innocent curiosity betrays one. Thus one day, with sunshine overhead
and peaceful murmurs below, I stood upon a rock spire upthrust from the
slope of Mount Chapin, watching a band of Bighorn sheep above
timberline. The Fall River road now runs past the spot where they were
feeding. When I climbed up toward them, they gathered close together,
some of them scrambling up rocks for vantage points, all watching me
interestedly. They were not excited. They moved away slowly at my
near approach, stopping now and then to watch me or to feed. For
several hours I kept my position below them; sometimes edging close to
one of them, keeping in sight at all times, and being careful not to
move quickly.
The band worked its way to the foot of the steeper slopes, above the
tree line, hesitated, eyed me, then started up a narrow little passage
that led up between two cliffs. A rock-slide cluttered this granite
stair. Stable footholds were impossible for the loose rocks slipped
and slid, rolled from beneath the sheep's feet and bounded down the
slope.
Of a sudden something frightened the Bighorn, just what I had no time
to learn. Instantly every one of those nineteen sheep was in full
flight up the rock-slide. They bounded right and left, tacked across
it, turned, scrambled up, slipped back, tumbled, somersaulted, but
always regained their balance and made steady headway.
They seemed to have lost their wits, for they scattered, each selecting
his own route, all striving with great exertion to make speed up the
steep slope.
A barrage of stones fell all about me. Dust-puffs dotted the slide.
Then the whole thing seemed to move downward, like the rapids of a
river, dashing rock spray everywhere. The air was filled with flying
granite, as hurtling rocks struck and exploded into smoky fragments.
Bits, the size of wine-saps, scattered like birdshot; larger pieces,
the size of bushel baskets and barrels, bounded and danced, leaped away
from the slope, out into space, and dropped like plummets. Huge
bowlders (sleeping Titans that they were) stirred, roused themselves,
and came crashing down, plowing through the forest below, furrowing the
earth and cutting a swath through the trees as clean as a scythe
through grass. What was first merely the metallic clink of rolling
stones changed to a steady bombardment, and then into a sullen, ominous
roar as the giant bowlders got under way.
For me the scene had changed abruptly; a moment since I had been
following the wild sheep with ready camera, stalking them, entertaining
them with antics, occasionally hiding for a moment to excite them. Now
pandemonium reigned. The first few stones I dodged; then they came too
thick to be avoided. I dived headlong behind a bowlder, partly buried
in the slide. Like a rabbit I hid there, clinging as the stones hailed
about me, afraid to lift my head. Rocks struck close, filling my eyes
with gritty dust, choking me. Then a giant slab came grinding
downward. I could hear it coming, its slow thunder drowned out all
other sounds. The whole mountain heaved. My rock fort shook, flinging
me backward amidst a deluge of smaller stones. Over and over I rolled,
with the loosened rocks, fighting frantically every instant.
Inside a few short, busy seconds the giant slab shot past, my bowlder
had halted it for only a second. As I leaped aside I was pelted by a
score of stones, battered, bruised, knocked half unconscious, eyes
filled with sharp, cutting grit. At last I gained the outer edge of
the whirlpool, where the movement was less rapid, where only the
smaller stones trickled down. Dazed, bleeding and breathless, I was
flung aside, too blinded to see and too stunned to avoid the
projectiles shooting my way.
The slide lessened; its roar diminished; only occasional rocks came
down. Then came silence, vast, still and awesome after the uproar.
But it was broken by the belated descent of tardy stones, loath to be
left behind. Miniature slides started, hesitated and scattered.
Like a battered bark I lay half submerged at the edge of the slide. My
cap was gone, my camera lost, my clothes torn; in a score of places I
was scratched or bruised. I crawled farther from the danger line,
found a trickle of water below a melting snowbank, where I drank and
laved my bruises. At length I started down the mountain, safe, but not
sound; somewhat wiser, thrilled tremendously at the experience that had
come unannounced.
It is always thus in mountain climbing--the unexpected is the rule!
