Raleigh: Fain would I climb.But that I fear to fall,Elizabeth: If thy heart fail thee,Why, then, climb at all?
Raleigh: Fain would I climb.But that I fear to fall,Elizabeth: If thy heart fail thee,Why, then, climb at all?
Raleigh: Fain would I climb.
But that I fear to fall,
Elizabeth: If thy heart fail thee,
Why, then, climb at all?
Toward the middle of one bright afternoon we were pulled out of Pueblo, our three cars having been attached to the regular south-bound express. We had fully discussed the matter, and determined to go on to the end of the track, or, more literally, tooneend—for there are many termini to this wide-branching system—on to the warm old plazitas and dreamily pleasant pueblos of New Mexico. Why not?
But so inconsequential and careless an “outfit” was this, that no sooner had our minds been fairly settled to the plan (while the shadow of the Greenhorn came creeping out toward Cuchara and we were heading straight into its gloom) than somebody proposed our spending the night quietly in Veta Pass.
This mountain pass and its “Muleshoe,” dwarfing in interest the celebrated “Horseshoe curve” in Pennsylvania, because occupying far less space, just as the foot of a mule may be set within a horse’s track—these have been famous ever since railroading in southern Colorado began, and naturally we did not like to go past them in the darkness. We wanted to see how the track was laid away around the head of the long ravine, whether it doubled upon itself in as close a loop as they said it did; and whether the train really climbed through the clouds about the brow of Dump Mountain, as the pictures represented. So we told the conductor to drop us.
It was dark by the time we had been left in good shape on the terrace-like siding in Veta Pass, and, weary with our swift run, we were quite ready to shut out the gathering shades and be merry over our dinner; but first, all eyes must watch the departing express begin its climb up Dump Mountain. Think of swinging a train round a curve of only thirty degrees, on a very stiff grade, and with a bridge directly in the center of the turn! That is what this audacious railway does every few hours in the “toe” of the Muleshoe. From our lonely night-grippeddot of a house on the wild hill side, we could see squarely facing us both the Cyclopean blaze of the fierce headlight, and the two watchful red eyes glaring scornfully from the rear platform; by that we knew that the train had doubled on its own length of only six cars. Then, with hoarse panting and grinding of tortured wheels and rails, the two powerful locomotives began to force their way up the hill side right opposite us, the slanting line of bright windows showing how amazingly steep a grade of two hundred and seventeen feet to the mile really is. The beam of the headlight thrust itself forward, not level, as is its wont, but aimed at a planet that glimmered just above a distant ghostly peak.
“Do you remember,” murmurs the Madame in a low voice, as she stands with bated breath beside me; “do you remember how Thoreau advises one of his friends to ‘hitch his chariot to a star’? Doesn’t this scene come near his splendid ambition? Will that train stop short of the sky, do you think?”
Surely it seemed that it would not, for only when the stokers opened the doors of the laboring furnaces, and volumes of red light suddenly illumined the overhanging masses of smoke, touching into strange prominence for an instant the rocks and trees beside the engines, could we see that the train stood upon anything solid, or was moving otherwise than as a slow meteor passes athwart the midnight sky. It was easy to imagine that long line of uncanny lights a fiery motto emblazoned upon the side of the dark mountain, and to read in it,Per aspera ad astra.
Yet the scene was far from fanciful. It was very real, and a fine sight for a man interested in mechanical progress, to watch those great machines walk up that hill, spouting two geysers of smoke and sparks, and dragging the ponderous train slowly but steadily along its upward course. Now and again they would be lost behind the fringe of woods through which the track passed, and then we would see the cone-like, rugged spruces sharply outlined against the luminous volumes of smoke. A moment later and the train disappeared around Dump Mountain, with a sardonic wink of the red guard-lights at the last; but presently we had knowledge of it again, for a fountain of sparks and black smoke from the engines blotted out the scintillating sky just above the highest crest of the ridge.
“Suppose it had broken in two on that hill-side,” remarks the Artist, as I am carving the roast, five minutes later.
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” is the reply. “I once saw a heavier train than that break on this very mountain, the three rear coaches parting company with the forward portion of the train.”
“But wasn’t that criminal carelessness?” cries the Madame, who is death on inattention to railway duties. I should hate to be a neglectful brakeman before her gray eyes as judge!
“Not at all,” she is informed. “The cars were properly coupled with what, for all any one could see, was a sufficiently strong link, but the strain proved too great for the tenacity of the iron.”
“Well, I suppose they went down the track a-flying, or else over the precipice.”
“Not a bit of it. The two parts of the train stopped not more than twenty feet apart. When the accident occurred the engineer knew it instantly by the jerking of the bell-rope, and stopped short. As for the rear cars, they were brought to a standstill at once by means of the automatic brakes. I tell you they are a great institution, and indispensable to success on any road which has heavy grades to overcome.”
“How do they operate?”
“Well, it is the Westinghouse patent and rather complicated. Better go out to-morrow and see the apparatus on the engine. It works somewhat in this manner: When the valve on the retort under each car is set in a particular way, the letting off of the ‘straight’ or ordinary air-brakes causes the compression of an exceedingly powerful spring on each set of brakes. If, however, you destroy the equilibrium by forcibly parting the air connection between that car and the locomotive, as of course occurs when a train breaks in two, the great springs are released and jam the brake-shoes hard against the wheels, gripping them with tremendous force. That’s what happened instantly in this case, and those heavy cars, which otherwise would have carried their cargoes to almost certain destruction, halted in a single second.”
