LEAVING HIGH LIFE.
Near the end of March I resolved to leave Eureka Valley. Sonora,
Tuolumne County, was fifty-six miles distant. That was my goal. Thirty
miles of the way lay over deep snow, and was to be travelled over on
snowshoes. The Norwegian snowshoe is a long wooden skate or runner,
turned up at the forward end, greased on the lower side, with a strap in
the middle to hold the foot. The Indian snowshoe is a flat network,
fastened to a frame, in shape something like an enlarged tennis racket.
It is like locomotion shod with a couple of market-baskets. The
principal use of the pole, carried in the hands with the Norwegian shoe,
is to serve as a brake and helm while going downhill. Some put it under
the arm and others straddle it while making a descent. The arm position
is the most dignified. The legs must be kept straddled at a ridiculous
distance apart, and the first few days’ practice seems to split a person
nearly in two. If, with the Indian snowshoe, you tumble down on a
hillside it is almost impossible to get up again, and the unfortunate
must remain in a recumbent position very much like that assumed by the
heathen when they go down on all fours before their god, until some one
unstraps his shoes. I preferred the Norwegian shoe. The first pair I
ever used I made one evening about dusk. I was going toward Eureka
Valley from Sonora, and had met the first fallen snow. From a mere
crisp it grew deeper and deeper. I found a pile of “shakes”--long, rough
shingles used in the mountains--and made my shoes from two of them. They
were not more than a quarter the proper length. They kept me busy the
rest of the night picking myself up. I think I must have fallen down
some four hundred times. When we came to a down grade they went of their
own accord and ran away with me. Sometimes but one shoe would slip off
and glide down a bank, sometimes two, sometimes all of us went together,
balance-pole included, and a bag I had lashed to my back would swing
over my head and bang me in the face. It was a lively night’s
entertainment for only one man in the heart of the wilderness. There was
no monotony about it; nothing tedious or depressing. Just as fast as I
recovered from one fall and started I got the next. I swore a good deal.
There was not anything else to be said. One couldn’t argue with--things.
It was the only recreation afforded by that phase of the trip. To have
kept one’s temper and remained expletiveless would have been to burst. I
avoided the superior and more expensive epithets as much as possible and
confined myself to second-rate strong language. But when I started for
my final trip out of the mountains, I had become a tolerable snowshoe
amateur. A pack was lashed to my back. It held a blanket, some meat,
bread, coffee, sugar, one fox skin and my worldly wardrobe. The morning
light had not dawned when I started.
After a couple of miles’ advance my feet felt like lumps of ice. I
examined my boots. The leather was frozen hard and stiff. The pain was
too great for endurance. I made my way back to the house, found Hays
and Welch at breakfast, removed my boots and stockings, and saw three
waxy-looking toes, the right big one included. They were frozen. The
heat of the fire produced additional twinges, like boring with red-hot
knitting-needles. I wrapped some thicknesses of flannel around both
boots, put them on again, and made another start. Eureka Valley soon
disappeared behind me. I never saw it again, and probably never shall.
But its picture is indelibly graven on my memory. We lived in the gem of
the locality. All the landscape gardening skill in the world could
produce nothing to equal it. A clear crystal stream ran by the door. The
grove was a natural park, level as a floor, with pines all about, 150
feet high. We had a cascade and little miniature mountains of rock, with
oak and pines springing from their crevices. No tame tree could be
coaxed to grow as did these wild ones of the mountains. Some were
independent of soil altogether, and flourished vigorously rooted in
rocky fissures. We had the tiniest of meadows concealed behind these
little mountains of our domain. Other grassy plateaus were perched sixty
or eighty feet over our heads on the mountain. Nor was this all at once
revealed. It required half a day to get over all the labyrinth of
meadow, mount, and dale within half a mile of our house. All this was
set in a gigantic frame--the dark green, thickly-wooded mountain-sides
running up 2,000 feet above our heads, while to the eastward through the
narrow gorge rose bare peaks twenty and thirty miles away, from whose
tops, on sunshiny, breezy mornings, the snow could be seen driving in
immense vapor-like clouds and tinged a roseate hue. People who visit
the Yosemite have seen but one of the thousand pictures set in the
Sierras.
It was my calculation to get to Hulse’s empty log-house, twelve miles
distant, and camp there that night; but my progress was very slow. The
road for miles ran along a steep mountain-side. It was buried many feet
in snow. It was all a sheet of snow inclined at an angle most difficult
to travel. In places acres of snow had slipped in a body from above,
covering the ordinary level five or six feet in depth. These
accumulations, while coming down, would have brushed a human being away
with the facility with which a cart-load of sand dumped on your
cellar-door would overwhelm a fly. I saw whole groves of pines whose
trunks had been cut off by these slips ten or twelve feet from the
roots. I felt small and insignificant, and speculated whether, after
all, I was of any more importance than a fly or any other bug in the sum
total of things generally. I thought of how much more importance a man
was in a newspaper office than in the solitude of these mountains. Then
the sun hurried toward the west and the cold blue and brassy tints of
the winter’s eve merged together. The route along the “River Hill” side
became steeper and steeper, the snow more hummocky from successive
slides and the way more disorganized. It was very slippery. The snow had
an ice finish on the surface like a hard coating of enamel. I took off
the snowshoes and bore them and the balancing-pole on my shoulders,
picking my way laboriously, step by step. Below me extended a very long,
smooth, steep slide, like a white Mansard roof, several hundred feet in
height. Finally I was obliged to stamp an indentation in the enamelled
surface at every step, with my heels, to secure footing. The slippery
and regularly graded descent below broke off occasionally into
precipices of fifty or sixty feet in height. A person slipping here
would, of course, accomplish portions of the descent on mere empty air.
