TWIN LAKES.
When the Deacon put in his appearance the next day according to
appointment, he desired to know, first, whether I had gone up the
cañon. I told him I had, then he wanted to know what I had seen to
be pleased with. I advised him that when I had a week's leisure, and
he felt inclined to listen, I would "dilate fully" my afternoon's
experience; that a week devoted to the relation of each half day's
enjoyment would be none too much; whereat he seemed tickled, for the
cañon is a weakness with him. When I told him I had returned from
the grotto in the cool of the afternoon after a delightful interview
with the nymphs of the neighborhood, he insisted that I had made a
mistake; that I should have climbed on up to the carriage road, and
returned by that way, whence a delightful view of the valley and the
wooded mountain sides could be obtained. But I reminded him I was in
the humor to court the hidden recesses rather than the sunlight, and
besides, that just above the grotto it was necessary, if I would go on,
to swing-off a perpendicular rock six feet, and I did not care to risk
the leap. Then he advised me of another trail turning off to the road,
just below the Naiads' Bath, where the ascent was easy, and exacted a
promise that the next time I would come out that way.
The Deacon being assigned to the office of guide and general counsellor
concerning the early part of this expedition, he suggested that we
take a trip into Manitou Park. It became my duty to inform him that we
could not in a season, let alone three weeks, visit all the places of
interest this side of White River; that we might stop a day or two at
Twin Lakes and thence we must go straight into the wilderness.
"But there is a party going over into the park this afternoon; the
station is only eight miles up the road, and we can have a delightful
drive of half a dozen miles, and be back in time for the west-bound
train to-morrow."
"Whom shall we have in this party, Deacon?"
"A couple of ladies, and a man--a dude--with an eyeglass; the ladies
are pretty----"
"Deacon! Deacon! none o' that----"
"But see here, I mean the ladies are attractive, and----"
"Yes, I understand--one talks Darwin and wears glasses, and the other
is a blonde."
"Exactly--where did you become acquainted with them? I had thought to
introduce you."
I was compelled to set the Deacon right and inform him of my last
winter's trip. Then I declined his offer of an introduction. He seemed
a little nettled at my indifference, and thereupon I pleaded old age
in extenuation of my lack of gallantry.
"But, Deacon, how long have you been acquainted with these ladies; and
who are they?"
"Oh, several months--the train is coming, let us go in to dinner."
I conjectured that there was a sensitive spot in the Deacon's anatomy,
and I had unconsciously touched it with a rude hand. To apologize
further at present might provoke embarrassment, and yet I feared
something more was demanded of me. He came to my relief by taking a
seat at the same table with the parties in question, leaving me in
company with the Major, who had arrived on the train.
"Where is the Deacon?" was the Major's first inquiry. I motioned in the
direction.
"Whom have we there?" I could give him no information, of course, and
we discussed our dinner with the prospects which Twin Lakes might
afford.
From the rear end of the train as it nears Manitou Park station, a
view is had of the great peak which dwarfs that from the plains. The
mountain seems to quadruple in size and grows in grandeur, until the
great mass overtopping its companions appears to be standing alone,
endowed with the consciousness of its own majesty. Miles beyond, and
when we are traversing the lower end of the great South Park, the
noble pile still stands out, from its azure background, the gray
of its rocks and the snow-drifts flashing down a royal smile in the
afternoon light. Ahead of us is the Musquito Range, with Buffalo Peak
serving as another grand landmark in the bewildering assemblage of
lofty mountains; and the park, for thirty miles, seemingly as level as
a floor, reposes peacefully in its cordon of hills.
[Illustration: ARKANSAS VALLEY. (BUENA VISTA.)]
At Idlewild our list of travellers is added to--a broad-shouldered
young man and a young woman. The boot heels of the young man appear
uncomfortably high, and he consequently bears his weight upon his
turned-in toes. The new doeskin trousers incase a pair of caliper
legs, carrying with them the impression that their owner is astride
an invisible something and is not at all accustomed to walking; the
Prince Albert is unbuttoned and the white vest is ornamented by a large
chain with a silver horse pendant; a low-crowned, broad-brimmed, white
felt hat with a wide leather band, is thrown back from a face that is
sunburned but smiling; the eyes of the young man are, no doubt, keen
even in repose, but there is a shade of embarrassment lingering about
them; he evidently feels that everybody in the car understands the
situation, and he is ready to be friendly or defiant as occasion may
demand. The color in the young woman's cheeks deepens as she smilingly
bustles into the only unoccupied seat, and when the couple have settled
down there is plenty of room on the end of the seat for another. She
has a paper bag of cookies; she takes a bite from one and reaches it
up to him, he absorbs the remainder as complacently as a two-year-old
being fed with a spoon. The cookies disappear rapidly after this
fashion; meantime a sleeve of the Prince Albert, with an arm in it,
has quietly stolen along the back of the seat, and a strong brown
hand rests tenderly on the plump shoulder where it has a right to be.
