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C O L O R A D O:
3 Summer Grip,
BY
BAY ARD TAYLOR.
LONDON :
SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON,
MILTON HOUSE, LUDGATE HILL.
1867.
CONTENTS.
-O-
PAGE
I. A GLIMPSE OF KANSAs . © Q © º 1
II. ON THE FRONTIER & o tº © * 8
III. UP THE SMok Y HILL Fork . º º . 16
IV. CROSSING THE PLAINS . e e e tº 26
V. THE Rocky MoUNTAINS AND DENVER . . * 34
VI. FARMING IN COLORADo º cº • e 41
VII. ENTERING THE Rocky MoUNTAINs . . 49
VIII. CENTRAL CITY AND BLACK HAWK . o 55
IX. MINING AND MINING PROCESSEs . º . 61
X. To IDAHO AND EMPIRE º º e º 70
XI. CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PAss . tº . 78
XII. ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK . e 88
YIII. THE UTE PAss, MIDDLE PARK . . 97
XIV. FINAL ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK 108
XV. Two ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES . © e 116
XVI. THE ARKANSAs WALLEY AND THE TWIN.
LAKES . o tº e e © e . 126
XVII. IN THE SOUTH PARK . e ſº & © 135
XVIII. THE RETURN TO DENVER e e e . 144
XIX. A TRIP TO BOULDER WALLEY . e ſº 153
XX. Color ADO As A SUMMER RESORT. º . 161
XXI. HoMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE e º 168
XXII. GLIMPSEs of NEBRASKA . © º we . 178
COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
–0-
I.
A GLIMPSE OF KANSAS,
LAWRENCE, KANSAs, June 8, 1866.
WHOEVER visits Kansas has the choice of two routes
from St. Louis, – the North Missouri Railroad to St. Jo-
seph, and the Pacific Railroad to Kansas City. The for-
mer is three hundred and five miles long, and the trains
run at the rate of twelve and a half miles an hour; the
latter has a length of two hundred and eighty-three miles,
and a speed of fifteen miles an hour is attained. The
former has the advantage of sleeping-cars (“palaces,” I
believe, is the western term — at least in advertisements),
the latter of finer scenery. Having had a dismal experi-
ence of the former road some seven months ago, I chose
the latter, and have been well repaid.
In the United States, railroads avoid the finest scenery,
the best agricultural regions. This is especially the case
in the West, where settlement followed the rivers and the
old emigrant roads, forming belts of tolerably thorough
cultivation, between which the country — even in Indiana
and Ohio — is still comparatively rude. It is only within
a few years that railroads have begun to lead, instead of
follow settlement, and the line may soon be drawn beyond
which they will represent the most rapid growth and the
best cultivation.
1
2 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
This reflection was suggested to me while observing the
country opened to the traveller's view by the Pacific Rail-
road, between St. Louis and Jefferson City. There are
but three points which are at all picturesque, – the wooded
and rocky banks of the sparkling Meramee, and the
mouths of the beautiful Gasconade and Osage Rivers, –
and none which exhibit much more than the primitive
stage of agriculture. Yet the upland region, a few miles
south of the line of the road, is, I am told, rich, well-
farmed, and lovely to look upon.
Even when one reaches the Missouri, there is little in
that ugliest of all rivers to divert one's attention. A single
picture of the swift tide of liquid yellow mud, with its dull
green wall of cotton-wood trees beyond, is equivalent to a
panorama of the whole stream. For the seventy or eighty
miles during which we skirted it, the turbid surface was
unrelieved by a sail, unbroken by the paddles of a single
steamer. Deserted, monotonous, hideous, treacherous, with
its forever-shifting sands and snags, it almost seems to re-
pel settlement, even as it repels poetry and art.
I travelled as far as Jefferson City in worshipful society,
— five handcuffed burglars, three of whom had been Mor-
gan's guerrillas. One of them, in utter opposition to all
theories of physiognomy, strongly resembled a noted re-
former. As the other passengers, in referring to incidents
of the war, always said “Rebels" instead of “Confeder-
ates,” I inferred that their political condition was healthy.
Emigration is still rapidly pouring into the State, and, as a
young man from one of the way-stations said, - “If we were
only all Black Republicans, we’d soon have the first State
in the West.”
When the road leaves the river, it enters one of the love-
liest regions in the United States. The surface is a rolling
prairie, yet with a very different undulation from that of the
rolling prairies of Wisconsin and Northern Illinois. The
swells are longer, with deeper and broader hollows between,
A GLIMPSE OF KANSAS. 3
and the soil appears to be of uniform fertility. On either
side the range of vision extends for eight or ten miles,
over great fields of the greenest grass and grain, dotted
here and there with orchards, and crossed by long, narrow
belts of timber, which mark the courses of streams. The
horizon is a waving purple line, never suddenly broken, but
never monotonous, like that of the prairies east of the Mis-
sissippi. Hedges of Osage orange are frequent; the fields
are clean and smooth as a piece of broadcloth; the houses
comfortable, and there is nothing to be seen of that rough-
ness and shabbiness which usually marks a newly settled
country. I have seen nothing west of the Alleghanies so
attractive as this region, until I left Leavenworth this
morning.
In the neighborhood of Sedalia, four or five hundred
farmers, mostly from Ohio, have settled within the past
year. I hear but one opinion in regard to the country
south of the railroad, extending from the Osage River to
the Arkansas line. Climate, soil, water, and scenery are
described in the most rapturous terms. One of my fellow-
passengers, pointing to the beautiful landscapes gradually
unrolling on either hand, said, - “This is nothing to it !”
Yet I was well satisfied with what I saw, and feasted my
eyes on the green slopes and swells until they grew dark in
the twilight.
On reaching Kansas City, the train runs directly to the
levee, and the traveller is enabled to go directly on board
the Leavenworth boat, thus escaping the necessity of stop-
ping at the hotel. I was very grateful for this fact, and
having already seen the forty miles of cotton-wood and yel-
low mud between the two places, took my state-room with
an immense sensation of relief. We reached Leavenworth
at nine o'clock, in three days and ten hours from Philadel-
phia. º
This is the liveliest and most thriving place west of the
Mississippi River. The overland trade has built it up with
4 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
astonishing rapidity, and it now claims to have a population
of 25,000. Kansas City, its fierce rival, having suffered
more than one blockade during the war, Leavenworth shot
into sudden prosperity; but now that trade has returned to
its old channels, Kansas City expects to recover her lost
ground. It is a subject of great interest to the people of
the two places, and many are the speculations and predic-
tions which one hears from both sides. As to the present
ascendancy of Leavenworth, however, there is no question.
The town has both wealth and enterprise, and its people
seem to me to be remarkably shrewd and far-seeing. In the
course of three or four weeks the two places will be con-
nected by a railroad which follows the west bank of the
Missouri.
The Union Pacific Railroad (Eastern Division) opened
its branch road to Lawrence in May, and trains now run
regularly upon it, connecting with the main line for Topeka
and — San Francisco. One of my objects in visiting Col-
orado being to take a superficial view of both railroad
routes to the Rocky Mountains, I decided to go out by
way of Fort Riley and the Smoky Hill, and return along
the Platte to Omaha, in Nebraska. My first acquaintance
with the Pacific Railroad, therefore, commenced in Leav-
enworth. The train starts from a rough piece of ground
outside of the town, follows the bank of the Missouri for
six or eight miles, and then strikes inland through a lateral
valley.
Here commence my new experiences. I have never be-
fore been west of the Missouri River. Let me now see
what is this Kansas which for twelve years past has been
such a noted geographical name—which has inspired some
thousands of political speeches, some noble poems, and one
of the worst paintings that mortal eye ever beheld. The
very repetition of a name, even in the best cause, some-
times becomes a little wearisome. I frankly confess I have
so often been asked, “Why don't you visit Kansas?” that
A GLIMPSE OF KANSAS. 5
I lost almost all desire of visiting Kansas. Now, however,
I am here, and will see what there is to be seen.
We gradually rose from a bottom of rather ragged-look-
ing timber, and entered a broad, sweeping, undulating re-
gion of grass. Cattle were plenty, pasturing in large
flocks, and there were occasional log-cabins, great fields of
corn where the thrifty blades just showed themselves above
a superb growth of weeds, and smaller patches of oats or
wheat. Everybody complained of the incessant rains, and
this accounted for the weedy condition of the fields. The
soil appeared to be completely Saturated, and the action
of the hot sun upon it produced almost visible vegetable
growth.
Here I first witnessed a phenomenon of which I had
often heard, – the spontaneous production of forests from
prairie land. Hundreds of acres, which the cultivated fields
beyond had protected against the annual inundation of fire,
were completely covered with young oak and hickory trees,
from four to six feet in height. In twenty years more these
thickets will be forests. Thus, two charges made against
Ransas seemed to be disproved at once, — drought and
want of timber, the former being exceptional, and the
latter only a temporary circumstance. -
The features of the landscape gradually assumed a cer-
tain regularity. The broad swells of soil narrowed into
ridges, whose long, wavelike crests generally terminated
in a short step, or parapet, of limestone rock, and then
sloped down to the bottom-lands, at angles varying from
20° to 30°. Point came out behind point, on either side,
evenly green to the summit, and showing with a wonder-
fully soft, sunny effect against the sky. Wherever a rill
found its way between them, its course was marked by a
line of timber. The counterpart of this region is not to be
found in the United States; yet there was a suggestion of
other landscapes in it, which puzzled me considerably, until
I happened to recall some parts of France, especially the
6 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
..?
valleys in the neighborhood of Epernay. Here, too, there
was rather an air of old culture than of new settlement.
Only the houses, gardens, and orchards were wanting.
As I leaned on the open windows of the car, enjoying the
beautiful outlines of the hills, the pure, delicious breeze, and
the bright colors of the wild-flowers, the bottom-lands over
which we sped broadened into a plain, and the bluffs ran
out to distant blue capes. Along their foot, apparently,
the houses of a town showed through and above the timber,
and on the top of the further hill a great windmill slowly
turned its sails. This was Lawrence. How like a picture
from Europe it seemed !
A kind resident met me at the station. We crossed the
Raw River (now almost as muddy as the Missouri), and
drove up the main street, one hundred feet wide, where the
first thing that is pointed out to every stranger is the single
house left standing, when the town was laid in blood and
ashes, in August, 1863. Lawrence has already completely
arisen from her ruins, and suggests nothing of what she has
endured. The great street, compactly built of brick, and
swarming with traffic; the churches, the scattered private
residences, embowered in gardens; the handsome college
building on the hill, indicate long-continued prosperity,
rather than the result of nearly ten years of warfare. The
population of the town is now about 8000.
This afternoon my friends took me to Mount Oread (as
I believe the bluff to the west is named), whence there is a
lovely view of the Wakarusa Valley. Mexican vaqueros
. . were guarding their horses on the grassy slopes, and down
on the plain a Santa Fé train of wagons was encamped in
a semicircle. Beyond the superb bottoms, checkered with
fields and dotted with farm-houses, rose a line of undulat-
ing hills, with here and there an isolated, mound-like
“butte,” in the south. It was a picture of the purest pasto-
ral beauty. -
A little further there is a neglected cemetery where the
A GLIMPSE OF KANSAS. 7
first martyrs of Kansas — Barbour among them — and the
murdered of Lawrence lie buried. The stockades of the
late war, and the intrenchments of the earlier and pro-
phetic war, are still to be seen upon the hill. So young a
town, and such a history! Yet now all is peace, activity,
and hopeful prosperity; and every one, looking upon the
fair land around, can but pray that the end of its trial has
been reached.
II.
ON THE FRONTIER.
JUNCTION CITY, KANSAs, THREE MILES west OF
Fort RILEY, June 20, 1866.
As I recrossed the Kaw in order to take the train to To-
peka, I felt that my stay in Lawrence had been too short.
The day was warm and cloudless, with a delightful prairie
breeze, and the softly tinted dells beyond the Wakarusa
invited excursions. The main street of the town began to
swarm with farmers' wagons, pouring in from the rich coun-
try to the south; the mechanics were at work upon new
buildings in all directions; the vans of the windmill on the
bluff were whirling merrily, and all sights and sounds spoke
of cheerful occupation. Fortunately, the people of Lawrence
do not expect their place to become “the greatest town in
the West, sir!” — so they are tolerably sure of a steady
and healthy growth for a good many years to come.
I reached Topeka—twenty-nine miles by rail—in an hour
and a half. The road is laid along the Kaw bottoms, on a
grade as nearly level as possible. The valley has an aver-
age breadth of five or six miles, and the uplands on the
north and south terminate in a succession of bluff head-
lands, which, with a general family likeness in their for-
mation, present a constantly changing variety of outlines.
The lateral valleys repeat the features of the main valley,
on a smaller scale. Sometimes the bluffs retreat so as to
form a shelving semi-basin, or amphitheatre, a mile or two
deep, — a grand concave slope of uniform green, set against
the sky. At intervals of two or three miles the road crosses
ON THE FIRONTIER. 9
tributary streams of the Kaw, flowing in narrow, sunken
beds, the sides of which are fringed with trees. The land-
scapes have a breadth and harmonious beauty, such as I
know not where else to find in the United States, outside
of California.
Indeed, there is much in Kansas to remind one of Cali-
fornia. These hills, now so green, must be a golden brown
in the autumn; the black soil takes or loses moisture with
equal rapidity; the air has the same keen, bracing flavor of
life; and there seems to be some resemblance in the meteor-
ological conditions of the two countries. Certainly, next
to California, this is the most attractive State I have yet
Seen.
The grain-fields along the Kaw bottom were superb. I
have seen no corn so forward, no wheat so close and heavy-
headed, this year. The farmers were taking advantage of
the day to work their corn-fields, the most of which were
in sore need of the operation. Rank as is the wild grass
of this region, the imported weeds have a still ranker
growth. Last year's fields are completely hidden under
crops of “horse-weed,” every fence-corner has a grove of
giant datura (Jamestown-weed), and the roads are lined
with tall ranks of sunflowers. I saw no garden that was
entirely clean, and, what struck me with more surprise,
no attempt at an orchard. The beauty of the country lies
in its natural features; cultivation, thus far, has not im-
proved it.
Topeka, at present, is the end of passenger trains on the
Pacific Railroad. In another week, however, they will run
daily to Waumego, thirty-five miles further, or one hundred
miles west of the Missouri River. We landed at a little
cluster of shanties, newly sprung up among the sand and
thickets on the north bank of the Kaw. Here an omnibus
was in waiting, to convey us across the pontoon bridge—
or rather two bridges, separated by a bushy island in the
river. Beyond these the town commences, scattered over
10 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
a gentle slope rising to the south for half a mile, when the
land falls again toward a creek in the rear. I found com-
fortable quarters at the Capitol House. Mr. Greeley's
“vanishing scale of civilization ” has been pushed much
further west since his overland trip in 1859.
Topeka is a pleasant town (city ?) of about 2500 inhab-
itants. The situation is perhaps not so striking as that of
Lawrence, but it is very beautiful. Unfortunately, some
parts of the place are destitute of water, which must now
be hauled for the supply of families. There seemed to me
to be a greater number of substantial private residences
than in Lawrence. The building-stone — a buff-colored
magnesian limestone, easily worked — appears to improve
as we ascend the Kaw. It is found everywhere in the
bluffs, and the handsomest buildings one sees are those
constructed of it.
After calling ppon Governor Crawford, and all the other
State officers, – of whom I have to record that they are
very amiable and pleasant gentlemen, – a friend treated
me to a delightful drive into the adjacent country. Land,
he informed me, is rapidly rising in value; a farm adjoin-
ing the city on the east has just been sold for two hundred
dollars per acre. The high price of grain for several years
Past, and the present rise in real estate, have been of great
benefit to Kansas, enabling both farmers and speculators to
extricate themselves from their former embarrassments.
It rained heavily during the night, and in the morning
the roads were changed from dust to mud. Nevertheless,
as I had arranged to take the overland coach at this place,
thus saving myself twenty-four hours of fatiguing travel, I
engaged a livery team for Manhattan, fifty-five miles west of
Topeka. But I would advise any stranger visiting Kansas
to make himself independent of livery-stables, if possible.
The prices are rather more than double what they are in
California. From Topeka to this place, my expenses for
livery teams have averaged half a dollar per mile !
ON THE FRONTIER. 11
Leaving Topeka at nine o'clock, with some promise of
better weather, we crossed to the north bank of the Kaw,
and after floundering for a mile or two among mud-holes
in the timber, emerged upon the open, grassy level of the
valley. The sun came out bright and warm ; the bluff
capes and sweeping hills glittered in the light, fading from
pure emerald into softest violet; tufts of crimson phlox,
white larkspur, spikes of lilac campanulae, and a golden-
tinted anothera flashed among the grass; and the lines and
clumps of trees along the streams were as dark and rich
as those of an English park. The landscapes were a con-
tinual feast to the eye, and each successive bend of the
valley seemed to reveal a lovelier and more inspiring
picture. -
The larger streams we crossed — Soldier Creek and
Cross Creek — did not issue from close ravines between
the bluffs, as is usual in this formation, but each rejoiced in
its broad rich belt of bottom-land, stretching away for miles
to the northward. Most of these creeks are spanned by
bridges, where a toll of from fifteen to twenty-five cents is
charged. Their waters are clear and swift, and good mill-
sites are already being selected. The advantages of the
State, both in regard to wood and water, seem to me greater
than has heretofore been represented.
After a drive of twenty-two miles, we reached a neat,
whitewashed cabin, with the sign : “Hotel, A. P. Neddo.”
The landlord was a giant half-breed, remarkably handsome
and remarkably heavy, familiarly known as “Big Aleck.”
He has four hundred acres of superb land, and is accounted
wealthy. Big Aleck furnished us with a good dinner of
ham, onions, radishes, and gooseberry-pie. Among the
temporary guests was an Irish teamster, who had a great
deal to say about Constantinople and the Sea of Azof.
Within four miles of Topeka commences the Pottawot-
tamie Reservation, which extends westward along the Kaw
for twenty or thirty miles. Many of the Indians are now
12 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
obtaining patents for their share of the land, in order to
sell to emigrants, and in a few years, doubtless, the entire
reservation will thus be disposed of Here and there a
wretched cabin and a field of ill-cultivated corn denotes
the extent of Pottawottamie civilization. We met a num-
ber of Indians and squaws on horseback — one of the lat-
ter in a pink dress and wearing a round hat with upright
feather, and her hair in a net. A little further, we came
upon a mounted band of twenty or thirty, all drunk. My
driver showed a little uneasiness, but they drew aside to let
us pass, and a few hoots and howls were all the salutation
we received.
St. Mary's Mission is a village of a dozen houses, with a
Catholic chapel, on this reservation. My eyes were here
gladdened by the sight of a thriving peach orchard. The
house and garden of the priest, in their neatness and evi-
dence of care, offer a good model to the Protestant farmers
in this part of Kansas, whose places, without exception,
have a slovenly and untidy aspect.
We had a drive of fourteen miles from the Mission to
the village of Louisville, on Rock Creek. The road swerved
away from the river, occasionally running over the low bluffs,
which gave me views of wonderful beauty both up and down
the Kaw Valley. Every mile or two we passed wagon' or
mule trains, encamped near springs of water, their animals
luxuriating on the interminable harvest of grass. I was
amazed at the extent of the freight business across the
Plains; yet I am told that it has somewhat fallen off this
season. I have seen at least two thousand wagons between
Lawrence and this place.
The view of Rock Creek Valley, before we descended to
Louisville, was the finest I had had, up to that point. Even
my driver, an old resident of Kansas, broke into an excla-
mation of delight. The village, at the outlet of the valley,
had a tolerable future before it, until the railroad estab-
lished the new town of Waumego, two and a half miles dis-
ON THE FRONTIER. 13
tant. In another week, the latter place will be the starting-
point for the overland coaches, which will give it a tempo-
rary importance. -
The bottom of Rock Creek is a bed of solid limestone,
as smooth as a floor. Just above the crossing, a substan-
tial dam has been built, which furnishes a good water-
power. We did not stop here, but pushed on toward Man-
hattan, over the rolling hills to the north, whence we looked
out upon grand distances, dark under the gathering clouds.
By seven o’clock, the thunder drew nearer, and there was
every indication of a violent storm. I therefore halted at
Torrey's, a farm where the Overland coach changes horses,
and was no sooner housed than the rain came down in tor-
rents. The cabin furnished plain fare, and a tolerable bed,
although the storm, which raged all night, leaked in many
places through the roof.
Rising this morning at five o’clock, I found no abatement
of the rain. We were soon sodden and mud-splashed from
head to foot. The road, however, on the uplands, was
beaten hard, and we made such good progress that we
were at Manhattan, eight miles, in time for breakfast.
This town, of five hundred inhabitants, is situated at the
junction of the Big Blue with the Kaw. North of it rises
the Blue Mound, a bluff three hundred feet in height,
whence the view is said to be magnificent. There are five
churches in the little place, and a mile in the rear, on a
ridge, is the State Agricultural College, which already has
one hundred and thirty pupils. The houses are mostly
built of the beautiful magnesian limestone (resembling the
Roman travertine), which gives the place a very neat and
substantial air. This was all I could notice in the interval
between breakfast and the harnessing of a new team for
this place. With a Manhattan merchant as guide, I set
out again in the dismal storm, slowly making headway
through the quagmires of the bottom-lands.
I remarked that the bluffs were higher as we advanced,
14 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
the scenery more varied and picturesque, and, if possible,
more beautiful. The wild-flowers grew in wonderful pro-
fusion and richness of color. I was surprised to See, at the
foot of one of the bluffs, a splendid specimen of the yucca
filamentosa, in flower. We crossed the Wild-Cat, a swift,
clear stream, with magnificent timber on its bottoms, then
Eureka Lake (a crooked slough dignified by that title),
and after making ten very slow miles, reached Ogden, a
German settlement, with a dozen houses, one brewery, and
three beer-saloons. Here I saw one field of one hundred
and twenty acres of superb corn, completely inclosed by a
high stone wall.
More muddy bottom came, then low rolling hills, and in
another hour we saw the buildings of Fort Riley, crowning
a hill, two miles in advance. Before reaching the Fort,
we passed the site of Pawnee, noted during Governor
Reeder's administration, in the early days of Kansas.
Except two stone houses, the town has entirely disap-
peared. The Fort is charmingly situated, the sweep of
bluffs around it being seamed with picturesque, wooded
ravines which descend to the Republican Fork. No won-
der it is a favorite military station. I should have enjoyed
it more but for the discouraging rain and the interminable
mud.
We crossed the Republican on a floating bridge, and
drove through three miles more of mud to this place, which
occupies a rising ground at the base of the triangle formed
by the Smoky Hill and the Republican Forks. It has four
or five hundred inhabitants, a good hotel (the Eagle), and
a handsome weekly newspaper, “The Junction City Union.”
Buildings — nearly all of stone—are going up rapidly, and
trade is very brisk, in anticipation of the place soon being
the temporary terminus of the Pacific Railroad. Passenger
trains will reach Fort Riley by the first of August, and then
a great part of the Overland business will no doubt be
transacted here instead of at Leavenworth.
ON THE FRONTIER, 15
I must close, to catch the mail. The Denver coach has
just come in. A through passenger, a fresh, rosy-cheeked
boy, informs me that all is quiet along the route. To-mor-
row the coach I take will be here, and you will next hear
of me from some station on “the Great American Desert.”
III.
TJP TEIE SMORY HILL FORK.
DENVER, CoLORADO.
AFTER my arrival at Junction City, the rains which had
flooded all Eastern Kansas, stopping stages and railroad
trains alike, ceased entirely, and the weather became clear
and fine. Although my main object in visiting Junction
was to secure a good night's rest before setting out on the
Plains, I was immediately requested to lecture that even-
ing. There was no hall, the only one having been recently
burned; no church yet completed; no announcement had
been made — but in these far-western towns nothing is im-
possible. A store-building, just floored and plastered, with-
out windows, and, indeed, occupied by carpenters at work,
was selected; planks carried in for seats, a temporary plat-
form built, messengers sent around to give private infor-
mation to the people, and in two hours' time lo! there was
a good audience assembled.
All Tuesday I waited vainly for the Overland stage-coach.
The accounts from down the Kaw Valley represented the
streams as being impassable, and toward sunset the enter-
prising population considered that my delay was now so far
extended as to warrant a second lecture. With less time
for preparation, they achieved the same result as the first
night; and, truly, I have rarely had a more agreeable audi-
ence than the hundred persons who sat upon the planks in
that unfinished store-building. What other people than the
Americans would do such things?
While at Junction I witnessed a very interesting experi
UP THE SMOKY HIIL FORK. 17
ment. The bluffs of magnesian limestone behind the town
precisely resemble, in color and texture, that which forms
the island of Malta. In the quarry it has a pale buff tint,
with a soft, cheesy grain, which may be cut with a good
hatchet, or sawed with a common handsaw ; yet, after
some exposure to the air, it becomes hard and assumes a
rich, warm color. Messrs. McClure and Hopkins, of Junc-
tion, had just received a sawing-machine, driven by horse
power, and several rough blocks were awaiting the test.
Nothing could have been more satisfactory. The saw cut
through the stone as easily and steadily as through a block
of wood, dressing a smooth face of eighteen inches square
in exactly two minutes. The supply of stone being inex-
haustible, this is the beginning of a business which may
make the future cities of Kansas and Missouri the most
beautiful in the world.
I stated the population of the place at four or five
hundred, but I am told it is nearly one thousand, each
building representing thrice the number of inhabitants as
in the East. So I hasten to make the correction, for noth-
ing annoys these frontier towns so much as either to under-
state their population or underestimate their prospective
importance. Junction City will soon be the terminus of
railroad travel, and the starting-point of the great overland
freight business, which will give it certainly a temporary
importance. The people, I find, desire that the road shall
run up the Republican Valley, in order to secure, at least,
the New-Mexican trade for a few years; but this is not a
matter to be decided by local interests or wishes. The dis-
tance thence to Denver by the Republican route would be
one hundred and thirty-nine miles longer than by the
Smoky Hill route.
Another comfortable night at the Eagle Hotel, and
Wednesday came, warm and cloudless, without any sign of
the stage. Mr. McClure kindly offered to drive me to Sa-
lina, the last settlement on the Smoky Hill Fork, forty-five
2
18 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
miles further, and we set out soon after breakfast. The
road along the bottom being too deep, we took that leading
over the rolling country to the north. Climbing through a
little glen to the level of the bluffs, we had a charming
backward view of the junction of the rivers, with the build-
ings of Fort Riley crowning the wooded slopes beyond;
then forward, over many a rolling mile of the finest graz-
ing land in the world. Two miles further we found a train
of wagons just starting with supplies for the stage stations
along the line. Mr. Stanton, the superintendent, informed
me that he had come through from Denver to Fort Riley
this spring, with ox-teams, in twenty-seven days. He ex-
pects to make three round trips this season, taking up corn,
and bringing back lumber for the houses and stables to be
built on the line.
We had occasional views over the bottoms of the Smoky
Hill, which, the people claim, are even richer than those of
the Kaw Valley; but that seems impossible. Twelve miles
of pleasant travel brought us to Chapman's Creek, the first
stage-station. Here, however, the stream was nine feet
deep, and the people at the ranche informed us that we
would have to take a ford two miles higher up. It seemed
to me better to return to Junction and await the stage
there, than to risk missing it by leaving the main road;
so we put about and retraced our journey.
At noon, when we had reached the bluffs and were think-
ing of dinner, what should we see but the stage, at last,
driving toward us from the town Hunger, then, was to
be my first experience on the Overland journey. We
turned out of the road; I alighted with my baggage, and
awaited the approach of a face well-known in the Tenth
Street Studio Building. There were two passengers, but
neither of them was my friend. In fact, the driver shouted
to me before he pulled up his horses, “Your friend did n’t
come.” One of the passengers handed me a letter from
the agent at Topeka, informing me that Mr. Beard would
UP THE SMOKY HILL FORK. 19
probably not be able to reach that place for three or four
days, on account of the floods. My arrangements in Den-
ver would not allow me to wait; so I deposited myself, blan-
kets and baggage, in the stage, and was fairly embarked for
crossing the Plains.
I traversed, for the third time that day, the route to
Chapman's Creek. The water was still rising, and we,
therefore, tried the upper ford, and successfully. The road
beyond this descended from the Smoky Hill, and followed
the broad, level bottoms of that river. The soil was, in-
deed, of wonderful fertility, though but little of it, as yet, is
under cultivation. Toward sunset we reached the village
of Abilene, or Abeline (how or whence the name was de-
rived I cannot imagine, unless it is an abbreviated corrup-
tion of “Abe Lincoln"), and here I determined on having
Something to eat. Upon questioning a stalwart fellow who
hung upon the coach while it was crossing Mud Creek, he
declared, with emphasis, “It’s the last square meal you’ll
get on the road l’ My experience of a “square meal,”
therefore, is that it consists of strong black coffee, strips
of pork fat fried to a sandy crispness, and half-baked,
Soggy, indigestible biscuits. For these I paid the square
price of one dollar.
The sun set, — there was no moon, — and our coach made
toilsome progress over the muddy bottoms toward the Sol-
omon's Fork. Mosquitoes began their attacks, and thence-
forth worried us the whole night. About ten o'clock the
driver commenced an imitation of the bark of the coyote,
which, it appeared, was a distant signal of our approach to
the ferryman at the Solomon Crossing. It was too indis-
tinct to note anything but the dark masses of timber on
either side, and the gleam of water between; but from the
length of time we occupied in crossing, I should judge that
the stream is a hundred yards wide. The , bottom-land
along the Upper Solomon is said to be equal to any in
Kansas, and emigration is fast pouring into it, as well as
along the Republican and the Saline.
20 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
I should not wonder if “The Great American Desert”
should finally be pronounced a myth. In my school geog-
raphies, it commenced at the western border of Missouri;
now, I believe, it is pushed some two hundred and fifty
miles further west, leaving some of the finest agricultural
land on the globe behind it. So far, I had found the re-
verse of a desert; I determined, therefore, to be on the
lookout, and duly note its present point of commencement.
What a weary drag we had that night over the deep mud
between the Solomon and Saline Forks | Either sleeping
and stung to inflammation, or awake, weary, and smoking
in desperate defence, two or three hours passed away, until
the yelping and howling of the driver announced our ap-
proach to the Saline. In the dark, this river appeared to
be nearly equal in volume to the Solomon. Its water is so
salt as sometimes to affect the taste of the Smoky Hill at
Junction City.
Nine miles more in the dark brought us to Salina, a vil-
lage of two or three hundred inhabitants, and the end of
settlement in this direction. Our driver kept us wait-
ing two hours for a new bit for one of his bridles, and in
this interval I snatched a little sleep. Of Salina I can-
not say that I really saw anything, but I learned that it con-
tains several stores and two physicians. The two or three
houses near the tavern were shanties of frame or logs.
Travellers west of Topeka are expected to sleep two in a
bed, and several beds in a room. It was only through the
courtesy of the landlord at Junction that I was exempted
from this rule. In other respects customs are primitive,
but not rough. People wash themselves more frequently
than elsewhere (because it is more needed), and there is as
much cleanliness in the cabins, all circumstances consid-
ered, as in many hotels which I have seen. I even noticed
one man in Kansas, who carried a tooth-brush in his
f pocket, which he pulled out now and then to give his teeth
a dry brushing.
UP THE SMOKY HILL FORK. 21
On leaving Salina, the road strikes nearly due west across
the rolling country, to cut off the great southern bend of
the Smoky Hill. Two or three miles terminated the mud
and mosquitoes; we struck a dry, smooth road, a cool, deli-
cious breeze, and great sweeps of green landscape, slowly
brightening with the dawn. Distant bluffs and mounds
broke the monotony of the horizon line, and the gradual,
gentle undulations of the road were refreshing both to
team and passengers.
By six o'clock we reached Pritchard's, the next station,
sixteen miles from Salina. Here there was a stable of
rough stones and mud, and a cabin cut out of the steep
bank, with a rude roof of logs and mud. I was surprised
by the sight of a pretty little girl of seven, and on entering
the cabin found a woman engaged in getting our breakfast.
The walls and floor were the bare soil; there was a bed or
two, a table, two short benches for seats, and a colony of
tame prairie-dogs in one corner. I asked the little girl if
she would not like a companion to play with, but she an-
swered, - “I think I have more fun with the horses and
prairie-dogs | * What a western woman she will make
Water was furnished plentifully for our ablutions, break-
fast resembled the “square meal” of the preceding even-
ing, with the addition of canned peaches, and we resumed
our seats with a great sense of refreshment. The air of
this region seems to take away all sense of fatigue; it is
cool and bracing, even at mid-day. Soon after starting,
we saw a coyote sneaking along a meadow on our left;
then a huge gray wolf, at which one of my fellow-passen-
gers fired without effect. He trotted away with a disdain-
ful air, stopping now and then to look at us. At the same
time a rattlesnake gave an angry signal by the roadside.
There was no longer a question that we were now beyond
civilization.
The limestone formation here gives place to a dark-red
sandstone, which crops out of the ridges in rough, irregu-
22 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
&
lar walls and towers. Although rising to no great height,
they nevertheless form picturesque and suggestive features
of the landscape: in the distance they might frequently be
taken for buildings.
The flora seems also to undergo a change. The grass
was everywhere starred with large crimson anemones, a
variety of the helianthus, with golden blossoms, a velvety
flower of the richest brown and orange tints, white lark-
spurs, and dark-blue spiderwort. For many a league the
country was one vast natural garden of splendid bloom.
There were places where a single flower had usurped pos-
session of a quarter-acre of soil, and made a dazzling bed
of its own color. I have seen nothing like it, save on the
hills of Palestine, in May.
After leaving Clear Creek, fourteen miles further, we
approached the Smoky Hill. Two companies of the Second
United States Cavalry were drawn up on the plain. Look-
ing out, we beheld the encampment of Fort Ellsworth
ahead of us. At present this is but a collection of tem-
porary log barracks and stables, but the foundations of a
permanent post have been laid on the rising ground, a lit-
tle further from the river. We only stopped to deliver
mails, but I had time for a brief interview with Lieuten-
ant Lester, and a glass of excellent beer from a barrel in
the sutler's quarters. General Palmer was inspecting the
progress of the new fort, and I did not see him. Every-
body — especially the private soldiers — was anxious to
hear about the Fenian movement.
There had been no Indian troubles on the road, but the
officers seemed to anticipate trouble from the continued
absence of Indians from the country. The old trappers
consider that withdrawal of intercourse, on the part of the
Indians, indicates preparations for an attack. The Smoky
Hill route, I find, is regarded with a little uneasiness this
year, on account of the troubles last fall. The traders and
train-men from Santa Fé represent that the tribes of the
UP THE SMOKY HILL FORK. 23
Plains are not in an amiable mood; and I confess I am
therefore surprised that a thoroughfare so important as the
Smoky Hill route is not more efficiently guarded. As far
as I can learn, the difficulty seems rather to lie in the ex-
istence of a mongrel band of outcasts from various tribes,
half-breeds and a few whites, who are known, collectively,
under the name of “Dog Indians.” Most of the atrocities
heretofore committed are charged upon this class, which
ought to be extirpated at once.
When we reached the station at Buffalo Creek, ten miles
from Fort Ellsworth, the driver surprised me by saying:
“Here's where the attack happened, three weeks ago!”
I had heard of no attack, and was informed by the agents
of the line that none had occurred. The account the driver
gave was, that a band of forty (Pawnees, he supposed)
had stopped the coach, attempted to upset it, and made
various insolent demonstrations for a while. One passen-
ger, who made a show of resistance, was knocked down
with a club. “There was a Commodore aboard,” said the
driver; “he was terribly scairt; and a woman, and she was
the coolest of 'em all.” This band is supposed to be under
the command of Bent, a half-breed, son of the famous old
frontiersman.
At the next station, Lost Creek (fifteen miles), we found
a small detachment of soldiers posted. This looked threat-
ening, but they assured us that everything was quiet.
