mountains and valleys around Estes, but that it was not generally
believed that they had permanent settlements here. It was thought they
made temporary or seasonal camp when hunting or fishing was at its
height, and that they used the alpine valley as a vast council chamber
when they met to discuss inter-tribal matters. Certain it is, I
puzzled over curious, dim, ghostly circles, or rings, in the valleys,
where neither grass nor any other vegetation had gained root even after
all these years. The old-timers told me these had been made by the
Indians banking dirt around their lodges. A few scattered tepee frames
still stood, here and there, in sheltered groves along the river.
Occasionally I picked up arrowheads--once upon a high-flung ledge I
came upon a score or more. How my imagination soared! Here, no doubt,
an Indian had stood, in eagle-feathered war bonnet and full regalia,
guarding this pass; he had been wounded sore unto death, he fell! His
bones, and all his trappings, the wooden shaft of his arrows, had
disintegrated and disappeared. Only these bits of flint enmeshed in
the clinging tendrils of Indian tobacco, or kinnikinic, were left to
tell the tale of his heroism.
Of course, I didn't give up hunting or trapping or even my hope of
finding a gold mine, altogether. I continued to exercise my
six-shooter, though repeated failures to find my mark made it easy for
me to depend more and more on my camera for "shots." I still inspected
my trapline, with mental resolutions against trailing trap-maddened
coyotes.
My trip over the Divide gave me a keener appreciation of winter upon
the heights. When, from the window of our snug log cabin, I looked up
toward Long's Peak, and saw the clouds of snow dust swirling about its
head, I pictured just what was happening up there far more accurately
than I could ever have done before I had that experience. I made
frequent trips above timberline, sometimes to find arctic gales that
filled the air with icy pellets which penetrated like shot, cutting my
face; gales that drove the cold through the thickest, heaviest clothes
I could put on; gales that blew the snow about until it enveloped me in
a cloud-like veil, making vision impossible. On such days, retreat was
the only possible, if not valorous, course. To have remained would
have been foolhardy, for blinded and buffeted by the storm, I might
easily have stepped off a precipice with less fortunate consequences
than had attended my experience on my journey over the Divide.
But sometimes, the conditions on the heights were astonishing. Once I
left our valley chill and gloomy, all shut in by lowering clouds, and
climbed up toward the hidden summits of the peaks, to emerge above the
clouds into bright, warm sunshine. Another day, at an altitude of
twelve thousand feet, I found it only twelve below freezing, while, at
the same time, as I learned later, it was twenty-four degrees below
zero at Fort Collins, a town forty miles away on the plains. Strange
freak of weather! The explanation lay in the difference between the
winds that blew over the respective sections, a blizzardly north wind
was sweeping over the low, exposed plains, while up on the
peak-encircled heights a balmy "chinook" gently stirred from the west.
Mountaineers know that as long as the west wind blows no severe storm
is to be feared. It is the chill east wind that comes creeping up the
canyons from the bleak plains and prairies of the lowlands, which bring
the blizzards.
One rare, windless day upon the heights, my little hay-making friend,
the cony, greeted me with an enthusiastic "squee-ek." He was sunning
himself upon a rock and looked so sleek and plump I knew his harvest
had been bountiful. He lay gazing off into space, apparently
contemplating the Divide. But when, a few minutes later, a beady-eyed
weasel challenged my right of way, I wondered whether little
"Squee-ek's" thoughts were so remote as those distant peaks! In both
storm and sunshine, I saw weasels abroad on the heights. They were
bold, fearless little cutthroats, approaching within a few feet to
stare at me wickedly. I saw them below timberline pursuing snowshoe
rabbits many times their size.
Occasionally I came across fox tracks. These sly fellows seemed
indifferent to cold or wind. They stalked the ptarmigan above
timberline, and the grouse that had migrated up the slopes to winter,
below it, and accounted for the death of many. One moonlit night, as I
prowled upward, I heard an unearthly, uncanny squall. I couldn't help
the shiver that ran down my spine. All the pent-up anguish and torment
in the world broke forth in that sound. But perhaps it was only his
foxy protest because his prey had outfoxed him.