A backward look through the car discloses a smile on every face, but
our new friends are busy with the sunny prospects of the radiant world
just opening up to them, and have forgotten that they are objects of
interest. The Major leaning a little toward me, whispers:
"I don't know just what you think of it, my boy, but I hope it will
always be sunny for them to the end of the long trail."
From Hill-top, at the western side of the park, our way is well up on
the mountain sides along well-timbered gorges. Presently, from the
shelf in the gray granite, one may look down into the beautiful valley
of the Arkansas. The pioneers and familiars of the neighborhood will
tell to this day the delight they would feel on reaching the summit
over the old trail, whence they could look into this vale. Sloping
from the foot of what is now called Mount Princeton down to the river,
is an emerald floor of six miles in width, skirted far to the east by
pine-covered mountains; the river winds along the northerly side until
it disappears through a gorge in the distant hills. Beyond Mount
Princeton stand gray and solemn the massive piles of Mounts Yale and
Harvard, as if they would shut out from intrusion and guard the lovely
valley in perpetual tranquillity. From our vantage-point it seems quiet
even now, with the busy town just below. Before the advent of the
railroads and the multitude, one may understand why the early miners
looked upon it as another dwelling-place of the Genius of Peace.
We lodge at Granite, one of the old mining camps, prominent early
"in the sixties," and with golden prospects yet. I get a good bed in
a room that reminds me of old times; clean, eight feet square, with
a pipe running through the floor from the office stove beneath. The
pipe is not to be despised, as an addition to one's bedchamber, if one
is unaccustomed to a sudden drop to 45° from 90°. As I stand on the
doorstep next morning and take a survey of the town, no longer to be
called a camp, I conclude that it must have been named Granite because
there is less of that rock here than anywhere else in the vicinity.
After breakfast, at which we taste our first trout of the season, we
start on a six-mile ride over a splendid road to the lakes. Though we
are fairly in the heart of the mountains the way may not be called
mountainous; an exaggerated rolling prairie surrounded by magnificent
peaks gives a better idea of the land. The air is fresh and cool, the
sun is bright, with no sign of clouds save in the direction we are
going. Reaching the mesa from the valley a storm seems to be gathering
about the summits of the Twin Peaks and Mount Elbert. Climbing the
last rising ground between our starting-point and destination, I find
we are upon what I conceive to be a terminal moraine, or the remains
of one, and can look down into the grand court where the Ice King, at
some remote date, held high carnival; his throne, twenty or more miles
away, guarded on either side by peaks over fourteen thousand feet in
height; at my feet the ancient floor of his palace, covering an area
of six thousand acres or more, no longer solid, but a pair of crystal
lakes flashing under the bright rays of the morning sun. The July heat
has not yet melted the white helmets on the sentinels' heads, and back
of them the clouds I had seen but a little while before, fleecy and
drifting in the azure, are gathering volume and blackness. Between
them and me a gray mist, driving earthward in perpendicular sheets,
tells of the rain coming down; the long lines brushed by the breath
of the storm will wave to the right and left, and then drop again
straight as a plummet, while the sun's rays here and there flash in the
rainbow tints. The background of the sullen clouds begins to pale a
little, then breaks, and a great mass of white and gray and rose-tinted
vapor rolls majestically to the left, while the main storm, with its
artillery in full play, follows south, down the range, and once more
lets in the light upon the seat of ancient royalty.
[Illustration: UPPER TWIN LAKE.]
We catch only a few scattering drops while we trot briskly around the
south side of the lower lake to the rustic hotel. The landlord takes
possession of my grip and I walk off alone to the stream that holds in
bond the beautiful lakes; it is barely fifty feet wide by a hundred
yards long.
I put my rod together with a coachman on the end of the leader. I
had not taken time to soak anything and the kinks were not out, but
nevertheless the fly had hardly touched the water before I hooked
a ten-inch trout. He gave up readily and I lifted him out with an
impression of a good time at hand. But a half-hour's work disclosed not
another fin, and I concluded he was the last one there.
