a stupor, and although I had evidently much to say concerning drinking
and apparently showed symptoms of too much drink, these old people did
not think me drunk. Waking from a fantastic dream I heard, "Does he
need any more sage tea?" The Western pioneers have faith in sage tea
and many ascribe to it all the life-saving, life-extending qualities
usually claimed for patent medicines. The following morning I was able
to walk about, while my slightly bloated, bronzed face did not appear
so badly. Altogether, I looked much better than I felt.
These good old people declared that they had not seen better days, but
that they were living the simple life from choice. They loved the
peace of this isolated mountain home and the companionship of the
grand old peak. In the Central States the wife had been a professor in
a State school, while the husband had been a State's Attorney.
The nearest neighbor was four miles downstream, and no one lived
farther up the mountain. The nearest railroad station was seventy
rough mountain-road miles away. It appeared best to hasten to Denver,
but two days in a jarring wagon to reach the railroad seemed more than
I could endure. I had not planned even to try for the top of
Colorado's highest peak in midwinter, but the way across Sierra Blanca
was shorter and probably much easier than the way around. Across the
range, directly over the shoulder of Sierra Blanca, lay historic Fort
Garland. It was only thirty miles away, and I determined to cross the
range and reach it in time for the midnight train. On hearing this
resolution the old people were at first astonished, but after a moment
they felt that they at last knew who I was.
"You must be the Snow Man! Surely no one but he would try to do this
in winter."
They, with scores of other upland-dwellers, had heard numerous and
wild accounts of my lone, unarmed camping-trips and winter adventures
in the mountain snows.
The misgivings of the old gentleman concerning the wisdom of my move
grew stronger when he perceived how weak I was, as we proceeded on
mule-back up the slope of Sierra Blanca. The ice blocked us at
timber-line, and in his parting handclasp I felt the hope and fear of
a father who sees his son go away into the world. He appeared to
realize that I was not only weak, but that at any moment I might
collapse. He knew the heights were steep and stern, and that in the
twenty-odd miles to Fort Garland there was neither house nor human
being to help me. Apparently he hoped that at the last moment I would
change my mind and turn back.
Up the northern side of the peak I made my way. Now and then it was
necessary to cut a few steps in the ice-plated steeps. The shoulder of
the peak across which I was to go was thirteen thousand feet above the
sea, and in making the last climb to this it was necessary to choose
between a precipitous ice-covered slope and an extremely steep
rock-slide,--more correctly a rock glacier. I picked my way up this
with the greatest caution. To start a rock avalanche would be easy,
for the loose rocks lay insecure on a slope of perilous steepness.
From time to time in resting I heard the entire mass settling,
snarling, and grinding its way with glacier slowness down the steep.
Just beneath the shoulder the tilting steepness of this rocky débris
showed all too well that the slightest provocation would set a
grinding whirlpool of a stone river madly flowing. The expected at
last happened when a boulder upon which I lightly leaped settled and
then gave way. The rocks before made haste to get out of the way,
while those behind began readjusting themselves. The liveliest of
foot-work kept me on top of the now settling, hesitating, and
inclined-to-roll boulder. There was nothing substantial upon which to
leap.
Slowly the heavy boulder settled forward with a roll, now right, now
left, with me on top trying to avoid being tumbled into the grinding
mill hopper below. At last, on the left, a sliding mass of crushed,
macadamized rock offered a possible means of escape. Not daring to
risk thrusting a leg into this uncertain mass, I allowed myself to
fall easily backwards until my body was almost horizontal, and then
face upwards I threw myself off the boulder with all my strength. The
rock gave a great plunge, and went bounding down the slope, sending
the smaller stuff flying before at each contact with the earth.
Though completely relaxed, and with the snowshoes on my back acting as
a buffer, the landing was something of a jolt. For a few seconds I lay
limp and spread out, and drifted slowly along with the slow-sliding
mass of macadam. When this came to rest, I rose up and with the
greatest concern for my foundation, made my way upwards, and at last
lay down to breathe and rest upon the solid granite shoulder of Sierra
Blanca.