But by far the most interesting mountain-top dwellers were the Bighorn
sheep, which adopted those frigid regions as a winter resort. I had
often wondered about those lofty-minded animals I had tracked over in
the Wild Basin country. Were they still on those wind-blown heights?
It seemed incredible that they could stand a whole winter of such
bitter buffeting. Yet, on the days when I climbed above the
timberline, no matter the weather, they were always there, contentedly
feeding on the sweet, early-cured tufts of grass that the raging alpine
gales kept uncovered. It was fascinating to watch them; neither wild
winds nor blinding snow seemed to disconcert them; their thick wool
coats were impervious to the keenest, most penetrating blasts. True,
on terribly stormy days they sought the shelter of giant upthrusts of
rock, towering cliffs or sky-piercing spires that faced eastward, away
from the prevailing winds. There they probably stayed for days at a
time, as long as the worst storms prevailed. Such days I did not dare
venture upon the heights, but I often found signs of their bedding down
among similar crags.
And such nerveless or nervy creatures as they were! From the top of a
cliff, one day, I watched a band of them go down a nearly perpendicular
wall. I could not follow, though I did go part way down to where the
wall bulged outward. There the ledges had crumbled away, leaving
sheer, smooth rock. It did not seem possible that anything could go
down that smooth face. But half a dozen sheep in succession made the
descent safely, as I watched, breathless, from above. They seemed to
defy the laws of gravitation in walking over the rim rock; for, instead
of tumbling headlong as I feared, they went skidding downward,
bouncing, side-stepping, twisting and angling across the wall like
coasters on snow; they could not stop their downward drop, but they
controlled their descent by making brakes of their feet, and taking
advantage of every small bump to retard their speed. By foot pressure
they steered their course for a shelving rock below. One after
another, in quick succession, they shot down, struck the shelf and
leaped sidewise to a ledge a dozen feet beneath. In spite of their
efforts to retard their speed, they had gained tremendous momentum
before reaching the ledge and landed with all four feet bunched beneath
them. It seemed that their legs would surely be thrust through their
bodies. Their heads jerked downward, their noses threatened to be
skinned on the rock! Yet that rough descent neither disabled nor
unnerved them. They recovered their balance instantly and trotted away
around a turn of the wall.
One young ram thought to escape by leaving the cliff and making his way
across a steep, snowy slide to another crag. In places he struck soft
snow and plunged heavily, breaking his way through. Midway between
crags, however, he came to grief quite unexpectedly. An oozing spring
had overflowed and covered the rocks with a coating of ice. Then snow
had blown down from above and covered it. The ram struck this at top
speed, and a moment afterward was turning somersaults down the slope.
A hundred feet below he nimbly recovered his balance and proceeded on
his way, carrying his head haughtily, as though indignant at my burst
of laughter.
Part way down the cliff I found the tracks of the big ram leader of the
band. I had long since named him "Big Eye," which an old trapper had
told me was the Indians' expression for extraordinary eyesight. Not
that "Big Eye" was exceptional in this respect, not at all! Every one
of his band possessed miraculous eyesight. But he was always alert and
wary. It was unbelievable that he could detect me such a long way off,
around bowlders, through granite walls, in thick brush, but it seemed
to me he did. No matter how carefully I concealed my approach, he
always discovered me. This day he had left his band and had turned
aside upon an extremely narrow shelf and made his way out of sight. I
followed his tracks, curious to learn where he had gone. Many places
he had negotiated without slacking his speed, whereas I was forced to
make detours for better footing, to double back and forth, and
generally to progress very slowly. Apparently he was not much
frightened, for his tracks showed that he had frequently halted to look
behind him.
So intent was I upon overtaking him, that I ran into a flock of
ptarmigan and nearly stepped on one of the "fool hens" before it took
wing and got out of the way, so utterly did it stake its safety on its
winter camouflage. The whole flock had been sitting in plain sight but
their snow-white coats made them hardly distinguishable from their
background. They faded into the landscape like an elusive puzzle
picture. In summer they had depended on their speckled plumage, so
like the mottled patches of sand and snow and grass and granite whereon
they lived, to protect them. They certainly put their trust in nature!