Thenceforth, indeed, we ceased to feel any anxiety; for, on
a ridge, two miles away, we saw our first buffalo, -a dozen
dark specks on the boundless green. Before night small
herds of them grew quite frequent, making their appear-
ance near us on both sides of the road. They set off on a
slow, lumbering gallop at our approach, their humps tossing
up and down behind each other, with the regular movement
of small waves. Several shots were fired from the coach,
but only one took effect, wounding a huge bull in the shoul-
der. It is this wanton killing of their game, simply in the
24 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
way of amusement, which so exasperates the Indians. On
the Smoky Hill bottoms, toward evening, we saw the larg—
est herd, numbering some four or five hundred animals.
The soldiers at Lost Creek had shot two or three the pre-
vious day. They had a quarter hanging upon the stake,
but the meat both looked and smelled so disagreeably that
I had no desire to taste it. *
Antelopes and prairie-dogs also made their appearance
in large numbers. The former were mostly single or in
pairs, leaping nimbly along the elevations, or lifting their
graceful heads in curiosity and watching us as we passed.
The prairie-dogs sat upright at the doors of their under-
ground habitations, and barked at us with a comical petu-
lance. Toward evening their partners, the owls, came forth
also to take the air. The rattlesnakes, I presume, were
still in-doors, as we saw but two or three during the whole
journey.
After passing a small stream near Fossil Creek, the driver
suddenly stopped the team and jumped down from his
seat. He leaned over the water, started back, took courage
again, and presently held up to view a turtle which would
weigh twenty-five or thirty pounds. The creature kicked
and snapped viciously, as he was suspended by the tail, nor
was his odor very attractive; but such a prospect for soup
does not often arrive in this land of salt pork and indi-
gestible biscuit; so he was tumbled into the boot, and the
cover strapped down over him. For several miles, we on
the back seat could hear him scratching behind us, but
when the boot was opened at Big Creek Station, lo! no
turtle was there. The driver's face was a picture of misery
and disgust. -:
As the cool, grateful twilight came down upon the bound-
less swells of grass and flowers, I examined my sensations,
and found that they were of pure, peaceful enjoyment in
the new and beautiful world which I now beheld for the
first time. The fatigue, so far, was trifling; the fear of
UP THE SMOKY HILL FORK. 25
Indians had disappeared; the “square meals” had, some-
how or other, managed to digest themselves; and I heartily
congratulated myself on having undertaken the journey.
Here I leave you, one hundred and seventy-five miles
west of Fort Riley, in the centre of what once was “The
Great American Desert.”
IV.
CROSSING THE PLAINS.
DENVER, C. T., June 18, 1866.
AT Fort Ellsworth I was informed that the military sta-
tion between Fossil Creek and Big Creek had been dis-
continued; yet this is not the case. Toward sunset the
driver handed me a mail-bag, asking me to pick out the
letters for Fort Fletcher, the name given to this post; and
the assortment had scarcely been made, before the coach
was surrounded by a crowd of soldiers (apparently new re-
cruits) clamoring vociferously, first for tobacco and then
for newspapers. It was difficult to decide which want was
the keener. I gave them what cigars I had in my pocket,
but was destitute of papers, and could only inform them
that the Fenians had not yet taken Montreal. I felt no
less disappointed than the poor fellows themselves, that I
could not better supply their wants.
My companions were no less interested than myself in
the projected railroad routes to Colorado, and we therefore
scanned the Smoky Hill Valley from every elevation, with
regard to two considerations,—settlement and railroad ties.
So far, everything was favorable. The Smoky Hill was
everywhere marked by a line of timber, and we noticed
that at each junction with its numerous affluents, there were
large groves. The bluffs on the southern side were fre-
quently covered, to their summits, with a growth of red
cedar. All the bottom-land is exceedingly rich and well
adapted for farming, while the broad, rolling uplands fur-
nish the finest pasturage in the world. Near Big Creek,
CROSSING THE PLAINS. - 27
coal has been found, and there are also rumors of tin and
copper. With a sufficient force the road may be extended
from Fort Riley to Big Creek in a year's time, and carry
permanent settlement with it.
At Big Creek Station, which we reached after dark, we
took on board Mr. Scott, the Superintendent of the Middle
Division of the road. There was still no moon, and, for-
tunately, no mosquitoes also. The night was fresh, yet
scarcely cool enough to require the blankets I had procured
for the journey. Half-asleep and half-awake, now lulled
into slumber by the slowness of our progress, now bumped
into angry wakefulness in crossing some deep gully, we
dragged through the night, and in the morning found our-
selves at Downer's, forty-four miles further. Here an empty
coach had just arrived from Denver, the third I had met
going eastward without passengers. The Colorado people,
it seems, are still afraid of this route.
Our breakfast here was another “square meal,” — pork
fat and half-baked biscuits. At all the stations the people
complained of lack of supplies; some were destitute of
everything but beans. They gave us what they had, and
we were very willing to pay a dollar rather than go hungry;
but one would naturally expect that where a stage goes
decent food can be transported. As there is but one change
of teams at the stations, we were obliged to take the same
mules which had just arrived from Cornell Springs, twenty
miles further; hence our progress was very slow and dis-
couraging. On arriving there, a second tired team was
harnessed to carry us thirty miles, to Monument Station;
so that we lost full four hours during this day's journey.
The driver of the down coach informed us that the ,
Cheyennes had appeared at Monument Station the day
before, but they had committed no depredations, and ap-
peared to be friendly. The chief had even invited him,
on account of his red hair, to join their tribe. Mr. Scott,
however, who has had eight years’ experience of the In-
*
28 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
dians of the Plains, seemed to place little faith in their
professions. They are reported to have declared that they
must and will retain the Smoky Hill country, as it is the
best range for game between the Missouri and the Rocky
Mountains.
From the first rise after leaving Downer's, we saw, far
away to the right, a long range of chalk bluffs, shining
against a background of dark blue cloud. They seemed
like a stretch of the southern coast of England, breasting
the rolling green ocean of the Plains. Over great swells,
covered with the short, sweet buffalo-grass, and starred
with patches of crimson anemone, pink verbena, unknown
orange and salmon-red flowers, we drove for two hours,
watching the isolated towers and fantastic masses of rock
detach themselves from the line. of the bluff. They
assumed the strangest and most unexpected forms. Here
was a feudal castle of the Middle Ages; there a shattered,
irregular obelisk, or broken pyramid; and finally, rising
alone from the level of a meadow, we beheld three perpen-
dicular towers, eighty feet high, resting on a common base.
Their crests were of a bright orange hue, fading downward
into white. Beyond them extended the shattered battle-
ments of a city, sparkling in the sunshine. The blue
ridges beyond the Smoky Hill, ten miles away, formed the
background of this remarkable picture.
The green of the Plains here began to be varied with
belts of dark purple, which we found to be what is called
“bunch-grass,” a very fine and wiry growth, but said to be
excellent forage. At a distance it resembled the heather
bloom on the English moors. Over these brilliant green
and purple tints, the snowy fortresses of chalk started up
with a dazzling effect. There is not the least approach to
monotony in the scenery of the Plains; but continual, in-
spiring change. -
We were to have another new experience that day. Our
route, for some distance, lay over an elevated plateau,
CROSSING THE PLAINS. 29
around which, for an hour or two, dark thunder-clouds col-
lected. Out of one of these dropped a curtain of rain,
gray in the centre, but of an intense indigo hue at the
edges. It slowly passed us on the north, split, from one
minute to another, by streaks of vivid rose-colored light-
ning, followed by deafening detonating peals; when, just
as we seemed to have escaped, it suddenly wheeled and
burst upon us.
It was like a white squall on a tropic sea. We had not
lowered the canvas curtains of the coach before a dam gave
way over our heads, and a torrent of mingled wind, rain,
hail, and thunder overwhelmed us. The driver turned his
mules as far as possible away from the wind, and stopped;
the coach rocked and reeled as if about to overturn ; the
hail smote like volleys of musketry, and in less than fifteen
minutes the whole plain lay four inches under water. I
have never witnessed anything even approaching the vio-
lence of this storm ; it was a marvel that the mules escaped
with their lives. The bullets of hail were nearly as large
as pigeons' eggs, and the lightning played around us like a
succession of Bengal fires. We laid the rifles in the bot-
tom of the coach, and for half an hour sat in silence, hold-
ing down the curtain, and expecting every moment to be
overturned. Then the tornado suddenly took breath, com-
menced again twice or thrice, and ceased as unexpectedly
as it came.
For a short time the road was a swift stream, and the
tufts of buffalo-grass rose out of an inundated plain, but
the water soon found its level, and our journey was not
delayed, as we had cause to fear. Presently Mr. Scott
descried a huge rattlesnake, and we stopped the coach and
jumped out. The rattles were too wet to give any sound,
and the Snake endeavored to escape. A German frontiers-
man who was with us fired a revolver which stunned rather
than wounded the reptile. Then, poising a knife, he threw
it with such a secure aim that the snake's head was pinned
30 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
to the earth. Cutting off the rattles, which I appropriated,
we did him no further injury.
The Monument Station is so called from a collection of
quadrangular chalk towers, which rise directly from the
plain. At first sight, they resemble a deserted city, with
huge bastioned walls; but on a nearer approach they sep-
arate into detached masses, some of which suggest colossal
sitting statues. It is almost impossible to divest one's
mind of the impression that these are the remains of hu-
man art. The station-house is built of large blocks, cut
out with a hatchet and cemented with raw clay. Here we
found stone-ware instead of pewter, although the viands
were about as “square” as those at the preceding stations.
The Indians had not again made their appearance. They
professed to have a camp four or five miles further down
the Smoky Hill, and I was a little disappointed that, after
so many rumors and warnings, I was likely to get over the
Plains without seeing a single redskin.
During this day's journey we kept more away from the
Smoky Hill, but we still saw, from time to time, its line of
timber and cedared bluffs in the distance. Near Monu-
ment Station we found it much diminished in volume, but
with good, arable bottom-lands. Up to this point, two
hundred and fifty miles west of Fort Riley, we could not
detect the least impediment to the construction of a rail-
road. Nor was there yet any indication of the Great
American Desert.
We had now shorter stations for some distance, and
made the distance to Pond Creek, forty-six miles, by two
o'clock in the morning. It was scarcely possible to sleep,
and yet we were too much fatigued to keep entirely awake.
I have an indistinct impression that there was a two-story
frame house at Pond Creek, and that we were delayed
there for an hour or two. I know that Mr. Scott informed
us, as he took leave, that we were two hundred and twenty-
five miles from Denver. At this point there is a new mili-
CROSSING THE PLAINs. 31
tary post, called Fort Wallace. Fort Lyon, on the Ar-
kansas, is but forty-five miles distant, in a southwestern
direction, and the road thence to Santa Fé about four hun-
dred miles further. If the Eastern Branch of the Pacific
Railroad should follow the Smoky Hill route (which is cer-
tainly the shortest and most practicable), Pond Creek will
probably become, for a while, the starting-point of New
Mexican travel and traffic.
We reached Willow Springs, eighteen miles, by sunrise.
A forlorn place it was The station-men lived in holes
cut in a high clay bank, and their mules had similar half.
subterranean lodgings. I saw no provisions, and they said
they could give us no breakfast. The team was speedily
changed, and we set out for Cheyenne Wells, twenty-five
miles distant, through a country more nearly approaching
barrenness than any we had yet seen. The timber almost
entirely disappeared ; the lateral streams ceased, and
finally the Smoky Hill itself, now so near its source, be-
came a bed of waterless sand. Still there was buffalo-
grass everywhere, and the antelopes were very abundant.
The fresh, delicious air of the Plains — only equalled by
that of the African Desert — refreshed us after the weari-
some night, and our appetites became keen with enforced
fasting. .
At Cheyenne Wells we found a large and handsome frame
stable for the mules, but no dwelling. The people lived in
a natural cave, extending for some thirty feet under the
bluff. But there was a woman, and when we saw her we
augured good fortunes. Truly enough, under the roof of .
conglomerate limestone, in the cave's dim twilight, we sat
down to antelope steak, tomatoes, bread, pickles, and pota-
toes — a royal meal, after two days of detestable fare.
Here we saw the last of Smoky Hill Fork. The road
strikes across a broad plateau for twenty miles, and then
descends to the Big Sandy, a branch of the Arkansas. It
is a fine, hard, natural highway, over which we made good
32 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
time. The country swarmed with antelopes, which pro-
voked several shots from the coach, but without effect.
Two of them, to our surprise, appeared to be pursuing a
large gray wolf. They made boldly after it as often as
it stopped, and were evidently bent on driving it quite
away from their pasturage. While we were speculating on
their movements, a lovely little fawn sprang up from the
grass and made away over the hills. The old antelopes
were evidently its parents, and their boldness in facing and
intimidating the wolf was now explained.
From the western edge of the water-shed, we overlooked
many a league of brown, monotonous, treeless country,
through which meandered, not the water, but the dry,
sandy bed of the Big Sandy. We really seemed to have
reached at last the Great American Desert. At the stage
station we found two men living in a hole in the ground,
with nothing but alkaline water to offer us. I tasted it,
and finding the flavor not disagreeable, drank — which
brought later woe upon me. Beyond this point even the
buffalo-grass died out, and we rolled along in the burning
sun and acrid dust, over dreary, gray undulations of weeds
and cactus. At Grady's Station, eighteen miles further,
there was but one man, a lonely troglodyte, burrowing in
the bank like a cliff-swallow.
Very soon, however, the grass began to appear again,
the country became green, and the signs of desolation van-
ished. A distance of forty miles embraced all we had
seen of the Desert — in fact, all there is of it upon this
route. In these forty miles a scattered settlement here
and there is not impossible, but is very unlikely. The ad-
joining country, for a hundred miles both to the east and
west, is adapted to grazing, and will support a moderate
population. The road, however, will soon be carried from
Cheyenne Wells up the divide, entirely avoiding the Big
Sandy. This new route, I am told, shortens the distance
to Denver by twenty miles, and has good grass and water
all the way. w
CROSSING THE PLAINS. 33
Toward evening I was struck with a peculiar tint in the
shadow of a cloud along the horizon. After half an hour's
study, I pronounced it to be a mountain — and, of course,
Pike's Peak. My fellow-travellers dissented at first from
this opinion, but as the clouds dissolved, the outline of a
snowy peak came out sharp and clear. It was something
like that of the Jungfrau, but stood alone, surrounded by
no sisterhood of Alps. At sunset we saw not only Pike's
Peak, but the tops of the Sangre de Cristo range, and the
Spanish Peaks, like little pimples on the line of the hori-
ZOIl.
What a night followed | The hard “hack” bumped and
jolted over the rough roads; we were flung backward and
forward, right and left, pummelled, pounded, and bruised,
not only out of sleep, but out of temper, and into pain and
exasperation. At one o'clock yesterday morning we were
at Hedinger's Lake, ninety-seven miles from Denver. I
thanked Heaven that no fifth night in the coach awaited
me. The hours dragged on with incredible slowness, until
dawn brought some refreshment, showing us a country of
high hills, occasional pine groves, and far-flashing snowy
mountains. i
Before sunset we drove into Denver; but of the last
day's ride to-morrow !
3
W.
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS AND DENVER.
DENVER, C. T., June 19, 1866.
FROM Hedinger's Lake to Denver a new cut-off has re-
cently been made, shortening the distance about twenty
miles. Ours was the last coach which passed over the old
road, the stations and stock being taken up behind us, and
transferred across the country to their new positions. The
road from Cheyenne Wells to Denver is thus abridged by
forty miles, making the entire distance from Fort Riley to
the latter place four hundred and sixty miles. When the
stations are shortened to an average of ten or twelve miles,
and the road as well stocked as it should be, the trip can
easily be made in three days. By that time, the trains on
the Pacific Railroad will be running to Fort Riley, and
twenty-four hours more will bring the traveller to St.
Louis.
I will not recapitulate our bruises during the night, but
rather pass at once to the sparkling morning which broke
upon us while crossing the divide between the Big Sandy
and the first tributary of the Plätte. In the foreground
stretched a range of green, grassy hills, dotted with pastur-
ing antelope, and crested with scattered groves of pine;
high above and far beyond them towered the keen, shining
wedges of the Rocky Mountains. Pike's Peak in the south
was apparently near at hand, although seventy miles dis-
tant. Long's Peak, in the northwest, resembled an Alpine
horn in its sharp, abrupt outline; and between these two
furthest outposts of the snowy range arose many a name-
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS AND DENVER. 35
less yet beautiful summit. The character of the scenery
had completely changed since the preceding sunset. I was
charmed out of all sense of fatigue, all feeling of discom-
fort, except that of hunger.
At Reed's Springs we obtained our last “square meal,”
with the inevitable bacon, for a dollar and a half. Thence-
forth our road led over the high divides between the Beaver,
Bijou, and Kiowa Creeks, all of which flow northward to
the Platte. The country is grandly adapted to grazing,
and all the bottom-lands are capable of being farmed. The
pine along the ridges is of but moderate growth, but it
will, no doubt, become better and more abundant with pro-
tection. A new flora here met us. The cactus, with its
showy crimson and golden blossoms, became scarce. I
found a splendid euchroma, with a spike of pure flame-
color; great quantities of a wild vetch, with pink blossoms;
and a thick growth of purple lupins. The grass was quite
different from that on the plains, and many portions of
these hills would furnish large quantities of wild hay. At
some of the stations along the Smoky Hill, the men have
mowing-machines, with which they harvest a full winter
supply for their stock.
The view of the Rocky Mountains from the divide near
Kiowa Creek is considered one of the finest in Colorado.
From the breezy ridge, between scattered groups of pine,
you look upon one hundred and fifty miles of the Snowy
range, from the Sangre de Cristo to the spurs away toward
Laramie. In variety and harmony of form, in effect against
the dark-blue sky, in breadth and grandeur, I know no eac-
ternal picture of the Alps which can be placed beside it.
If you could take away the valley of the Rhone, and unite
the Alps of Savoy with the Bernese Overland, you might
obtain a tolerable idea of this view of the Rocky Moun-
tains. Pike's Peak would then represent the Jungfrau; a
nameless snowy giant in font of you, Monte Rosa; and
Long's Peak, Mont Blanc. The altitudes very nearly cor-
36 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
respond, and there is a certain similarity in the forms. The
average height of the Rocky Mountains, however, surpasses
that of the Alps.
Mid-day was intensely sultry, with the first dust we had
experienced. We took a hasty dinner at Running Creek,
and then made our slow way, with poor horses, across the
ridges to Cherry Creek, which we struck about fifteen miles
above Denver. Up to this point we had found no settle-
ment, except two or three grazing ranches. The ride down
Cherry Creek, through sand and dust, on the banks of the
muddy stream, was the most tiresome part of the overland
journey. Mile after mile went slowly by, and still there
was no sign of cultivation. At last, four miles from the
town, we reached a neat little tavern, beside which grew
some cotton-woods. Here there were two or three ranches
in the process of establishment. The water from the wells
was very sweet and cold.
Our next sign of life was the evidence of death, – the
unfenced cemetery of Denver, on the top of the ridge. I
looked out ahead, from time to time, but could see neither
horse, tree, fence, or other sign of habitation. My fellow-
passengers had been loud in their praises of the place, and
I therefore said nothing. Suddenly I perceived, through
the dust, a stately square Gothic tower, and rubbed my eyes
with a sense of incredulity. It was really true; there was
the tower, built of brick, well-proportioned and picturesque.
Dwellings and cottages rose over the dip of the ridge, on
either side; brick blocks began to appear, and presently
we were rolling through gay, animated streets, down the
vistas of which the snowy ranges in the west were shining
fairly in the setting sun. The coach drew up at the Pacific
Hotel, where I found a hearty welcome and good quarters,
and in just four days and six hours from Fort Riley I sat
down, not to a “square meal,” but to an excellent supper.
The two days which have since elapsed have given me a.
good superficial acquaintance with the place. First, let me
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS AND DENVER. 37
say that the views which have appeared in the illustrated
papers are simply caricatures. Instead of being a cluster of
houses on a flat plain, with a range of clumsy mountains in
the distance, and Pike's Peak standing alone in the centre
thereof, it is built upon a gradual slope, rising eastward
from the junction of Cherry Creek with the Platte. It is
as well built as any town of equal size in the Mississippi
Valley. The Methodist Church and Seminary, the banks
and principal business houses, solidly constructed of brick
(the former edifice with considerable architectural beauty),
give the place an air of permanence, very surprising to one
who has just arrived from the East. Beyond the Platte
the land rises with a gentle, gradual slope, to the base of
the Rocky Mountains, twelve miles distant, and there is no
part of the town which does not afford a view of the great
range. Long's Peak, more than 15,000 feet in height, just
fills the vista of the principal business street. Pike's Peak
is far to the left, overlooking the head of the Cherry Creek
Valley; consequently, a view of Denver, in which it is
made the prominent feature, does not correctly represent
the place.
Although business of all kinds is extraordinarily dull at
present, and the people are therefore as much dispirited as
Colorado nature will admit, Denver seems to me to have a
very brisk and lively air. A number of substantial build-
ings are going up, there is constant movement in the streets,
the hotels are crowded, and the people one meets are brim-
ful of cheerful energy. The stores and warehouses are
thoroughly stocked, and prices are lower than one would
expect, considering the tedious and expensive land trans-
portation. At the Pacific Hotel you pay four dollars per
day, - no more than in New York, and have an equally
good table. There may not be such an excessive bill of
fare, but I could distinguish no difference in the cooking.
Vegetables in the market are plenty and cheap, and appear
to be of remarkably fine quality.
38 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
The dryness of the climate and occasional extremes of
cold in winter, appear to me to be the principal drawbacks.
Near the mouth of Cherry Creek there is a grove of ven-
erable cotton-woods, and perhaps a dozen other specimens
are dispersed singly through the lower part of the town.
Attempts are now being made to colonize this tree — which
makes a green spot, ugly though it be — around the houses
in the higher streets, and with a fair prospect of success.
The milk, cream, and butter from the adjoining farms are
better than they are in most of the Western States. Veni-
son and antelope are abundant, and canned fruits supply
the want of fresh.
The situation of Denver is well selected. Were it nearer
to the mountains, it would furnish a more convenient dépôt
of supplies for the Clear Creek mining region, but it would
not concentrate, as now, so many radiating lines of travel.
It lies, apparently, in the centre of the ehord of a shallow
arc of the mountains, governing the entrances of some half-
a-dozen different cañons, and overlooking a belt of farming
land, fifty miles by ten in dimensions.
Its prosperity, of course, depends on the activity of min-
ing operations in the mountains. There is at present a
stagnation, occasioned principally by the enormous price
of labor. Although the new methods of reduction promise
a much greater production of the precious metals, and fresh
discoveries of gold, silver, copper, and lead are being made
every day, wages are so high that many companies have
been forced to suspend business until the agricultural sup-
plies at home, and the gradual approach of the Pacific
Railroad, shall have brought prices down.
I should estimate the population of Denver at about six
thousand. Probably no town in the country ever grew up
under such discouraging circumstances, or has made more
solid progress in the same length of time. It was once
swept away by the inundation of Cherry Creek; once or
twice burned; threatened with Secession; cut off from in-
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS AND DENVER. 39
tercourse with the East by Indian outbreaks; deprived of
a great portion of its anticipated trade by our war; made
to pay outrageously for its materials and supplies — and all
this within seven years
I was interested in noticing how attached the inhabitants
are to the place. Nearly every one who had recently been
East seemed rejoiced to return. Even ladies forget the
greater luxuries and refinements of the Atlantic coast, when
they see the Rocky Mountains once more. The people look
upon this glorious Alpine view as one of the properties of
the town. Every street opens (in one direction, at least)
upon it; and the evening drives along the Platte or over the
flowering ridges, become as beautiful as any in the world,
when the long line of snowy peaks flash down a brighter
gold than ever was unpacked from their veins.
There are no manufactories as yet, except a brick-yard
and two flour-mills — the latter driven by water-power. A
good gray building stone is found about four miles off. The
timber is all brought from the mountains, which, I fear, are
in a fair way to become disforested. Coal, however, is com-
ing into general use as fuel, several mines having already
been opened in the neighborhood. It resembles the brown
coal of Germany, burns freely, and is said to produce a
great amount of gas. General Pierce, the Surveyor-Gen-
eral, considers the coal-bed of the Rocky Mountains one
of the largest in the world. Along the Smoky Hill there
are indications of an uninterrupted supply all the way to
Kansas.
I find myself constantly returning to the point which my
eyes seek, with unwearied interest, whenever I lift them
from the paper. Ever since my arrival I have been study-
ing the mountains. Their beauty and grandeur grow upon
me with every hour of my stay. None of the illustrations
accompanying the reports of exploration, and other Gov-
ernment documents, give any distinct idea of their variety
and harmony of forms. Nowhere distorted or grotesque
40 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
in outline, never monotonous, lovely in color and atmos-
pheric effect, I may recall some mountain chains which
equal, but none which surpass them. From this point
there appears to be three tolerably distinct ranges. The
first rises from two to three thousand feet above the level
of the Plains; it is cloven asunder by the cañons of the
streams, streaked with dark lines of pine, which feather
its summits, and sunny with steep slopes of pasture. Some
distance behind it appears a second range of nearly double
the height, more irregular in its masses, and of a dark,
velvety, violet hue. Beyond, leaning against the sky, are
the snowy peaks, nearly all of which are from thirteen to
fifteen thousand feet above the sea. These three chains,
with their varying but never discordant undulations, are as
inspiring to the imagination as they are enchanting to the
eye. They hint of concealed grandeurs in all the glens
and parks among them, and yet hold you back with a doubt
whether they can be more beautiful near at hand than when
beheld at this distance.
To-morrow I shall move nearer their bases.
VI.
FARMING IN COLORADO.
GoLDEN CITY, C. T., June 21, 1866.
IVERILY think that if those who six years ago saw noth-
ing but arid hills and fields of cactus, forbidding cultiva-
tion, could behold some parts of Colorado at present, they
would open their eyes in astonishment. My approach to
Denver did not furnish the least suggestion of farming, and
all the attempts which one sees from the city are a few
patches of vegetables along the Platte. But the agricultu-
ral interest, without which a mining community so remote
as this cannot subsist, has really reached a development
which is remarkable, when we consider the discouragements
to which it has been subjected.
I am fast inclining toward the opinion that there is no
American Desert on this side of the Rocky Mountains.
Belts of arid and sandy soil there certainly are, but I doubt
if any of these are more than fifty miles in breadth, while
there are many points where an unbroken line of habitable
territory may be followed from the Missouri to the base of
the mountains. I remember that as late as 1859, the low-
est computation of the extent of the Desert was two hun-
dred miles; yet in the Smoky Hill route I saw less than
fifty miles to which the term could properly be applied.
What I have since learned of farming under these new
conditions of climate and soil, leads me to suspect that time
and settlement may subdue even this narrow belt; that
there may some day be groves and farms on the treeless
plains; that wheat may usurp the place of buffalo-grass, and
potatoes drive out the cactus.
42 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
It almost seems as if Nature were in the habit of making
a last desperate attempt to resist the subjugation of her
wild, unploughed domains. For a few years the settlers are
obliged to battle with a combination of hostile influences.
The droughts of Kansas, and the grasshoppers of Utah and
Colorado are exceptional agents, which have given a false
impression in other parts of the Union. I found Kansas,
as you may have noted, a land of rain, of soggy meadows,
and swollen streams; I find Colorado, where farming was
pronounced almost hopeless, already crossed by zones of
the richest agricultural promise. The effect of energy and
industry upon the soil even now shows its fruits; the effect
of cultivation upon climate (an agency generally under-
estimated) is yet to follow.
Two days ago Captain Sopris took me out to his farm on
Clear Creek, about five miles from Denver. Crossing the
new and substantial plank bridge over the Platte, we first
glanced at the adjoining vegetable garden. I must con-
fess, however, that I saw more sunflowers than anything
else. Only a part of the garden appeared to be cultivated;
the soil was black and deep, and with proper care there
would be but little limit to its productiveness. The profu-
sion of sunflowers—not an indigenous growth, I believe—
is remarkable. From Fort Riley to the Rocky Mountains,
wherever a wagon has made a rut in the soil, there springs
up a rank hedge of the plant. The pig-weed, horse-weed,
and datura stramonium are also rapidly advancing westward.
I found them some distance this side of Fort Ellsworth.
Rising to what are called “the second bottoms,” a
gently inclined shelf, extending from the mountains to the
Platte, we had a view down the river, and saw the first in-
dications of farming. Near at hand was a farm of three
hundred and twenty acres, the owner of which is inclosing
the whole with a high post-fence, at a cost of about two
dollars and a half per rod. A neat cottage farm-house, at
the commencement of the river-bottoms, pleasantly hinted
FARMING IN COLORADO. 43
of permanent occupation. Beyond this farm, still mostly
in the rough, stretched a succession of dark-green fields of
wheat, on both sides of the stream, which, divided into
many arms, Sparkled between its islands and banks of cot-
ton-wood. The rising grounds were already beginning to
grow tawny under the summer sun, and these low-lying
belts of grain and trees made a dazzling contrast of color.
For some miles down the Platte I could trace a continuous
line of farms and prečmption cabins. º
The undulating higher ground across which we struck
in a straight line, toward Clear Creek, was covered with
grass, lupins, a multitude of brilliant flowering-plants, and
cactus. Dry as it appears, it furnishes good pasturage
during the whole year, and irrigation will convert the whole
of it into grain-fields. I remember that my admiration of
the agricultural capacities of California, in 1849, subjected
me to many derogatory epithets; hence, one who crosses
these brown plains at the end of summer, may laugh in-
credulously when I say that all the country between the
river and the mountains — every upland and ridge where
water can be made to flow — will in time be as rich a farm-
ing region as any in the East. The capacity of soil to hold
moisture will increase; trees will then grow where it would
now be hopeless to plant them; hedges will take the place
of costly fences, and the character of the country will un-
dergo a complete change.
Captain Sopris's ranche is on a bluff overlooking the val-
ley of Clear Creek. From the window of his parlor I
looked out upon several miles of beautiful wheat, a long
pasture-ridge beyond, and the grand summit of Long's Peak
in the distance. Ten farmers here have united their forces,
and made a ditch ten miles in length, by which their fields
are irrigated. The usual yield of wheat, under this system,
is thirty bushels to the acre, and the price, up to this time,
has ranged from five to twenty-five cents per pound. You
can see that farming, even at the lowest rates, is a good
44 COLORADo : A SUMMER TRIP.
business in Colorado Oats produce about forty, and corn
fifty bushels to the acre, — the price ranging from two to five
dollars per bushel.
It is remarkable how soon the farmers have adapted
themselves to the new conditions of their occupation. They
seem already to prefer the secure yield which irrigation
offers, to the uncertain prospects of a more variable cli-
māte. The principal labor and expense is the construction
of the irrigating canal; that once made, it is an easy mat-
ter to watch and flood their fields whenever necessary.
This season it has not yet been generally needed; but
from now until the end of July, when the wheat ripens,
the process must be frequently repeated. Against the
plague of grasshoppers there is no protection; this year,
however, promises to be free from that scourge.
The vegetables in the garden at the foot of the bluff
were thriving finely. But out of three hundred grape-vines
which Captain S. has imported, only a dozen are now liv-
ing. Although the winters are remarkably mild, there are
now and then days of such extreme cold that vines and
fruit-trees of all kinds perish. If the young trees were pro-
cured from Minnesota rather than nurseries further south,
they would probably be more likely to endure the climate.
Thus far the attempts at fruit-growing have been failures;
yet the fact that at Salt Lake, much further to the north,
there has been perfect success, should encourage the Col-
orado farmers to try again.
After dining with the Captain and his amiable family,
we returned by a road skirting Clear Creek to Fisher's
Ranche, where I saw six hundred acres of grain in one
body. The entire number of acres planted in the Territory
this year is estimated at seventy thousand — which will
supply the wants of the entire population. The more san-
guine expect to send a small surplus to Montana. This is
really an astonishing fact. In a Territory only seven years
old, six hundred miles from other settlements, which attracts
FARMING IN COLORADO. 45
principally a mining and speculating population, and was
supposed to have the most limited capacity for agriculture,
the people are already independent, self-sustaining, in re-
gard to food
My friend, Mr. D. T. Smith, piloted me around the im-
mediate neighborhood of Denver, and gave me further
opportunities for strengthening the views which my trip
to Clear Creek had suggested. I saw that the country to
the east of Cherry Creek and the Platte is quite as fertile
as that to the westward, and could easily credit the asser-
tion of General Pierce that the supply of water is sufficient,
with an adequate irrigating canal, to bring under cultiva-
tion four hundred thousand acres of land. I have no doubt
it will be found true of all parts of the Plains, that wher-
ever water can be had, farming will be profitable. Even
where there are no running streams, wells with water-
wheels driven by wind, as in California, may supply their
place. An old frontiersman assured me that wherever
there is a town of prairie-dogs, water will be found at a
depth of from twenty to thirty feet. Now, in my memory,
the road from Fort Ellsworth to the Platte is one grand
prairie dog metropolis; so there ought to be no scarcity of
water. In Kansas, living springs are making their appear-
ance, as the country becomes cultivated. Nature, after
vainly attempting to drive off Man, makes up her mind to
reward his persistence. Perhaps I dwell a little pertina-
ciously upon this one point; but, the truth is, I have never
been more astonished than on finding this vast central
region so very different from what previous accounts had
led me to imagine.
A private company is now at work, constructing a large
ditch, which is to water the streets and gardens of Denver.
This will give the place the one charm it now lacks. Add
verdure to its superb situation, and it will be one of the
most delightful inland cities in the country. There is at
present a small stream, the water of which is chiefly applied
46 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
to the encouragement of young cotton-woods, both poplar
and willow-leaved, which are set out so thickly around some
houses that the owners evidently do not expect the half of
them to grow. Some of the trees were flourishing vigor-
ously, with a good prospect of life; others, although irri-
gated, were withered and dying. The difference, no doubt,
lay in the care with which they had been transplanted.
This morning I left Denver for my mountain tour. As
far as this place, at the base of the first range, – a distance
of about fifteen miles, – the country is rapidly coming
under cultivation. Ditches are being carried from Clear
Creek over all parts of the undulating slope stretching
down from the mountains, and it was a cheering sight to
find a large field of the greenest wheat upon one of the
highest points, in the midst of a plain studded with cactus.
A short distance from Denver, one of the ditches has been
turned into a natural basin a mile in diameter, forming a
lake of that extent, around which large herds of cattle
were grazing. We found a number of men at work, con-
structing new ditches by a very simple process. Several
furrows are first ploughed, and then the dirt is shovelled
out rapidly by a broad frame of timber, drawn by horses
in a lateral direction. Our course was sometimes im-
peded by the number of these ditches, which are not yet
bridged, especially in descending toward Clear Creek,
which we struck three miles below the point where it is-
sues from the mountains.
Here we were favored by an invitation to visit the farm
of Mr. Miles, and try the flavor of Colorado strawberries.
This gentleman, I learn, sold his last year's wheat crop at
eighteen cents the pound (ten dollars and eighty cents per
bushel), and is now selling his entire stock of strawberries
at ninety-six dollars a bushel ! The severe winter two or
three years ago destroyed almost his entire stock of plants,
but the few he saved are now richly repaying him for the
loss.
FARMING IN COLORADO. 47
Mr. Miles was not at home, but his wife welcomed us to
their neat cottage of concrete, which, with the barn, sta-
bles, and haystacks, already wore an air of old settlement.
The garden, though still in the rough, was very luxuriant.
The strawberries (Albany Seedlings) seemed to me of
smaller size, but of finer flavor than in the East. With the
golden cream which our friendly hostess furnished, we could
not have asked for anything more delicious. Around the
house the lupin, coreopsis, larkspur, and sweet-pea were
growing wild. *
I here noticed a new, and to me a surprising, result of
cultivation. Part of the bottom-land was originally alka-
line, the white streaks being still discernible; yet the crops
growing upon it were, if anything, more luxuriant than else-
where. Captain West, my companion to Golden City, in-
formed me that upon his own ranche an alkaline patch,
bare of vegetation, has now become the best part of his
garden. The use of manure is said to neutralize the alkali
in a very short space of time.