The habit of estimating time by the number of miles to be traveled goes
by the board in mountain work. A mile stood on end ceases to be a mile
and becomes a nightmare. Trail miles, or those that stretch across the
mountain tops, are not even related to the miles of straight, smooth
highway of the lower levels. A new unit of measurement should be
created for alpine climbers, to conform to the haughty attitude of the
mountains. At times, upon the crest of the Continental Divide, and at
an altitude of from ten to twelve thousand feet, I have covered from
three to five miles in an hour. And again, while breaking a snow
trail, creeping up treacherous glacier ice, or edging along the ledges,
I have often reversed the digits, taking several hours to gain a single
mile.
Then, too, no trip is taken twice under the same conditions. The
mountains are never the same: the weather, the wind, snow or rain
conditions may alter decidedly the footing upon their slopes. Thus a
climb that was accomplished on the first of June in one year without
serious obstacles may, on the same date another year, be found to be
impossible. Experienced mountaineers intuitively know when to proceed,
or to turn back; and though they may not be able to explain why they
abandon or continue a trip, they "feel" their actions imperative.
So climbing tests a man's judgment, his physical endurance, and tries
his soul. It brings out his true character. The veneer of convention
wears through inside a few miles of trail work and reveals the
individual precisely as he is, often to his shame but usually to his
glory. Thus a silent, backward boy one day became a hero by diving
headlong across smooth ice to rescue a trio of climbers who had lost
their footing and had started to slide across a glacier. Again, upon a
certain climb, two husky men who gave promise of conquering the ascent
without trouble, turned out to be the weakest of weaklings, abusing all
the party, demanding all the guide's help for themselves.
"You can't never tell how fur a toad'll jump!" the Parson said
disgustedly as he heard the tale of these two huskies who had turned
babies; "nor which way neither."
One of the things which I have found most helpful on hard climbs, is
mental preparation. If there are certain, lurking dangers to be
overcome, I have found it a decided help to admit the facts freely
before attempting the climb; picturing as far as it can be done the
situations that may arise. In this way it is possible, to a certain
degree, to anticipate emergencies before they happen and to prepare for
them. It also helps one to act with imperative promptness.
It is less easy to prescribe for physical preparation. Equipment must
vary with needs and these are as varied as the climbers themselves.
However, I have found that it is well to dress lightly, for this
permits freedom of movement. Personally I prefer light, low shoes that
reach just above the ankle, the soles studded with soft-headed hob
nails, not the iron ones. A change of socks is sometimes a life-saver,
for frequently the footing leads through ice water or soft snow. Numb
feet are always clumsy and slow, and dangerous besides. I have found
it best to wear medium-weight wool underclothes and just enough outer
garments to keep one warm. A staff is a handicap on rockwork, but
helpful on glaciers or other ice climbing.
On the mountain tops, as well as upon the highways, speed is dangerous.
Haste on a mountain brings grief of various kinds, nausea, needless
exhaustion, injuries. Never sprint! Climb slowly, steadily, like a
sober old packhorse. You will make better time, and reach the summit
in condition to enjoy your achievement.
I came to distrust, and to test out, every rung in my rocky ladders. I
found that even the most secure-appearing "stepping stones" were often
rotten and treacherous, weathered by the continual freezing and thawing
of the moisture in its seams. Often a mere touch was sufficient to
shatter them, but sometimes it was not until I put my weight upon them,
holding to a shrub or an earth-buried bowlder the while, that they gave
way.
I learned, too, that the wise selection of a route up and down is the
crucial test of a good guide. In such selection there are no rules;
for every climb presents problems particularly its own, and what worked
out well on the last climb may turn out to be dangerous on the next.
Thus, on one ascent of the cliffs of Black Canyon, my companion
suggested that we follow a "chimney," a water-worn crack that offered
convenient toe-holds. We ascended by the selected route without
difficulty. But an hour later, when a similar ascent confronted us, we
selected the same sort of route and came to grief, finding our way
blocked by an overhanging wall impossible to surmount.
The actual climbing of difficult places becomes a habit, so far as the
physical effort is concerned, leaving one free to inspect the
precipices above, and to feel out, instinctively, the possible routes
to the top.
The selection of a way up difficult places calls for the sixth sense,
instinct, which cannot always be acquired by experience. Wild animals
possess this "instinct" to a great degree; but human beings are not so
unerring. One man may be blest with it, but another, with equal
experience, will be unreliable. There is no accounting for the wide
difference in their accuracy, it exists--that is all we know.
