THE MOUNTAINS

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

AUTHOR OF

"THE BLAZED TRAIL, " "SILENT PLACES, " "THE FOREST, " ETC. 

PREFACE

The author has followed a true sequence of events practically in allparticulars save in respect to the character of the Tenderfoot. He isin one sense fictitious; in another sense real. He is real in that heis the apotheosis of many tenderfeet, and that everything he does inthis narrative he has done at one time or another in the author'sexperience. He is fictitious in the sense that he is in no way to beidentified with the third member of our party in the actual trip. 

CONTENTS

 I. THE RIDGE TRAIL II. ON EQUIPMENT III. ON HORSES IV. HOW TO GO ABOUT IT V. THE COAST RANGES VI. THE INFERNO VII. THE FOOT-HILLS VIII. THE PINES IX. THE TRAIL X. ON SEEING DEER XI. ON TENDERFEET XII. THE CAÑON XIII. TROUT, BUCKSKIN, AND PROSPECTORS XIV. ON CAMP COOKERY XV. ON THE WIND AT NIGHT XVI. THE VALLEY XVII. THE MAIN CREST XVIII. THE GIANT FOREST XIX. ON COWBOYS XX. THE GOLDEN TROUT XXI. ON GOING OUT XXII. THE LURE OF THE TRAIL

THE MOUNTAINS

I

THE RIDGE TRAIL

Six trails lead to the main ridge. They are all good trails, so thateven the casual tourist in the little Spanish-American town on theseacoast need have nothing to fear from the ascent. In some spots theycontract to an arm's length of space, outside of which limit they dropsheer away; elsewhere they stand up on end, zigzag in lacets each morehair-raising than the last, or fill to demoralization with looseboulders and shale. A fall on the part of your horse would mean a morethan serious accident; but Western horses do not fall. The majorpremise stands: even the casual tourist has no real reason for fear, however scared he may become. 

Our favorite route to the main ridge was by a way called the ColdSpring Trail. We used to enjoy taking visitors up it, mainly becauseyou come on the top suddenly, without warning. Then we collectedremarks. Everybody, even the most stolid, said something. 

You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy and graduallyascending creek-bed of a cañon, a half hour of laboring steepness inthe overarching mountain lilac and laurel. There you came to a greatrock gateway which seemed the top of the world. At the gateway was aBad Place where the ponies planted warily their little hoofs, and thevisitor played "eyes front, " and besought that his mount should notstumble. 

Beyond the gateway a lush level cañon into which you plunged as into abath; then again the laboring trail, up and always up toward the blueCalifornia sky, out of the lilacs, and laurels, and redwood chaparralinto the manzanita, the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, and the fineangular shale of the upper regions. Beyond the apparent summit youfound always other summits yet to be climbed. And all at once, likethrusting your shoulders out of a hatchway, you looked over the top. 

Then came the remarks. Some swore softly; some uttered appreciativeejaculation; some shouted aloud; some gasped; one man uttered threetimes the word "Oh, "--once breathlessly, Oh! once in awakeningappreciation, OH! once in wild enthusiasm, OH! Then invariably theyfell silent and looked. 

For the ridge, ascending from seaward in a gradual coquetry offoot-hills, broad low ranges, cross-systems, cañons, little flats, andgentle ravines, inland dropped off almost sheer to the river below. And from under your very feet rose, range after range, tier after tier, rank after rank, in increasing crescendo of wonderful tinted mountainsto the main crest of the Coast Ranges, the blue distance, themightiness of California's western systems. The eye followed them upand up, and farther and farther, with the accumulating emotion of awild rush on a toboggan. There came a point where the fact grew to bealmost too big for the appreciation, just as beyond a certain pointspeed seems to become unbearable. It left you breathless, wonder-stricken, awed. You could do nothing but look, and look, andlook again, tongue-tied by the impossibility of doing justice to whatyou felt. And in the far distance, finally, your soul, grown big in amoment, came to rest on the great precipices and pines of the greatestmountains of all, close under the sky. 

In a little, after the change had come to you, a change definite andenduring, which left your inner processes forever different from whatthey had been, you turned sharp to the west and rode five miles alongthe knife-edge Ridge Trail to where Rattlesnake Cañon led you down andback to your accustomed environment. 

To the left as you rode you saw, far on the horizon, rising to theheight of your eye, the mountains of the channel islands. Then thedeep sapphire of the Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchanging whiteof the surf and the yellow of the shore. Then the town like a littlemap, and the lush greens of the wide meadows, the fruit-groves, thelesser ranges--all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and pulsating withvitality. You filled your senses with it, steeped them in the beauty ofit. And at once, by a mere turn of the eyes, from the almost crudeinsistence of the bright primary color of life, you faced the tenuousazures of distance, the delicate mauves and amethysts, the lilacs andsaffrons of the arid country. 

This was the wonder we never tired of seeing for ourselves, of showingto others. And often, academically, perhaps a little wistfully, as onetalks of something to be dreamed of but never enjoyed, we spoke of howfine it would be to ride down into that land of mystery andenchantment, to penetrate one after another the cañons dimly outlinedin the shadows cast by the westering sun, to cross the mountains lyingoutspread in easy grasp of the eye, to gain the distant blue Ridge, andsee with our own eyes what lay beyond. 

For to its other attractions the prospect added that of impossibility, of unattainableness. These rides of ours were day rides. We had toget home by nightfall. Our horses had to be fed, ourselves to behoused. We had not time to continue on down the other side whither thetrail led. At the very and literal brink of achievement we were forcedto turn back. 

Gradually the idea possessed us. We promised ourselves that some daywe would explore. In our after-dinner smokes we spoke of it. Occasionally, from some hunter or forest-ranger, we gained little itemsof information, we learned the fascination of musical names--MonoCañon, Patrera Don Victor, Lloma Paloma, Patrera Madulce, Cuyamas, became familiar to us as syllables. We desired mightily to body themforth to ourselves as facts. The extent of our mental vision expanded. We heard of other mountains far beyond these farthest--mountains whosealmost unexplored vastnesses contained great forests, mighty valleys, strong water-courses, beautiful hanging-meadows, deep cañons ofgranite, eternal snows, --mountains so extended, so wonderful, thattheir secrets offered whole summers of solitary exploration. We cameto feel their marvel, we came to respect the inferno of the Desert thathemmed them in. Shortly we graduated from the indefiniteness ofrailroad maps to the intricacies of geological survey charts. Thefever was on us. We must go. 

A dozen of us desired. Three of us went; and of the manner of ourgoing, and what you must know who would do likewise, I shall try hereto tell. 

II

ON EQUIPMENT

If you would travel far in the great mountains where the trails are fewand bad, you will need a certain unique experience and skill. Beforeyou dare venture forth without a guide, you must be able to do a numberof things, and to do them well. 

First and foremost of all, you must be possessed of that strange sixthsense best described as the sense of direction. By it you always knowabout where you are. It is to some degree a memory for back-tracks andlandmarks, but to a greater extent an instinct for the lay of thecountry, for relative bearings, by which you are able to make your wayacross-lots back to your starting-place. It is not an uncommonfaculty, yet some lack it utterly. If you are one of the latter class, do not venture, for you will get lost as sure as shooting, and beinglost in the mountains is no joke. 

Some men possess it; others do not. The distinction seems to be almostarbitrary. It can be largely developed, but only in those with whomoriginal endowment of the faculty makes development possible. No matterhow long a direction-blind man frequents the wilderness, he is neversure of himself. Nor is the lack any reflection on the intelligence. Ionce traveled in the Black Hills with a young fellow who himselffrankly confessed that after much experiment he had come to theconclusion he could not "find himself. " He asked me to keep near him, and this I did as well as I could; but even then, three times duringthe course of ten days he lost himself completely in the tumultuousupheavals and cañons of that badly mixed region. Another, an oldgrouse-hunter, walked twice in a circle within the confines of a thickswamp about two miles square. On the other hand, many exhibit almostmarvelous skill in striking a bee-line for their objective point, andcan always tell you, even after an engrossing and wandering hunt, exactly where camp lies. And I know nothing more discouraging than tolook up after a long hard day to find your landmarks changed inappearance, your choice widened to at least five diverging and similarcañons, your pockets empty of food, and the chill mountain twilightdescending. 

Analogous to this is the ability to follow a dim trail. A trail in themountains often means merely a way through, a route picked out by someprospector, and followed since at long intervals by chance travelers. 

It may, moreover, mean the only way through. Missing it will bring youto ever-narrowing ledges, until at last you end at a precipice, andthere is no room to turn your horses around for the return. Some ofthe great box cañons thousands of feet deep are practicable by but onepassage, --and that steep and ingenious in its utilization of ledges, crevices, little ravines, and "hog's-backs"; and when the onlyindications to follow consist of the dim vestiges left by your lastpredecessor, perhaps years before, the affair becomes one ofconsiderable skill and experience. You must be able to pick outscratches made by shod hoofs on the granite, depressions almost filledin by the subsequent fall of decayed vegetation, excoriations on fallentrees. You must have the sense to know AT ONCE when you have overrunthese indications, and the patience to turn back immediately to yourlast certainty, there to pick up the next clue, even if it should takeyou the rest of the day. In short, it is absolutely necessary that yoube at least a persistent tracker. 

Parenthetically; having found the trail, be charitable. Blaze it, ifthere are trees; otherwise "monument" it by piling rocks on top of oneanother. Thus will those who come after bless your unknown shade. 

Third, you must know horses. I do not mean that you should be ahorse-show man, with a knowledge of points and pedigrees. But you mustlearn exactly what they can and cannot do in the matters of carryingweights, making distance, enduring without deterioration hard climbs inhigh altitudes; what they can or cannot get over in the way of badplaces. This last is not always a matter of appearance merely. Somebits of trail, seeming impassable to anything but a goat, a Westernhorse will negotiate easily; while others, not particularly terrifyingin appearance, offer complications of abrupt turn or a single bit ofunstable, leg-breaking footing which renders them exceedinglydangerous. You must, moreover, be able to manage your animals to thebest advantage in such bad places. Of course you must in the beginninghave been wise as to the selection of the horses. 

Fourth, you must know good horse-feed when you see it. Your animalsare depending entirely on the country; for of course you are carryingno dry feed for them. Their pasturage will present itself under avariety of aspects, all of which you must recognize with certainty. Some of the greenest, lushest, most satisfying-looking meadows grownothing but water-grasses of large bulk but small nutrition; whileapparently barren tracts often conceal small but strong growths ofgreat value. You must differentiate these. 

Fifth, you must possess the ability to pare a hoof, fit a shoe cold, nail it in place. A bare hoof does not last long on the granite, andyou are far from the nearest blacksmith. Directly in line with this, you must have the trick of picking up and holding a hoof without beingkicked, and you must be able to throw and tie without injuring him anyhorse that declines to be shod in any other way. 

Last, you must of course be able to pack a horse well, and must knowfour or five of the most essential pack-"hitches. "

With this personal equipment you ought to be able to get through thecountry. It comprises the absolutely essential. 

But further, for the sake of the highest efficiency, you should add, asfinish to your mountaineer's education, certain other items. Aknowledge of the habits of deer and the ability to catch trout withfair certainty are almost a necessity when far from the base ofsupplies. Occasionally the trail goes to pieces entirely: there youmust know something of the handling of an axe and pick. Learn how toswim a horse. You will have to take lessons in camp-fire cookery. Otherwise employ a guide. Of course your lungs, heart, and legs mustbe in good condition. 

As to outfit, certain especial conditions will differentiate your needsfrom those of forest and canoe travel. 

You will in the changing altitudes be exposed to greater variations intemperature. At morning you may travel in the hot arid foot-hills; atnoon you will be in the cool shades of the big pines; towards eveningyou may wallow through snowdrifts; and at dark you may camp wheremorning will show you icicles hanging from the brinks of littlewaterfalls. Behind your saddle you will want to carry a sweater, orbetter still a buckskin waistcoat. Your arms are never cold anyway, and the pockets of such a waistcoat, made many and deep, are handyreceptacles for smokables, matches, cartridges, and the like. For thenight-time, when the cold creeps down from the high peaks, you shouldprovide yourself with a suit of very heavy underwear and an extrasweater or a buckskin shirt. The latter is lighter, softer, and moreimpervious to the wind than the sweater. Here again I wish to placemyself on record as opposed to a coat. It is a useless ornament, assumed but rarely, and then only as substitute for a handier garment. 

Inasmuch as you will be a great deal called on to handle abrading andsometimes frozen ropes, you will want a pair of heavy buckskingauntlets. An extra pair of stout high-laced boots with smallHungarian hob-nails will come handy. It is marvelous how quicklyleather wears out in the downhill friction of granite and shale. Ionce found the heels of a new pair of shoes almost ground away by asingle giant-strides descent of a steep shale-coveredthirteen-thousand-foot mountain. Having no others I patched them withhair-covered rawhide and a bit of horseshoe. It sufficed, but was along and disagreeable job which an extra pair would have obviated. 

Balsam is practically unknown in the high hills, and the rocks areespecially hard. Therefore you will take, in addition to your grayarmy-blanket, a thick quilt or comforter to save your bones. This, with your saddle-blankets and pads as foundation, should give youease--if you are tough. Otherwise take a second quilt. 

A tarpaulin of heavy canvas 17 x 6 feet goes under you, and can be, ifnecessary, drawn up to cover your head. We never used a tent. Sinceyou do not have to pack your outfit on your own back, you can, if youchoose, include a small pillow. Your other personal belongings arethose you would carry into the Forest. I have elsewhere described whatthey should be. 

Now as to the equipment for your horses. 

The most important point for yourself is your riding-saddle. Thecowboy or military style and seat are the only practicable ones. Perhaps of these two the cowboy saddle is the better, for the simplereason that often in roping or leading a refractory horse, the horn isa great help. For steep-trail work the double cinch is preferable tothe single, as it need not be pulled so tight to hold the saddle inplace. 

Your riding-bridle you will make of an ordinary halter by riveting twosnaps to the lower part of the head-piece just above the corners of thehorse's mouth. These are snapped into the rings of the bit. At nightyou unsnap the bit, remove it and the reins, and leave the halter parton the horse. Each animal, riding and packing, has furthermore a shortlead-rope attached always to his halter-ring. 

Of pack-saddles the ordinary sawbuck tree is by all odds the best, provided it fits. It rarely does. If you can adjust the woodaccurately to the anatomy of the individual horse, so that the sidepieces bear evenly and smoothly without gouging the withers or chafingthe back, you are possessed of the handiest machine made for thepurpose. Should individual fitting prove impracticable, get an old LOWCalifornia riding-tree and have a blacksmith bolt an upright spike onthe cantle. You can hang the loops of the kyacks or alforjas--thesacks slung on either side the horse--from the pommel and this ironspike. Whatever the saddle chosen, it should be supplied withbreast-straps, breeching, and two good cinches. 

The kyacks or alforjas just mentioned are made either of heavy canvas, or of rawhide shaped square and dried over boxes. After drying, theboxes are removed, leaving the stiff rawhide like small trunks open atthe top. I prefer the canvas, for the reason that they can be foldedand packed for railroad transportation. If a stiffer receptacle iswanted for miscellaneous loose small articles, you can insert asoap-box inside the canvas. It cannot be denied that the rawhide willstand rougher usage. 

Probably the point now of greatest importance is that ofsaddle-padding. A sore back is the easiest thing in the world toinduce, --three hours' chafing will turn the trick, --and once it is doneyou are in trouble for a month. No precautions or pains are too greatto take in assuring your pack-animals against this. On a pinch youwill give up cheerfully part of your bedding to the cause. However, two good-quality woolen blankets properly and smoothly folded, a padmade of two ordinary collar-pads sewed parallel by means of canvasstrips in such a manner as to lie along both sides of the backbone, awell-fitted saddle, and care in packing will nearly always suffice. Ihave gone months without having to doctor a single abrasion. 

You will furthermore want a pack-cinch and a pack-rope for each horse. The former are of canvas or webbing provided with a ring at one end anda big bolted wooden hook at the other. The latter should be half-inchlines of good quality. Thirty-three feet is enough for packing only;but we usually bought them forty feet long, so they could be used alsoas picket-ropes. Do not fail to include several extra. They arealways fraying out, getting broken, being cut to free a fallen horse, or becoming lost. 

Besides the picket-ropes, you will also provide for each horse a pairof strong hobbles. Take them to a harness-maker and have him sewinside each ankle-band a broad strip of soft wash-leather twice thewidth of the band. This will save much chafing. Some advocatesheepskin with the wool on, but this I have found tends to soak upwater or to freeze hard. At least two loud cow-bells with neck-strapsare handy to assist you in locating whither the bunch may have strayedduring the night. They should be hung on the loose horses mostinclined to wander. 

Accidents are common in the hills. The repair-kit is normally rathercomprehensive. Buy a number of extra latigos, or cinch-straps. Include many copper rivets of all sizes--they are the best quick-repairknown for almost everything, from putting together a smashedpack-saddle to cobbling a worn-out boot. Your horseshoeing outfitshould be complete with paring-knife, rasp, nail-set, clippers, hammer, nails, and shoes. The latter will be the malleable soft iron, low-calked "Goodenough, " which can be fitted cold. Purchase a dozenfront shoes and a dozen and a half hind shoes. The latter wear outfaster on the trail. A box or so of hob-nails for your own boots, awaxed end and awl, a whetstone, a file, and a piece of buckskin forstrings and patches complete the list. 

Thus equipped, with your grub supply, your cooking-utensils, yourpersonal effects, your rifle and your fishing-tackle, you should beable to go anywhere that man and horses can go, entirely self-reliant, independent of the towns. 

III

ON HORSES

I really believe that you will find more variation of individual andinteresting character in a given number of Western horses than in anequal number of the average men one meets on the street. Their wholeeducation, from the time they run loose on the range until the timewhen, branded, corralled, broken, and saddled, they pick their wayunder guidance over a bad piece of trail, tends to develop theirself-reliance. They learn to think for themselves. 

To begin with two misconceptions, merely by way of clearing the ground:the Western horse is generally designated as a "bronco. " The term isconsidered synonymous of horse or pony. This is not so. A horse is"bronco" when he is ugly or mean or vicious or unbroken. So is a cow"bronco" in the same condition, or a mule, or a burro. Again, fromcertain Western illustrators and from a few samples, our notion of thecow-pony has become that of a lean, rangy, wiry, thin-necked, scrawnybeast. Such may be found. But the average good cow-pony is apt to bean exceedingly handsome animal, clean-built, graceful. This isnatural, when you stop to think of it, for he is descended direct fromMoorish and Arabian stock. 

Certain characteristics he possesses beyond the capabilities of theordinary horse. The most marvelous to me of these is hissure-footedness. Let me give you a few examples. 

I once was engaged with a crew of cowboys in rounding up mustangs insouthern Arizona. We would ride slowly in through the hills until wecaught sight of the herds. Then it was a case of running them down andheading them off, of turning the herd, milling it, of rushing it whileconfused across country and into the big corrals. The surface of theground was composed of angular volcanic rocks about the size of yourtwo fists, between which the bunch-grass sprouted. An Eastern riderwould ride his horse very gingerly and at a walk, and then thank hislucky stars if he escaped stumbles. The cowboys turned their mountsthrough at a dead run. It was beautiful to see the ponies go, liftingtheir feet well up and over, planting them surely and firmly, andnevertheless making speed and attending to the game. Once, when we hadpushed the herd up the slope of a butte, it made a break to get througha little hog-back. The only way to head it was down a series of roughboulder ledges laid over a great sheet of volcanic rock. The man atthe hog-back put his little gray over the ledges and boulders, down thesheet of rock, --hop, slip, slide, --and along the side hill in time tohead off the first of the mustangs. During the ten days of riding Isaw no horse fall. The animal I rode, Button by name, never evenstumbled. 

In the Black Hills years ago I happened to be one of the inmates of asmall mining-camp. Each night the work-animals, after being fed, wereturned loose in the mountains. As I possessed the only cow-pony in theoutfit, he was fed in the corral, and kept up for the purpose ofrounding up the others. Every morning one of us used to ride him outafter the herd. Often it was necessary to run him at full speed alongthe mountain-side, over rocks, boulders, and ledges, across ravines andgullies. Never but once in three months did he fall. 