Before us rose the curious elevation known as the Table
Mountain. As seen from Denver it resembles a slice of
cheese lying on its side, and with a crack through the mid-
dle. Immediately behind it is the first range of the Rocky
Mountains, and this apparent crack is the cañon through
which Clear Creek makes its way. On approaching nearer,
the straight, slanting summit breaks into a very irregular
outline, with bold, rocky buttresses and deep indentations.
The top, on both sides of the Creek, is a mesa, or table-
land, which furnishes superb pasturage for cattle through-
out the entire year. A small lake supplies the herds with
water, and the grass, however parched in autumn or dry in
winter, never seems to lose its fattening properties.
A drive of about two miles through the gorge between
the two parts of Table Mountain, brought us to the beau-
tiful little circular valley in which Golden City lies hidden.
Just above the place is the present limit of farming. The
48 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
cañon of Clear Creek is walled in by steep, forbidding
mountains, but there is pasturage on all the heights. Each
one of the Creeks which issue from the mountains to join
the Platte, is attracting a farming population. On Bear
Creek, to the south, and the branches of Boulder Creek,
to the north, I hear there are already many fine farms.
If a new system of agriculture has been learned, and
such results attained within six years, is it too much to
assert that the farming interests of Colorado will keep pace
with the development of her extraordinary mineral wealth,
and that, no matter what amount of population may here-
after be attracted to her mountains, her plains are capable
of feeding them?
VII.
ENTERING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.
CENTRAL CITY, June 23, 1866.
GOLDEN CITY enjoys the distinction of being the capital
of Colorado Territory. That is, the Legislature regularly
meets there, but adjourns to Denver before transacting any
other business. The population is not more than three
or four hundred, and the place has a quiet and rather for-
lorn appearance at present. It possesses, nevertheless,
several substantial stores, a school-house, two flour-mills
(Clear Creek furnishing excellent water-power), and a
manufactory of fire-brick. From this time forward it
will rise in importance.
The discovery of coal is of scarcely less consequence to
this region than that of gold and silver. Along the east-
ern base of the range, brown coal of excellent quality has
been found for a distance of three hundred miles, and the
indications continue through Montana. I saw, forty miles
east of Denver, among the Platte Hills, a bold out-crop of
coal, projecting two or three feet above the earth. Further
in the mountain, the Albertine, or oil-bearing coal, yielding
one hundred and four gallons to the ton, has been discov-
ered. The supply of fuel for the Pacific Railroad, and for
all smelting and manufacturing purposes, is therefore as-
sured for centuries to come.
I visited the veins of fire-clay and coal, which are found
in conjunction, within half a mile of Golden City. The
clay is found in large beds of a chocolate color and greasy
texture. Two horizontal shafts have been opened into the
4
50 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
side of the hill, and the carts are loaded directly at their
mouths. The clay is first burned, then ground, after which
it is moulded and pressed into the requisite forms. Although
the business is in its very commencement, enough has been
done to assure its entire success. The proprietors have
already commenced the manufacture of tiles for roofing,
which, I suspect, will ere long come into general use.
The coal, commencing at the surface with a streak of
“color” (as the miners say of gold), broadens so rapidly
that at the depth of twenty-five feet I found a vertical stra-
tum fourteen feet in breadth. If it continues to increase
at the same rate for one hundred feet further, the immense
supply may easily be imagined. This Rocky Mountain
coal, I understand, is always found in vertical seams, while
the bituminous coal along the Smoky Hill Fork is disposed
in horizontal strata. The valley of the Platte, after leaving
the rolling country at the base of the mountains, appears
to lie between the two formations. The examination, how-
ever, is so superficial, that nothing very positive can yet be
asserted. Coal is beginning to be found abundantly in
Southern Kansas, and it is possible that the gaps between
the beds already discovered may yet be filled up. tº
Standing on this greatbed of coal and fire-clay, at Golden
City, I looked eastward across the creek, and saw a ridge
of limestone rock, and the indications of a quarry which
has just been opened. My companions pointed out to me
the location of beds of the finest iron ore, all within the
radius of a mile. The iron is said to be of unusually fine
quality. Mr. Loveland of this place has proposed to erect
a rolling-mill, and manufacture rails for the Pacific Com-
pany, enabling them to commence the road eastward from
the base of the mountains, to meet the branches starting
from Omaha and Wyandotte. Considering that all the
requisite heavy machinery must be freighted across from
the Missouri River, this would seem, at first sight, to be a
hazardous enterprise; but, on the other hand, the saving in
ENTERING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 51
the cost of transporting rails for the road would be so im-
mense, that I cannot pronounce the plan unreasonable. It
is quite certain that all the rails for the central division of
the road must be manufactured here and in Nevada.
There will, in time, be a railroad from the mining regions
on the upper waters of Clear Creek to Golden City; and
many of the companies will then find it to their advantage
to establish their smelting works at the latter place. Let
no one be deceived by present indications. The quiet of
Golden City will not endure much longer; and the day
may not be far off when the smokes from its tall chimneys,
rising up behind Table Mountain, will be seen at Denver.
I only wish that the vulgar, snobbish custom of attaching
“City” to every place of more than three houses, could be
stopped. From Illinois to California it has become a gen-
eral nuisance, telling only of Swagger and want of taste,
not of growth. Why not call it “ Goldenport” (as it will
become a sort of harbor to which the ores will be shipped),
or any other simple name 2 In the Russian language two
unnecessary accents usurp One seventh of the typography;
and in Colorado, if one talks much about the mining towns,
he must add one seventh to his speech in repeating the
useless word “City.”
The age of law and order has not yet arrived. The peo-
ple pointed out to me a tree, to which some of them had
hung a Mexican, last week, on account of an attempted
assault upon two ladies of the place. The criminal was
taken from the sheriff's hands and lynched; and the few
remaining Mexican residents, who appear to have had no
fellowship with him, are ordered to ſeave the place. Affairs
of this kind make an unpleasant impression. The impro-
vised code of a new settlement is no longer necessary here,
and it seems to exist by virtue of a lingering taste for rude
and violent justice.
I found simple but clean quarters, and an excellent table,
at Cheney's Hotel; addressed a limited audience in the even-
52 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
ing, and took the coach for this place yesterday morning, at
ten o’clock. The new road, following Clear Creek cañon,
has been made impassable by floods; and the old road, some
miles further eastward, is now used. It pierces the first
range of the Rocky Mountains by the cañon of a small
stream, at the mouth whereof are four or five log-houses,
styled Gate City / The defile is very narrow, abrupt, and
with such sudden turns that for a space the road seems
every moment to come to a sudden termination. Huge
masses of dark red and purple rock topple on either side;
there is little timber to be seen, but a profusion of wild
gooseberries and currants, and a bush resembling the
broom. The bed of the brook is crowded with young cot-
ton-woods and box-elders, in the shade of which new vari-
eties of wild flowers grow luxuriantly. I hailed the Alpine
harebell as an old friend, and inhaled the delicious per-
fume blown from clumps of mountain roses. The wild
hop-vine was very abundant, spreading its arms over the
rock, in lieu of other supports.
After two or three miles the pass became broader and
straighter, and we could look up to the crest of the moun-
tains. It was dismal to see how much of the pine forests,
with which the steeps were clothed, have been wantonly
or carelessly destroyed by fire. The rock now appeared to
be a kind of gneiss, gray, with pale orange oxydations,
which gave the scenery something of the character of the
Apennines. I did not find, as I expected, much vegetation.
The dry soil, the bare masses of rock, the dusty road, and
the hot, cloudless sky overhead, all suggested Southern
Europe, rather than Switzerland or our mountain regions
of the East.
We followed this cañon for some eight or ten miles, oc-
casionally passing a saw-mill, or tavern-ranche, patronized
by the freighters. Then we reached Guy's Hill, where the
road crosses the divide, and we were requested by the
driver to climb to the summit on foot. It was but half a
ENTERING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 53
mile of rather breathless walking in the thin air, and we
stood upon a narrow crest, overlooking a deep, pine-clad
valley in the heart of the mountains. The dark summits
of the second range rose against the sky, and only one
small snowy peak was visible. Here the forests, although
neither large nor dense, were still untouched, and multi-
tudes of silvery aspens were mingled with the pines.
The descent looked dangerously steep ; but our driver,
with locked wheels, went down on a trot, passing two ox-
teams with wonderful skill. The valley we now entered
was greener and fresher than the first, and with a tolera-
bly level bottom, along which we bowled to the Michigan
House, where dinner awaited us, – an excellent meal, at
one dollar and fifty cents. The water was unsurpassed in
coolness and agreeable flavor.
The road now gradually swerved to the left, rising to
another divide, whence the splendors of the snowy range
burst upon us. Broad wedges of rock and snow, soaring
to a height of fourteen thousand feet, glittered in the clear
sky, apparently close at hand, although they were still
fifteen miles distant. Our own elevation above the sea
could not have been less than eight thousand feet. The
air was thin, but wonderfully cool, pure, and transparent.
The only thing the scene lacked was fresh mountain turf,
— a feature which I have not yet found. -
We descended from this crest into a deep glen, the sides
of which were better wooded. Here and there we passed
a grazing-ranche or saw-mill, and the road was filled with
heavy freight teams. Two miles of rapid descent, and we
suddenly emerged upon the cañon of North Clear Creek.
Here commenced, at once, the indications of mining. The
precipitous sides of the cañon were freckled with the holes
and dirt-piles of experimental shafts; the Swift waters of the
stream had the hue of “tailings;” and presently the smoke
from the smelting works of the Lyons Company began to
cloud the pure mountain air.
54 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
Beyond this point, which is already thickly studded with
houses, and is called Lyonsville, a sudden turn in the road
discloses a view of Black Hawk, with its charming church
perched above the town, on the extremity of the headland
which separates Gregory Gulch from that of Clear Creek.
We at once entered a busy, noisy, thickly populated region.
The puff of steam, the dull thump of the stamp-mills, and
all the other sounds of machinery at work, filled the air;
the road became a continuous street, with its hotels, stores,
livery stables, and crowded dwelling-houses.
Turning into Gregory Gulch, we slowly mounted through
Black Hawk and Mountain City to this place; but all three
places form in reality one continuous town, more than two
miles long, and with over six thousand inhabitants. The
houses are jammed into the narrow bed of the cañon, em-
ploying all sorts of fantastic expedients to find room and
support themselves. Under them a filthy stream falls down
the defile over a succession of dams. It is a wonderfully
curious and original place, strongly resembling Guanajuato
in its position and surroundings.
VIII.
CENTRAL CITY AND BI, ACK HAWK,
CENTRAL CITY, CoLoRADo, June 25, 1866.
THIS place and the adjoining towns of Black Hawk and
Nevada are so buried in the wrinkles and crevices of what
I have termed the second range of the Rocky Mountains,
that I could not fully comprehend their position until last
evening, when I went upon the point called Bates Hill,
which divides Gregory Gulch from the valley of North
Clear Creek. On that station, the maze of mountains and
gulches gradually untangled, and the relation of the differ-
ent mining localities to each other became clear. The
South Clear comes down from the snowy range in a south-
easterly direction; while Gregory Gulch, rising from it at
a general angle of about twenty degrees, extends nearly
due west for about three miles, gradually losing itself in
minor gulches and ravines among the summits of the
mountains.
Black Hawk commences a little below the intersection,
and thrusts an arm up either gorge, like the letter Y, ex-
cept that the left-hand arm has outgrown the other, and
now forms a continuous line of building and business, up
Gregory Gulch to Mountain City, which is a connecting
link between Black Hawk and Central City. The latter
place continues the line of compact settlement up the bot-
tom of the gulch for a mile further, and almost forms a
connection with Nevada City, which occupies the highest
position, near the summit. Black Hawk is exactly eight
thousand feet above the sea, and the upper part of Nevada
is at least a thousand feet higher.
56 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
The view of the intersecting ravines (they can hardly
be called valleys, and “gulch” is a mining term) and the
steep, ponderous mountains which inclose them, has a cer-
tain largeness and breadth of effect, but is by no means
picturesque. The timber has been wholly cut away, except
upon some of the more distant steeps, where its dark green
is streaked with ghastly marks of fire. The great, awk-
wardly rounded mountains are cut up and down by the
lines of paying “lodes,” and pitted all over by the holes
and heaps of rocks made either by prospectors or to secure
claims. Nature seems to be suffering from an attack of
confluent small-pox. My experience in California taught
me that gold-mining utterly ruins the appearance of a
country, and therefore I am not surprised at what I see
here. On the contrary, this hideous slashing, tearing, and
turning upside down is the surest indication of mineral
wealth.
Commencing at Black Hawk, - where the sole pleasant
object is the Presbyterian Church, white, tasteful, and
charmingly placed on the last step of Bates Hill, above
the chimneys and mills in the uniting ravines, – we mount
Gregory Gulch by a rough, winding, dusty road, lined with
crowded wooden buildings: hotels, with pompous names
and limited accommodations; drinking saloons, - “lager
beer” being a frequent sign; bakeries, log and frame
dwelling-houses, idle mills, piles of rusty and useless ma-
chinery tumbled by the wayside, and now and then a cot-
tage in the calico style, with all sorts of brackets and
carved drop-cornices. In the centre of the gulch rushes a
stream of muddy water, sometimes dammed up to broaden
the bed and obtain a little more foothold for houses. Be-
yond the large mill built by ex-General Fitz-John Porter
for an unfortunate New York company, who paid a large
sum to repeat the experience of the National Government,
Black Hawk terminates; but the houses, mills, drinking
Saloons, and shops continue just the same, and in another
half-mile you find yourself in Central City.
CENTRAL CITY AND BLACK HAWK. 57
This place consists mainly of one street, on the right-
hand side of the gulch ; the houses on your left, as you
ascend, resting on high posts or scaffolding, over the deep
bed of the stream. Half-way up there is a single cross-
street some three hundred feet in length, where the prin-
cipal stores are jammed together in an incredibly small
space. With one exception, the buildings are frame, dry
as tinder at this season; and a fire, starting at the top of
the town, with a wind blowing down the ravine, would wipe
out the place in half an hour. The whole string of four
cities has a curious, rickety, temporary air, with their build-
ings standing as if on one. leg, their big signs and little
accommodations, the irregular, wandering, uneven street,
and the bald, scarred, and pitted mountains on either side.
Everything is odd, grotesque, unusual; but no feature can
be called attractive.
I took quarters at the St. Nicholas Hotel, of which I will
only say that the board is five dollars per day. The unac-
customed thinness of the air caused me considerable incon-
venience at first. I felt a painful giddiness for an hour or
two, could scarcely walk twenty steps without halting to
take breath, and have had bleeding at the nose for three
mornings in succession. This is a common complaint with
new-comers, and the old settlers can always recognize such
by their bloody pocket-handkerchiefs. The days are hot
and rather sultry, but the mornings and evenings are lovely
in their freshness, clearness, and the delicious purity of the
air. Two things are hardly to be surpassed, – water and
sleep. The water is like crystal, icy cold, and so agree-
able to the palate that I am tempted to drink it when not
thirsty. It is said to contain a slight proportion of alkali,
and a common phrase among the people attributes their
irregularities to the “thin air and alkali water.” The prop-
erties of the latter, however, are said to be anaphrodisiac,
which is rather an advantage than otherwise, in a new
country. As for sleep, I don't know when I have found
58 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
it so easy to obtain, or so difficult to relinquish. When I
awake in the morning the half-conscious sense that I have
been asleep is so luxurious that I immediately sleep again,
and each permitted nap is sweeter than the last. The
people seem to be remarkably healthy. Incipient disease
of the lungs is almost always healed in this high and dry
atmosphere, while it is fatal to the more advanced stages.
Rheumatism and the mountain-fever are the most usual
ailments. There is, at the same time, less tendency to dis-
ease, and less recuperative power when a person is once
attacked.
In this population of from six to eight thousand souls,
one finds representatives of all parts of the United States
and Europe. Men of culture and education are plenty,
yet not always to be distinguished by their dress or ap-
pearance. Society is still agreeably free and unconven-
tional. People are so crowded together, live in so primi-
tive a fashion for the most part, and are, perhaps (many
of them), so glad to escape from restraint, that they are
more natural, and hence more interesting than in the older
States. Owing to the latter cause, no doubt, it is some-
times difficult to recognize the staid New Englander in the
sunburnt individual in sombrero and riding-boots, who
smokes his pipe, carries his pocket-flask, and tells any
amount of rollicking stories. He has simply cast off his
assumed shell and is himself; and I must confess I like
him all the better.
Last Saturday night, at Black Hawk, at the close of a
lecture in the pretty church already mentioned, a gentle-
man came to me and said: “It was a long way from here
where we last met.” He had a familiar face, but I could
not at once detach it from the tens of thousands in my
memory. “Do you remember,” he asked, “riding into
Kautokeino, in Lapland, one cold winter night, in a rein-
deer sled?” “It is impossible !” I exclaimed, recognizing
Herr Berger, the Norwegian merchant, who took me into
his house in that Arctic solitude, after twenty hours of
CENTRAL CITY AND BLACK HAWK. 59
frozen travel among the wastes of snow ! It was he him-
self, come all the way from Hammerfest, in latitude 71°,
to be, first a soldier in the Union Army, and now a miner
in Colorado | He visited me yesterday, and we had a long
talk about old times and mutual friends inside of the Arc-
tic Circle. In three years he had lost every characteristic
of the hyperborean, except an intense longing for the per-
petual daylight of the Arctic summer.
The day before, I was suddenly accosted" by a fellow-
voyager from China to New York, via St. Helena; who,
after enduring the horrors of Southern prisons, has come
here to recruit as a mountaineer.
Perhaps the “thin air and alkali water” may account
for the rage for owning “claims” and “lodes,” which seems
to possess all classes of the community. Every man you
meet has his pocket full of “specimens.” When you are
introduced to a stranger he produces a piece of “blossom
rock,” a “sulphuret,” or a “chloride.” The landlord of the
hotel where you stop confidentially informs you that he
owns 25,000 feet — “the richest lode in the country —
assays $1300 to the cord, sir!” The clerk is the happy
possessor of 10,000 feet; the porter (where there is any)
has at least 5000; while the chambermaid boasts of her
own “Susanna Lode " or “Bridget Lode.” The baker has
specimens beside his bread; the dispenser of lager beer
looks important and mysterious; the druggist is apt to
give you “chlorides” instead of aperients; and the lawyer,
who takes his fees in “feet” (money being scarce), dreams
of realizing millions after the Pacific Railroad reaches
Denver.
I have disgusted several individuals by refusing to buy,
but the jargon has already infected my speech, and, after
hearing a man at the table ask, - “Is there a pay-streak
in that bacon P” I found myself on the point of asking the
waiter to put a little more sulphuret in my coffee. The
same waiter afterward said to me: “Pie’s played out, sir!”
If I had then requested him to “corral the tailings,” he
60 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
would have brought me the fragments from the other
plates.
The Colorado dialect, in other respects, is peculiar. A
dwelling-house is invariably styled “shebang ; ” and the
word, in many cases, is very appropriate. The Spanish
corral (always mispronounced correll) has become com-
pletely naturalized, and is used as a verb, meaning to catch
or collect. A supply of any kind is an “outfit; ” a man
does not shout, but “lets a yell out of him ; ” and one who
makes a blunder “cuts open a dog.” I cannot recall, at
this moment, half the peculiarities of the dialect, but I am
learning them as fast as possible, in order to conform to
the ways of the country.
Some friends took me over the hill to Quartz Gulch, the
other day, in order to try some mountain-brewed ale. Af.
ter the intense still heat of the air the beverage was very
refreshing, and greatly superior in its quality to the lager
beer of the mountains. The owner of the brewery lives in
a neat log-cabin, the steps whereto are ores of gold and
silver, and inside the rough walls an accomplished lady sat
down to her piano and played for us some choice compo-
sitions. *.
There is also a theatre here, with performances every
night. Mr. Waldron, of California, takes the leading tragic
and melodramatic parts, while Mr. Langrish, the manager,
is himself a very admirable comedian. A good deal of
swearing is introduced into the farces, to please the miners.
I went in one evening and found the house crowded,
There is a daily paper here, and one in Black Hawk, both
well supported, I believe — certainly very well printed.
The editorial dialect, to meet the tastes of the people, is
of an exceedingly free-and-easy character. A collection of
very curious specimens, both of approbation and attack,
might easily be made; but I am too fatigued by the thin
air to make the attempt to-night.
I must also postpone an account of mining operations
and interests until to-morrow.
DX.
MINING AND MINING PROCESSES.
CENTRAL CITY, CoLoRADo, June 26, 1866.
ALTHOUGH I have come to Colorado to look at scenery
rather than at gold and silver mines, it is impossible to re-
main in the centre of mining operations without feeling a
desire to learn something concerning their character and
prospects. Indeed it is quite necessary to acquire some
general knowledge of the peculiarities of the ores and the
technical terms describing them, in order both to under-
stand three fourths of the conversation one hears, and to
avoid the enthusiastic explanations which would be imme-
diately proffered if one should confess entire ignorance.
One would soon “cap out,” or “peter out,” socially, if he
did not yield so much to this community.
The region hereabout first drew miners, and afterward
capitalists, from the rich discoveries made by Gregory, in
the spring of 1859, and from its greater proximity to Den-
ver. It is but one of a long chain of gold-bearing districts,
many of which are still but half explored. Many more,
no doubt, are yet undiscovered. Here, however, the most
has been done in the way of development, and we can there-
fore better judge what dependence can be placed on the
promise of the precious minerals. The deserted mills, the
idle wheels, and the empty shafts and drifts for miles along
this and the adjoining ravines—the general decrease of
population everywhere in the mountains—indicate a pe-
riod of doubt and transition, which is now, I believe, on the
point of passing away. Colorado has been, alternately, the
62 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
scene of exorbitant hopes and equally extravagant disap-
pointments. Out of these violent reactions a new order
of things is gradually being evolved. Great mistakes have
been made. Ignorance has learned (at an enormous ex-
pense) to recognize istelf. A terrible deal of swindling
has been perpetrated, and the natural result is, that the
country now has a worse reputation than it deserves, in
most parts of the Union. As I do not own, or propose to
own, one foot of any lode in the Territory, my own opin-
ions on the subject — whatever they may be worth — will
be at least unprejudiced. - -
In the first place, gold is found here under very differ-
ent conditions from those of California. “Free gold,” as it
is called (native or virgin gold), is much less abundant.
Owing to the conformation of the mountains, there is but
a limited space for “gulch” or surface washing, and the
rush of miners to the country in 1859 and '60 soon ex-
hausted the best of these. The “blossom-rock” (partially
disintegrated quartz, with the gold mostly in a “free *
state) gradually followed, leaving the great storehouse of
the mountains still untouched, but containing the gold in
such stubborn and difficult combinations, that by the old
processes from fifty to eighty per cent. was lost, or, as
they say here, “went down the creek.” Then came dis-
couragement, despondency, failure of experiments, and a
general collapse, the results of which are everywhere ap-
parent. Yet new lodes were all the time being discovered,
and each succeeding assay showed the richness of the min-
eral. *
As a general rule the gold is found in combination with
copper, and the silver with lead. The silver ore, in fact, is
simply a very rich argentiferous galena. Some mineralo-
gists say that the ores are copper and lead, in reality, hold-
ing the nobler metals in combination. It is immaterial
which name we give, provided the latter can be completely
extracted by some cheap method. This is now the problem
MINING AND MINING PROCESSES. 63
which is vexing Colorado — which suspends enterprise and ,
holds back emigration, for a time. Out of the many proc-
esses proposed, two only have been put in operation —
Keith's and Lyon's. Monnier's and Kenyon's have not yet
been actively tested. A few of the old stamp-mills are still
running, and those companies which can afford to mine
their ores a considerable time in advance of crushing them,
will still make a profit by this method. The yield of gold
is said to be fully doubled, by allowing the ore to be exposed
to the air for the space of a year. Probably two thirds of
the companies, however, are waiting the result of experi-
mentS.
Another cause operates, though in a less degree, to check
enterprises on a larger scale. Labor is scarce and very dear.
Mechanics demand from six to ten dollars, and the com-
monest miner five dollars per day. Iron, lime, chemical ma-
terials, and even fuel, are also very expensive. Moreover,
nothing is more certain than that when wheat is supplied
at three cents per pound instead of ten (as it probably will
be this fall), and when freight from the East is reduced
from fifteen to six cents per pound, the expense of mining
and separating the metals will be less than one half of what
it now is. For this good time, which is not only coming,
but is actually near at hand, the whole mountain popula-
tion is waiting.
The descent into a mine is one of the inevitable things
which a traveller must perform. It is a moist, unpleasant
business, but no one can speak authoritatively of “capping
out,” “wall rock,”“flukin's,” &c., who has not been down and
seen the articles from beginning to end. Mr. Hayes, the
Superintendent of the “Gregory Consolidated,” offered to
pilot me to a depth of three hundred feet, which I consid-
ered would be as much as a strict sense of duty could exact.
I have no subterranean tastes, and honestly confess that I
would have been glad of any valid excuse to omit the de-
scent. But there was none: so I repaired to the engine-
64 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
house and business office, high up the steep hill-side, put
on stiff brown boots, a clayey coat, and a bespattered slouch
of a hat, received my tallow candle with a sigh, and in-
spected with a new interest the photograph of Speaker
Colfax and his party, taken after their return from the
realms under my feet.
The steam-engine was undergoing repairs, and two hun-
dred and fifty feet of perpendicular ladders, beside the
pump-shaft, furnished the only means of descent. Mr.
Rule, the never-tired Cornishman, led the way; then Mr.
Hayes, with his tallow candle, while I, with mine, brought
up the rear. Through a little trap-door we passed from
the blazing noon sunshine into a square, upright box of
damp darkness, filled, somewhere far below, with sounds
of dropping and trickling water. The ladders are about
sixteen feet in length, separated by narrow platforms, where
we can now and then take breath. On one side is the well,
with its iron tubes, vanishing above and below. I cannot
pretend to describe the operation of the machinery, and
will only say that the work is of the most massive and
durable character. There was plenty of leisure to inspect
it before we reached the bottom. -
Having accomplished the descent, I found myself in a
horizontal drift, which followed the direction of the lode,
into the heart of the mountain. Moving lights in the dis-
tance, and the sounds of pick and hammer, guided us to the
further end, where the workmen were busy tunnelling into
the stubborn rock — the design being to carry the drift to
the limit of the Company's property. A new drift, seventy-
five feet below this, has been started, and will be carried,
horizontally, to the same point; after which, the crevice
will be worked out from below upward. Its width, at the
depth I reached, is from four to six feet. Contrary to the
experience of other mining countries, the ore becomes
richer as you descend, though at the same time more
refractory.
MINING AND MINING PROCESSES. 65
The lodes, in this region, appear to be nearly vertical,
and are so much alike in their features that a description
of one will answer for all. The vertical crevice, sunk to
an unknown depth in the primitive rock, has sides more or
less curved or waved, so that one side, from irregular up-
heaval, sometimes overlaps the other: the granite, or gneiss,
meets, and cuts off the streak of ore. This is called “cap-
ping out.” The first discovery thereof occasioned a good
deal of consternation. It was supposed that the lode was
at'an end, and that, in all probability, the Rocky Mountains
were only rich on the surface. Now, however, when a lode
caps out, the owner strikes through the isthmus of “wall
rock,” certain of finding his “pay streak” below. Some-
times the lode is only “pinched,” not entirely cut off. Of
course the crevices vary in width and the ores in richness,
but there is great similarity in all other conditions.
It was easy to track the glittering presence of the sul-
phurets and pyrites along the walls of the drift. When a
light was held near the rock, it brought out sparkles of
golden, Scarlet, pink, and bright blue lustre, equal to any
peacock coal. This ore, which is accounted very rich, is
found in large masses, and it required a vigorous handling
of the pick to get off a few specimens. I found it difficult
to obtain any clear estimates of the yield. The ore is
absurdly measured by “cords,” — an ordinary two-horse
wagon-load being called a quarter of a cord — and one
cord may represent from eight to twelve tons. Fifty dol-
lars a ton may perhaps represent a fair average yield —
but this is a guess rather than a calculation.
Crossing a gulf on a suspended ladder, we climbed into
an upper drift, communicating with a part of the crevice
which had been worked down from above, and gave us a
distant glimpse of daylight. Here we found the lode again,
and could make some estimate of the value of the ores
packed between us and the bottom of the mine. The way
in which the lodes are cut into claims, which fall into the
5
66 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
hands of different companies, is a great obstacle to the
economical working of them. A horizontal drift, from the
point where the lode strikes the bottom of Gregory Gulch,
would be a self-acting drain; but the Company, since it does
not own this portion of the lode, is driven to the enormous
expense of pumping from a depth of nearly four hundred
feet. Moreover, when one company suspends operations
for a time, and the water collects, the companies above it,
on the same lode, are unable to work. These are some of
the inevitable, yet very unpractical, features which still be-
long to Colorado mining.
As we were returning to the lower drift, there was a
sudden smothered bellowing under our feet, the granite
heart of the mountain trembled, and our. candles were ex-
tinguished in an instant. It was not an agreeable sensation,
especially when Mr. Rule informed me that another blast
would follow the first. However, the darkness and uncer-
tainty soon came to an end. We returned to the foot of
the ladder, and, after a climb which, in that thin air, was a
constant collapse to the lungs, we reached the daylight in
a dripping, muddy, and tallow-spotted condition.
Mr. Hayes was kind enough to accompany me to the
smelting-works of the Company, and point out the principal
features of the Lyons process. I shall not attempt to give
a technical description. The process, I believe, is imported
from Wales, with very slight modifications. The ores are
ground, washed, released from the rock, desulphurized by
heat, smelted, the gold and silver separated from the lead
and copper, and finally delivered in cakes which contain
about seventy-five per cent. in weight, of silver, and some
eighty per cent. in value, of gold. The lead and copper
are not saved, except so much of the former as is used in
smelting, in the form of litharge.
I believe this is the only process, at present, in operation,
which saves the silver. Whether the amount gained thereby
is sufficient to balance the greater expense of reducing the
MINING AND MINING PROCESSES. 67
ores, I cannot say. Professor Hill, who has just returned
from Swansea, in company with Mr. Hermann, of the firm
of Vivian & Co., brings a proposal, I am told, to send “mats.”
of the metals, unseparated, to Wales, the value of the cop-
per alone being enough to pay the cost of transportation
and smelting. Mr. Hermann considers the ores immensely
rich, and has commenced a series of assays, the result of
which, I presume, will not be immediately made public.
The only objection I have heard urged against the Lyons
process is its expensive character. . In other respects it
must be satisfactory, since the Company is now buying the
“tailings” of the stamp-mills, at the rate of fifty dollars per
cord, for the purpose of smelting. Statements on either
side must be received with a certain amount of allowance,
and many communications are made to me which I forbear
repeating. I can only say that the energy and activity dis-
played by the Lyons Company indicate success.
Mr. Lathrop took me to-day to Keith's Mill, which is in
the Clear Creek Valley, about a mile from Black Hawk.
The process here is very simple. The ore, after being
ground, is placed in hollow cylinders, where a number of
small iron balls reduce it to powder. After being desul-
phurized by heat, it is placed in the cylinders and pulver-
ized a second time. Finally, the usual treatment, by water
and quicksilver, is employed to take up the gold alone, sil-
ver, lead, and copper being lost. Mr. Keith claims that by
the process he obtains one hundred per cent. more than
the stamp-mills — probably eighty to eighty-five per cent.
of the whole amount of gold. The advantage of his method
is its cheapness. The handling of the material, from first
to last, is done by machinery, and the different stages of
the process are so conveniently connected that four men
can reduce two cords of ore daily. Mr. Keith seems to
have great faith in the success of his method, which is cer-
tainly destined to supersede the stamp-mills. The loss of
68 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
the silver, however, strikes me as an objection to its use in
many parts of Colorado.
The stamp-mill of the Black Hawk Company is still at
work, pounding out the less refractory ores from the Bob-
tail Lode. It is a model mill of the kind, admirable in its
arrangement, thoroughly regulated, and with a refreshing
air of permanence in all its departments. I am told that
its average production is two hundred and twenty-five
ounces of gold per week, whereof twenty-five ounces are
profit. I suspect this is only a guess.
One thing is certain: the mines of Colorado are among
the richest in the world. I doubt whether either California
or Nevada contains a greater amount of the precious metals
than this section of the Rocky Mountains. These peaks,
packed as they are with deep, rich veins — seamed and
striped with the out-cropping of their hidden and reluc-
tantly granted wealth — are not yet half explored. They
are part of a grand deposit of treasure, which will eventu-
ally be found to extend from Guanajuato and Real del
Monte to the Mackenzie and Coppermine Rivers, and
which, if properly worked, will yield a hundred millions
a year for a thousand years 1 Colorado, alone, ought to
furnish the amount of the national debt within the next
century. The gold is here, and the silver, the copper, and
lead, - possibly, platina (there are already rumors of it), —
and all that is needed is invention, intelligence, and prop-
erly organized enterprise.
There is an immense number of fools in the world, and
many of them either found their way to Colorado, or in-
vested in mythical mines of fabulous productiveness. More
than the usual amount of folly and swindling was located
here for a time — hence the reaction, the effects of which
are still felt. -
Before leaving Central City, I must say that it is the
most outrageously expensive place in Colorado. You pay
MINING AND MINING PROCESSES. 69
more and get less for the money than in any other part of
the world. I am already tired of these bald, clumsy shaped,
pock-marked mountains; this one long, windy, dusty street,
with its perpetual menace of fire; and this never-ending
production of “specimens” and offer of “feet,” and shall
joyfully say good-by to-morrow morning.
X.
TO IIDAHO AND EMPIRE.
EMPIRE, Foot of THE SNowy RANGE, June 27, 1866.
My friends in Central City will not take offence when I
say that I left — not them, but the place — with a cheerful
sense of relief. I had been for four days jammed down
among the torn and barren hills, and yearned mightily for
a freer out-look and more attractive scenery. As the stage
left the narrow ravine, through which the wind draws the
dust as through a funnel, and climbed around the steep
toward Russell’s Gulch, the air seemed to become at once
gentler and purer. The mountains, though still for the
most part bare or gray, with burned forests, swept broadly
into the distance; and between their gaps, to the eastward,
shimmered the hot blink of the Plains. There were specks
of snow near their summits, but the dividing range to the
west of us was still invisible.
Russell's Gulch, from top to bottom, - a distance, ap-
parently, of two or three miles, – and all its branches, show
the traces of gold-washing. The soil has been turned up-
side down, hollowed out and burrowed into, in every direc-
tion. Around the edges of this desolation stand the de-
serted cabins of the former miners, a chance one still oc-
cupied. I noticed, here and there, some feeble attempts at
gulch mining, but the large new mill near the head of the
glen was a better sign of enterprise. The stamp-mills, all
of primitive pattern, were mostly idle; yet every vein in
this region is covered by claims, and the specimens they
show are of great richness. Here, as elsewhere, the owners
are waiting for the new process.
TO IDAHO AND EMPIRE. 71
Our road led southward, across several shoulders or
undulations of the range, gradually ascending, until we
reached the divide between the waters of North and South
Clear Creeks, at an elevation of more than nine thousand
feet. Two or three peaks of dazzling snow came in sight,
apparently very near us, so sharply were they relieved
against the hard, dark blue of the sky. Segments of the
Plains — scarcely to be distinguished from the sea — ap-
peared to the eastward; while directly in front of us rose
the three picturesque summits, which have been named the
Chief, the Pappoose, and the Squaw. The first of these
reaches a height of more than twelve thousand feet, its
bare pyramidal summit shooting far above the timber line.
It has several times been ascended.