There are times when even with this guiding instinct, one comes to
grief; though I have noted that grief came to me most often when I was
tired, less alert, and more prone to take chances or needless risks.
Sometimes, under stress of haste to get off a dangerous place before
darkness overtook me, I have had to leap without looking. No climber
may expect to survive many such reckless steps. It is the rule of the
mountains that you look--then do not leap. In most of life's
experiences we may make a mistake and, if wise, profit by it. But in
mountain climbing the first mistake is liable to be the last.
Mountain climbing is a game, a big game; divided as are other sports
into minor and major divisions. The minor climbs include the lesser
peaks, safe, well-marked trails that lead to comfortable night camps:
the major division includes almost everything from peeping into an
active volcano to getting imprisoned in a glacier crevasse.
Colorado offers wide variety of experience in both divisions. It has
forty-odd peaks above fourteen thousand feet, with hundreds of others
almost as high, yet unknown and unmapped. The peaks that are most
widely known, and most often climbed are Pike's Peak near Colorado
Springs and Long's Peak in the Rocky Mountain National (Estes) Park.
Pike's has long been easily accessible by way of the famous cog road,
and more recently an automobile road has reached its top. But Long's
has no royal road to its summit. Only a foot trail partly encircles it.
There are many other than these two peaks to challenge the climber.
The Flattops, in western Colorado, are not necessarily low or smooth,
though flat. The San Juan Mountains are extremely rough and rugged.
The Sangre de Christo Range is at once rarely beautiful and forbidding.
The Never-summer and Rabbit Ear ranges invite exploration, and the
great Continental Divide has no peers.
Every mountain offers its peculiar attractions and difficulties. All
mountains entice the brave-hearted and the adventurous. Occasionally
men lose their lives in conquering them and not infrequently women die
heroically scaling their slopes.
Long's Peak was early the objective of experienced mountain climbers.
For a number of years it defied all efforts to scale it. From 1864 to
1868 a number of unsuccessful attempts to reach the top failed. In the
summer of 1868 a party in charge of W. N. Byers, who had led the first
unsuccessful party, reached the top. Since that time each year has
seen an increasing number of successful climbers. Most climbers go in
small parties, for large ones (more than five) are dangerous. Dogs are
dangerous companions on a climb, because they start rock-slides.
As a boy I lived at the foot of this forbidding Sphinx, climbed it
every month in the year, and thus came to know its mighty moods, the
terrific fury of its storms, the glory of its outlook.
Miss Carrie J. Welton lost her life upon the Peak in 1884. She gave
out near the top and her guide, Carlyle Lamb, son of the Parson, made
heroic efforts to save her. But he, too, became exhausted and had to
leave her alone while he went for help.
But when help arrived, Miss Welton was dead, having perished from
exhaustion and cold.
Other casualties have occurred on this towering mountain. A boy left
his parents in camp at the foot of the Peak and disappeared. Late in
the summer, as the snowbanks diminished, his body was found, lying at
the base of the three-thousand-foot precipice. One man was killed by
the accidental discharge of a pistol. A doctor was killed by
lightning. In January, 1925, occurred a double tragedy. Miss Agnes
Vaille perished near the spot where Miss Welton lost her life, and
under similar conditions. Herbert Sortland, member of the rescue
party, became lost and perished in the storm that was raging over the
heights. His body was found many weeks afterward within a few minutes'
walk of home.
CHAPTER TEN
MODERN PATHFINDERS
Back on the farm of my childhood, the names of Kit Carson, Jim Bridger,
Buffalo Bill and other renowned frontiersmen were ever on the lips of
my parents. Their reckless bravery that took no thought of self, their
diplomatic cunning that cleverly kept the Indians friendly, their
unlimited resourcefulness, equal to the most unprecedented emergencies,
were the subjects of many a heroic tale. When I came West, no matter
how far I penetrated into remote regions, if there were trapper or
prospector about, I found the immortal fame of these intrepid
pathfinders had traveled into those mountain-guarded wildernesses.
They became the heroes of my boyish dreams, the patterns of my conduct,
the inspiration of my ideals. I seized upon every written word
concerning them and plowed through thick, poorly-printed volumes on the
frontier for one brief sentence about these gallant scouts. I longed
to emulate their fearless, immortal deeds. They left an indelible
impress upon my character, even as they had upon the romantic annals of
their country.
