but as time passed I discovered other sources of interest, hitherto
unheard of. High and dry upon the meadows and lower mountain sides
were smooth, round bowlders, undoubtedly water-worn. The granite walls
of many of the canyons I climbed were curiously scored--here and there
were inlaid bands of varying colored stone. Running out from the
loftier ranges were long, comparatively narrow heaps of earth, which
resembled giant railroad fills as flat on top as though they had been
sliced off by a titanic butcher knife. They were covered with forests,
and small, jewel-like lakes were set in their level summits. At the
foot of Long's and many other peaks were more lakes, with slick,
glazed, granite sides. The water in them was usually greenish and
always icy. There were immense, dirty "snowdrifts" that never
diminished, but appeared to be perpetual.
Following my trapline or trailing the Big-horn or watching the beaver,
I noticed these things and wondered about them. How came those
bowlders, round and polished, so far from water? What made those
scratches upon those granite cliffs? What Herculean master-smith fused
those decorative belts into their very substance? What engineer built
those table-topped mounds? Who had gouged out the bowls for those icy
lakes? Why were some snowdrifts perennial? I puzzled over these
conundrums, until, bit by bit, I solved them. The answers were more
amazing than anything else I encountered in the wilds.
I learned that those sand-coated drifts were not drifts at all, but
glaciers, probably the oldest living things in the world. For they
were alive, moving deposits of ice and snow, the survivors of the ice
age. Eons ago, they and their like had gouged out the huge bowls which
later became lakes, had gashed the earth and scoured its canyon walls,
leaving in their wakes those square-topped dumps or moraines; debris,
once solid granite, now ground into rocks and sand and gravel by their
slow-moving, irresistible force.
Most of the glaciers I found were upon the eastern slope of the Divide.
This is because the prevailing winter winds are from west to east.
Glaciers are formed by thawing of the exposed snow on top of the huge
deposits, the water trickling down through the moss, and freezing
solidly. Gradually, through continued thawing and freezing, the whole
drift is changed into a field of ice. The first sign of movement comes
when the mass of ice breaks away from the cliffs at its upper edges.
There is an infinitesimal downward sagging, as with incredible
deliberation it moves on with its cargo of rock and sand. But, slowly
as it moves, its power is overawing. A glacier is the embodiment of
irresistible force. Its billion-ton roller cuts a trench through the
very earth, with canyon-like walls; these latter turn upon their master
and imprison him. It tears immense granite slabs from the cliffs and
carries them along. It grinds granite into powder. I have seen water
emerging from glaciers, milk-white with its load of ground-up rocks.
By setting a straight line of stakes across the ice, I measured the
movements of some glaciers. Some progressed several feet in a year,
others traveled scarcely more than a few inches. All moved farthest
nearest the center; for, as is true of streams, there the friction of
the side walls does not retard them. They varied in width from a
hundred feet to half a mile, in depth from forty to a hundred feet.
During my first years in the Rockies, the winters were severe, with
heavy snows, and the summers unusually rainy. The low temperature and
great precipitation prevented the usual amount of thawing on the
glaciers. But there came a season as arid as any in the Sahara desert.
"It's miserable droughty," grieved the Parson one day when I met him on
top of Long's Peak. "Springs are going dry and the streams are
terrible low. See that drift down there?" Standing on Long's
overtowering summit he pointed down the Divide. "The one with black
rock at its edge. Well, sir, I've never seen that drift so small
before--not in all the thirty years I've watched it. The glaciers will
be opening up with all this hot weather! the crevasses'll widen and
split clear down to the bowels of the earth. Wal; it's an ill wind
that blows no good. This drought will make it easy for the tenderfoot
to get a good look into 'em."
I took the Parson's tip and next day packed a horse and started for
Arapahoe glacier which lies south of Long's Peak. On the second day
out, having taken my pack-horse as far up as possible, I unpacked him,
hobbled him and turned him loose to crop what grass he could find.
Then I set up camp.
Camp made, I began the last lap of my climb up the glacier. Along the
way, below snowbanks, wild flowers grew head-high, but in the woods
beside the game trails they were scarce and stunted. As I plodded
slowly up the steep slope I heard loud reports, as though some one were
setting off heavy blasts. They echoed and reechoed among the cliffs.
