silently float and drift among peaks and passes. Flocks of these sky
birds frequently float about together. On sunny days, in addition to
giving a charm to the peaks, their restless shadows never tire of
readjusting themselves and are ever trying to find a foundation or a
place of rest upon the tempestuous topography of the heights below.
Now and then a deep, dense cloud-stratum will cover the crests and
envelop the summit slopes for days. These vapory strata usually feel
but little wind and they vary in thickness from a few hundred to a few
thousand feet. Sometimes one of these rests so serenely that it
suggests an aggregation of clouds pushed off to one side because
temporarily the sky does not need them elsewhere for either decorative
or precipitative purposes. Now and then they do drop rain or snow, but
most of the time they appear to be in a procrastinating mood and
unable to decide whether to precipitate or to move on.
Commonly the upper surfaces of cloud-strata appear like a peaceful
silver-gray sea. They appear woolly and sometimes fluffy, level, and
often so vast that they sweep away beyond the horizon. Peaks and
ridges often pierce their interminable surface with romantic
continents and islands; along their romantic shores, above the surface
of the picturesque sea, the airship could sail in safe poetic flight,
though the foggy depths below were too dense for any traveler to
penetrate.
One spring the snow fell continuously around my cabin for three days.
Reports told that the storm was general over the Rocky Mountain
region. Later investigations showed that that cloud and storm were
spread over a quarter of a million square miles. Over this entire area
there was made a comparatively even deposit of thirty inches of snow.
All over the area, the bottom, or under surface, of the cloud was at
an altitude of approximately nine thousand feet. My cabin, with an
altitude of nine thousand, was immersed in cloud, though at times it
was one hundred feet or so below it. Fully satisfied of the widespread
and general nature of the storm, and convinced of the comparatively
level line of the bottom surface of the cloud, I determined to measure
its vertical depth and observe its slow movements by climbing above
its silver lining. This was the third day of the storm. On snowshoes
up the mountainside I went through this almost opaque sheep's-wool
cloud. It was not bitterly cold, but cloud and snow combined were
blinding, and only a ravine and instinct enabled me to make my way.
At an altitude of about twelve thousand feet the depth of the snow
became suddenly less, soon falling to only an inch or so. Within a few
rods of where it began to grow shallow I burst through the upper
surface of the cloud. Around me and above there was not a flake of
snow. Over the entire storm-area of a quarter of a million square
miles, all heights above twelve thousand had escaped both cloud and
snow. The cloud, which thus lay between the altitudes of nine
thousand and twelve thousand feet, was three thousand feet deep.
When I rose above the surface of this sea the sun was shining upon it.
It was a smooth sea; not a breath of wind ruffled it. The top of
Long's Peak rose bald and broken above. Climbing to the top of a
commanding ridge, I long watched this beautiful expanse of cloud and
could scarcely realize that it was steadily flinging multitudes of
snowflakes upon slopes and snows below. Though practically stationary,
this cloud expanse had some slight movements. These were somewhat akin
to those of a huge raft that is becalmed in a quiet harbor. Slowly,
easily, and almost imperceptibly the entire mass slid forward along
the mountains; it moved but a short distance, paused for some minutes,
then slowly slid back a trifle farther than it had advanced. After a
brief stop the entire mass, as though anchored in the centre, started
to swing in an easy, deliberate rotation; after a few degrees of
movement it paused, hesitated, then swung with slow, heavy movement
back. In addition to these shifting horizontal motions there was a
short vertical one. The entire mass slowly sank and settled two or
three hundred feet, then, with scarcely a pause, rose easily to the
level from which it sank. Only once did it rise above this level.
During all seasons of the year there are oft-recurring periods when
the mountains sit in sunshine and all the winds are still. In days of
this kind the transcontinental passengers in glass-bottomed airships
would have a bird's-eye view of sublime scenes. The purple forests,
the embowered, peaceful parks, the drifted snows, the streams that
fold and shine through the forests,--all these combine and cover
magnificently the billowed and broken distances, while ever floating
up from below are the soft, ebbing, and intermittent songs from white
water that leaps in glory.
