ELK IN JACKSON HOLEELK IN JACKSON HOLE
One day, in what is now the Rocky Mountain National Park, I came upon a luxuriously equipped camping-party, in which were at least a score of people. They had a splendid outfit and bore evidence of culture and refinement. I came upon their camp just at the close of a day that they had devoted to a hunting-contest. I do not recall the prize that the winning side secured, but all members of the party, young and old, men and women, had engaged in the contest. They had taken sides, and each side had endeavored during the day to kill more animals than the other. Every living thing was allowable. Piled up against a log near the camp were two heaps of dead wild folk—squirrels and chipmunks, grouse and hummingbirds, water-ouzels, ptarmigans, bluebirds, a robin, a wren, a snow-shoe rabbit, and I know not how many others.
People who engage in this kind of sport have characters that I cannot understand. These people, with all the advantages of culture and refinement, were out in the wild, lovely, splendid scenes. They had forgotten all other forms of recreation or enjoyment and had sunk back into barbaric blood-shedding "sport."
Man has appeared to the furred and feathered wilderness people as a wanton murderer. Animals have been constantly in danger, and nowhere nor at any time were they safe. Too often animals have been called cowards. They have grown shy and wild from necessity. Their life has depended on keeping out of the way of man. Along with the getting of food, their chief concern is "safety first." This requires that they be eternally vigilant to flee from the near presence of man. The invention of the long-range repeating rifle added a large element of fear and consequent shyness to the life of the wild people.
But now our National Parks are reforming man. The wildest of animals quickly become half-tame in any place that is safe. During the past few years thousands of excellent photographs have been made of big game in National Parks. Elk, antelopes, and mountain sheep have been photographed singly and in groups at the distance of only a few yards.
"It is better to let the wild beast runAnd let the wild bird fly;Each harbors best in his native nest,Even as you and I."
None of the big animals in the United States are ferocious. In parks it is men, not animals, who are on their good behavior—his hand restrained, man temporarily becomes as inoffensive as the animals. It may be, if we quit shooting animals on one side of a Park boundary-line, that in due time we shall become sufficiently civilized to stop killing peopleon the other side of a national boundary-line.
That the habitual wildness of birds and animals is the result of experience, rather than instinct, was forcefully illustrated to me by a surprise that I enjoyed with wild mountain sheep in a side cañon of the Colorado River in Arizona. Bighorn sheep are proverbially alert and wild. Imagine my astonishment when two or three of a flock of bighorns walked up and touched me with their noses! Evidently they had never before seen man. Trustfully they approached to satisfy their native curiosity.
For a number of days I was close to this flock, and several times I walked among them. They showed no excitement; they had nothing to fear. Without doubt, they had not been fired upon, chased, or even approached by man before. When I started for other scenes, one of the ewes of this wild herd followed me for more than an hour. Here were wild animals in a truly natural state! The abundance of easilywatched bird and animal life in these numerous Parks affords a splendid opportunity to learn how these so-called wild people live and who they are.
Our greatest animal is the grizzly bear. In the Parks we may make his acquaintance. The story of "Ben Franklin," who was reared by James Capen Adams, "Grizzly Adams," an early mountaineer and hunter of California, tells of a noble grizzly bear.
While hunting in the Yosemite in 1854, Adams killed a mother grizzly and captured two tiny cubs. A greyhound suckled them, and Adams kept one of the cubs—Ben Franklin. Ben was never chained, but followed his master everywhere through the mountains with a devotion equal to that of a faithful dog. Adams always treated him with kindness and understanding, and trained him to carry huge packs. Ben also rendered other startling services.
One day, while returning from a hunt with Ben at his heels, Adams suddenlycame upon a mother grizzly and three cubs in the close quarters of a thicket. The unexpected encounter probably caused the big bear to defend her cubs, and she sprang upon Adams before he could fire his rifle. He was knocked down and seriously wounded. Though still a youngster, Ben was grandly loyal and brave; he instantly sprang at the huge bear's throat and put up a courageous fight. This distracted the big bear's attention and gave Adams a chance to spring out of harm's way and shoot her. Little Ben was terribly bitten. So grateful was Adams that he dressed Ben's wounds before he attended to his own. Both Adams and Ben survived, and ever after they were close companions.
For brain-power, prowess, and sheer force of character the grizzly is the king of the wilderness. He knows it, and therefore is the aristocrat of the wilds. With real intelligence, and, if kindly tamed, with wonderful loyalty and devotion, he is an outdoor citizen of high type, and does notmerit the extermination that threatens him.
A grizzly is ever alert, vigilant, and cautious, unless his well-developed bump of curiosity temporarily hypnotizes him and betrays him into momentary dullness and forgetfulness. He is not a coward, but simply believes in preparedness and safety first, and so seldom blunders into trouble. He is popularly believed to be ferocious. Two or three generations ago he may have been fierce, but he is not so now. He uses his keen wits to avoid man, and never attacks wantonly nor fights if he can avoid it. But he is a masterful fighter, with strength, endurance, courage, mentality, and prompt action in emergencies.