My growing familiarity with the Rocky Mountain region opened up one
trail in which I could follow their footsteps. Tourists were finding
out the country, guides were in demand. In the early days, before the
creation of the National Park, guides were unlicensed. Any experienced
old-timer or climber could take parties up the Peak or on other alpine
trips. I began guiding by taking occasional visitors up Long's. I
furnished my horse, and on most trips, supplies, wrangled the
pack-horses, made camp, cooked the meals, and gave invaluable advice
and "first aid" all for the munificent wage of five dollars a day!
That sum made the replacement of climb-shattered cameras, the
purchasing of a few coarse, cheap garments, and the acquiring of a
Montgomery Ward library, all such riches, possible.
The work afforded none of the opportunities for fame and glory that had
lurked in the trails of my heroes; I did not creep stealthily from a
wagon train in the dead of night to thwart the redmen in a fiendish
massacre; I was not compelled to kill game to furnish food for my
charges; I did not have to find fords across wide, deep and treacherous
unknown rivers, and steer panic-stricken cattle or heavily laden oxen
across them. But even though the work lacked the glamour of the
pioneers' primitive, golden day, it was not without engrossing
interests. It was filled with drama, relieved by comedy, sometimes
fraught with tragedy.
Yes; styles in guides have changed since Bill Cody scouted the plains,
even as they have changed since I piloted my first party up Long's
Peak. A new breed has sprung up since the people have made such wide
use of their National Parks. Not only the modern guides outwit the
savage elements, but, under the National Park administration, they are
required to have a fund of general information, especially nature lore,
to be able to identify the thousands of varieties of wild flowers, the
birds, animals and trees; to conduct field classes in geology, and to
explain every phenomenon of weather and climate. Such a guide must
have the patience to answer numberless questions. All this in addition
to watching his charges, as a nurse watches her patients, feeling their
pulses, so to speak, and taking their physical and moral temperatures.
He must keep up their morale with entertaining yarns, he must restrain
their too ambitious experience, must protect them from their own
foolhardiness. He must have the charity to forbear deriding their
stupidity. He must be as courageous and resourceful as the old-time
guides, though his trials may not be so spectacular. A guide soon
plumbs a man's character and fathoms its weakness and its strength.
As a boy guide I trailed far into the wilds with hunting parties, and
camped through the summers with fishermen, geologists, explorers and
mountain climbers. The reaction of individuals to the open spaces has
ever been interesting to me. I have seen voluble women silent before
the awesome beauty. I have seen phlegmatic business men moved to
tears. There was no way of anticipating people's reactions.
Nearly all climbers dread the altitude of the high country. It is the
"Old Man of the Sea" to most "tenderfeet." It has as many forms as the
clouds and changes them as readily. It pounces upon the innocent but
not unsuspicious wayfarer in the form of nosebleed, short wind,
earache, balky watches, digestive troubles, sleeplessness and
oversleeping.
As guide one day for the wife of a well-known geologist, I secured a
new idea regarding altitude. We were to spend the day above
timberline, where we hoped to identify the distant mountain ranges,
observe the wild life close at hand and collect flower specimens. We
left the valley at dawn, let our horses pick their way slowly upward.
We halted occasionally to watch a scampering chipmunk or to explain our
harmless errand to a scolding squirrel.
Near the timberline we emerged into a little grassy glade beside a
rushing stream. Far above and deep below us grew a dense forest of
Engelmann spruce. In the glade stood a detached grove of perhaps a
dozen trees, dead and stripped almost bare of limbs and bark.
My lady stopped abruptly and stared at these. She shook her head
sadly, murmuring to herself. At last she spoke:
"Isn't it too bad?" she grieved.
I agreed sympathetically, then peered about to learn the cause of our
sudden sadness.
The lady pointed to the dead trees, wagged her head, and said:
"Isn't it too bad the altitude killed them?"
There were green trees a mile farther up the mountain above the dead
ones in the glade. Yet my lady insisted that the altitude had singled
out and killed the little grove in the midst of the forest--so we let
it go at that.