ALABASTER HALL.
ALABASTER HALL.
“But—what if—” began our lady member in an alarmed tone;whereupon she was speedily interrupted by the learned gentleman who was dividing his time between dinner and lecture:
“My dear Madame, our cars, like all the rest on this admirably-guarded railway, are provided with the automatic apparatus I have described. Since it is useless to pretend to one’s-self, or anybody else, that an accident will never happen, it is well to understand that every precaution known to intelligent management has been provided against any serious harm resulting when things do go wrong. In consideration of all which profound explanations I think we deserve a second glass of claret. My toast is: The Automatic Brake!”
And we all responded, “May it never be broken!”
Sleep that night was deep and refreshing. The next morning broke cool and clear, and the Photographer proposed, with nearly his first words, that we all go to the top of Veta Mountain. Only the crest of one of the spurs could be seen, and this did not appear very far away, so that those who had never climbed mountains afoot were enthusiastic on the subject. Now in the humble, but dearly experienced opinion of the present author, the old saw,—
“Where ignorance is bliss’T were the height of folly to be otherwise,”
“Where ignorance is bliss’T were the height of folly to be otherwise,”
“Where ignorance is bliss
’T were the height of folly to be otherwise,”
fits no situation better than mountain climbing. I have said in the bitterness of my soul, on some cloud-splitting peak, as I tried to gulp enough air to fill a small corner of my lungs, that the man who belonged to an Alpine Club wasprima faciea fool. Scaling mountains for some definitely profitable purpose, like finding or working a silver mine, or getting a wide view so as properly to map out the region, or for a knowledge of its fauna and flora, is disagreeable but endurable, because you are sustained by the advantages to accrue; but to toil up there for fun—bah! Yet people will go on doing it, and those who know better will follow after, and the heart of the grumbler will grow sick as he sees of how little avail are his words and the testimony of his sufferings.
It was so this time. Admonitions that upright distances were the most deceiving of all aspects of nature; that the higher you went the steeper the slope and the more insecure and toilsome the foothold; these, with other remonstrances, were totally unheeded, and three misguided mortals decided to go. Then the growler yielded—what else could he do? He had survived many a previous ascent, and could not afford to assume a cowardice that really didn’t belong to him. So he chose that horn of the dilemma, and left the reader to the conclusion that in telling this tale, after the previous paragraph, he “writ himself down an ass.”
All went but the Musician. Among the gentlemen were divided the photographic camera and materials, and the whisky, while the Madame set off sturdily with field-glasses over her shoulder, and a revolver strapped around her shapely waist. Dinner was ordered for two o’clock, and up we started. The Madame wrote to her friend about it as follows (the letter, I declare, smelled of camphor):
“I assure you, my dear Mrs. McAngle, that not more than a hundred feet had been gone over before the inexperienced of our party began to feel the effects of rarefied air, although thus far it was easy enough walking. There was no path, of course, and we simply tramped over a grassy slope sprinkled with flowers and covered by trees that shaded us from the sun. Gorges which were hardly perceptible as such from the valley, now proved to be uncomfortably deep gashes in the broad mountain-side, and tiny streams came down each one of them, to water dense thickets along their banks. In one place, about a thousand feet above our starting point, we came across the remains of a camp made by some man who thought he had found precious metal. Dreary enough it looked now, with its dismantled roof and wet and moldy bed of leaves.“By this time breathing has become a conscious difficulty. I speak in the present tense, my dear, because the recollection is very vivid, and it seems almost as though I am again trudging over those sharp-edged rocks. Every ten minutes further progress becomes an utter impossibility for me, and rest absolutely necessary; but one recuperates in even less time than it takes to become exhausted, and starts on again. Nevertheless I can not go as fast as the gentlemen, who have no skirts to drag along.“Now the comparatively easy climbing is over. Flowers and grass have grown scarce, and almost all the trees have disappeared. Nausea is beginning to annoy me, and I was never more glad in my life than now, when I discover some raspberry bushes and eagerly gather the ripe fruit, whose pleasant acid brings moisture to my parched mouth and comforts my sad stomach, for there is no water or snow here, and I know it would not be best to drink if there were.“Even the berries are gone now. Far above and on all sides I see nothing but fragments of rocks. For centuries, wind, frost, rain and snow have been hard at work leveling the mountains. They have broken up the hard masses of yellowish white trachyte, and the dikes of black basalt into small pieces—some as minute as walnuts, but most of them much larger, with sharp-pointed edges that cut my feet. Across these vast fields the wild sheep, thinking nothing of jumping and gamboling over such steep slopes of broken stones, have made trails that cross and criss-cross everywhere. Availing ourselves of these is some help, as we all settle down to persistent, never-ending climbing.“Up, up, up. You have forgotten how to breathe; your back and head are aching; you have found a stick, and lean more and more upon it; you look down on the back of a hawk far below you with sullenenvy; you devoutly wish you had never come, but will not give up. At length a stupor creeps over you. You never expect to reach the top, but you do not care; old long-forgotten songs go through your brain and seem to try to lull you to sleep. You see in the distance one of the strong ones reach the summit and wave his hat; you are beyond sensation, and it is all a dream. Finally you stagger over the last ledge and throw yourself down on the top and feebly call for—whisky. Mrs. McAngle, I am a teetotaller; I hate whisky! But just then I would have given half my fortune had it been necessary for the one swallow which did me so much good.”