In ten hours the midnight train would be due in Fort Garland, and as
the way was all downgrade, I hoped that my strength would hold out
till I caught it. But, turning my eyes from the descent to the summit,
I forgot the world below, and also my poison-weakened body. Suddenly I
felt and knew only the charm and the call of the summit. There are
times when Nature completely commands her citizens. A splendid
landscape, sunset clouds, or a rainbow on a near-by mountain's
slope,--by these one may be as completely charmed and made as
completely captive as were those who heard the music of Orpheus' lyre.
My youthful dream had been to scale peak after peak, and from the
earthly spires to see the scenic world far below and far away. All
this had come true, though of many trips into the sky and cloudland,
none had been up to the bold heights of Blanca. Thinking that the
poisoned water might take me from the list of those who seek good
tidings in the heights, I suddenly determined to reach those wintry
wonder-heights while yet I had the strength. I rose from relaxation,
laid down my snowshoes, and started for the summit.
Blanca is a mountain with an enormous amount of material in
it,--enough for a score of sizable peaks. Its battered head is nearly
two thousand feet above its rugged shoulder. The sun sank slowly as I
moved along a rocky skyline ridge and at last gained the summit.
Beyond an infinite ocean of low, broken peaks, sank the sun. It was a
wonderful sunset effect in that mountain-dotted, mountain-walled
plain, the San Luis Valley. Mist-wreathed peaks rose from the plain,
one side glowing in burning gold, the other bannered with black
shadows. The low, ragged clouds dragged slanting shadows across the
golden pale. A million slender silver threads were flung out in a
measureless horizontal fan from the far-away sun. The sunset from the
summit of Sierra Blanca was the grandest that I have ever seen. The
prismatic brilliancy played on peak and cloud, then changed into
purple, fading into misty gray, while the light of this strong
mountain day slowly vanished in the infinite silence of a perfect
mountain night.
Then came the serious business of getting down and off the rough slope
and out of the inky woods before darkness took complete possession.
After intense vigilance and effort for two hours, I emerged from the
forest-robed slope and started across the easy, sloping plain beneath
a million stars.
The night was mild and still. Slowly, across the wide brown way, I
made my course, guided by a low star that hung above Fort Garland. My
strength ran low, and, in order to sustain it, I moved slowly, lying
down and relaxing every few minutes. My mind was clear and strangely
active. With pleasure I recalled in order the experiences of the day
and the wonderful sunset with which it came triumphantly to a close.
As I followed a straight line across the cactus-padded plains,
I could not help wondering whether the Denver physicians would tell
me that going up to see the sunset was a serious blunder, or a
poison-eliminating triumph. However, the possibility of dying was a
thought that never came.
At eleven o'clock, when instinctively and positively I felt that I had
traveled far enough, I paused; but from Fort Garland neither sound nor
light came to greet me in the silent, mysterious night. I might pass
close to the low, dull adobes of this station without realizing its
presence. So confident was I that I had gone far enough that I
commenced a series of constantly enlarging semicircles, trying to
locate in the darkness the hidden fort. In the midst of these, a
coyote challenged, and a dog answered. I hastened toward the dog and
came upon a single low adobe full of Mexicans who could not understand
me. However, their soft accents awakened vivid memories in my mind,
and distinctly my strangely stimulated brain took me back through
fifteen years to the seedling orange groves in the land of to-morrow
where I had lingered and learned to speak their tongue. An offer of
five dollars for transportation to Fort Garland in time for the
midnight train sent Mexicans flying in all directions as though I had
hurled a bomb.
Two boys with an ancient, wobbling horse and buckboard landed me at
the platform as the headlight-glare of my train swept across it. The
big, good-natured conductor greeted me with "Here's the Snow Man
again,--worse starved than ever!"
The Wealth of the Woods
The Wealth of the Woods
The ancients told many wonderful legends concerning the tree, and
claimed for it numerous extraordinary qualities. Modern experience is
finding some of these legends to be almost literal truth, and
increasing knowledge of the tree shows that it has many of those high
qualities for which it was anciently revered. Though people no longer
think of it as the Tree of Life, they are beginning to realize that
the tree is what enables our race to make a living and to live
comfortably and hopefully upon this beautiful world.