The height from which one looks upon these mountains
greatly lessens their apparent altitude, and thus diminishes
the effect of the scenery. When you have penetrated so
far within the Rocky Mountains that all view of the great
Plains is shut out, you naturally measure the elevation of
the ranges from the beds of the valleys. But these beds
rise very rapidly as you advance, and you are constantly
brought nearer the line where forests cease and snow be-
gins. The thin air and deeper color of the sky indicate the
level you have reached, but the mountains seem no higher
than before.
After crossing the divide, the road descends to South
Clear Creek, through a long, winding glen. I here noticed
a bush-maple, a variety of the alder-tree, and great quan-
tities of wild currants and gooseberries. Far and near, all
over the steep sides and flanks of the mountains, were the
traces of prospecters. In some places “blossom rock” had
been found and abandoned, probably making a poor assay;
in others, holes had been quarried to the depth of six or
eight feet without any perceptible result. In the narrowest
part of the glen, however, we came upon a pile of fresh
ore, which showed a strong “color,” and was said to yield
72 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
from two hundred to one thousand dollars per ton. One
of the owners, at least, was very enthusiastic, and it was
plainly to be seen that the vein was being actively worked.
While I was admiring the bold, grand outlines of the
Chief, which became more and more striking as we de-
scended, the glen suddenly opened, and we found ourselves
in the valley of the South Clear. “Ah, this begins to be
Alpine !” I exclaimed. Here, at last, there was a little
breadth and space,—a floor from an eighth to a quarter
of a mile in width, bordered by mountains, which towered
up, up, behind their huge escarpments of rock, into the
region of snow. Here the ranges were more detached, al-
lowing something of form to be traced; the forests were
not all burned or levelled; glimpses of green meadows
shone down from the higher slopes; and the cold, clear
stream, fed from the fields of melting snow, foamed and
flashed in the sun.
We came at once upon a straggling village of log-huts,
which, after having outlived a variety of names, is now
called “Idaho,” — the inhabitants fondly supposing that
this word means “the gem of the mountains.” [I need
hardly say that the Indians have no such phrase. Idaho
is believed to mean “rocks.”] I here left the stage, Mr.
Sisty having kindly offered to take me on to Empire in the
afternoon. In this queer, almost aboriginal village, with
its charming situation, there is the best hotel in Colorado.
It has just been completed; the opening ball occurred after
I reached Central City. The astonished stranger here
finds a parlor with carpets as showy, horse-hair sofas as
shiny and slippery, looking-glasses with as much gilding,
tables as marbled-topped, and everything else as radiant
with varnish or gypsum, as the laws of American taste in
such things could require. The bedrooms are so fresh —
so unsuggestive of a thousand unwashed previous occu-
pants — that I regretted not being able to enjoy the luxury
for one night. *
TO IDAHO AND EMPIRE. 73
While I was preparing to accompany Mr. Sisty to the
soda springs of Idaho, I was accosted by an old Norwegian,
a native of Drammen. The kindly feeling which all Scan-
dinavians have for any one who has ever visited their
country is remarkable. In Kansas, I bought a pair of
blankets from a Swede, who instantly abated one dollar of
the price, when I addressed him in his native tongue. Al-
though my Norsk is very halting, from long disuse, the
old fellow borrowed a fishing-rod, and in an hour presented
me with seven mountain-trout for my dinner. And such
trout ! Admirable as was the hotel-dinner, over which
Mrs. Beebe presided, I was obliged to slight it for the
special dish she prepared and placed before me. I hope
to fall in with many more Norwegians before I leave the
mountains.
The soda springs are already turned to service. Two
bath-houses have been built for summer guests. In one
of these the water is so regulated, that the bather may
choose whatever temperature he prefers, the hot spring
being about ninety-five degrees as it issues from the earth.
It has a deliciously refreshing and exhilarating quality, as
I found after taking it warm. The taste resembles a weak
and rather flat citrate of magnesia; but, as the water has
not yet been analyzed, I cannot give the ingredients. The
hot and cold springs come up so close together, that one
may dip a hand in either at the same time.
But neither these springs nor the gold mines comprise
all the riches of Idaho. Further down the valley, some-
where, there is a vein of rough opal eighteen inches thick.
I have a piece of it in my pocket at this moment, and it is
undoubtedly opal, though of faint, imperfect fire, as if its
quality were faded by long exposure to the weather. Small
specimens of a similar variety, from Montana, are frequent
in Colorado; but I have seen nothing yet with the infinite
sparkle of the Hungarian or the prismatic lustre of the
Honduras opal. It is unreasonable, however, to ask for
74 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
the precious gems, where so much other wealth has been
given.
After dinner, Mr. Sisty produced a buggy and a pair of
fast horses, and we set out up the valley. The road was
smooth, as if macadamized ; the cold, pale-green creek
roared beside us, sweeping around pine-clad capes or un-
der the shadow of mighty cliffs, and the snows of the
higher summits brightened in the sunshine. This was in-
spiring travel, reminding me (dimly, I must confess) of
the Upper Valley of the Rhine, between Splügen and the
Via Mala. After two or three miles the valley contracted,
becoming a mere cañon, walled in by overhanging preci-
pices; a stream, which we crossed on a toll-bridge, came
down through a gorge on the right. Beyond the bridge
there was a hotel, commanding a view of the wonderful
“Notch.” I noticed that one of the upper windows of this
hotel had been removed; then I saw the end of a mahl-
stick moving about in the open place; then a mass of
flowing locks, an easel, and an absorbed countenance. It
was Mr. Beard, working with might and main to catch the
lovely, fleeting effects of light and shade on the rocks and
pines. On the veranda below sat General Pierce, his com-
panion, more patient than Science usually is, when it must
wait for Art.
We halted an hour, and I made a wretched attempt at a
sketch of the place. You cannot cram this scenery into
the compass of a block-book; it requires a large canvas,
and the boldest and broadest handling. The eye is con-
tinually cheated, the actual being so much more than the
apparent dimensions of all objects. Though so familiar
with the effect of extraordinarily pure, thin air, and great
clearness of outline, I am still frequently at fault. What
one sees Small, is always small in the drawing. Even pho-
tographs here have the same dwarfed, diminished expres-
sion. I can now see how naturally Bierstadt was led to a
large canvas.
TO IDAHO AND EMPIRE. 75
Leaving the artist at his work, we drove through the
gorge into another open stretch of the valley. Westward,
directly in front, a peak of the central snowy range tow-
ered over all the intermediate heights; while on the left
Mount Douglas, throwing its own shadow over a thousand
feet of vertical precipice, guarded the entrance to George-
town Valley. Three or four miles up this valley lies the
little village of that name, with promising leads and lodes;
while beyond it, among the snowy tangle of mountains at
the southeastern corner of the Middle Park, is the famous
silver district, recently discovered, and now known by the
name of “Argentine.” The mineral is there said to be of
fabulous richness, but more than ten thousand feet above
the sea. Assays, I am informed, give between three and
four thousand dollars to the ton.
In ascending the South Clear, the rise averages about
one hundred feet to the mile, and the estimated elevation
of Empire is nine thousand feet. Take the altitude of the
Catskill Mountain House above the Hudson, and place
that on the top of Mount Washington, and you will have
the elevation of this place, where people live, work, and
carry on business; where, in the Rocky Mountains, cattle
have excellent pasture, and potatoes are raised More
than this, the little mining village of North Empire, a mile
from this place, is one thousand four hundred feet higher;
yet even there the inhabitants pass the winter with less
discomfort than one would suppose. On the table-lands
of the Andes, under the equator, we find towns at an equal
height, but nowhere else in the world. Among the Alps,
at an elevation of nine thousand feet, there is not a blade
of grass; even moss and lichens disappear.
Empire enjoys a very picturesque situation. The pop-
ulation may possibly be three hundred; the houses are
mostly cabins of hewn logs, but their inhabitants are men
of intelligence and enterprise. On reaching the White
House (kept by Mr. White), I found Mr. Byers, editor of
76 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
“The Rocky Mountain News,” who is to be our pilot and
companion through the Parks. Mr. Beard has since
arrived, and the other two gentlemen of our party (Messrs.
M’Candless and Davis, of Pittsburg) were already await-
ing us. Here, therefore, we shall take leave of such civil-
ization as gold-mining carries with it, and strike into the
wilder regions beyond. Our preparations are few and
easily made. The horses and mules, belonging to Charley
Utter, the famous trapper and trader of the Middle Park,
will be in charge of Mr. White's son. Mr. Byers has
superintended the laying in of supplies (consisting chiefly
of biscuit, fat pork, ham, coffee, and sugar), and our blank-
ets and overcoats will furnish the necessary bedding,
Luxuries we discard — except, in my single case, a few
cigars of doubtful quality. No cases of bottles, or boxes
of tin cans, accompany us; we have no forks, nor plates,
but one tin cup apiece, and a single spoon for ‘the whole
company. The culinary utensils consist of a frying-pan
and a coffee-pot. To be sure, we have visions of moun-
tain-trout, and of elk-steak, broiled on skewers; but these
may be fairly permitted, without branding us as epicu-
reans. The whole outfit is of the Robinson Crusoe char-
acter, and necessarily so, for pack animals must be lightly
burdened on the trails which we are to follow.
I have just been lecturing in the Methodist church
(the same in which the Colorado Conference has been held
this week) to an audience of more than a hundred persons.
The effect of speaking, at an altitude of nine thousand feet,
is not attended with the fatigue which I had anticipated
during the act; but it is followed by a sense of complete
exhaustion. The audience, for calm, steady attention,
might have belonged to New York or New England. No
one went out for a drink, as is the custom in the mining
communities of California. I missed — and to my regret
—a type of face which I have found in every Colorado
audience, until this evening. In fact, I came to look for
TO IDAHO AND EMPIRE. 77
•º
the face naturally; it struck my fancy in Denver, the first
evening, and I found it, slightly varied, for eight nights in
succession. It represents a type unique among civilized
races, and only to be found (and that only of late years) in
the United States—a type expressing the precise point
where the elements of the rowdy begin to disappear, and
those of the gentleman manifest themselves. The square
of the face rounds into the 'oval; the forehead is good, the
eyebrows straight and dark, the hair generally dark also:
‘the eye is remarkably beautiful; the nose would be good,
but for the least bit of tendency to turn up at the end;
there is generally a mustache, full yet firm lips, a strong,
manly chin, and (here the rowdy mark remains !) a square
animal jaw. The face expresses a fine and noble quality
of manhood, not yet wholly detached from a coarse, rude
basis. This type so interested me, that I found myself in-
voluntarily singling out the best specimen and addressing
myself specially to him — and always with a sense that it
was right to do so. I should be glad to think that this
face represents a general fact.
XI.
CROSSING THE BERTEIOUD PASS.
CAMP IN THE MIDDLE PARK, June 29, 1866.
OUR plans for the mountain journey had been fixed
before leaving Denver, and we adhered to them in spite
of warnings and persuasions. Mr. Byers is an accom-
plished mountaineer, to whom much of the ground is fa-
miliar, and I preferred taking his advice to that of others
who spoke from hearsay rather than experience. It would
be difficult, if not impossible, to cross Berthoud Pass,
many persons asserted; the hardships of Colonel Babcock's
party, a fortnight ago, were constantly cited, and the spec-
tres of risk and danger, which those who stay at home de-
light to evoke for those who travel, accompanied us up
to the very moment of starting.
At Empire, however, the people contented themselves
with predicting that we could not get over the Pass in a
day; and, indeed, there seemed a strong probability that
they were right. White set out at daybreak to corral the
horses and mules; we also rose early, washed our faces in
the frosty air, in the midst of a panorama of rose-tinted
Alps, took an early “square” breakfast, and tied our equip-
ments in comfortable parcels for packing. But the ani-
mals, well suspecting what was before them, refused to be
corralled. First one assistant, then another, was dispatched,
until five persons were busy, and nine o'clock had arrived
before there was any prospect of our departure. In the
mean time, the landlord produced a boiled ham, and a tin
kettle full of hot biscuit, which we put into a coffee-bag.
CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PASS. 79
“They might haſ been sadder,” said he, speaking of the
biscuit; “they pack better when they’re sad.”
General Pierce had set out on his return to Denver, tak-
ing with him our “biled shirts and store clothes.” We were
attired in flannel, and becomingly rough, each with the
handle of a tin cup hooked into the button-hole of his coat,
his trousers tucked into huge riding-boots, spur on heel,
and buckskin gloves on hand. By this time White” had
arrived with the animals, — two cute little pack-mules, a
lean dun mare for myself, and a large brown mule for Mr.
Beard. The other gentlemen had their own beasts. The
packing, strapping, and other final preparations were done
hastily, and by ten o'clock we were in the saddle. “You’ll
camp on this side of the Pass to-night,” said Judge Cowles:
and so we rode out of Empire.
I wish we had a word in the English language corre-
sponding to the German “reiselust” — because that word,
and none other, expresses the feeling with which one sets
out on a journey, in the pure upper air of a mountain
region. The blood circulates with nimble alacrity; the
lungs expand with a tingling sense of delight; all sights
and sounds of Nature have a character of cheer and en-
couragement; life is a most agreeable condition, and one's
fellow-men are good fellows, every one of them.
It was a superb day. The wind blew down from the
snow-fields, tempering the heat of a dazzling sun in a
cloudless sky. The village behind us showed between
groups of tall, dark fir-trees; the creek, dammed for a
stamp-mill, spread out a bright lake in the lap of the valley;
and southward the sharp summit of Montgomery Peak rose
high above all the surrounding mountains. We had still a
good wagon-road, with rough bridges across the torrents
which came down from every rocky glen. The pack-mules
maliciously strayed hither and thither, shaking out of bal-
ance their hastily arranged loads, and sometimes even hid-
ing behind the trees in the hope of escaping their destiny.
80 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP,
The valley gradually narrowed, and we entered a defile
far grander than anything I had yet seen in the Rocky
Mountains. On either side enormous masses of dark-red
rock towered over our heads to the height of fifteen hun-
dred feet, so torn and split into colossal towers, walls, and
buttresses, that every minute presented a new combination
of forms. The bed of the glen was filled with huge frag-
ments, tumbled from above. Even here, high up on al-
most inaccessible points, the prospectors had left their
traces, lured by the indications of ore in cliffs above, to
which they dare not climb. Our necks ached with gazing
at the sharp sky-piercing summits, in the hope of detecting
mountain sheep; but none were to be seen.
We forded the South Clear, which, swollen by the melt-
ing snows, reached to the horses’ bellies, and was so swift
that they could scarcely keep their footing. The road then
entered a forest of fir and pine, over the tops of which we
now and then caught the glimmer of snowy summits. But
the new and beautiful flora of the mountains kept my gaze
to the earth. Both new flowers and new varieties of fa-
miliar families made their appearance. A lovely species
of the columbine (aquilegia), large and white, the horns
and external petals of a pale violet, would be a great orna-
ment to our gardens. There were also several handsome
varieties of sedum and saxifrage, the flame-colored euchro-
ma, and an unknown spicy flower of the purest turquoise
blue. The mahonia, here called the “Oregon grape,” is
very abundant in the forests. I have found it in all parts
of the mountains which I have yet visited.
Beyond the rocky gorge which I have described, the
valley opens again, revealing its head, inclosed by a semi-
circular sweep of the snowy range. As this is one of the
points suggested for the passage of the Rocky Mountains
by the Pacific Railroad, we took careful note of its confor-
mation, and the facilities offered for overcoming the alti-
tude of the range. The average fall of Clear Creek, from
CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PASS. 81
the base of the dividing ridge to the Plains near Denver,
is about one hundred feet per mile, and there is no diffi-
culty in building a road through that part of the valley
which I traversed. On reaching the head of the valley,
three passes offer themselves. The first is the famous
Berthoud Pass, on the right, offering a way into the Middle
Park through a depression in the main chain. Five miles
further is the Vasquez Pass, also on the right hand. This,
however, is rather a trail, over the crest of the mountain,
than a pass. Some four or five miles further, at the very
head of the valley, is a new pass, recently discovered by
Mr. Jones, who is at present engaged in constructing a
wagon-road over it into the Park. Both the latter passes
are higher than the Berthoud, but the new one is said to
offer the easiest approaches. It has not yet been surveyed,
and may prove the most favorable for a railroad.
At the foot of the Berthoud Pass, we had already risen
more than nine thousand feet above the sea, leaving about
two thousand feet still to be surmounted. We were eight
miles from Empire, and three from the summit. Our pack-
mules were forced, with great difficulty, to leave the wagon-
road, and take the narrow trail which struck directly up
the steep flank of the mountain. It was, indeed, a terrible
pull which awaited them. We had not made a hundred
yards before our horses stopped, almost gasping for breath.
I could feel the heart of my lean mare knocking rapidly
against her ribs. A few little knobs or projections from
the line of descent favored the poor beasts for awhile, but
it was not long before these ceased, and the terrific slant of
the mountain presented itself unrelieved, to be overcome.
The trail was a mere mark in the gravelly soil, where a
stone loosed by the foot would find no rest until it reached
the level of the valley. The angle of descent was in some
places not less than 50°. Here there were few trees, and
the valley yawned under us like an enormous green basin,
with a jagged white border.
6
82 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
From this point I overlooked the course of Clear Creek
from its very source. The main valley seemed to be formed
out of four or five small ones, radiating down from between
the buttresses of the main chain. It appeared to be doubt-
ful whether a railroad could obtain a sufficient réturn curve
to overcome the first precipitous part of the Berthoud Pass
without running up to the head of the valley on the oppo-
site side — in which case, each of these lateral valleys, or
rather glens, would be an obstacle. Still—judging merely
by the eye — the difficulty did not seem to be much greater
than in the case of the Pennsylvania Central, or the Balti-
more and Ohio roads. What lay beyond the angle of the
mountain we were climbing I could not see; but there is
certainly valley enough above the foot of the Berthoud
Pass to effect a rise of one thousand feet, which (with a
tunnel three miles in length, cutting off fifteen hundred
feet of elevation) is all that would be necessary.
Mr. Beard and myself were so moved by the breathless
toil of our animals that we dismounted at a safe place, and
walked. In five minutes we were in a worse condition than
the horses; our knees tottered, our bodies were drenched
with sweat, our eyes dim, heads giddy, and lungs utterly
collapsed. At every tenth step we were obliged to pause
in order to breathe, and after not more than three hundred
steps I defied the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, and mounted again. I am no light weight, and
therefore it was Cruelty to Man (which is worse) to carry
one's self up such a steep. I think we must have climbed
in this style for a mile and a half; it seemed interminable.
Then the angle of ascent fell off very greatly; the fir for-
est grew thick around us, shutting off the view of valley
and mountains, and heaps of rotten snow began to appear
in shady places. Where the trail had been shovelled out
of drifts a month ago, we now rode over moist earth, be-
tween dripping, crumbling walls of snow. Another quar-
ter of an hour, and the steeps fell back in front, leaving a
CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PASS. 83
lovely Alpine meadow, dotted with clumps of pine, the
vivid green of its turf sprinkled with snowy star-flowers,
and a brook of icy crystal winding through it.
I was delighted when Mr. Byers gave the word to un-
saddle. It was barely three quarters of a mile, he said, to
the summit of the Pass; whether we could cross was still
a doubtful matter; and, before attempting it, both beasts
and men must be fed. The former were turned loose to
graze at will, with their long lariats dragging after them;
the latter unhooked the cups from their button-holes,
opened the coffee-bags, cut the ham with hunting-knives,
and partook of the biscuits which were not sufficiently
“sad.” The water of the brook was so intensely cold that
it almost made one scream. Yet immediately out of and
through it grew clusters of a flower so purely beautiful
that we all cried out with admiration on discovering it.
Out of a ring of broadly ovate leaves (under the water)
rose a straight stem twelve to fifteen inches in height,
crowned at the top with a cluster of dark crimson-velvet
flowers, about the size and with the rich mealy bloom of
the polyanthus. It is called, here, the “Alpine primrose; ”
but I know of neither cowslip nor primrose that will com-
pare with it. The odor is very peculiar, resembling that
of Russia leather. Here is a treasure for our florists |
While we took our lunch and rested our bones Mr. Byers
and White discussed the passage of the mountains. Di-
rectly in front of us a depression in the fir-clad ridge indi-
cated the summit of the Pass, on either side of which bald,
snowy peaks rose considerably above the timber line.
White had crossed the range last week, with a drove of
twenty-two government horses; but he had gone consider-
ably to the northward of the Pass, in order to avoid the
snows. It was a question whether we should try to reopen
the old trail, or follow his example and climb the frightful-
looking steep on our right to a point beyond the timber.
Being a green hand, I said nothing; but I felt relieved
84 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
when the Pass was selected, for the snows had been melt-
ing very rapidly, and I was convinced that we could falsify
the predictions of our friends.
The horses were saddled, the mules repacked, and we
set out upon the uncertain adventure. There was snow
all around us, – some drifts, even, lay on the meadow, -
and, even where it had melted, the soil was such an elastic,
treacherous bog, that we did not venture to ride. On all
sides rills came rushing down, uprooted trees barred the
way, or pools of black mud had collected. It was impossi-
ble to follow the trail, although we could trace it by the
marks of the shovels. Slowly, in single file, stopping every
two minutes to lean upon our horses' necks and gasp for
breath, spattered with mud and wet with snow-water, we
climbed through the forest, taking heart from the knowledge
that this was our last hard pull. The trees rapidly grew
thinner, the roaring rills became noiseless threads of water,
the snow-drifts overlapped each other and must be waded,
and then — the steep suddenly flattened, and a keen wind
blew over the summit of the Pass.
It is a sharp crest, with not ten yards between the oppo-
site declivities. Here there was an open space, covered
with bunch-grass, among the fields of snow. We were
just at the limit of timber, a little more than eleven
thousand feet above the sea-level. No general panorama
of the range is visible, but there are inclosed views to the
east and west. Behind us, a sweep of bleak, frosty sum-
mits, too near (apparently), too hard and sharp, to be beau.
tiful. Before us, far away over the deeps of endless dark-
green forest, a grand Alpine range,
“lifting there
A thousand shadow-pencilled valleys
And snowy dells in a golden air.”
Still fürther, thirty or forty miles behind it, arose two great
snowy pyramids, evidently beyond the North Park, and not
inferior in height to Mont Blanc. This view was superior,
CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PASS. 85
in all the elements of sublimity, to anything I had seen
since entering the mountains. In the centre of the bare
spot where we gathered grew a ranunculus, a blossom of
which I transferred to my note-book. -
Beyond us, on the Pacific slope, we could see nothing
but a waste of snow. Our two mountaineers, therefore,
determined to make a preliminary exploration. Plunging
into the drifts, wherein they sank to their thighs at nearly
every step, they disappeared from sight, while we discussed
the chances of reaching the Park before night. It was
now two o'clock in the afternoon, the distance somewhere
between twelve and fifteen miles, and unknown hardships
and perils on the way — by no means an encouraging pros-
pect 1 In half an hour Mr. Byers and White made their
appearance, very much fagged and not particularly cheer-
ful. The former simply said, – “We’ll try it !” and took
his horse's bridle. We followed, keeping the pack-mules
near the centre of the line, and commenced the descent.
The snow, we soon found, was of very irregular texture.
After walking three or four steps on the surface, we would
suddenly plunge into a loose, melting mass, men and horses
- floundering together. It was necessary to lead by a long
rein, to avoid the leaps and struggles of the latter. Where
the descent was steep, I frequently found myself buried
nearly to the hips and thrown upon my face, with the
horse's head resting on my back. Now and then a rock, a
log, or the top of a sharp knoll offered us a resting-place,
and the chance of shaking off the snow, the penetrative
cold of which pierced to one's very marrow. In one place
there was a gulf of snow overhanging an arrowy torrent.
I cleared it with a leap, and then, as my mare prepared to
follow, took a second leap, to give her room to land. For
a moment she hung by her forefeet, but a strong pull on
the bridle brought her out of the danger. The dry, horny
branches of the firs were also to be avoided; they both
stabbed and tore, and in our headlong plunges it was not
86 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
easy to keep out of their way. After nearly a mile of this
travel, when strength, hope, and courage were on the point
of giving out, the drifts diminished, and we could now and
then walk in a bog of black mud, which was a pleasant
relief. A little further, and Mr. Byers announced that the
trail was found, although not yet practicable — we must
still break our own way.
Our faces were smarting and our throats were parched,
yet the snow-water, which set our teeth on edge with its
coldness, did not seem to quench thirst in the least. We
were soon enabled, however, to mount, and throw the bur-
den of fatigue on the horses. After a short but very steep
descent, the path was barred by an impetuous torrent,
which was crossed at one point by a frail arch of snow left
from a drift. White boldly walked over, leading his horse
after him; but no one else dared to follow. After a little
search we found a fordable place, and crossed, with the
water foaming up to our saddles. There was yet another
branch of the same river before us, and this proved to be
both deeper and swifter. Mr. Beard's mule tottered and
gave way, but regained his footing just on the brink of a
rapid, and with a little care we all got safely over.
We were now able to follow the trail, except where it
Jed into boggy holes, where the horses frequently sank to
their bellies. On account of the fallen timber, it was a
work of considerable difficulty to get around these holes.
An interminable forest surrounded us. During the first
four or five miles, we had an occasional glimpse of open
green meadows on our right, and spurs of the Snowy range
towering beyond; afterwards, nothing but a dark wilder-
ness of pines, firs, and aspens. The descent was very
gradual — so much so, that after travelling for three hours,
we were still in the midst of snow-drifts. My boots were
completely sodden, and my feet and legs soon became so
icy cold that I was forced to walk a good part of the way,
although the exercise seemed to rack every joint in the
CROSSING THE BERTHOUD PASS. 87
body. Mile after mile and hour after hour passed by, and
still the same gloomy, dreary forest; still snow, mud-holes,
and fallen logs. We had forced the Berthoud Pass, and
expected to camp in the Park, which was cause for con-
gratulation; but how devoutly we longed for the valley to
open <&
A break in the wood showed us the evening shadows
high on the opposite mountain. The air was already damp
and chill, and the open, level portion of the Park was yet
two miles distant. All at once the trail entered a meadow
of deep grass, two acres in extent, and our leader dis-
mounted under a clump of trees. Mr. Beard and myself
rolled out of our saddles, ungirthed, turned the animals
loose, and then threw ourselves down before the fire (which
had been immediately kindled), too fatigued to be very
conscious of rest. It was very fortunate that Mr. Sumner
has a talent for cooking; had the meal depended on either
of us, I fear it would have been of the “square * order.
A pot of coffee — hot, black, and strong — soon circulated
among us, a veritable lubricating oil to stiff joints, and an
anodyne to bruised muscles.
There were no songs and stories around the camp-fire.
Each one made haste to find a portion of the earth's sur-
face as little lumpy as possible, and dispose his blankets
with a view to warmth and comfort. The artist and I
united our stock of bedding, and I added a mattress of fir
boughs, but we had little comfort during the night. The
mosquitoes were plentiful, the noises of the animals dis-
turbed us, and toward morning it became wretchedly cold.
The meadow was flooded with splendid moonlight, and
whenever I opened my eyes on the mysterious mazes of
light and gloom in the depth of the forest, I became ex-
cited and restless. It seemed a long while until the chilly
dawn arrived ; but then, the last nap I took, while some-
hody else was kindling the fire, refreshed me more than all .
the broken sleep of the night.
XII.
ADVENTURES IN THE MIDI) LE PARK. *
CAMP NEAR BLUE RIVER, MIDDLE PARK, July 1, 1866.
OUR first morning in camp found us sore, stiff, and but
half refreshed after the hardships of crossing the Pass.
Nevertheless, we breakfasted, saddled, packed, and got
under way with alacrity, encouraged by the prospect of
a restorative bath at the Hot Springs, which are said to
heal all sorts of ailments, bring the hair to bald heads, and
put new blood into old veins.
The trail bore away to the left of Frazer River, over
gently undulating ground, still wooded; but the trees were
smaller, the soil dry, and the increasing gleams of sky
through the topmost boughs indicated that we were getting
out of the mountains. On the way we found a geranium
— pink, veined with purple; a beautiful orchid, almost
identical with the cyclamen of Italy and Greece; violets;
rose-colored pogonias, with a delicate, peach-blossom odor;
and huge beds of a snow-white, golden-hearted star-flower.
The occasional openings among the pines were natural
gardens, which I regretted to see trampled upon by the
hoofs of our beasts.
After riding thus for half an hour, there was an exclama-
tion from the foremost of the party. The long, long forest
was at an end ; we found ourselves at the head of a superb
meadow stretching westward for five or six miles; bounded
on the north, first by low gray hills of fantastic shape, then
by great green ascending slopes of forest, and above all,
jagged ranges of rock and snow. On the south were low
ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 89
swells of pine and aspen, near at hand; twenty miles be-
hind them detached spurs of mountains, conspicuous among
which rose a lofty wedge-like peak. Although on the Pa-
cific slope of the Rocky Mountains, the dividing ridge, or
water-shed between the two oceans, embraced us on three
sides. The main chain meanders through Colorado in a
curiously tortuous course. It comes down the west side of
the North Park (which is drained by the head-waters of
the North Platte); then turns directly eastward, separating
the North from the Middle Park; then southward, bound-
ing the Middle Park (the waters of which flow to the Col-
orado and the Californian Gulf) on the east; then due west-
ward, dividing the Middle from the South Park (which
collects and unites the waters of the South Platte); and
finally, after making an abrupt curve around the head-wa-
ters of the Arkansas, strikes southward toward New Mexico.
The Parks form a very remarkable feature of the mountain
region. They resemble, on a smaller scale, the lofty, moun-
tain-bounded table-lands of Cashmere and Thibet. They
are still but imperfectly explored, and still more imperfectly
represented on the maps. I have not been able to find any
minute description of their scenery, soil, and climate;
hence, every step of the present journey has been full of
interest. In fact, none of the accounts of travel among
the Rocky Mountains seem to me to present their individ-
wality, as mountains, very distinctly — to discriminate be-
tween what is original, and peculiar to them, and those
general features which all mountain regions possess in
common. Each day, thus far, has brought me its new
surprises; but I shall content myself, at present, with giv-
ing the details of the journey.
The change from the forest to this meadow was that from
confinement to liberty. Our animals seemed to feel it also,
and trotted forward briskly through the thick green grass.
Near the head of the meadow we passed a large hay-stack
and squatter's shanty, where the horses pastured in the
90 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
Park are fed during the winter. Only one man — Jones,
who discovered the new pass — has attempted to establish
a ranche. He has sowed sixty acres of grain on the lower
part of Grand River, but White informs me that the attempt
does not promise much. The average level of the Park
above the sea cannot be less than eight thousand feet.
Although the extreme of cold is not so great as in Denver,
the winter is so long, and the summer nights so cool, that
it is doubtful whether grain (except barley and oats) can
be raised.
My lean mare was evidently not adequate to the task ;
so White, catching sight of a herd of horses and mules,
near the further end of the meadow, promised me an Indian
pony in exchange, and rode off in advance to drive in the
herd. The animals, like those we had taken from Empire,
belong to Charley Utter, whom we had hoped to have as a
companion for the journey; but he had joined the rush of
gold-hunters for Bear River (a hundred miles west of the
Middle Park), and had not yet returned. Mr. Beard, also,
groaned over his McClellan saddle, and the gait of his mule.
We both, therefore, looked forward with some impatience
to the noonday halt.
After crossing a number of swift, swollen streams which
came down from the left, we reached a higher and dryer
part of the meadow, and the strong, juicy grass gave place
to sage-bush and flowers—a plain of silver-gray, sprinkled
with a myriad minute dots of color. The Ödor which filled
the air was so exquisite as slightly to intoxicate the senses.
For miles I seemed to be riding through a Turkish bazaar,
and inhaling the mingled scent of cloves, sandal-wood, and
attar of roses. My aches and cramps were forgotten: I
swam in an atmosphere of balm, half narcotized with the
rich, voluptuous delight of breathing it.
White started up a very large fox, which was cunning
enough to keep out of rifle-range. We skirted the wood
on the left, and left the meadow for a low, dry plateau,
ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 91
which was one mile-long bed of blue larkspurs and scarlet
star-wort. The grazing animals had been added to our
caballada, and we sped merrily along the trail, increasing
the breadth and sweep of our panoramic landscapes, as we
penetrated deeper into the hilly region. I exchanged my
mare for a tough little yellow Indian pony, barefooted, but
nimble and intelligent: after inspecting me with his nose,
and apparently finding no objection, he established confi-
dential relations at once, and has served me, thus far, with
unswerving fidelity.
It was a singular country through which we rode, and I
regret that I am not able to describe its geological char-
acter. Hills wooded with aspen, and narrow, grassy dells,
alternated with wide sweeps of irregular table-land, treeless
and bare, except for a growth of sage and larkspur. The
valleys of the larger streams which thread the Middle Park
were shut out from view, but the distant cincture of Alpine
summits met the eye, in every direction. We rode twenty
miles, – two thirds of the distance to the Hot Springs, –
made a brief noon-camp beside a brook, and then pushed
forward again toward a lofty range of hills which arose be-
fore us.
Gradually, all the eastern portion of the Park came into
view. I readily distinguished the Berthoud Pass, as well
as that at the head of Clear Creek, and could roughly meas-
ure by the eye both their elevation above the Park and
the character of the approaches which they offer for a rail-
road. On this side of the mountains there seems to be no
difficulty, except such as might arise from heavy snows
during the winter. To the northeast Mr. Byers pointed
out the Bowlder Pass, which rises above the timber line,
but is almost bare of snow. It is practicable for wagons,
but is very little travelled. An isolated chimney rock, two
or three hundred feet in height, stands like a beacon on the
very summit of this pass. *
I can add to my own Mr. Beard's testimony as to the
92 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
originality of the Park scenery, in an artistic point of view.
The features are large and broad, with outlines to some
extent fantastic, yet not inharmonious. In color, gray pre-
dominates, but a gray most rare in landscape, – silvery over
the sage-plains, greenish and pearly along the slopes of
bunch-grass, and occasionally running into red where the
soil shows through the thin vegetation. In the grand views
— fifty miles in extent — from the ridge we were climbing,
there were no positive tints, but the most delicate and sur-
prising succession of broad half-tints, to which sunshine
and cloud-shadows lent the loveliest effect. The brush
only can describe landscapes so new in character. I found
myself thinking of Central Asia, – of the regions of Ko-
kand and Kashgar, as I imagine them to be. From this
point, there were no forests, except aspen groves, on the
crests of the hills; the gray undulations swept into the
distance, dipping here and there into hollows of singular
form, and leaning, far away, against the feet of mountain-
ranges, where there was the faint green glimmer of a mead-
ow at the foot of every snowy ravine. The flushed snows
of the farther summits did not seem lofty and inaccessible,
— our own elevation reduced the highest of them to less
than seven thousand feet, but their irregular character and
great variety of outline gave the true background for such
landscapes. *
The animals occasioned us much trouble during this
day's journey. Our little black pack-mule, Peter, has a
diabolical knack of shifting his load, so that the proper
balance is lost, and the pack-saddle turns. On one of
these occasions, while White and I were engaged in re-
packing, Mr. Beard rode up and offered his services. It was
fortunate that we did not need them, for he afterward con-
fessed that he had tried to dismount, and (in consequence
of the previous day's hardships) was unable to do so. I
was in scarcely better plight, but had no reason to com-
plain; I had been wishing for severe physical fatigue, and
ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 93
now I have it in abundance. We were obliged to drive
with us an Arapahoe mare, belonging to the new herd, and
a more outrageous creature never grazed. By some sort
of animal magnetism, she immediately took command of
all our horses and mules, and yet never lost an opportunity
of biting, kicking, and driving them from the trail. The
more violent her behavior toward them, the more they
were fascinated with her. Her vicious eyes were always on
the lookout; while we watched her all was quiet, but the
moment we became absorbed in scenery or some topic of
conversation, she would dash at one of the animals and
break up the line of march. White confessed that she had
exasperated him to such a pitch that he shot at her, and
was now sorry that he missed.
