried; to me they were no
different than they were when they announced my coming--yet the
difference must have been plain to the wee furry ears, judging from
their owner's apprehensive actions. Indeed, a weasel was abroad
seeking his quarry. When his presence was announced, neither the cony
nor I could see him because of an intervening upthrust of rock.
Soon the weasel appeared, circling the rock where the cony had been
sunning himself, searching beneath it, hurrying along the tunnels
through which the cony had fled. Emerging upon the bowlder, he paused
for a few seconds as he looked in all directions. The weasel was
brownish-yellow in color. I was to learn later that he changed to pure
white in winter.
I sprang to my feet and pursued him, shouting as I ran, throwing rocks
and attempting to scare him off. Losing track of both pursuer and
pursued, I stopped for breath. Suddenly, from almost beneath my feet,
the agile villain reappeared, staring at me with bright, bold eyes,
advancing toward me as though to attack. He was no coward; with
amazing agility he dodged a rock I threw at him, turning a back-spring
and landing at my feet. For a moment we glared at each other, then he
made off as though utterly unconscious of my presence.
I watched the long slender body disappear among the rocks in the
opposite direction to that taken by the cony, standing for a moment to
regain my breath and recover from my surprise.
Suddenly there was a shrill whistle behind me. I jumped and whirled
about. Twenty feet away a marmot stood erect atop a rock, eying me
inquiringly, watching every movement. He had whistled his signal about
me, whether good or bad news I could not detect, but from the distance
came other whistles in reply. He was the cony's ally, broadcasting
information about the skirmish taking place before his eyes; but
whether he was attempting to interfere and divert my attention, I could
not make out. Certainly, though, he was giving information, signaling
my presence to all within hearing. My intrusion upon the heights in
summer has ever been announced by the conies and the marmots.
From another direction came a second whistle; apparently I was
surrounded. Then, as I moved, the second marmot hurried away from his
observation post. He was short-legged, reddish-yellow in color, with a
bushy tail, and he ran with great effort but with very little speed,
like a fat boy in a foot race.
Down in the valley near the ranch were numerous grouse, old and young,
so tame that it was like knocking over pet chickens to kill them. But
there was a strange bird above timberline, the ptarmigan, the arctic
quail of the north--fool hens, the Parson told me. These birds were
mottled in color, matching the rocks among which they lived, and so
closely did their color blend with their environment it was impossible
to distinguish bird from rock so long as the fowl remained still. It
was because they depended so utterly upon their protective coloration,
making no effort to get out of the way but acting with utmost
stupidity, that they came to be called "fool hens."
The days I spent above timberline were the most wonderful of all. From
high above the world I could see tier upon tier of distant, snow-capped
mountains--ghost ranges--and southward, at the horizon, loomed Pike's
Peak a hundred airline miles away, a giant pyramid above the foothills,
standing sentinel over the vast, flat plains that reached to its foot.
As weeks passed and my interest in the wild things increased, I began
to wish for a cabin of my own, a home or a den to which I could retreat
and spend the time as I desired. Wherever I rambled I was alert for a
location for my little house. I was not yet old enough to take up a
homestead and claim land for myself.
Climbing to the summits of various promontories I planned the sort of
cabin I would like to build there; I'd have a dog, and a horse too, and
a camera--I began to doubt whether I'd want my rifle for as I developed
my acquaintance with the animals I found myself less eager to shoot
them.
Hunting and trapping was the habit of everyone I knew; even back in
Kansas the boys and men had gone shooting at every opportunity; and the
few men I encountered upon the trails in the Rockies were for the most
part real trappers and hunters, following the trade for a living. They
gave no thought to the cruelty of their traps or the suffering their
operations occasioned, It is not strange, then, that such men saw no
harm in their actions, for they considered all game fair prey.
Occasionally I left my gun at home and found that I rambled the heights
above timberline in a changed mood from when I carried it. The animals
were more friendly, perhaps my actions were more open and aboveboard.
My rifle naturally inspired a desire to shoot something; a mountain
sheep, a bear, even the fat marmots did not escape my deadly fire.