Camping among forests quickly gives one a home feeling for them and
develops an appreciation of their value. How different American
history might have been had Columbus discovered a treeless land! The
American forests have largely contributed to the development of the
country. The first settlers on the Atlantic coast felled and used the
waiting trees for home-building; they also used wood for fuel,
furniture, and fortifications. When trading-posts were established in
the wilderness the axe was as essential as the gun. From Atlantic to
Pacific the pioneers built their cabins of wood. As the country
developed, wood continued to be indispensable; it was used in almost
every industry, and to-day it has a more general use than ever.
Forests enrich us in many ways. One of these is through the supply of
wood which they produce,--which they annually produce. Wood is one of
the most useful materials used by man. Wood is the home-making
material. It gives good cheer to a million hearthstones. How
extensively it is used for tools, furniture, and vehicles, for mine
timbers and railroad development! The living influences which forests
exert, the environments which they create and maintain, are potent to
enable man best to manage and control the earth, the air, and the
water, so that these will give him the greatest service and do him the
least damage.
[Illustration: SPANISH MOSS AT LAKE CHARLES, LOUISIANA]
Forests are water-distributors, and everywhere their presence tends to
prevent both floods and extreme low water; they check evaporation
and assist drainage; they create soil; they resist sudden changes of
temperature; they break and temper the winds; they do sanitary work by
taking impurities from the air; they shelter and furnish homes for
millions of birds which destroy enormous numbers of weed-seed and
injurious insects. Lastly, and possibly most important, forests make
this earth comfortable and beautiful. Next to the soil, they are the
most useful and helpful of Nature's agencies.
Forests are moderators of climate. They heat and cool slowly. Their
slow response to change resists sudden changes, and, consequently,
they mitigate the rudeness with which sudden changes are always
accompanied. Sudden changes of temperature are often annoying and
enervating to man, and frequently do severe damage to domestic plants
and animals. They sometimes have what may be called an explosive
effect upon the life-tissues of many plants and animals which man has
domesticated and is producing for his benefit. Many plants have been
domesticated and largely so specialized that they have been rendered
less hardy. With good care, these plants are heavy producers, but, to
have from them a premium harvest each year, they need the genial
clime, the stimulating shelter, and the constant protection which only
forests can supply. Closely allied to changes of temperature is the
movement of the air. In the sea every peninsula is a breakwater: on
land every grove is a windbreak. The effect of the violence of high
winds on fruited orchards and fields of golden grain may be compared
to the beatings of innumerable clubs. Hot waves and cold waves come
like withering breaths of flame and frost to trees and plants. High
winds may be mastered by the forest. The forest will make even the
Storm King calm, and it will also soften, temper, and subdue the
hottest or the coldest waves that blow. Forests may be placed so as to
make every field a harbor.
The air is an invisible blotter that is constantly absorbing moisture.
Its capacity to evaporate and absorb increases with rapidity of
movement. Roughly, six times as much water is evaporated from a place
that is swept by a twenty-five-mile wind as from a place in the dead
calm of the forest. The quantity of water evaporated within a forest
or in its shelter is many times less than is evaporated from the soil
in an exposed situation. This shelter and the consequent decreased
evaporation may save a crop in a dry season. During seasons of scanty
rainfall the crops often fail, probably not because sufficient water
has not fallen, but because the thirsty winds have drawn from the soil
so much moisture that the water-table in the soil is lowered below the
reach of the roots of the growing plants.
In the arid West the extra-dry winds are insatiable. In many
localities their annual capacity to absorb water is greater than the
annual precipitation of water. In "dry-farming" localities, the
central idea is to save all the water that Nature supplies, to prevent
the moisture from evaporating, to protect it from the robber winds.