On the trail, too, they will perform feats little short of marvelous. Mere steepness does not bother them at all. They sit back almost ontheir haunches, bunch their feet together, and slide. I have seen themgo down a hundred feet this way. In rough country they place theirfeet accurately and quickly, gauge exactly the proper balance. I haveled my saddle-horse, Bullet, over country where, undoubtedly to hisintense disgust, I myself have fallen a dozen times in the course of amorning. Bullet had no such troubles. Any of the mountain horses willhop cheerfully up or down ledges anywhere. They will even walk a logfifteen or twenty feet above a stream. I have seen the same trickperformed in Barnum's circus as a wonderful feat, accompanied by brassbands and breathlessness. We accomplished it on our trip with out anybrass bands; I cannot answer for the breathlessness. As for steadinessof nerve, they will walk serenely on the edge of precipices a man wouldhate to look over, and given a palm's breadth for the soles of theirfeet, they will get through. Over such a place I should a lot rathertrust Bullet than myself. 

In an emergency the Western horse is not apt to lose his head. When apack-horse falls down, he lies still without struggle until eased ofhis pack and told to get up. If he slips off an edge, he tries todouble his fore legs under him and slide. Should he find himself in atight place, he waits patiently for you to help him, and then proceedsgingerly. A friend of mine rode a horse named Blue. One day, thetrail being slippery with rain, he slid and fell. My friend managed asuccessful jump, but Blue tumbled about thirty feet to the bed of thecañon. Fortunately he was not injured. After some difficulty myfriend managed to force his way through the chaparral to where Bluestood. Then it was fine to see them. My friend would go ahead a fewfeet, picking a route. When he had made his decision, he called Blue. Blue came that far, and no farther. Several times the little horsebalanced painfully and unsteadily like a goat, all four feet on aboulder, waiting for his signal to advance. In this manner theyregained the trail, and proceeded as though nothing had happened. Instances could be multiplied indefinitely. 

A good animal adapts himself quickly. He is capable of learning byexperience. In a country entirely new to him he soon discovers thebest method of getting about, where the feed grows, where he can findwater. He is accustomed to foraging for himself. You do not need toshow him his pasturage. If there is anything to eat anywhere in thedistrict he will find it. Little tufts of bunch-grass growingconcealed under the edges of the brush, he will search out. If hecannot get grass, he knows how to rustle for the browse of smallbushes. Bullet would devour sage-brush, when he could get nothingelse; and I have even known him philosophically to fill up on drypine-needles. There is no nutrition in dry pine-needles, but Bulletgot a satisfyingly full belly. On the trail a well-seasoned horse willbe always on the forage, snatching here a mouthful, yonder a singlespear of grass, and all without breaking the regularity of his gait, ordelaying the pack-train behind him. At the end of the day's travel heis that much to the good. 

By long observation thus you will construct your ideal of the mountainhorse, and in your selection of your animals for an expedition you willsearch always for that ideal. It is only too apt to be modified bypersonal idiosyncrasies, and proverbially an ideal is difficult ofattainment; but you will, with care, come closer to its realizationthan one accustomed only to the conventionality of an artificiallyreared horse would believe possible. 

The ideal mountain horse, when you come to pick him out, is of mediumsize. He should be not smaller than fourteen hands nor larger thanfifteen. He is strongly but not clumsily built, short-coupled, withnone of the snipy speedy range of the valley animal. You will selectpreferably one of wide full forehead, indicating intelligence, low inthe withers, so the saddle will not be apt to gall him. His surenessof foot should be beyond question, and of course he must be an expertat foraging. A horse that knows but one or two kinds of feed, and thatstarves unless he can find just those kinds, is an abomination. Hemust not jump when you throw all kinds of rattling and terrifyingtarpaulins across him, and he must not mind if the pack-ropes fallabout his heels. In the day's march he must follow like a dog withoutthe necessity of a lead-rope, nor must he stray far when turned looseat night. 

Fortunately, when removed from the reassuring environment ofcivilization, horses are gregarious. They hate to be separated from thebunch to which they are accustomed. Occasionally one of us would stopon the trail, for some reason or another, thus dropping behind thepack-train. Instantly the saddle-horse so detained would begin to growuneasy. Bullet used by all means in his power to try to induce me toproceed. He would nibble me with his lips, paw the ground, dance in acircle, and finally sidle up to me in the position of being mounted, than which he could think of no stronger hint. Then when I had finallyremounted, it was hard to hold him in. He would whinny frantically, scramble with enthusiasm up trails steep enough to draw a protest atordinary times, and rejoin his companions with every symptom ofgratification and delight. This gregariousness and alarm at being leftalone in a strange country tends to hold them together at night. Youare reasonably certain that in the morning, having found one, you willcome upon the rest not far away. 

The personnel of our own outfit we found most interesting. Althoughcollected from divergent localities they soon became acquainted. In acrowded corral they were always compact in their organization, stickingclose together, and resisting as a solid phalanx encroachments on theirfeed by other and stranger horses. Their internal organization wasvery amusing. A certain segregation soon took place. Some becameleaders; others by common consent were relegated to the position ofsubordinates. 

The order of precedence on the trail was rigidly preserved by thepack-horses. An attempt by Buckshot to pass Dinkey, for example, thelatter always met with a bite or a kick by way of hint. If the geldingstill persisted, and tried to pass by a long detour, the mare wouldrush out at him angrily, her ears back, her eyes flashing, her neckextended. And since Buckshot was by no means inclined always to givein meekly, we had opportunities for plenty of amusement. The two werealways skirmishing. When by a strategic short cut across the angle of atrail Buckshot succeeded in stealing a march on Dinkey, while she wasnipping a mouthful, his triumph was beautiful to see. He never heldthe place for long, however. Dinkey's was the leadership by force ofambition and energetic character, and at the head of the pack-train shenormally marched. 

Yet there were hours when utter indifference seemed to fall on themilitant spirits. They trailed peacefully and amiably in the rearwhile Lily or Jenny marched with pride in the coveted advance. But theplace was theirs only by sufferance. A bite or a kick sent them backto their own positions when the true leaders grew tired of theirvacation. 

However rigid this order of precedence, the saddle-animals wereacknowledged as privileged;--and knew it. They could go where theypleased. Furthermore theirs was the duty of correcting infractions ofthe trail discipline, such as grazing on the march, or attemptingunauthorized short cuts. They appreciated this duty. Bullet alwaysbecame vastly indignant if one of the pack-horses misbehaved. He wouldrun at the offender angrily, hustle him to his place with savage nipsof his teeth, and drop back to his own position with a comical air ofvirtue. Once in a great while it would happen that on my spurring upfrom the rear of the column I would be mistaken for one of thepack-horses attempting illegally to get ahead. Immediately Dinkey orBuckshot would snake his head out crossly to turn me to the rear. Itwas really ridiculous to see the expression of apology with which theywould take it all back, and the ostentatious, nose-elevatedindifference in Bullet's very gait as he marched haughtily by. Sorigid did all the animals hold this convention that actually in the SanJoaquin Valley Dinkey once attempted to head off a Southern Pacifictrain. She ran at full speed diagonally toward it, her eyes strikingfire, her ears back, her teeth snapping in rage because the locomotivewould not keep its place behind her ladyship. 

Let me make you acquainted with our outfit. 

I rode, as you have gathered, an Arizona pony named Bullet. He was ahandsome fellow with a chestnut brown coat, long mane and tail, and abeautiful pair of brown eyes. Wes always called him "Baby. " He was infact the youngster of the party, with all the engaging qualities ofyouth. I never saw a horse more willing. He wanted to do what youwanted him to; it pleased him, and gave him a warm consciousness ofvirtue which the least observant could not fail to remark. Whenleading he walked industriously ahead, setting the pace; whendriving, --that is, closing up the rear, --he attended strictly tobusiness. Not for the most luscious bunch of grass that ever grewwould he pause even for an instant. Yet in his off hours, when I rodeirresponsibly somewhere in the middle, he was a great hand to forage. Few choice morsels escaped him. He confided absolutely in his rider inthe matter of bad country, and would tackle anything I would put himat. It seemed that he trusted me not to put him at anything that wouldhurt him. This was an invaluable trait when an example had to be setto the reluctance of the other horses. He was a great swimmer. Probably the most winning quality of his nature was his extremefriendliness. He was always wandering into camp to be petted, nibblingme over with his lips, begging to have his forehead rubbed, thrustinghis nose under an elbow, and otherwise telling how much he thought ofus. Whoever broke him did a good job. I never rode a better-reinedhorse. A mere indication of the bridle-hand turned him to right orleft, and a mere raising of the hand without the slightest pressure onthe bit stopped him short. And how well he understood cow-work! Turnhim loose after the bunch, and he would do the rest. All I had to dowas to stick to him. That in itself was no mean task, for he turnedlike a flash, and was quick as a cat on his feet. At night I alwayslet him go foot free. He would be there in the morning, and I couldalways walk directly up to him with the bridle in plain sight in myhand. Even at a feedless camp we once made where we had shot a coupleof deer, he did not attempt to wander off in search of pasture, aswould most horses. He nosed around unsuccessfully until pitch dark, then came into camp, and with great philosophy stood tail to the fireuntil morning. I could always jump off anywhere for a shot, withouteven the necessity of "tying him to the ground, " by throwing the reinsover his head. He would wait for me, although he was never overfond offirearms. 

Nevertheless Bullet had his own sense of dignity. He was literally asgentle as a kitten, but he drew a line. I shall never forget how once, being possessed of a desire to find out whether we could swim ouroutfit across a certain stretch of the Merced River, I climbed himbareback. He bucked me off so quickly that I never even got settled onhis back. Then he gazed at me with sorrow, while, laughingirrepressibly at this unusual assertion of independent ideas, I pickedmyself out of a wild-rose bush. He did not attempt to run away fromme, but stood to be saddled, and plunged boldly into the swift waterwhere I told him to. Merely he thought it disrespectful in me to ridehim without his proper harness. He was the pet of the camp. 

As near as I could make out, he had but one fault. He was altogethertoo sensitive about his hind quarters, and would jump like a rabbit ifanything touched him there. 

Wes rode a horse we called Old Slob. Wes, be it premised, was aninteresting companion. He had done everything, --seal-hunting, abalone-gathering, boar-hunting, all kinds of shooting, cow-punching inthe rough Coast Ranges, and all other queer and outlandish andpicturesque vocations by which a man can make a living. He weighed twohundred and twelve pounds and was the best game shot with a rifle Iever saw. 

As you may imagine, Old Slob was a stocky individual. He was builtfrom the ground up. His disposition was quiet, slow, honest. Aboveall, he gave the impression of vast, very vast experience. Never did hehurry his mental processes, although he was quick enough in hismovements if need arose. He quite declined to worry about anything. Consequently, in spite of the fact that he carried by far the heaviestman in the company, he stayed always fat and in good condition. Therewas something almost pathetic in Old Slob's willingness to go onworking, even when more work seemed like an imposition. You could notfail to fall in love with his mild inquiring gentle eyes, and his uttertrust in the goodness of human nature. His only fault was an excess ofcaution. Old Slob was very very experienced. He knew all abouttrails, and he declined to be hurried over what he considered a badplace. Wes used sometimes to disagree with him as to what constituteda bad place. "Some day you're going to take a tumble, you old fool, "Wes used to address him, "if you go on fiddling down steep rocks withyour little old monkey work. Why don't you step out?" Only Old Slobnever did take a tumble. He was willing to do anything for you, evento the assuming of a pack. This is considered by a saddle-animaldistinctly as a come-down. 

The Tenderfoot, by the irony of fate, drew a tenderfoot horse. Tunemahwas a big fool gray that was constitutionally rattle-brained. He meantwell enough, but he didn't know anything. When he came to a bad placein the trail, he took one good look--and rushed it. Constantly weexpected him to come to grief. It wore on the Tenderfoot's nerves. Tunemah was always trying to wander off the trail, trying fool routesof his own invention. If he were sent ahead to set the pace, he laggedand loitered and constantly looked back, worried lest he get too far inadvance and so lose the bunch. If put at the rear, he fretted againstthe bit, trying to push on at a senseless speed. In spite of hisextreme anxiety to stay with the train, he would once in a blue moonget a strange idea of wandering off solitary through the mountains, passing good feed, good water, good shelter. We would find him, aftera greater or less period of difficult tracking, perched in a sillyfashion on some elevation. Heaven knows what his idea was: it certainlywas neither search for feed, escape, return whence he came, nor desirefor exercise. When we came up with him, he would gaze mildly at usfrom a foolish vacant eye and follow us peaceably back to camp. Likemost weak and silly people, he had occasional stubborn fits when youcould beat him to a pulp without persuading him. He was one of thetype already mentioned that knows but two or three kinds of feed. Astime went on he became thinner and thinner. The other horsesprospered, but Tunemah failed. He actually did not know enough to takecare of himself; and could not learn. Finally, when about two monthsout, we traded him at a cow-camp for a little buckskin called Monache. 

So much for the saddle-horses. The pack-animals were four. 

A study of Dinkey's character and an experience of her characteristicsalways left me with mingled feelings. At times I was inclined to thinkher perfection: at other times thirty cents would have been esteemed byme as a liberal offer for her. To enumerate her good points: she wasan excellent weight-carrier; took good care of her pack that it neverscraped nor bumped; knew all about trails, the possibilities of shortcuts, the best way of easing herself downhill; kept fat and healthy indistricts where grew next to no feed at all; was past-mistress in thepicking of routes through a trailless country. Her endurance wasmarvelous; her intelligence equally so. In fact too great intelligenceperhaps accounted for most of her defects. She thought too much forherself; she made up opinions about people; she speculated on just howfar each member of the party, man or beast, would stand imposition, andtried conclusions with each to test the accuracy of her speculations;she obstinately insisted on her own way in going up and down hill, --away well enough for Dinkey, perhaps, but hazardous to the other lessskillful animals who naturally would follow her lead. If she didcondescend to do things according to your ideas, it was with a mentalreservation. You caught her sardonic eye fixed on you contemptuously. You felt at once that she knew another method, a much better method, with which yours compared most unfavorably. "I'd like to kick you inthe stomach, " Wes used to say; "you know too much for a horse!"

If one of the horses bucked under the pack, Dinkey deliberately triedto stampede the others--and generally succeeded. She invariably ledthem off whenever she could escape her picket-rope. In case of troubleof any sort, instead of standing still sensibly, she pretended to besubject to wild-eyed panics. It was all pretense, for when you DIDyield to temptation and light into her with the toe of your boot, shesubsided into common sense. The spirit of malevolent mischief was hers. 

Her performances when she was being packed were ridiculouslyhistrionic. As soon as the saddle was cinched, she spread her legsapart, bracing them firmly as though about to receive the weight of aniron safe. Then as each article of the pack was thrown across herback, she flinched and uttered the most heart-rending groans. We usedsometimes to amuse ourselves by adding merely an empty sack, or otherarticle quite without weight. The groans and tremblings of the bracedlegs were quite as pitiful as though we had piled on a sack of flour. Dinkey, I had forgotten to state, was a white horse, and belonged toWes. 

Jenny also was white and belonged to Wes. Her chief characteristic washer devotion to Dinkey. She worshiped Dinkey, and seconded herenthusiastically. Without near the originality of Dinkey, she was yet avery good and sure pack-horse. The deceiving part about Jenny was hereye. It was baleful with the spirit of evil, --snaky and black, andwith green sideways gleams in it. Catching the flash of it, you wouldforever after avoid getting in range of her heels or teeth. But it wasall a delusion. Jenny's disposition was mild and harmless. 

The third member of the pack-outfit we bought at an auction sale inrather a peculiar manner. About sixty head of Arizona horses of the C. A. Bar outfit were being sold. Toward the close of the afternoon theybrought out a well-built stocky buckskin of first-rate appearanceexcept that his left flank was ornamented with five different brands. The auctioneer called attention to him. 

"Here is a first-rate all-round horse, " said he. "He is sound; willride, work, or pack; perfectly broken, mild, and gentle. He would makea first-rate family horse, for he has a kind disposition. "

The official rider put a saddle on him to give him a demonstrating turnaround the track. Then that mild, gentle, perfectly broken familyhorse of kind disposition gave about as pretty an exhibition ofbarbed-wire bucking as you would want to see. Even the auctioneer hadto join in the wild shriek of delight that went up from the crowd. Hecould not get a bid, and I bought the animal in later very cheaply. 

As I had suspected, the trouble turned out to be merely exuberance ornervousness before a crowd. He bucked once with me under the saddle;and twice subsequently under a pack, --that was all. Buckshot was thebest pack-horse we had. Bar an occasional saunter into the brush whenhe got tired of the trail, we had no fault to find with him. Hecarried a heavy pack, was as sure-footed as Bullet, as sagacious on thetrail as Dinkey, and he always attended strictly to his own business. Moreover he knew that business thoroughly, knew what should be expectedof him, accomplished it well and quietly. His disposition wasdignified but lovable. As long as you treated him well, he was asgentle as you could ask. But once let Buckshot get it into his headthat he was being imposed on, or once let him see that your temper hadbetrayed you into striking him when he thought he did not deserve it, and he cut loose vigorously and emphatically with his heels. Hedeclined to be abused. 

There remains but Lily. I don't know just how to do justice toLily--the "Lily maid. " We named her that because she looked it. Hercolor was a pure white, her eye was virginal and silly, her long bangstrayed in wanton carelessness across her face and eyes, her expressionwas foolish, and her legs were long and rangy. She had the generalappearance of an overgrown school-girl too big for short dresses andtoo young for long gowns;--a school-girl named Flossie, or Mamie, orLily. So we named her that. 

At first hers was the attitude of the timid and shrinking tenderfoot. She stood in awe of her companions; she appreciated her lack ofexperience. Humbly she took the rear; slavishly she copied the otherhorses; closely she clung to camp. Then in a few weeks, like mosttenderfeet, she came to think that her short experience had taught hereverything there was to know. She put on airs. She became too cockyand conceited for words. 

Everything she did was exaggerated, overdone. She assumed her pack withan air that plainly said, "Just see what a good horse am I!" Shestarted out three seconds before the others in a manner intended toshame their procrastinating ways. Invariably she was the last to rest, and the first to start on again. She climbed over-vigorously, with themanner of conscious rectitude. "Acts like she was trying to get herwages raised, " said Wes. 

In this manner she wore herself down. If permitted she would haveclimbed until winded, and then would probably have fallen off somewherefor lack of strength. Where the other horses watched the movements ofthose ahead, in order that when a halt for rest was called they mightstop at an easy place on the trail, Lily would climb on until jammedagainst the animal immediately preceding her. Thus often she foundherself forced to cling desperately to extremely bad footing until theothers were ready to proceed. Altogether she was a precious nuisance, that acted busily but without thinking. 

Two virtues she did possess. She was a glutton for work; and she couldfall far and hard without injuring herself. This was lucky, for shewas always falling. Several times we went down to her fully expectingto find her dead or so crippled that she would have to be shot. Theloss of a little skin was her only injury. She got to be quitephilosophic about it. On losing her balance she would tumblepeaceably, and then would lie back with an air of luxury, her eyesclosed, while we worked to free her. When we had loosened the pack, Wes would twist her tail. Thereupon she would open one eye inquiringlyas though to say, "Hullo! Done already?" Then leisurely she wouldarise and shake herself. 

IV

ON HOW TO GO ABOUT IT

One truth you must learn to accept, believe as a tenet of your faith, and act upon always. It is that your entire welfare depends on thecondition of your horses. They must, as a consequence, receive alwaysyour first consideration. As long as they have rest and food, you aresure of getting along; as soon as they fail, you are reduced todifficulties. So absolute is this truth that it has passed into anidiom. When a Westerner wants to tell you that he lacks a thing, heinforms you he is "afoot" for it. "Give me a fill for my pipe, " hebegs; "I'm plumb afoot for tobacco. "

Consequently you think last of your own comfort. In casting about for aplace to spend the night, you look out for good feed. That assured, all else is of slight importance; you make the best of whatever campingfacilities may happen to be attached. If necessary you will sleep ongranite or in a marsh, walk a mile for firewood or water, if only youranimals are well provided for. And on the trail you often will worktwice as hard as they merely to save them a little. In whatever I maytell you regarding practical expedients, keep this always in mind. 

As to the little details of your daily routine in the mountains, manyare worth setting down, however trivial they may seem. They mark thedifference between the greenhorn and the old-timer; but, moreimportant, they mark also the difference between the right and thewrong, the efficient and the inefficient ways of doing things. 

