The Mountains
We leave Grand Junction a new party, but with the same outfit, except
a new horse. We arrange our work practically the same way as before,
Mr. Bradley, or “Brad” as he is dubbed for convenience, doing the
cooking, Norman (Bradley) and Norman (Harris), dubbed “Pete” for
identification purposes, doing the packing, dishwashing, and scouting.
The horses fell to my lot as usual, as well as the driving, in which
Brad sometimes took a hand.
Our first objective point was Delta, about forty-five miles up the
Gunnison River, along which the Denver & Rio Grande narrow gauge runs.
Our road, however, was several miles away from the river and railroad,
and through a deserted country. We did not leave Grand Junction until
the afternoon of July sixth, and we drove about sixteen miles before
making camp, just beyond Kannah Creek, beside an irrigation ditch. Our
new horse Cyclone was a bit fast and flighty, but so far not harmful,
and we took special pains to see that he did not break loose and go
back home. The boys had to try out their small calibre rifles on the
prairie dogs and doves near camp. They had better success hitting
doves than dogs, so we had some doves for breakfast.
Our first night out we slept on the ground, although as there were
only four of us we could have slept in the wagon, which we did
afterward to be sure not to be rained on and also to avoid rocks,
which were usually too numerous for comfort, and it was too much of a
task to clear a large enough space for sleeping quarters.
The next morning we had everything working smoothly. Brad was an old
camper and good cook and had no trouble in holding up his end, so that
we were off at seven o’clock. At least we started to start, but
Cyclone, when the wagon did not start easy on account of a big boulder
under the wheel, decided to go backward. I got into an argument with
him at once, but concluded it policy to agree with him, so we went
backward. He soon tired of that way of going and we resumed our onward
way.
Our road had about five miles of rocks and two bad hills, but we
stayed right side up. By 2 P. M. we had come about twenty-five miles
and, having reached the Gunnison River, we decided to stop for the
day. We had been without water since morning, and our route had been a
dry and dusty one, so we hailed the river and grass with delight.
The boys went fishing while Brad and I sewed a flap on the wagon
sheet. They came back with a sucker and a bullhead, or rather they
brought back only two fish, one sucker and one bullhead, both caught
by Norman.
This camp with running water, shade, and grass was the best we had had
since starting from California. I expect now that we are getting close
to the mountains we will have plenty of wood and water and some very
beautiful places to camp.
We were troubled some with mosquitoes for the first time, so got out
our mosquito netting. We did not have much need for it afterward
except occasionally when camping by a stream in the woods.
Next morning, Friday, July eight, we drove into Delta. This is quite a
prosperous town and the country immediately surrounding it is well
irrigated, and the farmers along the river look as though they were
all doing well. We spent the best part of the day here. We had tires
set on two wheels and besides making a few purchases, we lightened our
load by sending home the tent and cots we had taken on again at Grand
Junction; also a box of clothes.
We intended to get our lunch at the hotel, but when we went over there
about noontime the proprietor, a woman, was evidently quite alarmed
for the safety of her guests and told us she was sorry, but we could
not register. We probably did look like desperate characters and so,
being refused admittance to the hotel, we went on down the street and
found a lunch counter where we got what we wanted. The boys were quite
elated to think that we had been refused admittance to the hotel
because we looked so much like desperadoes, but Brad and I concluded
the woman was a tenderfoot and her real reason for being fussed was
that we had no coats.
Our wagon was not to be ready until later, so we had time to look the
town over, and then came back and helped the blacksmith set the tires.
We were all ready at four-thirty, so started for the next place, a
town called Hotchkiss, where I had a letter to Mr. Simonds, president
of the North Fork Bank, and I expected to interview him regarding the
roads.
Leaving Delta we found the roads were good for eight or nine miles, or
as far as we went that afternoon. We crossed the Gunnison River again
just before we made camp. The river from here up apparently has no
banks, but runs through a canyon, with perpendicular walls in places,
which several miles farther up is several thousand feet deep. It is
called the “Black Canyon of the Gunnison,” and while we got several
glimpses of the river a few days later, it was nearly a week before we
got down to it again.