Forests greatly check evaporation, and Professor L. G. Carpenter, the
celebrated irrigation engineer, says that forests are absolutely
necessary for the interests of irrigated agriculture. Considering the
many influences of the forest that are beneficial to agriculture, it
would seem as though ideal forest environments would be the best
annual assurance that the crops of the field would not fail and that
the soil would most generously respond to the seed-sower.
So well is man served in the distribution of the waters and the
management of their movements by the forests, that forests seem almost
to think. The forest is an eternal mediator between winds and gravity
in their never-ending struggle for the possession of the waters. The
forest seems to try to take the intermittent and ever-varying rainfall
and send the collected waters in slow and steady stream back to the
sea. It has marked success, and one may say it is only to the extent
the forest succeeds in doing this that the waters become helpful to
man. Possibly they may need assistance in this work. Anyway, so great
is the evaporation on the mountains of the West that John Muir says,
"Cut down the groves and the streams will vanish." Many investigators
assert that only thirty per cent of the rainfall is returned by the
rivers to the sea. Evaporation--winds--probably carry away the
greater portion of the remainder. Afforestation has created springs
and streams, not by increasing rainfall, although the forests may do
this, but by saving the water that falls,--by checking evaporation. On
some exposed watersheds the winds carry off as much as ninety per cent
of the annual precipitation. It seems plain that wider, better forests
would mean deeper, steadier streams. Forests not only check
evaporation, but they store water and guard it from the greed of
gravity. The forest gets the water into the ground where a brake is
put upon the pull of gravity. Forest floors are covered with fluffy
little rugs and pierced with countless tree-roots. So all-absorbing is
the porous, rug-covered forest floor that most of the water that falls
in the forest goes into the ground; a small percentage may run off on
the surface, but the greater part settles into the earth and seeps
slowly by subterranean drainage, till at last it bubbles out in a
spring some distance away and below the place where the raindrops came
to earth. The underground drainage, upon which the forest insists, is
much slower and steadier than the surface drainage of a treeless
place. The tendency of the forest is to take the water of the widely
separated rainy days and dole it out daily to the streams. The forest
may be described as a large, ever-leaking reservoir.
The forest is so large a reservoir that it rarely overflows, and
seepage from it is so slow that it seldom goes dry. The presence of a
forest on a watershed tends to give the stream which rises thereon its
daily supply of water, whether it rains every day or not. By checking
evaporation, the forest swells the volume of sea-going water in this
stream, and thereby increases its water-power and makes it more
useful as a deep waterway. Forests so regulate stream-flow that
if all the watersheds were forested but few floods would occur.
Forest-destruction has allowed many a flood to form and foam and to
ruin a thousand homes. A deforested hillside may, in a single storm,
loose the hoarded soil of a thousand years. Deforestation may result
in filling a river-channel and in stopping boats a thousand miles
downstream. By bringing forests to our aid, we may almost domesticate
and control winds and waters!
One of the most important resources is soil,--the cream of the earth,
the plant-food of the world. Scientists estimate that it takes nature
ten thousand years to create a foot of soil. This heritage of ages,
though so valuable and so slowly created, may speedily be washed away
and lost. Forests help to anchor it and to hold it in productive
places. Every tree stands upon an inverted basket of roots and
rootlets. Rains may come and rains may go, but these roots hold the
soil in place. The soil of forest-covered hillsides is reinforced and
anchored with a webwork of the roots and rootlets of the forest.
Assisting in the soil-anchorage is the accumulation of twigs and
leaves, the litter rugs on the forest floor. These cover the soil, and
protect it from both wind and water erosion. The roots and rugs not
only hold soil, but add to the soil matter by catching and holding the
trash, silt, dust, and sediment that is blown or washed into the
forest. The forest also creates new soil, enriches the very land it
is using. Trash on a forest floor absorbs nitrogenous matter from the
air; every fallen leaf is a flake of a fertilizer; roots pry rocks
apart, and this sets up chemical action. Acids given off by tree-roots
dissolve even the rocks, and turn these to soil. A tree, unlike most
plants, creates more soil than it consumes. In a forest the soil is
steadily growing richer and deeper.