“I assure you, my dear Mrs. McAngle, that not more than a hundred feet had been gone over before the inexperienced of our party began to feel the effects of rarefied air, although thus far it was easy enough walking. There was no path, of course, and we simply tramped over a grassy slope sprinkled with flowers and covered by trees that shaded us from the sun. Gorges which were hardly perceptible as such from the valley, now proved to be uncomfortably deep gashes in the broad mountain-side, and tiny streams came down each one of them, to water dense thickets along their banks. In one place, about a thousand feet above our starting point, we came across the remains of a camp made by some man who thought he had found precious metal. Dreary enough it looked now, with its dismantled roof and wet and moldy bed of leaves.
“By this time breathing has become a conscious difficulty. I speak in the present tense, my dear, because the recollection is very vivid, and it seems almost as though I am again trudging over those sharp-edged rocks. Every ten minutes further progress becomes an utter impossibility for me, and rest absolutely necessary; but one recuperates in even less time than it takes to become exhausted, and starts on again. Nevertheless I can not go as fast as the gentlemen, who have no skirts to drag along.
“Now the comparatively easy climbing is over. Flowers and grass have grown scarce, and almost all the trees have disappeared. Nausea is beginning to annoy me, and I was never more glad in my life than now, when I discover some raspberry bushes and eagerly gather the ripe fruit, whose pleasant acid brings moisture to my parched mouth and comforts my sad stomach, for there is no water or snow here, and I know it would not be best to drink if there were.
“Even the berries are gone now. Far above and on all sides I see nothing but fragments of rocks. For centuries, wind, frost, rain and snow have been hard at work leveling the mountains. They have broken up the hard masses of yellowish white trachyte, and the dikes of black basalt into small pieces—some as minute as walnuts, but most of them much larger, with sharp-pointed edges that cut my feet. Across these vast fields the wild sheep, thinking nothing of jumping and gamboling over such steep slopes of broken stones, have made trails that cross and criss-cross everywhere. Availing ourselves of these is some help, as we all settle down to persistent, never-ending climbing.
“Up, up, up. You have forgotten how to breathe; your back and head are aching; you have found a stick, and lean more and more upon it; you look down on the back of a hawk far below you with sullenenvy; you devoutly wish you had never come, but will not give up. At length a stupor creeps over you. You never expect to reach the top, but you do not care; old long-forgotten songs go through your brain and seem to try to lull you to sleep. You see in the distance one of the strong ones reach the summit and wave his hat; you are beyond sensation, and it is all a dream. Finally you stagger over the last ledge and throw yourself down on the top and feebly call for—whisky. Mrs. McAngle, I am a teetotaller; I hate whisky! But just then I would have given half my fortune had it been necessary for the one swallow which did me so much good.”
Well, her companions having more strength, didn’t feelquiteso bad, though near enough so, to make their sympathies strong. The crest having been gained, the Madame lay down on a rubber coat under the cap rock to rest, while the remainder of us dispersed in search of water. But let me quote that long letter again:
“The rocks, when I had recovered strength to look about me, I saw were crumbling lavas of two colors, light drab and dark brown. Covered, as they were, with lichens of brown, green and red, they were very pretty. At last one of the gentlemen came back, carefully carrying his hat in both hands, which he had made into a sort of bowl by pressing in the soft crown. This I soon saw contained water, but such water—foul and bad tasting, for it had been squeezed from moss. But we drank it through a ‘straw,’ made by rolling up a business card, and were thankful.“Refreshed, and becoming interested in life again, the old hymn occurred to me,—‘Lo, on a narrow neck of land’Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.’Only the seas, in this case, were broad green valleys, and were bounded in the distance by lofty mountains, best of all Sierra Blanca, across whose peaks the clouds were winding their long garments as if to hide somewhat the sterility and ruggedness of their friends. Above them how intensely blue was the sky, and how the soft green foothills leaning against them satisfied your eyes with their graceful curves. Trailing among them, as though a long white string had been carelessly tossed down, ran the serpentine track of the railway, and the famous Dump Mountain sank into the merest foot-ridge at our feet. On the other side of the ledge we gazed out on the misty and limitless plains, past the rough jumble of the Sierra Mojada, and could trace where we had come across the valley of the Cuchara. Nearer by lay dozens of snug and verdant vales, in one of which glistened a little lake tantalizing to our still thirsty throats.“We all had our photographs taken, with this magnificent sceneryfor a background—better even than the cockney-loved Niagara, we thought—and strolled about. Not far away we hit upon a prospect-hole. The miner was absent, but had left pick and shovel behind as tokens of possession. How intense must be the love of money that would induce a man to undertake such a terrible climb, and live in this utter loneliness and exposure! Yet they say that many of the best silver mines in Colorado are on the very tops of such bald peaks as this.“At last, on asking my husband if he did not think he appeared like an Alpine tourist, I found him recovered sufficiently to say that we should all pine if we didn’t have dinner soon, so we turned our faces homeward. Now I hope I haven’t wasted all my adjectives, for I need the strongest of them to tell of that descent. It was frightful. Feet and knees became so sore that every movement was torture. The sun blinded and scorched me, and the fields of barren, sharp and cruel stones stretched down ahead in endless succession. Mrs. McAngle, however foolish I may be in the future in climbingupanother mountain, I never, never will comedown, but will cheerfully die on the summit, and leave my bones a warning to the next absurdly ambitious sight-seer. When I was on the crest, I thought what an idiot the youth in ‘Excelsior’ was, but now I hold him in high respect, for he had the great good sense, having reached the top, to stay there!”
