VAPOR.
At the next evening's camp-fire I took down the Deacon's report of his
trip:
"The trail from Glenwood Springs to Trapper's Lake is good, and the
country through which it runs is always attractive, beautiful, and in
places grand. In fact, it is a difficult matter, you know, to go astray
of magnificent scenery in these beloved mountains of ours. We made one
camp, the ladies being out for pleasure and not in a hurry, and for one
day's ride the trip is a little tiresome, especially if you are not
accustomed to the saddle. Our camp outfit and provisions made light
loads for two pack animals.
"The first view of the lake coming in from the south side is finer than
that from the trail out of Egeria Park. By the latter route you come
directly upon the lake from the timber, low down the mountain side,
and look directly across. By the way we came you get a fine view of
the lake first from a point higher up the mountain, and can look down
upon it, along its length, toward the outlet. You have a foreground of
the beautiful lake, and through the wide gap at its foot a distant
range of hills veiled in the gray mist forms a background, while the
lake itself, except at the outlet, is shut in by the high-terraced
mountains. These mountains, you will remember, reach down to the very
margin of the lake, excepting only at the little meadow on the left of
the outlet. The terraces are thickly covered with pines until the last
precipice is reached, which runs up above the timber line.
[Illustration: TRAPPER'S LAKE.]
"We remained four days there, fishing from rafts. There are two
varieties of trout in the lake, the light and the salmon-colored. The
light variety are the fighters, of course, and so abundant that but for
the presence of others to help us dispose of them they would spoil on
our hands; they are large, too, running uniformly to fourteen inches in
length.
"I killed a buck in the little meadow near the outlet. The Deaconess
declares that those four days were 'just too lovely.'"
"But about the trail, Deacon, from the lake to the forks here?"
"It is a good trail. Did you ever see an Indian trail that wasn't good?
Our red brother, as you call him, is a first-class engineer in that
respect; he is the only one who accomplishes his purpose prompted by
pure laziness. We took the ridge part of the way, and made a short
_détour_ to see the Devil's Causeway, and on that account saw a band
of elk; there were fifty in the band at least, because I counted that
number, and missed some without doubt. There was indeed a commotion in
the camp when I announced the discovery of bear signs, but I succeeded
in allaying the fright by persuading them to believe that Cuffy was no
more liable to attack us than the deer were. We had splendid fishing
in the Pot Hole Valley, and I want you to know that I landed a trout
of five pounds and four ounces out of one of those pools, and that's
no fish story. The trout run large as they do here in the South Fork.
White-fish are plentiful, too; the largest one I caught weighed a scant
two pounds, and I know you agree with me as to their excellence on the
table. The valley is filling up, though, with settlers; it is not so
much in the wilderness as it was a few years ago."
"You are having an unusual wedding tour, Deacon."
"But a very happy one. Just try it, and see for yourself."
"I have been travelling the 'long path' too many years for that,
Deacon."
"Well, you'll enjoy it, all the same."
Of course I had to thank the Deacon for the compliment and I promised
to "try it."
The next day a few fleecy clouds climbed up over the hills in the west,
and in the afternoon we moved further down the river toward Meeker.
That evening we put up the fly for the first time, lapped and pegged
down the ends. We thought we might have rain before morning, but were
disappointed.
