THE HEAD OF THE GREAT RIVER
Bright and early they were in the saddle and off for the crowning
experience of their long quest for the head of the great Missouri. Billy
brought up the horses from the ranch below. The chauffeur from Monida
said he "had not lost any mountains" and preferred not to make the
ascent, so only five were in the party, Billy, of course, insisting on
seeing the head of the river, in which he had had such interest all his
life.
They took one pack horse, a few cooking implements, and such blankets as
their hostess could spare, their own bed rolls and most of their
equipment having gone back to Billy's ranch by his pack train. Their
supply of food was only enough for two meals--supper and breakfast--but
this gave them two days for the ascent, whereas Mrs. Culver had made it
in one; so they felt sure of success.
Well used to mountain work, and guided by a good engineer, their Uncle
Dick, who had spent his life in work among wild countries, they wound
easily in and among the shoulders of the hills, taking distance rather
than sharp elevation, and so gradually and without strain to the horses
working up the mountain that lay at one side of Mount Jefferson. When
they were well up, they followed a long hogback that swung a little to
the left, and at length turned for their deliberate plunge down into the
steep valley of the stream. Here, among heavy tracts of fallen timber
and countless tumbled rocks, they came at last to the white water of
their river, now grown very small and easily fordable by the horses.
"As near as I can tell," said Uncle Dick, "we've got her whipped right
now. This must be a good way above the place Brower and Culver left
their horse. We're up seventy-six hundred and forty feet now by the
aneroid. The valley is around seven thousand feet, and Brower makes the
summit at eight thousand feet; so we've not so far to go now. We crossed
above the upper Red Rock Lake, and Brower makes the whole distance,
along the longest branch, only twenty miles from the head spring to the
lake. A mile or two should put us at the edge of the Hole in the
Mountains, as he calls his upper valley. What do you say--shall we
leave our horses and walk it, or try on up in the same way?"
"I vote against leaving the horses," said Rob. "It's nearly always bad
to split an outfit, and bad to get away from your base of supplies. I'd
say keep to the horses as high as they can get. A good mountain horse
can go almost any place a man can, if you leave him alone. If it gets
hard to ride, we can walk and lead, or drive them ahead of us over the
down timber."
"And then, if we get them up to the Hole, we could camp up in there all
night," suggested John. "Like enough, we'd be the first to do that,
anyhow."
"And maybe the last," laughed Billy. "It'll sure be cold up in there,
with no tent and not much bedding and none too much to eat. We're above
the trout line, up here, and not far to go to timber line, if you ask
me."
"Not so bad as that, Billy," commented Jesse. "Nine thousand,
ninety-five hundred--isn't that about average timber line? We're only
eight thousand at our upper valley, and we're not going to climb to the
top of the peaks."
"Well, I'm game if you all are," said Billy. "We can make it through for
one night, all right, for when the firewood runs out we can make camp
and finish on foot."
"Go on ahead, Jesse," said Uncle Dick. "You're the youngest. Let's see
how good a mountain man you are."
"All right!" said Jesse, stoutly. "You see." Accordingly, they rode on
up, slowly, for a little distance, allowing the horses plenty of time to
make their way among rocks and over fallen poles. At last Jesse came to
a halt and dismounted, leading his horse for a way, until he brought up
at the foot of such a tangle of down timber and piled boulders that he
could not get on. He turned, his face red with chagrin. "Well," he said,
"I've never been here before. I guess a fellow has to figure it out."
"You go ahead now, John," laughed Uncle Dick. "Jess, fall to the rear;
you're in disgrace."
"All right!" said John. "You watch me."
This time John rode back downstream a little, until clear of the patch
of heavy down timber. Then he turned and swung up above the bed of the
stream, angling up on the side of the mountain, and finally heading
close to the foot of a tall escarpment which barred the horses for a
way. Here he hugged the cut face for a few yards and by good fortune
found the way passable beyond for quite a distance.
"Not bad," said his leader. "Go on. I see you've got the idea of
distance for elevation."
"Yes, sir," said John. "But I'm like Jesse--I've never been here before,
and I don't know just where I'm going."
"Humph! Isn't that about the way Lewis and Clark were fixed, only all
the way across?" scoffed Uncle Dick. "Go ahead, and if we have to get
down and lead, I'll put Rob ahead, or Billy."
