came up, and the wind died down and I had recovered my clothes and
warmed myself at a leaping fire, my heart too leaped up with renewed
courage. All was serene. It seemed impossible that I could have been
so miserable in the night.
As soon as I had eaten I dragged the tent back among the spruces where
I set it up and anchored it securely. Lesson Number One had sunk in.
It would not need repeating.
When camp was at last secure, I climbed slowly to the ridge top above.
Its crest was above timberline. On all sides rose lofty mountains,
many of them patched with snowbanks. Deep canyons cut sharply between
the ridges and shoulders. Ice fields indicated possible glaciers. I
wanted to explore everything at once; wanted to climb the peaks, and
delve into the canyons; hunt out the game and explore the glaciers.
At timberline I stopped in silent wonder. Broken trees were scattered
about upon the ground like soldiers after a battle. I didn't quite
comprehend its significance, but Parson Lamb had described it to me. I
had seen other timberlines in my rambles, but none so impressive as
this. Here was the forest frontier. How dauntless, how gallant, these
pioneers were! How they strove to hold the advantage gained during the
brief summer respite! Here a canny stripling grew behind a sheltering
bowlder, but whenever it tried to peep above its breastworks, the wind,
with its shell-shot of sand and gravel and ice bullets, cut off its
protruding limbs as neatly as a gardner might have done. Consequently
its top was as flat as a table.
In the open, other trees trailed along the ground like creeping vines,
their tops pointing away from the wind. It seemed as if they banded
together for mutual protection, for they formed a dense hedge or
"bush." Here was the deadline established by altitude. The forests
were commanded to halt; this line of last defense was not unlike the
sweeping shoreline of the sea. Here and there were lone scout trees in
advance of the ranks. They were twisted and dwarfed, misshapen,
grotesque.
There were wide, naked stretches bare of snow. Great drifts lay in the
woods; the deep, narrow canyons were piled full of it. Many of these
drifts would last far into the following summer; a few would be
perpetual. At the approach of summer, such drifts turn to ice through
frequent thawing and freezing, since the surface snow, melting under
the glare of the summer sun, seeps down through the mass beneath in
daytime, and freezes again at night. From such drifts flow icy streams
for the leaping trout. Countless sparkling springs gurgled forth at
the foot of the slopes.
Here I had my first lessons in conservation and learned that it is
indeed an ill wind that does no good. Here nature hoards her savings
in snowbanks. To these savings she adds constantly throughout the
winter. Long I sat upon a promontory and marveled. Dimly, only, did I
grasp the significance of what lay before me! The ranks of primeval
forest waiting to aid civilization; snow, that white magic eventually
destined to water crops on the distant plains; and, above all, woods,
the final refuge of the big game; the sanctuary of the birds.
Everywhere were scattered unnamed lakes. These edged out and around
the rock peninsulas, folded back into dark coves and swung out of sight
behind the timbered bends. Some were almost pinched in half by the
crowding cliffs till they formed giant hour-glasses; again they bulged
and overflowed like streams at high water. I began to name them
according to their shape. "Hourglass," of course; the one that bulged
out at one end was surely a plump "Pear"--yes, and
"Dog-with-three-legs"! My imagination was recovering.
For miles I followed the strange, fantastic timberline. Occasionally I
found stunted little trees scarcely knee high, peeping through the
crushing weight of snow that had smothered them, even throughout the
summer. I cut several trees to count the rings of growth. I found
trees growing close together and about the same size, with centuries of
variation in age. One, that had been broken off by a rock slide, had
two hundred and ninety-six annual rings. It had grown in a sheltered
nook. Ten yards away another, much smaller, but growing upon an
exposed, rocky point, was no higher than my head, yet I counted five
hundred and seven rings; for half a thousand years it had stood at its
post. I found the counting of these annual rings extremely difficult,
as they were so dense that it was hard to distinguish them and they
averaged from fifty to a hundred rings to an inch of thickness, but the
small magnifying glass I carried made it possible.