But, without a gun--there was interest everywhere. Many times I
laughed at the antics of the animals, especially at the awkward,
lumbering haste of the marmots. These animals, while very curious,
were quick to take alarm. They would climb to a lookout post at the
top of a rock, watching me eagerly and whistling mild gossip for the
delectation of their neighbors who could not see me. One day, far
skyward, I came upon an exceedingly fat marmot busily eating grass in a
narrow little hayland between bowlders. He must have weighed more than
twenty pounds, but this fact did not deter him from adding additional
weight for the long, winter sleep. At best his active period was
short, his hibernation long, so he ate and slept and ate again through
all the hours of daylight. At my approach he reluctantly left off
eating, crept up a rock and whistled mildly as though merely curious.
For a time I amused him by advancing, retreating, and circling his rock.
Suddenly I dropped out of sight behind a bowlder. Instantly his
whistle carried a note of warning. So long as I remained in sight I
was merely a curiosity, but the instant I dropped from sight, I became
a suspicious character. Again he broadcasted sharp warning to all
within hearing. From near and far came answering marmot shrillings,
and from near by a cony "squee-eked" his quick alarm.
My reappearance reassured the marmot. He whistled again, and I thought
I distinguished a note of disgust or of disappointment.
This marmot lived on the south slope of the big moraine that shoulders
against Lady Washington, neighboring peak to the giant mountain, Long's
Peak. Sometimes I found the roly-poly fellow saving hay by eating it,
or asleep in the sun on an exposed rock. Often he ventured down into
the canyon at the foot of the moraine to investigate the grass that grew
down there.
One day as I sat atop the big moraine, I heard his shrill whistle from
the edge of the trees in the canyon below. It was somehow different
from any signal I had heard him give before, but just how it was
different I could not make out. The notes were the same, but the tone
was different--that was it, the tone had changed. Then the reason for
the difference came out of the scattered trees--a grizzly bear stalked
deliberately into the open and sat down facing the huge bowlder upon
which the marmot sat.
The marmot stood erect on his hind legs, eying the bear warily,
prepared to dash for his den beneath the rock the instant the visitor
made an unfriendly move. But the bear was a very stupid fellow; he
took no note of the marmot. Instead, he looked off across the canyon,
swung his head slowly to and fro as though thinking deeply of something
a hundred miles away. He was a young bear with a shiny new coat of
summer fur. He had just had a bath in the stream where ice water
gushed from beneath a snowbank.
The marmot gave a second whistle, carrying less fear. Apparently the
slow-moving, sleepy bear meant no harm. For half an hour the marmot
watched alertly, then slid down beneath the bowlders and started
eating. From time to time he sat stiffly erect, peering suspiciously
at the intruder. But since the bear made no overt move, he continued
his feeding as though he were too hungry to wait until his uninvited
guest departed.
At length the bear rolled over on his back with all four feet in the
air. The marmot surveyed the performance for a few seconds, then went
on feeding, gradually grazing out beyond the shelter of the rock
beneath which he had his den. The bear "paid him no mind," apparently
asleep in the sunshine. Slowly the marmot fed away from the rock, the
farther he ventured the more luxuriant his feast, for the grass was
eaten off short around his dooryard. For an hour I watched every move
of that silent drama, trying to guess the outcome, wondering if the
bear were really asleep. All at once the little gourmand whistled
reassuringly: "All right, it's a friend."
The marmot was not more surprised than myself at what happened next.
The bear lay perhaps a hundred feet from the marmot's home, and the
marmot had fed perhaps forty feet from it--a distance he could quickly
cover if the visitor showed unfriendly symptoms.
But there were no symptoms. It was all over so quickly that I was left
dazed and breathless. There was a small bowlder about four feet high
in the midst of a tiny hayfield where the marmot fed. The unsuspecting
whistler fed into the little field, passed behind the rock, and was out
of sight for just a second. At that instant the bear came to life,
leaped to his feet and dashed toward the den beneath the rock, cutting
off the marmot's retreat.