John gritted his teeth and spurred up his horse. "You give me time,"
said he, "and I'll take you up there."
He did pursue his edging away from the stream until he could no longer
see the exact course. At last he pulled up. "We must have climbed three
hundred feet," said he. "Where is it?"
"What do you say, Rob?" asked Uncle Dick.
"I'll stay behind and see that Mr. Pack Horse comes," replied Rob. "But
I should think we might angle down a little now, because we're going up
the wrong split. It's two-thirty o'clock, now, and we ought to raise the
Hole pretty soon. I'd say off to the right a little now, wouldn't you,
Billy, till we raised the Hole for sure?"
Billy nodded, and presently set out ahead. His practiced eye found a way
through the hard going until at last they stood, at the left and above
the stream's entrance into a roughly circular little depression,
surrounded by a broken rim of high peaks.
"Here she is, fellows!" exclaimed Uncle Dick. "This is what we've been
looking for! Yonder's the thread of the water, headed for New Orleans
and the last jetty of the Mississippi. What's your pleasure now?"
"Well, sir," said Rob, who had for some time been afoot, leading his own
horse and driving the pack horse ahead, "why not throw off here and
finish her on foot, to the clean head, where Mrs. Culver left her tin
plate? Here's a trickle of water and enough wood for fire, and the
horses can get enough feed to last them for one night."
"All right," said Uncle Dick. "It's all in plain sight and we can't lose
our horses, especially if we halter them all tight till we get back."
They now all dismounted and made their animals fast to the trees and
stout bushes, first unlashing the pack.
"Good work, Billy!" said Rob, as he helped cast off the lash rope. "She
hasn't slipped an inch."
"More'n I can say," rejoined Billy. "I slipped a good many times, coming
up, and barked my shins more'n an inch, I'm thinking."
"Lead off, Jess," said Uncle Dick, as they stood ready for the last
march. "No, don't leave your coat; it will soon be cold, and it is
always cold in the mountains when you stop walking. And you all have
your match boxes?"
"Why, Uncle Dick," expostulated Jesse, "it's just over there, and we
won't need any fire there, for we're coming right back."
"But, Jesse, haven't I told you always in new country to travel with
matches and a hatchet, or at least a knife? No man can tell when he may
get hurt or lost in mountain work, and then a fire is his first need.
It's all right to know how to make a fire by friction, Indian way, but
you can't always do that, and matches are surer and quicker. Never leave
them."
They set out, their leader now in advance, Billy bringing up the rear.
Skirting the edge of the marshlike depression which acted as a holding
cup for the upper snows, they at last headed it and caught the ultimate
trickle that came in beyond it. This, following the example of their
late hostess, they rapidly ascended, until at last, by a clump of dark
balsam trees, high up toward the white top of Jefferson, where a light
snow had fallen not long before, even in the summertime, they picked out
the dark rock from under which a tiny thread of water, icy cold and
sufficiently continuous to be called perennial, issued and began its way
to a definite and permanent channel.
Without any comment, each one of the party, almost unconsciously,
removed his hat. A feeling almost of awe fell upon them as they stood in
that wild, remote, silent and sheltered spot, unknown and unnoted of the
busy world, which now they knew was the very head spring of the greatest
waterway of all the world.
"'Shun!" barked Uncle Dick. The three boys fell into line, heels
together, in the position of the soldier, Billy following suit. Uncle
Dick drew from his pocket a tiny, folded flag, no more than four or five
inches in its longest dimension, and pinned it on a twig which he placed
upright at the side of the spring.
"Colors!" Sharply Uncle Dick's hand swept to his eyes, in the army
salute. And the hand of every one of the others followed. Then, with
swung hat, Rob led them with the Scouts' cheer.
"Let's look for the Culver plate now!" exclaimed Jesse, and scrambled on
hands and knees. Indeed, he did unearth the rusted fragments of what
might have been the original record plate, but small trace now remained
of any inscription. With some pride he next drew out from his shirt
front a plate which he himself had concealed thus long, brought for a
purpose of like sort to that of the rusted remnant they now had found.
But his Uncle Dick gently restrained him.