The most striking thing I discovered about the timberline trees was
their irregularity. There was no similarity of form, as prevails among
trees of the deep forest. Each tree took on a physical appearance
according to its location and its opportunities. One resemblance only
did they have in common: none had limbs on the west side. All their
leafy banners pointed toward the rising sun. Thus I learned the
direction of the prevailing winter winds. The west side of the trees
were polished smooth, many cut halfway through. Trees that had reached
maturity, or had died, were stripped almost bare of limbs, which had
been cut away by the constant scouring.
There were abundant tracks of deer, and some of elk, but I saw not a
single animal. Near the spot from which had risen the terrifying
sounds of that first night, a deep-worn game trail led down into the
heavy forests. Sharp hoofs had cut into it recently, yet neither hide
nor hair of an animal did I glimpse. There were no traces of beaver
nor any coyote tracks. There were bear tracks, but the small traps I
had brought would not hold bear, so I did not set them. I was running
low on provisions, for I had counted on the game for meat: I had meant
to have venison steak as soon as I had got settled in my permanent camp.
Here was mystery! My curiosity was challenged; I determined to fathom
it!
How I studied those tracks! Those of the sheep could be distinguished
by the rounded toe marks of their hoofs, worn blunt by the granite
rocks they lived on. This was especially true of the forefeet. They
were also wide apart, while the deer tracks were sharply pointed, with
the hoofs close together. Days passed and the tracks in the trails
grew dim, but not before I had read their story. I followed the
sheep's up above timberline--they grew plainer and more numerous. So
that was it! The sheep climbed where the wind would keep their tables,
spread with sweet cured grass, swept free of snow, and had placed the
barrier of timberline drifts between them and their enemies!
The other tracks all led down to the valleys. There in the foothills
winter would be less rigorous, and the grass would not be buried for
months beneath the snow. Winter was at hand in the high country and
all but the Bighorn had deserted it. What with them above me, and the
rest below, I found myself in a no-game zone.
There was no repetition of the frightful sound that had sent me
scurrying for camp. I suspected a bull elk had made it, though I
recognized no resemblance between that hair-raising sound and a bugle.
My thoughts turned to other game. I must have meat--how about a bear?
If I couldn't trap one, perhaps I could shoot one. I got out my
battered old rifle, so like the timberline trees, and boldly set out
for "b'ar." In and out of the dense forest I blundered; crashed
through the tangle at timberline; toiled up the rocky ridges. Up and
up I climbed, paying no heed to the direction of the wind. I found
bear tracks, both large and small, but no sight of Bruin himself.
Discouraged, I lay down to rest and had a nap in the sun. Later, with
the wind in my face, I peeped over a rocky upthrust near a large
snowbank. My eyes bulged, my mouth opened. There was a bear just
ahead. Surely it was mad--crazy--for no animal in its right mind would
do what it was doing.
First it would lumber along a few feet from the edge of the snow,
stopping, sniffing, striking out suddenly with its forepaws; it
repeated this performance again and again. I watched, hypnotized,
unaware of the gun gripped tightly in my hands. Anyhow, who'd want to
eat a mad bear?
A slight sound caused me to turn my head. Twenty feet away another
bear stood regarding me curiously.
Not being absent-minded, I have never been able to understand why I
left my rifle on the mountainside after lugging it up there for an
avowed purpose. At any rate I made record time back to camp, glancing
rearward frequently, to see if the "flock" of bears was pursuing me.
The next day, after surveying the mountainside to make sure that no
bears were lurking there, I went back up and recovered the rifle. The
sand beneath the shelving rock where I had seen the second bear was
disturbed. Claws had rasped it sharply. It appeared as though this
bear had been startled suddenly; had wheeled about and fled for its
life in the opposite direction to that I had taken. The tracks were
small, too, apparently those of a cub. This was my first hear
experience. I had yet to learn that bear are as harmless as deer or
mountain sheep; they attend strictly to their own business, and they
never come near man except through accident. At that time, though, I
was willing to give all bears the benefit of the doubt--and the right
of way.
While further exploring the ridge above the camp I came upon an old
abandoned tunnel with its dump concealed among the trees below
timberline. The entrance to the tunnel had been timbered to prevent
its caving. There was nothing in its appearance to tell how long it
had been abandoned. Beside the dump was a small selected pile of ore.