There is little that the grizzly or the black bear will not eat. Fresh meat or carrion, honey, grasshoppers, ants, grubs, fish, mice and others pests, grass, fruits, berries, bark, roots, leaves—all may be included in the bill of fare of this omnivorous feeder. The grizzly appears more inclined to belong with vegetarians than with the Carnivora. He hibernates from three to five months each winter. The latitude, altitude, snowfall, weather, and the peculiarities and condition of the bear determine the length of his hibernation. Before entering a cave or opening to spend his hibernating sleep he fasts for a few days. In the spring, for several days after he emerges he eats little.
BLACK BEAR CUBS, SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARKBLACK BEAR CUBS, SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARK
Except the Alaskan bear, the only other kind we have is the black bear. His habits are similar to the grizzly's, but he is smaller than the grizzly. The color of bears varies widely in the same family as well as in the two species and numerous subspecies. Color has nothing to do with the kind of bear: either the black or the grizzly may be black or cinnamon. The black bear is much more playful, and he climbs trees as readily as a cat. The grizzly does not climb into trees.
The black bear is a playful bluffer. One day, as I was seated on the edge of Yellowstone Lake,several feet above the water, a young black bear came ambling by. In passing, he leaped at me with a wild "woof." His bluff was effective. I shrank back, and tumbled into the lake.
The creation of the Yellowstone National Park, for "the benefit and enjoyment of the people," was one of the great achievements for mankind. It also was a great event in the world of wild folk. The Yellowstone is one of the greatest wild-life sanctuaries in the world. In its thirty-three hundred square miles are numerous varieties of wild animals. Each summer as many as sixty thousand elk feed in it, and there are also buffaloes and antelopes, and flocks of sheep and herds of moose. Black bears are on every hand, and grizzly bears are often seen near by.
The caribou of the North make a long north-and-south migration with the seasons. The deer and the elk of the mountain parks, like many birds, simply migrate up and down the heights, spending summers inthe high altitudes and winters in the foothills.
On the thousand hills, meadows, crags, and moorlands of the National Parks are herds, flocks, and bands of elk and moose and deer and the agile mountain sheep. There are more than five hundred kinds of birds. A census of wild-life folk in all National Parks would show a numerous population: possibly a hundred thousand elk, half as many deer, several thousand sheep, a few thousand goats, several hundred antelopes, a few hundred moose, a thousand or so of bears, many thousand beavers; minks, conies, marmots, and muskrats in uncountable thousands; and birds in untold millions.
The antelope is a strange, isolated species. Formerly it ranged widely over the plains, but now it is almost exterminated. It has no dewclaw. It can erect and depress its fluff of white tail at will; this is a means of signaling. Of all big game, the antelope perhaps is the fastest runner. This animalsheds the outer part of the horns each year, retaining the spikelike core.
The gray wolf, coyote, fox, lynx, otter, skunk, and porcupine are numerous in the Parks. The porcupine, even at his wildest, shows the least signs of fear and is the dullest-witted animal in the woods.
Glacier Park probably excels in the number of mountain goats. Here they are to be seen in one of the most picturesque and precipitous ranges, in topography which goats enjoy. The Rocky Mountain Park probably excels in the number of bighorn sheep.
Along the streams the picturesque beaver, a permanent home-builder, lately almost exterminated, is reëstablishing himself and restoring the scenes that were known to the pioneers.
The food of the beaver is the bark of aspen and willow trees. He does not eat fish or meat. Instead of hibernating in winter, beavers harvest a quantity of food-supplies in the autumn and store them forwinter use. These are piled in the water beside their house. After gnawing down trees, cutting them into sections, and eventually eating the bark, they use the wood in constructing dams and houses.
Besides taking thought for the morrow, they build permanent homes, and keep them clean and in repair. They skillfully construct dams and canals to insure a constant water-supply in which to live, work, play, and travel. These give a charm to landscapes, and are a benefit to mankind. Beavers were the world's first engineers and the first conservationists. They have industry, patience, and persistence, combined with mental power.
They live in colonies or communities. Evidently they know the wisdom of the old saying "All work and no play," etc., for they often play as well as work, and also take a long summer vacation. Excellent workers as they are, they avoid unnecessary labor and do less of it than any other animal I know. There were civic centersin the animal world long before man conceived such an idea for himself.
The mountain lion is one of the slyest and most elusive animals in the woods. Rarely is it seen, although its keen curiosity leads it to come close to camping-parties and to follow individuals through the woods.
On the lower slopes of most Parks a few snakes are found, but they are wholly absent from the middle and the higher slopes.
In most of the Park streams trout are found—Western brook trout, Eastern brook trout, and California rainbow trout.
Among the more prominent birds common in a number of the Parks are eagles, grouse, ptarmigans, Clarke crows, camp-birds,—Rocky Mountain jays,—robins, bluebirds, blackbirds, song sparrows, white-crowned sparrows, cañon wrens, solitaires, and water-ouzels. In several of the National Parks a number of species of hummingbird are found.
Each spring many species of birds migrate up the mountain-slopes, where they nest in the alpine heights. The mountain migration, requiring a flight of only an hour or two, gives them climatic conditions similar to that of the Arctic Circle, to reach which would cost them a journey of several thousand miles.