A roaring stream dashed frothily down the slope, rocks rolled past. I
climbed a pinnacle overlooking the glacier and looked down upon it.
The Parson was right. All the snow which ordinarily hid the icy
surface was melted away. The glacial ice lay uncovered. Its surface
was split by numberless yawning crevasses. Water drenched their sides.
Every little while ice would break away, and then reports, similar to
the ones I had heard on my way up, would nearly deafen me.
I climbed gingerly down and edged out upon the glacier, testing each
foothold. I peeped into the crevasses, and dropped stones or chunks of
ice into them to sound their depths. I ventured into a shallow crack
and followed it until it pinched beneath a wall of solid ice. Then I
tried another, a larger one. Gaining a little courage by these
explorations, I ventured yet farther and climbed down into one of the
deeper crevasses. Water showered down upon me, from melting walls
above. I crept on down until I was about fifty feet below the top of
the glacier. I paused; before me gaped a dark cavern fenced off by
heavy icicles as large as my body. I peered through this crystal
lattice into the darkness beyond. From somewhere came the tinkle of
water, I decided to investigate. A stream pouring into the crevasse
from above, had washed down a stone. Using it for a sledge, I set to
work to break into that barred vault. I shattered one of the glassy
bars and crawled inside. A ghostly blue light filled the place. With
lighted candle I moved away from the entrance, turned a corner and
plunged into the blackest darkness I have ever experienced.
The silence was eerie, frightening. Just then it was shattered by a
muffled report, followed almost at once by another that seemed to rend
my cavern walls asunder. Bits of ice dropped about me. I suddenly
remembered a number of things I wanted to do outside, I turned and
sought the guarded cavern of the ghastly light. I mistook the way and
turned aside into a blind alley for a moment. I grew panicky--my flesh
went clammy--but that momentary delay no doubt saved my life. As I
reached the opening, there came a rending crash, a splintering of ice,
and broken blocks came hurtling into the crevasse just outside my
cavern door. An inrush of air snuffed out my candle.
My hands trembled as I relighted the candle. Ice still bombarded the
opening. Somewhere water splashed. Before I had descended into the
crevasse I had been perspiring freely, for the sun shone hot upon the
surface of the glacier; now I was shivering, my feet were soaked with
ice water, a dozen little streams trickled down from the cavern roof.
I would soon be warm in the hot sun outside; then... I discovered the
crevasse was blocked with ice.
I lost my head and shouted for help. There were none to hear. I
pushed against the barriers. I pulled myself together and began to
search for a passage among the blocks of ice. The candle gave a feeble
light. Without waiting to feel my way, I edged into a crack, wriggled
forward and stuck tight. Cold sweat oozed as I wiggled backward into
the cavern again. I had difficulty relighting the candle. Again and
again I attempted to squeeze out among the pieces of broken ice; I
climbed up the smooth wall, lost my footing and tumbled back. At last
I found a larger opening among the ice blocks and squeezed into it like
a rabbit into a rock pile. I knew I must hurry because these jumbled
pieces would soon be solidly cemented together when the water pouring
over them froze.
I surged desperately against the pressing ice, held my breath and
squeezed my way through into the sunshine at last--safe. Late that
evening I reached my camp, my interest in glaciers chilled.
Since that experience I have usually looked long before leaping into a
crevasse and then have not leaped.
The next morning I broke camp. I had had enough of close-ups of
glaciers. I followed the crest of the Continental Divide northward,
satisfied with such distant views of those treacherous juggernauts as
could be had from the rim rocks.
That was how I came to be camped at timberline above Allen's Park when
the big forest fire set the region south of it ablaze. From my lofty
station I watched a thunder shower gather around Long's Peak and move
southward, tongues of lightning darting from it venomously. It was
perhaps ten miles wide. It circled Wild Basin, then faced eastward
toward the foothills, its forked tongues writhing wickedly. Those to
the south struck repeatedly; I counted three fires they started, but
two of these the shower extinguished; the third was miles beyond the
edge of the rain, and began spreading even as I watched. Smoke soon
hid the doomed forest, filling the canyon and boiling out beyond it.