In the morning the cook for the day is the first man afoot, usuallyabout half past four. He blows on his fingers, casts malevolentglances at the sleepers, finally builds his fire and starts his meal. Then he takes fiendish delight in kicking out the others. They do notrun with glad shouts to plunge into the nearest pool, as most campingfiction would have us believe. Not they. The glad shout and nearestpool can wait until noon when the sun is warm. They, too, blow ontheir fingers and curse the cook for getting them up so early. All eatbreakfast and feel better. 

Now the cook smokes in lordly ease. One of the other men washes thedishes, while his companion goes forth to drive in the horses. Washingdishes is bad enough, but fumbling with frozen fingers at stubbornhobble-buckles is worse. At camp the horses are caught, and each istied near his own saddle and pack. 

The saddle-horses are attended to first. Thus they are available forbusiness in case some of the others should make trouble. You will seethat your saddle-blankets are perfectly smooth, and so laid that theedges are to the front where they are least likely to roll under orwrinkle. After the saddle is in place, lift it slightly and loosen theblanket along the back bone so it will not draw down tight under theweight of the rider. Next hang your rifle-scabbard under your leftleg. It should be slanted along the horse's side at such an angle thatneither will the muzzle interfere with the animal's hind leg, nor thebutt with your bridle-hand. This angle must be determined byexperiment. The loop in front should be attached to the scabbard, soit can be hung over the horn; that behind to the saddle, so the muzzlecan be thrust through it. When you come to try this method, you willappreciate its handiness. Besides the rifle, you will carry also yourrope, camera, and a sweater or waistcoat for changes in temperature. In your saddle bags are pipe and tobacco, perhaps a chunk of bread, your note-book, and the map--if there is any. Thus your saddle-horseis outfitted. Do not forget your collapsible rubber cup. About yourwaist you will wear your cartridge-belt with six-shooter andsheath-knife. I use a forty-five caliber belt. By threading a buckskin thong in and out through some of the cartridge loops, their sizeis sufficiently reduced to hold also the 30-40 rifle cartridges. ThusI carry ammunition for both revolver and rifle in the one belt. Thebelt should not be buckled tight about your waist, but should hang welldown on the hip. This is for two reasons. In the first place, it doesnot drag so heavily at your anatomy, and falls naturally into positionwhen you are mounted. In the second place, you can jerk your gun outmore easily from a loose-hanging holster. Let your knife-sheath be sodeep as almost to cover the handle, and the knife of the very beststeel procurable. I like a thin blade. If you are a student of animalanatomy, you can skin and quarter a deer with nothing heavier than apocket-knife. 

When you come to saddle the pack-horses, you must exercise even greatercare in getting the saddle-blankets smooth and the saddle in place. There is some give and take to a rider; but a pack carries "dead, " andgives the poor animal the full handicap of its weight at all times. Arider dismounts in bad or steep places; a pack stays on until themorning's journey is ended. See to it, then, that it is on right. 

Each horse should have assigned him a definite and, as nearly aspossible, unvarying pack. Thus you will not have to search everywherefor the things you need. 

For example, in our own case, Lily was known as the cook-horse. Shecarried all the kitchen utensils, the fire-irons, the axe, and matches. In addition her alforjas contained a number of little bags in whichwere small quantities for immediate use of all the different sorts ofprovisions we had with us. When we made camp we unpacked her near thebest place for a fire, and everything was ready for the cook. Jenny wasa sort of supply store, for she transported the main stock of theprovisions of which Lily's little bags contained samples. Dinkeyhelped out Jenny, and in addition--since she took such good care of herpack--was intrusted with the fishing-rods, the shot-gun, themedicine-bag, small miscellaneous duffle, and whatever deer or bearmeat we happened to have. Buckshot's pack consisted of things notoften used, such as all the ammunition, the horse-shoeing outfit, repair-kit, and the like. It was rarely disturbed at all. 

These various things were all stowed away in the kyacks or alforjaswhich hung on either side. They had to be very accurately balanced. The least difference in weight caused one side to sag, and that in turnchafed the saddle-tree against the animal's withers. 

So far, so good. Next comes the affair of the top packs. Lay yourduffle-bags across the middle of the saddle. Spread the blankets andquilts as evenly as possible. Cover all with the canvas tarpaulinsuitably folded. Everything is now ready for the pack-rope. 

The first thing anybody asks you when it is discovered that you know alittle something of pack-trains is, "Do you throw the Diamond Hitch?"Now the Diamond is a pretty hitch and a firm one, but it is by no meansthe fetish some people make of it. They would have you believe that itrepresents the height of the packer's art; and once having mastered it, they use it religiously for every weight, shape, and size of pack. Thetruth of the matter is that the style of hitch should be variedaccording to the use to which it is to be put. 

The Diamond is good because it holds firmly, is a great flattener, andis especially adapted to the securing of square boxes. It iscelebrated because it is pretty and rather difficult to learn. Also itpossesses the advantage for single-handed packing that it can be thrownslack throughout and then tightened, and that the last pull tightensthe whole hitch. However, for ordinary purposes, with a quiet horseand a comparatively soft pack, the common Square Hitch holds wellenough and is quickly made. For a load of small articles and heavyalforjas there is nothing like the Lone Packer. It too is a bit hardto learn. Chiefly is it valuable because the last pulls draw thealforjas away from the horse's sides, thus preventing their chafinghim. Of the many hitches that remain, you need learn, to complete yourlist for all practical purposes, only the Bucking Hitch. It iscomplicated, and takes time and patience to throw, but it is warrantedto hold your deck-load through the most violent storms bronco ingenuitycan stir up. 

These four will be enough. Learn to throw them, and take pains alwaysto throw them good and tight. A loose pack is the best expedient theenemy of your soul could possibly devise. It always turns or comes topieces on the edge of things; and then you will spend the rest of themorning trailing a wildly bucking horse by the burst and scatteredarticles of camp duffle. It is furthermore your exhilarating task, after you have caught him, to take stock, and spend most of theafternoon looking for what your first search passed by. Wes and I oncehunted two hours for as large an object as a Dutch oven. After whichyou can repack. This time you will snug things down. You should havedone so in the beginning. 

Next, the lead-ropes are made fast to the top of the packs. There ishere to be learned a certain knot. In case of trouble you can reachfrom your saddle and jerk the whole thing free by a single pull on aloose end. 

All is now ready. You take a last look around to see that nothing hasbeen left. One of the horsemen starts on ahead. The pack-horses swingin behind. We soon accustomed ours to recognize the whistling of "Bootsand Saddles" as a signal for the advance. Another horseman brings upthe rear. The day's journey has begun. 

To one used to pleasure-riding the affair seems almost too deliberate. The leader plods steadily, stopping from time to time to rest on thesteep slopes. The others string out in a leisurely procession. It doesno good to hurry. The horses will of their own accord stay in sight ofone another, and constant nagging to keep the rear closed up onlyworries them without accomplishing any valuable result. In goinguphill especially, let the train take its time. Each animal is likelyto have his own ideas about when and where to rest. If he does, respect them. See to it merely that there is no prolonged yielding tothe temptation of meadow feed, and no careless or malicious strayingoff the trail. A minute's difference in the time of arrival does notcount. Remember that the horses are doing hard and continuous work ona grass diet. 

The day's distance will not seem to amount to much in actual miles, especially if, like most Californians, you are accustomed on a freshhorse to make an occasional sixty or seventy between suns; but it oughtto suffice. There is a lot to be seen and enjoyed in a mountain mile. Through the high country two miles an hour is a fair average rate ofspeed, so you can readily calculate that fifteen make a pretty longday. You will be afoot a good share of the time. If you were out fromhome for only a few hours' jaunt, undoubtedly you would ride your horseover places where in an extended trip you will prefer to lead him. Itis always a question of saving your animals. 

About ten o'clock you must begin to figure on water. No horse willdrink in the cool of the morning, and so, when the sun gets well up, hewill be thirsty. Arrange it. 

As to the method of travel, you can either stop at noon or pushstraight on through. We usually arose about half past four; got underway by seven; and then rode continuously until ready to make the nextcamp. In the high country this meant until two or three in theafternoon, by which time both we and the horses were pretty hungry. But when we did make camp, the horses had until the following morningto get rested and to graze, while we had all the remainder of theafternoon to fish, hunt, or loaf. Sometimes, however, it was moreexpedient to make a lunch-camp at noon. Then we allowed an hour forgrazing, and about half an hour to pack and unpack. It meant steadywork for ourselves. To unpack, turn out the horses, cook, wash dishes, saddle up seven animals, and repack, kept us very busy. There remainednot much leisure to enjoy the scenery. It freshened the horses, however, which was the main point. I should say the first method wasthe better for ordinary journeys; and the latter for those times when, to reach good feed, a forced march becomes necessary. 

On reaching the night's stopping-place, the cook for the day unpacksthe cook-horse and at once sets about the preparation of dinner. Theother two attend to the animals. And no matter how tired you are, orhow hungry you may be, you must take time to bathe their backs withcold water; to stake the picket-animal where it will at once get goodfeed and not tangle its rope in bushes, roots, or stumps; to hobble theothers; and to bell those inclined to wander. After this is done, itis well, for the peace and well-being of the party, to take food. 

A smoke establishes you in the final and normal attitude of good humor. Each man spreads his tarpaulin where he has claimed his bed. Saidclaim is indicated by his hat thrown down where he wishes to sleep. Itis a mark of pre-emption which every one is bound to respect. Lay outyour saddle-blankets, cover them with your quilt, place thesleeping-blanket on top, and fold over the tarpaulin to cover thewhole. At the head deposit your duffle-bag. Thus are you assured of apleasant night. 

About dusk you straggle in with trout or game. The camp-keeper laysaside his mending or his repairing or his note-book, and stirs up thecooking-fire. The smell of broiling and frying and boiling arises inthe air. By the dancing flame of the campfire you eat your thirddinner for the day--in the mountains all meals are dinners, andformidable ones at that. The curtain of blackness draws down close. Through it shine stars, loom mountains cold and mist-like in the moon. You tell stories. You smoke pipes. After a time the pleasant chillcreeps down from the eternal snows. Some one throws another handful ofpine-cones on the fire. Sleepily you prepare for bed. The pine-conesflare up, throwing their light in your eyes. You turn over and wrapthe soft woolen blanket close about your chin. You wink drowsily andat once you are asleep. Along late in the night you awaken to findyour nose as cold as a dog's. You open one eye. A few coals markwhere the fire has been. The mist mountains have drawn nearer, theyseem to bend over you in silent contemplation. The moon is sailinghigh in the heavens. 

With a sigh you draw the canvas tarpaulin over your head. Instantly itis morning. 

V

THE COAST RANGES

At last, on the day appointed, we, with five horses, climbed the ColdSpring Trail to the ridge; and then, instead of turning to the left, weplunged down the zigzag lacets of the other side. That night we campedat Mono Cañon, feeling ourselves strangely an integral part of therelief map we had looked upon so many times that almost we had come toconsider its features as in miniature, not capacious for theaccommodation of life-sized men. Here we remained a day while we rodethe hills in search of Dinkey and Jenny, there pastured. 

We found Jenny peaceful and inclined to be corralled. But Dinkey, followed by a slavishly adoring brindle mule, declined to be roundedup. We chased her up hill and down; along creek-beds and through thespiky chaparral. Always she dodged craftily, warily, with forethought. Always the brindled mule, wrapt in admiration at his companion'scleverness, crashed along after. Finally we teased her into a narrowcañon. Wes and the Tenderfoot closed the upper end. I attempted toslip by to the lower, but was discovered. Dinkey tore a frantic miledown the side hill. Bullet, his nostrils wide, his ears back, racedparallel in the boulder-strewn stream-bed, wonderful in his avoidanceof bad footing, precious in his selection of good, interested in thegame, indignant at the wayward Dinkey, profoundly contemptuous of thebesotted mule. At a bend in the cañon interposed a steep bank. Upthis we scrambled, dirt and stones flying. I had just time to bend lowalong the saddle when, with the ripping and tearing and scratching ofthorns, we burst blindly through a thicket. In the open space on thefarther side Bullet stopped, panting but triumphant. Dinkey, surrounded at last, turned back toward camp with an air of utmostindifference. The mule dropped his long ears and followed. 

At camp we corralled Dinkey, but left her friend to shift for himself. Then was lifted up his voice in mulish lamentations until, cursing, wehad to ride out bareback and drive him far into the hills and therestone him into distant fear. Even as we departed up the trail thefollowing day the voice of his sorrow, diminishing like the echo ofgrief, appealed uselessly to Dinkey's sympathy. For Dinkey, oncecaptured, seemed to have shrugged her shoulders and accepted inevitabletoil with a real though cynical philosophy. 

The trail rose gradually by imperceptible gradations and occasionalclimbs. We journeyed in the great cañons. High chaparral flanked thetrail, occasional wide gray stretches of "old man" filled the air withits pungent odor and with the calls of its quail. The crannies of therocks, the stretches of wide loose shale, the crumbling bottom earthoffered to the eye the dessicated beauties of creamy yucca, of yerbabuena, of the gaudy red paint-brushes, the Spanish bayonet; and to thenostrils the hot dry perfumes of the semi-arid lands. The air wastepid; the sun hot. A sing-song of bees and locusts and strange insectslulled the mind. The ponies plodded on cheerfully. We expanded andbasked and slung our legs over the pommels of our saddles and were gladwe had come. 

At no time did we seem to be climbing mountains. Rather we wound in andout, round and about, through a labyrinth of valleys and cañons andravines, farther and farther into a mysterious shut-in country thatseemed to have no end. Once in a while, to be sure, we zigzagged up atrifling ascent; but it was nothing. And then at a certain point theTenderfoot happened to look back. 

"Well!" he gasped; "will you look at that!"

We turned. Through a long straight aisle which chance had placed justthere, we saw far in the distance a sheer slate-colored wall; andbeyond, still farther in the distance, overtopping the slate-coloredwall by a narrow strip, another wall of light azure blue. 

"It's our mountains, " said Wes, "and that blue ridge is the channelislands. We've got up higher than our range. "

We looked about us, and tried to realize that we were actually morethan halfway up the formidable ridge we had so often speculated on fromthe Cold Spring Trail. But it was impossible. In a few moments, however, our broad easy cañon narrowed. Huge crags and sheer masses ofrock hemmed us in. The chaparral and yucca and yerba buena gave placeto pine-trees and mountain oaks, with little close clumps ofcottonwoods in the stream bottom. The brook narrowed and leaped, andthe white of alkali faded from its banks. We began to climb in goodearnest, pausing often for breath. The view opened. We looked back onwhence we had come, and saw again, from the reverse, the forty miles ofranges and valleys we had viewed from the Ridge Trail. 

At this point we stopped to shoot a rattlesnake. Dinkey and Jenny tookthe opportunity to push ahead. From time to time we would catch sightof them traveling earnestly on, following the trail accurately, stopping at stated intervals to rest, doing their work, conductingthemselves as decorously as though drivers had stood over them withblacksnake whips. We tried a little to catch up. 

"Never mind, " said Wes, "they've been over this trail before. They'llstop when they get to where we're going to camp. "

We halted a moment on the ridge to look back over the lesser mountainsand the distant ridge, beyond which the islands now showed plainly. Then we dropped down behind the divide into a cup valley containing alittle meadow with running water on two sides of it and big pinesabove. The meadow was brown, to be sure, as all typical California isat this time of year. But the brown of California and the brown of theEast are two different things. Here is no snow or rain to mat down thegrass, to suck out of it the vital principles. It grows ripe and sweetand soft, rich with the life that has not drained away, covering thehills and valleys with the effect of beaver fur, so that it seems thegreat round-backed hills must have in a strange manner the yieldingflesh-elasticity of living creatures. The brown of California is thebrown of ripeness; not of decay. 

Our little meadow was beautifully named Madulce, [1] and was just belowthe highest point of this section of the Coast Range. The air drankfresh with the cool of elevation. We went out to shoot supper; and sofound ourselves on a little knoll fronting the brown-hazed east. As westood there, enjoying the breeze after our climb, a great wave of hotair swept by us, filling our lungs with heat, scorching our faces asthe breath of a furnace. Thus was brought to our minds what, in theexcitement of a new country, we had forgotten, --that we were at last onthe eastern slope, and that before us waited the Inferno of the desert. 

That evening we lay in the sweet ripe grasses of Madulce, and talked ofit. Wes had been across it once before and did not possess muchoptimism with which to comfort us. 

"It's hot, just plain hot, " said he, "and that's all there is about it. And there's mighty little water, and what there is is sickish and along ways apart. And the sun is strong enough to roast potatoes in. "

"Why not travel at night?" we asked. 

"No place to sleep under daytimes, " explained Wes. "It's better tokeep traveling and then get a chance for a little sleep in the cool ofthe night. "

We saw the reasonableness of that. 

"Of course we'll start early, and take a long nooning, and travel late. We won't get such a lot of sleep. "

"How long is it going to take us?"

Wes calculated. 

"About eight days, " he said soberly. 

The next morning we descended from Madulce abruptly by a dirt trail, almost perpendicular until we slid into a cañon of sage-brush andquail, of mescale cactus and the fierce dry heat of sun-baked shale. 

"Is it any hotter than this on the desert?" we inquired. 

Wes looked on us with pity. 

"This is plumb arctic, " said he. 

Near noon we came to a little cattle ranch situated in a flatsurrounded by red dikes and buttes after the manner of Arizona. Herewe unpacked, early as it was, for through the dry countries one has toapportion his day's journeys by the water to be had. If we wentfarther to-day, then to-morrow night would find us in a dry camp. 

The horses scampered down the flat to search out alfilaria. We roostedunder a slanting shed, --where were stock saddles, silver-mounted bitsand spurs, rawhide riatas, branding-irons, and all the lumber of thecattle business, --and hung out our tongues and gasped for breath andearnestly desired the sun to go down or a breeze to come up. Thebreeze shortly did so. It was a hot breeze, and availed merely tocover us with dust, to swirl the stable-yard into our faces. Greatswarms of flies buzzed and lit and stung. Wes, disgusted, went over towhere a solitary cowpuncher was engaged in shoeing a horse. Shortly wesaw Wes pressed into service to hold the horse's hoof. He raised apathetic face to us, the big round drops chasing each other down it asfast as rain. We grinned and felt better. 

The fierce perpendicular rays of the sun beat down. The air under theshed grew stuffier and more oppressive, but it was the only patch ofshade in all that pink and red furnace of a little valley. TheTenderfoot discovered a pair of horse-clippers, and, becoming slightlyfoolish with the heat, insisted on our barbering his head. We told himit was cooler with hair than without; and that the flies and sun wouldbe offered thus a beautiful opportunity, but without avail. So weclipped him, --leaving, however, a beautiful long scalp-lock in themiddle of his crown. He looked like High-low-kickapoo-waterpot, chiefof the Wam-wams. After a while he discovered it, and was unhappy. 

Shortly the riders began to come in, jingling up to the shed, with arattle of spurs and bit-chains. There they unsaddled their horses, after which, with great unanimity, they soused their heads in thehorse-trough. The chief, a six-footer, wearing beautifully decoratedgauntlets and a pair of white buckskin chaps, went so far as to say itwas a little warm for the time of year. In the freshness of evening, when frazzled nerves had regained their steadiness, he returned tosmoke and yarn with us and tell us of the peculiarities of the cattlebusiness in the Cuyamas. At present he and his men were riding thegreat mountains, driving the cattle to the lowlands in anticipation ofa rodeo the following week. A rodeo under that sun!

We slept in the ranch vehicles, so the air could get under us. Whilethe stars still shone, we crawled out, tired and unrefreshed. TheTenderfoot and I went down the valley after the horses. While welooked, the dull pallid gray of dawn filtered into the darkness, and sowe saw our animals, out of proportion, monstrous in the half light ofthat earliest morning. Before the range riders were even astir we hadtaken up our journey, filching thus a few hours from the inimical sun. 

Until ten o'clock we traveled in the valley of the Cuyamas. The riverwas merely a broad sand and stone bed, although undoubtedly there waswater below the surface. California rivers are said to flow bottom up. To the northward were mountains typical of the arid countries, --boldlydefined, clear in the edges of their folds, with sharp shadows andhard, uncompromising surfaces. They looked brittle and hollow, asthough made of papier mache and set down in the landscape. A long fourhours' noon we spent beneath a live-oak near a tiny spring. I tried tohunt, but had to give it up. After that I lay on my back and shotdoves as they came to drink at the spring. It was better than walkingabout, and quite as effective as regards supper. A band of cattlefiled stolidly in, drank, and filed as stolidly away. Some half-wildhorses came to the edge of the hill, stamped, snorted, essayed atentative advance. Them we drove away, lest they decoy our ownanimals. The flies would not let us sleep. Dozens of valley andmountain quail called with maddening cheerfulness and energy. By amighty exercise of will we got under way again. In an hour we rode outinto what seemed to be a grassy foot-hill country, supplied with a mostrefreshing breeze. 