Some species bring forth two broods each summer. The first is raised in the lowlands, where the young are fed while flower life in the lowlands is at its best. As soon as the young birds are able to care for themselves, the parent birds move up the mountain-side into the very heart of summer. Here they nest again. How romantic is every habit and custom in Bird World! The second nest of children is thus reared on the alpine slopes. This enables the old birds to bring up each brood in the midst of an abundant food-supply. The white-crowned sparrow and two or three species of hummingbird do this.
A closer study of birds and animals will probably reveal the fact that numbers ofthem mate for life. My experience has led me to believe that wolves and foxes, bluebirds, wrens, eagles, and other kinds of wild life do this.
Of all the birds in the West, or in the world, the one most hopefully eloquent is the solitaire. The song of the hermit thrush has a touch of sadness—it subdues and gives to one a touch of reflective loneliness; but the song of the solitaire stirs one to be up and doing; it gives the spirit of youth. Its song comes from ages of freedom under peaceful skies, from a mingling of the melody of winds and waters and of all rhythmic sounds that murmur and echo through Nature's wonderlands.
High up in the mountains of the National Parks lives the ptarmigan, the largest bird resident of the snowy heights. It spends the entire year in the alpine zone, rarely descending below timber-line. Even the summits of the peaks are visited by this sky-high dweller. Its dress changes with the seasons; in winter it is pure white,stockings and all; in midsummer it is grayish brown. These changing colors resemble those of the landscape and thus help protect the ptarmigan from its enemies, the weasel, fox, bear, eagle, and mountain lion. Although smaller than the grouse, it reminds one of that bird. It eats grasses and insects and the seeds and buds of alpine plants. Much of the winter-time is spent by these birds in the shelter of deep holes or runs beneath the compressed snow of the heights. Though far from the Arctic Circle, they are close relatives of the ptarmigan that dwells in the realm of the polar bear.
One of the best-dressed and best-mannered bird families that visit National Parks is that of the waxwing—cedar and Bohemian. These birds usually travel in flocks. At a small watering-place they drink in routine, moving forward in an orderly manner. When a number of them are resting upon a limb, if one catches an insect, he is quite likely to pass it to his neighbor,and the neighbor in turn to pass it to the next neighbor. Their dress is quiet, refined, and attractive to a marked degree. It is an interesting fact that these birds, so dainty of dress, so refined of manner, do not sing.
The cañon wren is a beautiful singer. So, too, is the water-ouzel, a bird of the alpine brooks in the mountains of the West that has been immortalized by John Muir. But few species of birds sing every day in the year. One of those that do is the water-ouzel.
Most birds and animals appear to desire human society. Birds will leave the seclusion of the forest to build by the roadside where people pass. Some kinds of little feathered folk have deserted old nesting-scenes and now nest by human homes. Robins, wrens, and bluebirds confidingly raise their families in the scenes where children romp and play.
They may do this for better food opportunities and increased safety from enemies, but it is also plain that many birdscome chiefly to satisfy their desire for human society. It has been often demonstrated that shy, well-fed birds and animals are hoping and waiting for friendly advances on our part. Wild neighbors are glad of the opportunity to call on us, whether we break bread or not. They are also glad to have friendly calls returned. Birds and animals have individuality. Food and kindness, and speaking to animals in the universal language—friendly tones—are all means of promoting acquaintance.
In the past we have greatly underrated the mental powers of animals. An intimate association with wild life in the Parks will probably convince most people that wild animals have the power to think and reason. It may also acquaint people with the fact that animals as well as human beings possess the traits of love, hatred, jealousy, anger, and revenge. Any one who associates much with wild life will discover the exceptional keenness of animal senses. In most animals scent is amazingly developed,and probably is the first of the senses to warn them of danger.
Most animals may be spoiled by excessive or improper feeding. In the Yellowstone Park the bears, which are omnivorous feeders, have free access to the garbage-dumps and eat all sorts of unwholesome abominations. This improper eating is bound to have a bad influence upon their habits, and is already spoiling their disposition. Beasts of prey in the Parks are held in check by the Government. Lions, lynxes, and other animals that become numerous and destructive, or bears that develop killing habits, are disposed of by the Government.
The excess of big game and birds in the Parks overflows and stocks the territory outside. Each year, too, hundreds of elk and other big animals are shipped from Yellowstone to many parts of the country. Well might these Parks supply city zoos, or, better still, big wild-life reservations, with all available kinds of animals needed.As well ship deer, moose, bears, beavers, and antelopes as to ship elk. Here is a large field for the distribution of wild life all over the United States. The general restocking of state and government wild-life reservations may enable cities to cease maintaining their animal prisons—the zoos.
The seasons for visiting National Parks are spring, summer, autumn, and winter! Morning, noon, the sunset hour, under the stars and with the moon—all times, each in its way, are good for rambling in these places of instruction and delight. I have climbed numerous peaks by moonlight and starlight, and have stood on the summit of the Continental Divide with the winter moon. Nature is good at all times. Rainy days, gray days, windy days, all have something for you not ordinarily offered. So, too, have the sunny winter days when upon the dazzling snow fall the deep-blue shadows of the pines. Forget the season and the weather; visit the Parks when you can stay there longest.