"No, better not, son," said he. "You and I have done very little. We
have discovered nothing at all, except one Indian arrowhead a hundred
miles north of here. To leave our names here now would only be egotism,
and that's not what we want to show. Reverence is what we want to show,
for this place that was here before Thomas Jefferson was born, and will
be here unchanged after the last President of the United States shall
have passed on.
"Let old Mount Jefferson have his own secret still for his own--see how
he wipes out all traces of human beings, steadily and surely!
"In all their great journey across, Meriwether Lewis did not once write
his name on rock or tree. Will Clark wrote his twice--once on Pompey's
Pillar, on the Yellowstone, and once on the rock far down in Nebraska,
as we noted when we passed near that place. But the simplicity, the
modesty of those two, sinking everything in their great duty to their
country--it's those things, my boys, which make their _Journal_ the
model of its kind and class, and their journey the greatest of its kind
in all the history of the world.
"Now hats off to Captain Meriwether Lewis and Captain William Clark of
the army! Had they come where we are now, they would not have reached
the Columbia. In courage, good sense, and modesty, the first and best."
They did salute, once more and in silence. But Uncle Dick put a hand on
Jesse's shoulder as he saw tears in his eyes.
"It's all right, son," said he. "Don't mind, but don't forget. Good men
come and go; it's good deeds that live. Now, we're by no means first at
this spot, and it's of no vast consequence now. We'll even let our
little flag flutter here alone, till the snows come, and the slides give
it its evening gun."
They turned back down the edge of the depression in the mountain top,
and by deep dusk once more were at the horse camp, where Billy quickly
went to work to find grass and wood. All bore a hand. They got up all
the dry wood they could find, cut stakes for a back log pile of green
logs, spread the half of a quilt back of their slim bed, and so prepared
to pass a night which they found very long and cold. Their supper now
was cooked, and before the small but efficient fire they now could
complete the labors of their own day--each boy with his notes, and John
with the map which he always brought up each day at least in sketch
outline.
"I don't know just how many people ever have been in here," said Billy,
after a time. "Not so very many, sure, for nearly all try to get up the
canyon. I heard that a man and his wife once climbed up the canyon, but I
doubt that. There's Bill Bowers, from the head of Henry's Lake, he's
been up to the top, but I don't know just how far--he said you couldn't
follow the canyon all the way. I don't doubt that prospectors and hunters
have been across here, and the Bannacks hunted these mountains for
sheep, many a year. Used to be great bighorn country, and of course, if
this country never was known by anybody, the bighorns would still be
here. There's stories that there's a few in back, but I don't believe
it. You can ride up the south slope of Sawtelle Mountain, in the timber,
almost to the top, and almost this high. I guess she's been traveled
over, all right, by now. Only, they couldn't carry off the old river. If
they could, I guess they'd have done that, too."
That night the stars came out astonishingly brilliant and large. The
silence of the great hills was unbroken even by a coyote's howl. To them
all, half dozing by their little fire, it did indeed seem they had found
their ultimate wilderness, after all.
The chill of morning still was over all the high country when they got
astir and began to care for the horses on their picket ropes and to
finish the cooking of their remaining food. Then, each now leading his
horse, they began to thread their way downhill. Over country where now
they had established the general courses, it was easier for such good
mountain travelers to pick out a feasible way down. They crossed the
canyon at about the same place, but swung off more to the right, and
early in the morning were descending a timbered slope which brought them
to the edge of the Alaska Basin and the Red Rock road. They now were on
perfect footing and not far from the Culver camp, so they took plenty of
time.
"The name 'Culver Canyon' did not seem to stick," said Billy, as they
marked the gorge where the river debouched, far to their right, now. "I
don't know what the surveyors call it--they never have done much over in
here but guess at things mostly--but the name 'Hell Roaring Canyon' is
the one that I've always heard used for it. It's not much known even
now. A few people call it the 'real head of the Missouri,' but nobody in
here seems to know much about its history, or to care much about it.
They all just say it's a mighty rough canyon, up in. Somehow, too, the
place has a bad name for storms. I've heard a rancher say, over east of
the pass, on Henry's Lake, that in the winter it got black over in here
on Jefferson, and he couldn't sleep at night, sometimes, because of the
noise of the storms over in these canyons. Oh, I reckon she's wild, all
right.