Too late the quarry saw the bear. It made a frantic dash for home and
shelter, its fat body working desperately, its short legs flying. Ten
feet from the den the bear flattened the marmot with a single quick
slap of his paw. Then he sat down to eat his dinner. His acting had
been perfect; he had fooled me as well as the marmot.
CHAPTER THREE
FIRST CAMP ALONE--EXPLORING
My short trips into the wilds tempted me to go beyond the trails. So
far my rambles had taken me only to the threshold of the wilderness, I
wondered what lay beyond; I wanted to follow the game trails and see
where they led. Above all I was eager to pit my scant skill against
primitive nature and learn if my resourcefulness was equal to the
emergencies of the unknown. Somehow I never doubted my courage--I
simply didn't fear.
As the short high-altitude summer began to wane, I grew restless.
September advanced; the aspen trees near timberline turned to gold;
from day to day those lower down turned also until a vast richly
colored rug covered the mountain sides. Ripe leaves fluttered down,
rustling crisply underfoot. Frost cut down the rank grass, humbled the
weeds and harvested the flowers. Forests of spruce and lodgepole were
dark with shadow. A beaver colony returned to its former haunts at the
foot of Long's Peak and was working night and day. Its pond of still
water was glazing over with clear ice.
October came. The nights grew colder. The snow of early winter came
to the high peaks, dusting their bare, bald crowns.
"Fur ought to be getting prime now," the Parson said one day. "It'll
be better still, higher up."
This was the message I had been waiting for. It set me packing at
once, for I was going into Wild Basin, alone, to hunt, trap and explore.
On a morning near the middle of October, much excited, I set out for
the land of mystery. Ahead lay the unknown, uncharted wilds. I could
go where I chose and stay as long as I wished. Bold Columbus, looking
westward, I could not have been more thrilled. Mountain maple beckoned
with ripe, red banners. The mountains peeked through the autumn haze,
divulging nothing, promising everything!
My outfit consisted of an old, ragged tent, a little food, a camera
that had been through a fire and leaked light badly, a knife, an ax, a
six-shooter, and an old rifle that had been traded about among the
early settlers and had known many owners. In addition I had bought six
double-spring steel traps sufficiently large to hold beaver, coyotes or
wolves. The pair of ragged blankets that had served me on my short
trips about the region had been reinforced with an old quilt, faded and
patched, but sweet and clean.
All this duffle I packed upon a "return" horse, lent me by the Parson,
one that would return home as soon as it was let loose.
The Parson chuckled at the appearance of my pack, even the horse turned
his head inquiringly, but I was too excited to mind their insinuations.
As the sun topped the mountains, I led the horse slowly down the old
tollroad toward a game trail, and swung up in the direction of Wild
Basin.
Deer tracks showed in the old road and in the game trails; I also
recognized coyote tracks, and puzzled over strange tracks which I could
not make out. The small streams I crossed had many deep pools where
trout were collecting for the winter. I tossed stones into them and
the fish, like rainbow darts, dashed for shelter beneath the rocks.
Hourly my excitement grew--a million plans ran through my head. I
would become a mighty hunter and make a fortune trapping; I would turn
prospector and locate a mine: Father and Mother would yet have the gold
of which they were thwarted.
The second evening brought me into such rough country that going
farther with the horse was next to impossible. With excited hands I
unpacked, bade the beast good-by, and started him toward home on the
back trail. He trotted off, neighing eagerly.
Save for the rumble of the river deep down in its canyon, the great
basin was voiceless. The forest showed no signs of man. Above and
beyond rose a circle of snow-capped peaks. I paused in awe; the world
was bigger than I had dreamed. I was a boy without a woodsman's
skill--a boy alone in the heart of an overwhelming silence. I turned,
with a pang of homesickness, just in time to see the return horse
disappear. Whistling loudly, I set about making camp. It should be my
headquarters, from which I could explore in all directions, returning
as often as necessary for supplies.