One day heavy clouds rested upon the snowy earth around my cabin, nine thousand feet above sea-level. In these, and in the falling snow, I started up the Long's Peak trail, in what now is the Rocky Mountain National Park. I wished to measure the storm-cloud's vertical depth and to observe its movements. Only a ravine and instinct enabled me to snow-shoe through the blinding, flying snow and almost opaque sheep's-wool cloud. The cloud was three thousand feet thick.
Suddenly, at twelve thousand feet, the depth of snow became markedly less. Within a few rods I burst through the upper surface of the cloud into brilliant sunshine! Not a bit of snow or cloud was there above this upper level.
From a high ridge I watched the top surface of the storm-cloud as it lay before me in the sun—a silvery expanse of unruffled sea, pierced by many peaks. Half a mile above towered vast, rugged Long's Peak. Like a huge raft becalmed in a quiet harbor, the cloud-sea moved slowly and steadily, almost imperceptibly, a shortdistance along the mountains; then, as if anchored in the center, it swung in easy rotation a few degrees, hesitated, and slowly drifted back. Occasionally it sank, very slowly, several hundred feet, only to rise easily to its original level.
With wonder I long watched this beautiful sunny spectacle, finding it hard to realize that a blinding snow was falling beneath it. Later I learned that this snowfall was thirty inches deep over several hundred thousand square miles; but it fell only below the altitude of twelve thousand feet and not on the high peaks.
Mountain-tops have more sunshine and fewer storms than the lowlands. The middle slopes of a peak regularly receive heavier falls of rain and snow than does the summit.
The rugged mountains in all Parks are wonderful in the snow. Snowshoe excursions, climbs, skiing—all the sports of winter—may be enjoyed in these magnificent wilds. Mountains in winter holdsplendid decorations—sketches of black and white, ice architecture, rare groups that form a wondrous winter exhibition. Forests, cañons, meadows, plateaus and peaks, where hills of snow and gigantic snow cañons form dazzling structures and new topography, are marvelous exhibitions. The thousand and one decorations of frost and snow-flowers are treasures found only under the winter sky.
LONG'S PEAK FROM CHASM LAKELONG'S PEAK FROM CHASM LAKEROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK
During a high wind one winter, as I fought my way up Long's Peak, above timber-line I was pelted with gravel and sand till the blood was drawn. The milling air-currents simply played with me as they swept down from the heights. I was knocked down repeatedly, blown into the air, and then dropped heavily, or rolled about like some giant's toy as I lay resting in the lee of a crag. Standing erect was usually impossible and at all times dangerous. Advancing was akin to swimming a whirlpool. At last I reached the buzzing cups of an air-meter I had previouslyplaced in Granite Pass, twelve thousand feet above sea-level. This instrument was registering the awful wind-speed of one hundred and sixty-five miles an hour! It flew to pieces later during a swifter spurt.
Although I intended going no farther, the wild and eloquent elements lured me to keep on to the summit of the peak, nearly three thousand feet higher. All my strength and climbing knowledge were necessary to prevent me from being blown into space. Gaining each new height was a battle. Forward and upward I simply wrested my way with an invisible, tireless contestant who seemed bent on breaking my bones or hurling me into unbanistered space.
In one rocky gully the uprising winds became so irresistible that I had to reverse ends and proceed with feet out ahead as bracers and hands following as anchors. There was no climbing from here on: the blast dragged, pulled, and floated me ever upward to the sunny, wind-shelteredNarrows. The last stretch was a steep icy slope with a precipice beneath. Casting in my lot with the up-sweeping wind, I pushed out into it and let go. Sprawling and bumping upward, I had little else to do but guide myself. At last I stood on the top and found it in an easy eddy—almost a calm compared to the roaring conditions below. Far down the range great quantities of snow were being explosively hurled into the air, then thrown into spirals and whirls that trimmed the peak-points with gauzy banners and silky pennants, through which the sunlight played splendidly.
Stirring and wild, wonderful scenes are encountered during storms on mountain-tops, by the lakeshore, and in cañons. The dangers in such times and places are fewer than in cities. Discomforts? Scarcely. To some persons life must be hardly worth living. If any normal person under fifty cannot enjoy being in a storm in the wilds, he ought to reform at once.
In the intensity and clash of the elements there is a vigorous building environment. The storms furnish energy, inspiration, and resolution. There are no substitutes "just as good," no experiences just as great.
One rainy June day I started up a dim steep trail toward the headwaters of the river St. Vrain, near timber-line in what is now the Rocky Mountain National Park. While enjoying the general downpour and its softened noise through the woods, I was caught in a storm-center of wrangling winds and waters, and was almost knocked down. Like a sapling, I bowed streaming in the storm. Later, as I sat on a sodden log, reveling in the elemental moods and sounds, a water-ouzel began to sing, but I heard little of his serene optimistic solo above the roar of the wind and stream.