“The rocks, when I had recovered strength to look about me, I saw were crumbling lavas of two colors, light drab and dark brown. Covered, as they were, with lichens of brown, green and red, they were very pretty. At last one of the gentlemen came back, carefully carrying his hat in both hands, which he had made into a sort of bowl by pressing in the soft crown. This I soon saw contained water, but such water—foul and bad tasting, for it had been squeezed from moss. But we drank it through a ‘straw,’ made by rolling up a business card, and were thankful.
“Refreshed, and becoming interested in life again, the old hymn occurred to me,—
‘Lo, on a narrow neck of land’Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.’
‘Lo, on a narrow neck of land’Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.’
‘Lo, on a narrow neck of land
’Twixt two unbounded seas I stand.’
Only the seas, in this case, were broad green valleys, and were bounded in the distance by lofty mountains, best of all Sierra Blanca, across whose peaks the clouds were winding their long garments as if to hide somewhat the sterility and ruggedness of their friends. Above them how intensely blue was the sky, and how the soft green foothills leaning against them satisfied your eyes with their graceful curves. Trailing among them, as though a long white string had been carelessly tossed down, ran the serpentine track of the railway, and the famous Dump Mountain sank into the merest foot-ridge at our feet. On the other side of the ledge we gazed out on the misty and limitless plains, past the rough jumble of the Sierra Mojada, and could trace where we had come across the valley of the Cuchara. Nearer by lay dozens of snug and verdant vales, in one of which glistened a little lake tantalizing to our still thirsty throats.
“We all had our photographs taken, with this magnificent sceneryfor a background—better even than the cockney-loved Niagara, we thought—and strolled about. Not far away we hit upon a prospect-hole. The miner was absent, but had left pick and shovel behind as tokens of possession. How intense must be the love of money that would induce a man to undertake such a terrible climb, and live in this utter loneliness and exposure! Yet they say that many of the best silver mines in Colorado are on the very tops of such bald peaks as this.
“At last, on asking my husband if he did not think he appeared like an Alpine tourist, I found him recovered sufficiently to say that we should all pine if we didn’t have dinner soon, so we turned our faces homeward. Now I hope I haven’t wasted all my adjectives, for I need the strongest of them to tell of that descent. It was frightful. Feet and knees became so sore that every movement was torture. The sun blinded and scorched me, and the fields of barren, sharp and cruel stones stretched down ahead in endless succession. Mrs. McAngle, however foolish I may be in the future in climbingupanother mountain, I never, never will comedown, but will cheerfully die on the summit, and leave my bones a warning to the next absurdly ambitious sight-seer. When I was on the crest, I thought what an idiot the youth in ‘Excelsior’ was, but now I hold him in high respect, for he had the great good sense, having reached the top, to stay there!”
Returning to Veta Pass, the promontory where the track winds cautiously around the brow of Dump Mountain—the name is given because of a resemblance in shape to the dump at the entrance of a mine tunnel—has been called Inspiration Point. I don’t know who christened it; perhaps some would-be hero of a novel by G. P. R. James. If, to be in character, he “paused at this point in involuntary admiration,” there was plenty of excuse, for one of the loveliest panoramas in Colorado unrolls itself at the observer’s feet.
Coming up is fine enough, if you see it on such a day as the gods gave us. The Spanish Peaks, as we approached from Cuchara, were as blue as blue could be, with half-transparent, vaporous masses hovering tenderly about them; but these mists stopped short of Veta, which stood out distinct against its cloud-flecked background, majestic in full round outlines beyond the majority of mountains,—in hue purple and sunny white, with the mingling of forests and vast sterile slopes. North of it the landscape was almost hidden under rain-veils, into which the sun shot a great sheaf-full of slanting arrows of light, and beyond, range behind range were marked with phantom-like faintness of outline. A broad canopy of leaden clouds hung overhead, down from the further eaves of which was shed a wide halo radiating from the invisible sun above; and this snowy shower had stood long unchanged before our entranced eyes, making us believe that the brown cliffs, toward which we were running so swiftly, were the gates of an enchanted land.
VETA PASS.
VETA PASS.
Now, from within and far surmounting those portals, we stand gazing abroad, as in olden days they looked out of some castle tower through and beyond the great fortress arch. The typically mountain-like mass of Veta, satisfying all our ideals of how that style of elevation should look which does not abound in rugged cliff and sky-piercing pinnacles, but is smoothly and roundly huge, cuts off all northward outlook. Southward the crowded foothills of the divide between the Rio Grande and the Arkansas hide from view the central points in which they culminate,—even lofty Trinchera, whose sharp summit was so plain a landmark at the southern end of the Sangre de Cristo yesterday. Beyond these swelling domes and gables, and ridges of green and gray, were lifted the noble pyramids of the Spanish Peaks, their angles well defined in varying tints of purplish blue, and their grand old heads sustained in generous rivalry. (Illustration.) Behind us was only a piney slope, close at hand: but ahead—the world! I think no one has ever said enough of the beauty of this picture in Veta Pass. From the precipitous, wooded mountain-side where you stand, the eye follows the little creek as it glides with less and less disquietude down through the protruding bases of the diminishing foothills, into the slowly broadening valley where the willows are more dense, and the heather and small bushes have taken on brilliant colors to vie with the splendor of aspen-patches higher up; on to the hay-meadows fenced with the many-elbowed and scraggy faggots of red cedar; on past the little park where the low brown adobe houses of the Mexican rancheros look like mere pieces of flat rock fallen from the mountains; on into the midst of minute cornfields; on out, beyond the surf-like ridges breaking against the base of the range, to the blue and boundless sea of the plains.