"Now, below the mouth, you'll see all the names are off. Hell Roaring
breaks into four channels just at the mouth, over the wash. Fact is,
there's seven channels across the valley, in all, but four creeks are
permanent, and they wander all out yonder, clean across the valley, but
come together below, above the upper lake; and that's the head of the
Red Rock, which ought to be called the Missouri by rights.
"And you ought to have seen the grayling once, in all these branches!"
he added. "No finer fishing ever was in the world. The water's as
bright as glass, fast and clean, and not too deep to wade, with bends
and willow coves on below--loveliest creeks you ever saw. Then, over
across, is a creek where Jim Blair, a rancher, planted regular brook
trout, years ago. They get to a half pound, three quarters, and take
the fly like gentlemen. But all this country's shot to pieces
now--automobiles everywhere, and all sorts of men who kill the last fish
they can."
"But have they got them all?" asked Rob. "It would be easy planting and
keeping up such waters as these."
"Sure it would. Well, maybe some day folks'll learn that the old times
in their country are gone. We act like they wasn't, but that's because
we've got no sense--don't know our history.
"Now," he added, as they forded one bright, merry stream that crossed
their way, "you all ride down the road to where the bridge is--that's
the main stream again, and she's pretty big--regular river, all right.
Wait for me there at the bridge. I'll see if I can pick out a fish or
so. I see a dry quaking asp lying here that some fellow has left, and
I'll just try it myself. You know, get a quaking-asp pole that's dry
and hasn't been dead too long, it's the lightest and springiest natural
fishing rod that grows. The tip is strong enough, if it hasn't rotted,
and she handles almost as good as a boughten rod. Now Rob, you lead my
horse on down, and I'll try it along the willows with a 'hopper.'"
"Oh, let me go along, too!" exclaimed Jesse. "Lead my horse, John?"
"All right," said John. "Good luck."
At the bridge, a half mile below, the three remaining members of the
party picketed the horses on a pleasant grass plat near the road. Rob
went exploring for a little way, then, without saying anything, began to
get together some dry wood for a fire, and also began cutting some short
willow twigs which he sharpened at each end.
"The 'old way,' Rob?" said John, smiling.
"Yes," nodded Uncle Dick. "Rob has seen what I have seen--there's trout
in this water, and grayling, too. Do you see that grayling between the
bridge there, over the white bar? I've been watching him rise. So, by
the time we get a broiling fire, maybe Rob'll have need for his
skewers--to hold a fish flat for broiling before a fire, in the 'old
way' we learned in the far North. Eh, Rob?"
"That's the way I figured it, sir," replied Rob, smiling. "Billy'll get
something on hoppers, at this season, for that's what the trout and
grayling are feeding on, right now."
Sure enough, in not much over a half hour, Billy and Jesse met them at
the bridge, with five fine fish--two grayling and three trout--Jesse
very much excited.
"All you have to do is just to sneak up and drop a hopper right in the
deep water at the bends, and they nail it!" said he. "Billy showed me.
He always carries a few hooks and a line in his vest pocket, he told me.
Fish all through this country!"
It took the boys but a few minutes to split the fish down the back and
skewer them flat, without scaling them at all. Then they hung them
before the fire, flesh side to the flame, and soon they were sizzling in
their own fat.
"Now, you can't put them on a plate, Billy!" said Jesse, as Billy began
searching in the pack. "Just some salt--that's all. You have to eat it
right off the skin, you know."
"Well, that ain't no way to eat," grumbled Billy. "It's awful
mussy-looking, to my way of thinking."
"Try it," said Uncle Dick, whittling himself a little fork out of a
willow branch. And very soon Billy also was a believer that the 'old
way' of the Arctic Indians is about the best way to cook a fish.
Now, having appeased their hunger, they saddled again and made their way
slowly to the ranch of Mrs. Culver at the Picnic Spring, as the place
was called--in time for Jesse and John each to catch a brace of great
trout before dusk had come.
They now were all willing to vote their experience of the past two days
to be about the pleasantest and most satisfying of any of the trip,
which now they felt had drawn to a natural close. That evening they all,
including their sprightly hostess, bent late over the table, covered
with maps and books.
"I surely will be sorry to see you leave," said the quaint little woman
of the high country. "It's not often I see many who know any history of
the big river, or who care for it. But now I can see that you all surely
do. You know it, and you love it, too."
"If you know it well, you can't well help loving it, I reckon," said
Billy Williams.