Around a turn, I came upon the old Patriarch. He was standing with his
back to the wall, facing out and back, for here the ledge he had been
following pinched out, and even he, champion acrobat of the cliffs,
could neither climb up nor find a way down. For several minutes we
faced each other, ten yards apart. I had heard that mountain sheep
never attack men, and that even the big leaders never use their
massive, battering ram heads to injure anyone. With this in mind I
moved up to within ten feet when a movement of his haughty head stopped
me. Somehow in his action was the suggestion that he might forget
tradition. One bump of his huge head would knock me overboard. There
was nothing but space for a hundred feet below, then sheer wall for
several hundred feet more.
Arrogantly he faced me, unflinchingly; his eyes of black and gold never
wavering; statuesque, his heroic body set solidly upon his sturdy legs,
his regal head high, his lodestone feet secure upon the sloping rock,
he was a handsome figure. He outweighed me about three pounds to one;
so the longer I looked at him, the less desire I had to crowd. At
length I mustered up courage to try him out. Slowly, an inch at a
time, I edged forward, talking quietly--assuring him that my intentions
were good, and that I merely wanted to learn how near a fellow might go
without his lordship's taking exceptions.
Suddenly he stiffened; half closed his eyes and lowered his head. At
the same instant he shifted his feet as though to charge. As I backed
carefully away, I recalled again that his kind had never harmed anyone,
but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and left him in undisputed
possession of the ledge.
On many a windy winter day thereafter, I saw "Big Eye" and his band.
Always I laughed a bit at my experience upon the ledge. The ram
appeared so dignified, so quiet, so harmless! Still, I had no fault to
find with my retreat that day.
One day there came a change over the world. Signs of spring came
creeping up the valley. The pussy willows put on their silvery furs,
the birches and elders unfurled their catkin tassels. Bands of deer
and elk began to drift back into the valley; the Bighorn eagerly
forsook the heights. The few coyotes that had remained throughout the
winter were joined by more of their kin; fresh bobcat tracks appeared
daily. The mountain lions that had trailed the deer and elk down to
warmer climes, returned close on their heels as their red records
testified. On my rambles I often came upon the scenes of their kills;
deer, elk and even wary sheep were their victims.
The wet, clinging, spring snows lent themselves readily as recording
tablets for the movements of all the woods folk. Not far from the
proposed site of my dream cabin, the story of a lion's stalk was
plainly told by tracks. He had climbed to the top of a rock that stood
ten feet above the level floor of the valley, a huge bowlder that had
rolled down from a crag above, torn its way through the ranks of the
trees and come to rest at last in the grassy meadow. There he lay in
wait for the slowly advancing, grazing deer.
As they approached the rock, the band had split; a section passing on
either side of the bowlder. Out and down the lion had leaped--ten feet
out and as far down. His momentum had overthrown his victim which had
regained its feet and struggled desperately. The turf was torn up for
thirty feet beyond the rock. I found only the tracks of the hind feet
of the lion; it was not hard to imagine that, his front claws were
fastened in the shoulders of his prey, and that his terrible teeth had
reached an artery in his victim's neck. Many such slaughters the soft
snow revealed! Aroused by them, I determined to revenge the shy,
innocent deer family. At every opportunity, I have taken toll of the
lion tribe. As soon as the first new grass painted the meadows pale
green, the sheep flocked down from their lofty winter resort: the
sunshine in the hemmed-in valley was hot; they still wore their heavy
winter coats, they grew lazy; hours on end they lay dozing, or moving
tranquilly about, feasting on the succulent young shoots. For six or
seven months,--it was at least that long ago since my discovery of
their uprising migration in Wild Basin--they had been living on dried
fare--unbaled hay--with no water to wash it down, for there were no
flowing springs about their airy castles. Snow was the only moisture
to be had.
I was all eagerness to "shoot" them with my camera! I had watched them
so often I felt we were at least acquainted. But out of respect for
their tremendous dignity, I decided to keep my plans secret from them,
to approach under cover, to creep forward cautiously, soundlessly. To
my dismay, as soon as I got within a quarter of a mile of them, some
busybody of a sentinel would see me, and if I continued advancing, no
matter how stealthily, the flock would move away. It seemed offish,
not to say unfriendly; time and again I tried the same tactics, with
the same result. I was disappointed and puzzled.