The little round hills of a few hundred feet rolled gently away to theartificial horizon made by their closing in. The trail meandered whiteand distinct through the clear fur-like brown of their grasses. Cattlegrazed. Here and there grew live-oaks, planted singly as in a park. Beyond we could imagine the great plain, grading insensibly into theselittle hills. 

And then all at once we surmounted a slight elevation, and found thatwe had been traveling on a plateau, and that these apparent littlehills were in reality the peaks of high mountains. 

We stood on the brink of a wide smooth velvet-creased range that dippeddown and down to miniature cañons far below. Not a single littleboulder broke the rounded uniformity of the wild grasses. Out frombeneath us crept the plain, sluggish and inert with heat. 

Threads of trails, dull white patches of alkali, vague brown areas ofbrush, showed indeterminate for a little distance. But only for alittle distance. Almost at once they grew dim, faded in the thicknessof atmosphere, lost themselves in the mantle of heat that lay palpableand brown like a shimmering changing veil, hiding the distance inmystery and in dread. It was a land apart; a land to be looked oncuriously from the vantage-ground of safety, --as we were looking on itfrom the shoulder of the mountain, --and then to be turned away from, tobe left waiting behind its brown veil for what might come. To abandonthe high country, deliberately to cut loose from the known, deliberately to seek the presence that lay in wait, --all at once itseemed the height of grotesque perversity. We wanted to turn on ourheels. We wanted to get back to our hills and fresh breezes and clearwater, to our beloved cheerful quail, to our trails and the sweet upperair. 

For perhaps a quarter of an hour we sat our horses, gazing down. Someunknown disturbance lazily rifted the brown veil by ever so little. Wesaw, lying inert and languid, obscured by its own rank steam, a greatround lake. We knew the water to be bitter, poisonous. The veil drewtogether again. Wes shook himself and sighed, "There she is, --damnher!" said he. 

[1] In all Spanish names the final e should be pronounced. 

VI

THE INFERNO

For eight days we did penance, checking off the hours, meeting doggedlyone after another the disagreeable things. We were bathed in heat; weinhaled it; it soaked into us until we seemed to radiate it like somany furnaces. A condition of thirst became the normal condition, tobe only slightly mitigated by a few mouthfuls from zinc canteens oftepid water. Food had no attractions: even smoking did not taste good. Always the flat country stretched out before us. We could see farahead a landmark which we would reach only by a morning's travel. Nothing intervened between us and it. After we had looked at it awhile, we became possessed of an almost insane necessity to make a runfor it. The slow maddening three miles an hour of the pack-train droveus frantic. There were times when it seemed that unless we shifted ourgait, unless we stepped outside the slow strain of patience to whichthe Inferno held us relentlessly, we should lose our minds and runround and round in circles--as people often do, in the desert. 

And when the last and most formidable hundred yards had slunk sullenlybehind us to insignificance, and we had dared let our minds relax fromthe insistent need of self-control--then, beyond the cotton-woods, orcreek-bed, or group of buildings, whichever it might be, we made outanother, remote as paradise, to which we must gain by sunset. So againthe wagon-trail, with its white choking dust, its staggering sun, itsmiles made up of monotonous inches, each clutching for a man's sanity. 

We sang everything we knew; we told stories; we rode cross-saddle, sidewise, erect, slouching; we walked and led our horses; we shook thepowder of years from old worn jokes, conundrums, and puzzles, --and atthe end, in spite of our best efforts, we fell to morose silence andthe red-eyed vindictive contemplation of the objective point that wouldnot seem to come nearer. 

For now we lost accurate sense of time. At first it had been merely aquestion of going in at one side of eight days, pressing through them, and coming out on the other side. Then the eight days would be behindus. But once we had entered that enchanted period, we found ourselvesmore deeply involved. The seemingly limited area spread with startlingswiftness to the very horizon. Abruptly it was borne in on us thatthis was never going to end; just as now for the first time we realizedthat it had begun infinite ages ago. We were caught in theentanglement of days. The Coast Ranges were the experiences of a pastincarnation: the Mountains were a myth. 

Nothing was real but this; and this would endure forever. We ploddedon because somehow it was part of the great plan that we should do so. Not that it did any good:--we had long since given up such ideas. Theillusion was very real; perhaps it was the anodyne mercifullyadministered to those who pass through the Inferno. 

Most of the time we got on well enough. One day, only, the Desertshowed her power. That day, at five of the afternoon, it was onehundred and twenty degrees in the shade. And we, through necessity ofreaching the next water, journeyed over the alkali at noon. Then theDesert came close on us and looked us fair in the eyes, concealingnothing. She killed poor Deuce, the beautiful setter who had traveledthe wild countries so long; she struck Wes and the Tenderfoot fromtheir horses when finally they had reached a long-legged water tank;she even staggered the horses themselves. And I, lying under a bushwhere I had stayed after the others in the hope of succoring Deuce, began idly shooting at ghostly jack-rabbits that looked real, butthrough which the revolver bullets passed without resistance. 

After this day the Tenderfoot went water-crazy. Watering the horsesbecame almost a mania with him. He could not bear to pass even amud-hole without offering the astonished Tunemah a chance to fill up, even though that animal had drunk freely not twenty rods back. As forhimself, he embraced every opportunity; and journeyed draped in manycanteens. 

After that it was not so bad. The thermometer stood from a hundred toa hundred and five or six, to be sure, but we were getting used to it. Discomfort, ordinary physical discomfort, we came to accept as thenormal environment of man. It is astonishing how soon uniformlyuncomfortable conditions, by very lack of contrast, do lose their powerto color the habit of mind. I imagine merely physical unhappiness is amatter more of contrasts than of actual circumstances. We swalloweddust; we humped our shoulders philosophically under the beating of thesun, we breathed the debris of high winds; we cooked anyhow, ateanything, spent long idle fly-infested hours waiting for the noon topass; we slept in horse-corrals, in the trail, in the dust, behindstables, in hay, anywhere. There was little water, less wood for thecooking. 

It is now all confused, an impression of events with out sequence, amass of little prominent purposeless things like rock conglomerate. Iremember leaning my elbows on a low window-ledge and watching a pokergame going on in the room of a dive. The light came from a sicklysuspended lamp. It fell on five players, --two miners in theirshirt-sleeves, a Mexican, a tough youth with side-tilted derby hat, anda fat gorgeously dressed Chinaman. The men held their cards close totheir bodies, and wagered in silence. Slowly and regularly the greatdrops of sweat gathered on their faces. As regularly they raised thebacks of their hands to wipe them away. Only the Chinaman, broad-faced, calm, impassive as Buddha, save for a little crafty smilein one corner of his eye, seemed utterly unaffected by the heat, coolas autumn. His loose sleeve fell back from his forearm when he movedhis hand forward, laying his bets. A jade bracelet slipped back andforth as smoothly as on yellow ivory. 

Or again, one night when the plain was like a sea of liquid black, andthe sky blazed with stars, we rode by a sheep-herder's camp. Theflicker of a fire threw a glow out into the dark. A tall wagon, agroup of silhouetted men, three or four squatting dogs, were squarelywithin the circle of illumination. And outside, in the penumbra ofshifting half light, now showing clearly, now fading into darkness, were the sheep, indeterminate in bulk, melting away by mysteriousthousands into the mass of night. We passed them. They looked up, squinting their eyes against the dazzle of their fire. The nightclosed about us again. 

Or still another: in the glare of broad noon, after a hot and tryingday, a little inn kept by a French couple. And there, in the verymiddle of the Inferno, was served to us on clean scrubbed tables, ameal such as one gets in rural France, all complete, with the potage, the fish fried in oil, the wonderful ragout, the chicken and salad, thecheese and the black coffee, even the vin ordinaire. I have forgottenthe name of the place, its location on the map, the name of itspeople, --one has little to do with detail in the Inferno, --but thatdinner never will I forget, any more than the Tenderfoot will forgethis first sight of water the day when the Desert "held us up. "

Once the brown veil lifted to the eastward. We, souls struggling, sawgreat mountains and the whiteness of eternal snow. That noon wecrossed a river, hurrying down through the flat plain, and in itscurrent came the body of a drowned bear-cub, an alien from the highcountry. 

These things should have been as signs to our jaded spirits that wewere nearly at the end of our penance, but discipline had seared overour souls, and we rode on unknowing. 

Then we came on a real indication. It did not amount to much. Merelya dry river-bed; but the farther bank, instead of being flat, cut intoa low swell of land. We skirted it. Another swell of land, like thesullen after-heave of a storm, lay in our way. Then we crossed aravine. It was not much of a ravine; in fact it was more like a slightgouge in the flatness of the country. After that we began to seeoak-trees, scattered at rare intervals. So interested were we in themthat we did not notice rocks beginning to outcrop through the soiluntil they had become numerous enough to be a feature of the landscape. The hills, gently, quietly, without abrupt transition, almost as thoughthey feared to awaken our alarm by too abrupt movement of growth, glided from little swells to bigger swells. The oaks gathered closertogether. The ravine's brother could almost be called a cañon. Thecharacter of the country had entirely changed. 

And yet, so gradually had this change come about that we did not awakento a full realization of our escape. To us it was still the plain, atrifle modified by local peculiarity, but presently to resume itswonted aspect. We plodded on dully, anodyned with the desert patience. 

But at a little before noon, as we rounded the cheek of a slope, weencountered an errant current of air. It came up to us curiously, touched us each in turn, and went on. The warm furnace heat drew in onus again. But it had been a cool little current of air, with somethingof the sweetness of pines and water and snow-banks in it. TheTenderfoot suddenly reined in his horse and looked about him. 

"Boys!" he cried, a new ring of joy in his voice, "we're in thefoot-hills!"

Wes calculated rapidly. "It's the eighth day to-day: I guessed righton the time. "

We stretched our arms and looked about us. They were dry brown hillsenough; but they were hills, and they had trees on them, and cañons inthem, so to our eyes, wearied with flatness, they seemed wonderful. 

VII

THE FOOT-HILLS

At once our spirits rose. We straightened in our saddles, we breatheddeep, we joked. The country was scorched and sterile; the wagon-trail, almost paralleling the mountains themselves on a long easy slant towardthe high country, was ankle-deep in dust; the ravines were still dry ofwater. But it was not the Inferno, and that one fact sufficed. Aftera while we crossed high above a river which dashed white water againstblack rocks, and so were happy. 

The country went on changing. The change was always imperceptible, asis growth, or the stealthy advance of autumn through the woods. Frommoment to moment one could detect no alteration. Something intangiblewas taken away; something impalpable added. At the end of an hour wewere in the oaks and sycamores; at the end of two we were in the pinesand low mountains of Bret Harte's Forty-Nine. 

The wagon-trail felt ever farther and farther into the hills. It hadnot been used as a stage-route for years, but the freighting kept itdeep with dust, that writhed and twisted and crawled lazily knee-highto our horses, like a living creature. We felt the swing and sweep ofthe route. The boldness of its stretches, the freedom of its reachesfor the opposite slope, the wide curve of its horseshoes, all filled uswith the breath of an expansion which as yet the broad low country onlysuggested. 

Everything here was reminiscent of long ago. The very names hintedstories of the Argonauts. Coarse Gold Gulch, Whiskey Creek, GrubGulch, Fine Gold Post-Office in turn we passed. Occasionally, with afine round dash into the open, the trail drew one side to astage-station. The huge stables, the wide corrals, the lowliving-houses, each shut in its dooryard of blazing riotous flowers, were all familiar. Only lacked the old-fashioned Concord coach, fromwhich to descend Jack Hamlin or Judge Starbottle. As for M'liss, shewas there, sunbonnet and all. 

Down in the gulch bottoms were the old placer diggings. Elaboratelittle ditches for the deflection of water, long cradles for theseparation of gold, decayed rockers, and shining in the sun the tonsand tons of pay dirt which had been turned over pound by pound in theconcentrating of its treasure. Some of the old cabins still stood. Itwas all deserted now, save for the few who kept trail for thefreighters, or who tilled the restricted bottom-lands of the flats. Road-runners racked away down the paths; squirrels scurried overworn-out placers; jays screamed and chattered in and out of theabandoned cabins. Strange and shy little creatures and birds, reassured by the silence of many years, had ventured to take tothemselves the engines of man's industry. And the warm California sunembalmed it all in a peaceful forgetfulness. 

Now the trees grew bigger, and the hills more impressive. We shouldcall them mountains in the East. Pines covered them to the top, straight slender pines with voices. The little flats were planted withgreat oaks. When we rode through them, they shut out the hills, sothat we might have imagined ourselves in the level wooded country. There insisted the effect of limitless tree-grown plains, which thewarm drowsy sun, the park-like landscape, corroborated. And yet thecontrast of the clear atmosphere and the sharp air equally insisted onthe mountains. It was a strange and delicious double effect, acontradiction of natural impressions, a negation of our right togeneralize from previous experience. 

Always the trail wound up and up. Never was it steep; never did itcommand an outlook. Yet we felt that at last we were rising, wereleaving the level of the Inferno, were nearing the threshold of thehigh country. 

Mountain peoples came to the edges of their clearings and gazed at us, responding solemnly to our salutations. They dwelt in cabins and heldto agriculture and the herding of the wild mountain cattle. From themwe heard of the high country to which we were bound. They spoke of itas you or I would speak of interior Africa, as something inconceivablyremote, to be visited only by the adventurous, an uninhabited realm ofvast magnitude and unknown dangers. In the same way they spoke of theplains. Only the narrow pine-clad strip between the two and sixthousand feet of elevation they felt to be their natural environment. In it they found the proper conditions for their existence. Out of itthose conditions lacked. They were as much a localized product as arecertain plants which occur only at certain altitudes. Also were theydensely ignorant of trails and routes outside of their own littledistricts. 

All this, you will understand, was in what is known as the low country. The landscape was still brown; the streams but trickles; sage-brushclung to the ravines; the valley quail whistled on the side hills. 

But one day we came suddenly into the big pines and rocks; and thatvery night we made our first camp in a meadow typical of the mountainswe had dreamed about. 

VIII

THE PINES

I do not know exactly how to make you feel the charm of that first campin the big country. Certainly I can never quite repeat it in my ownexperience. 

Remember that for two months we had grown accustomed to the brown ofthe California landscape, and that for over a week we had traveled inthe Inferno. We had forgotten the look of green grass, of abundantwater; almost had we forgotten the taste of cool air. So invariablyhad the trails been dusty, and the camping-places hard and exposed, that we had come subconsciously to think of such as typical of thecountry. Try to put yourself in the frame of mind those conditionswould make. 

Then imagine yourself climbing in an hour or so up into a high ridgecountry of broad cup-like sweeps and bold outcropping ledges. Imaginea forest of pine-trees bigger than any pines you ever sawbefore, --pines eight and ten feet through, so huge that you can hardlylook over one of their prostrate trunks even from the back of yourpony. Imagine, further, singing little streams of ice-cold water, deeprefreshing shadows, a soft carpet of pine-needles through which thefaint furrow of the trail runs as over velvet. And then, last of all, in a wide opening, clear as though chopped and plowed by someback-woodsman, a park of grass, fresh grass, green as a precious stone. 

This was our first sight of the mountain meadows. From time to time wefound others, sometimes a half dozen in a day. The rough country camedown close about them, edging to the very hair-line of the magiccircle, which seemed to assure their placid sunny peace. An upheavalof splintered granite often tossed and tumbled in the abandon of anunrestrained passion that seemed irresistibly to overwhelm the sanitiesof a whole region; but somewhere, in the very forefront of turmoil, waslike to slumber one of these little meadows, as unconscious of anythingbut its own flawless green simplicity as a child asleep in mid-ocean. Or, away up in the snows, warmed by the fortuity of reflected heat, itsemerald eye looked bravely out to the heavens. Or, as here, it restedconfidingly in the very heart of the austere forest. 

Always these parks are green; always are they clear and open. Theirsize varies widely. Some are as little as a city lawn; others, likethe great Monache, [1] are miles in extent. In them resides thepossibility of your traveling the high country; for they supply thefeed for your horses. 

Being desert-weary, the Tenderfoot and I cried out with the joy of it, and told in extravagant language how this was the best camp we had evermade. 

"It's a bum camp, " growled Wes. "If we couldn't get better camps thanthis, I'd quit the game. "

He expatiated on the fact that this particular meadow was somewhatboggy; that the feed was too watery; that there'd be a cold wind downthrough the pines; and other small and minor details. But we, ourbacks propped against appropriately slanted rocks, our pipes wellaglow, gazed down the twilight through the wonderful great columns ofthe trees to where the white horses shone like snow against theunaccustomed relief of green, and laughed him to scorn. What didwe--or the horses for that matter--care for trifling discomforts of thebody? In these intangible comforts of the eye was a great refreshmentof the spirit. 

The following day we rode through the pine forests growing on theridges and hills and in the elevated bowl-like hollows. These were notthe so-called "big trees, "--with those we had to do later, as you shallsee. They were merely sugar and yellow pines, but never anywhere haveI seen finer specimens. They were planted with a grand sumptuousness ofspace, and their trunks were from five to twelve feet in diameter andupwards of two hundred feet high to the topmost spear. Underbrush, ground growth, even saplings of the same species lacked entirely, sothat we proceeded in the clear open aisles of a tremendous and spaciousmagnificence. 

This very lack of the smaller and usual growths, the generous plan ofspacing, and the size of the trees themselves necessarily deprived usof a standard of comparison. At first the forest seemed immense. Butafter a little our eyes became accustomed to its proportions. Wereferred it back to the measures of long experience. The trees, thewood-aisles, the extent of vision shrunk to the normal proportions ofan Eastern pinery. And then we would lower our gaze. The pack-trainwould come into view. It had become lilliputian, the horses small aswhite mice, the men like tin soldiers, as though we had undergone anenchantment. But in a moment, with the rush of a mightytransformation, the great trees would tower huge again. 

In the pine woods of the mountains grows also a certain close-clippedparasitic moss. In color it is a brilliant yellow-green, more yellowthan green. In shape it is crinkly and curly and tangled up withitself like very fine shavings. In consistency it is dry and brittle. This moss girdles the trunks of trees with innumerable parallelinch-wide bands a foot or so apart, in the manner of old-fashionedstriped stockings. It covers entirely sundry twigless branches. Alwaysin appearance is it fantastic, decorative, almost Japanese, as thoughconsciously laid in with its vivid yellow-green as an intentional noteof a tone scheme. The somberest shadows, the most neutral twilights, the most austere recesses are lighted by it as though so many freakishsunbeams had severed relations with the parent luminary to rest quietlyin the coolnesses of the ancient forest. 

Underfoot the pine-needles were springy beneath the horse's hoof. Thetrail went softly, with the courtesy of great gentleness. Occasionallywe caught sight of other ridges, --also with pines, --across deep slopingvalleys, pine filled. The effect of the distant trees seen from abovewas that of roughened velvet, here smooth and shining, there dark withrich shadows. On these slopes played the wind. In the level countriesit sang through the forest progressively: here on the slope it struck athousand trees at once. The air was ennobled with the great voice, asa church is ennobled by the tones of a great organ. Then we would dropback again to the inner country, for our way did not contemplate thedescents nor climbs, but held to the general level of a plateau. 

Clear fresh brooks ran in every ravine. Their water was snow-whiteagainst the black rocks; or lay dark in bank-shadowed pools. As ourhorses splashed across we could glimpse the rainbow trout flashing tocover. Where the watered hollows grew lush were thickets full ofbirds, outposts of the aggressively and cheerfully worldly in thispine-land of spiritual detachment. Gorgeous bush-flowers, great ofpetal as magnolias, with perfume that lay on the air like a heavydrowsiness; long clear stretches of an ankle-high shrub of vividemerald, looking in the distance like sloping meadows of a peculiarcolor-brilliance; patches of smaller flowers where for the triflingspace of a street's width the sun had unobstructed fall, --these fromtime to time diversified the way, brought to our perceptions theendearing trifles of earthiness, of humanity, befittingly to modify theausterity of the great forest. At a brookside we saw, still fresh andmoist, the print of a bear's foot. From a patch of the little emeraldbrush, a barren doe rose to her feet, eyed us a moment, and thenbounded away as though propelled by springs. We saw her from time totime surmounting little elevations farther and farther away. 