This I gloated over happily, mistaking mingled stains and colors for
pure sold. But if it was a gold mine, why had the owners departed--and
why had they left rich ore? These and, other questions unanswered,
left me with an uneasy feeling. I wondered if a tragedy had happened
here, so many miles from civilization. With a torch of small twigs I
ventured into the dark hole running straight back beneath the cliff. A
short distance inside the tunnel I stopped uneasily. The silence was
intense. The twig torch fluttered faintly and went out. The darkness
was black beyond belief. Without delay I felt my way out into the
sunshine, leaving further exploration for another day.
For weeks I roamed the forest, circled the scattered lakes, climbed to
the jagged tops of high-flung peaks; and daily, almost, had new and
strange experiences. Everything was intensely interesting, and all was
fairyland. Many times I was torn between timidity and curiosity.
Though I often carried the huge old rifle with deadly intent, I failed
to bring down any big game. Invariably when I had a good chance, my
gun would be at camp.
Before breakfast one morning I made an excursion to a promontory to
watch the sunrise. Deep down in the canyons below, darkness still
lingered. Slowly the world emerged from the shadows like a
photographic plate developing and disclosing its images in the
darkroom. Beyond the promontory a great spire lifted high above the
canyon; I climbed to its top. Above the spire was a higher crag. Again
I climbed up. Up and up I climbed until almost noon. Each new vantage
point revealed new glory; every successive outpost lured me on.
At last the long ridge I followed shouldered against a sheer-topped
peak of the Continental Divide. It was mid-afternoon and hunger urged
me homeward. The way I had come was long and circuitous. There was a
short cut back to camp, but this threatened difficulty, for there was a
deep canyon to be crossed; and even though I reached its bottom there
seemed to be no possible way up the precipitous farther wall.
I did, however, make the homeward side of the canyon very late. The
clouds had shut down over the peaks, leveling their tops to timberline.
All day I had carried the heavy camera with a supply of glass plates.
Besides I carried my six-shooter, with belt and cartridges, buckled
around my waist. Several times I saw grouse and fired at them, but not
once did I get a close-up shot.
As I toiled upward to cross the ridge that overlooked camp, I entered
the lower cloud stratum. The air was biting cold. It was impossible
to see more than a few feet ahead. I regretted that I had brought no
food. Snow began to fall; and the higher I plodded the thicker it
fell. Darkness came rapidly; footing became precarious. The snow
plastered the rocks; the light was ghostly and unreal. I began to
stumble; I slipped and slid, lost my balance, and fell.
Then, as the snow deepened and the darkness increased, I realized that
to attempt the descent of the slope above camp would be folly, for it
was as steep as a house roof, and covered with loose bowlders. Besides
it had many abrupt cliffs fifty to a hundred feet high. There was only
one thing to do--camp here, for the night. But I was on an exposed
shoulder of the mountain, above timberline, and it would be impossible
to live through the night without shelter and fire.
I headed downhill without regard for direction. I was becoming numb,
but in half an hour I safely reached the dwarf trees at timberline and
plunged through them to a dense grove of spruce. Occasionally there
was a dead tree, and nearly all trees had dead limbs low down. With
such limbs or small trunks as I could find I constructed a rude
lean-to, with closed ends. With my pocket knife I cut green boughs,
covered the lean-to and plastered the boughs with a coating of wet
snow. The green branches, together with the snow that was streaming
down like a waterfall, soon rendered the shelter windproof.
With a glowing fire in front to light my way, I ranged in ever-widening
circles for fuel to last through the long night ahead. Within an hour
I had collected a fair-sized pile of wood, but I thought I'd better
have even more. My quest took me farther among the trees. Of a sudden
there came a whirr of wings that made me jump and drop my load, as a
number of grouse flew in all directions, their booming wings fairly
exploding with energy.
One of the grouse alighted in a tree overhead and I snatched out the
six-shooter, aimed carefully and fired. It was a new experience for
the grouse; it stretched its head out, and, twisting sidewise, stared
down at me curiously. Once more I fired. The interest of the grouse
increased. Again and again I fired, pausing confidently after each
shot for the bird to tumble down. Three times I emptied the cylinder
without a hit. Then in disgust I shoved the gun back into its holster
and fumbled in the snow for a stone. The first throw was close, the
second hit its mark, and the bird came fluttering down.