Though the summits of the Rocky Mountains are always cool, it is only
in rare, brief times that they fall within the frigid spell of
Farthest North and become cruelly cold. The climate among these
mountain-tops is much milder than people far away imagine.
The electrical effects that enliven and sometimes illuminate
these summits are peculiar and often highly interesting.
Thunderbolts--lightning-strokes--are rare, far less frequent than in
most lowland districts. However, when lightning does strike the
heights, it appears to have many times the force that is displayed in
lowland strokes. My conclusions concerning the infrequency of
thunderbolts on these sky-piercing peaks are drawn chiefly from my own
experience. I have stood through storms upon more than a score of
Rocky Mountain summits that were upward of fourteen thousand feet
above the tides. Only one of these peaks was struck; this was Long's
Peak, which rises to the height of 14,256 feet above the sea.
Seventy storms I have experienced on the summit of this peak, and
during these it was struck but three times to my knowledge. One of
these strokes fell a thousand feet below the top; two struck the same
spot on the edge of the summit. The rock struck was granite, and the
effects of the strokes were similar; hundreds of pounds of shattered
rock fragments were flung horizontally afar. Out of scores of
experiences in rain-drenched passes I have record of but two
thunderbolts. Both of these were heavy. In all these instances the
thunderbolt descended at a time when the storm-cloud was a few hundred
feet above the place struck.
During the greater number of high-altitude storms the cloud is in
contact with the surface or but little removed from it. Never have I
known the lightning to strike when the clouds were close to the
surface or touching it. It is, however, common, during times of
low-dragging clouds, for the surface air to be heavily charged with
electrical fluid. This often is accompanied with strange effects.
Prominent among these is a low pulsating hum or an intermittent
_buz-z-z-z_, with now and then a sharp _zit-zit!_ Sometimes
accompanying, at other times only briefly breaking in, are subdued
camp-fire cracklings and roarings. Falling snowflakes, during these
times, are occasionally briefly luminous, like fireflies, the instant
they touch the earth. Hair-pulling is the commonest effect that people
experience in these sizzling electrical storms. There is a
straightening of the hairs and apparently a sharp pull upon each. As
John Muir has it, "You are sure to be lost in wonder and praise and
every hair of your head will stand up and hum and sing like an
enthusiastic congregation." Most people take very gravely their first
experience of this kind; especially when accompanied, as it often is,
with apparent near-by bee-buzzings and a purplish roll or halo around
the head. During these times a sudden finger movement will produce a
crackling snap or spark.
On rare occasions these interesting peculiarities become irritating
and sometimes serious to one. In "A Watcher on the Heights," in "Wild
Life on the Rockies," I have described a case of this kind. A few
people suffer from a muscular cramp or spasm, and occasionally the
muscles are so tensed that breathing becomes difficult and
heart-action disturbed. I have never known an electrical storm to be
fatal. Relief from the effects of such a storm may generally be had by
lying between big stones or beneath shelving rocks. On one occasion I
saw two ladies and four gentlemen lay dignity aside and obtain relief
by jamming into a place barely large enough for two. In my own case,
activity invariably intensified these effects; and the touching of
steel or iron often had the same results. For some years a family
resided upon the slope of Mt. Teller, at an altitude of twelve
thousand feet. Commonly during storms the stove and pipe were charged
with fluid so heavily that it was a case of hands off and let dinner
wait, and sometimes spoil, until the heavens shut off the current.
The sustaining buoyancy of the air to aerial things decreases with
altitude. In this "light" air some motor machinery is less efficient
than it is in the lowlands. It is probable that aviators will always
find the air around uplifted peaks much less serviceable than this
element upon the surface of the sea. But known and unknown dangers in
the air will be mastered, and ere long the dangers to those who take
flight through the air will be no greater than the dangers to those
who go down to the sea in ships. Flying across the crest of the
continent, above the crags and cañons, will be enchanting, and this
journey through the upper air may bring to many the first stirring
message from the rocks and templed hills.