The storm raged louder as I approached timber-line. Clouds dragged among the trees. I could see nothing clearly. Every breath was like swallowing a wet sponge. Then a wind-surge rent the clouds andlet me glimpse the blue sun-filled sky. I climbed an exceptionally tall spruce. A comic Frémont squirrel scolded in rattling, jerky chatter as I rose above the sea of clouds and trees. Astride the slender tree-top, I felt that the wind was trying hard to dislodge me, but I held on. The tree quivered and vibrated, shook and danced; we charged, circled, looped, and angled. Nowhere else have I experienced such wild, exhilarating joy. In the midst of this rare delight the clouds rose, the wind calmed, and the rain ceased. Then suddenly a blinding, explosive crash almost threw me from my observatory. Within fifty feet a tall fir was split to the ground. Quickly climbing back to earth, I eagerly examined the effects of the lightning-stroke. With one wild blow, in a second or less it had wrecked a century-old tree.
Although I have rarely known lightning to strike the heights, I have frequently experienced peculiar electric shocks fromthe air. I have never known such electrical storms to prove fatal nor to leave ill effects; and they may be beneficial. The day before the famous Poudre Flood, in May, 1904, I was traveling along the Continental Divide above timber-line near Poudre Lakes. While resting I was startled by the pulsating hum, the intermittentbuzz-z-z-zandzit-zitand the vigorous hair-pulling of electricity-laden atmosphere.
Presently my right arm was momentarily cramped, and my heart seemed to lurch several times. These electric shocks lasted only about two seconds, but recurred every few minutes. The hair-pulling, palpitation, and cramps seemed slightly less when I fully relaxed on the ground. When I tried to climb, I found myself muscle-bound from the electricity. Points of dry twigs momentarily exhibited tips of smoky blue flame, and sometimes similar flame encircled green twigs below the lower limbs.
Later that day I came to North Specimen Mountain. There the electrical waves weakened or entirely ceased while I was in shadow, but they remained quite serious in the sun. I breathed only in gasps, and my heart was violent and feeble by turns. I felt as if cinched in a steel corset. After sundown I was again at ease and free from this strange electrical colic, which often worries or frightens strangers the first time they experience it. I soon forgot my own electrical experiences in the enjoyment that night of the splendidly brilliant electric effects beneath the enormous mountain-range of cloud-forms over the foothills. Its surface shone momentarily like incandescent glass, and occasionally down the slopes ran crooked rivers of gold.
I have had the good fortune to see geysers by sunlight, by moonlight, during gray stormy days, and also while the earth around them was covered with snow.
By moonlight the mountainous National Parks are enchanted lands. Thereis a gentleness, a serenity, and a softness that is never known in daylight. Many a time I have explored all night long. The trail is strangely romantic when across it fall the moon-toned etchings of the pines. The waterfalls, crags, mountain-tops, forest glades, and alpine lakes have marvelous combinations of light and shade, and they stir the senses like music. I wish that every one might see in the moonlight the Giant Forest in the Sequoia National Park, or timber-line in the Rocky Mountain National Park. By moonlight the Big Trees will stir you with the greatest elemental eloquence. Those who go up into the sky on mountains in the moonlight will have the greatest raptures and make the highest resolves.
Miss Edna Smith is one of the most appreciative outdoor women I ever have known. Years ago I urged her to know the mountains at night. Here is one of her accounts of a night experience:—
At supper-time the chances seemed against a start. It was raining. Later the rain stopped, but the full moon was almost lost in a heavy mist and the light was dim. Mr. S. N. Husted, the guide, thought an attempt to ascend Long's Peak hardly wise. At eleven o'clock I went to Enos Mills for advice. He said, "Go." So we mounted our ponies and started, chilled by the clammy fog about us.After a short climb we were in another world. The fog was a sea of silvery clouds below us and from it the mountains rose like islands. The moon and stars were bright in the heavens. There was the sparkle in the air that suggests enchanted lands and fairies. Halfway to timber-line we came upon ground white with snow, which made it seem all the more likely that Christmas pixies just within the shadows might dance forth on a moon-beam.Above timber-line there was no snow, but the moonlight was so brilliant that the clouds far below were shining like misty lakes, and even the bare mountainside about us looked almost as white as if snow-covered.As we left our ponies at the edge of the Boulder Field and started across that rugged stretch of débris spread out flat in the brilliant moonlight, we found the silhouette of Long's Peak thrown in deep black shadow across it.Never before had that bold outline seemed so impressive.At the western edge of Boulder Field there was a new marvel. As we approached Keyhole, right in the center of that curious nick in the rim of Boulder Field shone the great golden moon. The vast shadow of the peak, made doubly dark by the contrast, made us very silent. When we emerged from Keyhole and looked down into the Glacier Gorge beyond, it was hard to breathe because of the wonder of it all. The moon was shining down into the great gorge a thousand feet below and it was filled with a silvery glow. The lakes glimmered in the moonlight.Climbing along the narrow ledge, high above this tremendous gorge, was like a dream. Not a breath of air stirred, and the only sound was the crunch of hobnails on rock. There was a supreme hush in the air, as if something tremendous were about to happen.Suddenly the sky, which had been the far-off blue of a moonlit night, flushed with the softest amethyst and rose, and the stars loomed large and intimately near, burning like lamps with lavender, emerald, sapphire, and topaz lights. The moon had set and the stars were supreme.The Trough was full of ice and the ice