The clouds dropped lower, enveloping my camp. The night was inky
black. I lay beneath my lean-to, watching the fire before which the
plump grouse was slowly turning round and round as it roasted. The
turning was accomplished by hooking a green twig into its neck and
tying the other end of the twig with a string that wound and unwound as
the bird alternated directions. I unloaded one of the revolver
cartridges and used the salty powder for seasoning my feast. I saved
some ammunition after all!
It was noon next day before I reached camp. Then the storm shut down
again. Snow began to accumulate. In the woods it lay knee deep, while
the high ridges above the timberline were swept bare by the howling
wind.
Quite unexpectedly, in the dead of night, I had a visitor. He was
uninvited, but was determined to make himself at home. Awakened by the
rattle of tin, I sat up, listened and waited. I struck a match and
caught a glimpse of a huge mountain rat disappearing in the darkness.
I had scarcely fallen asleep again before he returned, and when I
struck a light he stared at me with villainous, beady eyes. By the
uncertain light of a match I took aim with the faithless six-shooter
and fired. When I sprang up, expecting to find the mangled remains of
the intruder, I discovered a gaping hole in my only frying pan.
After an hour the pest came again, satisfied, no doubt, that my
marksmanship was not dangerous. This time I was prepared for his
coming. I had a lighted pine torch to see to aim by. I tried another
shot. The rat kept moving while in the open and only stopped when
behind shelter, peeping out with one eye. At last he left the tent,
and I followed him into the woods. Beneath the overhang of the cliff
he stopped, his piercing eyes flashing in the darkness as I advanced
with the torch. Patiently he waited beneath a leaning tree trunk. Ten
feet from him I knelt upon the velvet needles of the forest, and with
torch held aloft, steadied the six-shooter, aimed carefully, and fired.
At the shot the rat disappeared. I pressed forward confident that at
last I had scored a hit. The torch had gone out. I was feeling among
the dead needles for the rat's mangled body when my fingers touched
something wooden. Instantly the pest was forgotten. By the light of a
match I saw that I had uncovered the corner of a little box. It
flashed upon me that I had stumbled upon the cache where the old
prospectors had hidden their gold. They were gone; the gold was mine!
I tugged and tugged till I dragged it from its concealment beneath the
rotting log. In trembling haste I tore off its cover. Then...
I staggered back with a cry of dismay! The box was filled with old,
crystallized dynamite. An inch above the top layer of the deadly stuff
was a fresh hole where my bullet had crashed through. A little lower
and it would have hit the powder crystals!
The next morning snow lay deep about the tent. It was impossible to
make my way through the woods. I was marooned far from civilization.
The wind rose; crashing among the peaks, tearing along the ridges,
roaring through the passes. Blinding clouds came sifting down from the
wind-swept heights.
After days of patient waiting, I started the laborious climb upward,
for it was impossible to make progress downward, where the soft snow
lay. Now, like the sheep, I would take advantage of those wind-swept
stretches above timberline.
Before dawn I was on my way. It required three hours to gain the first
mile. Then, as I reached the cleared stretches, progress became
easier. Though the wind came in angry squalls, that sometimes flung me
headlong, and buffeted and drove me about, the going underfoot was good.
If I could keep my bearings and head northward, steer out around the
heads of countless canyons, hold my given altitude above timberline, I
would eventually reach a spot some miles above the valley where the
home ranch lay. All day I plodded. The wind did not abate, but came
in a gale from the west. At times it dropped to perhaps fifty miles an
hour, and again it rose to more than a hundred miles; it shrieked,
pounded at the cliffs, tore the battered timberline trees to bits,
caught up frozen snow crust and crashed it among the trees like ripping
shot. At such times I was forced to turn my back, or to feel my way
blindly, head down. I moved with utmost caution lest I walk over a
cliff.
The time came when I had to abandon the wind-swept heights and flounder
through the soft snow of the canyons. Through narrow passes I had to
crawl, so terrific was the wind that poured through the channel like a
waterfall. Nothing short of a Kansas cyclone can match the velocity of
a mountain-top gale. All day I stemmed its tide, which sapped my
strength, bowled me over and cut my face.