I came to the conclusion that I had presumed too much on our previous
friendship, that such regal creatures could not be expected to
capitulate after a brief winter's acquaintance. I would visit them in
their little valley, learn their peculiarities--who would do less to
gain a friend worth while--and gain their confidence. Accordingly,
every day I strolled casually in plain sight, over toward their feeding
ground. They gradually lost their nervousness at my advances and
eventually let me come within a hundred feet of them.
One morning, after several weeks of this chivalrous conduct, I set out
with my camera, to spend the day with them. Not that they had extended
an invitation, but they unconsciously invited me. There were
thirty-two of them, including two huge old rams, grazing at the edge of
the valley. I approached them from the windward side, so they would be
doubly sure of my identity, for I knew that with their telescopic eyes
they would recognize me while I was still a long way off.
I halted first while about a hundred yards distant. Pausing a few
moments, I advanced again, until I cut the distance between us in half.
I affected the utmost indifference--I lay down to rest, I got up and
prowled about. They left off feeding, and bunched together, the wary
old rams on the far side of the flock. They gallantly let the ladies
and children be first to meet me!
For an hour the game went on. Little by little I cut the distance to
thirty feet. Some of them even forgot themselves so much as to lie
down and doze, others were discourteous enough to resume feeding, but a
canny few continued to watch my every movement sharply. Several times
I tried to circle round them; each time they edged away towards the
mountain slopes. At last they bunched together beside a jutting rock
and made such a beautiful picture, I could no longer control my desire
to photograph them. Setting my camera at forty feet, I again slowly
advanced. At thirty feet, the sheep still being quiet, I shortened the
range. My greediness threatened to be the end of me!
Below my subjects was a smooth rock slope. Having set my camera for
twenty-five feet, I ventured across it. If I could only reach the edge
of that sloping rock before they took fright what a wonderful picture
I'd get! Slowly, inch by inch I crept toward them. My eyes were glued
to the finder, my finger trembled at the button, all at once, I stepped
out, on nothing! Boy and camera turned over in midair and alighted,
amid a shower of cones, in the top of a young spruce tree.
After the first instant of astonishment, my exasperation grew. I had
lost my first chance at getting a photograph of the sheep--most likely
the best chance I'd ever have, too. Maybe ruined my camera, my
clothes, and my hide! My disposition was past mending. My second
surprise belittled my first. For when I looked about, expecting the
sheep to have vanished, there they all were, crowding forward, and
peering over the edge of the rock, in friendly solicitude! How often
the unpremeditated exceeds our fondest plans! The picture I finally
made far excelled the one I had first counted on!
After my fall, the game was taken up again. The sheep moved higher
whenever I came too near them. Sometimes I dropped to all fours and
gave an imitation of a playful pup; stopping to sniff loudly at a
chipmunk's hole or to dig furiously with both hands. The sheep crowded
forward appreciatively. Evidently they had a weakness for vaudeville.
No acrobat, no contortionist, ever had a more flatteringly attentive
audience. I laughed at my foolishness, but the sheep were courteously
grave.
Toward noon the band set off for a steep cliff, where each day they
took their siesta. The two old rams led the way. After making
pictures of them silhouetted against the sky, I circled the cliff and
hid at the end of a ledge. I counted on getting a good photograph when
the old leaders surmounted the crag and marched forward at the head of
their single-file column. To deceive them, I built a dummy at the spot
where they turned aside upon the ledge. Coat and cap and camera case
went into the sketchy figure, and after it had been propped in place to
block the downward retreat, I hurried around the point and hid in some
bushes behind a granite slab, first setting my camera, well camouflaged
with stones, atop the rock, and focusing it toward the point where the
sheep would pass in review. Minutes passed. Not a sheep rounded the
point! More waiting. I sallied forth to reconnoiter. The sheep were
feeding peacefully in the valley below. They had knocked down the
dummy, trampled over it, and retreated along the ledge the way they had
come!