was hard and slippery, but the steps that had beencut in the ice were sharp and firm. We had no great difficulty in climbing the steep ascent. We emerged from the Trough upon a ledge from which the view across plains and mountain-ranges was seemingly limitless.As we made our way along the Narrows the drama of that day's dawn proceeded with kaleidoscopic speed. Over the plains, apparently without end, was a sea of billowy clouds, shimmering with golden and pearly lights. One mountain-range after another was revealed and brought close by the rosy glow that now filled all the sky. Every peak, far and near, bore a fresh crown of new snow and each stood out distinct and individual. Arapahoe Peak held the eye long. Torrey's Peak and Gray's Peak were especially beautiful. And far away, a hundred miles to the south, loomed up the summit of Pike's Peak. So all-pervading was the alpine glow that even the near-by rocks took on wonderful color and brilliance.Such a scene could last but a short time. And it was well for us, for the moments were too crowded with sensations to be long borne. Soon the sun burst up from the ocean of clouds below. The lights changed. The ranges gradually faded into a far-away blue. The peaks flattened out and lost themselves in the distance. The near-by rocks took on once moretheir accustomed somber hues. And in the bright sunlight of the new day we wondered whether we had seen a reality or a vision.On the summit all was bright and warm. Long we lingered in the sunlight, loath to leave so much beauty, but at last we began the descent leisurely. It was a perfect trip. It seemed as if the stage were set for our especial benefit. It was an experience that will live with me always. At first I felt as if I could never ascend the peak again, lest the impressions of that perfect night should become confused or weakened. But I believe I can set this night apart by itself. And I shall climb Long's Peak again.
At supper-time the chances seemed against a start. It was raining. Later the rain stopped, but the full moon was almost lost in a heavy mist and the light was dim. Mr. S. N. Husted, the guide, thought an attempt to ascend Long's Peak hardly wise. At eleven o'clock I went to Enos Mills for advice. He said, "Go." So we mounted our ponies and started, chilled by the clammy fog about us.
After a short climb we were in another world. The fog was a sea of silvery clouds below us and from it the mountains rose like islands. The moon and stars were bright in the heavens. There was the sparkle in the air that suggests enchanted lands and fairies. Halfway to timber-line we came upon ground white with snow, which made it seem all the more likely that Christmas pixies just within the shadows might dance forth on a moon-beam.
Above timber-line there was no snow, but the moonlight was so brilliant that the clouds far below were shining like misty lakes, and even the bare mountainside about us looked almost as white as if snow-covered.
As we left our ponies at the edge of the Boulder Field and started across that rugged stretch of débris spread out flat in the brilliant moonlight, we found the silhouette of Long's Peak thrown in deep black shadow across it.Never before had that bold outline seemed so impressive.
At the western edge of Boulder Field there was a new marvel. As we approached Keyhole, right in the center of that curious nick in the rim of Boulder Field shone the great golden moon. The vast shadow of the peak, made doubly dark by the contrast, made us very silent. When we emerged from Keyhole and looked down into the Glacier Gorge beyond, it was hard to breathe because of the wonder of it all. The moon was shining down into the great gorge a thousand feet below and it was filled with a silvery glow. The lakes glimmered in the moonlight.
Climbing along the narrow ledge, high above this tremendous gorge, was like a dream. Not a breath of air stirred, and the only sound was the crunch of hobnails on rock. There was a supreme hush in the air, as if something tremendous were about to happen.
Suddenly the sky, which had been the far-off blue of a moonlit night, flushed with the softest amethyst and rose, and the stars loomed large and intimately near, burning like lamps with lavender, emerald, sapphire, and topaz lights. The moon had set and the stars were supreme.
The Trough was full of ice and the ice was hard and slippery, but the steps that had beencut in the ice were sharp and firm. We had no great difficulty in climbing the steep ascent. We emerged from the Trough upon a ledge from which the view across plains and mountain-ranges was seemingly limitless.
As we made our way along the Narrows the drama of that day's dawn proceeded with kaleidoscopic speed. Over the plains, apparently without end, was a sea of billowy clouds, shimmering with golden and pearly lights. One mountain-range after another was revealed and brought close by the rosy glow that now filled all the sky. Every peak, far and near, bore a fresh crown of new snow and each stood out distinct and individual. Arapahoe Peak held the eye long. Torrey's Peak and Gray's Peak were especially beautiful. And far away, a hundred miles to the south, loomed up the summit of Pike's Peak. So all-pervading was the alpine glow that even the near-by rocks took on wonderful color and brilliance.
Such a scene could last but a short time. And it was well for us, for the moments were too crowded with sensations to be long borne. Soon the sun burst up from the ocean of clouds below. The lights changed. The ranges gradually faded into a far-away blue. The peaks flattened out and lost themselves in the distance. The near-by rocks took on once moretheir accustomed somber hues. And in the bright sunlight of the new day we wondered whether we had seen a reality or a vision.
On the summit all was bright and warm. Long we lingered in the sunlight, loath to leave so much beauty, but at last we began the descent leisurely. It was a perfect trip. It seemed as if the stage were set for our especial benefit. It was an experience that will live with me always. At first I felt as if I could never ascend the peak again, lest the impressions of that perfect night should become confused or weakened. But I believe I can set this night apart by itself. And I shall climb Long's Peak again.