Our camp near the river was disagreeable on account of mosquitoes and
dead cattle, the latter being in evidence near all water holes. The
season has been so dry, and the water so scarce, and what there was so
bad, that I presume more cattle died this summer than usual.
We left early the next morning and by eleven-fourteen were at
Hotchkiss, sixteen miles, and up grade all the way. Here at the north
fork of the Gunnison we camped and I saw Mr. Simonds. He told us about
the road and I found we would have to travel seventy-five miles before
getting down to the river level again. We would go through Crawford
and Crystal Creek and up over the Black Mesa and then down again to
Sapinero, which was on the river and also the railroad. He thought we
could make the trip through O. K., although it was not easy, but when
I asked him if there was any easier way he laughed and said, “Not
unless you can fly”; and we often wished we could before we got to
Sapinero.
We reached Crawford, about fourteen miles from Hotchkiss, at 5 P. M.
It lies in a pretty valley and, while it is an old town, the
inhabitants were evidently quite prosperous, as they were mostly
putting up new houses or adding to the old ones. We stopped just
outside the town by a brook, and had a good camp. We had come thirty
miles that day and felt we were making good progress.
The next morning we drove twelve miles to Crystal Creek, reaching
there at ten-thirty. There was no town here--just the creek and a
ranch house and the remains of a sawmill. The telephone company is
putting a line through here and hauling poles down from the mountains.
We met some of the teamsters who told us about the road over the Black
Mesa, and as we had a good place to camp, we concluded to stay here
the balance of the day and rest up the team. We caught enough trout
here for supper, the first we had had, but the creek was so small, and
the brush so thick, it was nearly impossible to fish at all, although
there were plenty of fish. We did not turn in until 9 P. M. on account
of the mosquitoes, but by that time it had turned so cold they
disappeared, and we were left in peace.
[Illustration: A CAMP ON BLACK MESA]
The next morning we got an early start. Our road led straight up onto
the mesa, a five-mile climb, and here it was that our new horse showed
his poor qualities to advantage, or rather, our old horses showed
their good ones. We had climbed about four miles, most of the way
nearly straight up, when on a particularly steep turn Cyclone gave up.
I couldn’t induce him to try again, and not being in a place where I
could take any chance of getting backed off the road down the mountain
side, I took him out and told Pete to let me have Dixie. The boys
thought that if Cyclone couldn’t pull the wagon up with Bess’s help,
poor little Dixie surely couldn’t, but they didn’t know Dixie and I
did, and was not disappointed. She and Bess pulled that wagon up to
the top, much to the delight of the boys, who amused themselves by
making slighting remarks about Cyclone. We reached the top at ten
o’clock and there we put Cyclone back into the harness, and that was
the last time we ever had any real trouble with him.
Starting on we had a splendid drive for five miles through the most
wonderful of Nature’s parks; immense pines, a profusion of flowers of
all colors with the Indian Paint Brush scattered here and there among
them. One could imagine some landscape gardener had laid out the
grounds, except for the immensity of it. Snow-capped mountains in the
distance completed the scene, and when we camped at noon we felt we
would like to spend several days here. The grass was knee-high in the
little parks and our horses had not had such good feed since starting.
It certainly was worth climbing up just to be here, and we lingered
longer than usual for lunch, and then drove only five miles farther
before camping for the night on a little creek that runs down a canyon
into the Gunnison River below.
We dished one of our hind wheels again coming down a steep rocky piece
of road, and had to take it off and put it on the other side after
dishing it back; but we are getting used to little things like this,
and bad roads, so take them philosophically. We fished some in this
creek where we camped, but, while we saw a few trout, could not induce
any to bite. That night we had a fine camp fire and the horses a good
rest and good feed.
This is the Gunnison Forest Reserve and we were surprised to find
several hundred cattle up here, but later ascertained that the
Government allows a certain number to be pastured up here at twenty
cents per head a month for cattle, and thirty cents for horses. There
are no sheep up here; the cattle men killed them off, and while there
was quite a row over it, probably no one will try sheep for a while.
They can only pasture them here for three months, July, August, and
September. There is no grazing before July and too much snow after
September, so it makes a very short season.