The air was like cold water. We had not lung capacity to satisfy ourdesire for it. There came with it a dry exhilaration that brought highspirits, an optimistic viewpoint, and a tremendous keen appetite. Itseemed that we could never tire. In fact we never did. Sometimes, after a particularly hard day, we felt like resting; but it was alwaysafter the day's work was done, never while it was under way. TheTenderfoot and I one day went afoot twenty-two miles up and down amountain fourteen thousand feet high. The last three thousand feetwere nearly straight up and down. We finished at a four-mile clip anhour before sunset, and discussed what to do next to fill in the time. When we sat down, we found we had had about enough; but we had notdiscovered it before. 

All of us, even the morose and cynical Dinkey, felt the benefit of thechange from the lower country. Here we were definitely in theMountains. Our plateau ran from six to eight thousand feet inaltitude. Beyond it occasionally we could see three more ridges, rising and falling, each higher than the last. And then, in the bluedistance, the very crest of the broad system called theSierras, --another wide region of sheer granite rising in peaks, pinnacles, and minarets, rugged, wonderful, capped with the eternalsnows. 

[1] Do not fail to sound the final e. 

IX

THE TRAIL

When you say "trail" to a Westerner, his eye lights up. This isbecause it means something to him. To another it may mean somethingentirely different, for the blessed word is of that rare and beautifulcategory which is at once of the widest significance and the mostintimate privacy to him who utters it. To your mind leaps the pictureof the dim forest-aisles and the murmurings of tree-top breezes; to himcomes a vision of the wide dusty desert; to me, perhaps, a high wildcountry of wonder. To all of us it is the slender, unbroken, never-ending thread connecting experiences. 

For in a mysterious way, not to be understood, our trails never do end. They stop sometimes, and wait patiently while we dive in and out ofhouses, but always when we are ready to go on, they are ready too, andso take up the journey placidly as though nothing had intervened. Theybegin, when? Sometime, away in the past, you may remember a singleepisode, vivid through the mists of extreme youth. Once a very littleboy walked with his father under a green roof of leaves that seemedfarther than the sky and as unbroken. All of a sudden the man raisedhis gun and fired upwards, apparently through the green roof. A pauseensued. Then, hurtling roughly through still that same green roof, agreat bird fell, hitting the earth with a thump. The very little boywas I. My trail must have begun there under the bright green roof ofleaves. 

From that earliest moment the Trail unrolls behind you like a thread sothat never do you quite lose connection with your selves. There issomething a little fearful to the imaginative in the insistence of it. You may camp, you may linger, but some time or another, sooner orlater, you must go on, and when you do, then once again the Trail takesup its continuity without reference to the muddied place you havetramped out in your indecision or indolence or obstinacy or necessity. It would be exceedingly curious to follow out in patience the chart ofa man's going, tracing the pattern of his steps with all its windingsof nursery, playground, boys afield, country, city, plain, forest, mountain, wilderness, home, always on and on into the higher country ofresponsibility until at the last it leaves us at the summit of theGreat Divide. Such a pattern would tell his story as surely as do thetracks of a partridge on the snow. 

A certain magic inheres in the very name, or at least so it seems tome. I should be interested to know whether others feel the sameglamour that I do in the contemplation of such syllables as the Lo-LoTrail, the Tunemah Trail, the Mono Trail, the Bright Angel Trail. Acertain elasticity of application too leaves room for the moreconnotation. A trail may be almost anything. There are wagon-trailswhich East would rank as macadam roads; horse-trails that would comparefavorably with our best bridle-paths; foot-trails in the fur countryworn by constant use as smooth as so many garden-walks. Then againthere are other arrangements. I have heard a mule-driver overwhelmedwith skeptical derision because he claimed to have upset but six timesin traversing a certain bit of trail not over five miles long; incharts of the mountains are marked many trails which are only "waysthrough, "--you will find few traces of predecessors; the same can besaid of trails in the great forests where even an Indian is sometimesat fault. "Johnny, you're lost, " accused the white man. "Trail lost:Injun here, " denied the red man. And so after your experience has ledyou by the campfires of a thousand delights, and each of thosecampfires is on the Trail, which only pauses courteously for your stayand then leads on untiring into new mysteries forever and ever, youcome to love it as the donor of great joys. You too become aWesterner, and when somebody says "trail, " your eye too lights up. 

The general impression of any particular trail is born rather of thelittle incidents than of the big accidents. The latter are exotic, andmight belong to any time or places; the former are individual. For theTrail is a vantage-ground, and from it, as your day's travel unrolls, you see many things. Nine tenths of your experience comes thus, for inthe long journeys the side excursions are few enough and unimportantenough almost to merit classification with the accidents. In time thecharacter of the Trail thus defines itself. 

Most of all, naturally, the kind of country has to do with thisgeneralized impression. Certain surprises, through trees, of vistalooking out over unexpected spaces; little notches in the hills beyondwhich you gain to a placid far country sleeping under a sun warmer thanyour elevation permits; the delicious excitement of the moment when youapproach the very knife-edge of the summit and wonder what liesbeyond, --these are the things you remember with a warm heart. Yoursaddle is a point of vantage. By it you are elevated above thecountry; from it you can see clearly. Quail scuttle away to right andleft, heads ducked low; grouse boom solemnly on the rigid limbs ofpines; deer vanish through distant thickets to appear on yet moredistant ridges, thence to gaze curiously, their great ears forward;across the cañon the bushes sway violently with the passage of acinnamon bear among them, --you see them all from your post ofobservation. Your senses are always alert for these things; you arealways bending from your saddle to examine the tracks and signs thatcontinually offer themselves for your inspection and interpretation. 

Our trail of this summer led at a general high elevation, withcomparatively little climbing and comparatively easy traveling for daysat a time. Then suddenly we would find ourselves on the brink of agreat box cañon from three to seven thousand feet deep, several mileswide, and utterly precipitous. In the bottom of this cañon would begood feed, fine groves of trees, and a river of some size in which swamfish. The trail to the cañon-bed was always bad, and generallydangerous. In many instances we found it bordered with the bones ofhorses that had failed. The river had somehow to be forded. We wouldcamp a day or so in the good feed and among the fine groves of trees, fish in the river, and then address ourselves with much reluctance tothe ascent of the other bad and dangerous trail on the other side. After that, in the natural course of events, subject to variation, wecould expect nice trails, the comfort of easy travel, pines, cedars, redwoods, and joy of life until another great cleft opened before us oranother great mountain-pass barred our way. 

This was the web and woof of our summer. But through it ran thepatterns of fantastic delight such as the West alone can offer a man'sutter disbelief in them. Some of these patterns stand out in memorywith peculiar distinctness. 

Below Farewell Gap is a wide cañon with high walls of dark rock, anddown those walls run many streams of water. They are white as snowwith the dash of their descent, but so distant that the eye cannotdistinguish their motion. In the half light of dawn, with the yellowof sunrise behind the mountains, they look like gauze streamers thrownout from the windows of morning to celebrate the solemn pageant of thepassing of many hills. 

Again, I know of a cañon whose westerly wall is colored in the dullrich colors, the fantastic patterns of a Moorish tapestry. Umber, sealbrown, red, terra-cotta, orange, Nile green, emerald, purple, cobaltblue, gray, lilac, and many other colors, all rich with the depth ofsatin, glow wonderful as the craftiest textures. Only here the fabricis five miles long and half a mile wide. 

There is no use in telling of these things. They, and many others oftheir like, are marvels, and exist; but you cannot tell about them, forthe simple reason that the average reader concludes at once you must beexaggerating, must be carried away by the swing of words. The coldsober truth is, you cannot exaggerate. They haven't made the words. Talk as extravagantly as you wish to one who will in the most childlikemanner believe every syllable you utter. Then take him into the BigCountry. He will probably say, "Why, you didn't tell me it was goingto be anything like THIS!" We in the East have no standards ofcomparison either as regards size or as regards color--especiallycolor. Some people once directed me to "The Gorge" on the New Englandcoast. I couldn't find it. They led me to it, and rhapsodized overits magnificent terror. I could have ridden a horse into theridiculous thing. As for color, no Easterner believes in it when suchmen as Lungren or Parrish transposit it faithfully, any more than aWesterner would believe in the autumn foliage of our own hardwoods, oran Englishman in the glories of our gaudiest sunsets. They are alltrue. 

In the mountains, the high mountains above the seven or eight thousandfoot level, grows an affair called the snow-plant. It is, when fullgrown, about two feet in height, and shaped like a loosely constructedpine-cone set up on end. Its entire substance is like wax, and thewhole concern--stalk, broad curling leaves, and all--is a brilliantscarlet. Sometime you will ride through the twilight of deep pine woodsgrowing on the slope of the mountain, a twilight intensified, renderedmore sacred to your mood by the external brilliancy of a glimpse ofvivid blue sky above dazzling snow mountains far away. Then, in thismonotone of dark green frond and dull brown trunk and deep oliveshadow, where, like the ordered library of one with quiet tastes, nothing breaks the harmony of unobtrusive tone, suddenly flames thevivid red of a snow-plant. You will never forget it. 

Flowers in general seem to possess this concentrated brilliancy both ofcolor and of perfume. You will ride into and out of strata of perfumeas sharply defined as are the quartz strata on the ridges. They liesluggish and cloying in the hollows, too heavy to rise on the wings ofthe air. 

As for color, you will see all sorts of queer things. The orderedflower-science of your childhood has gone mad. You recognize some ofyour old friends, but strangely distorted and changed, --even the dearold "butter 'n eggs" has turned pink! Patches of purple, of red, ofblue, of yellow, of orange are laid in the hollows or on the slopeslike brilliant blankets out to dry in the sun. The fine grasses arespangled with them, so that in the cup of the great fierce countriesthe meadows seem like beautiful green ornaments enameled with jewels. The Mariposa Lily, on the other hand, is a poppy-shaped flower varyingfrom white to purple, and with each petal decorated by an "eye" exactlylike those on the great Cecropia or Polyphemus moths, so that theireffect is that of a flock of gorgeous butterflies come to rest. Theyhover over the meadows poised. A movement would startle them toflight; only the proper movement somehow never comes. 

The great redwoods, too, add to the colored-edition impression of thewhole country. A redwood, as perhaps you know, is a tremendous bigtree sometimes as big as twenty feet in diameter. It is exquisitelyproportioned like a fluted column of noble height. Its bark isslightly furrowed longitudinally, and of a peculiar elastic appearancethat lends it an almost perfect illusion of breathing animal life. Thecolor is a rich umber red. Sometimes in the early morning or the lateafternoon, when all the rest of the forest is cast in shadow, thesemassive trunks will glow as though incandescent. The Trail, wonderfulalways, here seems to pass through the outer portals of the greatflaming regions where dwell the risings and fallings of days. 

As you follow the Trail up, you will enter also the permanentdwelling-places of the seasons. With us each visits for the space of afew months, then steals away to give place to the next. Whither theygo you have not known until you have traveled the high mountains. Summer lives in the valley; that you know. Then a little higher youare in the spring-time, even in August. Melting patches of snow lingerunder the heavy firs; the earth is soggy with half-absorbed snow-water, trickling with exotic little rills that do not belong; grasses of theyear before float like drowned hair in pellucid pools with an air ofpermanence, except for the one fact; fresh green things are sproutingbravely; through bare branches trickles a shower of bursting buds, larger at the top, as though the Sower had in passing scattered themfrom above. Birds of extraordinary cheerfulness sing merrily to newand doubtful flowers. The air tastes cold, but the sun is warm. Thegreat spring humming and promise is in the air. And a few thousandfeet higher you wallow over the surface of drifts while a winter windsearches your bones. I used to think that Santa Claus dwelt at theNorth Pole. Now I am convinced that he has a workshop somewhere amongthe great mountains where dwell the Seasons, and that his reindeer pawfor grazing in the alpine meadows below the highest peaks. 

Here the birds migrate up and down instead of south and north. It mustbe a great saving of trouble to them, and undoubtedly those who havediscovered it maintain toward the unenlightened the same delighted andfraternal secrecy with which you and I guard the knowledge of a goodtrout-stream. When you can migrate adequately in a single day, whyspend a month at it?

Also do I remember certain spruce woods with openings where the sunshone through. The shadows were very black, the sunlight very white. As I looked back I could see the pack-horses alternately suffer eclipseand illumination in a strange flickering manner good to behold. Thedust of the trail eddied and billowed lazily in the sun, each moteflashing as though with life; then abruptly as it crossed the sharpline of shade it disappeared. 

From these spruce woods, level as a floor, we came out on the roundedshoulder of a mountain to find ourselves nearly nine thousand feetabove the sea. Below us was a deep cañon to the middle of the earth. And spread in a semicircle about the curve of our mountain a mostmagnificent panoramic view. First there were the plains, represented bya brown haze of heat; then, very remote, the foot-hills, thebrush-hills, the pine mountains, the upper timber, the tremendousgranite peaks, and finally the barrier of the main crest with itsglittering snow. From the plains to that crest was over seventy miles. I should not dare say how far we could see down the length of therange; nor even how distant was the other wall of the cañon over whichwe rode. Certainly it was many miles; and to reach the latter pointconsumed three days. 

It is useless to multiply instances. The principle is well enoughestablished by these. Whatever impression of your trail you carry awaywill come from the little common occurrences of every day. That istrue of all trails; and equally so, it seems to me, of our Trail ofLife sketched at the beginning of this essay. 

But the trail of the mountains means more than wonder; it means hardwork. Unless you stick to the beaten path, where the freighters havelost so many mules that they have finally decided to fix things up abit, you are due for lots of trouble. Bad places will come to be anightmare with you and a topic of conversation with whomever you maymeet. We once enjoyed the company of a prospector three days while hemade up his mind to tackle a certain bit of trail we had justdescended. Our accounts did not encourage him. Every morning he usedto squint up at the cliff which rose some four thousand feet above us. "Boys, " he said finally as he started, "I may drop in on you later inthe morning. " I am happy to say he did not. 

The most discouraging to the tenderfoot, but in reality the safest ofall bad trails, is the one that skirts a precipice. Your horsepossesses a laudable desire to spare your inside leg unnecessaryabrasion, so he walks on the extreme outer edge. If you watch theperformance of the animal ahead, you will observe that every fewmoments his outer hind hoof slips off that edge, knocking little stonesdown into the abyss. Then you conclude that sundry slight jars you havebeen experiencing are from the same cause. Your peace of mind desertsyou. You stare straight ahead, sit VERY light indeed, and perhaps turnthe least bit sick. The horse, however, does not mind, nor will you, after a little. There is absolutely nothing to do but to sit steadyand give your animal his head. In a fairly extended experience I nevergot off the edge but once. Then somebody shot a gun immediately ahead;my horse tried to turn around, slipped, and slid backwards until heoverhung the chasm. Fortunately his hind feet caught a tiny bush. Hegave a mighty heave, and regained the trail. Afterwards I took a lookand found that there were no more bushes for a hundred feet either way. 

Next in terror to the unaccustomed is an ascent by lacets up a verysteep side hill. The effect is cumulative. Each turn brings you onestage higher, adds definitely one more unit to the test of yourhardihood. This last has not terrified you; how about the next? or thenext? or the one after that? There is not the slightest danger. Youappreciate this point after you have met head-on some old-timer. Afteryou have speculated frantically how you are to pass him, he solves theproblem by calmly turning his horse off the edge and sliding to thenext lacet below. Then you see that with a mountain horse it does notmuch matter whether you get off such a trail or not. 

The real bad places are quite as likely to be on the level as on theslant. The tremendous granite slides, where the cliff has avalanchedthousands of tons of loose jagged rock-fragments across the passage, are the worst. There your horse has to be a goat in balance. He mustpick his way from the top of one fragment to the other, and if he slipsinto the interstices he probably breaks a leg. In some parts of thegranite country are also smooth rock aprons where footing is especiallydifficult, and where often a slip on them means a toboggan chute offinto space. I know of one spot where such an apron curves off theshoulder of the mountain. Your horse slides directly down it until hishoofs encounter a little crevice. Checking at this, he turns sharp tothe left and so off to the good trail again. If he does not check atthe little crevice, he slides on over the curve of the shoulder andlands too far down to bury. 

Loose rocks in numbers on a very steep and narrow trail are always anabomination, and a numerous abomination at that. A horse slides, skates, slithers. It has always seemed to me that luck must countlargely in such a place. When the animal treads on a loose roundstone--as he does every step of the way--that stone is going to rollunder him, and he is going to catch himself as the nature of that stoneand the little gods of chance may will. Only furthermore I havenoticed that the really good horse keeps his feet, and the poor onetumbles. A judgmatical rider can help a great deal by the delicacy ofhis riding and the skill with which he uses his reins. Or betterstill, get off and walk. 

Another mean combination, especially on a slant, is six inches of snowover loose stones or small boulders. There you hope for divine favorand flounder ahead. There is one compensation; the snow is soft tofall on. Boggy areas you must be able to gauge the depth of at aglance. And there are places, beautiful to behold, where a horseclambers up the least bit of an ascent, hits his pack against aprojection, and is hurled into outer space. You must recognize these, for he will be busy with his feet. 

Some of the mountain rivers furnish pleasing afternoons of sport. Theyare deep and swift, and below the ford are rapids. If there is afallen tree of any sort across them, --remember the length of Californiatrees, and do not despise the rivers, --you would better unpack, carryyour goods across yourself, and swim the pack-horses. If the currentis very bad, you can splice riatas, hitch one end to the horse and theother to a tree on the farther side, and start the combination. Theanimal is bound to swing across somehow. Generally you can drive themover loose. In swimming a horse from the saddle, start him wellupstream to allow for the current, and never, never, never attempt toguide him by the bit. The Tenderfoot tried that at Mono Creek andnearly drowned himself and Old Slob. You would better let him alone, as he probably knows more than you do. If you must guide him, do it byhitting the side of his head with the flat of your hand. 

Sometimes it is better that you swim. You can perform that feat byclinging to his mane on the downstream side, but it will be easier bothfor you and him if you hang to his tail. Take my word for it, he willnot kick you. 

Once in a blue moon you may be able to cross the whole outfit on logs. Such a log bridge spanned Granite Creek near the North Fork of the SanJoaquin at an elevation of about seven thousand feet. It was suspendeda good twenty feet above the water, which boiled white in a mostdisconcerting manner through a gorge of rocks. If anything fell offthat log it would be of no further value even to the curiosity seeker. We got over all the horses save Tunemah. He refused to consider it, nor did peaceful argument win. As he was more or less of a fool, wedid not take this as a reflection on our judgment, but culled cedarclubs. We beat him until we were ashamed. Then we put a slip-nooseabout his neck. The Tenderfoot and I stood on the log and heaved whileWes stood on the shore and pushed. Suddenly it occurred to me that ifTunemah made up his silly mind to come, he would probably do it all atonce, in which case the Tenderfoot and I would have about as much showfor life as fossil formations. I didn't say anything about it to theTenderfoot, but I hitched my six-shooter around to the front, resolvedto find out how good I was at wing-shooting horses. But Tunemahdeclared he would die for his convictions. "All right, " said we, "diethen, " with the embellishment of profanity. So we stripped him naked, and stoned him into the raging stream, where he had one chance in threeof coming through alive. He might as well be dead as on the other sideof that stream. He won through, however, and now I believe he'd tacklea tight rope. 

Of such is the Trail, of such its wonders, its pleasures, its littlecomforts, its annoyances, its dangers. And when you are forced to drawyour six-shooter to end mercifully the life of an animal that hasserved you faithfully, but that has fallen victim to the leg-breakinghazard of the way, then you know a little of its tragedy also. May younever know the greater tragedy when a man's life goes out, and youunable to help! May always your trail lead through fine trees, greengrasses, fragrant flowers, and pleasant waters!

X

ON SEEING DEER

Once I happened to be sitting out a dance with a tactful young girl oftender disposition who thought she should adapt her conversation to theone with whom she happened to be talking. Therefore she askedquestions concerning out-of-doors. She knew nothing whatever about it, but she gave a very good imitation of one interested. For some occultreason people never seem to expect me to own evening clothes, or toknow how to dance, or to be able to talk about anything civilized; infact, most of them appear disappointed that I do not pull off a war-jigin the middle of the drawing-room. 