Rob of the Rockies
Rob of the Rockies
Hurrying out of the flood-swept mountains in northern Colorado, in
May, 1905, I came upon a shaggy black and white dog, hopelessly
fastened in an entanglement of flood-moored barbed-wire fence that had
been caught in a clump of willows. He had been carried down with the
flood and was coated with earth. Masses of mud clung here and there to
his matted hair, and his handsome tail was encased as though in a
plaster cast. He was bruised, and the barbs had given him several
cuts. One ear was slit, and a blood-clot from a cut on his head almost
closed his left eye.
Had I not chanced upon him, he probably would have perished from
hunger and slow torture. Though he must have spent twelve hours in
this miserable barbed binding, he made no outcry. The barbs repeatedly
penetrated his skin, as I untangled and uncoiled the wires from around
his neck and between his legs. As he neither flinched nor howled, I
did him the injustice to suppose that he was almost dead. He trusted
me, and as I rolled him about, taking off that last thorny tangle, the
slit ear, bloody muzzle, and muddy head could not hide from me an
expression of gratitude in his intelligent face.
Returning from a camping-trip, and narrowly escaping drowning, too, I
was a dirty vagabond myself. When the last wire dropped from the
prisoner, he enthusiastically began to share his earth coating with
me. He leaped up and half clasped me in his fore legs, at the same
time wiping most of the mud off his head on one side of my face. Then
he darted between my legs, racing about and occasionally leaping or
flinging himself against me; each time he leaped, he twisted as he
came up so that he struck me with his back, head, or side, and thus
managed to transfer much of this fertile coat to me. He finally ended
by giving several barks, and then racing to the near-by river for a
drink and a bath. I, too, needed another cloudburst.
Just what kinds of dogs may have made his mixed ancestry could not be
told. Occasionally I had a glimpse of a collie in him, but for all
practical purposes he was a shepherd, and he frequently exhibited
traits for which the shepherd is celebrated. I could never find out
where he came from. It may be that the flood separated him from his
master's team; he may have been washed away from one of the flooded
ranches; or he may have been, as the stage-driver later told me, "a
tramp dog that has been seen in North Park, Cheyenne, and Greeley."
Home he may have left; master he may have lost; or tramp he may have
been; but he insisted on going with me, and after a kindly though
forceful protest, I gave in and told him he might follow.
The flood had swept all bridges away, and I was hurrying down the
Poudre, hoping to find a place to cross without being compelled to
swim. He followed, and kept close to my heels as I wound in and out
among flood débris and willow-clumps. But I did not find a place that
appeared shallow.
As it was necessary to cross, I patted my companion good-by, thinking
he would not care to go farther, and waded in. He squatted by the
water's edge and set up a howl. I stopped and explained to him that
this was very bad crossing for an injured dog, and that we would
better separate; but he only howled the more. He wanted to go with me,
but was afraid to try alone.
Returning to the bank, I found a rope in the flood wreckage, tied this
around his neck and waded in. He followed cheerfully, but swam with
effort. When about half way across, and in the water up to my
shoulders, I attached myself to a floating log lest the dog should
weaken and need help. Within sixty or seventy feet of the desired bank
we struck a stretch of swift, deep water, in which I was compelled to
let the animal go and swim for the shore. My companion was swept down
by the current, and the rope caught on a snag, entangling my legs so
that I had to cut it or drown. The current swept poor doggie against
some stranded wreckage in midstream. On this he climbed, while I
struggled on to the bank.
I called to him to come on, but he only howled. Again I called, patted
my knees, made friendly gesticulations, and did all I could think of
to encourage him. Finally, I told him that if he would only start I
would come part way and be ready to help him if he got into trouble.
But he would not start. Not desiring the task of returning for him
through the cold, strong current, and feeling in a hurry, I started
on. He howled and then cried so piteously that I went back and towed
him safely ashore.
That night some good people of the ranch house treated both of us
kindly, and in the morning they wanted to keep my companion. I was
willing that he should stay, for he would have a good place, and I was
bound for Denver, where I feared some accident would befall him. But
he growled and ran away when the man advanced to tie him. I started on
afoot and he joined me, insisting on following.
All the time he had been with me his only thought appeared to be to
stay with me. Game, dogs, horses, and people he saw and passed with
expressionless face, except two or three times when he imagined I was
in danger; then he was instantly alert for my defense. When the stage
overtook us, and stopped to let me in, he leaped in also, and squatted
by the driver with such an air of importance that I half expected to
see him take the lines and drive.