[Illustration: THE TWO NORMANS]
We start Tuesday morning for Sapinero which we expect to find a town
where we can buy some grain for the horses and make a few other
purchases. We were disappointed in this, however. All we found was a
hotel and postoffice and two saloons. Couldn’t get much of anything,
and no feed. On our way down this morning the trail skirted the side
of the canyon and we could catch a glimpse now and then of the river,
looking like a tiny brook, far down below. We could look across to the
mesa on the other side, called “Blue Mesa,” and up and down the
canyon, so that we had some fine views. The land, however, was bare
and rocky and as we got lower down the vegetation assumed more of the
character of the desert. When we finally arrived at the river level
and left Sapinero, the road followed the river first along the bank,
and then back in the hills. The road along the bank would be green and
shady, but a hundred yards away behind a hill you could easily imagine
you were in the desert.
Finding a good camping spot near the river, we stopped at 3 P. M. for
the balance of the day and tried to catch some trout in the river, but
with poor success. Norman Bradley caught two, I believe, but for some
reason the Gunnison River did not yield us much fish, and we met
several fishing parties, all of them complaining about the fishing. As
the Gunnison is supposed to be a good trout stream I presume we, as
well as the other kickers, were poor fishermen.
The next morning we drove to Iola, fourteen miles, and here on the
banks of the Gunnison I found Mr. Stevens and his ranch of a thousand
acres. I had a letter to him from Mr. Adams and he let us camp on his
land and fish all we wanted to. Right here seems to be the trout
fisherman’s Mecca and we were supposed to catch rainbow trout galore,
but didn’t. The boys had more fun with a town of prairie dogs back of
camp then they did fishing. As the fish didn’t bite, they turned their
attention to the dogs and carried on a regular campaign against them,
but the casualties were not heavy. We were also entertained by a bull
fight right by our wagon, but as the bulls had been dehorned it was
not bloody, just exciting and noisy.
[Illustration: THE BLACK CANYON OF THE GUNNISON]
Mr. Stevens has a fine ranch here, plenty of water, nice buildings,
and all the conveniences. He is one of Colorado’s best-known cattle
men, being a member of the State Commission. We said good-bye to him
the next morning and started for the Cochetopa Pass over the
Continental Divide. Mr. Stevens had told us that was about the only
way a wagon could get over.
It was twelve miles to Gunnison and the road followed the river
closely. It was a beautiful morning and we enjoyed this stretch of
road very much. We passed many campers’ cabins, all fishermen; also
hotels and tents. All the fishermen we interviewed said the fish were
not biting, so we felt better. One always feels less dissatisfied with
his own failures if other people are likewise unfortunate.
At ten-thirty we reached the town of Gunnison. Here we had a wagon
wheel set, one of the horses shod, and bought a few provisions, and on
making inquiry were told we would have to cross the Continental Divide
_via_ Cochetopa Pass to Salida. We figured this to be seventy-five
miles farther than Marshall or Monarch Pass, but were advised not to
try Monarch as it was impassable for a wagon. So having had plenty of
experience with bad roads we promised to go _via_ Cochetopa, and
started out again, leaving Gunnison at 3 P. M. We drove only about six
miles when we found a good place to camp and a brook that looked as
though there might be trout in it, so we stopped right there.
We were at the “parting of the ways.” To go south over Cochetopa was
our intention, but Brad thought we were not living up to the record we
had made up to date unless we went straight east over Monarch. He
thought we would not know whether we had been told the truth or not,
unless we tried to get over; and that seventy-five miles looked a long
distance out of the way to me, so we were glad of a chance to stop at
the “parting of the ways” to consider.
[Illustration: A CAMP SITE ON THE GUNNISON]
About this time a “schooner” came down the road from the direction of
Monarch, and we could not resist the temptation to hail them and
inquire if they had come over Monarch Pass, and were delighted to find
that they had come over that way from Salida. They had travelled from
Oklahoma and were going to Delta, one of the towns we had come
through, to take up some fruit land. We could not tell them much about
Delta, but they told us all we wanted to know about Monarch Pass. They
had come over, and that was enough for us. We could do anything
anybody else did, or we thought so. However, I did ask how the trail
was and if they thought we could get over. Claudie (as his wife called
him) said: “Well, we got over, and I only tipped the old lady and kids
over once, but I imagine it is harder getting up from this side.” The
“old lady,” a buxom young woman of about twenty-four, laughed and said
they were not hurt any and she thought we could get over if we had
come from California without a smashup.