To enjoy the Parks, we need but to go to them realizing that these wilderness realms are the greatest places of safety on the earth. The thousand dangers of the city are absent; the altitude of high mountains is not harmful but helpful—the air is free from dust and germs; and even the wildest and most tempestuous weather within them will bear acquaintance.
The animals in the wilderness are not ferocious, and they wisely flee from the coming of Christian people. Extraordinary skill is required to get close to any wild animal. Even the camera will put the biggest wild folk to flight! They attack only in self-defense, only when cornered and assailed by the hunter. The animals that have survived and left descendants are those which used their wits for flight and not in ferocity. The grizzly constantly uses his wits to keep out of a locality where human beings are. Wolves may once have been ferocious, but at present the aggressive ones are those in the jungles of nature-faking; wolves keep apart from civilization, and travelers are not likely to go out of their way to find them. In story-books the mountain lion crouches upon the cliff or lies in wait upon a tree-limb to spring upon human prey; but real lions do not do this sort of thing.
Each year thousands of people scale peaks in the Rockies, the Sierra, and the Selkirks, or spend a less strenuous vacation in the heights, up several thousand feet above the sea. From anæmics whostay at home they hear the common superstition that altitude is harmful! But the travelers return to their homes in high hopes and in vigorous health. The heights are helpful, and the outdoors is friendly at all times. These are splendid sources of hopefulness. They "knit up the raveled sleave of care." They arouse new interests, give broader outlooks. They are great blessings that every one needs.
There is a growing appreciation of the safe and sane outdoors. People are rapidly realizing that vacations in the Parks and wild places are needful first aids to impaired health, and also that outdoor life is absolutely necessary for sustained or increased efficiency. From the wilderness the traveler returns a man, almost a superman. Its elemental songs, pictures, and stories are a language of eloquent uplift. Go to the wilderness and get its good tidings! The wilderness is democratic and is full of ideas. It gives efficiency and sympathy. The mingling of all classes inthe Parks is a veritable blessing; it is one of the greatest means of preventing internal strife and also of averting international war.
Nature is an educational stimulus of rare force. The crumbling cliff, the glacial landscape, the wild, free clouds, birds, and trees, compel children—old and young—to observe and to think. They bring development and sympathy. They build the brain. They increase courage and kindness. Scenes and sunsets, cloud and storm, the stars and the sky, the music of wind and water, the purple forests, the white cascades, the colored flowers, the songs of birds, the untrimmed and steadfast trees, the shadows on the ground, the tangled grass, the round, sunny hills, the endless streams, the magic rainbow, and the mysterious echo—all these arouse thought, wonder, and delight in the mind of every child; and they have been the immortal nourishment of the great souls who have come from Mother Nature's loving breast to bless and beautify the world.
"The robe doth change the disposition." During summer vacations, the all-important rainy-day costume will save endless disappointment and worry. Rainy days will bear acquaintance—if you have clothes for the occasion. Cheerfulness and rainy days are united by waterproofs. One simply cannot cheerfully face a rainstorm in clothes that water will ruin. Hats or shoes that go to pieces in a downpour, skirts with colors that run—these mean the Waterloo of some one when the rain comes down. But an inexpensive hat, strong boots, and a raincoat—then let it rain!
When one is in the woods, the foremost thing to remember is the direction back to camp. In a general way this is answered in the familiar caution: "Stop, look, and listen!" A traveler through the woods should occasionally stop and make sure of the direction in which he is traveling. At every important bend in his course he should look ahead and notice the most conspicuous landmark directlyin front of him; then, about face for a look at the most important point or landmark that he has passed. He would thus be able, if he doubled on his own trail, to be guided by familiar objects, just as if he had traveled over it before in the same direction, with eyes open. Then, too, he should look to right and left for prominent or peculiar trees, cliffs, or other objects.
Keeping eyes thus open and mind alert is not a burden; it adds to the pleasure along the way. Any one who has thus traveled through strange woods should have taken a mental picture of what he has seen as he went on, and should be able to sit down and make a rough sketch of the locality and of his trail, showing the location of camp, the course he has traveled from it, and the prominent objects on both sides. A fair knowledge of woodcraft will enable any one to determine the points of the compass. While this is important, it is of less importance than remembering the direction to camp.
If a person gets lost, he would do well at once to climb into a tree-top, or to the summit of the highest near-by place, and from the commanding height survey the surrounding country. This may enable him to see a familiar landmark. If he fails to recognize any point, let him make a comparatively small circle with the purpose of picking up his trail. He should be careful to avoid aimless wandering, to which often lost people are so prone. This he may do by following along the summit of a ridge, or down the first brook or stream he can find. Of course, he will keep downhill in looking for running water. A few hours, or at most a few days, of stream-side travel will bring him where some one lives.
One is not likely to starve to death in the wilds. Starving is a slow process, and experiences show that a fast of a few days may be beneficial. Then, too, roots, berries, fruit, mushrooms, and tree-bark are to be found. With nothing but these, I have repeatedly lived for two weeks orlonger, even at times when I was most active in exploring or mountain-climbing.