The trouble was not so much in getting through the air as in bringing up
after going through. A fall never hurts anybody. It’s the sudden
stoppage when you’re through. I expected momentarily to slip. The sun
was rapidly going down and I felt a tendency to follow suit. At the
point where I did slip the view was magnificent. Over full thirty miles
of peak and pine the setting sun was shedding. I saw these peaks
disappear like a flash. The grand curtain of Nature was not rung down at
the call of night. It was I who fell before the curtain. I went down
perhaps three hundred feet of the incline, generally in a sitting
position. My long Norwegian snowshoes, jerked from my grasp, sailed down
ahead of me, one diverging a little to the right, the other to the left,
and the balancing pole scooting straight ahead. All of us went together
with a beautiful uniformity and regularity of formation. The whole
descent of 300 feet did not occupy more than six seconds, yet in that
brief space of time my mind appeared to photograph on itself at least a
dozen phases of the situation and as many past memories and future
possibilities. I saw the stumps seeming to rush past me uphill, while I
was really rushing past them downhill, and the reflection came to me
that if I collided with even one of them the result would be worse for
me than the stump. This did not comfort me. As each successive stump
hurried up the mountain I said, by the unspoken operation of thought,
“There goes another stump. A miss is as good as a mile. I may bring up
in one piece yet, though, if I go off one of these precipices, I may
make my last appearance on any stage in several pieces.” I remember,
also, the sensation caused by the seat of my outside pantaloons tearing
out through the excessive friction. I had on two pairs of pantaloons
when I started. I thought, also, during all these risks and
lightning-like escapades of my far-away Eastern home, of the girls I had
left behind years before, of the dear old cool stone door-steps on the
sycamore-embowered Main street of our village, on which the girls used
to sit on warm summer and Sunday nights. Yes, in this inappreciable
space of time and under such extraordinary conditions I thought of this,
and even wondered if the other fellow sat there now with his arm hidden
in the darkness of the hall, where they kept no lamp in summer for fear
of drawing mosquitoes, trying to reach round that girl. The human mind
is certainly a wonderful piece of business. I think the more it is
shocked, agitated, and stirred up at certain intervals the faster it
works and the more it takes cognizance of. The man who month in and
month out moves backward and forward in a groove of habit is apt to
think the same old thoughts over and over again in the same old way. The
man who is beaten and banged about from pillar to post and Dan to
Beersheba, who is continually tumbling into new events and situations,
is liable to think a great many new things and think of them in many new
ways. From a mundane consideration of time on this slide I soon reached
my destination. Regarding my own mental sensations, the trip seemed one
of many minutes. It was not the bottom of the hill where I stopped. The
bottom of that hill terminated in the Stanislaus River, and was preceded
by a precipice 200 feet high. Had I gone off that my journey downward
would have been accomplished on a basis of three of the four elements
known to the ancients, namely, earth, air, and water, and from all
accounts, and my own impressions of my deserts at that period, it might
have ultimately terminated in fire. The snow was soft where I brought
up. I stopped. “It is good for me to be here,” I said; “here will I pass
the night.” I possessed a little mountain wisdom, and foresaw the
impossibility and inutility of making the ascent that night. I had
belted to my waist a sharp hatchet. Around me were many dead pine limbs,
projecting from the snow. The mountain-side exposure was southern. About
the roots of a great pine on the little plateau where I had brought up
the snow had partly melted away. I enlarged the cavity, using the
hatchet as pick and shovel. I made my home for the night in this cavity.
Kindling a fire with my dead branches, I chopped directly into it the
thick dry bark of the pine. This supply of fuel alone was plentiful and
lasted me the entire night. I disclaim here all intent of posing in
print as a hero, for on many occasions I am disgusted by my mental and
physical cowardice. But on this particular night, and it was a very long
one, I felt no fear; I spent it very pleasantly. I cooked and ate, and
drank my coffee with a relish, born of mountain air and exercise. My
coffee-pot was another peripatetic appurtenance belted to my waist.
Culinarily, I was for myself a travelling boarding-house, being guest,
landlord and chambermaid all in one. The fire blazed cheerfully, and
the fully-seasoned oak branches soon made a bed of solid live coals. My
snow hole at the tree’s base slowly enlarged as it melted away. The
hillside being inclined carried away all the moisture. After supper I
sang. I felt that here I could sing in safety and without damage to
other ears, because no one could hear me. Music hath charms to soothe,
and all that, but it must not be savage music. Mine at that time was
savage. It is now. If I feel a tendency to inflict any vocal misery on
mankind, I go forth into solitude, and commit the outrage on inanimate
defenseless objects which cannot strike back. After singing, I spoke all
the pieces of my schoolboy days. I quoted Shakespeare, and really
admired myself in Hamlet’s soliloquy. I never heard a more satisfactory
rendition. This was another piece of consideration for my fellow-beings.
Others, less sensitive to the ill they may do, rush on the stage and
torture audiences. After the dramatic performance I rehearsed my
political speech. I was even coming from the mountains with full intent
to stand, or rather run, for the Legislature from Tuolumne County, which
I did, greatly to the misery of the party. The speech was impromptu. So
the long night wore away. The day became overcast. The winds
occasionally stirred and moaned through the lofty pines above me. Then
they sank to soft mournful whispering music and ceased. The snapping of
the fire sounded sharply in the solitude. From the river far below came
a confused, murmuring, babbling sound like the clamor of some vast,
distant multitude, and this seemed varied at times by cries weird and
louder. Lumps of frozen snow fell from treetops far and near, and as
they struck branch after branch sounded like the plunging of horses in
the drifts. I dozed fitfully and awoke with the red coals staring me in
the face and the startling realization that the elements were preparing
for a heavy storm.