Gradually climbing the hills, among beds of crimson and
violet lupins, scarlet star-flowers, and many showy unknown
plants, we came at last to a divide, whence the trail sloped
down to the valley of Grand River at the Hot Springs, now
four miles distant. Mr. Byers pointed out a bluff, covered
with scattering clumps of red cedar, as the objective point
of our day's journey. On our right towered a lofty ridge,
thrusting out buttresses of perpendicular rock, crowned
with pines; and beyond the Grand River arose a similar,
but much grander and more abrupt formation. Between
the two the river issued, winding away westward among
green, interlocking hills, until we could only guess its gate-
way out of the Park among some snow-peaks, thirty or forty
miles away.
The prospect of a sulphur-bath helped us over the re-
mainder of the way, and in another hour we dismounted
in a meadow on the banks of the Grand River, directly
opposite to the Hot Springs. Mr. Byers looked at the
stream, and meditated; White did the same thing. It was
fluid ice (for coldness), forty or fifty yards wide, swift as an
arrow, and evidently too deep to ford. On the opposite
bank we saw a rough log-cabin, on a little knoll, and a
94 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
stream of white, smoking water tumbling down a rock, ten
feet high, in a smoking pool below. Forms were moving
among some cotton-woods on the river bottom; their red
blankets announced that they were Indians. While we
were hesitating, some rheumatic eremite whom White
knew, came down to the bank, and with much difficulty
shouted across above the roar of the water, that it was im-
possible to cross ; we must go eight miles higher up the
river. (But eight miles on the opposite side meant fifteen
on ours.) Two of us, at least, were in no mood to remount
that day, and the rest of the party did not seem very en-
thusiastic.
It was finally decided that we should camp where we
were, and those who wished to visit the Hot Springs should
swim the river. White and I stripped to our shirts and
drawers, mounted our animals bare-backed, and rode down
to the water. While we were trying to force them in, they
refusing with all their might, we were again hailed from the
other side, and warned against making the attempt. A
short distance below us the river entered a cañon, and be-
came a cataract. This fact, combined with the fearful
coldness and swiftness of the current, made us pause. It
was no doubt well that we did so, - well that we silently
turned and rode back to the camp. All I can say of the
Hot Springs, therefore, is, that they gush from the earth in
a stream almost large enough to turn a mill; that they
make a smoking cascade, with a hot pool below ; that they
are said to work wonderful cures; and that two gentlemen
dispute the priority of prečmpting them.
There we were, on the bare plain, without a tree for shel-
ter, our only fuel the rubbish left from former camp-fires,
and a black thunder-storm coming up. Turning the horses
loose to drag their lariats and graze, we first kindled a fire,
and then set about securing our baggage from the rain.
Forming a sort of platform with fragments of wood, we
placed our blankets and sacks thereon, and covered them
ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK, 95
with india-rubber cloth. Mr. Beard was at great pains to
find a place for his umbrella under the water-proof; and
not until the storm was over, leaving us half-soaked, did it
occur to him that he might have used it! Fortunately,
there was more wind and thunder than rain, and the su-
perb indigo-gray of the mountains in shadow repaid us for
the drenching. Toward evening, it became very evident
that the Arapahoe mare was slyly leading our animals out
of our view, in order to make off with them. White trudged
away through the wet grass and brought them back; but
it was necessary, moreover, to catch and picket the mare.
It was easier to decide that this should be done, than to
do it. The mare was separated from the other animals,
and driven into a corner of the meadow between the river
and the bluffs at the entrance of the cañon. One of the
gentlemen then took his stand above, while White cau-
tiously approached with a lariat. Skill and strategy were
alike in vain; with a whirl and a dash she avoided the fly-
ing noose, and shot off between her pursuers. Others went
to the rescue, and the scene soon became very exciting.
All the other horses and mules left off grazing, drew near,
and watched the contest with the most absorbed interest.
It was perfectly evident that they understood this was to
be a test of power, settling the question whether they were
to be ruled by us or the mare. They were politicians on
the fence, and reminded us of newspapers and individuals,
who and which shall be nameless. To watch them was to
me the most interesting part of the spectacle ; they fol-
lowed every movement of men and mare, standing knee-
deep in rich grass which they never thought of cropping.
It was nearly an hour before the provoking beast was finally
cornered, noosed, and tied to a tree. The other animals
then turned away and went to their grazing, paying not
the slightest heed to her. She was nobody, now that she
could no longer kick nor patronize. Then I thought of
certain political leaders.
96 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
White's rage was not yet allayed. He took a piece of
sapling, and laid it heavily on the mare's hide. Then he
came back and sat down by the fire, declaring that she
should have no pasture that night. Half an hour passed;
the rest of the herd were luxuriating on the meadow, while
the culprit, sore and hungry, hung her head dejectedly be-
side the tree. White arose, stole quietly away, made a
picket, brought the mare down to the meadow, and fastened
her in good pasture. “She looked kind o' pitiful,” he said.
We made our bed on the wet earth, expecting to be
rained upon during the night; but the heavens were mer-
ciful, and we enjoyed sound and tolerably dry sleep. I
experienced three distinct electric shocks, probably from
the fact that I was insulated by the india-rubber cloth upon
which I lay, and then touched the earth with my hand.
On the snowy ranges persons are sometimes so charged,
that there are sparks and crackling sounds at every move-
ment of their bodies. Men unacquainted with the phe-
nomenon imagine that bees have gotten into their hair and
that rattlesnakes are at their heels. Many strange stories
are told of the effect of the fluid, which seems to manifest
itself in an eccentric but not a dangerous form.
XIII.
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK.
BRECKENRIDGE, BLUE RIVER, July 2, 1866.
WE arose from our moist couch on the banks of Grand
River, to find the stream still rising, and a thick mist, fore-
boding rain, spread over the face of the earth. Mr. Byers's
friend, Dr. Wharton, who was encamped at the Springs,
came down to the opposite bank, and some notes, tied to
stones, were exchanged. I received in this way a pink
malva, which made the airy journey without damage. Our
further route gave rise to a serious consultation. In three
days more I had appointed to be in Breckenridge, at the
head of Blue River, about seventy-five miles from the
Springs. "There was no probability that we could ford the
Blue, in the present swollen condition of all the mountain
streams, and the regular trail lay beyond that river. We
were aware, indeed, that the Ute Indians made use of
another trail on this side, striking directly across the Mid-
dle Park (the diameter of which is nearly a hundred
miles), but none of our party had ever traversed it, or
knew anything about it beyond the rumor that it was ex-
ceedingly difficult and dangerous.
Yet there was no alternative — we were limited to the
choice of this unknown route. It was a matter of great
regret that we had failed in reaching the Hot Springs, and
I proposed to start for Breckenridge in company with
White, leaving the rest of the party to cross the Grand at
the upper ford if they preferred. They decided, however,
that we should keep together, and we made immediate
preparations for departure.
7
98 COLORADo: A SUMMER TRIP.
We first retraced our trail for two miles or more, then,
turning westward, crossed a high ridge wooded with aspen,
and descended toward the Grand over aromatic slopes of
sage-bush. The mist rolled into clouds and hid all the
higher mountains from view, - which I greatly regretted,
as from this point we might have seen the Rabbit-Ears —
two remarkable Alpine horns on the western border of the
North Park. We struck the Grand in the cañon below
the Springs, and for some distance the path was notched
along the side of a fir-wooded steep, over the roaring flood.
Small brooks, invisible under dense willow thickets, came
down on our left, making deep side-dells in the bluff. It
was not very far, however, before the cañon opened, reveal-
ing a broad gray landscape, through which the Grand could
be traced into the distance by its belt of cotton-woods.
We rode forward over what is called the “second bot-
tom " — a low table-land, rising into hills a mile from the
river, covered with a uniform growth of silvery sage, and
dotted with grazing antelope. The sun came out, the mist
arose from the snowy ranges, and all aspects were cheerful
except the company of the Arapahoe mare, which, thank
Heaven was not to last long. We heard the cry of an
eagle circling in the air over our heads, and had not pro-
ceeded half a mile further before we discovered an eagle's
nest in the top of a cotton-wood, just under the edge of the
bluff. We were able to ride within a hundred feet and
look into it. Three eaglets— awkward, owlish creatures,
completely covered with thick gray down — sat on the
edges of the nest, which was a huge structure of sticks,
and yelped piteously. It was a rare piece of good fortune
for all of us, none of whom had ever seen (and probably
will never see again) an eagle's nest with the brood in it.
Mr. Beard, with the aid of a good glass, made a permanent
acquisition; and when his picture is exhibited, I can testify
that he paints what he has seen.
Williams Fork,-or, as it is better called, Roaring Fork,
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK. 99
—a large affluent of the Grand, now announced itself in
front, by the tops of its timber rising above the bluff. It
was also much swollen, and the fording was a matter of
some difficulty. Mr. Byers, as usual, led the way, breast-
ing the icy water, which, striking his horse's side, almost
swept over its back. We all took an extremely cold leg-
bath, and my pony came within an ace of being carried
down the stream. On the opposite bank we divided our
party, White taking the spare animals (including the Ara-
pahoe mare) to Charley Utter's cabin, five miles further
down the Grand, while the rest of us determined to try the
Ute trail, up the west bank of Roaring Fork. This ar-
rangement would save us several miles of the journey, as
White, on his strong mule, could easily rejoin us during
the afternoon. Somewhere ahead of us lay the famous
moss-agate region, which we were especially desirous of
visiting, each one having his private hopes of jewelry for
wife or sweetheart.
The soil on the narrow bottoms of Roaring Fork is the
purest humus, producing grass of astonishing rankness and
richness, which our animals Snapped at with crazy eager-
ness. We had not proceeded a mile, however, before our
way was barred by an abrupt mountain, through the centre
of which the stream forced its way, in a narrow, rock-walled
slit – a cañon (funnel) in the strictest sense of the word.
The trail led us into this cleft, taking the very edge of a
precipice two hundred feet in perpendicular depth, where
there was barely room for our horses to set their hoofs.
Under us the river was a mass of foam : opposite — not a
stone's throw across — rose the jagged walls of dark-red
rock, terminating in fantastic pinnacles. It was an excit-
ing passage, not unmixed with fear, especially when the
disarrangement of a saddle in advance forced Mr. Beard
and myself to halt for five mintites in the narrowest part
of the pass, where portions of the rock under us had crum-
bled away. |
100 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
A valley succeeded; then a second and loftier range,
where the dividing cañon disclosed the most singular for-
mations of rock — natural fortresses and towers. One trail
wound away to the right; another (possibly an old elk-
path) seemed to lead directly into the gorge. The former
was preferable, on account of the pack-mules; but Mr.
McCandless and myself determined to try the latter, be-
lieving that we might gain in time what we lost in labori-
ous travel. The ascent was so steep, that we could with
difficulty keep our foothold in climbing; and it was won-
derful to see the confidence which the horses had in our
leadership and the dexterity with which they followed us.
My pony used his hoofs as I did my hands, taking hold of
grass-tufts and projections of rock, and resting with his
nose on my shoulder when I stopped to take breath. Huge,
detached masses of rock and bushes prevented our having
a good view of the chasm, but the general wildness and
picturesqueness of the scenery was an ample repayment
for our toil. From the highest part of the Pass another
grand gray landscape opened to the southward, magnifi-
cently bounded by a dark-green mountain chain, every
summit of which was a jagged pyramid of snow.
After half an hour of rather laborious scrambling, I
reached the grassy meadow beyond the cañon. Looking
back, I saw the others of the party slowly creeping over a
mountain ridge a mile or more to the west. I thereupon
struck a diagonal course, and presently came upon the
Indian trail, on the “second bottom.” Here the ground
was strewn with rough agates, but with all my search I
could find no mossy specimens. When the others arrived,
in the course of half an hour, I found that their experience
had been precisely similar. Our dreams of complete sets
of jewelry diminished to a single brooch or ring, and then
faded into the thin atmosphere of disappointed hopes.
None of us found a single moss-agate.
Here and there on the trail we could detect the marks
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK. 101
of lodge-poles, which, we supposed, were made by the Utes
in passing from Blue to Grand River. As this was our
only guidance through the unknown portion of the Park,
we followed it, although its general direction seemed too
much east of south. The mountain range in front was
apparently a spur thrust out from the south into the very
heart of the Park, and we must cross it in order to reach
the Valley of Blue River. The government maps were of
no assistance, — they omitted the mountains, and inserted
streams which have no existence. Directly in front of us
towered a splendid peak, not less than fourteen thousand
feet in height; and there seemed to be no practicable pass
across the range except immediately on either side of it: so
long, therefore, as our trail tended toward it, we could not
go very far astray. It was about twenty miles to the base
of the range, the intermediate country being a mixture of
rich, grassy valleys, Sage-clad table-land, and picturesque,
broken hills, flecked with groves of aspen and fir.
We started up several sage-hens, with their broods of
young. They are a kind of grouse, about the size of the
prairie-chicken, and of gray, mottled plumage. Their color
, seems to be their chief protection, as was shown by their
reliance upon it. The young birds scarcely took the
trouble to get out of our way, and one of them was caught
sitting under a sage-bush, and looking with bright, un-
shrinking eyes directly in the face of its captor. Of course
we did not shoot the hens, – an act of self-denial (our salt
fare being considered) which ought to be set down to our
credit. Ere long we reached meadows again, threaded by
swift tributary brooks of the Roaring Fork. The passage
of these streams, small as they were, gave us some trouble,
owing to the treacherous character of the soil. Mr. Beard's
mule went down and rolled over upon him, pinning him
fast in the mud, and my pony only avoided a like disaster
by his great shrewdness and agility.
At one o'clock we camped on the banks of a brook, and
102 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
our fishers immediately got their gear in readiness for
trout. Two of us determined on a bath in spite of mos-
quitoes and ice-water; and while a portion of the party
were playing leap-frog solitaire, in the search for grasshop-
per bait, another portion landing an occasional diminutive
fish, and the remainder attempting to dry their tingling
skins, there was a sudden cry of “How, how !” across the
low willow thickets. Indians, with vermilion faces and
streaming black hair! There were two braves and squaws,
mounted, and two pappooses. They crossed to us without
ceremony, shook hands, and attempted conversation, which
was not very edifying until we discovered that one of them
understood a little Spanish. We then learned that they
were on their way from the Blue to join the remainder of
their tribe on the head-waters of the Grand; their chief,
Colorado, was at Breckenridge, and they thought the rivers
could be forded. One of the men — who wore, singularly
enough, an Austrian military coat (from Maximilian's
army 2) — possessed some tact and discretion. He pre-
vented the other from going too near our luggage, and
withdrew with him to a little distance when we sat down
to our meal. He showed a little curiosity about a satchel
of mine; but when I told him it was “medicine,” and
made certain mysterious signs, he seemed satisfied. The
squaws brought their shy pappooses to look at us — beau-
tiful beings, all of them, with paint-smeared faces, and
hideously suggestive hair and blankets. Uncas and Cora,
— heroes and heroines of romance
Presently another horseman appeared, galloping toward
us over the hills, from the opposite direction. It was White,
who, to our great joy, had a sage-hen at his saddle-bow, and
a supply of antelope-venison for our supper. He, too, had
crossed a corner of the moss-agate patch, without finding
any of the jewels. Considerably refreshed by the bath and
by one delicious trout apiece, (would it had been a dozenſ)
we pushed forward, entering a hilly region, where dense
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK, 103
tracts of woodland alternated with fields of flowers. The
tracks of elk, deer, and even bear, were frequent, but much
as our hunters dashed away from the trail, they brought us
nothing. After some miles, we found ourselves suddenly
on a bluff, overlooking Roaring Fork, which issued, with
many a snaky twist, from a stretch of pine forest. Into this
forest went the trail, so obstructed with fallen timber that
our progress was an unintermitted series of leaps. We
outdid all the performances that were ever made with bars
in the circus-ring.
On emerging from this wood we found ourselves in the
loveliest meadow-park, several miles long, opening before
us directly to the foot of the great snowy peak. A swift
brook sped down it, under bowery thickets and past clumps
of trees; the turf was brilliantly green and spangled with
flowers; low hills bounded it on either side, the forests with
which they were covered sending out irregular capes, and
arms embracing bays of grass; and over the sweet pasto-
ral seclusion towered the Alpine chain, here smitten with
gold by the sinking sun, there glooming broad and blue
under the shadows of thunder-clouds. Nothing could have
been more unexpected than the change from aspen woods
and silvery hills of sage to this green, pine-enframed, Ar-
cadian landscape. We made our camp for the night in a
grove of trees, which our huge fire of pine-logs illuminated
with magical effect. Moreover, we had fresh meat for the
first time, couches on a matting of pine needles, the best
of pasturage for our beasts, and for the first time since
leaving Empire, enjoyed a feeling of comfort. It rained
during the night, but the trees made a partial shelter. Our
day's travel could not have been less than thirty miles.
It was now very evident that the pass we sought lay to
the right of the high peak, and that the Valley of the Blue
was beyond the range. The majestic mountain has no
name. It is very near the centre of the Middle Park, and
its summit must command a view of this whole inclosed
104 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
region. I therefore suggest that it be called Park Peak
(rather than such a name as Cummings or Doolittle), and
— if no one has any objection — will so designate it.
We soon reached the head of the meadow, where a jungle
of willow-bushes, threaded by a net-work of streams, lay
between us and the mountain. The trail was wet and
boggy, and the dripping boughs through which we forced
our way, wet us to the skin. Then ensued a horrible scram-
ble, which lasted for nearly two miles. We either floun-
dered in mud in the bottom of a glen, climbed over piles
of fallen timber, or crept up and down slippery, crumbling
staircases, of loose soil. In such places our pack-mules
showed a wonderful talent. The skill with which they
passed between trees, leaped logs, and steadied themselves
along the edge of ticklish declivities, without disarranging
their packs, could never be imagined by one who had not
seen it. We considered these two miles equal to ten of
good road. The trail gradually improved, and we entered
a region, which was a perfect reproduction of the moun-
tain-dells of Saxony. Meadows of velvet turf lay embedded
in tall, dark forests of fir, which stretched up the slopes
above us until they formed a fringe against the sky. At
every winding of the valley, I looked, involuntarily, for the
old, mossy mill, and the squares of bleaching linen on the
grass. Snow-drifts made their appearance where the shade
was deepest, and the few aspens and alders were just put-
ting forth their leaves.
This part of the Pass was so beautiful, that we reached
the summit — much sooner than we expected — almost
with regret. We had not risen more than a thousand feet
above the general level of the Park. From the top we
looked down a narrow, winding glen, between lofty parapets
of rock, and beheld mountains in the distance, dark with
shadow, and vanishing in clouds. The descent was steep,
but not very toilsome. After reaching the bed of the glen,
we followed it downward through beds of grass and flowers,
&
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK. 105
under the shade of castellated rocks, and round the feet
of natural ramparts, until it opened upon wide plains of
sage-bush, which formed the shelving side of an immense
valley. The usual line of cotton-wood betrayed a stream,
and when we caught a glimpse of the water, its muddy tint
— the sure sign of gold-washing — showed that we had
found the Blue River. We had crossed the Ute Pass, as
it is called by the trappers, and are among the first white
men who have ever traversed it. We now looked on Park
Peak from the west side.
Instead of descending to the river, our trail turned south-
ward, running nearly parallel with its course, near the top
of the sloping plane which connects the mountains with the
valley. The sun came out, the clouds lifted and rolled
away, and one of the most remarkable mountain landscapes
of the earth was revealed to our view. The Valley of the
Blue, which, for a length of thirty miles, with a breadth
varying from five to ten, lay under our eyes, wore a tint of
pearly silver-gray, upon which the ripe green of the timber
along the river, and the scattered gleams of water seemed
to be enamelled. Opposite to us, above this sage-color, rose
huge mountain-foundations, where the grassy openings were
pale, the forests dark, the glens and gorges filled with
shadow, the rocks touched with lines of light — making a
chequered effect that suggested cultivation and old settle-
ment. Beyond these were wilder ridges, all forest; then
bare masses of rock, streaked with snow, and, highest of
all, bleak snow-pyramids, piercing the sky. From south to
north stretched the sublime wall — the western boundary
of the Middle Park; and where it fell away toward the
cañon by which Grand River goes forth to seek the Col-
orado, there was a vision of dim, rosy peaks, a hundred
miles distant. In breadth of effect — in airy depth and
expansion — in simple yet most majestic outline, and in
originality yet exquisite harmony of color, this landscape is
unlike anything I have ever seen. I feel how inadequate
106 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
are my words to suggest such new combinations of tints
and forms. There is greater vertical grandeur among the
Alps: here it is the vast lateral extent which impresses you,
together with the atmospheric effect occasioned by great
elevation above the sea. You stand on the plane of the
Alpine glaciers; a new vegetation surrounds you; a darker
sky is over your head; yet the grand picture upon which
you look is complete in all its parts, or, if any element is
wanting, its absence is swallowed up in the majesty that is
present.
“If Gifford were only here!” said Beard; and did not
take out his own sketch-book. iº
We enjoyed this landscape for several miles, until the
hills, reaching across the valley, formed a cañon, to avoid
which we crossed spurs which shut everything but the
snowy range. The base of Park Peak, on our right, offered
many picturesque features; but I will not attempt to de-
scribe them. Other snowy summits appeared before us,
overlooking the head of Blue River Valley; charming val-
leys opened among the nearer mountains; yet the remem-
brance of what we had seen made us indifferent to them.
In the afternoon we came upon several lodges of Utes, one
of which I entered, not without misgivings. The occupant
was a sharp, shrewd Indian, who wanted to trade a buck-
skin for much more powder than it was worth. There were
but two men at home, but a number of squaws and chil-
dren. A herd of rough ponies was grazing near. We
found little to interest us, and presently left Mr. Low
(Low, the poor Indian, as the people here say) to his
own devices.
A mile or two further we came to a swift stream, which
we supposed to be Snake River, and the prospect of trout
was so promising that, after effecting a crossing, we en-
camped for the night, calculating that we were within fif-
teen miles of this place. Hunters and fishers went forth,
while the artist and myself tried both pencil and pen with
THE UTE PASS, MIDDLE PARK. 107
little effect. We agreed that we were demoralized by fa-
tigue, and that lying on our blankets before the fire was
better than either Art or Literature.
Though so near Breckenridge, we were not yet out of
the woods, as my next will show.
XIV.
*
FINAL AIDVENTURES IN THE MIDIDI,E PARK.
BUCKSKIN JoE, SouTH PARK, July 3, 1866.
WHEN we awoke in our camp, on the banks of the river
which we supposed to be Snake, yesterday morning, the
ground was covered with a white frost, and the water re-
maining in our tin cups was turned to ice. To bathe a sun-
blistered face on such a morning, is a torture rather than a
luxury; yet the air was at once a tonic, a stimulant, and a
flavor. The peaks across the valley — not much less than
fifteen thousand feet in height — flashed in rosy splendor;
the dew sprinkled with diamonds the silver of the sage.
fields; the meadow-larks Sang joyously, and our spirits rose
with the belief that the uncertain portion of our journey
was nearly over.
A ride of three miles up the valley brought us to another
river—a fuller stream than the last, foaming down through
a wild gap in the mountains on our left. At this place the
Blue receives a considerable affluent on the opposite side—
a circumstance which told us precisely where we were.
The stream where we had encamped is still nameless; it
was the Snake which we had now reached. We forded it
with some difficulty, the water rushing over our saddles,
and followed a barely discernible trail along the foot of the
mountains. The Valley of the Blue became narrow, hemmed
in by the feet of spurs from the main chain. The bottom-
land was marshy and full of pools, and we were sometimes
forced to climb around quagmires and fallen timber, at
points of threatening steepness. Sometimes, also, a slide
FINAL ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 109
of rocks had come down from above, leaving piles over
which the animals must slowly and cautiously be led. The
little gray coneys sat on the stones above, and barked at us
as we passed.
It is rather difficult to measure distance during travel
of this kind; but I suppose we had made about three miles
after fording Snake River, when the trail — or, rather,
what was left of it — terminated at the Blue. There were
signs that the stream had been crossed here, and as we had
been looking with longing eyes at the pleasant open bot-
toms on the other side, we imagined our troubles at an end.
Mr. McCandless plunged in, his mule breasting the impet-
uous current, and, after being carried down some yards,
succeeded in getting out on the other bank. Mr. Byers
followed, and then the pack-mule, Peter; but, on reaching
the centre of the stream both were carried away. I was
watching the horse, madly endeavoring to swim against the
current, when there was a sudden call for help. The drift-
timber had made a raft just below, the force of the stream
set directly toward it, and horse and rider were being
drawn, as it appeared, to inevitable destruction. Mr. Sum-
ner sprang into the water and caught Mr. Byers's hand;
but the next moment he was out of his depth, and barely
succeeded in swimming ashore.
All this seemed to take place in a second. The river
made a short curve around a little tongue of land, across
which we sprang, in time to see Mr. Byers catch at and
hold the branch of a drifted tree, in passing. In another
moment he had extricated himself from the saddle. White
rushed into the water with a lariat, and the danger was
over. Horse and rider got out separately, without much
trouble, although the latter was already chilled to the bones
and nearly benumbed. The pack-mule, with all our luggage,
was completely submerged, and we should probably have
lost everything, had not White grasped the mule's ear at
the turn of the river, and thus assisted the beast to recover
110 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
his footing. It was all over before we were clearly aware
of the full extent of the danger and of our own fears.
When the wet clothes had been wrung out, and the wet
pistols fired, we set forward, compelled to follow the east
bank of the Blue, with no trail. We had the choice between
mud-holes and fallen timber, or a steep of loose gravel and
sliding stones, which defied us to get a firm foothold.
Thus we worked our way along, with almost incredible la-
bor, for an hour or more, when we reached an overhanging
rocky wall, at the foot of which the river foamed and roared
in a narrow channel. When we had climbed around the
rocks and reached the mountain side above, a fearful-look-
ing slant of disintegrated shale, through which a few stunted
aspen bushes grew, lay before us. One more degree of
steepness would have made the pass impossible. The
crumbled rock slid from under our feet, and rattled in
showers from the brink of the precipice into the water
below; and but for the help which the bushes gave us in
the worst places, we should probably have followed. Messrs.
Byers and Davis, who were in advance, seemed at times to
be hanging in the air. In the midst of this pass, a badger
whisked around the corner of a rock, tempting one of the
party to let himself down to the edge of the bluff in the
hope of getting a shot; but the animal was safe in some
hole or crevice.
While resting among the roots of a pine-tree, which ena-
bled me also to support my pony, I descried Mr. McCand-
less riding up the meadows beyond the river, with a mounted
Indian on each side of him. I noticed, moreover, that the
latter kept pace with him, and took pains to keep him be-
tween them. As they were Utes, there was no trouble to
be feared, and we supposed they were guiding him toward
Breckenridge. Beyond this perilous corner of the moun-
tain we found a faint trail, with a promise of better travel
ahead. Mr. Beard and White were in the rear, and it was
amusing to watch them follow us, clinging for life to the
FINAL ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 111
bushes and roots, while their animals, with more than hu-
man cunning, picked their way step by step, through the
sliding fragments.
A mile or two more, and a broad valley opened on our
left. A very muddy stream — which could be none other
than Swan River — came down it to join the Blue. Mr.
McCandless and one of the Indians here rode down to the
opposite bank and hailed us. The latter was the famous
Ute chief, Colorado; he said we could now either ford the
Blue, or take a good trail to Breckenridge on our side of
the river. We chose the latter, and presently came in sight
of Delaware Flats —a collection of log-cabins, across the
open valley. Leaving them to the left, we struck toward
another settlement called Buffalo Flats; both places are
inhabited by miners engaged in gulch washing. The cattle
pasturing on the grassy bottoms were a welcome sight, afters
five days of Savage Nature. I greeted a young fellow,
herding mules on horseback, with a very superfluous feel-
ing of friendship; for he made a short, surly answer, and
rode away. T
Being now but four miles from Breckenridge, we spurred
our weary animals forward, taking a trail which led for a
long distance through a burned forest. It was scenery of
the most hideous character. Tens of thousands of charred
black poles, striped with white where the bark had sprung
off, made a wilderness of desolation which was worse than
a desert. The boughs had been almost entirely consumed;
the sunshine and the blue of the sky were split into a myr-
iad of parallel slices, which fatigued and distracted the eye,
until one almost became giddy in riding through. I cannot
recall any phase of mundane scenery so disagreeable as
this.
Finally the wood came to an end, and green meadows
and snowy peaks refreshed our eyes. Over ditches, heaps
of stone and gravel, and all the usual débris of gulch-min-
ing, we rode toward some cabins which beckoned to us
112 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
through scattered clumps of pine. A flag-staff, with some-
thing white at half-mast; canvas-covered wagons in the
shade; a long street of log-houses; signs of “Boarding.”
“Miner's Home,” and “Saloon,” and a motley group of
rough individuals, among whom we detected the beard of
our parted comrade and the blanket of the chief— such
was Breckenridge
The place dates from 1860 — yet, of the five thousand
miners who flocked to this part of the Middle Park in that
year, probably not more than five hundred remain. At
present there is a slight increase of life. Some new cabins
are going up, and for some distance beyond the limits of
building one sees lots staked out, and signs displayed, -
“Prečmpted by —.” At the first house we reached,
we found a long table set for dinner, and a barrel of beer
on tap, which had come over the snowy range from Mont-
gomery the previous day. The host, Mr. Sutherland, sus-
pected our impatient hunger, and only delayed the meal
long enough to add the unexpected delicacy of oyster soup.
Then, taking the bugle with which he blew the signal for
the immortal Light Brigade to charge at Balaklava, he
made the notes of “Peas upon a trencher” ring over the
shanties of Breckenridge. Since that splendid Crimean
episode, Mr. Sutherland and his bugle have done loyal ser-
vice in a Colorado regiment. I was glad of the chance
which made us almost the first guests of his new establish-
ment— especially as his bounty in providing equals his
gallantry in fighting.
In strolling up the street, after dinner, I discovered that
the apparent flag of truce at half-mast was in reality a na-
tional ensign, out of which the mountain rains had washed
every particle of color. The Stars and Stripes were only
to be distinguished by the seams. There was comical cause
of mourning; the bully of Breckenridge — a German gro-
cer — had been whipped, the day before, by the bully of
Buffalo Flats | The flag-staff is planted in front of a log
FINAL ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 113
court-house. While I was gazing upon the emblem of
defeat and regret, I noticed two individuals entering the
building. One was middle-aged, and carried a book under
his arm; he wore “store clothes.” The other, a lively
young fellow, with a moustache, sported a flannel shirt.
The latter reappeared on the balcony, in a moment, and
proclaimed in a loud voice, —
“Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Probate Court is now
in session l’”
Thereupon he withdrew. The announcement produced
no effect, for he immediately came forth again, and cried,—
“Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Probate Court is now
adjourned l’”
I waited, to see the Honorable Probate Court come forth,
with the book under his arm; but, instead of that, the lively
young man made his appearance for the third time, with a
new announcement, —
“Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Commissioners' Court
is now in session l’”
How many other Courts were represented by these two
individuals, I am unable to say ; but the rapidity and ease
with which the sessions were held gave me a cheerful im-
pression of the primitive simplicity and peace of the pop-
ulation. To be sure, the flag at half-mast hinted of other
customs; yet these may not be incompatible with an idyllic
state of society.
We discovered a hotel — or its equivalent — kept by
Mr. and Mrs. Silverthorn, who welcomed us like old friends.
The walls of their large cabin were covered with newspa-
pers, and presented a variety of advertisements and local
news, from New Hampshire to Salt Lake. If the colored
lithographs on the wall were doubtful specimens of art,
there were good indications of literature on the table. The
kind hostess promised us beds, – real beds, with sheets and
pillows, – and the good host would have taken me to any
number of lodes and gulch-washings, if I had not been
- 8 .
114 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
almost too sore to bend a joint. I barely succeeded in
going far enough to inspect a patch of timothy grass, grown
from the wild seed of the mountains. It is a slight experi-
ment, but enough to show what may be made of those por-
tions of the Middle Park which are too cold for grain.
The residents of the place profess to be delighted with the
climate, although there is no month in the year without
frost, and the winter snow is frequently three or four feet
in depth. They have very little sickness of any kind, and
recover from wounds or hardships with a rapidity unknown
elsewhere. I was informed that the Honorable Probate
and Commissioners’ Court once tumbled down a fearful
precipice, and was picked up a mass of fractures and dis-
locations — yet here he was, good for several sessions a
day !
Our friends, Byers and Sumner, were so chilled to the
marrow by their adventure in the Blue River, that neither
the subsequent ride, nor dinner, nor the hot noonday sun,
could warm their benumbed bodies. They therefore built
a fire in the adjoining wood, and lay beside it nearly all the
afternoon. I would gladly have joined them, but for the
duty of recording our journey, and the task which awaited
me in the evening. The court-house, to my surprise, was
filled with an attentive and intelligent audience, and I re-
gretted that I was unable to comply with their request that
I should recite Mrs. Norton's poem of “Bingen.”
There had been some doubt concerning the practicability
of the pass across the main chain to Montgomery, which is
in the South Park, on the head-wagers of the South Platte;
but in the afternoon Mr. Matthews arrived, having ridden
from Buckskin Joe to pilot us over. This is called, I be-
lieve, the Hoosier Pass; a little to the east of it is the Tarry-
all Pass, from Hamilton to Breckenridge, which is traversed
by vehicles, even during the winter. There is also a direct
trail from Breckenridge to Georgetown, near the head of
Snake River. Without doubt other and probably better
FINAL ADVENTURES IN THE MIDDLE PARK. 115
points for crossing the mountains will be found, when they
are more thoroughly explored.
Mrs. Silverthorn kept her promise. When the artist and
myself found ourselves stretched out in a broad feather-
bed, with something softer than boots under our heads, we
lay awake for a long time in delicious rest, unable to sleep
from the luxury of knowing what a perfect sleep awaited
us. Every jarred bone and bruised muscle claimed its own
particular sensation of relief, and I doubted, at last, whether
unconsciousness was better than such wide-awake fulness
ofºrest.
I shall always retain a very pleasant recollection of
Breckenridge, and shall henceforth associate its name with
the loyal divine, not the traitor politician.
XV.
Two RocKY MOUNTAIN PASSEs.
ORO CITY, CoLoRADo, July 4, 1866.
WE deserved no credit for early rising at Breckenridge,
The room wherein we slept was also a family-room, dining-
room, and parlor, and the ladies of the house could not
properly set the breakfast-table in the presence of four gen-
tlemen in shirts. So we issued forth early, to find a white
frost on the meadows and a golden glitter of snow all
around the brightest of morning skies. Among the Alps,
such a morning is a rare godsend; here, it is almost a
matter of course. Whatever effect the climate of the Rocky
Mountain region may have upon the permanent settlers,
there is no doubt that for travellers it is one of the most
favorable in the world. It takes fat from the corpulent
and gives it to the lean; it strengthens delicate lungs, and
paints pallid faces with color; and in spite of “thin air and
alkali water,” it invigorates every function of the system.
I doubt whether any of us, at home, could have ventured
on wading in the snow, being ducked in ice-water, and
camping on the damp earth with the same impunity.
We still followed up the Blue River, now so diminished
that its clear, swift waters had no power to stop our prog-
ress. After passing through dilapidated forests of fir and
pine for an hour, the trail entered a sloping mountain
meadow, several miles long, with a vista of shining peaks
at either end. New flowers — turquoise-blue, purple, and
yellow — sprinkled the turf; the air was filled with resin-
ous odors, and the sunshine had just sufficient power to
TWO ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES. 117
take the icy edge off the air and make it fresh and inspir-
ing. The trail, for the most part, was dry and firm, and
our travel became something more of a luxury than it had
been during the previous days.