Birds are one of the resources of the country. They are the
protectors, the winged watchmen, of the products which man needs.
Birds are hearty eaters, and the food which they devour consists
mostly of noxious weed-seed and injurious insects. Several species of
birds feed freely upon caterpillars, moths, wood-lice, wood-borers,
and other deadly tree-enemies. Most species of birds need the forest
for shelter, a home, and a breeding-place; and, having the forest,
they multiply and fly out into the fields and orchards, and wage a
more persistent warfare even than the farmer upon the insistent and
innumerable crop-injuring weeds, and also the swarms of insatiable
crop-devouring insects. Birds work for us all the time, and board
themselves most of the time. Birds are of inestimable value to
agriculture, but many of these useful species need forest shelter. So
to lose a forest means at the same time to lose the service of these
birds.
The forest is a sanitary agent. It is constantly eliminating
impurities from the earth and the air. Trees check, sweep, and filter
from the air quantities of filthy, germ-laden dust. Their leaves
absorb the poisonous gases from the air. Roots assist in drainage, and
absorb impurities from the soil. Roots also give off acids, and these
acids, together with the acids released by the fallen, decaying
leaves, have a sterilizing effect upon the soil. Trees help to keep
the earth sweet and clean, and water which comes from a forested
watershed is likely to be pure. Many unsanitary areas have been
redeemed and rendered healthy by tree-planting.
Numerous are the products and the influences of the trees. Many
medicines for the sick-room are compounded wholly or in part from the
bark, the fruit, the juices, or the leaves of trees. Fruits and nuts
are at least the poetry of the dining-table. One may say of trees what
the French physician said of water: needed externally, internally, and
eternally! United we stand, but divided we fall, is the history of
peoples and forests. Forest-destruction seems to offer the speediest
way by which a nation may go into decline or death. "Without forests"
are two words that may be written upon the maps of most depopulated
lands and declining nations.
When one who is acquainted with both history and natural history reads
of a nation that "its forests are destroyed," he naturally pictures
the train of evils that inevitably follow,--the waste and failure that
will come without the presence of forests to prevent. He realizes that
the ultimate condition to be expected in this land is a waste of
desolate distances, arched with a gray, sad sky beneath which a few
lonely ruins stand crumbling and pathetic in the desert's drifting
sand.
The trees are our friends. As an agency for promoting and sustaining
the general welfare, the forest stands preëminent. A nation which
appreciates trees, which maintains sufficient forests, and these in
the most serviceable places, may expect to enjoy regularly the richest
of harvests; it will be a nation of homes and land that is
comfortable, full of hope, and beautiful.
The Forest Fire
The Forest Fire
Forest fires led me to abandon the most nearly ideal journey through
the wilds I had ever embarked upon, but the conflagrations that took
me aside filled a series of my days and nights with wild, fiery
exhibitions and stirring experiences. It was early September and I had
started southward along the crest of the continental divide of the
Rocky Mountains in northern Colorado. All autumn was to be mine and
upon this alpine skyline I was to saunter southward, possibly to the
land of cactus and mirage. Not being commanded by either the calendar
or the compass, no day was to be marred by hurrying. I was just to
linger and read all the nature stories in the heights that I could
comprehend or enjoy. From my starting-place, twelve thousand feet
above the tides, miles of continental slopes could be seen that sent
their streams east and west to the two far-off seas. With many a
loitering advance, with many a glad going back, intense days were
lived. After two great weeks I climbed off the treeless heights and
went down into the woods to watch and learn the deadly and dramatic
ways of forest fires.
This revolution in plans was brought about by the view from amid the
broken granite on the summit of Long's Peak. Far below and far away
the magnificent mountain distances reposed in the autumn sunshine. The
dark crags, snowy summits, light-tipped peaks, bright lakes, purple
forests traced with silver streams and groves of aspen,--all fused and
faded away in the golden haze. But these splendid scenes were being
blurred and blotted out by the smoke of a dozen or more forest fires.
[Illustration: A FOREST FIRE ON THE GRAND RIVER]