The following morning the clouds put in an appearance again; the sky
had been absolutely clear during the most of our trip, and the pretty
harbingers afforded a relief. From white they gathered into clusters
and turned to gray, and the drapery of a darker shade, hanging below,
told of the rain. It passed us by, however, and we had a beautiful
sunset. The west was clear, while just above a range of hills in the
east, veiled with a thin blue mist, was a stratum of pale bronze, its
upper line apparently as straight as if run by a level. From this
base of miles in length there arose a great mass of clouds, seemingly
thousands of feet in height, and white as carded wool. Its northern
and southern ends were almost perpendicular, and its summit of great
rolling folds was outlined against the delicate blue of the sky. For
half an hour there seemed no change; the huge pile stood apparently
still, pure and white as newly-fallen snow. Then, as if moved by some
gentle and artistic freak of its presiding genius, a rift in a mountain
side appeared, reaching from the bronze base to the top, the line was
sharply defined in white and gray and the shadow was cast against
the background of white to our right. Away at the northerly summit a
small bit seemed to break away, or was left; it divided, and in a few
moments there were clearly defined a pair of gigantic wings, regular
in their contour as those of a bird. In another place a gray tower
presented itself with a great arched doorway near its base. Castles
would spring into a brief existence, machicolated and loop-holed, to be
lost again in some modern cottage with vine-clad porch. Along the upper
margin figures would come and go as if the gods and their retinues
were all abroad directing a magnificent display. And in one corner, by
itself, there was plainly outlined a fleecy hood, into which I caught
myself intently gazing, expecting to see the laughing eyes and face
of a beautiful child. All this in tones of white and gray. But as the
sun sank lower, veils of slanting mist appeared here and there, the
apparently solid mass was being broken up, the summit was still white
scroll-work, but below, the line of bronze had turned into a crimson
shade, within an uneven apex; the lead-colored base of the main body
was changing to a purple hue, and all through the mass the rose and
amber were being laid in, shifting from moment to moment, until the
hues became bewildering in their multitude; then, as the sun went down,
the gray tones returned again, such as the artist may sometimes give a
hint of but never paints.
It was a great storm we had witnessed, away over the range to the east;
we were far from the sound of the artillery, and it hid from us the
flash of its batteries.
During the beautiful display the Deacon's young wife sat a few feet in
front of me and to the left. She had moved but once, and that was when
the first shadow came and marked out the great gorge; she turned round
then, and said to me:
"Is it not grand?"
When the rose tints faded out, she turned again; there was a mist in
her dark eyes, and a perceptible quiver about her pretty lips; she
spoke in a half-whisper, as of one just awakened from a happy vision:
"Did you ever see anything so glorious? and yet I felt all the time as
if I must kneel and look upon it with reverence."
I did not blame Mr. Dide, nor the Deacon; they couldn't help it; I
envied her father.
"When we can have our backs to the afternoon sun, with a mountain range
to the east of us, these magnificent carnivals of shadows are not
uncommon."
"Did you see the baby's bonnet? was it not too cute for anything?" and
then, half-musingly to me, "you have lived in these beautiful mountains
since before the time I was born--you ought to be happy!"
I told her that happiness was my normal condition, and then she wanted
to know of me if I had ever read Ruskin, and I said I hadn't.
"I wish he could have seen what we have this afternoon."
"He would have criticised and found fault with it."
"It is unkind of you to say so, knowing nothing of him."
The rebuke was quick, earnest, and, I confessed to myself, not wholly
unwarranted. I determined to read Ruskin, and I presume that if the
Major and the others had not just then drifted up to us, I should have
been led off after "Darwin and those fellows." With such disciples the
philosophers in question might effect a revolution rapidly.
The Major and the others, except Joshua, had much to say about the
afternoon's entertainment. Joshua didn't see anything except a great
bank of clouds, and knew there had been a storm on the main range.
While we were at supper (and since we had ladies in company, the Major
had improvised a table out of some boards which he picked up, using
the wagon seats for supports), our table now decked with wild flowers,
and the tin plates and cups presenting a brighter appearance, we had
a call. Our visitor was a lank mortal in flannel shirt, blue cotton
overalls, and the ordinary white felt hat of the country. He was not a
cowboy, but "a hand" from a neighboring ranch, who had "hoofed it in
last fall."
"Evenin'," was his salutation, with a nod, intended for all of us. "Bin
campin' out, ain't ye? Had a good time, s'pose--lots o' fish and sech?
Didn't see nothin' of a roan cayuse with a strip in face, up crick? No!
been a-huntin' the darn brute since noon-time; branded 'J. K.' on his
left hip."
"You'd better keep on, if you count on findin' him before night,"
hinted Joshua, shaking a flapjack in the frying-pan preparatory to a
final turn.
"Stranger in these parts?" the visitor inquired of Joshua.
"Yes; been here a week."
"More'n that--I see you go up crick more'n two weeks ago. What's yer
business?"
"Mindin' it."
"Mindin' what?"
"My business."
"Don't know as you'll ever die o' brain fever."
"Neither will you, if you stay in this country. I wonder you wasn't
buried before spring."
"They wasn't no fellers round here handy 'nough----"
"What can we do for you, my friend?" broke in the Major, in some doubt
as to the result of the dialogue.