Near the head of the valley, immediately under the
snowy ridge, there was a great tract which the gold-washers
had gone over with unsparing hand. It must have been
a rich placer, for two or three inhabited cabins remain, and
there were signs of recent labor. The snow-drifts lay thick
all around, the grass was just beginning to shoot, and the
three-months’ summer of the higher ranges, during which
only gold-washing can be carried on, had barely made its
appearance. The residents were absent (probably pros-
pecting), and there was no living creature to be seen, ex-
cept a forlorn donkey. .*
Beyond this spot we came unexpectedly upon the sum-
mit of the pass. Our ascent from Breckenridge had been
very gradual, and we had not guessed the great elevation
of the latter place above the sea-level. This route has
been surveyed, and our guide, Mr. Matthews, pointed out
the stakes from time to time with great satisfaction. The
top of the pass is a little below the timber line, and the
stake there is marked “11,000 feet.” The average ascent
on the south side is ninety feet to the mile, while the de-
scent on the north only averages seventy feet. The build-
ing of a railroad would not be attended with the slightest
difficulty. This pass, dividing the Middle from the South
Park, is, as I have explained in a former letter, also the
water-shed between the Atlantic and Pacific. The grand
off-shoots of the main chain of the Rocky Mountains, so
numerous and so lofty, are apt to lead the eye astray, and
give an impression of difficulties, which disappear on a
closer acquaintance with the region. The first entrance of
the Pacific Railroad into the mountains will be found, I
suspect, quite as difficult as the passage of the dividing
ridge.
118 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
We halted on the summit, to enjoy the narrow but very
striking views into the opposite Parks. Northward, we
looked down the long green meadow, with its inclosing
slopes of forest, to a line of snow-clad peaks in the middle
distance, and then a higher and fainter line, rosily flushed,
a hundred miles away — the northern wall of the Park.
Southward, the valley of the Platte, a deep gray-green
trough, curving out of sight among the lower ranges, bore
a striking resemblance to the upper valley of the Saco, as
you look upon it from Mount Willard. Beyond it, the in-
creasing dimness of each line of mountains told of broad,
invisible plains between ; and the farther peaks, scarcely
to be detached from the air, were the merest Alpine phan-
toms. Directly to the west of us, however, rose a knot of
tremendous snowy steeps, crowned by a white, unbroken
cone. This is Mount Lincoln, believed to be the highest
point in Colorado. The estimates vary between fifteen and
eighteen thousand feet; but the most trustworthy measure-
ment — which also corresponds with its apparent elevation
above the pass — is sixteen thousand six hundred feet.
Later in the season, it can be ascended without much dif-
ficulty. -
It is fortunate that this prominent summit is so appro-
priately named. It is the central point from which at least
four snowy ranges radiate, is one thousand feet higher than
any peak which has yet been measured, and the view from
its snowy apex can hardly be drawn with a shorter radius
than one hundred and fifty miles. Although not standing
alone like the volcanic cones of Oregon, but in the midst
of a sublime Alpine world, it yet asserts its supremacy, and
its huge, wintry buttresses form a prominent feature in the
landscapes of the South Park.
We now turned to the right, in order to visit Mont-
gomery, which lies on the very head-waters of the South
Platte, at the foot of Mount Lincoln, whose rocky sides are
veined with the richest ores. In less than a mile after
TWO ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES. 119
leaving the top of the pass, we saw the neat little town
lying below us, and could detect the signs of mining all
around and above it. I had a surfeit of mining plans and
prospects in Central City, and will only say that the people
of Montgomery are just as sanguine as those of the former
place, and their ores, so far as I could judge from speci-
mens, are just as rich and abundant. It would interest
“those who own stock in the North Star, the Pioneer, and
other companies, if I should minutely describe their sepa-
rate lodes; but most of my readers, I presume, will be
satisfied with the general statement that the wealth of
Colorado has not been, and cannot easily be, exaggerated.
Descending a long and toilsome declivity to the town,
we drew up at the post-office. Friendly hands took charge
of our animals, and a dinner was promised in commemora-
tion of our return to the Atlantic side of the Rocky Moun-
tains. Mr. Waliton, I am glad to say, has become a thor-
ough American in everything but his knowledge of cookery;
and the repast he furnished us, although commencing with
oyster soup and ending with peaches, bore no resemblance
to the dreary fare served up in most of our hotels. When
it was over, and we were enjoying the pipe of peace in the
sun, the intelligent company of Mr. Rey, formerly Consul
of France at Montevideo, and several American gentlemen,
gave an air of refinement and ancient culture to the place.
It required an effort to recall the fact that I was in the
wildest nook, the very heart, of the Rocky Mountains.
Montgomery, like Breckenridge, is a deserted town. It
once had a population of three thousand, and now numbers
three or four hundred. But as the cabins of those who left
speedily became the firewood of those who remained, there
are no apparent signs of decay. On the contrary, the place
seems to be growing a little, and as soon as the “new proc-
ess” is satisfactorily ascertained, it will shoot up into
permanent importance. We had only time to make our
nooning there, my place of destination being Buckskin Joe,
eight miles further.
120 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
We rode five miles down the South Platte, then climbed
over one of the many insteps of Mount Lincoln, into a nar-
rower valley, running westward along the base. Near its
head, ten thousand feet above the sea, lies the town of the
lovely name — a somewhat larger and more active place
than Montgomery. The people, for the space of two or
three years, made a desperate attempt to change the name
to “Laurette,” which is slightly better; but they failed.
completely, and it will probably be Buckskin Joe to the
end of time. At least, it is not a “City” — which, in Col- .
orado, is quite an honorable distinction. There are worse
names in California than this, and worse places. If I failed
to find a blacksmith, and my barefooted pony must go
unshod, we had a carpeted room at the Pacific House, an
audience of near a hundred collected in the evening, and
everything was done to make my visit comfortable. These
remote, outlying mining communities have made a most
agreeable impression upon every member of our party.
The horde of more or less ignorant adventurers having
drifted away to Montana and Idaho, those who remain are
for the most part men of education and natural refinement,
and their hospitality is a favor in a double sense. •r
In the evening there was a dismal fall of mingled snow
and rain, and I found a fire necessary for comfort. The
bare slopes around the village were white for an hour after
sunrise. We were here joined by Mr. Thomas, of Chicago,
who came from Denver with a mule-team, and brought us
late news from the world and letters from home. This
morning we took leave of White, who started for Empire
with our faithful pack-mules. The latter were a plague at
times, with all their service, and we are not sorry to be rid
of them; but I miss White's honest blue eyes. -
There are two roads from Buckskin Joe to this place,
one practicable only in midsummer for horses, directly
over a lofty spur of the snowy range; the other a rough
wagon-trail, which goes down the Platte twelve or fifteen
TWO ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES. 121
miles before crossing to the Arkansas Valley. Mr. Beard,
exulting at his escape from the saddle, took the mule wagon
with Mr. Sumner; the rest of us determined to try the
shorter and more difficult pass. Mr. Willet, of Buckskin
Joe, offered his services as guide, promising to pilot us
safely over, although no horses had yet crossed this season.
So, wearing the scarlet “Matthews tie,” as a memento of
that gentleman's kindness, we bade good-by to Buckskin
Joe, without visiting the abundant “pay-streaks” in its
neighborhood.
One evidence of the richness of the locality met us, how-
ever, at the outset. We rode along the borders of a nar
row gulch — now all stones and gravel — out of which five
hundred thousand dollars were washed in 1860. Thence,
two miles over a rough, timbered mountain brought us to
Mosquito, another mining village of a hundred inhabitants,
at the mouth of a narrow, winding gorge, issuing out of
snow-streaked heights to the southward. Into this gorge
led the trail, difficult in places, but not to be compared to
the swamps and rocky ladders of the Middle Park. Mr.
Willet walked briskly in advance, entertaining us with sto-
ries of his winter journeys on foot over the pass, carrying
the weekly mail. He did not appear to be troubled by the
rarity of the atmosphere, of which I was very conscious,
even in the saddle.
The ascent was quite gradual, yet we soon passed the
timber line, and the fields of snow crept down the steeps
of grass and rock, ever nearer, feeding the torrent which
rushed through the gorge. On the left towered an appar-
ently inaccessible mass of dark-red rock, to the height of
two thousand feet; a field of snow in front, shining against
the sky, was equally impassable, and the steep on our left
must be scaled. We dismounted, and commenced the heart-
breaking task. Climbing a dozen steps at a time, and then
halting to recover breath, we slowly toiled upward, around
a great slant of melting snow, which had lodged under the
122 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
cornice of the mountain. I could take no note of the won-
derful scenery which opened and widened under us, for .
every pulse throbbed as if ready to burst, my eyes were
dim and my head giddy in the endeavor to fill my collapsed
lungs. The pony climbed faithfully at my side, and more
than once I should have fallen but for his supporting neck.
We circumscaled the snow at last, and came over the
sharp crest upon an upland a mile or two long, bounded
by the highest summits. It was a bleak, Arctic landscape;
where the snow had melted there were patches of brick-
colored rock and brown grass, or pools of dull, chilly water.
The great cliffs across the gorge cut off the distant moun-
tains and valleys from view ; we were alone in an upper
world as bleak as that on the Norwegian fjelds. The sum-
mit-ridge we were to cross lay to the southward, but we
could detect no way to reach it without crossing broad and
apparently dangerous drifts. Mr. Willet, however, who
had frequently made the journey in storm and mist,
marched on with a confident air, leading us across the
table-land, ºp 3 stony angle of the mountain, with snow-
filled ravines on either side, until we reached a point where
it was necessary to dismount for the last climb.
This was the toughest work of all. The trail became a
rocky staircase, crossed by drifts thirty or forty feet in
depth, where, after walking firmly on the surface for a few
yards, man and horse would sink down unexpectedly and
flounder in the melting snow. In those lofty regions there
is no such thing as getting a “second wind”— every step
is like a blow which knocks the breath out of one's body.
I was conscious of a dry, disagreeable, tingling sensation
in the lungs, which the most rapid, open-mouthed inhala-
tion of air could not allay. At every tenth step we were
forced to pause, overcome by what I may call respiratory
fatigue. The air, nevertheless, was deliciously pure and
bracing, and none of us experienced any nausea, bleeding
at the nose, or dimness of vision, such as great altitudes
TWO ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES. 123
frequently produce. When we stood still, the physical dis-
comfort soon passed away. The ledges of naked red rocks
increased as we climbed; the dark-blue sky sank lower
behind the crest; and at one o'clock in the afternoon we
stood upon the summit of the pass.
Our elevation above the sea-level could not have been
much less than thirteen thousand feet. The timber line
was far below us ; near at hand we were surrounded by a
desolation of snow and naked rock. Mount Lincoln, on
the north, gathered together the white folds of the separat-
ing mountain ranges, and set his supreme pyramid over
them; while far to the southeast, where the sage-plains of
the South Park stretch for a hundred miles, all features
were lost in a hot purple mist. Before us, however, lay the
crowning grandeur. The ridge upon which we stood slid
down, like the roof of a house, to the valley of the Upper
Arkansas, which we could trace to the very fountain-head
of the river, its pine groves and long meandering lines of
cotton-wood drawn upon a field of pearly gray-green. Start-
ing from Mount Lincoln, the eye followed the central chain
— the backbone of the continent — in a wide semicircle
around the head of the valley until it faced us on the oppo-
site side, and then kept on its course southward, on and
ever on, slowly fading into air— a hundred miles of eter-
nal snow !. Beyond the Arkansas Valley (where there is a
pass considerably below the timber line) glimmered, as if
out of blue air, the rosy snow of other and farther ranges.
Westward, seventy miles distant, stood the lonely Sopris
Peak, higher than Mont Blanc. -
New landscapes are often best described by comparison
with others that are known; but I know not where to turn
for any mountain view at all resembling this in wondrous
breadth and extent—in the singular combination of sub-
dued coloring with great variety of form. It is at once
simple, sublime, and boundless. With a very clear atmos-
phere, the effect might be different; as we saw it, the far-
124 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
thest peaks and ranges melted insensibly out of the line of
vision, suggesting almost incredible distances. There were
no glaciers, thrusting down their wedges between the for-
ests; no great upper plateaus of impacted Snow, pouring
their cataracts from rocky walls, as in the Alps. The snow-
line, though broken by ravines, was quite uniform; but the
snows were flushed with such exquisite color, and cut the
sky with such endless variety of outline, that they substi-
tuted a beauty of another and rarer kind. This, and the
view of the Blue River Valley, in the Middle Park, are
‘representative landscapes; and they alone are worth a jour-
ney across the Plains.
We celebrated the day with none but the most loyal
and patriotic sentiments. Our toasts were few, for there
was little of the material out of which they grow; our
speeches short, for breath was a scarce commodity; but we
duly remembered the American Eagle, and magnified the
shadow of his wings. There has been no loftier celebra-
tion this day in the United States, I am sure.
It was impossible to mount our horses until a certain
point, nearly two thousand feet below us, had been reached.
There was no snow on the southern slope; but a zigzag,
headlong path over bare stones (among which Mr. Byers
saw constant indications of gold) for two miles or more,
and we reached the bottom with trembling knees and drip-
ping faces. After this the path gradually fell into one of
the lateral glens which debouch into the Arkansas Valley,
and we pushed merrily on through pine groves and over
green meadows, stung by the gadfly of hunger. Mr.
Willet insisted on taking us out of the direct path to see
the evidences of gold-washing in California Gulch. We
objected, preferring to see a dinner; but he was our guide,
and he had his way. The obdurate man made us ride
along a mile of hideous gravel-pits and piles of dirt, smack-
ing his lips over the hundreds of thousands of dollars
which had been dug out of them, while every one of us
TWO ROCKY MOUNTAIN PASSES. 125
was suffering indescribable pangs. What was it to us that
men are even now washing out one hundred dollars a
day?
Log-cabins made their appearance at last, then miners,
then more log-cabins, then a street with several saloons,
eating-houses, and corrals, — and that was Oro City. The
place did not promise much, I must confess; but one must
never judge from the outside in Colorado. What we found
I will relate in my next.
XVI.
THE ARKANSAS WALLEY AND THE TWIN LAKES.
SALT Works, SouTH PARK, July 6, 1866.
I SAID we were hungry on arriving at Oro City, but the
word gives no description of our sensations. After climb-
ing over a crest only a few hundred feet lower than the
Swiss Jungfrau, we descended to the level of human life
with a profound interest in the signs of “Boarding” and
“Miners' Homes,” which greeted us on entering the place.
Even the “Saloon,” with its cubicular bottles of Plantation
Bitters, suggested smoked herring and crackers; and these
in our condition would have been welcome luxuries. Be-
fore we had dismounted, a gentleman of most cheery and
hospitable face threw open his door, disclosing arm-chairs
and rocking-chairs, a long table, and a dim vision of beds
in the background. We entered, and there were presently
sounds of dulcet hissing and sizzling in the rear; grateful,
but ah! most tantalizing odors in the atmosphere; and then
the trout were set before us — us, who would have rejoiced
over raw pork It was a meal worth pining for, and I do
less than my duty in recording the name of our host, Mr.
Wolf Londoner, who not only fed but lodged the whole
party, with the most generous disregard of his own and his
wife's comfort. I consider that hospitality perfect which
does not allow you to feel the sacrifices it imposes; and
such was the kind we received in Oro City.
We passed the afternoon in a state of luxurious and
commendable idleness. There was no work going on in
the gulch, – every one was enjoying the national holiday;
ARKANSAS WALLEY AND THE TWIN LAKES. 127
Major De Mary came across the valley with a kind invita-
tion to his ranche and mineral springs, and joined our club
of idlers. We not only learned that gulch mining is still
profitable in this region, — one company producing one
hundred dollars per day per man, – but were presented by
our unparalleled host with evidences of the fact, in the
shape of nuggets. A lump, found the day before our
arrival, weighed three ounces. Promising lodes have been
struck, but none are worked as yet.
In the evening one of our party lectured in the Record-
er's office, which was draped with flags, and temporarily
fitted up as an auditorium. A number of ladies were
present, and the new type of face which I have described
in a previous letter reappeared again. The question re-
turned to me, – whence is it produced From the climate
of our central regions, the circumstances of life, or the
mingling of blood? Possibly a mixture of all three.
Whatever it may be, here is the beginning of a splendid
race of men. I remembered having been very much puz-
zled a year ago by the face of a waiter on one of the Mis-
sissippi steamers. I fancied I saw both the Irish and the
German characteristics, which is such an unusual cross,
that I ascertained the man's parentage, and found it to be
Scotch and German. The Celtic and Saxon elements seem
to supply each other's deficiencies, and to improve the
American breed of men more than any other mixture.
The handsome Colorado type may be partly derived from
this source. -
After the lecture there was a ball, which all the ladies
of the Upper Arkansas Valley — hardly a baker's dozen —
attended. The sound of music and dancing, and the assur-
ance that we would be acceptable in our flannel shirts and
scarlet “Matthews ties,” could not, however, overcome the
seductions of Mr. Londoner's beds. To gross the Rocky
Mountains two days in succession, speak to the multitude
in the evening, and dance afterward, is beyond my powers.
128 CoLoRADo: A SUMMER TRIP.
“Fatigue,” as Mr. Beard truly remarks, when laying aside
a half-finished sketch, “demoralizes.” Our host and hostess
very properly resolved not to be cheated out of their holi-
day; and after all the labor our advent had caused, they
enjoyed the ball until three in the morning, and then arose
at five to make ready for our breakfast.
Our proposed route was down the Arkansas to Cañon
City, a distance of a hundred miles, which we hoped to
accomplish in three days. The head-waters of the river
are at the western foot of Mount Lincoln, the dividing
ridge making a horseshoe curve around them. The pass
at the head of the Arkansas Valley is probably the lowest
between the South Pass and Santa Fé, but on each side of
it the ranges rise rapidly above the line of perpetual snow.
That on the east, which we had just crossed, is merely a
long spur of the Rocky Mountains, dividing the South
Park from the Arkansas Valley. It gradually diminishes
in height, and finally terminates altogether at Cañon City,
where the river issues upon the plains. The range on the
west, called the Sahwatch, is at first the dividing ridge of
the continent, lifting its serrated crest of snow to the height
of fourteen thousand feet. In the course of fifty or sixty
miles, however, it divides; the eastern branch uniting with
the Sángre de Christo and Raton Mountains, while the
western becomes merged in the Sierra Madre of New
Mexico, dividing the waters of the Gila from those of the
Rio del Norte. The Sahwatch Range is one of the most
beautiful of the various divisions of the Rocky Mountains.
Its forms are even finer than those seen from Denver.
The succession of tints is enchanting, as the eye travels
upward from the wonderful sage-gray of the Arkansas bot-
tom, over the misty sea-gray of the slopes of buffalo-grass,
the dark purplish green of fir forests, the red of rocky
walls, scored with thousand-fold lines of shadow, and rests
at last on snows that dazzle with their cool whiteness on
the opposite peaks, but stretch into rosy dimness far to the
south.
ARKANSAS WALLEY AND THE TWIN LAKES. 129
y
Counting the gradual lower slopes of the mountains on
either side, the Arkansas Valley is here five or six miles
in breadth; and you may therefore imagine the splendid
morning landscape in pearly shadow, the Sahwatch illumi-
nated from capes of timber, and sage-plains spangled not
less with flowers than with dew, as we rode southward
toward the Twin Lakes. Major De Mary and Mr. Lon-
doner accompanied us. Our business was first to find
Messrs. Beard and Sumner, who had started with the mule-
team from Buckskin Joe, and were expected to camp at a
deserted ranche eight or ten miles down the valley; then
to accept the invitation of Mr. Leonhardy of the Twin
Lakes, and dine with him before proceeding further. On
reaching the crossing of the Arkansas, a good field-glass
showed us the artist a mile away in pursuit of a mule;
whereupon two gentlemen set off on a gallop to his assist-
ance. The rest of us forded the river, and pushed forward
with wet legs down the western bank.
There are very few lakes in Colorado, hence these belong
to the shows of the Territory. They lie at the foot of the
Sahwatch Range, about fifteen miles south of Oro City.
The day was hot and sultry, and we experienced not a little
relief when the road, leaving the treeless bed of the valley,
mounted to a hilly region covered with clumps of pine.
It was miserable to see how many trees had been barked
on one side or completely girdled; and I was on the point
of anathematizing the settlers, when one of the party
charged the outrage upon the elks. The destruction of
this noble game is now a matter of less regret. I don't
think, however, that the wanton burning of the Rocky
Mountain forests can be attributed to these animals.
Nothing could have been more refreshing than the Sud-
den flash of a sheet of green crystal through an opening in
the grove. A cool, delightful wind blew across the water,
and far down in its depths we saw the reflected images of
snow-peaks which were still hidden from us by the trees.
9
130 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
The lower lake is nearly four miles in length by one and a
half in breadth, and its softly undulating, quiet shores,
form a singular contrast to the rugged mountains beyond.
A straight, narrow terrace, twenty feet in height—a natu-
ral dam — separates it from the upper lake, which is a mile
and a half in length, lying, as it were, between the knees
of the mountains. A triangular tract of meadow land
slopes upward from the farther end of this lake, and is
gradually squeezed into a deep, wild cañon, out of which
the lake-stream issues. On this meadow there is the com-
mencement of a town which is called Dayton. The people,
with singular perversity, have selected the only spot where
a view of the beautiful lake is shut out from them.
Mr. Leonhardy had tempted us with descriptions of six
and eight-pound trout; so, when we reached his cottage
and were informed by Mrs. L. that he was upon the lake,
Mr. Byers, whose love of trout would lead him to fish even
in Bitter Creek, at once set off across the meadows. We
followed, leaving him to embark in the shaky little craft,
while we sought good pasturage for our jaded beasts. The
meadow turf was beautifully smooth and green, but before
we had ridden twenty yards my pony sunk suddenly to his
belly, and I found myself standing a-straddle over him.
Looking ahead, I saw Mr. McC. similarly posed over his
mule, while the others were making rapid détours to avoid
our company. My pony extricated himself by a violent
effort, and, taught by instinct, gained safe ground as rap-
idly as possible; but the mule, being a hybrid, and there-
fore deficient in moral character, settled on his side,
stretched out his neck, and yielded himself to despair.
Neither encouragement nor blows produced the least
effect; he was an abject fatalist, and nothing but a lariat
around his body, with a horse as motive power at the other
end, prevailed upon him to stir. The lariat proved effi-
cient. When his hind feet had thus been painfully dragged
out of the mire, he pulled out his fore feet and walked
away with an air of reproach.
ARKANSAS WALLEY AND THE TWIN LAKES. 131
The large specimens of trout did not bite, – they never
do when there is a special reason for desiring it, — but we .
had no right to complain. Mr. Leonhardy's dinner was a
thing to be remembered — a banquet, not for the gods, but
(much better than that) for men. There came upon my
plate a slice of dark fragrant meat, the taste whereof was
a new sensation. It was not elk — at least of this earth—
nor venison, nor antelope, nor bear, nor beaver; none of
these ever possessed such a rich, succulent, delicate, and
yet virile, blood-invigorating flavor. It was mountain sheep
— the wild, big-horned American ibex — and to my indi-
vidual taste it is the finest meat in the world. The trout
followed; and the bread, butter, and milk, could not be sur-
passed in Switzerland. Lastly came a pudding, stuffed
with mountain berries, to crown what already seemed com-
plete. The perfection of the dinner was not in the mate-
rials, excellent as they were, but in the refined, cultivated
mind which directed their preparation.
The degree of refinement which I have found in the
remote mining districts of Colorado has been a great sur-
prise. California, after ten years' settlement, retained a
proportion of the rough, original mining element; but Mon-
tana has acted as a social strainer to Colorado; or, rather, as
a miner's pan, shaking out a vast deal of dirt and leaving
the gold behind. Mr. Leonhardy and his neighbors live
in rude cabins, but they do not therefore relinquish the
graces of life. It is only the half-cultivated who, under
such circumstances, relapse toward barbarism. Mountain
life soon rubs off the veneering, and we know of what
wood men are made.
Some miles up the cañon behind the lakes is Red Moun-
tain, which is said to be streaked through and through with
the richest gold and silver lodes. The specimens I saw
give the greatest promise, and I regretted that we could
not have visited the spot whence they were taken. This
region, like the others, is waiting for the best and cheapest
132 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
method of reducing the ores. It is a vast treasure-house,
; lacking only the true key to open it.
We took leave of our generous hosts immediately after
dinner, and pushed on down the Arkansas Valley, still
accompanied by Mr. Londoner. The road led along the
banks of both lakes, close to their deep, dark waters, yet
unsounded; and over their cool floor the dry, lilac-tinted
mountains in the distance shone as if swept with fire. We
had received particular directions in regard to fording the
creek by which the lakes overflow into the Arkansas. It
was so swollen that the usual ford was impracticable ; and,
on reaching its banks, Mr. Byers judged it prudent to
make a platform of drift-wood upon the wagon-bed, in
order to lift our baggage and provisions above the water.
When all was ready for the trial, he remounted his horse
and led the way.
Plunging into an eddy where the water, though above
the horse's belly, was tolerably still, he skirted a little
island of willow bushes, beyond which the main current
raced by with a very perceptible slant, indicating both
depth and force. We followed in single file, slowly and
cautiously, and did not attempt the current until we saw
that he had fairly reached the opposite bank. When my
turn came, I fully expected to be carried away. The water
rushed over the saddle, the horse lost his footing, and
nothing but a plucky heart in the beast carried him through.
Then came the mule-team, Mr.Sumner driving and Mr.
Beard perched upon the platform, with the precious box
of colors in his lap. I watched them creeping along under
the lee of the island, slowly venturing out into the swift,
strong flood — then the mules began to give way, and pres-
ently the whole team started down stream, with one mule
under water. -
Mr. Sumner succeeded in getting a little out of the cur-
rent, and two horsemen went to his assistance. The wagon
and mules were half urged, half dragged into stiller water,
ARKANSAS WALLEY AND THE TWIN LAKES. 133
and there they stuck. The nose and ears of the drowning
mule were held up by main force; he was unharnessed,
and free to rise. But he, too, had already given up hope;
he lay passive, and every effort to inspire him to make an
effort was fruitless. More than half an hour passed anx-
iously, four of the gentlemen working hard in the ice-cold
water, when an application of the lariat, drawn by horses,
brought the wretched beast to his legs. The baggage was
then carried across, piece by piece, on horseback ; the
mule hauled over and contemptuously turned to graze :
another mule harnessed in his place ; the lariats made fast
to each other and attached to the wagon-tongue; and
finally, the wet and chilly horsemen crossed, to be ready
to take their places in hauling. Again the wagon started;
the artist clasped his color-box (and my carpet-bag I grate-
fully add) with renewed energy; the mules entered the
current, wavered again, and were swept away. Six of us,
pulling at the lariats with all our strength, held the team
and wagon floating for a moment, then the current swung
them to the bank, foothold was gained, and we hauled
them out with a shout of triumph. The adventure lasted
forty minutes, by the watch. Those who had been loudest
in their praises of savage nature up to this point, now
began to admit the beauty of bridges.
The summits of the Sahwatch were veiled in clouds, and
the sky became overcast, as we resumed our journey; our
animals were all fatigued and chilled, and our progress for
the next six or eight miles was slow. My pony had never
been shod, and the hard mountain travel began to tell on
his feet ; so when we reached Cache Creek, where there
are three taverns, a store, a saloon, and some gulch mining,
my first inquiry was for the blacksmith. At Buckskin Joe
I had failed ; at Oro the shop had been burned ; and now
at Cache Creek the blacksmith, when found, proposed that
I should wait a day. This was impossible, although three
taverns, a landlord with a bunged eye, and an enterprising
134 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
landlady, offered accommodation enough. We had already
waited an hour before the blackSmith could be found ; and
now, a little dispirited, we set out in a drizzling rain.
A little below Cache Creek the Valley of the Arkansas
contracts. The road winds through rocky hills, covered
with scattered timber, sometimes following the river down
narrow winding glens, sometimes forced over steep heights
to avoid an impassable cañon. We travelled some four or
five miles through this scenery, and encamped in a mead-
ow, at the foot of a huge gray precipice. A bonfire of
dead pine trunks dried our half-drowned adventurers, and
two stately trees made shelter for our beds.
*
XVII.
IN THE SOUTH PARR.
CAMP, SouTH PLATTE RIvºr, July 8, 1866.
WHEN we encamped on the Arkansas, we were still
seventy miles from Cañon City, by the practicable trail.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an
easy journey, but our animals were fagged by the severe
mountain travel, the sky was threatening, our provisions
were short, and there was no settlement on the way, except
a few miles below us, in the Arkansas Valley. Neverthe-
less, we determined to push on as far as possible, and, if
need be, divide the party at the end of the day.
It was a little hard to come back to the normal diet of
salt pork and biscuit, but Mr. Londoner, our faithful ally,
set us the example. We slept soundly on elastic mattresses
of fir, breakfasted early, and continued our slow way
down the valley. There was a deep creek to be forded,
and we took the precaution of attaching lariats to the
wagon-tongue, whereby a catastrophe like that of the pre-
vious day was prevented. After this, the rough, broken
country ceased, the valley opened out more broadly, and
we saw — or would have seen, but for gathering clouds —
the Sahwatch Range. An irrigating ditch from the river
pleasantly surprised us. Following it, we came to a large
inclosed field of wheat — the first since leaving the neigh-
borhood of Denver. The place is called Frenchman's
Ranche from its owner, whom we saw at a distance, en-
gaged in looking after his growing crops. It is a cheerful
oasis in the wilderness.
136 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
Two miles further we crossed the Arkansas on a rude
but substantial log bridge. The river is here a flashing,
foaming torrent, about the size of the Saco at Conway.
The road, clinging for a mile or two to the grassy meadows
and scattered groves of the valley, gradually climbs along
the hills on its eastern side, and then suddenly enters a
narrow, winding glen. A little further to the south the
great Cañon of the Arkansas, through which no road has
yet been made, bommences ; and all the travel from the
farming country below Cañon City to the mining regions
about the head of the river must cross the lower part of
the South Park. Fortunately, the mountain boundaries
of the Park are here broad and low, and the passage of
them is not difficult. Not far from the commencement of
the Arkansas Cañon there is a pass across the Sahwatch
(the “Poncho Pass”) into the great San Luis Park, which
is drained by the Rio del Norte, and extends two hundred
and fifty miles southward into New-Mexico. Governor Gil-
pin says that the San Luis Park is the centre of the Conti-
nent — “the best gem upon its zone” — with a “velvety"
atmosphere, and Scenery of a cosmical character.
With the first winding of the glen we entered, the Ar-
kansas Valley disappeared, and the scenery instantly
changed. The hills were heaps of dark red boulders, ar-
ranged in fantastic piles — Cyclopean pyramids, sometimes
topped by single blocks, twenty or thirty feet in diameter,
sometimes disposed so as to form apparent bastions in front
of long, tumbling ramparts. Every undulation of the
ranges, far and near, was crowned with these natural ruins.
Out of the thin, sandy soil, grew clumps of piñones (a pine
with edible cones), which denoted a warmer climate than
we had yet found in the mountains. The cactus, also, reap-
peared, and these two features gave a savage picturesque-
ness to the landscapes.
After a few scorching sun-bursts, the sky became over-
spread with a gray film, gathering into blackness along the
IN THE SOUTH PARK. 137
Alpine ranges behind us. For mile after mile we wound
through the labyrinths of rocks and bushy pines, a slow,
straggling, and rather melancholy procession. My poor,
shoeless pony could not be persuaded to trot. Mr. D.'s
mule refused to carry him, and he was added to the wagon-
load, greatly discouraging its team. Mr. Byers's horse,
alone, seemed equal to the emergency. Two of the party
pushed ahead, in the hope of finding game, and the re-
mainder of us lagged so much that we were obliged to
camp at noon without overtaking them. The rest and pas-
ture slightly encouraged our animals, but it was very evi-
dent that we could no longer depend upon them. -
We had travelled eight miles after entering the hills, be-
fore there were any signs of a “ divide.” What seemed to
be the highest ridge then rose before us. Its crest was
bare, and as we emerged from the trees and looked back-
ward, a most remarkable landscape was revealed. Over a
foreground of hill-tops, from which shot up hundreds of
rocky towers and pyramids, we looked down into the Ar-
kansas Valley, which here formed a basin several miles in
breadth. Seen through the filmy atmosphere, the silvery
sage-plains seemed to be transparent. The meandering
lines of timber which marked the courses of the Arkansas
and its tributaries, were of the purest ultramarine hue. In
the background, the intensely dark clouds, resting on the
summits of the Sahwatch, were lifted in an arch, which
was filled with a marvellous glow of pale-gray light, en-
shrining a great snow-peak in the centre. This was the
luminous part of the picture—all else was seen through
transparent shadow, the gradations of which were so ex-
quisite, the tones so rare and delicate, that Color itself
could scarcely represent them.
We picked up our foiled hunters, whom we found sitting
beside a fire, in an attitude of dejection, which may have
been the effect of hunger. On the summit of the divide
the rain began to fall, though not rapidly enough to ob-
138 * . COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
scure the beauty of the long and lovely valley on the other
side. As we descended this valley, it soon became evident
that we were not yet in the South Park ; it turned west-
ward and slanted toward the Arkansas. Mr. Byers and I
held a consultation as we rode, he proposing that we twain
should push on for Cañon City, leaving the others (who
had no lectures to deliver) to make for Denver. To do
this, however, we must take no baggage, and very little
provender, ride twenty miles further before camping, and
run the risk of my pony giving out on the way. We were
on the point of deciding for this plan, when the sky closed
over us more darkly than ever, the rain fell in steady,
dreary streams, and the road (which, meanwhile, had
almost imperceptibly crossed another ridge and entered
thc Scath. Park) divided into two trails. One of these,
Mr. Londoner informed us, led to the Salt Works, about
five miles distant, where we could find food and shelter;
the other to Cañon City, with a single deserted ranche on
the way. -
It was four o'clock in the afternoon: we were hungry,
wet, and sore: our horses seemed scarcely able to drag
their feet through the mud: the water was slowly soaking
through our shoulders and trickling into our boots ; and
the heroic resolutions of half an hour previous rapidly
melted away as we paused at the parting of the ways.
Like many another, the narrow and difficult trail lost its
self-denying attractions; the short and broad trail became
suddenly very fascinating. The wind blew and the rain
dashed more harshly in our faces; we yielded, turned our
horses’ heads, and rode silently toward the Salt Works.
A lone mountain, glimmering dimly across the melan-
choly plain, was our beacon. Another hour brought to
view a column of smoke, rising from its base — the wel-
come sign of habitation and shelter | Then we saw graz-
ing herds — white patches of saline incrustations — shan-
ties and cabins, and just before nightfall the goal was
IN THE SOUTH PARK. 139
reached. The house of Mr. Hall, the superintendent of
the works, received our dripping party, so rejoiced to find
warmth, food, and protection from the storm, that I am
afraid we were not fully aware of the inconvenience we
occasioned to our kindly hostess. Ourselves, blankets, sad-
dles, and other traps, almost filled the little cottage; we
made a solid circle around the stove ; yet, somehow, the
bountiful supper was swiftly and quietly prepared, and two
strangers who came after us were received with equal hos-
pitality. The life of a settler in Colorado necessarily en-
tails these duties, and if they are always so cheerfully and
kindly performed as in our case, the Territory may be
proud of its citizens. -
Mr. Hall gave me some information concerning the Salt
Works, from which it appears that the yield of the springs,
which are very strongly impregnated, is capable of supply-
ing the wants of Colorado, for many years to come. In
spite of the high price of labor, fuel, and supplies, the pro-
duction of salt is now vigorously and successfully carried
on ; the capacity of the works will soon be doubled. I
ought, properly, in my character of traveller, to have vis-
ited them : the curious reader, perhaps, may not be willing
to excuse my neglect; but, at the time, I found it so much
more agreeable to nurse my soaked existence beside the
stove than to trudge a quarter of a mile in mud and rain,
that I suppressed the voice of conscience. We all know,
however, that a salt spring is like any other spring, except
as to taste; that the water is evaporated by boiling, and
that the importance of the works depends on the quantity
and quality of the water. I believe Mr. Hall stated twenty
thousand gallons per day as the present yield: the per-
centage of salt is equal to that of the best springs in
the world.