The western side of the Pass is a tortuous descent through continuous woods and lessening hills, until you emerge upon a plain where the ragged heights of the Saguache Mountains fill the northern horizon; and as you turn southward the glorious serrated summits of the Sangre de Cristo range come into view behind and beside you, on the east. This plain is the San Luis Park, the largest of those four great interior plateaus—North Park, Middle Park, South Park and San Luis—which lie between the “Front” and the “Main” ranges of the Rockies.
It has been truly said of the Rocky Mountains that the word “range” does not express it at all. “It is a whole country, populous with mountains. It is as if an ocean of molten granite had been caught by instant petrifaction when its billows were rolling heaven-high.”
CREST OF VETA MOUNTAIN.
CREST OF VETA MOUNTAIN.
Nevertheless, popular language divides the system into certain great lines. The “Front Range” extends irregularly from Long’s Peak to Pike’s Peak, then fades out. The “Main” or “Snowy Range,” which is the continental watershed or “divide,” begins at the northern boundary, in the Medicine Bow Mountains: but in the center of the State breaks out of all regularity into several branches, so that it is onlyby ascertaining where the headwaters of the Atlantic and Pacific streams are separated, that one can tell how to trace the backbone of the continent, for many of the spurs contain peaks quite as lofty as the central chain. Thus the splendid line of the Sangre de Cristo, running southeastward, only divides the drainage of the Rio Grande from that of the Mississippi; yet the highest peak in Colorado belongs to it. The main chain, on the contrary, trends southwestward from the parallel groups in the heart of the State, only to become mixed up into half a dozen branches, all of enormous height and bulk, down in the southwestern corner. Even this is not all, for westward to Utah the whole area isfilled with vast uplifts, standing in isolated groups, serving as cross-links, or lying parallel with the general north-and-south lines of great elevation. “I suppose,” says Ludlow, “that to most Eastern men the discovery of what is meant by crossing the Rocky Mountains would be as great a surprise as it was to myself. Day after day, as we were traveling between Denver and Salt Lake, I kept wondering when we should get over the mountains. Four, five, six days, still we were perpetually climbing, descending or flanking them; and at nightfall of the last day, we rolled down into the Mormon city through a gorge in one of the grandest ranges in the system. Then, for the first time, after a journey of six hundred miles, could we be said to have crossed the Rocky Mountains.”
Because we had ascended and descended Veta Pass, therefore, and saw on our left the seemingly insurmountable barrier which yesterday stood at our right, we had by no means got beyond the Rockies; for out there “mountain billows roll westward, their crests climbing as they go: and far on, where you might suppose the Plains began again, break on a spotless strand of everlasting snow.”
The plain was grassy, wild and bare,Wide, wild, and open to the air.
The plain was grassy, wild and bare,Wide, wild, and open to the air.
The plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air.
—Tennyson.
San Luis Park, exceeding in size the State of Connecticut, is identified with the earliest and most romantic history of Colorado. It was here that brave old pioneer, Colonel Zebulon Pike, established his winter quarters almost a century ago, and was captured by the Mexican forces, for at that time all this region was Spanish territory. It was here the northernmost habitations of the Mexican people, the ranches at Conejos, Del Norte, and all along between, were placed, and so became the first farms in what now is Colorado. Here were pastured the first herds and flocks of the early settlers, and the great Maxwell grant, whose ownership has been the subject of so much litigation, included a large portion of this park. To this region, long ago Governor Gilpin directed the attention of immigrants, and lauded it as the “garden of the world.” Gardening is practicable here, without doubt; but colonists have found other parts of the State so much more favorable, that, in spite of its superior advertising, the park has kept nearly its pristine innocence of agriculture outside of the old Mexican estates along the principal streams.
That Colorado can ever produce cereals enough for the sustenance of a large population is doubtful. The great rarity and dryness of the atmosphere; the light rainfall, and almost instant disappearance of moisture; the large proportion of alkaline constituents in the earth, and the climate caused by great altitude, seem to handicap this region when compared with the Mississippi valley or the Pacific coast. By irrigation only, can agriculture thrive in this State; and the amount of arable land that can be cultivated without enormous expenditure for irrigating canals can hardly be considered wide enough to long supply the local population, which increases faster than the acreage under the plow is extended. The nature of the soil, and the effect of the short, hot seasons, under careful regularity of watering, combine, however, to make the product of Colorado farms extremely heavy to the acre, and of the finest quality in every article grown.