"Nothin', 'bleeged to ye, 'less yer got sumpin's good for cuts;
cut my finger sharpnin' a sickle; durn near cut it off an' it's
festerin'--see." He exposed the wounded member. If there is anything in
life with a tendency to raise one's curiosity, or anything else, I know
of nothing more potent than a sick finger at meal time. The stranger
was generously determined that none of us should miss the luxury. The
Major stared, the ladies turned away, and Joshua, out of all patience,
exclaimed:
"Come off the shelf, man, the flies'll eat you up."
The stranger's attention was distracted.
"Whatcher mean? I ain't got no flies on me, mister."
"Cover up that paw o' yours and go after your cayuse--don't you see
it up yonder in the willers?" And Joshua took our visitor by the arm
and started him in the right direction. He led him farther than was
necessary, the pony being in sight, and they had some conversation on
the way, but we did not overhear it, and they seemed to part with a
satisfactory understanding.
The next day we made a move still farther down stream and camped in the
vicinity of the site selected by the government for the erection of a
sawmill that was to aid in civilizing the Utes. The habitations that
had been erected at great expense were no longer visible; literally
not one stone remained upon another. The boiler was perforated with
bullet-holes, and rusty bits of machinery lay scattered over a square
mile of the level mesa. A more complete wreck than this, effected by
the gentle savages, would be hard to conceive, and a more sorrowful
exhibition of sheer viciousness could not have been expressed; it
was as if the destroyers had determined to obliterate every vestige
that might give rise even to a memory of the kindness intended them.
Those beautiful symbols of peace, the doves, were plentiful, flitting
about the ruins, as docile as if the valley had never known a wrathful
moment. The birds were not within the protection of the law, but to
kill them in such a place seemed like adding sacrilege to cruelty, so
not one was harmed.
Upon the breaking up of this camp our company was to be divided. The
Deacon and his relatives would turn off to the right a few miles below,
to visit the Thornburg battle-ground, while the Major and I would take
our way back over the old route to Glenwood Springs. One more day's
sojourn on the beautiful river at our first camping-ground, below
Meeker, and we bade farewell, reluctantly, to the charming valley. But
the keen edge of our unwillingness was softened by an assurance to
ourselves that another summer would find us again with our tent pitched
amid the sweet peacefulness. We would come again, if for no other
purpose, to make acquaintance with the trail to Trapper's Lake--the gem
of the Roan Range.
There is no comfort whatever in towels, with a tin cup for a bath-tub;
the White River is no place to bathe in, unless one would encourage
pneumonia or the rheumatism. The sight of the great pool at Glenwood,
after several weeks of travesty, gave a hint of marvellous luxury. It
was as if we approached the performance of a religious rite; we stood
upon the edge, filled with the eagerness of neophytes, but hesitating
for a moment before penetrating the mystery whose revelation we sought.
But once within the warm embrace of the voluptuous crystal, the
Wesleyan admonition was made manifest; we washed, and worshipped close
to the throne. Then we thanked the men whose enterprise had converted
the possibility of the luxury into a fact.
"Epicurean Rome could boast of no such treat as this," exclaimed the
Major, shaking the crystal drops from his shaggy mane, as he rose to
the surface after the first plunge.
"I don't know much about Rome," said Joshua, "but this suits me, this
does."
We left the bright little city beautifully nestled among the carmine
hills, as the afternoon sun was caressing the summits of the mountains
in the west. We were again on the rail, speeding up the valley of
the Roaring Fork. A slight bend in the road and Mount Sopris towers
grandly, in front and to the right of us, with its long patch of snow
offering a perpetual challenge to our daily friend.
The ride up the great gorge in the western slope to the top of the
Saguache Range affords a grander pageant than that in descending. One
experiences a sensation of quiet, while one is looking down upon a
panorama that is drifting. As the sun touches only the highest peaks
the magnificent cliffs and wooded mountain sides are in shadow, seem
animate, and as if stealing away, phantom-like, into the deepening
twilight below. But the sunlight of the morrow will clothe the scene in
new beauties, and the summer days to come will be bountiful in fresh
surprises for the sojourner in these recesses of the majestic hills.
[Illustration: THE SWITCHBACK.]