THE MOUNTAIN REGION OF NEVADA.
Mount Davidson, of which frequent mention has been made, was originally
called “Sun Peak.” This was the name given it by the early miners of
Gold Cañon—Old Virginia, Comstock, O’Riley, and the other pioneers of
the country. It was a very appropriate name, as the towering granite
peak reaching far above all others about it is the first to be lighted
by the morning sun and the last on which rest his evening rays.
The mountain was given its present name in honor of the late Donald
Davidson, of San Francisco, who in the early days purchased the ores of
the Ophir and other companies on the Comstock, sending them to England
for reduction. On one of his trips to Virginia, Donald Davidson
accompanied a party of men to the summit of the mountain. On their
return to the town it was unanimously agreed that the tall peak which
they had that day scaled should be called Mount Davidson.
Half a score of the hardy miners whose camps were pitched along the lead
had accompanied Mr. Davidson up the mountain, and while on their way a
number of quartz veins of more or less promising appearance were found.
In the evening, while in a saloon, talking over the events of the day,
it was thought that it would not be a bad idea to locate some of the
ledges they had seen. The charge was then fifty cents per name for
recording a claim of two hundred feet on a ledge. A man called “Joe
Bowers,” but probably not the original “Joe” immortalized by the poet,
took the lead in making out the notices and arranging for the recording.
Joe swore that all the ledges they had seen were immensely rich—millions
in them!—and would make the fortune of any man who had an interest in
any one of them. As the names were mentioned and written down on the
notices, Joe called for “four-bits.” This must be put up, in order that
it might be handed over to the recorder of the district the first thing
in the morning.
Donald Davidson would say: “Well, here is Mr. A., a neighbor of mine in
San Francisco, and a very worthy man; suppose we put him down for a
claim in this mine?”
“All right, Mr. Davidson,” Joe would cry, “all right, sir; put up for
him and in he goes!”
“Then there is Mr. B., a friend of mine and a worthy fellow; we might
put him down.”
“All right, Mr. Davidson,” cried Joe, who cared not how long the string
of names might be, provided each name were represented in his pocket by
a half-dollar, “down he goes!”
All the notices were finally made out, and all the half-dollars paid in.
Joe was to attend to the recording the first thing in the morning, but
that night he struck a “little game of draw,” and to this day those
claims have not been recorded—at least not by Joseph.
As the leads upon the side of Mount Davidson have turned out, it was no
doubt a fortunate thing for the old Scotchman’s “worthy friends” that
Joe found his “little game.” The height of Mount Davidson above the
level of the sea is 7,775 feet, and the altitude of C street, the
principal business street in Virginia City, is 6,205 feet. Thus, it will
be seen, the peak of the mountain towers to the height of 1,570 feet
above the town. As the city stands on the eastern face of the mountain,
the sunsets in Virginia are rather early. In winter the sun sinks behind
the top of Mount Davidson about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when the
city lies in shadow and it at once begins to grow cold. The altitude of
the place is so great that, at any season, when clouds obscure the sun
and shut out his rays it rapidly becomes cold. During the summer,
however, clouds are seldom seen—weeks and weeks pass without a cloudy
day. In order to have the benefit of the sun in winter, until a late
hour each day, a Washoe genius once proposed to run a large tunnel
through the peak of Mount Davidson. Through this tunnel he proposed to
bring the light and heat of the sun after it had gone down behind the
mountain. As he could not expect the sun to shine directly through the
tunnel at all points in his course down to the western horizon, our
inventor proposed to set at the western terminus of his tunnel a huge
mirror, moved by clock-work, which should pour the rays of the sun in a
constant stream through the tunnel. At the eastern terminus was to be
placed a large receiving mirror, which should catch the rays coming
through the tunnel and throw them to a distributing mirror down in the
town, and from this the sunlight would be reflected throughout the town
by smaller mirrors placed at proper points on all the streets. Although
this grand scheme was much admired, capital—which is proverbially
timid—could never be found to begin the work.
There is a grand view from the summit of Mount Davidson. On a clear day
the eye reaches hundreds of miles in many directions. The Sierra Nevada
Mountains, twenty-five miles away to the west, and extending north and
south as far as the eye can reach, form a magnificent panorama of wild
mountain scenery, embracing hundreds of tall snowy peaks and dark,
pine-clad ridges reaching upwards toward naked granite towers. To the
southward along the great range, the peaks are taller and more imposing
than those rising along the northern part of its course. To the
southward, then, we turn and see at the distance of from forty to
seventy-five or eighty miles, scores of massive peaks standing stately
and clearly defined against the sky. Seen when robed from head to foot
in glittering snow, these peaks present a particularly striking
appearance. They may easily be imagined an army of giants marching up
from the desert wilds of Arizona in meandering array.
Far away the tail of this procession of the peaks is seen to sweep miles
on miles to the eastward, while above the white hoods of the giants
forming this lagging curve, is dimly discerned through the haze a hint
of heads in the still more distant rear, swinging back to the west and
falling, as it were, into the general line of march to the northward.