Wandering toward the shore of the Upper Lake, I overhauled a man with
a cane pole and a bag. I gave him my trout by way of encouragement, as
he said he was out of luck, and then I tried the head of the outlet
without avail. The man said there were trout in the lakes, but the best
way to catch them was to row about with half a dozen poles stuck out at
different angles, and "hooks baited with grasshoppers and such-like." I
sat on a rock and watched the tints of the Twin Peaks and Mount Elbert
mirrored in the smooth water, and prayed for the destroyer, that if he
had not already overtaken the pot-hunter, he would; and would burn,
not drown him; toast him on a fork and turn him around and toast him
some more; toast him slowly just in sight of the cool, clear waters
he had helped to almost ruin. But the government promises to establish
a hatchery here and to restock the waters. When that is accomplished
what more attractive spot can be found in all these mountains for a
summer sojourn for wife, babies and your precious self? It can be
made a headquarters, if you wish, and thence you may make easy runs
farther into the wilderness. With sweet air, pure water, grand scenery
and trouting, what more can mortal ask when he is tired and the baby
teething?
Though injured, the lakes are by no means depleted; the fishing is
not quite so gratifying as it was twenty years ago, that is all.
There are three different varieties of native trout here: the red or
salmon-tinted, the lighter-colored variety, and a slender, active
trout, different from the denizens of any other waters in the State
except, perhaps, Trapper's Lake. The back is a pale green, just the
color of the water in the lake, the lateral lines are fine and black,
and the spots perfectly round and smaller than the finest shot; it is a
graceful fish in its contour, running to three-quarters of a pound in
weight, and possessed of excellent fighting qualities.
The State has made an attempt at improving the lakes, and I met the
superintendent of the State hatchery here. He said I must go a-fishing.
I asked him where, and he said on the lake, if I was not disposed to
take a run of a couple of miles up to the falls, where the fishing
was good. I told him what I had heard, that the trouting was nothing
to boast of except as the market hunter potted his game. To this he
replied that when I came to the lakes I must do as the lakers do. I
told him I had not had an oar in my hands for a great many years and
was in no humor to be drowned. But he promised to attend to the rowing
while I fished. With this assurance and to oblige him I rigged up,
under his directions, four pine poles, tied on the lines and fixed up
a cast of a coachman for a stretcher and a brown hackle and a gray for
droppers. I persuaded him to allow me to take my bamboo, and armed with
the implements of torture and my rod, like Hyperion among Satyrs, we
stepped into a skiff and started for the lower end of the lake. I stuck
out those pine poles with their ten feet of line, two over the stern
and one out each side, and sat on the butts. The flies trailed along on
the water and I had room to ply the bamboo astern beyond the annoyances
floating there. After fifteen minutes of this business, I asked the
skipper if he did not think a fellow who called this trouting, ought
to drown and go to--sheol. He laughed; I took to praying again and in
my earnestness lost one of the poles. Shortly after I had a rise to
the coachman on the bamboo and hooked a trout. Inside of two minutes
I could not tell whether the fish was on the hook that struck him, or
the other three lines, or whether I had four trout in tow. I found out
very soon that there was one trout and four lines snarled. I pulled
them all in, took off the trout, untangled the knots and stowed the
poles. The man wanted to know whether I had become tired and I told him
I had, whereat he proposed to tell everybody that I didn't know how to
fish. I said he would oblige me by circulating the report, and that
I was mortified only at having tried. With this I sent the coachman
astern again and caught another trout; that was all; one trout to the
mile. Then I prevailed on him to row me back to the landing at the
hotel.
Looking down the lake after a little, I saw the Major bending manfully
to his oars and coming home in grand style. When he reached us I
discovered among his other trophies of the afternoon, two trout, one
weighing four, and the other four pounds and a half.
"You did not go far enough toward the east shore," said the Major;
"there is a place about half a mile above the outlet, on that side,
where there is grass growing; I never failed in finding good sport
there; it is the home of these big salmon-colored fellows. When you
hook them they make for the grass below; then, you know, you have
business in hand."
Later in the evening, while the Major and I enjoyed our pipes and
watched the light of the full moon glimmering on the lake, he wondered
what had "come over the Deacon."
Our friend had evidently determined to have another view of Manitou
Park, and I informed the Major of the Deacon's proposition to me.
"Ah! if he were only here!" sighed the Major; "with the lake in front
of him, and under this moonlight, or with the shadows of the pines
down by the water's edge, and the melody of the miniature breakers to
whisper inspirations--eh! old boy, maybe we should lose the Deacon--at
least for this trip," he asserted hastily, as if unwilling to commit
himself, against experience, and with a knowledge that the sweetest
things in life demand a change. "They get tired of us, you know,"
continued the Major.
"You talk as if the Deacon were in love."
"The symptoms are marked, my boy--he called the other fellow a 'dude,'
you say. It looks bad; I fear he'll spoil the biscuit."