I lost him in my rush to make the train at the station. He could, of
course, have kept with me had he been without fear, or if he had
really so desired. As the train pulled out, I saw him start
down-street with an air of unconscious confidence that told of wide
experience. He was a tramp dog.
The next time I saw him was several months later, in Leadville, some
two hundred miles from where he left me. Where, in the mean time, he
may have rambled, what towns he may have visited, or what good days or
troubles he may have had, I have no means of knowing.
I came walking into Leadville with snowshoes under my arm, from two
weeks' snowshoeing and camping on the upper slopes of the Rockies. The
ends of broken tree limbs had torn numerous right-angled triangles in
my clothes, my soft hat was unduly slouchy, and fourteen nights'
intimate association with a camp-fire, along with only an infrequent,
indifferent contact with water, had made me a sight to behold,--for
dogs, anyway. On the outskirts, one snarly cur noticed me and barked;
in a few minutes at least a dozen dogs were closely following and
making me unwelcome to their haunts. They grew bold with time,
numbers, and closer inspection of me. They crowded unpleasantly close.
Realizing that if one of them became courageous enough to make a snap
at my legs, all might follow his example, I began to sidle out of the
middle of the street, intending to leap a fence close by and take
refuge in a house.
Before I could realize it, they were snapping right and left at me,
and howling as they collided with the tail of a snowshoe which I used
as a bayonet. We were close to the fence, I trying to find time to
turn and leap over; but I was too busy, and, without assistance, it is
probable that I should have been badly bitten.
Suddenly there was something like a football mix-up at my feet, then
followed a yelping of curs, with tucked tails dashing right and left
to avoid the ferocious tackles of a shaggy black and white dog. It was
Rob, who was delighted to see me, and whom I assured that he was most
welcome.
He had been seen about Leadville for two or three months, and several
persons had bits of information concerning him. All agreed that he had
held aloof from other dogs, and that he quietly ignored the friendly
greetings of all who made advances. He was not quarrelsome, but had
nearly killed a bulldog that had attacked a boy. On one occasion, a
braying burro so irritated him that he made a savage attack on the
long-eared beast, and sent him pell-mell down the street, braying in a
most excited manner.
The drivers of ore wagons reported that he occasionally followed them
to and from the mines up the mountainside. At one livery-stable he was
a frequent caller, and usually came in to have a drink; but no one
knew where he ate or slept. One day a little mittened girl had left
her sled, to play with him. He had responded in a most friendly
manner, and had raced, jumped, circled, and barked; at last he had
carried her slowly, proudly on his back.
I grew greatly interested in his biography, and wondered what could
have shaped his life so strangely. In what kind of a home was his
pretty puppyhood spent? Why was he so indifferent to dogs and people,
and had he left or lost a master?
Early next spring, after vainly trying to follow the trail of explorer
Pike, I struck out on a road that led me across the Wet Mountain
valley up into Sangre de Cristo Mountains. When well up into the
mountains, I saw a large dog walking slowly toward me, and at once
recognized him as Rob. Although clean and well-fed, he held his head
low and walked as though discouraged. The instant he scented me,
however, he leaped forward and greeted me with many a wag, bark, and
leap. He was one hundred miles from Leadville, and fully three hundred
miles from the flood scene on the Poudre. He faced about and followed
me up into the alpine heights, far beyond trail. We saw a number of
deer and many mountain sheep; these he barely noticed, but a bear
that we came upon he was most eager to fight.
The second night in the mountains, near Horne's Peak, we had an
exciting time with a mountain lion. Coyotes howled during the evening,
much to the dog's annoyance. It was a cold night, and, being without
bedding, I had moved the fire and lain down upon the warm earth. The
fire was at my feet, a crag rose above my head, and Rob was curled up
against my back. A shrill, uncanny cry of the lion roused me after
less than an hour's sleep. The dog was frightened and cuddled up close
to my face. The lion was on a low terrace in the crag, not many yards
distant. Having been much in the wilds alone and never having been
attacked by lions, I had no fear of them; but none had ever been so
audacious as this one. I began to think that perhaps it might be true
that a lion would leap upon a dog boldly at night, even though the dog
lay at the feet of his master. I kept close watch, threw stones at
suspicious shadows on the cliff terraces, and maintained a blazing
fire.