If a man is hopelessly lost, and if he knows that his companions are sure to look for him, he should stop right where he is when he finds that he is lost, and should camp and light two signal fires, giving a call at intervals.
Go into the Parks and get their encouragement. Among the serene and steadfast scenes you will find the paths of peace and a repose that is sweeter than sleep. If you are dulled and dazed with the fever and the fret, or weary and worn,—tottering under burdens too heavy to bear,—go back to the old outdoor home. Here Nature will care for you as a mother for a child. In the mellow-lighted forest aisles, beneath the beautiful airy arches of limbs and leaves, with the lichen-tinted columns of gray and brown, with the tongueless eloquence of the bearded, veteran trees, amid the silence of centuries, you will come into your own.
Some time the grizzled prospector will lead his stubborn burro down the mountain and cease the search for gold; some time the miner will lay down his pick, blow out his lamp or his candle, and leave the worked-out mine; some time eternal night will come upon the gas- and coal-oil lamp; but our sunny hanging wild gardens—our Parks—are immortal; they will give us their beauty and their inspiration forever.
This big round world carries in its heights four strange, marked features: the vast records of the Ice King; timber-line, the alpine edge of the forest; the mountain-top regions above timber-line; and, over-rising these, the high peaks. Each of these features has scores of stories and pictures. All four of them are seen at their best in some of the National Parks.
The most telling timber-line that I have seen is on the slope of Long's Peak in the Rocky Mountain National Park. This is a wild place during a winter gale. It is a stirring place at all times and seasons. One day I went up to timber-line on Long's Peak with a number of children. They were interested, and even excited, by the dwarfedand strangely shaped trees. We found a dead pine that had lived two hundred and fifty-eight years, yet it was so small that a boy easily carried it about on his shoulder. Several little girls stood by a living spruce. Every child was taller than the little tree, yet the spruce had been growing when each of their great-grandmothers was born. All timber-line trees are undersized. Most of their ranks are less than eight feet high.
One autumn a grizzly that I was following dug up a number of dwarfed trees at timber-line. I carried these home for careful examination. One of them was a black birch with a trunk nine tenths of an inch in diameter, a height of fifteen inches, and a limb-spread of twenty-two inches. It had thirty-four annual rings. Another was truly a veteran pine, though his trunk was but six tenths of an inch in diameter, his height twenty-three inches, and his limb-spread thirty-one inches. His age was sixty-seven years. A midget that I carried home in my vest pocket was two incheshigh, had a limb-spread of about four inches, and was twenty-eight years of age.
Timber-line is one of Nature's most interesting regions. Its location and also its marked characteristics are determined by climatic conditions—by cold, snow, wind, moisture, and drought. Wind is a most influential factor. The position of thousands of miles of timber-line is determined by it. At timber-line the Storm King says, "Thus far and no farther." The trees do not heed, but persistently try to go on, and the struggle for existence becomes deadly. They appear like our unfortunate brothers whom fate has chained in the slums. The trees try to stand erect and climb onward and upward, but in vain. The elements are relentless. The wind blows off their arms and cuts them with flying sand. The cold dwarfs them, and for nine months in the year the snow tries to twist and crush the life out of them. Some become hunchbacks; others are broken, bent, and half-flayed; while a few crouch behind the rocks. Manystretches of timber-line are so battered by the wind that the trees have the appearance of having been recently swept by a cyclone, or overthrown by a giant roller.
What a weird scene! Here for ages has been the line of battle between the woods and the weather. At most timber-lines the high winds blow chiefly from one direction. Many of the trees possess a long, vertical fringe of limbs to leeward, being limbless and barkless to stormward. Each might serve as an impressive symbolic statue of a wind-storm. Permanently, their limbs stream to leeward together, with fixed bends and distortions, as if cast in metal at the height of a storm. Many present an unconquerable and conscious appearance, like tattered pennants or torn, triumphant battle-flags of the victorious forest! Some trees are several inches in diameter and only a few inches in height; others are creeping away from the direction of the storms, retreating from life's awful battle. All beauty and nobleness of appearance are lost. But the trees have done their best.
Timber-line is not stationary. In most places it is advancing, climbing the heights. This advance is confined mainly to moist territory. In a few dry places the ranks are losing ground—are being driven back down the slopes; but these advances and retreats are extremely slow.
The altitude of timber-line varies with locality. On Mount Orizaba, in Mexico, it is a little over thirteen thousand feet; in the San Juan Mountains, in Colorado, a little above twelve thousand; in the Sierras and the Rockies, between eleven thousand and thirteen thousand; in the Cascades and the Alps, about sixty-five hundred feet; on Mount Washington, at forty-five hundred feet. It is lower with increased distance from the Equator, and at last is only a stone's throw above sea-level, finally showing its line in the lowlands of the Farthest North. Among the trees that maintain the front ranks at timber-line arepines, spruces, firs, aspens, birches, and willows.
Many beautiful flowers are found at timber-line, along with bees, butterflies, birds, chipmunks, and foxes. Timber-line is a strangely interesting, arousing place. As I have said in "The Rocky Mountain Wonderland":—