Mountaineering in Colorado [pp. 167-170]

A PPLEETO NS' JO URNAL.
to have been leaving Denver for the ascent of Gray's
or Pike's Peaks, which are now approachable to the
summit by excellent roads or trails-excellent as
roads go west of the Missouri. The remains of
tourist picnics empty beer and wine bottles, fruit
and vegetable cans-are sometimes found at a rocky
point ten or twelve thousand feet above the level of
the sea, showing how inseparable are the modern
traveler and his creature comforts. I have seen the
smoke of a brier-wood pipe rolling upward and mingling with the vapors of eternal snows, whose icy
grip the sun blazing in a cloudless sky is powerless
to relax.
The area which has thus become so familiar
through pleasure-seekers is circumscribed, however
it extends a little way below and above Denver; it
epitomizes some of the most striking phases of Western scenery-eroded sandstones, high-walled canions,
and mountain lakes and peaks. But the far greater
territory west and south is, as it was nearly half a
century ago, known only to the Indian and the explorer. There are peaks and valleys in sight of
Pike's whose pristine fastnesses have never been
trodden by human feet, and whose sublime heights
have never yet been reduced to mathematical exactness by the surveyor's aneroid.
The sea of civilization beats against the eastern
base, and one wave higher than the others has occasionally formed a little settlement, such as Georgetown, at an extraordinary altitude; but the barrier is
too immense, too wild and strangely impregnable,
for-complete invasion, and, when the yellow plains
below are well populated, there will still be in the
hazy chain behind many spots unchanged by contact
with man or his agencies, yielding only to the slow
modifications of water and wind.
My acquaintance with the Rocky Mountains began on the last day of May, I875, and continued for
five-months, during which I had the opportunity of
studying them from many points of view. The windows of the Union Pacific train, as it emerged from
the first snow-shed,- were filled with eager faces, and,
as the snowy range ahead was suddenly revealed to us
from the crest of an undulation in the plains, not one
but all the passengers were thrilled as they might
have been at the first sight of land after a'sea-voyage. The day was gray and bleak. Long, wild
streaks of tempestuous clouds poured down their
wrath upon the peaks, and the peaks themselves were
so enveloped ii snow and bathed in vapor that their
elongated whiteness appeared to be a sunny break in
the sombre day. By-and-by we came to a stop
among some glaring little white houses and stores
built on a sandy flat, with an absurdly small church,
and an absurdly large number of bar-rooms among
them. This was Cheyenne, which, if it were not
renewed by sands from the surrounding desert, would
blow away in the constant volumes of dust that are
swept up from its treeless streets. Was Sahara more
desc ate? could anything at all be more sad? The
clou l-shapes brushing the mountains dissolved, and
were replaced again and again by others blacker and
vilder. The tone of the whole scene was drawn in
four colors-the pure white of the snow, the subtile
blue of the foot-hills, the vapid yellow of the plains,
and the leaden gray of the overcast sky-and the
effect upon a sensitive temperament was one of profound melancholy.
In the matter of size, too, the mountains were
disappointing, appearing scarcely larger than the familiar ranges of the Eastern States at the first glance.
But a closer study of them discovered certain features which indicated their real immensity. The lines
and curves are all acute, while the shadowy hollows
in their sides bristle with projections rising in terraces one above the other, like ribs in the sea-shore,
and the deep recesses are overhung with Titanic
crags and bowlders. There are polished, sterile surfaces everywhere, brought out with crystalline vividness in the thin and brilliant air, and the eye craves
and seeks in vain for a trace of moist vegetation.
Such were my earliest impressions, unmodified by
the subsequent experiences which I propose to describe.
We entered the field from Pueblo, the railway
terminus, about ninety miles south of Denver, and
thence meandered the base of the Greenhorn Mountains, camping at the end of the second day's march
on Apache Creek, one of the muddy little streams
which save the country from utter desolation, and
are traced on the Territorial maps in lines almost as
thick as their own water. The road was not, strictly
speaking, a road at all. It was a series of ruts of
varying depth, running across the wavy plains, and
the ruts were filled with dust and crusted with cones
of mud, which crumbled into more dust under the
mules' hoofs. Little beds of wild-verbenas bordered
it in a few places, and theirs was the grace that saved
it from utter desolation. The sun beat down with
tropical heat; twisted columns of yellow dust and
sand were lifted up by the whirlwinds, and trees and
rocks, oddly distorted, were reflected in the mirage.
The two latter were the greatest annoyances.
When we were riding along, and scarcely a breath
of air was stirring, a sudden roar broke upon the ear,
and without warning we were drawn into an eddying current of wind, rushing upward, and taking
with it clouds of sand, pebbles, and twigs. We
were blinded and choked at the same moment. This
was the whirlwind.
When at the close of a tiresome day's march we
were looking for wood and water, a lovely pool, surrounded by some trees, appeared a little way off the
road, and enticed us toward it. But we could no
more reach it than we could catch a will-o'-the-wisp
or a sunbeam, and we were fortunate when we found
our way back to the road again. This was the mirage, which sometimes plays freaks even with the
mountains, and gives them the appearance of being
suspended in the air, or balanced on a needle.
Neither of these phenomena was desired, and we
were content when we found a pool or brook in the
evening by which to camp.
Now, the reader is picturing to himself, perhaps,
a cozy little camp in the shelter of a gully; supper
cooking in a portable stove, and the other things
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