Of course, some persons really are affected by altitude, but weariness,
lack of muscular as well as mental control, often creates altitudinous
illusion. Of this condition I had an example while guiding a party of
three women and one man to the top of Long's Peak. We climbed above
timberline, headed through Storm Pass, and finally reached Keyhole
without a single incident to mar the perfect day. The ladies were new,
but plucky, climbers; the man rather blustery, but harmless.
Beyond Keyhole lies rough going, smooth, sloping rocks and the "Trough"
with its endless rock-slides that move like giant treadmills beneath
the climber's feet. The pace I set was very slow. The man wanted to
go faster, but I called attention to Glacier Gorge below, the color of
the lakes in the canyon, in short, employed many tactics to divert him
from his purpose.
My refusal to travel faster excited him, he became extremely nervous
and made slighting remarks regarding my guiding ability that ruffled me
and embarrassed the ladies. Hoping to convince him of his error, I
speeded up. He remonstrated at once, but when I slowed down to our
customary pace he still objected, saying we'd never reach the top
before dark.
Suddenly he developed a new notion. Climbing out upon a ledge he
lifted his arms and poised, as though to dive off the cliff.
"Guide," he called, his voice breaking, "I must jump."
After some confusion we were on our way again, the man within clutch of
my hand. All progressed without further trouble until we reached the
top of the trough, where we halted to rest and to look down into Wild
Basin, memorable scene of my first camp! My charge craftily escaped my
clutches, walked out on a promontory, and again threatened to jump.
Secretly I hoped he would carry out his threat.
Before we began scaling the home stretch, I tried to persuade the
erratic idiot to remain behind, but he refused. However, we all made
the top safely. He relapsed into glum silence, which I hoped would
last until we were safely off the peak. But as we stood near the brink
of the three-thousand-foot precipice overlooking Chasm Lake, we were
startled to hear his voice once more, raised to high pitch.
"I must jump over, I've got to jump," he screamed.
He waved his arms wildly, as though trying to fly. The ladies begged
me not to approach him lest he totter from his precarious perch.
Summoning all the authority I could command, I ordered him to come down
off the rock. My commandment unheeded, next I humored him and tried to
coax him back upon the pretext of showing him something of special
interest. But he stood firm, mentally at least, if not physically.
Pushing the ladies ahead, I hurried on toward the trail. As I started,
I waved good-by, and shouted:
"Go on, jump. Get it over with, coward!"
He turned back from the edge, swearing vengeance against me. In
abusing me, however, he forgot his obsession to jump.
During the summer of my experience with the man who wanted to jump, I
guided a party of three men who behaved in a totally different, but in
quite as unexpected, manner. They were three gentlemen from New York,
who wished to make a night climb up Long's Peak. It was a beautiful
moonlight night. Our party left the hotel at the foot of the Peak at
eleven o'clock. Proceeding upward through the shadowy, moon-flecked
forest, we sang songs, shouted, listened to the far-away calls of the
coyotes in the valley below, and from timberline saw the distant lights
of Denver. At one o'clock we reached the end of the horse trail. In
two hours the horses had covered five miles and had climbed up
thirty-five hundred feet. We were on schedule time. Though the sun
would gild the summit of the Peak soon after four in the morning, we
would arrive sufficiently ahead of it, to watch it rise.
All at once my troubles began. The three men wanted to race across
bowlderfield. It was sheer folly and I told them so, and why, but
failed to convince them. They raced. They kidded me for being slow,
dared me to race them, and gibingly assured me that they would wait for
me on top and command the sun not to rise until I got there.
They would have their little joke. They waited for me at Keyhole and
we moved slowly along the shelf trail beyond. On that they raced
again, but not far, for the steep slope of the trough with its slippery
stones stood just beyond. Right there they insisted on eating their
lunch, an untimely lunch hour for there was hard climbing yet to do.
Not satisfied with emptying their lunch bags, they drank freely of some
ice water that trickled out from beneath a snowbank.
I got them going at last and we had gone only a short way when two of
them fell ill. They felt they just had to lie down, and did so, and
became thoroughly chilled, which added to their pangs of nausea. After
awhile we proceeded very slowly. No longer their song echoed against
the cliffs. They broke their pained silence only to grumble at one
another.