Everywhere in the mountains, I had found burned-over forests; ancient
trees that had stood for centuries, had endured drought, flood, storm
and pestilence, only to be burned at last by a fiendish flash and left,
charred skeletons of their former green beauty.
I hurried down from the heights as the fire spread upward along both
sides of the gorge. Upon a bare, rocky ridge, several miles north,
inside the edge of the shower limits, I deposited my pack and turned
the horse homeward, alone. I hoped that I might be able to put out the
fire before it spread too far.
As I hurried in its direction I saw two deer standing in a little
opening watching the smoke intently. They showed no fear, merely
curiosity. But as I approached closer to its smouldering edge, I met
birds in excited, zig-zagging flight. Along a brook I found fresh bear
tracks. Bruin had galloped hastily from the danger zone.
The fire was confined to the heavy timber near the bottom of a canyon,
but was licking its way up both slopes, the backfire eating slowly
downward while the headfire leaped upward. Trees exploded into giant
sparklers. The heat of the approaching flames caused the needles to
exude their sap, combustion occurred almost before the actual fire
touched them. Black acrid smoke arose visible a hundred miles out on
the plains.
Not a breeze stirred where I stood, but the fire seemed fanned by a
strong wind, that swayed it back and forth. It did not travel in a set
direction; one moment it raced westward, paused, smoldered, then burst
forth again, running southward. A little later a flood of flame would
come toward the east. These scattered sorties cut narrow swaths
through the forest, flaming lanes that smoldered at the edges, widened
and combined.
The smoke cloud grew denser. My eyes streamed with tears, my throat
burned, I began to cough. I descended the ridge to cross the canyon--in
the bottom I found little smoke and fairly good air.
Flocks of panic-stricken birds veered uncertainly about. They would
flee the fire, encounter dense smoke, and turn straight back toward the
flames. They circled and alighted at the bottom of the gorge. No
sooner safely there, then they'd take wing again and flutter back into
the trees near the fire. Many dropped, overcome by the smoke, whole
flocks disappeared into the roaring flames to return no more. They
lost all sense of direction, all instinct for self-preservation.
But the birds were not alone in their distress; the animals, too, were
on the move. Down the slopes came deer, does with their young, bucks
with tender, growing horns. To my surprise, they paid no attention to
me. Whether they were unable to get my scent because of the fumes of
burning woods, or whether the fire filled them with a greater fear, I
could not decide. A coyote trotted calmly down a game trail, eyed me
for a moment, and went on his way toward safety. He was the only one
of the wild folk able to keep his wits about him.
Occasionally one of the deer would break away from the refugees, head
up or down without apparent reason, the rest of the band instantly
following his lead. In less than a minute all would return. They
feared to desert their usual haunts in time of trouble. The smoke
robbed them of their sense of smell, the noise of the fire was too loud
for their usually alert, big ears to catch the smaller, significant
sounds. As their confusion grew their terror mounted; they bundled
nervously away in all directions, rushing back together, heading
upstream toward the fire, and leaping wildly over smoldering needles of
the forest floor.
The fawns were deserted, their mothers dashed about frantically as
though unable to recognize their own offspring; they snorted wildly to
rid their noses of the biting fumes that robbed them of scent. A fawn
stopped within a few feet of me and stared about with luminous,
innocent eyes. Its hair was singed and its feet burned. It lifted its
left hind foot and stared at it perplexed; then I saw between its
dainty, parted hoofs a burning stick.
Other animals passed. A badger waddled slowly down the trail, pausing
to grin at me comically. Two beavers splashed downstream, following
the water, diving through the deeper pools and lumbering through the
shallows of the brook. Other animals crashed through the woods, but I
could not recognize them.
A little brook sizzled down through the burning land. I stopped and,
cupping my hands, scooped up some water and drank thirstily. The first
swallow nearly strangled me, it was saturated by the fumes of the
burning forest. I drank on nevertheless; it was wet and cooling to my
parched throat. I soused my head in the brook and soaked my
handkerchief in case of need.
A faint breeze sprang up. Circling the fire, I moved up the slope,
with the wind at my back. The needle-carpeted forest floor was a
smoldering mass--the squirrels' hidden hoards were afire. Young trees,
just starting from those stored-up nurseries were destroyed by tens of
thousands.