So we settled it right there that we would go over the Continental
Divide at Monarch Pass, or break something, and so while the boys
fished we got supper. They came back without a fish, but after supper
caught three, two rainbow and one brook trout, about half a pound
each.
The next morning we started for Sargent, a little town at the foot of
Marshall Pass and just south of the trail over Monarch Pass. The roads
were good, and, although we were climbing up all day, we made about
twenty-four miles and camped one mile from Sargent. On the way the
boys tried to catch some fish in a brook, but without success.
We find the deer flies bother the horses a good deal during the day
and at night the mosquitoes are a pest, but by 9 P. M. the cold drives
them away. We have beautiful warm days, but up here in the mountains
the nights are cold.
The next morning, Saturday, the sixteenth of July, we were at Sargent
at seven, and following this same brook up we reached the forest
ranger’s house by ten, seven miles from Sargent and six miles from the
top. I went in to interview the ranger and he said we had better rest
our team until afternoon before going any farther, as the trail went
straight up for six miles from here and the farther up we got the
worse it was. We concluded we would keep on going, but take it easy
and give the team short pulls and frequent breathing spells. Before
going any farther, however, we took everything out of the wagon that
we could pack on the saddle horses, and Brad walked ahead and made
road, and the boys walked behind and led their horses with the packs.
This took out quite a good many pounds and I felt we could get up if
Cyclone would stick.
We started on this last lap at about ten-thirty and made about two
miles by noon. Then we had to change sides with our hind wheels on
account of the slope of the trail, and also soaked them in water to
keep them from dishing. With our high covered top and springs under
the box, we had to drive very carefully to keep from tipping over.
Starting up again I had to humor Cyclone occasionally, but we got up
finally at 5 P. M., but I am unable now to tell how.
Brad worked all the afternoon throwing rocks out of the trail and
filling up holes, and going ahead around a bend to tell me what
condition the trail was in so I could prepare the team for it. Finding
no suitable spot or water at the top, which was at an elevation of
11,500 feet, we went on down the other side to a park, about a mile
and a half, over a trail that was all a wagon like ours could stand
and not go to pieces; in fact, that mile and a half was the worst
piece of the whole 2400 miles I drove, and we all went into camp that
night at six-thirty tired and sore.
The next day, Sunday, we had a chance to study our surroundings, as we
did not move camp until afternoon. We were in a park by the side of a
small mountain stream, surrounded by pine and spruce trees, about a
thousand feet below the pass and snowdrifts. It was an ideal location
for a camp, and in looking about we saw that the surveyors we had met
on the other side, near the top, had their camp here, and below us
were two tents and a wagon with a team of mules and a saddle horse. On
inquiry we found the surveyors were working for the Bell Telephone
Company. The other folks were just out on a trip and had expected to
go over the Divide, but had got this far and did not dare try the last
mile and a half. They were sensible, as there were two ladies in the
party, one not very well, and they could not have walked or ridden in
the wagon up that trail without danger of heart disease, if nothing
else.
Having such a nice brook in front of our door, so to speak, Brad and I
had a house-cleaning while the boys went fishing. We also did up the
washing, so that our camp was quite a conspicuous object with all the
blankets, etc., hanging up around us. I took a picture here of the
Continental Divide, showing our camp as well. It was a beautiful spot
and we hated to leave it, but as we were not camping, but going
somewhere, we started on down toward Salida about 2 P. M.
[Illustration: CONTINENTAL DIVIDE]
We passed through a deserted mining camp. There was nothing left to
show there had been a camp here except the graveyard, and a few stone
fireplaces. The graveyard up there in the mountains, away from all
habitation, had a fascination for me, and I had to look it over and
soliloquize before proceeding. When we did start on again the trail
dropped down fast, although it was fairly good, and we soon passed
through Monarch, a typical mining town, and two other small places,
and by evening made camp within ten miles of Salida. The weather had
been threatening all day, but it did not rain.