This young girl selected deer as her topic. She mentioned liquid eyes, beautiful form, slender ears; she said "cute, " and "darlings, " and"perfect dears. " Then she shuddered prettily. 

"And I don't see how you can ever BEAR to shoot them, Mr. White, " sheconcluded. 

"You quarter the onions and slice them very thin, " said I dreamily. "Then you take a little bacon fat you had left over from the flap-jacksand put it in the frying-pan. The frying-pan should be very hot. Whilethe onions are frying, you must keep turning them over with a fork. It's rather difficult to get them all browned without burning some. Ishould broil the meat. A broiler is handy, but two willows, peeled andcharred a little so the willow taste won't penetrate the meat, will do. Have the steak fairly thick. Pepper and salt it thoroughly. Sear itwell at first in order to keep the juices in; then cook rather slowly. When it is done, put it on a hot plate and pour the browned onions, bacon fat and all, over it. "

"What ARE you talking about?" she interrupted. 

"I'm telling you why I can bear to shoot deer, " said I. 

"But I don't see--" said she. 

"Don't you?" said I. "Well; suppose you've been climbing a mountainlate in the afternoon when the sun is on the other side of it. It is amountain of big boulders, loose little stones, thorny bushes. Theslightest misstep would send pebbles rattling, brush rustling; but youhave gone all the way without making that misstep. This is quite afeat. It means that you've known all about every footstep you'vetaken. That would be business enough for most people, wouldn't it?But in addition you've managed to see EVERYTHING on that side of themountain--especially patches of brown. You've seen lots of patches ofbrown, and you've examined each one of them. Besides that, you'veheard lots of little rustlings, and you've identified each one of them. To do all these things well keys your nerves to a high tension, doesn'tit? And then near the top you look up from your last noiseless step tosee in the brush a very dim patch of brown. If you hadn't been lookingso hard, you surely wouldn't have made it out. Perhaps, if you're nothumble-minded, you may reflect that most people wouldn't have seen itat all. You whistle once sharply. The patch of brown defines itself. Your heart gives one big jump. You know that you have but the briefestmoment, the tiniest fraction of time, to hold the white bead of yourrifle motionless and to press the trigger. It has to be done VERYsteadily, at that distance, --and you out of breath, with your nerveskeyed high in the tension of such caution. "

"NOW what are you talking about?" she broke in helplessly. 

"Oh, didn't I mention it?" I asked, surprised. "I was telling you why Icould bear to shoot deer. "

"Yes, but--" she began. 

"Of course not, " I reassured her. "After all, it's very simple. Thereason I can bear to kill deer is because, to kill deer, you mustaccomplish a skillful elimination of the obvious. "

My young lady was evidently afraid of being considered stupid; and alsoconvinced of her inability to understand what I was driving at. So shetemporized in the manner of society. 

"I see, " she said, with an air of complete enlightenment. 

Now of course she did not see. Nobody could see the force of that lastremark without the grace of further explanation, and yet in theelimination of the obvious rests the whole secret of seeing deer in thewoods. 

In traveling the trail you will notice two things: that a tenderfootwill habitually contemplate the horn of his saddle or the trail a fewyards ahead of his horse's nose, with occasionally a look about at thelandscape; and the old-timer will be constantly searching the prospectwith keen understanding eyes. Now in the occasional glances thetenderfoot takes, his perceptions have room for just so manyimpressions. When the number is filled out he sees nothing more. Naturally the obvious features of the landscape supply the basis forthese impressions. He sees the configuration of the mountains, thenature of their covering, the course of their ravines, first of all. Then if he looks more closely, there catches his eye an odd-shapedrock, a burned black stub, a flowering bush, or some such matter. Anything less striking in its appeal to the attention actually has notroom for its recognition. In other words, supposing that a man has thenatural ability to receive x visual impressions, the tenderfoot fillsout his full capacity with the striking features of his surroundings. To be able to see anything more obscure in form or color, he mustnaturally put aside from his attention some one or another of theseobvious features. He can, for example, look for a particular kind offlower on a side hill only by refusing to see other kinds. 

If this is plain, then, go one step further in the logic of thatreasoning. Put yourself in the mental attitude of a man looking fordeer. His eye sweeps rapidly over a side hill; so rapidly that youcannot understand how he can have gathered the main features of thathill, let alone concentrate and refine his attention to the seeing ofan animal under a bush. As a matter of fact he pays no attention to themain features. He has trained his eye, not so much to see things, asto leave things out. The odd-shaped rock, the charred stub, the brightflowering bush do not exist for him. His eye passes over them asunseeing as yours over the patch of brown or gray that represents hisquarry. His attention stops on the unusual, just as does yours; onlyin his case the unusual is not the obvious. He has succeeded by longtraining in eliminating that. Therefore he sees deer where you do not. As soon as you can forget the naturally obvious and construct anartificially obvious, then you too will see deer. 

These animals are strangely invisible to the untrained eye even whenthey are standing "in plain sight. " You can look straight at them, andnot see them at all. Then some old woodsman lets you sight over hisfinger exactly to the spot. At once the figure of the deer fairlyleaps into vision. I know of no more perfect example of theinstantaneous than this. You are filled with astonishment that youcould for a moment have avoided seeing it. And yet next time you willin all probability repeat just this "puzzle picture" experience. 

The Tenderfoot tried for six weeks before he caught sight of one. Hewanted to very much. Time and again one or the other of us would hissback, "See the deer! over there by the yellow bush!" but before hecould bring the deliberation of his scrutiny to the point ofidentification, the deer would be gone. Once a fawn jumped fairlywithin ten feet of the pack-horses and went bounding away through thebushes, and that fawn he could not help seeing. We triedconscientiously enough to get him a shot; but the Tenderfoot was unableto move through the brush less majestically than a Pullman car, so wehad ended by becoming apathetic on the subject. 

Finally, while descending a very abrupt mountain-side I made out a bucklying down perhaps three hundred feet directly below us. The buck wasnot looking our way, so I had time to call the Tenderfoot. He came. With difficulty and by using my rifle-barrel as a pointer I managed toshow him the animal. Immediately he began to pant as though at thefinish of a mile race, and his rifle, when he leveled it, covered agood half acre of ground. This would never do. 

"Hold on!" I interrupted sharply. 

He lowered his weapon to stare at me wild-eyed. 

"What is it?" he gasped. 

"Stop a minute!" I commanded. "Now take three deep breaths. "

He did so. 

"Now shoot, " I advised, "and aim at his knees. "

The deer was now on his feet and facing us, so the Tenderfoot had theentire length of the animal to allow for lineal variation. He fired. The deer dropped. The Tenderfoot thrust his hat over one eye, restedhand on hip in a manner cocky to behold. 

"Simply slaughter!" he proffered with lofty scorn. 

We descended. The bullet had broken the deer's back--about six inchesfrom the tail. The Tenderfoot had overshot by at least three feet. 

You will see many deer thus from the trail, --in fact, we kept up ourmeat supply from the saddle, as one might say, --but to enjoy the finersavor of seeing deer, you should start out definitely with that objectin view. Thus you have opportunity for the display of a certain finerwoodcraft. You must know where the objects of your search are likelyto be found, and that depends on the time of year, the time of daystheir age, their sex, a hundred little things. When the bucks carryantlers in the velvet, they frequent the inaccessibilities of thehighest rocky peaks, so their tender horns may not be torn in thebrush, but nevertheless so that the advantage of a lofty viewpoint maycompensate for the loss of cover. Later you will find them in the openslopes of a lower altitude, fully exposed to the sun, that there theheat may harden the antlers. Later still, the heads in fine conditionand tough to withstand scratches, they plunge into the dense thickets. But in the mean time the fertile does have sought a lower country withpatches of small brush interspersed with open passages. There they canfeed with their fawns, completely concealed, but able, by merelyraising the head, to survey the entire landscape for the threatening ofdanger. The barren does, on the other hand, you will find through thetimber and brush, for they are careless of all responsibilities eitherto offspring or headgear. These are but a few of the considerationsyou will take into account, a very few of the many which lend the deercountries strange thrills of delight over new knowledge gained, overcrafty expedients invented or well utilized, over the satisfactorymatching of your reason, your instinct, your subtlety and skill againstthe reason, instinct, subtlety, and skill of one of the wariest oflarge wild animals. 

Perversely enough the times when you did NOT see deer are more apt toremain vivid in your memory than the times when you did. I can stillsee distinctly sundry wide jump-marks where the animal I was trackinghad evidently caught sight of me and lit out before I came up to him. Equally, sundry little thin disappearing clouds of dust; cracklings ofbrush, growing ever more distant; the tops of bushes waving to thesteady passage of something remaining persistently concealed, --theseare the chief ingredients often repeated which make up deer-stalkingmemory. When I think of seeing deer, these things automatically rise. 

A few of the deer actually seen do, however, stand out clearly from themany. When I was a very small boy possessed of a 32-20 rifle and largeambitions, I followed the advantage my father's footsteps made me inthe deep snow of an unused logging-road. His attention was focused onsome very interesting fresh tracks. I, being a small boy, cared not atall for tracks, and so saw a big doe emerge from the bushes not tenyards away, lope leisurely across the road, and disappear, waggingearnestly her tail. When I had recovered my breath I vehementlydemanded the sense of fooling with tracks when there were real livedeer to be had. My father examined me. 

"Well, why didn't you shoot her?" he inquired dryly. 

I hadn't thought of that. 

In the spring of 1900 I was at the head of the Piant River waiting forthe log-drive to start. One morning, happening to walk over a slashingof many years before in which had grown a strong thicket of whitepopples, I jumped a band of nine deer. I shall never forget thebewildering impression made by the glancing, dodging, bouncing white ofthose nine snowy tails and rumps. 

But most wonderful of all was a great buck, of I should be afraid tosay how many points, that stood silhouetted on the extreme end of aridge high above our camp. The time was just after twilight, and as wewatched, the sky lightened behind him in prophecy of the moon. 

ON TENDERFEET

XI

ON TENDERFEET

The tenderfoot is a queer beast. He makes more trouble than ants at apicnic, more work than a trespassing goat; he never sees anything, knows where anything is, remembers accurately your instructions, follows them if remembered, or is able to handle without awkwardnesshis large and pathetic hands and feet; he is always lost, alwaysfalling off or into things, always in difficulties; his articles ofnecessity are constantly being burned up or washed away or mislaid; helooks at you beamingly through great innocent eyes in the mostchuckle-headed of manners; he exasperates you to within an inch ofexplosion, --and yet you love him. 

I am referring now to the real tenderfoot, the fellow who cannot learn, who is incapable ever of adjusting himself to the demands of the wildlife. Sometimes a man is merely green, inexperienced. But give him achance and he soon picks up the game. That is your greenhorn, not yourtenderfoot. Down near Monache meadows we came across an individualleading an old pack-mare up the trail. The first thing, he asked us totell him where he was. We did so. Then we noticed that he carried hisgun muzzle-up in his hip-pocket, which seemed to be a nice way to shoota hole in your hand, but a poor way to make your weapon accessible. Heunpacked near us, and promptly turned the mare into a bog-hole becauseit looked green. Then he stood around the rest of the evening andtalked deprecating talk of a garrulous nature. 

"Which way did you come?" asked Wes. 

The stranger gave us a hazy account of misnamed cañons, by which wegathered that he had come directly over the rough divide below us. 

"But if you wanted to get to Monache, why didn't you go around to theeastward through that pass, there, and save yourself all the climb? Itmust have been pretty rough through there. "

"Yes, perhaps so, " he hesitated. "Still--I got lots of time--I cantake all summer, if I want to--and I'd rather stick to a straightline--then you know where you ARE--if you get off the straight line, you're likely to get lost, you know. "

We knew well enough what ailed him, of course. He was a tenderfoot, ofthe sort that always, to its dying day, unhobbles its horses beforeputting their halters on. Yet that man for thirty-two years had livedalmost constantly in the wild countries. He had traveled more mileswith a pack-train than we shall ever dream of traveling, and hardlycould we mention a famous camp of the last quarter century that he hadnot blundered into. Moreover he proved by the indirections of hismisinformation that he had really been there and was not making ghoststories in order to impress us. Yet if the Lord spares him thirty-twoyears more, at the end of that time he will probably still be carryinghis gun upside down, turning his horse into a bog-hole, and blunderingthrough the country by main strength and awkwardness. He was abeautiful type of the tenderfoot. 

The redeeming point of the tenderfoot is his humbleness of spirit andhis extreme good nature. He exasperates you with his fool performancesto the point of dancing cursing wild crying rage, and then acceptsyour--well, reproofs--so meekly that you come off the boil as thoughsome one had removed you from the fire, and you feel like a low-browedthug. 

Suppose your particular tenderfoot to be named Algernon. Suppose himto have packed his horse loosely--they always do--so that the pack hasslipped, the horse has bucked over three square miles of assortedmountains, and the rest of the train is scattered over identically thatarea. You have run your saddle-horse to a lather heading the outfit. You have sworn and dodged and scrambled and yelled, even fired yoursix-shooter, to turn them and bunch them. In the mean time Algernonhas either sat his horse like a park policeman in his leisure hours, orhas ambled directly into your path of pursuit on an average of fivetimes a minute. Then the trouble dies from the landscape and the babybewilderment from his eyes. You slip from your winded horse andaddress Algernon with elaborate courtesy. 

"My dear fellow, " you remark, "did you not see that the thing for youto do was to head them down by the bottom of that little gulch there?Don't you really think ANYBODY would have seen it? What in hades doyou think I wanted to run my horse all through those boulders for? Doyou think I want to get him lame 'way up here in the hills? I don'tmind telling a man a thing once, but to tell it to him fifty-eighttimes and then have it do no good-- Have you the faintest recollectionof my instructing you to turn the bight OVER instead of UNDER when youthrow that pack-hitch? If you'd remember that, we shouldn't have hadall this trouble. "

"You didn't tell me to head them by the little gulch, " babbles Algernon. 

This is just the utterly fool reply that upsets your artificial andelaborate courtesy. You probably foam at the mouth, and dance on yourhat, and shriek wild imploring imprecations to the astonished hills. This is not because you have an unfortunate disposition, but becauseAlgernon has been doing precisely the same thing for two months. 

"Listen to him!" you howl. "Didn't tell him! Why you gangle-leggedbug-eyed soft-handed pop-eared tenderfoot, you! there are some thingsyou never THINK of telling a man. I never told you to open your mouthto spit, either. If you had a hired man at five dollars a year who wasso all-around hopelessly thick-headed and incompetent as you are, you'dfire him to-morrow morning. "

Then Algernon looks truly sorry, and doesn't answer back as he ought toin order to give occasion for the relief of a really soul-satisfyingscrap, and utters the soft answer humbly. So your wrath is turned andthere remain only the dregs which taste like some of Algernon's cooking. 

It is rather good fun to relieve the bitterness of the heart. Let metell you a few more tales of the tenderfoot, premising always that Ilove him, and when at home seek him out to smoke pipes at his fireside, to yarn over the trail, to wonder how much rancor he cherishes againstthe maniacs who declaimed against him, and by way of compensation tobuild up in the mind of his sweetheart, his wife, or his mother afearful and wonderful reputation for him as the Terror of the Trail. These tales are selected from many, mere samples of a variedexperience. They occurred here, there, and everywhere, and at varioustimes. Let no one try to lay them at the door of our Tenderfoot merelybecause such is his title in this narrative. We called him that by wayof distinction. 

Once upon a time some of us were engaged in climbing a mountain risingsome five thousand feet above our starting-place. As we toiled along, one of the pack-horses became impatient and pushed ahead. We did notmind that, especially, as long as she stayed in sight, but in a littlewhile the trail was closed in by brush and timber. 

"Algernon, " said we, "just push on and get ahead of that mare, willyou?"

Algernon disappeared. We continued to climb. The trail was steep andrather bad. The labor was strenuous, and we checked off each thousandfeet with thankfulness. As we saw nothing further of Algernon, wenaturally concluded he had headed the mare and was continuing on thetrail. Then through a little opening we saw him riding cheerfullyalong without a care to occupy his mind. Just for luck we hailed him. 

"Hi there, Algernon! Did you find her?"

"Haven't seen her yet. "

"Well, you'd better push on a little faster. She may leave the trailat the summit. "

Then one of us, endowed by heaven with a keen intuitive instinct fortenderfeet, --no one could have a knowledge of them, they are toounexpected, --had an inspiration. 

"I suppose there are tracks on the trail ahead of you?" he called. 

We stared at each other, then at the trail. Only one horse hadpreceded us, --that of the tenderfoot. But of course Algernon wasnevertheless due for his chuckle-headed reply. 

"I haven't looked, " said he. 

That raised the storm conventional to such an occasion. 

"What in the name of seventeen little dicky-birds did you think youwere up to!" we howled. "Were you going to ride ahead until dark inthe childlike faith that that mare might show up somewhere? Here's anice state of affairs. The trail is all tracked up now with ourhorses, and heaven knows whether she's left tracks where she turnedoff. It may be rocky there. "

We tied the animals savagely, and started back on foot. It would becriminal to ask our saddle-horses to repeat that climb. Algernon weordered to stay with them. 

"And don't stir from them no matter what happens, or you'll get lost, "we commanded out of the wisdom of long experience. 

We climbed down the four thousand odd feet, and then back again, leading the mare. She had turned off not forty rods from whereAlgernon had taken up her pursuit. 

Your Algernon never does get down to little details like tracks--hisscheme of life is much too magnificent. To be sure he would not knowfresh tracks from old if he should see them; so it is probably quite aswell. In the morning he goes out after the horses. The bunch he findseasily enough, but one is missing. What would you do about it? Youwould naturally walk in a circle around the bunch until you crossed thetrack of the truant leading away from it, wouldn't you? If you made awide enough circle you would inevitably cross that track, wouldn't you?provided the horse started out with the bunch in the first place. Thenyou would follow the track, catch the horse, and bring him back. Isthis Algernon's procedure? Not any. "Ha!" says he, "old Brownie ismissing. I will hunt him up. " Then he maunders off into the scenery, trusting to high heaven that he is going to blunder against Brownie asa prominent feature of the landscape. After a couple of hours youprobably saddle up Brownie and go out to find the tenderfoot. 

He has a horrifying facility in losing himself. Nothing is morecheering than to arise from a hard-earned couch of ease for the purposeof trailing an Algernon or so through the gathering dusk to the spotwhere he has managed to find something--a very real despair of evergetting back to food and warmth. Nothing is more irritating then thanhis gratitude. 

I traveled once in the Black Hills with such a tenderfoot. We were offfrom the base of supplies for a ten days' trip with only a saddle-horseapiece. This was near first principles, as our total provisionsconsisted of two pounds of oatmeal, some tea, and sugar. Among otherthings we climbed Mt. Harney. The trail, after we left the horses, wasas plain as a strip of Brussels carpet, but somehow or another thattenderfoot managed to get off it. I hunted him up. We gained the top, watched the sunset, and started down. The tenderfoot, I thought, wasfairly at my coat-tails, but when I turned to speak to him he had gone;he must have turned off at one of the numerous little openings in thebrush. I sat down to wait. By and by, away down the west slope of themountain, I heard a shot, and a faint, a very faint, despairing yell. I, also, shot and yelled. After various signals of the sort, it becameevident that the tenderfoot was approaching. In a moment he tore by atfull speed, his hat off, his eye wild, his six-shooter popping at everyjump. He passed within six feet of me, and never saw me. SubsequentlyI left him on the prairie, with accurate and simple instructions. 

"There's the mountain range. You simply keep that to your left andride eight hours. Then you'll see Rapid City. You simply CAN'T getlost. Those hills stick out like a sore thumb. "

Two days later he drifted into Rapid City, having wandered offsomewhere to the east. How he had done it I can never guess. That ishis secret. 

The tenderfoot is always in hard luck. Apparently, too, by all testsof analysis it is nothing but luck, pure chance, misfortune. And yetthe very persistence of it in his case, where another escapes, perhapsindicates that much of what we call good luck is in reality unconsciousskill in the arrangement of those elements which go to make up events. A persistently unlucky man is perhaps sometimes to be pitied, but moreoften to be booted. That philosophy will be cryingly unjust about oncein ten. 