A lake with sandy shores lapped in and out among immense bowlders. On
the west side a cliff rose straight from the water. At the upper edge
a small cataract came leaping down the ledges and plunged noisily into
the pool that overflowed into the lake. Above the water was a grove of
Engelmann spruces, giant trees that rose straight for more than a
hundred feet. I pitched my tent in a small open glade, but had trouble
getting down the stakes, for everywhere was granite. The first test of
my resourcefulness had come--I met it by piling stones around the tent
stakes, bracing them taut for the ropes.
The call of the wild was too loud to ignore--I hastened my camp making.
The sun was going down on a world of splendor. Overhead were
brilliantly colored clouds, while deep in the canyon below the early
darkness was thickening. From somewhere in the distance came the cry
of an animal. Camp was left unfinished; I climbed to a jutting
shoulder that overlooked the canyon. From far below came the noise of
the river as it chugged and sobbed and roared endlessly between its
towering walls. I promised myself I would go down and explore that
dark canyon at an early date.
Of a sudden there came an indescribable, unearthly sound that echoed
and reechoed among the cliffs. I could not tell the direction from
which it came; a sudden chill crept along my spine, my hair prickled
and lifted. Then the echoes ceased, the silence that followed was
equally terrifying. I bethought me of my unfinished camp. Later I
learned that alarming sound was the bugling of a bull elk. It was the
mating season.
As darkness came on I ate beans and bread by the light of the campfire.
The beans came out of a can, so were well cooked; but the bread was my
first campfire, culinary concoction. It was a flour and water mixture,
plus salt and baking powder, cooked against a hot rock. It was smoked
black and cooked so hard it nearly broke my teeth, besides, it had a
granite finish from association with the rock oven. But I ate it with
boyish relish in spite of its flaws. My imagination expanded as I
watched ghostly shadow-figures dance upon the face of the cliff. The
shifting flame, the wood smoke, the silent, starry night swelled my
heart to pride in my great adventure. I ignored the incident of the
animal cry that had sent me scurrying to camp. This first camp was
just below timberline, at an altitude of eleven thousand feet or more.
I had much to learn about altitude, as well as of winds and weather,
woods and mountains. In the mountains the higher one goes the harder
the wind blows. In the Rockies, around timberline, gales often reach a
velocity of a hundred miles, or more, an hour. Here during the long
alpine winters, the wind booms and crashes among the peaks, roars
through the passes, and rips through the shattered trees. That first
night I lay in camp and listened to its unceasing roar, as it tore
along the ridge tops. Occasionally, a gust would scatter my fire. It
raged through the spruces like a hurricane, causing me much uneasiness
lest one of the trees should come crashing down upon my frail shelter.
At last, after dozing before the dying fire, I went inside the tent,
crept between my blankets and fell asleep.
I was aiming at a charging grizzly, when there came a swishing, banging
crash! I sat up, half awake. The tent flapped wildly, lifting clear
of the ground. My stone cairns had been jerked down by the repeated
yanks of the stake ropes. A stronger gust, the tent went down, or
rather up, and vanished into the night. The spruce tree, which was my
tent pole, struck me on the head. I sat dazed. Gradually it came to
me that my clothes, as well as my tent, were gone. I realized, too,
that I had pitched camp on the wrong side of the little stream, for the
mischievous gusts, saturated with water from the falls, spat upon me
and soaked my blankets. I managed to strike a match, but the wind
snuffed it out instantly. I tried again and again to make a
light--with no success. I crawled dazedly about--I struggled
upright--my toe caught beneath a rock, and I pitched headlong. That
hour of darkness taught me never to venture about blindly.
The night was unbelievably cold. During the day, while the sun had
shone brightly, the temperature had been very comfortable, even warm.
But now, with wind blasts from the snow-fields and glaciers and
waterfall, I was chilled through and through. As I felt about for my
vanished clothes, my teeth chattered. Soon I gave up the search and
sought shelter in the spruces; I found a leaning slab of rock and crept
beneath it as a wild animal would have done. Through the remaining
hours of the night I shivered and shook there; my imagination dulled,
my ambition dampened. I decided to break camp as soon as it was light.