We had been following the same stream down all the afternoon and while
the road was good “considering where it was,” as Brad said, we met
several buggies and wagons that had to be hung up on the scenery until
we could get past. The stream was on our right hand, and usually when
we met any one we had no place to turn out, and the other chap had to
climb up the side of the mountain. Brad had a lot of fun with these
fellows. They usually seemed helpless when they saw us in the road and
Brad would get out and tell them what to do, and half the time would
have to lead their horses up into the brush and rocks and lift the
buggy over a boulder or two, and then we would go on leaving them to
get back into the road the best way they could.
Our camp this evening was alongside the road, near a brook, where
there was some grass, and we got eggs from an old man who lived
nearby. It looked very much like rain and blew quite hard about
bedtime, but it did not rain enough to lay the dust.
The next morning on inquiry we found it was twelve miles to Salida and
that we were two miles off in our calculations, but as the road was
good and down grade we didn’t mind that. We reached town at
ten-thirty, “provisioned” up, bought two hats for the boys in place of
the old “strawstacks” they were wearing, and, after getting feed and
mailing our letters and postal cards, we pulled out for Denver. We
decided to go _via_ Nathrop and Fairplay and through South Park,
instead of _via_ Colorado Springs, and so started up the Arkansas
River, past the smelters, going about four miles before stopping for
lunch.
[Illustration: CAMP BELOW THE DIVIDE]
In the afternoon we drove about eight miles farther through a heavy
shower, but over a fine road, although up a heavy grade, and camped on
a mesa near a spring out in the open. We prepared for another shower
that night, but didn’t get it. We passed numerous ranches along the
road, well irrigated, where they raise grass, alfalfa and oats, and
some cattle. We also passed a camping party from Ponca Springs,
Oklahoma, a man and his wife and three girls. The woman had
tuberculosis, I think. They had intended going over the Divide into
the dry country on the other side, but had not been able to get over,
and were going back. I did not inquire how near the top they had been
before giving it up--probably about where we had camped the day we
crossed.
The next morning it was quite cold, but warmed up later in the day. We
drove on up the river, past Nathrop, and then at a brick school house,
as directed, we left the main road and the Arkansas Valley to drive
over the mountains into the Platte River Valley. The road was a good
one, but for ten miles it was a stiff pull and we met no one. After we
had climbed about a mile we got a good view of Buena Vista and the
Arkansas Valley. The scenery was rough and the country dry. As we
neared the top we had some more fine views, but aside from a few birds
the country seemed deserted. We found a good spring at noon and while
here the boys shot a few doves. We have doves and young rabbits
occasionally to eat, as we have had fish, but not so often that we get
tired of them.
After lunch we drove on over the Divide and down to a siding of the
railroad near a brook, through a thunder shower, mixed with hail, that
scared Cyclone into fits. He had evidently not been used to thunder
showers and up here in the mountains, if you are not struck, you very
often think you are, and when a bolt would seem to strike right at us,
he would jump and kick, while the other horses did not seem to mind
anything but the wetting.
The boys left their horses and brought their saddles inside to keep
dry, and when we got down we found Kate and Dixie had loitered behind
at a patch of grass, so Norman went back and brought them down. We
figure we are about thirty miles from Salida and the same distance
from Fairplay.
Wednesday morning, July 19, we have a fine road down hill past the
salt works, and over by Buffalo Springs. We drive through another
shower and camp about sixteen miles from our starting point. The boys
had quite a time shooting prairie dogs as they rode along this
morning. They can shoot from the saddle and many a dog never reached
his hole.
This afternoon we just miss another heavy shower by driving into a
rancher’s hay barn. There were showers all around. This is a low
valley with salt marshes and some alkali. The south branch of the
Platte starts above here.
Going up a mountain grade we had a chance to see how near being a good
horse Cyclone was. We were close to the railroad track (Colorado
Central), the grade was very heavy, and there were three engines
pulling the train, and he “stood for it,” passing within fifty feet.
He has quit balking; we shoot out of the wagon; he doesn’t mind autos;
and now a triple-header within fifty feet of him doesn’t cause him to
climb a tree, so we consider him a good horse from now on. He
certainly is a powerful brute and, if he had been properly handled
when he was broke, would have been a very valuable horse.