On raced the head fire, setting the dead trees and stumps furiously
aflame, touching the needles of the living trees with swift, feverish
fingers, igniting insidious spot-fires as it went. Its self-generated
draft roared thunderingly. It snatched up countless firebrands and
sent those flaming heralds forth to announce its coming to the
trembling forest beyond. As it topped the canyon walls it seemed to
leap beyond the clouds that hovered overhead and burn asunder the very
heavens.
Of a sudden I was enveloped by one of its serpentine arms. It writhed
everywhere around me, hissing, striking at my face, singing my hair,
scorching my frantic hands that would ward it off. My eyes could not
face that venomous glare. My lungs were choked by its searing breath.
I found a stick and, feeling my way with it, fled, like the beaver, to
the brook for sanctuary. That flaming serpent pursued me. Its breath
grew more acrid, more deadly. I coughed convulsively, strangled,
stumbled, fell: when I regained my feet, I was dazed, confused. But I
retained consciousness enough to know I must keep moving. I must reach
the fire's immemorial enemy and enlist the aid of that watery ally to
escape it. I took leaps over the ground, but blindly, with no such
brilliant eyes as my relentless foe.
The memory of that race for life is still vividly terrifying; blinded,
choking, crashing into trees, falling, struggling to my feet, fighting
on and on and on, for what seemed endless hours. In reality it was--it
could only have been--a few moments. I plunged into the brook and
submerged my burning clothes, my tortured body. I hurried on as fast
as I could, downstream, halting now and then to dive beneath the
grateful waters of the deeper pools, but never stopping, until,
staggering, gasping, sobbing, I reached the safety of the canyon.
[Illustration: The memory of that race for life is still vividly
terrifying.]
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE PROVERBIAL BUSY BEAVER
It was my boyish ambition to find some corner of those rocky wilds
where no human being had ever set foot and to be the first person to
behold it. What boy has not felt that Columbus had several centuries'
advantage of him: that Balboa was a meddlesome old chap who might
better have stayed in Spain and left American oceans to American boys
to discover? Oh! the unutterable regret of youthful hearts that the
Golden Fleece and the Holy Grail and other high adventures passed
before their time!
In searching for my virgin wilderness, I saw many spots that bore no
trace of human existence, wild enough, remote enough, calm enough, to
justify my willing credulity.
But I had another notion which even my young enthusiasm had to
acknowledge was in error. I fancied that the animals in such a spot as
I have described, unwise to the ways of man, having had no experience
to teach them fear and caution, would be gentle and trusting, and
approachable. I was doomed to disappointment. I found that no matter
how remote the region, how primeval its forests or how Eden-new its
streams, its beasts were furtive, wary, distrustful.
But after all, though these ideas, like many of my other youthful
dreams, did not "pan out" in following them up, I found other leads
which yielded rich experiences.
When I first came to the mountains, the beavers were extremely wild.
Rarely did I glimpse one or even see signs of their activities. True,
all along the streams were deserted beaver homes, merely stick frames
with most of the mud plaster fallen off, and through the meadows were a
succession of dams which might easily have flooded them for miles
around. No doubt large colonies had once lived there. Once in a while
I found a fallen aspen, with the marks of a beaver's keen chisels upon
it. But as for the beaver's renowned industry--it wasn't!
"I thought beavers were busy animals," I complained to the Parson.
"I've heard industrious folks called beavers all my life. I don't see
how they got their reputation. Why, it wouldn't be hard for me to be
busier'n these beavers!"
The old man laughed.
"Now, you're rather hard on the little critters," he defended.
"They're not so indolent, considering their chances." Then he went on
to explain.
A horde of trappers, he said, had followed Kit Carson's successful trip
into the region in 1840. They visited every stream and strung traps in
all the valleys. Beaver fur was taken out by pack-train load. In
twenty years the trappers had reaped the richest of the harvest; in ten
years more they had practically "trapped out" all the beavers. They
left only when trapping ceased to be profitable; and even so, the early
settlers had found some small profit in catching a few beavers every
winter.