“The San Luis valley,” says a recent report to the Government, “bears witness to the wealth of the produce returned by the soil under proper cultivation. In following up the Rio Grande, the Mexicans ascended divers tributary waters, and upon these and along the main river can their apologies for farms be seen. Generally content with simple existence, but little variety in the products of their land is observed. The turning of the earth with oxen and a sharpened stick, the threshing by flail and trampling under foot, and the crushing of the grain between stones, can be so frequently seen, that the charm of novelty is lacking and one’s curiosity is soon satiated. Progress is not their hope or desire, and, content to eke out a bare subsistence, their ambition does not extend beyond abaile, or the tripping of the ‘light fantastic,’ with surroundings that are here, as a rule, far from enchanting.
“Their cultivation of the ground tells of eastern origin and traditions, and is by irrigation fromacequiasor canals. Smaller ditches at intervals lead out from the main, and furrows of earth of varying height, connected thereto, are raised at stated points parallel to one another, cutting up the entire area into many patches nearly square and of small extent. With the planting of the seed and the main ditch filled, all the smaller outlets and various sections being simultaneously overflowed, the entire area is carefully submerged, the little furrows confining the water in each section. To the inexperienced farmer, the first successful irrigation of his land is a matter of considerable labor and pains. Besides the thorough moistening of the earth, obtained by the gradual settling of the waters, a fertilizing process is at the same time ensured. These streams carry in solution much rich and valuable material from the denudation of sections drained in their passage, which is left in deposit like a substratum of manure. The latter is never used, the farmer depending on irrigation for the supply of those constituents extracted from the soil in the growth of produce.
“The Rio Grande descends from seven thousand seven hundred and fifty feet at Del Norte, to seven thousand four hundred on leaving the State for New Mexico. Upon its western side numbers of locations are along the Piedra Pintada, which sinks a few miles from the Rio Grande, the Alamosa and La Jara, but chiefly along the Conejos, the most thickly settled of all its tributaries; upon the eastern side are the Trinchera, Culebra, Costilla, the Culebra above San Luis being on this side the seat of largest habitation. In the upper part of San Luis valley is situated the finest land of the section, with the mountain range encircling it upon the east, north and west. Exposed only upon the south, whence do not come the heavy snow storms and coldest winds, it contains the best lands for cereal and other productions. Drained by the San Luis creek, and the Saguache, its tributary, the ranchmen who have located along the streams have been rewarded for their labor by very abundant crops of all kinds. Throughout the valley large herds ofcattle find ample sustenance, the property mainly of Americans, while numerous flocks of sheep of Mexican ownership, are driven to and fro. The valley of the Conejos, with its affluents, San Antonio and Los Pinos creeks, is a most fertile region. Several miles east of Conejos, during the highest stages of the rivers, in June, water from the San Antonio finds its way into the former river above the latter’s mouth, forming an island. This section is especially rich, and there exists almost a natural irrigation, the Mexican ranchmen raising large crops of all kinds at the cost of but little labor therefor.
“The Alamosa and La Jara, during the lower parts of their courses upon the plains, run side by side. At the foothills they diverge, the head of the Alamosa being in the northwest, its course throughout in a generally narrow and very deep cañon, while the upper waters of the La Jara are due west. All the portions of the former that are available for agriculture, are its banks on the plain and a short part of its cañon-valley within the foothills, upon which the Mexican ranches are found. Upon the La Jara are a few more Americans than upon the former the ranch-owners being mainly, however, of Mexican descent. A tributary is called by the geographer North Fork, but is locally known as Aguas Calientes or Hot Springs Creek, and where its land is represented as suitable for grazing only, it is found in reality to be adapted to the agriculture of the Mexicans, ranches at intervals being passed along its banks.
“The entire course of the La Jara may be likened in its direction to a huge frying-pan in outline, the long handle upon the plain extending to the Rio Grande, the basin within the foothills to its source. Before reaching the plains the stream flows to the south, east, and north, the latter part in a steep, precipitous cañon, strewed with basaltic, which the road avoids. This road, built by the county over a natural route, is in good order, and affords the residents of the lower river easy access to its upper part, which, as we ascend and pass over the intervening rolling foothills, we find within a lovely valley, called by the MexicansEl Valle, to which they resort for hay. The volcanic rocks strewn along the foothills, well timbered with piñon, we leave behind us as we descend into the valley, a basin eroded from the general plateau by the waters of the stream, which has cut for itself, in its lower and more rapid descent, a small but impassable cañon. This valley, several miles long and of a varying width of from three-fourths to one and a half miles, is a beautiful spot, and has been located upon by several persons for cattle ranches. The grazing is very fine, and so nearly level is the land, that the stream, here small and at its headwaters, pursues a most tortuous course. Trout are found more abundantly than at any other point.”
While we can scarcely compliment the syntax of the report above quoted, the facts are trustworthy.
Fairly out into the valley, where Ute creek, Sangre de Cristo, and one or two other streamlets unite to form the Trinchera, stands an old military post, Fort Garland. In one of the cañons near by was a still older one, Fort Massachusetts, now abandoned or used only as a cavalry cantonment when a larger body of troops is assembled here than there are barracks for. In 1852 and 1856, the dates when the two forts respectively were founded, the Indians—Utes, Apaches, Comanches, and Navajoes—were all troublesome, and the men were kept very busy in scouting, if not in resisting attacks. Now the crumbling buildings of adobe shelter only a score or so of men, and serve merely as a depot of supplies, a large amount of government stores being guarded here. Fort Garland is a pretty place, and from it will be likely to make his start anybody who wishes to ascend old Sierra Blanca, the loftiest peak in Colorado, whose triple head stands grandly opposite and near the railway; the United States Geological Survey is his sole predecessor.