We camped at what might be called the Four Corners. We had come up
from Salida on the south; the left-hand road was the old freight road
west to Leadville; the north fork led to Denver; and the east fork to
Hartzel. We found a party of fishermen from Cripple Creek camped here.
The boys fished a short time and then, as it looked like rain, we made
things tight for the night. Some of the fishing party were old
freighters who had been over the road between Denver and Leadville
many times before the railroad was put through, and they told us about
the road to Denver. We will soon be in South Park.
It is mostly a hay country through here and they are not going to have
as much of a crop as usual. This is July twentieth, and the showers
they usually have around July first are just beginning now. It would
seem that they are trying to make up for lost time, but by the looks
of the hay crop it is evidently too late.
Pete saw a coyote about fifty feet from camp just at dark, but it was
so foggy there was no use trying to get a shot at him, as a run of a
few feet would take him out of sight.
The next morning we drove to Fairplay and in spite of the rain the
roads are fine. They are apparently made of crushed granite and are
the finest roads imaginable. Autoists would enjoy driving a car over
them, if they could but get in here. We went on to Como and camped
three miles beyond, making about twenty-three miles to-day. This
doesn’t seem so far considering the good roads, but the grades were
always with us and we were either going up or down, at neither of
which we could make very fast time.
We all took a turn at the prairie dogs to-day and I guess if we
claimed a bounty on each one, we would have made enough to pay for our
ammunition, as we certainly killed a lot of them. The ranchers were
glad to have us _try_ to kill them, but evidently were surprised that
we _did_, because ordinarily one gets tired shooting before he
actually kills one that he can go and pick up.
All along here the elevation is about ten thousand feet. The
mosquitoes did not bother us so much as the deer flies did the horses
during the middle of the day. Sometimes we all had to get out and
actually drive them away with switches, and, although we had nets over
the horses’ faces, they could not shake them fast enough to do any
good.
The next morning we drove over the Divide out of South Park through
Webster, and camped within two miles of Grant and about seventy miles
from Denver. Coming over the pass the deer flies nearly drove Cyclone
crazy, and we all had to fight them until we got up on top and into a
breeze. From that point down there did not seem to be any, and we were
exceedingly glad of it.
Our camp we called “Good Luck Camp” because when we had unhitched we
found a horseshoe under the wagon. It was rusty and full of nails, so
we hung it on behind. Here we had shade, grass for the horses, and a
fine brook from which we expected to catch some fish, so we stayed all
the afternoon and night, but caught only a few trout. The boys
improved their marksmanship by shooting at swinging stones and all
sorts of moving objects they had swinging from strings, and made some
remarkable shots.
The next morning we started late and drove down nearly to Bailey and
camped on the north branch of the Platte. The roads were fine and we
began to see signs of civilization, summer cottages, parasols, “boiled
shirts,” etc. We saw an occasional robin, but the magpies, ravens, and
dickey birds we seem to have left behind.
[Illustration: A LOG CABIN ON BAILEY’S MOUNTAIN]
This afternoon we expect to stop at Bailey for some provisions and
horse feed, and then make camp as near Denver as possible, so as to be
sure to reach there by Monday night. Bailey is at the foot of a
mountain by the same name, and we pulled in there about 2 P. M. After
stopping only a few minutes, we left the river and started up over
Bailey’s Mountain, going, as it seemed on paper, across lots to
Denver, but in reality across mountains. We found no water; all the
streams were dried up. We passed a number of summer “shacks,” all
vacant, and met no one for miles. Evidently the lack of water has kept
the people out this summer.
We camped for the night near a vacant summer house, that had a spring
in a log house by the road. It was getting late and we had been
looking for water, and probably would have missed this place but for a
lone horseman who came along and told us about it. He said he had
driven this road many times and this was the dryest time of all, and
we had no reason to doubt his word. Every little mountain stream we
had passed since leaving Bailey was dry as a bone. We made
twenty-seven miles to-day with a late start, and some long climbs, so
we think we are pretty sure to reach Denver Monday night. We were busy
until bedtime with the horses and supper, besides shooting a few
rabbits and doves.
The last thing we did was to take one of our hind wheels off, block up
the wagon, dish the wheel and take it down to a water hole we had
found, tie a rope to it and throw it in to soak all night.