The joke was on me, but it had been a glorious day for all that. I
retrieved the remains of my down-trodden dummy and started home. I
halted midway down to the valley to study some queer records in the
sand. Surely a crazy man had made them! What would a stranger have
thought if he had happened upon that grotesque trail? But a stranger
_had_ been there. On the heels of my crazy trail were the tracks of a
mountain lion. He had been stalking me!
From my experience with these sheep I made some naive deductions and
wrote them in my notebook. From it, lying open before me now, I
transcribe these boyish but none the less accurate observations:
"Mountain sheep have all-seeing eyes--therefore, one keeps in the open
at all times and never attempts stalking them under cover. If you do,
you are acting suspiciously, and they will treat you in the same
manner."
"They will not permit you to approach from above them. They are lofty
minded; so keep your place beneath them."
"If sheep are in the open, and on level ground, they will not permit a
near approach."
"Keep in the open, below them, permit them to retreat to the rocks. If
these rocks give way to sheer cliffs the sheep will feel at home. They
will then permit you to approach quite near."
"Sheep are tremendously curious. Take advantage of this fact and offer
them something in the way of entertainment. If you want to get on with
sheep, make a fool of yourself."
As spring advanced, the ewes left the flock and sought safety among the
cliffs where they raised their young in partial concealment. While
their lambs were yet mere infants, a week old or so, they hid them
among the rocks. Instinctively the youngsters lay low, remaining
immovable until their mothers returned from feeding near by, to claim
them. Eagles hovered high overhead, waiting to drop like plummets upon
the helpless babies. These great birds accounted for many a bleating
little lamb's passing. Lions, likewise, visited the heights and took
toll of mothers as well as of offspring; even bobcats pounced upon
them. Sometimes coyotes or wolves surprised partly grown sheep, that
had brashly ventured too far from sheltering rocks.
While returning home one day I stumbled upon a very young sheep. The
youngster lay low, like a wounded duck. Several times I walked within
a few feet of him, coming closer each time until at length he sprang up
and fled in terror. He took refuge by climbing an almost perpendicular
cliff wall. Camera in hand, I followed as best I could. Fifty feet
up, he came to a point where even his nimble feet could find no
adequate footing. His retreat ended. He scrambled to a little jutting
point not much larger than a hand's breadth, and took refuge there with
all four feet bunched together.
Carefully I worked up toward him. Several times he bleated for his
mother and shifted his position. Every moment I feared he would lose
his footing and plunge down the rock face. Twenty feet below I stopped
because I could climb no higher. Carefully I turned about and faced
the wall, hugging it as closely as possible. Holding the camera at
arm's length, and pointing it straight up, I sprung the shutter. The
click, slight as it was, startled the lamb. He leaped several feet to
another nub of rock, teetered precariously several seconds, then
suddenly his pedestal broke off. Sheep and rock dropped straight
toward me. To avoid the rock, I sprang sideways. The sheep plunged
down upon me as the rock hurtled past. Together we revolved, that
sheep and I, the camera being abandoned in midair to shift for itself.
Together the struggling youngster and I struck the rock, slid and
bounded outward, turning over as we fell, first one on top, then the
other, until at length I clutched a bush growing out of a crevice in
the slide and stopped myself; but the lamb continued his bouncing fall
down the mountain. In all, he must have rolled three hundred feet
before he stopped, his feet sticking up out of the brush like the legs
of an overturned bench.
[Illustration: Sheep and rock dropped straight toward me.]
It was some time before I was able to walk. But as quickly as possible
I went to the rescue of that sheep because I had caused his downfall.
He was still breathing, but unable to stand. With great effort, for he
was heavy and I was shaking from my fall, I carried him down to the
stream and soused him in its icy water. He revived at once. The
camera had smashed to pieces before it finished its bouncing flight
down the mountain.
After all, it was a great experience, and though it cost me my camera,
some of my hide and most of my clothes, I wouldn't have missed it for
all Kit Carson's priceless furs!
CHAPTER SIX
A LOG CABIN IN THE WILDS--PRIMITIVE LIVING