Long ere this we had become domesticated in our cars, and now I may digress sufficiently to jot down a little description of them. As I have said, there were three, and we spoke of them as our “train.” The first was a parlor-car. It usually ran in the rear, and gave us the advantage of a lookout behind, something worth having among the mountains. This car was not homelike enough to suit us, however, so we rarely occupied it, when we were stationary, except as a bedroom for our masculine guests. But when running, this car was our resort. Into it we would hustle the Madame’s sewing-basket and fancy work, a lot of books and papers, spy-glasses, wraps, and luncheon, and have the gayest of times as we sped along, unconfined by limited space, unsolicitous about baggage or appearances, unannoyed by other passengers, and above all, thank heaven! safe from the peanut-boy. If we were to run at night we converted it into a sleeper. Curtains were hung up at intervals, making staterooms; easy chairs were faced, a stool placed between them, then a mattress spread across, forming a capital bed; or else we simply cleared a place on the floor, spread our mattresses down, and camped. Usually both methods were followed by different occupants. It was snug, there was good ventilation, and we slept such slumbers as seemed to prove us in the poet’s category of the “just.” Where a long stay was made, cots were set up, and the car became a bed-room exclusively. I doubt whether our porter enjoyed it, though, as much as we. He rarely rode upon its easy springs, and he had a constant fight with circumstances to keep it neat.
SPANISH PEAKS, FROM VETA PASS.
SPANISH PEAKS, FROM VETA PASS.
The other two sections of our train were box cars, fresh from the shops, and of the most improved pattern. All through the trip, I may say in advance, they rode splendidly, though often attached to express trains which rattled them along at twice the speed the maker ever intended. Each of these cars had a door cut in one end, and thesedoor-way ends were placed in juxtaposition and remained so always. At first two elaborate platforms were hinged to one of the cars, bridging the space between them; but they were smashed on almost the first curve, after which we laid a series of boards down from one buffer-head to the other and took them up whenever we moved—that is, if the porter didn’t forget it, or get left. Here comes in the chronicle of our steps, the portable stairway by which we ascended and descended to and from our elevated house;sed revocare gradus,—“but to recall those steps” in their entirety would, I fear, be a hopeless task. The first set we had fell under the wheels and immediately became of no further interest to us. Then our invaluable forager found this second set, and thereby saddled himself with a responsibility he never could shake off. The whole Denver and Rio Grande railway corporation seemed to be bent on their destruction. Time fails me to tell of the numberless occasions when they were apparently crushed by some jar of the cars, as they stood in position at a station, and of the wrenchings that required a new hammering and more spikes to correct. But watched jealously by the porter, and lashed securely on the end of the car when we moved, they survived it all, and gave usfacilis decensusfrom first to last.
One of these box-cars became kitchen and commissary office. A partition was thrown across one-third of the distance from the end, forming a room for our porter and also a place of storage for our supplies. There was everything in there, from a pepper-box to a mattress, and from a lamp-chimney to a Winchester rifle. It had a table which might have been let down, two windows, and sundry racks and clothes-hooks. The remaining two-thirds of the car was devoted to the kitchen. One corner contained a monstrous ice-chest, and opposite it stood a huge wood-and-coal box, which it was the constant ambition of our boy to keep piled with kindling stuff almost to the ceiling; the result being, that frequently his improvised racks would come to pieces with the jarring of some rapid run, and the fuel be heaped up “mighty promiscuous” on the floor. The other corners of the kitchen held a fair-sized cooking-stove, securely bolted, and, lastly, an iron water-tank, as large as a barrel and mounted on a stand. With this water-tank we had a long contest. The face of our first colored cook, never much more cheerful than the big end of a coffin, took on a doubly rueful aspect at the conclusion of our first day out. The tank had been well filled before starting, but the cover fitted so loosely that half a barrel or so of the liquid splashed out, and the floor of the car was like a little sea. The Photographer generously sacrificed a blanket to spread across underneath the cover, and we were careful afterward not to fill the tank quite to the top; but it always shot jets and sprays down the back of your neck when you least expected, if you went near it when in motion. Then one day the faucet burst, and deluged the place with a stream like thatfrom a hose-pipe. Next it fell to leaking, and so to the end of the trip we had that persistently mischievous tank to contend with. Beside the stove stood a narrow cupboard, the top of which was intended to be the kitchen-table; but we found water leaking through into the flour, etc., underneath, and so built another table, hinging it to the opposite side of the car, between the tank and the fuel box. There were plenty of shelves and racks; and, the two side-doors having been fastened shut, the walls of the car were soon garnished with all sorts of wares that could be hung up. After a week it was learned how to stow everything so well that almost no breakage occurred.