That night, we filled the sofas, benches, and the floors of
the kitchen and sitting-room. Fir in the trunk, I discov-
ered, makes a much more uneasy bed than fir in the bough.
140 CoLoRADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
Toward morning the sleepers were restless, and if we arose
before the sun we deserved no special credit for it. The
South Park was still moist, sodden, and shrouded in mist.
Cañon City being now out of the question, Colorado City
and Pike's Peak were next discussed. Seventy-five miles,
partly of very rocky travel, and no blacksmith's shop on
the way, were altogether too much for my pony, and we
finally decided to make for the little mining village of .
Fairplay, twenty miles distant, to the north. Thence to
Denver is a three days’ journey, along the South Platte.
Our animals had enjoyed the richest pasturage during the
night, and a lick of salt, so that they were in rather better
condition when we started.
This part of the South Park is a nearly level plain, cov-
ered with the finest grass. Detached hills, or short moun-
tain-ridges, some of them streaked with Snow, occasionally
interrupt the level; but, looking northward, the view
always reaches to Mount Lincoln and the lofty summits of
the central chain. On the eastern and southern sides the
mountains are lower, although they rise toward Pike's
Peak, which derives its apparent height and imposing ap-
pearance from its isolation. It is separated by a distance
of fifty or sixty miles from the snowy spurs of the Rocky
Mountains. The altitude of the South Park is considera-
bly higher than that of the Arkansas Valley: it is, in fact,
equal to that of the Middle Park—between eight and
nine thousand feet above the sea. Hence, it is doubtful
whether grain can be successfully grown.
Although the mist gathered into clouds, these latter
hung low for several hours, hiding the mountains, which
constitute the finest feature of the Park scenery. We
passed Buffalo Springs, forded several small affluents of
, the Platte, vainly tried to plunder an eagle's nest on the
top of a pine-tree, and then entered on a slightly undulat-
ing plain, eight or ten miles in breadth. Now, at least, the
sky cleared, revealing snowy chains in front and on both
IN THE SOUTH PARK. 141
sides of us; stretches of evergreen forests on the lower
elevations ; isolated ranges to the eastward — landscapes,
shifting in the relation of their forms, but never to be
measured with a radius of less than thirty miles. We
should have enjoyed the scenery more keenly, but for our
anxiety to reach Fairplay. Mr. Byers pointed out the lo-
cation of the place near the foot of the northern moun-
tains, yet many a weary mile still intervened. The plain
terminated in a belt of scattering timber, then dropped
down a slope into broad meadows, crossing which we found
ourselves on the edge of a bluff, with the main stream of
the South Platte foaming fifty feet below us.
The bridge had been washed away, and fording, after our
previous experiences, was anything but an agreeable neces-
sity. The water was so very swift that I fully expected to
see Mr. Byers carried away; but it proved not to be deep,
and the bottom was firm. Leaving the others to haul the
wagon across, I pushed on up the other bank to Fairplay,
left my pony with the blacksmith, and engaged dinner for
the party in a spacious log hotel, kept by the genial and
loyal Judge Castillo. Fairplay is a quiet little place, with
perhaps two hundred inhabitants, at the foot of a wooded
slope, looking to the south, with a charming view far down
the Park. There is gulch-mining along the Platte and its
small tributaries, and lodes, I am told, in the adjacent
mountains. Although the rains returned in the afternoon
and the sky was threatening, we determined to make ten
miles more before night. *
The road was rolling, and still heavy from the rains,
crossing the low spurs and insteps of hills thrust out from
the snowy range. We made slow and weary progress, but
the latter part of the way was illuminated with a wonder-
ful sunset. Under the glowing orange of a cloud-bank in
the east, the mountains around Pike's Peak lay in ashen
shadow, and all the broad, intervening plain, rosy-gray,
shimmered with faint, evanescent tints of green and tur-
quoise-blue and gold, where the light struck across it.
142 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
This was no fleeting effect: it lingered for at least half an
hour, slowly darkening until the contrasts of light and
shade became as weird and unearthly as in some of the
sketches of Doré. Before the stars appeared, we reached
our destination, “Dan's Ranche,” a two-story frame tavern,
kept by a German. There was a dark, dirty bar-room, in
which half a dozen miners were waiting for supper ; good,
clean beds and bed-rooms, and a landlady who conversed
enthusiastically with me about Schiller.
Four or five miles north of this ranche lies Hamilton,
at the foot of the Tarryall Pass, by which wagons cross the
snowy range to Breckenridge. The soil, in all this portion
of the Park, shows “color,” and the beautiful swells and
undulations which delighted our eyes are destined, no
doubt, to be dug up, washed down, and torn to pieces.
Already hydraulic mining has commenced, and the yield
of the earth is half an ounce a day per man. This is the
only part of Colorado where I have seen this form of min-
ing applied. There was a slight attempt at gardening at
the ranche, apparently made without much hope of success,
yet I thought it promised very well.
This morning we awoke to a cloudless sky — every shred
of vapor had disappeared, and the dewy plains glittered in
the sunshine We saddled immediately after breakfast,
and set out to cross the northeastern corner of the Park
to the opposite mountains, which were ten or twelve miles
distant. Had our beasts been fresher, it would have been
a.I] inspiring ride. The ground was traversed by Fremont
in one of his explorations (I think in 1842 or ’43), but
how little he has told us of the scenery ! The idea one gets
from his descriptions and those of other explorers, is that
of dark, stern, northern mountains, – the Adirondacks or
White Mountains on a larger scale, – whereas, in color and
atmospheric effects they have all the characteristics of a
southern latitude. The chain of the Taurus in Asia Minor
most resembles them. They have nothing in common with
our conventional American scenery. Bierstadt's large pic-
IN THE SOUTH PARK. 143
ture gives a fair representation of some of their forms
(though the height of his central peak is exaggerated), but
he has not chosen their peculiar atmosphere.
When we had noticed Hamilton at a distance, and the
two log-cabins which mark the site of the deserted town
of Jefferson; when we had caught sight of Pike's Peak
through a long vista between the hills, passed ruined
ranches where men were murdered, and meadows of peat
which burned under all the winter's snows, – the boundary
of the South Park was reached, and we climbed the bare
steep, from the summit of which we should look upon it for
the last time.
At this point it has the appearance of a little enclosed
world, like the Valley of Mexico. The lesser undulations
of the soil vanish, but the loftier ridges scattered over its
surface and more or less wooded, make dark waves on its
broad ground of faint golden-gray. At a distance of twenty
or thirty miles the colors appear transparent; still further,
the purple peaks, capped with snow, are painted on the air.
The most distant tints are pale lilac rather than blue. On
the right, the great snowy range carries its grand, solid,
positive features beyond the line where the Park becomes
more of a vision than a reality, and its sharp rock-shadows
and snow-fields keen against the sky form a wonderful con-
trast to the airy, sunlit gleam of the plains below. On
the one hand there is softness, delicate color, and vanish-
ing distance; on the other, height, strength and dazzling
clearness.
Yet, as I write, I feel only what my words fail to convey.
All the rarer and subtler qualities of the picture fade in
the effort to express them. If the characteristic features
of Rocky Mountain scenery can be inferred from the frag-
ments of description scattered through these letters, I shall
be satisfied. It is impossible to compress them into a sin-
gle paragraph. Each day's travel, and almost every land-
scape of each day, has its own distinct individuality.
XVIII.
TEIE RETURN TO DENVER.
DENVER, COLORADo, July 12, 1866.
WITH the parting view of the South Park we left the
chief glories of the Rocky Mountains behind us. The
main branch of the South Platte finds an outlet to the
plains through a cañon which is yet impassable, and the
road to Denver strikes diagonally across the eastern spurs
of the snowy range, where the scenery is generally of a
rough, cramped, and confined character. For some miles
we had very fine views of the lofty peaks at the south-
eastern corner of the Middle Park, but after passing the
“Kenosha House,” a lonely tavern-ranche, the road lay
mostly through close, winding dells, leading us to one of
the branches of the Platte. Our anglers succeeded in
getting a dozen trout, which made a welcome addition to
our diminishing stores. We might have found a tolerable
“square meal” at the tavern, but our camp-life was draw-
ing near its close just as we were becoming properly habit-
uated to it, and there was no dissenting voice to the propo-
sition that we should avoid both kitchens and roofs for the
rest of the journey. A single exception was allowed,
toward evening, in the purchase of a loaf of bread.
I have no doubt that, had the course of our journey been
reversed — had we been fresh from the monotony of the
Plains — we should have found the scenery very delightful.
Though the glens were hot, close, and dusty, the road occa-
sionally passed over breezy ridges, whence there were bold
views of the lower mountains. We missed the breadth and
THE RETURN TO DENVER. 145
sweep of the Parks and the Arkansas Valley, with their
new and wonderful coloring. During the last fortnight the
soil has become parched and dry, and even the narrow
patches of meadow, fed by living springs, have a brownish
hue. The absence of vivid green turf, the scarcity of ferns,
and the lack of variety in the forms of the timber, are
noticeable in this portion of the mountains. It occurs to
me, as I write, that I have not discovered the first speci-
men of moss since reaching Colorado. Even where there
is perpetual moisture, moss is absent; the rock-lichens,
also, are rare. On the other hand, the flora is superb
We had found but very few flowers in the South Park;
but now the road was fringed with the loveliest larkspurs,
columbines, wild roses of powerful and exquisite odor, gilly-
flowers, lupines, sweet-peas, and coreopsis. The trees were
principally fir, pine, and aspen. A variety of balsam-fir,
with young shoots of a pale-blue tint, grew in moist places.
Those of us who suffered with sunburn or bruises opened
the gummy blisters of the young trees, and anointed our-
selves with the balm. In my own case, the effect was
marvellous, – the pain of days was healed in an hour or
tWO. -
We passed two ranches, with their beginnings of agri-
culture, during the afternoon, and encamped before sunset
in a charming spot on the banks of the stream. Great
towers of rock rose on either side, leaving us barely room
for the beds and camp-fire, beside the roaring water. Up
the Valley we saw mountain forests and a distant snowy
peak. Mr. Beard and I decided that our fir-bed, now much
more skilfully made than at the start, was preferable to
lodging in any hotel in Colorado. We had stories around
the camp-fire that evening; and for the first time during
the trip no one seemed in haste to get under his blankets.
We had not gone a mile down the Valley next morning
before we came upon another camp, much more luxurious
than our own. There was a powerful two-horse wagon, a
10
146 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
tent, trunks, and provision boxes. The party which had
thus prečmpted one of the prettiest spots in the Valley
consisted of Mr. Ford, the artist, of Chicago, with his wife,
and Messrs. Gookins and Elkins, also Chicago artists.
They had made the entire trip from the Missouri in the
wagon, and were now on their way into the Parks for the
summer. Mrs. Ford, I was glad to notice, was not the
least satisfied member of the party, though the artists were
delighted with what they had found — and the best was
yet to come. Mr. Whittredge, who crossed the Plains with
General Pope, was at that time in the neighborhood of
Pike's Peak; so that Art has sent five pioneers to the
Rocky Mountains this Summer.
While we were looking over the sketches, the hospitable
mistress of a ranche a little further down the stream made
her appearance, with a basket of eggs for Mrs. Ford. She
could have brought nothing more scarce and valuable —
not even nuggets of gold. We passed a pleasant hour with
the artists, and then left them to push on toward the South
Park, our own hope being to get out of the mountains
before camping.
Leaving this branch of the Platte, we struck across the
line of the ranges, which are here intersected by many lat-
eral valleys. There is a good wagon-road, of a much more
easy grade than that from Denver to Central City. In one
of the glens I met Mr. L., of Philadelphia, who called out,
in passing, — “The President has signed the Railroad
Bill !” This was good news to the Coloradians of the
party. The Smoky Hill route, on account of its forming
the shortest and most direct connection with St. Louis
and the eastern cities as far as New York, is becoming
more and more popular here, especially since it is un-
certain whether the Central Pacific Railroad will touch
Denver.
The day was excessively hot, not only in the glens, but
upon the heights; and our animals suffered much from the
THE RETURN TO DENVER. 147
attacks of flies. We had a journey of more than thirty
miles to make ; or nearly ten hours, measuring by the pace
of the weary horses. When we halted at noon, the mules
ran into a willow thicket and there remained; while my
pony left off grazing and came to me, holding down his
neck that I might brush away his tormentors. There was
so little variation in the scenery that I should only confuse
the reader by attempting to describe it in other than gen-
eral terms. The peaks of the snowy range were seldom
visible. It was, apparently, a broken, hilly region, out of
which rose wooded ridges or isolated summits, faced with
bold escarpments of rock. The soil was thinly covered
with grass, gray on the slopes and green in the bottoms;
timber was plentiful but not of large size; yet the few
evidences of farming which we met from time to time
showed that a great part of the region may be made pro-
ductive. We passed a number of ranches in the course
of the day, in one of which a notable speculation was
recently made. A daughter being about to be married,
the mother invited the neighbors far and near to the num-
ber of forty. They came, supped, danced, and wished .
good luck to the nuptials, and — were each presented with
a bill of six dollars
As we drew nearer to the Plains, the signs of settlement
and travel increased. We passed a saw-mill in operation,
a two-story hotel at a place called Junction (whence there
is a road to Central City), and many a “prečmpted" tract
in the sheltered little valleys. Late in the afternoon we
reached Bradford's Hill, Mr. Byers cheering us up the
ascent with the assurance that it was the last of the Rocky
Mountains. For nearly two miles we toiled along in the
scorching sun, sometimes pausing in the thin aspen shade
to look backward on some rock-buttressed peak. The
summit was wooded, but an opening presently disclosed to
our sight a far, blue horizon-line, probably a hundred miles
to the eastward. It was only a passing glimpse, and as
comforting as water in a thirsty land.
148 CoLoRADo: A SUMMER TRIP.
On the first step of the descent, I found for the first
time — oaks. They were small saplings, which had sprung
up where the large primitive trees had been felled. Mr.
Byers informed me that he had frequently seen trunks two
feet in diameter, all of which have now disappeared. The
mountain pine is a soft, spongy wood, liable to a great deal
of shrinkage; the carpenters even declare that it shrinks
“endwise.” Cotton-wood is only fit for interior work, so
that good building lumber is scarce, in spite of the abun-
dant forests. I am not surprised that the oaks were swept
away, but I regret that it was necessary.
I have said nothing of the wild fruits of the mountains,
which have become of some importance in the absence of
orchards. The currants, gooseberries, and service-berries
(amelanchier) are found everywhere; the bushes are small,
yet bear profusely. Whortleberries are also found, but not
in such quantities. There is a wild red cherry, a plum,
and, in the southern part of the territory, grapes. Straw-
berries carpet the forests up to the line of snow, but will
not be ripe for two or three weeks to come. They resem-
ble precisely the small, fragrant fruit of Switzerland and
Norway. With the exception of the “Oregon grape” (ma-
honia), I noticed no new varieties of fruit. The cones of
the piñones appear to be the only edible nuts. There is a
singular poverty in the Rocky Mountain sylva.
While we were discussing the matter of oaks, the road
climbed a little ridge, turned around a bare, stony head-
land, and — there ! Half a continent seemed to lie beneath
us. We stood on the eaves of the mountains, above all
the soil between us and the Atlantic Ocean. As from the
car of a balloon, or the poise of a bird in mid-air, we looked
down on an immense hemisphere of plain, stretching so
far that we could only guess at its line of union with the
sky. North, south, and east, the vision easily reached a
hundred miles. Wild plain, farm-land, and river-courses
were as distinctly marked and colored as on a map. We
THE RETURN TO DENVER. 149
saw the South Platte, issuing from its mountain gateway,
gathering Plum, Cherry, and Bear Creeks, skirting Den-
ver, and curving far away on its course toward Julesburg
and Nebraska. Beyond Denver, the valleys of Clear Creek,
Boulder, Thompson, and St. Vrains were distinctly marked,
and somewhere in the vapors of the horizon lay Cache-la-
Poudre. Scarcely a house or a tree in all this vast land-
Scape was hidden from view. Its uniform tint of dead
gold contrasted exquisitely with the soft blue-gray and
pink-flushed snows of Long's Peak and his neighboring
summits in the north.
Looking at the base of the mountains immediately be-
low us, I became aware of a remarkable feature of their
structure. Parallel with the general direction of their
bases, and from a quarter to half a mile distant, ran a
straight outcropping of vertical rock, abruptly broken
through by the streams which issued upon the plains.
Each section of this ridge, which was from one to two
hundred feet in height, resembled a ship's hull, keel up-
ward. They are called “hog's-backs” in Colorado. Not
only is their formation distinct from that of the mountains,
but they are composed of different rock — mostly lime-
stone, gypsum, or alabaster. Their peculiar appearance
suggests the idea of their having been forced up by the
settling back of the great chain of the Rocky Mountains,
after upheaval. I am told that this formation extends for
a long distance along the eastern base of the mountains.
As the road wound back and forth down the bare, tree-
less slope, contracting the semicircle of the plains, the ob-
jects enclosed within this lower rampart attracted us more
and more. Much of the space near at hand was already
farmed, and green with lush fields of wheat, and the nar-
row terrace which it formed, seemed, at first sight, to have
been inhabited for thousands of years. What appeared
to be the ruins of giant cities arose behind the walls of
rock, casting their shadows across the green. Rude natu-
150 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
ral towers, obelisks, and pyramids, monoliths two hundred
feet in height, of a rich red color, were gathered in strange
labyrinthine groups, suggesting arrangement or design.
Beyond the Platte there was a collection of several hun-
dred of these. Mr. Byers, who had visited the place,
assured me that they greatly surpass the curious rock-
images near Colorado City, called the “Garden of the
Gods.” A nearer view of them through a glass filled me
with astonishment. I saw single rocks a hundred feet
square, and nearly as high as Trinity spire, worn into the
most fantastic outlines, and in such numbers that days
might be spent in examining them. On our own road
there were several detached specimens of lesser height,
and beyond Bear Creek two lofty masses of a rude Gothic
character. The wonders of Colorado have not yet been
half explored, much less painted.
Our proposed camping-place lay inside the nearest “hog-
back,” at the foot of one of those rocky masses. We came
down the long slant and reached the spot before sunset,
less fatigued by the journey than by the great labor (both
of spirit and flesh) of keeping up the failing courage of
our animals. Our bread was at an end, but Colonel Brad-
ford's ranche, with its stately stone residence, seemed to
offer indefinite supplies; so, after unsaddling beside the
rock and turning the beasts loose to graze, we called upon
the Colonel in a body. He kindly gave us all he had —
not bread, but flour and soda, a bunch of onions from the
garden, and a wash-basin full of lettuce. Moreover, we
had unlimited water from a spring in the garden, and milk
from the dairy. The Colonel, a native of Alabama, is
justly proud of his ranche, the location of which is won-
derfully picturesque.
Mr. Sumner and I made slapjacks of the flour, and with
a little exertion we got up a passable meal at twilight.
Our beds were soon made among the fragrant herbs, and
the night passed rapidly and quietly, except that a coyote
THE RETURN TO DENVER. 151
stole the remainder of our pork. The breakfast, however,
was a matter of little consequence, as we expected to dine
in Denver. A fierce African sun came up in the cloudless
sky, driving away in ten minutes the scanty dew that had
fallen. After more coffee and slapjacks we packed hastily
and started on the last pull of sixteen miles. Four of the
gentlemen determined to go up Bear Creek and fish for
trout; Messrs. Beard and Thomas, with the mule-team,
and I on my pony, made a direct line for civilization.
By the time we reached Bear Creek crossing, the heat
was intense. My pony had at last reached the limit of his
performance, and I was fain to dismount, seat myself in the
rear of the wagon, and pull him after us with the lariat.
We resisted the shady invitation of the “Pennsylvania
Hotel” beside the stream, admired as much as was possi-
ble in our condition the splendid fields of wheat, farm suc-
ceeding to farm from the mountains to the Platte, and then
took to the rolling, fiery upland. Two hours more, and
from a ridge we hailed Denver, only three miles away, its
brick blocks flashing in the sun, its square spire shooting
above the dark green cotton-woods, and its shallow river
reflecting the blue of the zenith — a consoling sight !
What life there was in the mules, had to come out then :
we all became suddenly conscious that we were dirty, rag-
ged, hungry, thirsty, and terribly fatigued. An intense
longing for the comforts and conveniences of life moved
our souls: Denver became to us what New York is to the
moral native of Connecticut. I am not ashamed to confess
that we halted at the lager-beer brewery, half a mile from
the town, and took a refreshing draught to correct the
effects of the “thin air and alkali water.”
The Platte bridge was crossed and we entered the streets,
a party more picturesque than respectable in appearance.
There were three battered wide-awakes; three flannel
shirts, one Scarlet, one blue, and one gray; three brown
152 . COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
faces, one skinless nose, and one purple ditto.; dusty rolls
of blankets, a bent coffee-pot, a box of colors, and some
saddles. This was the picture which slowly moved up
Laramie and F Streets, and stopped at the door of the
Pacific Hotel.
XIX.
A TRIP TO BOULDER WALLEY."
DENVER, CoLoRADo, July 14, 1866.
My days in Colorado are drawing rapidly to an end. The
term of the summer holiday which I have allowed myself
is nearly over ; yet while I have every reason to be satis-
fied with what has been seen and done in a brief space of
time, I find myself regretting, at the close, that I am not
able to make my survey of the territory more complete.
The change from camp-life in the mountains to the com-
parative luxury of a hotel in Denver, was so very agreeable
that for two days I did little else than enjoy it, and com-
plete my lost knowledge of the world's doings, up to the
point of comprehending the telegrams of national and for-
eign news. The weather was almost insupportably hot
during the day — 98° in the shade — and the better part
of one's life was expended from eight o'clock in the morn-
ing until sunset, in a vain effort to be cool. Every after-
noon a lurid mass of clouds gathered along the sunny
range, distant thunders echoed among the peaks, lightnings
dashed feebly through the shadows, and the storm dissolved
again. We were just near enough to gasp in its sultriness,
without catching a drop of its refreshment.
Before setting out on my mountain trip, I had made an
engagement to visit the Boulder Valley, twenty-five miles
to the north of Denver. Yesterday was the appointed day,
and when the morning came with a burning, breathless
heat, I lamented, - for a moment, only, - the necessity
of the journey. It was the usual shudder before the
154 CoLoRADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
plunge. My faithful pony had been sent back to his pas-
tures in the Middle Park, and I took a saddle-horse at five
dollars per day, at a livery-stable. I had the owner's word
that he was a good animal; but the result proved, for the
hundredth time, a truth which I long ago discovered—
that all men who have much to do with horses become de-
moralized. Mr. Thomas, of the “Chicago Tribune,” had
agreed to accompany me, so that I was sure, at least, of
cheerful society on the way.
We rode out of Denver by the Salt Lake stage road,
which runs northward, parallel with the mountains, for near
a hundred miles. In the morning air, the Snowy peaks,
from Pike's to far beyond Long's, were free from clouds,
and I was struck with the great diminution of Snow upon
their sides, since I first saw them. At the same rate of
melting they will be almost entirely bare in another month.
I doubt whether the line of perpetual snow can here be
placed lower than thirteen thousand feet: in the Alps it is
not more than eight thousand. Their forms were no less
imposing, after seeing the grand landscapes of the Parks,
and there was a constant refreshment in turning from the
heated shimmer of the Plains to the sight of their gorges
in cool shadow, the dark, cloudy patches of their pine for-
ests, and even the bare outlines of their rocky pinnacles,
suggesting tempered sunshine and the breezes of the upper
sky.
In four miles we reached Clear Creek, at a point above
Captain Sopris’s ranche. The stream was so swollen by
the melting snows, that half the bottom was overflowed,
and we rode for a furlong in water up to the horses’ bellies.
Irrigation seemed unnecessary; but the cultivated land is
a mile or more in breadth, and we found the outer ditches
full. The wheat is in head, and finer crops I never saw,
except in California. We passed no field which will pro-
duce less than thirty bushels to the acre. It is now con-
sidered secure beyond damage from Smut or grasshoppers.
A TRIP TO BouldER WALLEY. 155
The sight of such splendid and bounteous agriculture,
here, in the very heart of the continent, is inexpressibly
cheering.
The roads leading into Denver from the east, and out of
it toward the west, north, and south, now begin to be pop-
ulous with the usual summer emigration. A considerable
number of wagons bring settlers to the Territory — though
less than there would be, were its climate and resources
generally understood; large freight trains are on their way
to Salt Lake (which I hear has become an important
business centre, with a population of twenty-five thousand):
and many emigrants, bound for Montana and Idaho, have
been obliged to make a détour of two hundred miles,
through Denver, in order to get over the swollen Platte.
One meets, every day, the same variety of characters—
the lazy, shiftless emigrant, always trying new countries
and prospering in none; the sharp, keen, enterprising emi-
grant, who would do fairly anywhere, and will rise very
rapidly here; the shabby-genteel adventurer, on the look-
out for chances of speculation or office; and the brutal,
ignorant adventurer, who, some morning, will leave the
country “up a tree.” The “Rocky Mountain News” will
then chronicle the fact in a paragraph headed: “And he
went.”
The white wagon-covers of some of these parties con-
tribute to the popular literature of the Plains. Many of
them are inscribed with the emigrant's name, home, and
destination, “accompanied " (as the applicants for auto-
graphs say) “with a sentiment.” I noticed one which was
simply entitled “The Sensible Child.” Another had this
mysterious sentence, which I will not undertake to explain :
“Cold Cuts and Pickled Eel's Feet.” “The Red Bull.”
and “Mind Your Business,” were equally suggestive; but
the most thrilling wagon-cover was that which met our eyes
on crossing the Platte Bridge, and whereon we read: “Hell-
Roaring Bill, from Bitter Creek 1" In the shade of the
156 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
- *
cover, between the wheels, Hell-Roaring Bill himself was
resting. He looked upon us with a mild, sleepy eye; his
face and breast were dyed by the sun to almost the exact
color of his hair; his general appearance was peculiar, but
not alarming. When we returned this morning he had de-
parted, and, if all they say of Bitter Creek be true, I think
he has done well in changing his residence. - -
After leaving the wheat fields of Clear Creek, we rose
again to the “second bottoms,” or rolling table-land (this
sounds like a bull, but it describes the thing), where the
crimson and golden blossoms of the cactus burned in the
intense sunshine, all over the scorched, cracked soil. Thus
we rode over the tawny, treeless swells, for seven or eight
miles, in a suffocating heat. We then left the stage road,
and took a trail leading to the iron and coal mines of Bel-
mont, at the base of the mountains. The thunder-storm
was already collecting in the southward, and drew toward
us, following the range and blotting out peak after peak in
its course. Presently the clear, cool shadows crept down
from the upper heights, quenching the fiery red glare of the
masses of rock, two thousand feet in height, before us;
then it touched the Plains, crept nearer to us, and the sting
of the sun was withdrawn.
The local limits of these storms was very strikingly
marked. At the distance of a few miles from the moun-
tains the clouds ceased to spread. Though behind us they
gloomed like night, and under their grand, majestic arch
we looked into distant floods of rain and lightning, the
eastern half of the sky remained cloudless, and the Plains,
for leagues away, smouldered in fiercest heat. The rain,
also, seemed to be confined to a second limit, inside the
line of cloud. The great irregular pyramid of Long's
Peak, full in front of us, became a shadow on the air; the
vast nearer piles of red rock were silvered with slanting
sheets, and we expected, every moment, to feel the drops.
But the sheets moved on, northward, as if with half-spread
A TRIP TO BOULDER WALLEY. 157
wings: we only touched their outer edge, on reaching Bel-
mont, and that, because we rode toward them.
This is a charming little valley, at the base of the moun-
tains. The outcropping of limestone, and the black piles
at the mouths of coal drifts indicated our approach to it.
On dropping into a little winding hollow, we soon saw the
massive smelting furnace surrounded by clustered cabins.
Mr. Marshall, the proprietor, received us at the door of his
residence, and, after dinner, piloted us to the furnace and
mines. There are eleven veins of coal, varying from four
to twelve feet in thickness, in the space of half a mile ;
iron ore of a richness of fifty per cent. just beyond it, and
the best limestone, in almost inexhaustible quantities. Mr.
Marshall, however, has only experimented with the native
ores sufficiently to establish their value. He fipds it more
profitable to buy up abandoned machinery at a trifling cost,
and recast it. The furnace is not only substantially but
handsomely built, and has thus far done a thriving and suc-
cessful business for its owner.
Our inspection of the place was necessarily hurried, as I
had an engagement for the evening at the new town of Wal-
mont, some eight or ten miles down the Boulder Valley. I
looked longingly toward the magnificent gorge by which the
South Boulder issues from the mountains, and the sheltered
semi-basin beyond, where we saw the town of Boulder
above the cotton-woods; but there was not time (without
better horses) to extend our journey so far. The extent
and beauty of the cultivated land watered by the two
streams, was a new surprise. For miles farm followed
farm in uninterrupted succession, the breadths of wheat,
black-green in its richness, or overrun with a yellowing
gleam, dotted with houses and clumps of trees, like some
fenceless harvest-plain of Europe J A spur of softly-tinted
hills in the north, the solitary, rock-crowned hill of Wal-
mont in the east, the snows of Long's Peak to the north-
west — these were the features enframing the lovely val-
158 CoLoRADo : A SUMMER TRIP.
ley. Here I saw again how much Civilization improves
Nature.
We were full two hours in reaching Valmont, on account
of the very independent habits of the Colorado farmers.
The second bottoms being devoted to grazing purposes,
they have found it necessary to fence the outer edge of the
farm land; and, in so doing, they cut off the road with the
most utter disregard of the public. If there are laws in
relation to roads, they seem to be a dead letter. That
which should be the first business of a territorial govern-
ment, is left to a time when it can only be regulated by a
great deal of trouble and expense. Our National Govern-
ment acts in the most niggardly manner toward its incipi-
ent States. There should be at least a million of dollars
annually spent in each Territory between the Mississippi
and the Pacific, on roads and bridges.
In spite of the tedious zigzags we were forced to make,
the views of the broad, prosperous, and thickly-settled
Boulder region, made our ride very enjoyable. On ap- .
proaching the isolated hill which had been pointed out to
us as indicating the position of Walmont, we were surprised
to find no sign of a village. The dark wheat-plains swept
up to its base, masses of rock looked down from its summit,
and the rosy ridges toward St. Vrains lay beyond. We
turned a corner where the fields had almost forced the road
off the level, and there stood perhaps a dozen new cabins,
and a few scattering cotton-woods. But of these cabins
one was a store, one a printing-office, and one a Presbyte-
rian church. So it was Valmont. -
We found comfortable quarters at the house of Mr.
Jones, a farmer, who has been on the spot six or seven
years, and has made himself a pleasant home. After sup-
per, the other farmers began to arrive from up and down
the stream, and even from St. Vrains — shrewd, intelligent
men, every one of them, and with an air of health and
vigor which speaks well for the climate. I would have
A TRIP TO BOULDER WALLEY. 159
much preferred talking with them all the evening to lec-
turing in the church. I wondered, on arriving, where an
audience was to come from, and was not a little astonished
to find more than a hundred persons gathered together.
What I had looked upon as a task became a pleasure, and
the evening I spent at Valmont was one of my pleasantest
in Colorado. -
The people informed me that the farming on the St.
Vrains is fully equal to what I saw on the Boulder — that
the valleys of the Big and Little Thompson, and even of
the Cache-la-Poudre, are settled and cultivated, and will this
year produce splendid crops. The line of settlement is
thus not only creeping northward and southward from
Denver, but, also, following the tributaries of the Platte, it
advances eastward to meet the great tide approaching it.
I verily believe that it will not be more than two or three
years before there is a continuous belt of settlement—
probably two of them — from the Missouri to the Rocky
Mountains. -
I was introduced to one of the original eight squatters in
Boulder Valley. He tells a singular story of their experi-
ence with the Indians, when they first settled here, in 1859.
Where the town of Boulder now is, was one of the favorite
camping-grounds of the former. They not only warned
the intruders away, but threatened to exterminate them if
they remained. The eight men, however, constructed a
rude fort, and made preparations to stand a siege. Hostil-
ities commenced and were carried on for some time, when,
one day, the besieged noticed signs of commotion in the
Indian camp. Toward evening a warrior arrived, demand-
ing a parley. They hesitated for a while, but finally ad-
mitted him, whereupon he stated that the medicine-man of
the tribe had dreamed, the night before, of stars falling
from heaven and a flood from the mountains sweeping away
their camp. This he interpreted as a warning that they
should leave, and the tribe, therefore, were preparing to
160 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
depart. The next morning they packed their tents, and
after uttering in concert a mighty howl of lamentation,
went out on the Plains, and never afterward returned.
We started early this morning, to avoid the terrific mid-
day heats. For our entertainment and that of our horses,
at Valmont, we were only asked to pay two dollars and a
half each. The farms were lovelier than ever in the fresh
morning light, and as we paused on a ridge to take a last
look at the place, we pronounced it the prettiest village-site
in Colorado. Then came the open, unsheltered, rolling
Plains, gathering heat and dryness from hour to hour.
Toward noon the inevitable storm crept along the moun-
tains, but we were outside of its shadow, under the burning
half of the sky — and long indeed were the last few miles
which brought us into Denver. My face still burns with
the blistering heat absorbed during the ride; but I rejoice
that I have seen Boulder Valley before leaving the Rocky
Mountains.
XX.
COLORADO AS A SUMMER RESORT.
***
DENVER, Colorado, July 15, 1866.
THIS is my last night in Denver. After a month beside
and among the Rocky Mountains, I am going (as the peo-
ple here say) “to America.” My place is taken in the
stage which leaves to-morrow morning for the East, by the
Platte route.
Had not the commencement of the rainy season and the
condition of our animals prevented me from reaching
Cañon and Colorado cities, my tour would have embraced
all of the mountain regions which are easily accessible,
and some that are not so. What I have seen is amply
sufficient to convince me how much more there is to
see. During a journey on horseback of four hundred
miles, which led me through two of the three Parks, and
thrice across the great range, I have obtained a tolerably
extensive knowledge of the climate, Scenery, and other
features of a region which is destined, I think, to become
for us what Switzerland is to Europe. Our artists, with
true instinct, have first scented this fact, and they are the
pioneers who point out to ignorant Fashion the way it
should go. s”
Whoever comes to the Rocky Mountains with pictures
of the Alps in his memory, expecting to find them repeated
on a grander and wilder scale, will certainly be disappointed.
He will find no upper world of unbroken Snow, as in the
Bernese Oberland; no glaciers, thrusting far down be-
tween the forests their ever-moving fronts of ice; no con-
11
162 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
trast of rich and splendid vegetation in the valleys; no
flashing waterfalls; no slopes of bright green pasturage;
no moss; and but rarely the gleam of lakes and rivers,
seen from above. With no less lofty chain can the Rocky
Mountains be measured, it is true; but it is merely a gen-
eral comparison of height, not of resemblance in any im-
portant feature. .
In the first place, the atmospheric effects are those
which result from the intense dryness of the heart of
a continent in the temperate zone. The Alps not only .
touch the Mediterranean at either extremity, but are no
further from the Atlantic than from here to the Missouri
River. Four or five cloudless days in succession are con-
sidered a rare good fortune by the tourist; the higher
peaks are seldom without their drapery of shifting cloud.
Here a clear sky is the rule. There is seldom vapor
enough — except just at present, during the brief rainy
season — for the artist's needs. Perspective is only ob-
tained by immense distances. The wonderful, delicate
grays of the mountain landscapes demand changes of light
and shadow which are often lacking; they lie too barely
in the broad, unobstructed sunshine. Yet an air more
delicious to breathe can scarcely be found anywhere. It is
neither too sedative nor too exciting; but has that pure,
sweet, flexible quality which seems to support all one's hap-
piest and healthiest moods. Moreover, it holds in solution
an exquisite variety of odors. Whether the resin of the
coniferous trees, the balm of the sage-bush, or the breath
of the orchis and wild rose, it is equally grateful and life-
giving. After a day in this atmosphere you have the light-
est and most restorative'slumber you ever knew.