As early darkness came on I reached a familiar canyon that dropped down
toward the valley where the ranch lay hidden. Drunkenly I staggered
homeward, too exhausted to care what happened. The last three miles
required three hours of heroic work. I became extremely weary and
wanted nothing so much as to sink down in the snow and go to sleep; but
I knew what that would mean, so I kept slapping and beating myself to
keep awake. In the end I reached the ranch, pounded upon the door and,
when it was opened, pitched headlong across its threshold.
The Parson gazed down at me from his six feet of height.
"Well," he said at length, "guess you found a pretty big world."
CHAPTER FOUR
DANCING ACROSS THE DIVIDE
So new was the life, so fascinating the animals and elements of the
primitive world, so miraculous was it that my lifelong dreams were come
true, that I never thought of home-sickness, nor missed the comrades
left behind me, although the Parson and his quiet wife were rather
elderly companions for a youngster. There were, too, the diversions of
going for the mail, either horseback or in the old spring wagon behind
the steady, little mountain ponies, the swapping of yarns while waiting
for the generally belated stage to dash up, its four horses prancing,
and steaming, no matter how cold the weather, from the precipitous ups
and downs of the mountain roads they had traveled. The return journey
in the dusk or by moonlight was never without incident: porcupine,
deer, bear, Bighorn, mountain lion--some kind of game invariably
crossed my trail.
And, as was true in all pioneer regions, the community abounded in
interesting personalities. During the first half of the nineteenth
century, the fame and fairness of the country had reached the centers
of Eastern culture, and had lured the ambitious and the adventurous to
try their skill in hunting and trapping and fishing in this Paradise,
roamed over by big game, crossed by sparkling streams, alive with
trout. Kit Carson was the first white man to look down upon its
beautiful valleys. Others soon followed: Joel Estes, for whom the Park
was eventually named; "Rocky Mountain Jim," a two-gun man, living alone
with his dogs, looking like a bearded, unkempt pirate, taciturn, yet
not without charm, as later events proved, unmolesting and unmolested,
enveloped in a haze of respected mystery. There was also that noted
lady globe-trotter, Miss Isabella Bird, an Englishwoman of undoubted
refinement, highly educated--whose volume, "A Lady's Life in the Rocky
Mountains," is one of the earliest and most picturesque accounts of
that time--upon whom "Rocky Mountain Jim" exerted his blandishments.
Some sort of romance existed between them, how serious no one knows,
for the tragic shooting of Jim, by an irate pioneer father, cut short
its development.
In the early sixties, an English nobleman and sportsman, the Earl of
Dunraven, attracted by the wealth of game in the region, attempted to
make it into a private hunting park or preserve. He took up all the
acreage which he could legitimately acquire in his own name, then took
up fraudulent claims in the names of his tenants. But the hardy
pioneers, who were coming into the country in ever-increasing numbers,
rightly doubting the validity of his own ownership of so many thousands
of acres, homesteaded land to their liking and built their log cabins
upon it. Lord Dunraven tried to scare them off, but they would not be
bluffed, and in the contest which followed, he lost out and departed
from the region. Although his coming to the Park contributed much to
its romantic history, in his "Memoirs"--two thick, heavy volumes,
published a few years ago--he devotes only half a page to his Estes
Park experiences. Whether this is because he considered them
negligible or unworthy, would be interesting to know.
The old Dunraven Lodge was the first hostelry in the region, and about
the great fireplace in its spacious, trophy-hung lobby gathered many of
the political and artistic celebrities of that day. The fame of the
mountain beauty spot spread--visitors came. The settlers added "spare
rooms" to their log cabins, and during the summer and early fall "took
in boarders," thus helping to eke out their living expenses and, what
was even more far-reaching perhaps, the outer world was thus "fetched
in" to them: they heard of railroads annihilating the long
oxen-traversed distances of covered wagon days, of new gold strikes, of
national politics, rumblings of the Civil War, slavery agitation,
presidential elections, and those other momentous, history-making
events of their time.