The dining-car was exactly similar in size, twenty-four feet long by seven feet wide. It had four windows, and we used to slide back the great doors on one or both sides when the weather was warm and pleasant. If cool or stormy we locked them, wedged them tight and caulked the cracks, yet could never quite keep out the gales. The wind, I found, bloweth not only where “itlisteth,” but also whereIlisted. We thought it a very cheerful place, as we entered this snug home—for it was the “living-room” of the train—after a hard tramp, or gathered about the dinner table in the strong rays of mail lamps, and the softer light from railway candles. The gayly stripedportiéreshutting off the Madame’s little nook of a bed-room at the rear end of the car; the bright oilcloth that covered the floor; the rich oak-brown of the paint on the door-frames, wainscoting, and stanchions that at frequent intervals supported the roof; the ruddy glow of the Turkey-red cloth filling all the panels, and the pictures, books, Indian pottery, burnished firearms and bits of decoration here and there, made a picture that never lost its cheer and air of comfort. Here were my friendly books and writing-desk, with all the little literary appliances, and pigeon-holes full of manuscript, memoranda and correspondence. Here was the easy chair behind the spindle-shaped, upright stove. Here was the Madame’s rocking-chair and her work-stand, while the parted curtains let us peep into a diminutive but carefully convenient boudoir just behind her. Here stood her wardrobe—a trunk which lost its identity under the warm zigzags of a Navajo blanket; and here our hospitable dining-table, around which, perched on camp-stools, we ate good food with royal appetites, drank red wine with keen delight, and summoned all the imps of fun to laugh with us over quips and quirks to which, no doubt, the mad spirit of the day lent more wit than the brains of their makers. Shakespeare says,—
“A jest’s prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it, never in the tongueOf him that makes it.”
“A jest’s prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it, never in the tongueOf him that makes it.”
“A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it.”
Here work was done, too. Have I not seen the Madame busily sewing, and quiet? Did not the Artist often paint, I know not how long, without speaking?—I know not how long because I was so intent uponshaping this chronicle you read. If our trip had been all picnic and void of serious purpose, we should not have enjoyed it half so well. Charles Lamb asked pettishly,—
“Who first invented work, and bound the freeAnd holiday-rejoicing spirit down?”
“Who first invented work, and bound the freeAnd holiday-rejoicing spirit down?”
“Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holiday-rejoicing spirit down?”
But surely our holiday was fraught with a deeper zest, because our not too onerous duties now and then encroached upon our pleasures, and so made us value merry times the higher.
SANGRE DE CRISTO SUMMITS.
SANGRE DE CRISTO SUMMITS.
SANGRE DE CRISTO SUMMITS.
SANGRE DE CRISTO SUMMITS.
Well, now you may understand how and where we lived, and moved, and had our work and play. It was a warm, snug, handsome home and office, bed-chamber and kitchen on wheels. There were little hardships and annoyances, no doubt, but why remember them?Le diable est mort!
The railway down San Luis Park is straight as a surveyor’s line, and trainsoften run at a high rate of speed with perfect safety. At Alamosa it halted in construction for a long time. The town then became the forwarding point for all southern Colorado and New Mexico. Very large commission houses were placed there, enormous trains of wagons and pack mules were coming and going, stages left daily for Lake City and Gunnison, Saguache and Pitkin, Tierra Amarilla and the lower San Juan, Taos and Santa Fe, and the vim and excitement of an outfitting station prevailed. But presently the railway moved southward and westward, and Alamosa settled down into a quiet yet prosperous place, with a local agricultural population to back it, and the headquarters of the second division of the railway which extends to—to—welltowardsMexico.
Twenty-nine miles south of Alamosa is Antonito, where the line branches off to the San Juan country. The town is supported by the money the railway and the passengers spend, and is quite uninteresting; but over to the westward is the larger and older village of Conejos, which is better, though “distance lends enchantment.” Conejos meanshares: probably the Mexican pioneers found a superfluity of jack rabbits there. The place has been a farming and grazing center of supplies for many years. Along Conejos creek are numerous small Mexican ranches, good enough types of their sort (we shall find far better ahead), but the town itself has been Americanized until its claim to being a Mexican plaza is about lost; nor have the innovations added to its interest in any degree. In a real Mexican town, for example, the church is always an entertaining place to visit, because it is ruinously ancient and strange; but here the large, well-conditioned structure has been roofed, painted and modernized until it is not worth a glance except from the point of comfort and security from decay. Annexed to it is an academy for boys, and another for girls, both under the charge of priests and nuns of the Roman Catholic Church. These schools have no counterparts among the Mexicans nearer than Santa Fe, and have a wide reputation.
Lacking interest for the tourist, the practical man will learn that Conejos is a very fair business place in certain lines. It is the headquarters of the sheep and cattle men of the San Luis Park. In sheep, I learn that although about two hundred and fifty thousand are sold out of the park annually, fully five hundred thousand are left. The large majority of these are of the inferior sort called Mexican sheep, which are worth from one dollar to one dollar and twenty-five cents a head. The better minority sell at one dollar and fifty cents and two dollars a head, and this minority is increasing through a constant effort to improve the breed by introducing highly-bred Merino and Cotswold rams. The average yield is two and a half pounds of wool annually, and the product is shipped almost entirely to Philadelphia, for use in making carpets. Cattle is less an industry here, because the sheep are so numerous as to consume most of the pasturage. Something like ten thousand head,however, are able to exist in the park and adjacent foothills, and are sold to great advantage.
Nearly midway between Alamosa and Antonito, and easterly, but within sight of the railway, the Mormon settlements of Manassa and Ephraim have been founded, and have now a population of about six hundred. These people do not practice polygamy, and are frugal, industrious and prosperous. They are under the jurisdiction of the church in Utah, which also maintains similar colonies in the corners of Arizona and New Mexico adjacent to the Utah and Colorado line.