The survivors, my old friend said, were wiser if sadder animals than
those the first trappers found. Many beavers had maimed or missing
feet, reminders of the traps that caused their trouble. They deserted
their ponds, neglected their dams and houses and sought refuge in holes
in the banks of streams. Their tunnels entered the bank under water,
thus making it difficult to locate their runways, or to set traps after
the discovery of the runways.
So that was the reason for the beavers scarcity and wariness! Few were
the chances they gave me, on my early rambles, to observe their habits.
But just when it seemed they were doomed to suffer the fate of the
buffalo, Colorado and a few other states woke up to the fact that
beavers were threatened to be classed with the dodo, and feeble
measures were taken to protect them. Slowly their numbers increased,
they returned to their normal habits of living, and rebuilt their dams
and houses.
Down in the valley below my cabin, within a few rods of the spot where
the ruins of Kit Carson's cabin still stand, are two small streams
along which I early found numerous traces of beaver. At the confluence
of these streams were dams and houses that were not entirely deserted;
for occasionally the beavers did some repair work. Since they were
within five minutes' walk of my cabin I visited them frequently during
all seasons of the year. Five times I saw the beavers return to the
old home site, repair the dams and rebuild the houses. Four times I
saw them forced to desert their home, once because a fire burned the
surrounding trees which were their source of food, the other times to
elude trappers.
I discovered that this colony consisted of a trap-maimed old couple and
their annual brood. The male had lost a portion of his right hind
foot, his mate had only a stump for her left front one. I early dubbed
them Mr. and Mrs. Peg, and came to have a real neighborly affection for
them. Their infirmities made it easy for me to keep track of them, and
to keep up with their social activities. Neighborly interest must be
kept alive by the neighbors' doings, you know!
They certainly showed no inclination to become dull from overwork!
About the time the ice on their pond began to break up, they would take
their youngsters and start upon their summer vacation. Upon a number
of occasions I found their familiar tracks along the streams eight or
ten miles below their home site; once more than fifteen miles away. On
their rambles they met other beaver families, and stopped to visit; the
young people of the combined families played and splashed about, while
their more sedate elders lay contentedly basking in the sun.
But late August or early September always saw Mr. and Mrs. Peg back
home; usually without their youngsters. Those precocious paddlers had
set up homes for themselves or had wedded into other tribes. The old
couple at once set to work, toiling night and day, taking no time off
for rest. They repaired their dam to raise the water to the desired
level, replastered their house inside and out with mud, and in addition
cut down a number of aspen trees, severed their trunks into lengths
they could handle, and brought both trunks and limbs down into the
pond. They towed the heavy green wood down first and piled it in the
deep water near their house, the rest they piled upon these until their
larder was full. They ate the whole of the smaller limbs of the aspen,
but only the bark of the larger boughs and trunks. They used the wood
for house and dam construction.
Trappers have told me that the streams beaver live in are poor fishing
places because the furry inhabitants eat the fish. By careful
observation, I proved to my own satisfaction at least, that quite the
opposite is true. For the deep ponds made by the dams they build are
literally spawning pools for the trout, breeding grounds and
hatcheries. They are also pools of refuge, to which the fish flee to
elude the fisherman, and in their warmer depths the finny tribe "hole
up" when the streams are frozen over in winter. I have lain motionless
upon a bowlder overlooking a beaver-inhabited stream and watched large
trout lazing about almost within reach of a preoccupied paddler,
apparently in no alarm over his nearness. Neither paid the other "any
mind." I am sure that beavers eat neither fish nor flesh.
Which reminds me that early in my mountain experience I happened upon
an old trapper's log cabin and stopped to visit him. Mountain
hospitality generously insists that guests be fed, no home or hut is
too poor to provide a bite for the chance visitor. Upon this occasion
I was handed a tin plate with some meat on it.
"Guess what it is," my host urged.
I tasted the meat, examined it, smelled it and tried to make out what
it was. It tasted somewhat like venison, yet not quite the same. It
had something the flavor of cub-bear steak broiled over a campfire, but
it was sweeter and not so strong. I guessed wrong several times before
the trapper informed me.
"Beaver tail," he laughed, pleased at outwitting me.