Long before sunrise we started down the mountain. Both Rob and I were
hungry, and although we startled birds and rabbits, Rob paid not the
least attention to them. At noon, on Madano Pass, I lay down for a
sleep and used Rob for a pillow. This he evidently enjoyed, for he lay
still with head stretched out and one eye open.
At mid-afternoon we met a sheep-herder who was carrying a club. I had
seen this man elsewhere, and, on recognizing me as he came up, he
waved his club by the way of expressing gladness. Rob misinterpreted
this demonstration, and dragged me almost to the frightened herder
before I could make him understand that this ragged, unwashed,
club-carrying fellow had no ill wishes for me.
I had in mind to climb Sierra Blanca the following day, and hoped to
spend the night in a ranch house on the northern slope of this great
peak. Toward sundown Rob and I climbed through a pole fence and
entered the ranch house-yard. Round a corner of the house came a boy
racing on a willow switch pony. On seeing us, he stopped, relaxed his
hold on the willow and started for Rob. How happily he ran, holding
out both eager hands! The dog sprang playfully backward, and began to
dodge and bark as the boy laughingly and repeatedly fell while trying
to catch him. Just as I entered the house, Rob was trying to climb to
the top of the fence after his new playmate.
That night Rob was agreeable with every one in the house, and even had
a romp with the cat. These people wanted to keep him, and offered
money and their best saddle-horse. I knew that with them he would have
kind treatment to the day of his death. I wanted him, too, but I knew
the weeks of mountain-exploring just before me would be too hard for
him. "Rob is a free dog," I said, "and is, of his own choice, simply
traveling with me as a companion. I cannot sell or give him away. I
like him, but, if he wants to stay, it will be a pleasure to me to
leave him."
The next morning every one was wondering whether Rob would go or stay.
The dog had made up his mind. He watched me prepare to leave with
keenest interest, but it was evident that he had planned to stay, and
his boy friend was very happy. As I passed through the yard, these two
were playing together; at the gate I called good-by, at which Rob
paused, gave a few happy barks, and then raced away, to try to follow
his mountain boy to the top of the old pole fence.
Sierra Blanca
Sierra Blanca
I was rambling alone on snowshoes, doing some winter observations in
the alpine heights of the Sangre de Cristo range. It was miles to the
nearest house. There was but little snow upon the mountains, and, for
winter, the day was warm. I was thirsty, and a spring which burst
forth among the fragments of petrified wood was more inviting than the
water-bottle in my pocket. The water was cool and clear, tasteless
and, to all appearances, pure.
As I rose from drinking, a deadly, all-gone feeling overcame me. After
a few seconds of this, a violent and prolonged nausea came on.
Evidently I had discovered a mineral spring! Perhaps it was arsenic,
perhaps some other poison. Poison of some kind it must have been, and
poisonous mineral springs are not unknown.
The sickness was very like seasickness, with a severe internal pain
and a mental stimulus added. After a few minutes I partly recovered
from these effects and set off sadly for the nearest house of which I
had heard. This was eight or ten miles distant and I hoped to find it
through the guidance of a crude map which a prospector had prepared
for me. I had not before explored this mountainous section.
The gulches and ridges which descended the slope at right angles to my
course gave me a rough sea which kept me stirred up. I advanced in
tottering installments; a slow, short advance would be made on wobbly
legs, then a heave-to, as pay for the advance gained.
Now and then there was smoothness, and I took an occasional look at
severe Sierra Blanca now looming big before me. It was mostly bare and
brown with a number of icy plates and ornaments shining in the sun.
At last in the evening light, from the top of a gigantic moraine, I
looked down upon the river and a log ranch-house nestling in a grassy
open bordered with clumps of spruces. An old lady and gentleman with
real sympathy in their faces stood in the doorway and for a moment
watched me, then hastened to help me from the pole fence to the door.
[Illustration: SIERRA BLANCA IN WINTER]