We left in the morning, Sunday, at eight-thirty, drove through
Shaffer’s Crossing, on over another pass and down to Conover, about
ten miles. Here we found an old-fashioned well with two buckets, in
the middle of the road in front of a country hotel, where we watered
the horses. The office of the hotel contained a store and long
distance telephone exchange. The people here asked us a number of
questions regarding the rainfall back in the mountains. Every one is
talking about the drought. There has been no rain on this side of the
range and very little snow last Winter.
Leaving here we pass a number of empty houses, large roomy affairs,
formerly used as hostelries when the road was used by freighters from
Denver to Leadville. It is thirty-two miles, they tell us, to Denver,
and we drove on about three miles farther before stopping for lunch.
[Illustration: NEARING CIVILIZATION]
We made what we call a dry camp near a ranch house. We stopped our
wagon under a big tree beside the road. There was a splendid breeze,
but no water in sight. The boys took a pail and went over to the house
for water, but were gone so long we began to worry about them. When
they finally returned they said the well at the ranch was dry, and
they had gone about half a mile to a spring where the family had to go
since the brook went dry.
All the vehicles we have met so far to-day are three autos and two
teams. The other road along the North Platte, which we left at Bailey,
has the water, and the summer resorts, they tell us.
We are still twenty-five miles from Denver, and starting late we plan
to drive to Morrison, but are told we can save two miles and get a
good camping place by going down on a creek and leaving Morrison to
the north. This we did and got into camp at seven-thirty, just three
and a half hours after leaving our noon camp.
This three-and-a-half-hour drive was very interesting; in fact,
probably as picturesque a drive as we had anywhere. We began going
down grade rapidly and finally the road, which was especially good,
turned abruptly down into a canyon and turned and twisted among the
trees and bushes in a marvellous manner. We sent the boys on ahead to
warn any one coming up to pick out a place to pass, as in spots we
could see only a few yards ahead. The walls of the canyon towered up
nearly perpendicular on each side and, although the sun was still
three hours high, it was twilight where we were.
At last we arrived at the mouth of the canyon, or the gateway into the
mountains, and before us lay one-half of the world, so it seemed,
stretching away as level as a floor and as far as we could see. It was
really not so flat as it seemed, but coming out of the mountains where
we had been for weeks, it seemed absolutely level. Stretches of green
here and patches of grain there, the soil red, and the sun, dropping
behind the mountains back of us, reflected on the glass and roofs of
Denver, which lay about twenty miles away. I unconsciously pulled up
the team, and we all feasted our eyes on the scene. It seemed like an
enchanted land, more like a mirage, and we made several more stops
before we were reminded to hurry up and get to a place to camp before
dark.
[Illustration: THE OUTFIT COMING INTO DENVER]
Our last camp on the mountain trail was a very comfortable one. We
found water and grazing here, and a camp wagon from New Mexico, a man
and his wife and daughter. _From_ New Mexico, but _where to_ they
apparently didn’t know; they were just “on the way.”
We had reached Denver Monday morning, half a day before we expected,
and ahead of schedule, and as Brad did not have to leave for home
before the twenty-eighth, and it was only the twenty-fifth, he said he
would stay over and clean up with us, and start home the next day. We
got into town about ten o’clock, put our outfit up at Craig’s Sales
Stable, and went around the corner to the New Western Hotel. We
cleaned up first, put on our “store clothes,” and then got our mail.
I dropped into E. H. Rollins & Sons’ banking house for some currency,
and saw Mr. Reynolds. He started to talk business to me and I thought
he was speaking a different language. I didn’t seem to understand much
of what he was talking about, so got away as soon as I could. Didn’t
feel just right in an office anyway, although he was very kind and
offered to do anything for me I wished, but try as hard as I might I
couldn’t think of anything I wanted.
Going back to the hotel I seemed to keep repeating to myself, “Funny
you don’t want a thing; not even a cigar.” (I hadn’t been able to
smoke coming over the mountains on account of the altitude.) Finally
passing a cigar store I stopped and thought I would try a cigar
anyway, and see if that wasn’t what I wanted, and as I lighted it and
stepped out on the street, I knew it was. This also reminded me of the
fact that we were on level ground. The mountains had been passed.