All above, beyond, and about the giant army, looks so settled, calm, and
silent that one is awed into all manner of weird imaginings in regard to
its motionless march. These mighty peaks are impressive at any time, but
when they come before us in procession robed in their trailing shrouds
they set us to thinking ponderous, solemn thoughts that we don’t more
than half like. The view to the eastward is unobstructed for over one
hundred miles, and by its vastness and its stern ruggedness is made
imposing and grand, though but a region of rocky sterile mountains and
broad deserts crested over with salt and alkaline exudations from the
sandy and bitter soil.
Far as the eye can range, not a tree, not a house, not a sign of life is
seen. All is as dead, and as arid and wrinkled in death, as the valleys
and the mountains of the moon. On this side—the east—clinging along the
face of the mountain, we see below us Virginia City; turning again to
the west, Washoe Lake is seen shimmering almost at the base of the peak
on which we stand, its waves washing the feet of the hills that flank
the Sierras. Where we stand, on the narrow circle of granite forming the
apex of the mountain, is planted a tall flag-staff on which, upon each
recurrence of the natal day of the nation, the Stars and Stripes are
unfurled. The flag is run up during the night, by a man who is annually
sent to the top of the mountain on this errand, and those who turn their
eyes toward the peak, on the morning of the 4th of July, will always see
the flag of their country floating there through the “dawn’s early
light.”
On the occasion of the total eclipse of the moon, which occurred on the
night of October 24, 1874, it was not only cloudy at Virginia City, but
there prevailed a furious and blinding snow-storm. Not a glimpse of the
heavens or of the rising moon could be obtained when evening set in. Not
to lose a spectacle so grand as a total eclipse of the moon, I
determined to make the ascent of Mount Davidson and so reach a point
above the clouds. Accompanied by half a dozen friends, I started a few
minutes before 8 o’clock in the evening, and, pressing upward through
the fast-falling snow, and through the dense cloud-mass, which we
entered on the upper slopes of the mountain, at 10 o’clock we reached
the topmost peak, and to our delight found that we at last stood above
the clouds and the storm.
It was one of the grandest sights ever witnessed by mortals. As far as
the eye could reach, on all sides, stretched a level sea of clouds. All
the surrounding mountains were shut—all the lower world was hidden; all
but the extreme point of the bare granite peak on which we stood, a
little island some fifty feet in circumference, with the tall flag-staff
standing in its centre. High above, the full moon shone in splendor, and
in all quarters of the heavens the stars twinkled brightly. The air was
keen and frosty, but we were provided with blanket-overcoats and
mufflers.
For some minutes after rising out of the sea of clouds in which we had
so long been enveloped, our little party stood at the foot of the
flag-staff and gazed on all around in speechless awe. It almost seemed
that we had left the world. Our little island appeared to be all that
remained of earth. Hundreds of miles on all sides, as it looked to us,
stretched a smooth and level sea of pearl. In the distance this appeared
to be motionless, but nearer it all moved slowly and majestically from
west to east, while, at the same time, a peculiar swaying up and down
was seen as it passed along. On and along the crests of these
cloud-waves, or rather cloud-swells, were observed to run and faintly
flicker such tints as are seen in mother-of-pearl. All this was very
beautiful, but with it came a sense of isolation from the world—a
feeling of loneliness that was most depressing. However, as the moon
began to enter the shadow of the earth there were so many and such
wonderful changes in the appearance of all about us, that our loneliness
and littleness were forgotten.
The sea about us, which before had shown only the tints of the pearl,
now took on the hue of amber, but still floated past and gently waved up
and down as had the sea of pearl. As the obscuration progressed, the
more distant portions of the cloud-sea changed from amber to brown, and
this to black, gradually closing in upon us from all sides, but most
from the northward. In our immediate neighborhood all had changed from
amber to a deep burnt-sienna tinge. So deep and decided was this tint
that at one time, for the space of some minutes, it seemed to pervade
the whole atmosphere; our clothing partook of it, and the flag-staff
near which we stood looked like a great rod of rusty iron.
During this dark stage a heavy breeze sprang up, and the swells in the
vaporous sea surrounding us were tossed far higher than before. At times
these billows rolled many feet above our heads, and the eclipse being
then nearly total, we were sometimes, for minutes, left in midnight
darkness, and but for the lanterns we had carried up the mountain, and
which were standing at the foot of the flag-staff, we could not have
seen our hands when held before our faces. But these waves of darkness
seldom lasted more than two or three minutes, and we had, from first to
last, an imposing and deeply impressive view of the eclipse. It is
probable that a total eclipse of the moon was never before observed
under precisely such circumstances as was this by our little party,
standing on a mountain peak above the clouds. As the eclipse passed off,
about the same phenomena were observed above and about us as in its
coming on.
Being chilled to the very marrow in our bones, we left the top of the
mountain, however, while nearly half the face of the moon was still
obscured. Taking a last lingering look at all about us, observing that
our cloud-sea was again assuming the hue of amber and that the horizon
was widening and brightening in all directions, as the light spread
abroad and drove back the brown and the more distant black, we plunged
down into the thick cloud-stratum, and, guided by the light of our
lanterns, made the best of our way down the bed of a huge gorge in the
face of the mountain, and went back into the city. Strange as it may
appear to some, we found it much warmer in the midst of the clouds and
drifting snow than above on the summit of the mountain. Not one of the
party will ever forget that total eclipse of the moon, seen from old
Mount Davidson’s topmost height, nearly 8,000 feet above the level of
the sea.
[Illustration]