On first entering the Rocky Mountains, you find the
scenery rugged, cramped, and somewhat monotonous.
Press forward, and they open anon — the higher the sum-
mits become the more breadth of base, the clearer outline
they demand. They push away the crowd of lower ridges,
COLORADO AS A SUMMER RESORT. 163
leaving valleys for the streams, parks with every variety of
feature, and finally gather into well-defined ranges, or
spurs of ranges, giving you still broader and grander land-
Scapes. -
The San Luis Park, from the accounts I have heard,
must be equally remarkable. It is on a much grander
Scale, and has the advantage of a milder climate, from its
lesser elevation above the sea-level. The North Park is
rarely visited except by an occasional prospecter or trap-
per. It has no settlement, as yet, and I have met with no
one who has thoroughly explored it. There are a number
of smaller parks on both sides of the main chain, and
some of them are said to possess great natural beauties.
The singular rock formations at the eastern base of the
mountains furnish in themselves a rare and most original
field for the tourist and the artist. The glimpse I had of
those on the south bank of the Platte, on my return from .
the South Park, satisfy me that they surpass in magnitude
and picturesque distortion the celebrated basaltic forma-
tions of Saxony.
It was part of my plan to have ascended either Pike's or
Long's Peak, but I find that it is too soon in the season to
make the attempt. Pike's Peak is comparatively easy of
ascent; the summit, thirteen thousand two hundred feet
above the level of the sea, has several times been reached
by ladies. It is a very laborious, but in no sense a danger-
ous undertaking. On account of its isolated position, the
view from the top, in favorable weather, must be one of the
finest panoramas in the world. Long's Peak has never yet
been ascended. Mr. Byers, two years ago, reached a point
about five hundred feet below the summit, and was then
compelled to return. He is quite confident, however, that
it can be scaled from another side, and if the summer were
six weeks further advanced, I should be willing to join him
in making the attempt. On the northern side he says
there is a valley or rather gulf, with walls of perpendicular
164 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
rock between two and three thousand feet in height, resem-
bling a section of the Yosemite.
A comparison of this peak with Mont Blanc — the alti-
tude of both being just about the same — may give a clear
idea of the differences between the Alps and the Rocky
Mountains. When you see Mont Blanc from the western
part of Lake Leman, in July or August, he appears to
you as a dome of complete snow, the few rocky pinnacles
which pierce his mantle being hardly discernible specks.
He is a white vision on the horizon. Long's Peak, at the
same distance, is of the faint blue or purple which a rocky
mass assumes, veined and streaked with white, but showing
only one snow-field of much apparent extent. His outline
is very fine, – a little sharper than Mont Blanc, - the
western side (as seen from Denver) having convex, and
the eastern principally concave curves. He rests on a dark,
broad base of forest and rock, his snows marking the
courses of deep clefts and ravines. At present, the top-
most summit is bare on the southern side. It is rare that
one sees Mont Blanc from summit to base : I have not
yet seen Long's Peak (except during a passing thunder-
shower) otherwise. -
I do not think the parks and the upper valleys of the
mountains will produce anything except hardy vegetables,
and perhaps barley and rye. But they abound with the
richest grasses; and “Colorado cheese.” may one day be as
celebrated as Gruyère or Neufchatel. They offer precisely
those things which the summer tourist seeks — pure air,
lovely nights, the finest milk, butter, trout, and game, and
a variety of mineral springs. The summer climate I know;
and I am told that the winter is equally enjoyable. It
sounds almost incredible to hear of persons in the latitude
of New York, and eight thousand feet above the sea, rarely
needing an overcoat during the whole winter season.
There is a great depth of snow, and an occasional severe
day, but the skies are generally cloudless, and the air tem-
COLORADO AS A SUMMER RESORT. 165
perate and bracing. The extremes of heat and cold are
greater in Denver than in the mountains. As nearly as 1
can learn, the coldest weather yet experienced in San Luis
Park, was seven degrees below zero; in the Middle Park,
fifteen degrees; and in Denver, thirty degrees below.
The heavy snow-fall, while it is a godsend to the agri-
culture of Colorado, by swelling all the streams at the very
season when water is needed for irrigation, nevertheless
interferes with the mining interests. There are many rich
placers in the mountains where gold-washing can only be
carried on for three or four months in the year, and even
the stamp and smelting mills are hindered in procuring
their supplies. It will also be the principal difficulty
which the Pacific Railroad will be obliged to overcome.
All other obstacles are much less than I had imagined.
Greater achievements have already been done in rail-
roading than the passage of the Rocky Mountains. By
the Clear Creek, the South Park, or the Arkansas Valley,
the Pacific slope can be reached, with not much more
labor than you find on the Baltimore and Ohio road be-
tween Piedmont and Grafton. The facilities of construc-
tion beyond the range, however, must determine where the
range should be crossed. A thorough exploration of the
region watered by the Green and Blue Rivers must first
be made. .
I am, therefore, quite unable to tell you where the road
will cross the Rocky Mountains; it is enough that they
will be crossed. My conjectures — given for what they
may be worth — take this form: that the Central Pacific
Railroad, now rapidly advancing up the Platte, will cross
in the neighborhood of Bridger's Pass; that the Eastern
Division will follow the Smoky Hill, and make directly for
Denver; that a road running northward along the base of
the mountains will connect the two; that this road will then
be extended to Montana on one side and New Mexico on
the other; and that, finally, a second central road will be
166 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
pushed westward from Denver into and across the Middle
Park, and so to Nevada. The business of Colorado alone,
with the stimulus which a completed road would give, will
keep that road fully employed. By the time the last rail
is spiked down on the road connecting New York and San
Francisco, we shall want, not one line across the continent,
but five.
I hazard nothing, at least, in predicting that Colorado
will soon be recognized as our Switzerland. The ener-
vated luxury, the ignorant and imitative wealth, and the
overtasked business of our cities, will come hither, in all
future summers, for health, and rest, and recreation.
Where Kit Carson chased Arapahoes, and Frémont's men
ate mule-meat, and Jim Beckworth went through apoc-
ryphal adventures, there will be drawling dandies, maidens
both fast and slow, ungrammatical mammas, and the heavi-
est of fathers. The better sort of people will come first,
nor be scared away afterward by the rush of the unappre-
ciating. We shall, I hope, have Alpine clubs, intelligent
guides, good roads, bridges, and access to a thousand won-
ders yet unknown. It will be a national blessing when this
region is opened to general travel. That time is not now
distant. Before the close of 1868 Denver will only be four
days from New York, and you can go through with one
change of cars. Therefore I am doubly glad that I have
come now, while there are still buffaloes and danger of In-
dians on the Plains, camp-fires to build in the mountains,
rivers to swim, and landscapes to enjoy which have never
yet been described. - -
The weather continues intensely hot by day, with cool
and perfect nights. Sometimes the edge of the regular
afternoon thunder-storm overlaps Denver, and lays the hot
dust of the streets. These storms are superb ačrial pict-
ures. After they pass, their cloudy ruins become the
material out of which the setting sun constructs unimag-
inable splendors. If I were to give the details of them it
COLORADO AS A SUMMER RESORT. 167
would seem like color run mad. Such cool rose-gray, such
transparent gold, such purple velvet as are worn by the
mountains and clouds, are fresh wonders to me every
evening. The vault of heaven seems ampler than else-
where; the lines of cloud cover vaster distances, – proba-
bly because a hundred miles of mountains give you a more
palpable measure of their extent, — and your eye recog-
nizes infinite shades, gradations, and transitions either un-
seen before or unnoticed. This amplification of the sky
and sky-effects struck me when I first entered upon the
Plains. It is grand, even there ; but here, with such acces-
sories, it is truly sublime.
I do not now wonder at the attachment of the inhab-
itants of the territory for their home. These mountains
and this atmosphere insensibly become a portion of their
lives. I foresee that they will henceforth be among the
clearest and most vivid episodes of mine.
XXI.
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE.
OMAHA, NEBRASKA, July 21, 1866.
ON Monday morning last, Mr. Beard and I took our
seats in the overland coach, at Denver. Our hopes of a
comfortable trip were blasted at the outset: there were
seven passengers for Fort Kearney, and four for the
“Junction,” as it is called, on the Platte. The fare of one
hundred and twenty-five dollars which one pays the Hol-
laday Company, is simply for transportation: it includes
neither space nor convenience, much less comfort. The
coaches are built on the presumption that the American
people are lean and of diminutive stature — a mistake at
which we should wonder the more, were it not that many
of our railroad companies suffer under the same delusion.
With a fiery sky overhead, clouds of fine dust rising from
beneath, and a prospect of buffalo-gnats and mosquitoes
awaiting us, we turned our faces toward “America” in no
very cheerful mood.
The adieus to kind friends were spoken, the mail-bags
and way-bill were delivered to the coachman, the whip
cracked as a sign that our journey of six hundred miles had
commenced, and our six horses soon whirled us past the
last house of Denver. The programme of the journey was
as follows: across the Plains in an east-by-northern course
to the Platte, eighty-five miles; thence to Julesburg, on the
line between Colorado and Nebraska, one hundred and fif-
teen miles more; thence, still following the Platte, to Fort
Kearney, two hundred miles more; thence to the western
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE. 169
end of the Central Pacific Railroad, wherever we might
find it. The agent of the Overland Mail Company in Den-
ver was unable to give me any information upon this latter
point. There were rumors that the trains had reached Co-
lumbus, one hundred miles west of Omaha, and we pre-
ferred to believe them, as they made our anticipations of
stage travel less formidable.
It was eight o'clock when we started, and with every hour
the heat and dust increased. The long range of the Rocky
Mountains, to which we fondly looked back, no longer re-
freshed us with their distant appearance of coolness; they
might rather be compared to enamelled pictures of pale
violet, slowly fixing their colors in a furnace of quivering
heat. The green of the Plains was rapidly drying into a
tawny hue, and only the cactus, with its splendid flowers,
seemed to rejoice in the season. The long swells, extend-
ing north and south, between the tributaries of the Platte,
gave some little variety to the road. In the hollows the
presence of dark-foliaged cotton-woods told of subterranean
moisture, although the creek beds showed only dry, hot
gravel. The horses were changed at intervals of eight or
ten miles, and, when we had made four stations, I was
agreeably surprised on our halting for dinner at a neat
frame cottage, with stable and post-office adjoining. The
meal, at one dollar and fifty cents, was excellent, the water
alone having a suspicious flavor of alkali. We made use
of a corrective which I would recommend to all travellers —
two or three lemons cut into pieces which can be stuffed
into a bottle, which fill with good whiskey.
In the afternoon, when the breathless heat and fine, suf-
focating dust were scarcely to be endured, there came a
merciful relief. The mountain thunder-storm either took
a wider sweep than usual, or varied from its course at the
head-waters of Cherry Creek, and came down the divides
toward us. The cool shadows crept over the landscape,
and after a time the rain followed. Then ensued a new
170 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
annoyance: our outside passengers came in, and ten large
persons must occupy the space designed for nine dwarfs.
Toward evening the clouds lifted for an hour or two, and
we took our last look at the Mountains, lying dark and low
on the horizon. The passengers for the Junction were
pleasant fellows, and I mean no disrespect in saying that
their room was better than their company. After sunset
another setting in of rain drove them upon us, and by
eleven at night (when we reached their destination) we
were all so cramped and benumbed, that I found myself
wondering which of the legs under my eyes were going to
get out of the coach. I took it for granted that the near-
est pair that remained belonged to myself.
The artist and I had now possession of the back seat;
but our condition was not greatly improved. We tried
various devices with rolls of blankets, but all to no pur-
pose. The coach is so ingeniously constructed that there
are no corners to receive one’s head. There is, it is true,
an illusive semblance of a corner; if you trust yourself to
it, you are likely to lean out with your arm on the hind
wheel. Nodding, shifting of tortured joints, and an occa-
sional groan, made up the night. There was no moon, and
nothing was visible except the dark circle of the Plains
against the sky.
At four o'clock in the morning, as the daylight was
creeping up under the clouds, we halted at a singular sta-
tion. A wall of adobes three feet thick and six in height,
pierced with loop-holes for musketry, confronted us. The
top was rudely machicolated, and ower the main entrance
was the inscription, “Fort Wicked.” Entering the fortress,
we found a long adobe cabin, one part of which was occu-
pied as a store, well stocked with groceries, canned pro-
visions, and liquors. A bearded man, with a good-natured
but determined air, asked us if we would stop for break-
fast. It was Mr. Godfrey himself, the builder and defender
of the fort, which is known all along the Platte as “God-
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE. 171
frey's Ranche.” Here, last fall, he, his wife, and “another
man,” withstood a siege of two days by three hundred In-
dians, who finally retreated, after losing seventeen of their
number. Mr. Godfrey boldly announces that he will never
surrender. He is now well prepared, and the rumors of a
new Indian war do not give him the least anxiety. He is
“bad medicine” to the tribes of the Plains, who are as
cowardly as they are cruel. The stable and corral are
defended by similar intrenchments. -
We had breakfast after an hour's delay, and then set
forward for Julesburg, which was still some eighty miles
distant. Daylight revealed the Platte on our left — a nar-
row, winding, muddy stream, with no timber on its banks.
On either side the same bare, brown plain rolled away to
the horizon; streaks of sandy soil made the road toilsome
to our teams, but as the stations did not average more than
ten miles apart we made fair progress. The broad, well-
beaten road swarmed with freight teams as the day ad-
vanced, and the condition of their cattle showed the
excellence of the pasturage on this route. The brown- -
ness and apparent barrenness even of this portion of the
Plains does not indicate a sterile soil, though it is undoubt-
edly more arid and sandy than any part of the Smoky Hill
rOute.
The weather favored us beyond expectation. The day
was overcast and delightfully cool; mosquitoes and buffalo-
gnats did not molest us, and every station we left behind
added to our peace of mind. There was little to see be-
yond the fact that no part of this region is naturally a
desert. The game has been driven away — even prairie-
dogs are scarce;— where there was timber it has been de-
stroyed (fire-wood was furnished to the military post at
Julesburg last winter at one hundred and twenty-seven dol-
lars per cord (), and the first summer splendor of the flora
had passed away. There were some wild sunflowers and
lupines, and occasionally great purple beds of the cleome.
172 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
~
Sometimes the Platte, forcing its way through the long,
monotonous waves of the soil, made for itself the sem-
blance of a valley, with narrow lengths of fresh bottom-
land and low knobs of hills; but, on looking back on the
day's journey, I can recall no single feature of prominence.
It was one landscape all the way.
Until evening, at least. Then the sun came out and
illuminated the barracks of Julesburg, the flag-staff, and
flag. The buildings surrounding the parade-ground are of
adobes — homely, but clean. The commanding officer's
residence, of the same material — a French cottage, with
mansard roof– is actually beautiful. We halted long
enough to exchange a few remarks with the officers, and
to be assured by them that there was no immediate danger
of an Indian attack; then we pushed on to the village of
Julesburg, where we found supper, a two-story hotel nearly
completed, a store and billiard-room | I perceive that
speculation (which is another name for civilization) is
º ~ anticipating the Pacific Railroad.
\ We now passed out of Colorado into Nebraska, having
made just half the distance from Denver to Fort Kearney.
This was a matter for congratulation; but the second night
was coming on, and we had little hope that fatigue would
bring sleep. One of our passengers only was fortunate.
He had the happy faculty of distributing himself, as it
seemed, all over the coach, and remaining unconscious,
while his head was in the way of one, his hips of another,
and his feet of a third. During the day, by mutual ar-
rangement and concession, we relieved our cramped mus-
cles as much as possible; when we settled for the night
(a mere make-believe) this was no longer possible, and the
season of suffering began. Except while the horses were
being changed at the stations, I do not believe that I slept
at all. The desperate attempt to do so produced a dim,
dazed condition, wherein I heard the constant roll of the
wheels, and felt every jolt of the coach.
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE. 173
On Wednesday morning at daybreak we halted for break-
fast at Alkali Station, a dreary adobe building in the midst
of a dreary landscape, which had not yet shaken off the
gray night mist. From this point the country began to
improve. The attempts of the Platte to establish a valley
of its own gradually succeeded. There were marked lines
of bluffy hills on either side, green bottom-lands, now and
then imposingly broad, willow-brush along the river-banks
and on the scattered islands, and at last clumps of cotton-
Wood trees. We still traversed streaks of sand, still drank
alkali water; but the road was alive with teams, and there
were grazing and supply ranches at intervals of four or
five miles. Here and there new adobe buildings were
going up. We saw red cedar logs, which the people in-
formed us came from valleys in the rear of the bluffs; and
there was evidently no agriculture, simply because it had
not been tried.
The loneliness of the Plains was now so invaded that I
could only realize with difficulty where we were. We
passed mile after mile of great freight wagons — some of
them carrying four tons weight and drawn by six yoke of
oxen – of emigrant wagons, where the sunburned women
and wild-looking children were stowed among the piled
household goods,-there was no end to them. At noon
the wagons, under the direction of a train-master, were
“corralled ” in a half-circle, the oxen turned loose on the
bottoms, and the teamsters — except those detailed as
cooks — took their ease in the shade between the wheels.
They appeared to be scattered portions of a single hun-
dred-mile-long caravan. The ranches were well supplied
with those articles which the strong and rather coarse taste
of these wagon-men demand: whatever their quality may
be, the prices are superb. Mr. Beard bought a small tum-
bler for seventy-five cents
Before we reached Cottonwood, which is half way be-
tween Julesburg and Fort Kearney, the scenery became
174 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
pleasant, in spite of its sameness. The valley expanded
to a breadth of ten miles, and every winding of the Platte,
which here divides into several arms, could be traced by
its picturesque lines of timber. On the coach from Omaha
we found Colonel Chivington (of Sand Creek memory),
who gave us the welcome intelligence that the railroad
trains were within sixty-five miles of Fort Kearney. All
the passengers had their heads tied up, to keep off the
buffalo-gnats; yet we were not molested in the least. At
Cottonwood, the bottoms of thick green grass, the clumps
and lines of timber, with the first appearance of the ash
and elm, were a delight to the eye. Here we got a capital
dinner, and the water began to lose its alkaline taste.
All the afternoon the landscapes of the Platte were
broad and beautiful. The accession of the north branch
gave the river a majestic breadth and sweep; the valley
became fifteen or twenty miles wide, between bluffs which
now rose high enough to make low, blue headlands in the
distance. In some glens on the right we saw red cedar.
Here, at least, there is a fine field for agriculture: I doubt,
even, whether irrigation will be required. I had not ex-
pected to strike the fertile eastern belt of the Plains so
soon. It was a warmer counterpart of the rich French
lowlands, lacking only the grace given by centuries of
human habitation.
We rolled off the fourth hundred miles from Denver
during a third painful night, and at six o'clock on Thurs-
day morning drove into the village of Kearney, a mile or
two west of the fort. The stage was just ready to start
for the end of the railroad, and the local passengers in
waiting grudged us time for breakfast. The crossing of
the Platte, they said, would take from two to three hours,
and we should have trouble in reaching Lone Tree Station
by six o'clock in the evening. The station agent, however,
was on our side, and we snatched a hasty refreshment be-
fore departing for the ferry in an open, jolting wagon.
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE. 175
There were twelve hundred Pawnees encamped near the
fort, and I should have visited their camp had it been pos-
sible. I only saw that Kearney is already a smart little
village, which will soon be a town, and the centre of a
splendid agricultural region.
The Platte is here a mile wide, its broad yellow surface
marked by a thousand shifting currents and the ripple-
marks of sand-bars. Two crazy little skiffs were moored
to the bank, and in these it appeared we and our baggage
were to be transported; another wagon far away on the
opposite bank awaited our arrival. There was a pair of
short oars in the boat, but the ferryman, instead of taking
them, deliberately stripped to the skin and jumped into the
water. We were advised to follow his example before
taking our seats, but we only partially complied, retaining
shirts and coats to ward off the scorching sun. The other
boat being similarly prepared, we commenced the transit,
which is unique of its kind.
If the Missouri pilot learns a new channel with every
voyage, our Platte ferryman had even less dependence on
his route. He chose his course entirely by appearances on
the surface, avoiding both the sand-bars and the deeper
portions, for we stuck fast on the former, and drifted in the
latter. His policy was to walk on the very edge of the
bar, towing the boat by the bow. Sometimes he walked
a hundred yards up stream, then as far down again, tack-
ing and veering like a ship in a shifting gale. At one mo-
ment he stood in a foot of water and the boat sat fast; the
next, he plunged overhead and clung, floating, to the gun-
wale, while a passenger rowed. In half an hour we were
half-way across; then one of our company stripped and
went to the ferryman's assistance. Between the two, we
reached the opposite bank in about an hour; the second
boat, which had meanwhile stranded, detained us half an
hour more. Such is the Platte — the meanest of rivers 1
It was a jolting old mule-wagon which was waiting for
176 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
us; but a stage we were told would be found some five
miles further on 1 Away we went in the clear, hot sun-
shine, over meadows of splendid grass, along the edges of
beautiful groves and thickets, past the corn-fields of pioneer
settlers, when, behold an islanded arm of the river at
least two hundred yards wide appeared before us. We had
not yet crossed all the Piatte. This arm, however, was
fordable; all went well until we reached the middle, when
the team stuck. The bottom being quicksand, the mo-
ment the wagon stood still the wheels began to sink. Out
sprang our ferryman, seized the tires, and urged until we
, moved again. Then a whiffletree broke, and again we
commenced sinking ; the process was repeated several
times, and we were all on the point of taking to the river,
when a final desperate tug brought us over the last
channel.
Once in the stage, we rolled rapidly down the valley. I
was surprised to find settlement pushed so far westward.
From the time we crossed the Platte we were never out of
sight of corn and wheat-fields — and what dark, heavy, lux-
uriant grain l No irrigation is needed, and there are no
finer crops east of the Rocky Mountains. The native
grasses are rank and thick as a jungle, and furnish an
unlimited quantity of the finest hay. Some of the farmers
have planted little groves of cotton-wood about their houses;
and the rapidity with which they grow (six to ten feet in
a year) shows how easy it will be to reclothe these treeless
regions.
We were detained an hour waiting for dinner, and the
chances of our catching the evening train so diminished
that we presented the driver with a slight testimonial of
respect, in order to insure greater speed. The horses were
poor and the afternoon very hot, but we reached Lone Tree
before six o'clock, and were finally set down in the grass,
beside the waiting train, some minutes before its departure.
Here there was a saloon and two boarding shanties, which
HOMEWARD, ALONG THE PLATTE. 177
are moved as the road moves. The track is already laid
fourteen miles west of the Lone Tree, and is being extended
at the rate of a mile and a half per day. Recently two
miles and seventeen hundred feet were laid in a single day—
the greatest feat of the kind in the history of railroad
building ! The grading has already passed Fort Kearney,
and will reach Cottonwood — half way from Omaha to
Denver—by next winter. Who disbelieves in a railroad
across the continent now P -
When the train started, and the fair sunset sat upon the
grassy swells and far dim groves of the Platte, I gave my-
self up to the exquisite sensation of rest. Aching in every
limb, and feverish from loss of sleep, the knowledge that
our hardships were over, was almost as soothing as slum-
ber. There were but few passengers on the train, and
each of us enjoyed the luxury of a double seat, arranged
as a couch, for the night. Daybreak found us within ten
miles of Omaha, and at six o'clock we were set down
at the hotel, in precisely three days and twenty-two hours
from Denver.
12
XXII.
GLIMPSES OF NEBRASKA.
St. Joseph, Mo., July 27, 1866.
ExcEPT that vegetables are earlier and more abundant,
and that one is a little nearer to fruit and New York news-
papers, I do not find a great deal of difference between the
civilization of Nebraska and that of Colorado. Omaha
and Denver are places of about the same size, – the latter
probably the better built of the two. From this time on,
the former will increase more rapidly; but when the rail-
road reaches Denver, I imagine the balance will be re-
stored. The people of Omaha are convinced that their
place will be another Chicago; and, as they see six hun-
dred buildings going up this season, we cannot so much
wonder at their “great expectations.” They certainly have
a beautiful location — if the Missouri River were to be de-
pended upon. The crescent hills, open toward the east,
inclose a high, favorable shelf of land, upon which the city
can spread for some time to come. It is three miles across
to the Iowa hills, and the picturesque town of Council
Bluffs at their feet, so that they who reside in the higher
part of Omaha enjoy a much broader and more beautiful
view than can be had from any other place on the Missouri.
I devoted the first twenty-four hours to absolute rest,
after my journey across the Plains. Moreover, the weather
was truly African in its dry, intense heat, making sight-
seeing so much of a task that I deserve some credit for
seeing anything beyond what the hotel windows allowed.
In the pleasant company of Governor Saunders and Mr.
GLIMPSES OF NEBRASKA. 179
Frost, of the Pacific Railroad, I visited the height on which
the Capitol stands, the sulphur springs, and the extensive
shops and works which the railroad company has erected
within the past six months. What the latter has accom-
plished is really amazing. There is now rail enough on
hand to reach Cottonwood, one hundred miles beyond Fort
Kearney; several splendid locomotives are waiting to be
called into service, the manufacture of cars has com-
menced, and the grandest basis is already laid for carrying
on the business of the road. The ties, mostly brought
down from the Upper Missouri, - whether of pine, elm,
or cotton-wood, – are burnetized to render them durable.
Some idea of the enormous expense of building the road
may be obtained from the statement that each tie, when put
down in its place, has cost the company from one and a
half to two dollars | The cost of bringing railroad iron,
locomotives, and machinery to Omaha is also very great, as
there is no rail connection with the East. None of the
lines through Iowa will be completed before next summer.
The same process which I had noticed in Kansas — the
gradual restoration of forests — may be observed here.
The hills and valleys around Omaha, wherever they have
been protected from fire, are rapidly being clothed with tim-
ber. Clumps of cotton-wood and evergreens — sometimes
small groves of the former — have been planted around the
farm-houses, which are built in dips and hollows of the
boundless grassy waves of the landscape.
The country is one of the most beautiful I ever looked
upon. A little more sandy, perhaps, than Kansas, but
equally fertile, it presents the same general features. I am
more than ever struck with the great difference between
this region and that to the east of the Mississippi. Here,
without very bold or prominent forms, there is none of the
wearisome monotony of the prairie, as in Illinois; no un-
sightly clearings, ragged timber, or swampy tracts, as in
Indiana and Ohio; but Nature has given the smoothness
180 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
and finish which elsewhere comes from long cultivation;
and in twenty years from now both Kansas and Nebraska
will appear to be older than any other States west of the
Alleghanies. They have little of the new, half-developed,
American air about them ; but suggest some region of
Europe, from which war has swept away the inhabitants.
I crossed to Council Bluffs, which has an ancient, sub-
stantial appearance contrasted with Omaha. The people
insisted that their rolling prairies, behind the bluffs, were
even finer than those of Nebraska, – which is scarcely
possible. They (the people) have just awakened to the
necessity of annexing themselves to the business world,
and are now laboring to hurry the railroad through from
Boonsborough. Some day, perhaps, the Missouri may
leave the Omaha side of the valley and come back to
them : at present, their distance from the steamboat land-
ings is a great drawback. The settling of Montana, never-
theless, has given a new impulse to all the towns on the
river. No less than sixty boats have gone up to Fort
Benton this season. -
On Monday morning I took the steamer for Plattsmouth,
some twenty-five or thirty miles below, by the river. I
should have preferred the land journey, but for a heat of
102° in the shade, a wind like a furnace blast, and stifling
dust. While the boat was in motion, a barely endurable
temperature was produced, and I enjoyed, here and there,
some lively glimpses of valleys on the Nebraska side, that
of the Platte especially being superb. Plattsmouth is
nearly a mile below the junction of the rivers, – a pleasant
little place of a thousand inhabitants. Nothing but the
heat prevented me from spending the rest of the day and
evening very agreeably there. -
On Tuesday to Nebraska City, ſorty miles further, by the
river. There is little to note on the way except the end-
less changes of the current, adding hundreds of acres to
the meadows on one side, and undermining cotton-wood for-
GLIMPSES OF NEBRASKA. 181
ests on the other. Nebraska City is not seen to advantage
from the river, to which it presents its narrowest side, the
chief portion of the place — which has seven or eight thou-
sand inhabitants—lying in the rear of the bluffs. It is
an active, lively town, in spite of a predominance of the
Missouri-Secesh element, as I am informed. I found a
very comfortable hotel, and was indebted to an intelligent
German physician for a drive around the heights toward
evening. The heat was still my great torment. -
There was no boat down the river on Wednesday, and
as I had an engagement at Brownville, twenty-five miles
distant, I was obliged to have dealings with a livery-stable.
The extreme of extortion in this line had been reached, I
imagined, in Kansas. I was mistaken. For the team
I hired (driven by an ex-Rebel soldier) I was obliged to
pay at the rate of eighty-five cents per mile / This is double
Colorado and treble California prices. I was unable to
resist the outrage; for the liverymen of Nebraska City have
a mutual agreement to swindle strangers, and do not inter-
fere with each other's operations. This is one of the dis-
advantages of travel in the West. We are told that com-
petition regulates prices: it does not. On the contrary,
combination keeps them up. No people are so fleeced and
flayed as ours. The law offers no protection, because our
politicians fear to offend any portion of the voting classes.
“They manage things differently in France.”
Neither the consciousness of having been imposed upon
(a mean, disagreeable sensation), nor the stifling heat of
the day could prevent me from enjoying to the full the
magnificent country I traversed. During the five hours I
was upon the road I never lost the keen sense of surprise
and admiration which I felt on climbing the first rise of
land after leaving Nebraska City. The wide, billowy green,
dotted all over with golden islands of harvest; the hollows
of dark, glittering maize; the park-like clumps of timber
along the courses of streams; the soft, airy blue of the dis-
182 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
tant undulations; these were the materials which went to the
making up of every landscape, and of which, in their sweet,
harmonious, pastoral beauty, the eye never grew weary
Not even when the sun burned with the stupefying fierce-
ness of noon, and the vegetation seemed to crisp and
shrivel in the fiery south wind, did I wish to shorten the
journey.
Brownville is a small, but pretty town, with a decided
New England atmosphere. By the time I reached it, I
had decided that this should be my last day of mere sight-
seeing, and my last evening of lecture, in such a tempera-
ture. I turned away from the enticements of Pawnee, and
other interior districts, and resolutely set my face toward
home. There was no boat the next day, but a stage for St.
Joseph (between eighty and ninety miles distant) the same
evening; consequently a splendid moon, with neither heat
nor dust, for a considerable portion of the way. At eleven
o'clock I said good-by to the friends who had made my
short stay so pleasant, and, making a virtue of an inevitable
fact, decided that the night was too beautiful to be spent in
slumber.
The records of the United States Land Office at Brown-
ville show that seventy-one thousand acres were entered in
the district during the quarter ending June 30. As two
thirds of this amount were taken by actual settlers as home-
steads; as the other districts of the Territory show very
nearly an equal growth, and as the business of the present
quarter, so far, keeps pace with the last, it is easy to esti-
mate the increase of population for the year. It cannot be
reckoned at less than fifteen thousand, making the present
population of the Territory about seventy-five thousand.
When the splendid agricultural capacities of the country
are better understood, the ratio of immigration will in-
crease. Nebraska cannot much longer be kept out of the
Union by A. J.'s one-man power.
The night-journey was delicious. There was no other
GLIMPSES OF NEBRASKA. 183
passenger, and I rode with the driver, a Union soldier from
Massachusetts, (how different from my Rebel of the day
before ) for the sake of society. The meadows, thickets,
groves, and grain-fields near at hand were clearly revealed
in the moonlight, but beyond them the scenery melted into
a silvery indistinctness. The signs of dawn came only too
Soon, for with the first light of day I knew that the dewy
freshness of the air would be lost. I still had an entire
day of beat before me. &
We stopped for breakfast at a place called Rulo (the
true spelling would be Rouleau, after the first French set-
tler), and then pushed onward toward the Kansas line.
Across a bottom of almost incredible fertility, then a ferry
over the beautiful Nemaha River, and we left Nebraska
behind us. An Indian Reservation came next, and the
sight of two gayly dressed squaws on horseback, and two
naked boys trying to catch a pony, seemed to give a totally
different character to the scenery. It became again the
rich, free wilderness. -
During the day I had several fellow-passengers, – a gen-
tleman from the Cherokee Country, an intelligent and glo-
riously loyal Missouri lady, and several specimens of the
local population. The road ran some distance inland from
the river, climbing long swells whence there were out-looks
over ten or fifteen miles of magnificent country. All this
region is being rapidly settled. Villages—the sure sign
of permanent occupation — are springing up here and
there; neat, substantial farm-houses are taking the place
of the original cabins; and hedges of Osage orange are
gradually creeping around the broad fields. When I first
saw the bottoms of the Kaw and Smoky Hill Fork, in
Kansas, nearly two months ago, it seemed to me that such
extraordinary beauty and fertility must be exceptional;
but, last week, I found the same thing repeated on the
Platte, all the way from Cottonwood to Omaha. Now I
find it in the region intermediate between the two rivers,
184 COLORADO : A SUMMER TRIP.
tº
and from what I hear of the valleys of the Neoshö, the Re-
publican, the Big and Little Blues, the Nemaha and Loup
Fork, I am satisfied that what I have seen is the ordinary,
average type of all this country. I consider Kansas and
Nebraska, with the western portions of Iowa and Missouri,
as the largest unbroken tract of splendid farming land in
the world.
No one of us will live to see the beauty and prosperity
which these States, even in their rude, embryonic condi-
tion, already suggest. The American of to-day must find
his enjoyment in anticipating the future. He must look
beyond the unsightly beginnings of civilization, and pre-
figure the state of things a century hence, when the Re-
public will count a population of two hundred millions, and
there shall be leisure for Taste and Art. We have now
so much ground to occupy, and we make such haste to
cover it, that our growth is — and must be — accompanied
by very few durable landmarks. All is slight, shabby, and
imperfect. Not until the greater part of our vacant terri-
tory is taken up, and there is a broad belt of settlement
reaching from ocean to ocean, will our Western people
begin to take root, consolidate their enterprise, and truly
develop their unparalleled inheritance.
Travelling all day in a heat of more than 100° in the
shade — the seventh day of such an extreme temperature
—I hailed our approach to Elwood, opposite St. Joseph,
with inexpressible relief. During the afternoon we met a
great many emigrant wagons, carrying “poor whites” from
Missouri, Kentucky, and perhaps Tennessee, to lands of
better promise. The lank, brown men stared at us from
under their wild, bushy hair, with an expression of ignorant
wonder; the mothers, with their four to six small, tow-
headed children (usually “one at the breast”), sat uncom-
fortably upon piles of antediluvian furniture, and patiently
endured heat, flies, and dust. All of these people were
but one degree removed from pure barbarism, and their
GLIMPSES OF NEBRASKA. 185
loyalty must have had its root in instinct rather than
intelligence.
If we could diversify the course of emigration, it would
be a great blessing to the country. A current from the
North to the South, with a counter-current from the South
* to the North, would “reconstruct” the former Slave States
more solidly than any political measure. At present, the
movement is too much one way; and nothing shows the
narrowness and blindness of the Southerners so much as
their continued enmity toward the very class of men they
most need.
At six o'clock this evening I reached the Missouri, and
crossed to this place. Here I am at one of the termini of
railroad connection with the Atlantic coast, and may con-
sider my travels at an end. Here the picturesque ceases,
and the tedious commonplace begins. So here I close my
communication with my readers, very much more fatigued
by my experiences than I trust they have been in the read-
ing of them, and yet more refreshed and invigorated than
the kindest of those who have followed me can possibly be.
THE END.
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