But lucky or unlucky, the tenderfoot is human. Ordinarily that doesn'toccur to you. He is a malevolent engine of destruction--quite asimpersonal as heat or cold or lack of water. He is an unfortunatearticle of personal belonging requiring much looking after to keep inorder. He is a credulous and convenient response to practical jokes, huge tales, misinformation. He is a laudable object of attrition forthe development of your character. But somehow, in the woods, he isnot as other men, and so you do not come to feel yourself in closehuman relations to him. 

But Algernon is real, nevertheless. He has feelings, even if you donot respect them. He has his little enjoyments, even though he doesrarely contemplate anything but the horn of his saddle. 

"Algernon, " you cry, "for heaven's sake stick that saddle of yours in aglass case and glut yourself with the sight of its ravishing beautiesnext WINTER. For the present do gaze on the mountains. That's what youcame for. "

No use. 

He has, doubtless, a full range of all the appreciative emotions, though from his actions you'd never suspect it. Most human of all, hepossesses his little vanities. 

Algernon always overdoes the equipment question. If it isbird-shooting, he accumulates leggings and canvas caps and belts anddog-whistles and things until he looks like a picture from adepartment-store catalogue. In the cow country he wears Stetson hats, snake bands, red handkerchiefs, six-shooters, chaps, and huge spursthat do not match his face. If it is yachting, he has a chronometerwith a gong in the cabin of a five-ton sailboat, possesses anickle-plated machine to register the heel of his craft, sports abrass-bound yachting-cap and all the regalia. This is merely amusing. But I never could understand his insane desire to get sunburned. A manwill get sunburned fast enough; he could not help it if he would. Algernon usually starts out from town without a hat. Then he dares nottake off his sweater for a week lest it carry away his entire face. Ihave seen men with deep sores on their shoulders caused by nothing butexcessive burning in the sun. This, too, is merely amusing. It meansquite simply that Algernon realizes his inner deficiencies and wants tomake up for them by the outward seeming. Be kind to him, for he hasbeen raised a pet. 

The tenderfoot is lovable--mysterious in how he does it--and awfullyunexpected. 

XII

THE CAÑON

One day we tied our horses to three bushes, and walked on foot twohundred yards. Then we looked down. 

It was nearly four thousand feet down. Do you realize how far that is?There was a river meandering through olive-colored forests. It was sodistant that it was light green and as narrow as a piece of tape. Hereand there were rapids, but so remote that we could not distinguish themotion of them, only the color. The white resembled tiny dabs ofcotton wool stuck on the tape. It turned and twisted, following theturns and twists of the cañon. Somehow the level at the bottomresembled less forests and meadows than a heavy and sluggish fluid likemolasses flowing between the cañon walls. It emerged from the bend ofa sheer cliff ten miles to eastward: it disappeared placidly around thebend of another sheer cliff an equal distance to the westward. 

The time was afternoon. As we watched, the shadow of the cañon walldarkened the valley. Whereupon we looked up. 

Now the upper air, of which we were dwellers for the moment, waspeopled by giants and clear atmosphere and glittering sunlight, flashing like silver and steel and precious stones from the granitedomes, peaks, minarets, and palisades of the High Sierras. Solid asthey were in reality, in the crispness of this mountain air, under thetangible blue of this mountain sky, they seemed to poise light as somany balloons. Some of them rose sheer, with hardly a fissure; somehad flung across their shoulders long trailing pine draperies, fine asfur; others matched mantles of the whitest white against the bluestblue of the sky. Towards the lower country were more pines rising inridges, like the fur of an animal that has been alarmed. 

We dangled our feet over the edge and talked about it. Wes pointed tothe upper end where the sluggish lava-like flow of the cañon-bed firstcame into view. 

"That's where we'll camp, " said he. 

"When?" we asked. 

"When we get there, " he answered. 

For this cañon lies in the heart of the mountains. Those who wouldvisit it have first to get into the country--a matter of over a week. Then they have their choice of three probabilities of destruction. 

The first route comprehends two final days of travel at an altitude ofabout ten thousand feet, where the snow lies in midsummer; where thereis no feed, no comfort, and the way is strewn with the bones of horses. This is known as the "Basin Trail. " After taking it, you prefer theothers--until you try them. 

The finish of the second route is directly over the summit of amountain. You climb two thousand feet and then drop down five. Theascent is heart-breaking but safe. The descent is hair-raising andunsafe: no profanity can do justice to it. Out of a pack-train ofthirty mules, nine were lost in the course of that five thousand feet. Legend has it that once many years ago certain prospectors took in aChinese cook. At first the Mongolian bewailed his fate loudly andfluently, but later settled to a single terrified moan that soundedlike "tu-ne-mah! tu-ne-mah!" The trail was therefore named the"Tu-ne-mah Trail. " It is said that "tu-ne-mah" is the very worstsingle vituperation of which the Chinese language is capable. 

The third route is called "Hell's Half Mile. " It is not misnamed. 

Thus like paradise the cañon is guarded; but like paradise it iswondrous in delight. For when you descend you find that the tape-widetrickle of water seen from above has become a river with profounddarkling pools and placid stretches and swift dashing rapids; that thedark green sluggish flow in the cañon-bed has disintegrated into anoble forest with great pine-trees, and shaded aisles, and deep dankthickets, and brush openings where the sun is warm and the birds arecheerful, and groves of cottonwoods where all day long softly, likesnow, the flakes of cotton float down through the air. Moreover thereare meadows, spacious lawns, opening out, closing in, winding here andthere through the groves in the manner of spilled naphtha, actuallywaist high with green feed, sown with flowers like a brocade. Quainttributary little brooks babble and murmur down through these trees, down through these lawns. A blessed warm sun hums with the joy ofinnumerable bees. To right hand and to left, in front of you andbehind, rising sheer, forbidding, impregnable, the cliffs, mountains, and ranges hem you in. Down the river ten miles you can go: then thegorge closes, the river grows savage, you can only look down thetumbling fierce waters and turn back. Up the river five miles you cango, then interpose the sheer snow-clad cliffs of the Palisades, andthem, rising a matter of fourteen thousand feet, you may not cross. You are shut in your paradise as completely as though surrounded byiron bars. 

But, too, the world is shut out. The paradise is yours. In it aretrout and deer and grouse and bear and lazy happy days. Your horsesfeed to the fatness of butter. You wander at will in the ample thoughdefinite limits of your domain. You lie on your back and examinedispassionately, with an interest entirely detached, the hugecliff-walls of the valley. Days slip by. Really, it needs at least anangel with a flaming sword to force you to move on. 

We turned away from our view and addressed ourselves to the task offinding out just when we were going to get there. The first day webobbed up and over innumerable little ridges of a few hundred feetelevation, crossed several streams, and skirted the wide bowl-likeamphitheatre of a basin. The second day we climbed over things andfinally ended in a small hanging park named Alpine Meadows, at anelevation of eight thousand five hundred feet. There we rested-over aday, camped under a single pine-tree, with the quick-growing mountaingrasses thick about us, a semicircle of mountains on three sides, andthe plunge into the cañon on the other. As we needed meat, we spentpart of the day in finding a deer. The rest of the time we watchedidly for bear. 

Bears are great travelers. They will often go twenty miles overnight, apparently for the sheer delight of being on the move. Also are theyexceedingly loath to expend unnecessary energy in getting to places, and they hate to go down steep hills. You see, their fore legs areshort. Therefore they are skilled in the choice of easy routes throughthe mountains, and once having made the choice they stick to it untilthrough certain narrow places on the route selected they have worn atrail as smooth as a garden-path. The old prospectors used quiteoccasionally to pick out the horse-passes by trusting in general to thebear migrations, and many a well-traveled route of to-day issuperimposed over the way-through picked out by old bruin long ago. 

Of such was our own trail. Therefore we kept our rifles at hand andour eyes open for a straggler. But none came, though we baited craftilywith portions of our deer. All we gained was a rattlesnake, and heseemed a bit out of place so high up in the air. 

Mount Tunemah stood over against us, still twenty-two hundred feetabove our elevation. We gazed on it sadly, for directly by its summit, and for five hours beyond, lay our trail, and evil of reputation wasthat trail beyond all others. The horses, as we bunched them inpreparation for the packing, took on a new interest, for it was on thecards that the unpacking at evening would find some missing from theranks. 

"Lily's a goner, sure, " said Wes. "I don't know how she's got this farexcept by drunken man's luck. She'll never make the Tunemah. "

"And Tunemah himself, " pointed out the Tenderfoot, naming his own foolhorse; "I see where I start in to walk. "

"Sort of a 'morituri te salutamur, '" said I. 

We climbed the two thousand two hundred feet, leading our saddle-horsesto save their strength. Every twenty feet we rested, breathing heavilyof the rarified air. Then at the top of the world we paused on thebrink of nothing to tighten cinches, while the cold wind swept by us, the snow glittered in a sunlight become silvery like that of earlyApril, and the giant peaks of the High Sierras lifted into a distanceinconceivably remote, as though the horizon had been set back for theiraccommodation. 

To our left lay a windrow of snow such as you will see drifted into asharp crest across a corner of your yard; only this windrow was twentyfeet high and packed solid by the sun, the wind, and the weight of itsage. We climbed it and looked over directly into the eye of a roundAlpine lake seven or eight hundred feet below. It was of an intensecobalt blue, a color to be seen only in these glacial bodies of water, deep and rich as the mantle of a merchant of Tyre. White ice floatedin it. The savage fierce granite needles and knife-edges of themountain crest hemmed it about. 

But this was temporizing, and we knew it. The first drop of the trailwas so steep that we could flip a pebble to the first level of it, andso rough in its water-and-snow-gouged knuckles of rocks that it seemedthat at the first step a horse must necessarily fall end over end. Wemade it successfully, however, and breathed deep. Even Lily, by amiracle of lucky scrambling, did not even stumble. 

"Now she's easy for a little ways, " said Wes, "then we'll get busy. "

When we "got busy" we took our guns in our hands to preserve them froma fall, and started in. Two more miracles saved Dinkey at two moreplaces. We spent an hour at one spot, and finally built a new trailaround it. Six times a minute we held our breaths and stood on tiptoewith anxiety, powerless to help, while the horse did his best. At theespecially bad places we checked them off one after another, congratulating ourselves on so much saved as each came across withoutaccident. When there were no bad places, the trail was soextraordinarily steep that we ahead were in constant dread of a horse'sfalling on us from behind, and our legs did become wearied to incipientparalysis by the constant stiff checking of the descent. Moreoverevery second or so one of the big loose stones with which the trail wascumbered would be dislodged and come bouncing down among us. We dodgedand swore; the horses kicked; we all feared for the integrity of ourlegs. The day was full of an intense nervous strain, an entireabsorption in the precise present. We promptly forgot a difficulty assoon as we were by it: we had not time to think of those still ahead. All outside the insistence of the moment was blurred and unimportant, like a specialized focus, so I cannot tell you much about the scenery. The only outside impression we received was that the cañon floor wasslowly rising to meet us. 

Then strangely enough, as it seemed, we stepped off to level ground. 

Our watches said half-past three. We had made five miles in a littleunder seven hours. 

Remained only the crossing of the river. This was no mean task, but weaccomplished it lightly, searching out a ford. There were highgrasses, and on the other side of them a grove of very tallcottonwoods, clean as a park. First of all we cooked things; then wespread things; then we lay on our backs and smoked things, our handsclasped back of our heads. We cocked ironical eyes at the sheer cliffof old Mount Tunemah, very much as a man would cock his eye at a tigerin a cage. 

Already the meat-hawks, the fluffy Canada jays, had found us out, andwere prepared to swoop down boldly on whatever offered to theirpredatory skill. We had nothing for them yet, --there were no remains ofthe lunch, --but the fire-irons were out, and ribs of venison wereroasting slowly over the coals in preparation for the evening meal. Directly opposite, visible through the lattice of the trees, were twohuge mountain peaks, part of the wall that shut us in, over against usin a height we had not dared ascribe to the sky itself. By and by theshadow of these mountains rose on the westerly wall. It crept up atfirst slowly, extinguishing color; afterwards more rapidly as the sunapproached the horizon. The sunlight disappeared. A moment's grayintervened, and then the wonderful golden afterglow laid on the peaksits enchantment. Little by little that too faded, until at last, faraway, through a rift in the ranks of the giants, but one remainedgilded by the glory of a dream that continued with it after the others. Heretofore it had seemed to us an insignificant peak, apparentlyovertopped by many, but by this token we knew it to be the highest ofthem all. 

Then ensued another pause, as though to give the invisiblescene-shifter time to accomplish his work, followed by a shower ofevening coolness, that seemed to sift through the trees like a soft andgentle rain. We ate again by the flicker of the fire, dabbing a trifleuncertainly at the food, wondering at the distant mountain on which theDay had made its final stand, shrinking a little before the stealthydark that flowed down the cañon in the manner of a heavy smoke. 

In the notch between the two huge mountains blazed a star, --accuratelyin the notch, like the front sight of a rifle sighted into themarvelous depths of space. Then the moon rose. 

First we knew of it when it touched the crest of our two mountains. The night has strange effects on the hills. A moment before they hadmenaced black and sullen against the sky, but at the touch of the moontheir very substance seemed to dissolve, leaving in the upperatmosphere the airiest, most nebulous, fragile, ghostly simulacrums ofthemselves you could imagine in the realms of fairy-land. They seemedactually to float, to poise like cloud-shapes about to dissolve. Andagainst them were cast the inky silhouettes of three fir-trees in theshadow near at hand. 

Down over the stones rolled the river, crying out to us with the voicesof old accustomed friends in another wilderness. The winds rustled. 

XIII

TROUT, BUCKSKIN, AND PROSPECTORS

As I have said, a river flows through the cañon. It is a very goodriver with some riffles that can be waded down to the edges of blackpools or white chutes of water; with appropriate big trees fallenslantwise into it to form deep holes; and with hurrying smoothstretches of some breadth. In all of these various places are rainbowtrout. 

There is no use fishing until late afternoon. The clear sun of thehigh altitudes searches out mercilessly the bottom of the stream, throwing its miniature boulders, mountains, and valleys as plainly intorelief as the buttes of Arizona at noon. Then the trout quite refuse. Here and there, if you walk far enough and climb hard enough over allsorts of obstructions, you may discover a few spots shaded by big treesor rocks where you can pick up a half dozen fish; but it is slow work. When, however, the shadow of the two huge mountains feels its wayacross the stream, then, as though a signal had been given, the troutbegin to rise. For an hour and a half there is noble sport indeed. 

The stream fairly swarmed with them, but of course some places werebetter than others. Near the upper reaches the water boiled likeseltzer around the base of a tremendous tree. There the pool was atleast ten feet deep and shot with bubbles throughout the whole of itsdepth, but it was full of fish. They rose eagerly to your gyratingfly, --and took it away with them down to subaqueous chambers andpassages among the roots of that tree. After which you broke yourleader. Royal Coachman was the best lure, and therefore valuableexceedingly were Royal Coachmen. Whenever we lost one we lifted up ourvoices in lament, and went away from there, calling to mind that therewere other pools, many other pools, free of obstruction and with fishin them. Yet such is the perversity of fishermen, we were back losingmore Royal Coachmen the very next day. In all I managed to disengagejust three rather small trout from that pool, and in return decoratedtheir ancestral halls with festoons of leaders and the brilliance ofmany flies. 

Now this was foolishness. All you had to do was to walk through agrove of cottonwoods, over a brook, through another grove of pines, down a sloping meadow to where one of the gigantic pine-trees hadobligingly spanned the current. You crossed that, traversed anothermeadow, broke through a thicket, slid down a steep grassy bank, andthere you were. A great many years before a pine-tree had fallenacross the current. Now its whitened skeleton lay there, opposing abarrier for about twenty-five feet out into the stream. Most of thewater turned aside, of course, and boiled frantically around the end asthough trying to catch up with the rest of the stream which had gone onwithout it, but some of it dived down under and came up on the otherside. There, as though bewildered, it paused in an uneasy pool. Itsconstant action had excavated a very deep hole, the debris of which hadformed a bar immediately below. You waded out on the bar and castalong the length of the pine skeleton over the pool. 

If you were methodical, you first shortened your line, and began nearthe bank, gradually working out until you were casting forty-five feetto the very edge of the fast current. I know of nothing pleasanter foryou to do. You see, the evening shadow was across the river, and abeautiful grass slope at your back. Over the way was a grove of treeswhose birds were very busy because it was near their sunset, whiletowering over them were mountains, quite peaceful by way of contrastbecause THEIR sunset was still far distant. The river was in a greathurry, and was talking to itself like a man who has been detained andis now at last making up time to his important engagement. And fromthe deep black shadow beneath the pine skeleton, occasionally flashedwhite bodies that made concentric circles where they broke the surfaceof the water, and which fought you to a finish in the glory of battle. The casting was against the current, so your flies could rest but thebriefest possible moment on the surface of the stream. That moment wasenough. Day after day you could catch your required number from anapparently inexhaustible supply. 

I might inform you further of the gorge downstream, where you lie flaton your stomach ten feet above the river, and with one hand cautiouslyextended over the edge cast accurately into the angle of the cliff. Then when you get your strike, you tow him downstream, clamberprecariously to the water's level--still playing your fish--and thereland him, --if he has accommodatingly stayed hooked. A three-pound fishwill make you a lot of tribulation at this game. 

We lived on fish and venison, and had all we wanted. The bear-trailswere plenty enough, and the signs were comparatively fresh, but at thetime of our visit the animals themselves had gone over the mountains onsome sort of a picnic. Grouse, too, were numerous in the popplethickets, and flushed much like our ruffed grouse of the East. Theyafforded first-rate wing-shooting for Sure-Pop, the little shot-gun. 

But these things occupied, after all, only a small part of every day. We had loads of time left. Of course we explored the valley up anddown. That occupied two days. After that we became lazy. One alwaysdoes in a permanent camp. So did the horses. Active--or ratherrestless interest in life seemed to die away. Neither we nor they hadto rustle hard for food. They became fastidious in their choice, andat all times of day could be seen sauntering in Indian file from onepart of the meadow to the other for the sole purpose apparently ofcropping a half dozen indifferent mouthfuls. The rest of the time theyroosted under trees, one hind leg relaxed, their eyes half closed, their ears wabbling, the pictures of imbecile content. We were verymuch the same. 

Of course we had our outbursts of virtue. While under their influencewe undertook vast works. But after their influence had died out, wefound ourselves with said vast works on our hands, and so came tocursing ourselves and our fool spasms of industry. 

For instance, Wes and I decided to make buckskin from the hide of thelatest deer. We did not need the buckskin--we already had two in thepack. Our ordinary procedure would have been to dry the hide forfuture treatment by a Mexican, at a dollar a hide, when we should havereturned home. But, as I said, we were afflicted by sporadic activity, and wanted to do something. 

We began with great ingenuity by constructing a graining-tool out of atable-knife. We bound it with rawhide, and encased it with wood, andwrapped it with cloth, and filed its edge square across, as is proper. After this we hunted out a very smooth, barkless log, laid the hideacross it, straddled it, and began graining. 

Graining is a delightful process. You grasp the tool by either end, hold the square edge at a certain angle, and push away from youmightily. A half-dozen pushes will remove a little patch of hair;twice as many more will scrape away half as much of the seal-browngrain, exposing the white of the hide. Then, if you want to, you canstop and establish in your mind a definite proportion between theamount thus exposed, the area remaining unexposed, and the muscularfatigue of these dozen and a half of mighty pushes. The proportionwill be wrong. You have left out of account the fact that you aregoing to get almighty sick of the job; that your arms and upper backare going to ache shrewdly before you are done; and that as you go onit is going to be increasingly difficult to hold down the edges firmlyenough to offer the required resistance to your knife. Besides--if youget careless--you'll scrape too hard: hence little holes in thecompleted buckskin. Also--if you get careless--you will probably leavethe finest, tiniest shreds of grain, and each of them means a hardtransparent spot in the product. Furthermore, once having started in onthe job, you are like the little boy who caught the trolley: you cannotlet go. It must be finished immediately, all at one heat, before thehide stiffens. 

Be it understood, your first enthusiasm has evaporated, and you arethinking of fifty pleasant things you might just as well be doing. 

Next you revel in grease, --lard oil, if you have it; if not, then lard, or the product of boiled brains. This you must rub into the skin. Yourub it in until you suspect that your finger-nails have worn away, andyou glisten to the elbows like an Eskimo cutting blubber. 

By the merciful arrangement of those who invented buckskin, thisentitles you to a rest. You take it--for several days--until yourconscience seizes you by the scruff of the neck. 

Then you transport gingerly that slippery, clammy, soggy, snaky, coldbundle of greasy horror to the bank of the creek, and there for endlesshours you wash it. The grease is more reluctant to enter the streamthan you are in the early morning. Your hands turn purple. The othersgo by on their way to the trout-pools, but you are chained to the stake. 

By and by you straighten your back with creaks, and walk home like astiff old man, carrying your hide rid of all superfluous oil. Then ifyou are just learning how, your instructor examines the result. 

"That's all right, " says he cheerfully. "Now when it dries, it will bebuckskin. "

That encourages you. It need not. For during the process of drying itmust be your pastime constantly to pull and stretch at every squareinch of that boundless skin in order to loosen all the fibres. Otherwise it would dry as stiff as whalebone. Now there is nothing onearth that seems to dry slower than buckskin. You wear your fingersdown to the first joints, and, wishing to preserve the remainder forfuture use, you carry the hide to your instructor. 

"Just beginning to dry nicely, " says he. 

You go back and do it some more, putting the entire strength of yourbody, soul, and religious convictions into the stretching of thatbuckskin. It looks as white as paper; and feels as soft and warm asthe turf on a southern slope. Nevertheless your tyrant declares itwill not do. 

"It looks dry, and it feels dry, " says he, "but it isn't dry. Go toit!"

But at this point your outraged soul arches its back and bucks. Yousneak off and roll up that piece of buckskin, and thrust it into thealforja. You KNOW it is dry. Then with a deep sigh of relief you comeout of prison into the clear, sane, lazy atmosphere of the camp. 

"Do you mean to tell me that there is any one chump enough to do thatfor a dollar a hide?" you inquire. 

"Sure, " say they. 

"Well, the Fool Killer is certainly behind on his dates, " you conclude. 

About a week later one of your companions drags out of the alforjasomething crumpled that resembles in general appearance and texture arusted five-gallon coal-oil can that has been in a wreck. It is onlyimperceptibly less stiff and angular and cast-iron than rawhide. 

"What is this?" the discoverer inquires. 

Then quietly you go out and sit on a high place before recognitionbrings inevitable--and sickening--chaff. For you know it at a glance. It is your buckskin. 

Along about the middle of that century an old prospector with fourburros descended the Basin Trail and went into camp just below us. Towards evening he sauntered in. 

I sincerely wish I could sketch this man for you just as he came downthrough the fire-lit trees. He was about six feet tall, very leanlybuilt, with a weather-beaten face of mahogany on which was superimposeda sweeping mustache and beetling eye-brows. These had originally beenbrown, but the sun had bleached them almost white in remarkablecontrast to his complexion. Eyes keen as sunlight twinkled far downbeneath the shadows of the brows and a floppy old sombrero hat. Theusual flannel shirt, waistcoat, mountain-boots, and six-shootercompleted the outfit. He might have been forty, but was probablynearer sixty years of age. 

"Howdy, boys, " said he, and dropped to the fireside, where he promptlyannexed a coal for his pipe. 

We all greeted him, but gradually the talk fell to him and Wes. It wascommonplace talk enough from one point of view: taken in essence it wasmerely like the inquiry and answer of the civilized man as to another'sitinerary--"Did you visit Florence? Berlin? St. Petersburg?"--and thenthe comparing of impressions. Only here again that old familiar magicof unfamiliar names threw its glamour over the terse sentences. 

"Over beyond the Piute Monument, " the old prospector explained, "downthrough the Inyo Range, a leetle north of Death Valley--"

"Back in seventy-eight when I was up in Bay Horse Cañon over by LostRiver--"

"Was you ever over in th' Panamit Mountains?--North of th' TelescopeRange?--"

That was all there was to it, with long pauses for drawing at thepipes. Yet somehow in the aggregate that catalogue of names graduallyestablished in the minds of us two who listened an impression of longyears, of wide wilderness, of wandering far over the face of the earth. The old man had wintered here, summered a thousand miles away, made hisstrike at one end of the world, lost it somehow, and cheerfully triedfor a repetition of his luck at the other. I do not believe thepossibility of wealth, though always of course in the background, wasever near enough his hope to be considered a motive for action. Ratherwas it a dream, remote, something to be gained to-morrow, but neverto-day, like the mediaeval Christian's idea of heaven. His interestwas in the search. For that one could see in him a real enthusiasm. He had his smattering of theory, his very real empirical knowledge, andhis superstitions, like all prospectors. So long as he could keep ingrub, own a little train of burros, and lead the life he loved, he washappy. 

Perhaps one of the chief elements of this remarkable interest in thegame rather than the prizes of it was his desire to vindicate hisguesses or his conclusions. He liked to predict to himself the outcomeof his solitary operations, and then to prove that prediction throughlaborious days. His life was a gigantic game of solitaire. In fact, he mentioned a dozen of his claims many years apart which he haddeveloped to a certain point, --"so I could see what they was, "--andthen abandoned in favor of fresher discoveries. He cherished theillusion that these were properties to whose completion some day hewould return. But we knew better; he had carried them to the pointwhere the result was no longer in doubt and then, like one who has nointerest in playing on in an evidently prescribed order, had laid hiscards on the table to begin a new game. 

This man was skilled in his profession; he had pursued it for thirtyodd years; he was frugal and industrious; undoubtedly of his longseries of discoveries a fair percentage were valuable and areproducing-properties to-day. Yet he confessed his bank balance to beless than five hundred dollars. Why was this? Simply and solelybecause he did not care. At heart it was entirely immaterial to himwhether he ever owned a dollar above his expenses. When he sold hisclaims, he let them go easily, loath to bother himself with businessdetails, eager to get away from the fuss and nuisance. The few hundreddollars he received he probably sunk in unproductive mining work, orwas fleeced out of in the towns. Then joyfully he turned back to hisbeloved mountains and the life of his slow deep delight and his peckingaway before the open doors of fortune. By and by he would buildhimself a little cabin down in the lower pine mountains, where he wouldgrow a white beard, putter with occult wilderness crafts, and smokelong contemplative hours in the sun before his door. For tourists hewould braid rawhide reins and quirts, or make buckskin. The jays andwoodpeckers and Douglas squirrels would become fond of him. So hewould be gathered to his fathers, a gentle old man whose life had beenspent harmlessly in the open. He had had his ideal to which blindly hereached; he had in his indirect way contributed the fruits of his laborto mankind; his recompenses he had chosen according to his desires. When you consider these things, you perforce have to revise your firstnotion of him as a useless sort of old ruffian. As you come to knowhim better, you must love him for the kindliness, the simple honesty, the modesty, and charity that he seems to draw from his mountainenvironment. There are hundreds of him buried in the great cañons ofthe West. 

Our prospector was a little uncertain as to his plans. Along towardautumn he intended to land at some reputed placers near Dinkey Creek. There might be something in that district. He thought he would take alook. In the mean time he was just poking up through the country--heand his jackasses. Good way to spend the summer. Perhaps he might runacross something 'most anywhere; up near the top of that mountainopposite looked mineralized. Didn't know but what he'd take a look ather to-morrow. 

He camped near us during three days. I never saw a more modest, self-effacing man. He seemed genuinely, childishly, almost helplesslyinterested in our fly-fishing, shooting, our bear-skins, and ourtravels. You would have thought from his demeanor--which was sincereand not in the least ironical--that he had never seen or heard anythingquite like that before, and was struck with wonder at it. Yet he hadcast flies before we were born, and shot even earlier than he had casta fly, and was a very Ishmael for travel. Rarely could you get anaccount of his own experiences, and then only in illustration ofsomething else. 

"If you-all likes bear-hunting, " said he, "you ought to get up ineastern Oregon. I summered there once. The only trouble is, the brushis thick as hair. You 'most always have to bait them, or wait for themto come and drink. The brush is so small you ain't got much chance. Irun onto a she-bear and cubs that way once. Didn't have nothin' but mysix-shooter, and I met her within six foot. "

He stopped with an air of finality. 

"Well, what did you do?" we asked. 

"Me?" he inquired, surprised. "Oh, I just leaked out of th' landscape. "

He prospected the mountain opposite, loafed with us a little, and thendecided that he must be going. About eight o'clock in the morning hepassed us, hazing his burros, his tall, lean figure elastic in defianceof years. 

"So long, boys, " he called; "good luck!"

"So long, " we responded heartily. "Be good to yourself. "

He plunged into the river without hesitation, emerged dripping on theother side, and disappeared in the brush. From time to time during therest of the morning we heard the intermittent tinkling of hisbell-animal rising higher and higher above us on the trail. 

In the person of this man we gained our first connection, so to speak, with the Golden Trout. He had caught some of them, and could tell usof their habits. 

Few fishermen west of the Rockies have not heard of the Golden Trout, though, equally, few have much definite information concerning it. Such information usually runs about as follows:

It is a medium size fish of the true trout family, resembling a rainbowexcept that it is of a rich golden color. The peculiarity that makesits capture a dream to be dreamed of is that it swims in but one littlestream of all the round globe. If you would catch a Golden Trout, youmust climb up under the very base of the end of the High Sierras. There is born a stream that flows down from an elevation of about tenthousand feet to about eight thousand before it takes a long plungeinto a branch of the Kern River. Over the twenty miles of its courseyou can cast your fly for Golden Trout; but what is the nature of thatstream, that fish, or the method of its capture, few can tell you withany pretense of accuracy. 

To be sure, there are legends. One, particularly striking, claims thatthe Golden Trout occurs in one other stream--situated in CentralAsia!--and that the fish is therefore a remnant of some pre-glacialperiod, like Sequoia trees, a sort of grand-daddy of all trout, as itwere. This is but a sample of what you will hear discussed. 

Of course from the very start we had had our eye on the Golden Trout, and intended sooner or later to work our way to his habitat. Ourprospector had just come from there. 

"It's about four weeks south, the way you and me travels, " said he. "You don't want to try Harrison's Pass; it's chock full of tribulation. Go around by way of the Giant Forest. She's pretty good there, too, some sizable timber. Then over by Redwood Meadows, and Timber Gap, byMineral King, and over through Farewell Gap. You turn east there, on anew trail. She's steeper than straight-up-an'-down, but shorter thanthe other. When you get down in the cañon of Kern River, --say, she's afine cañon, too, --you want to go downstream about two mile to wherethere's a sort of natural overflowed lake full of stubs stickin' up. You'll get some awful big rainbows in there. Then your best way is togo right up Whitney Creek Trail to a big high meadows mighty nigh totimber-line. That's where I camped. They's lots of them little yallerfish there. Oh, they bite well enough. You'll catch 'em. They's alittle shy. "

So in that guise--as the desire for new and distant things--did ourangel with the flaming sword finally come to us. 

We caught reluctant horses reluctantly. All the first day was to be aclimb. We knew it; and I suspect that they knew it too. Then wepacked and addressed ourselves to the task offered us by the BasinTrail. 

XIV

ON CAMP COOKERY

One morning I awoke a little before the others, and lay on my backstaring up through the trees. It was not my day to cook. We werecamped at the time only about sixty-five hundred feet high, and theweather was warm. Every sort of green thing grew very lush all aboutus, but our own little space was held dry and clear for us by theneedles of two enormous red cedars some four feet in diameter. Avariety of thoughts sifted through my mind as it followed lazily theshimmering filaments of loose spider-web streaming through space. Thelast thought stuck. It was that that day was a holiday. Therefore Iunlimbered my six-shooter, and turned her loose, each shot beingaccompanied by a meritorious yell. 

The outfit boiled out of its blankets. I explained the situation, andafter they had had some breakfast they agreed with me that acelebration was in order. Unanimously we decided to make it gastronomic. 

"We will ride till we get to good feed, " we concluded, "and then we'llcook all the afternoon. And nobody must eat anything until the wholebusiness is prepared and served. "

It was agreed. We rode until we were very hungry, which was eleveno'clock. Then we rode some more. By and by we came to a log cabin ina wide fair lawn below a high mountain with a ducal coronet on its top, and around that cabin was a fence, and inside the fence a man choppingwood. Him we hailed. He came to the fence and grinned at us from theelevation of high-heeled boots. By this token we knew him for acow-puncher. 

"How are you?" said we. 

"Howdy, boys, " he roared. Roared is the accurate expression. He wasnot a large man, and his hair was sandy, and his eye mild blue. Butundoubtedly his kinsmen were dumb and he had as birthright the voicefor the entire family. It had been subsequently developed in theshouting after the wild cattle of the hills. Now his ordinaryconversational tone was that of the announcer at a circus. But hisheart was good. 

"Can we camp here?" we inquired. 

"Sure thing, " he bellowed. "Turn your horses into the meadow. Campright here. "

But with the vision of a rounded wooded knoll a few hundred yardsdistant we said we'd just get out of his way a little. We crossed acreek, mounted an easy slope to the top of the knoll, and weredelighted to observe just below its summit the peculiar fresh greenhump which indicates a spring. The Tenderfoot, however, knew nothingof springs, for shortly he trudged a weary way back to the creek, andso returned bearing kettles of water. This performance hugelyastonished the cowboy, who subsequently wanted to know if a "critterhad died in the spring. "

Wes departed to borrow a big Dutch oven of the man and to invite him tocome across when we raised the long yell. Then we began operations. 

Now camp cooks are of two sorts. Anybody can with a little practicefry bacon, steak, or flapjacks, and boil coffee. The reduction of theraw material to its most obvious cooked result is within the reach ofall but the most hopeless tenderfoot who never knows the salt-sack fromthe sugar-sack. But your true artist at the business is he who canfrom six ingredients, by permutation, combination, and the genius thatis in him turn out a full score of dishes. For simple example: GIVEN, rice, oatmeal, and raisins. Your expert accomplishes the following:

ITEM--Boiled rice. 

ITEM--Boiled oatmeal. 

ITEM--Rice boiled until soft, then stiffened by the addition of quarteras much oatmeal. 

ITEM--Oatmeal in which is boiled almost to the dissolving point a thirdas much rice. 

These latter two dishes taste entirely unlike each other or theirseparate ingredients. They are moreover great in nutrition. 

ITEM--Boiled rice and raisins. 

ITEM--Dish number three with raisins. 

ITEM--Rice boiled with raisins, sugar sprinkled on top, and then baked. 

ITEM--Ditto with dish number three. 

All these are good--and different. 

Some people like to cook and have a natural knack for it. Others hateit. If you are one of the former, select a propitious moment tosuggest that you will cook, if the rest will wash the dishes and supplythe wood and water. Thus you will get first crack at the fire in thechill of morning; and at night you can squat on your heels doing lightlabor while the others rustle. 

In a mountain trip small stout bags for the provisions are necessary. They should be big enough to contain, say, five pounds of corn-meal, and should tie firmly at the top. It will be absolutely labor lost foryou to mark them on the outside, as the outside soon will becomeuniform in color with your marking. Tags might do, if occasionallyrenewed. But if you have the instinct, you will soon come to recognizethe appearance of the different bags as you recognize the features ofyour family. They should contain small quantities for immediate use ofthe provisions the main stock of which is carried on anotherpack-animal. One tin plate apiece and "one to grow on"; the same of tincups; half a dozen spoons; four knives and forks; a big spoon; twofrying-pans; a broiler; a coffee-pot; a Dutch oven; and three lightsheet-iron pails to nest in one another was what we carried on thistrip. You see, we had horses. Of course in the woods that outfitwould be materially reduced. 

For the same reason, since we had our carrying done for us, we tookalong two flat iron bars about twenty-four inches in length. These, laid across two stones between which the fire had been built, we usedto support our cooking-utensils stove-wise. I should never carry astove. This arrangement is quite as effective, and possesses the addedadvantage that wood does not have to be cut for it of any definitelength. Again, in the woods these iron bars would be a senselessburden. But early you will learn that while it is foolish to carry asingle ounce more than will pay in comfort or convenience for its owntransportation, it is equally foolish to refuse the comforts orconveniences that modified circumstance will permit you. To carry onlya forest equipment with pack-animals would be as silly as to carry onlya pack-animal outfit on a Pullman car. Only look out that you do notreverse it. 

Even if you do not intend to wash dishes, bring along some "Gold Dust. "It is much simpler in getting at odd corners of obstinate kettles thanany soap. All you have to do is to boil some of it in that kettle, andthe utensil is tamed at once. 

That's about all you, as expert cook, are going to need in the way ofequipment. Now as to your fire. 

There are a number of ways of building a cooking fire, but they shareone first requisite: it should be small. A blaze will burn everything, including your hands and your temper. Two logs laid side by side andslanted towards each other so that small things can go on the narrowend and big things on the wide end; flat rocks arranged in the samemanner; a narrow trench in which the fire is built; and the flat ironsjust described--these are the best-known methods. Use dry wood. Arrange to do your boiling first--in the flame; and your frying andbroiling last--after the flames have died to coals. 

So much in general. You must remember that open-air cooking is in manythings quite different from indoor cooking. You have differentutensils, are exposed to varying temperatures, are limited inresources, and pursued by a necessity of haste. Preconceived notionsmust go by the board. You are after results; and if you get them, donot mind the feminines of your household lifting the hands of horrorover the unorthodox means. Mighty few women I have ever seen were goodcamp-fire cooks; not because camp-fire cookery is especially difficult, but because they are temperamentally incapable of ridding themselves ofthe notion that certain things should be done in a certain way, andbecause if an ingredient lacks, they cannot bring themselves tosubstitute an approximation. They would rather abandon the dish thando violence to the sacred art. 

Most camp-cookery advice is quite useless for the same reason. I haveseen many a recipe begin with the words: "Take the yolks of four eggs, half a cup of butter, and a cup of fresh milk--" As if any one reallycamping in the wilderness ever had eggs, butter, and milk!

Now here is something I cooked for this particular celebration. Everywoman to whom I have ever described it has informed me vehemently thatit is not cake, and must be "horrid. " Perhaps it is not cake, but itlooks yellow and light, and tastes like cake. 

First I took two cups of flour, and a half cup of corn-meal to make itlook yellow. In this I mixed a lot of baking-powder, --about twice whatone should use for bread, --and topped off with a cup of sugar. Thewhole I mixed with water into a light dough. Into the dough wentraisins that had previously been boiled to swell them up. Thus was thecake mixed. Now I poured half the dough into the Dutch oven, sprinkledit with a good layer of sugar, cinnamon, and unboiled raisins; pouredin the rest of the dough; repeated the layer of sugar, cinnamon, andraisins; and baked in the Dutch oven. It was gorgeous, and we ate itat one fell swoop. 

While we are about it, we may as well work backwards on this particularorgy by describing the rest of our dessert. In addition to the cakeand some stewed apricots, I, as cook of the day, constructed also apudding. 

The basis was flour--two cups of it. Into this I dumped a handful ofraisins, a tablespoonful of baking-powder, two of sugar, and about apound of fat salt pork cut into little cubes. This I mixed up into amess by means of a cup or so of water and a quantity oflarrupy-dope. [1] Then I dipped a flour-sack in hot water, wrung itout, sprinkled it with dry flour, and half filled it with my puddingmixture. The whole outfit I boiled for two hours in a kettle. It, too, was good to the palate, and was even better sliced and fried thefollowing morning. 

This brings us to the suspension of kettles. There are two ways. Ifyou are in a hurry, cut a springy pole, sharpen one end, and stick itperpendicular in the ground. Bend it down towards your fire. Hangyour kettle on the end of it. If you have jabbed it far enough intothe ground in the first place, it will balance nicely by its own springand the elasticity of the turf. The other method is to plant twoforked sticks on either side your fire over which a strong cross-pieceis laid. The kettles are hung on hooks cut from forked branches. Theforked branches are attached to the cross-piece by means of thongs orwithes. 

On this occasion we had deer, grouse, and ducks in the larder. Thebest way to treat them is as follows. You may be sure we adopted thebest way. 

When your deer is fresh, you will enjoy greatly a dish of liver andbacon. Only the liver you will discover to be a great deal tendererand more delicate than any calf's liver you ever ate. There is thisdifference: a deer's liver should be parboiled in order to get rid of agreen bitter scum that will rise to the surface and which you must skimoff. 

Next in order is the "back strap" and tenderloin, which is alwaystender, even when fresh. The hams should be kept at least five days. Deer-steak, to my notion, is best broiled, though occasionally it ispleasant by way of variety to fry it. In that case a brown gravy ismade by thoroughly heating flour in the grease, and then stirring inwater. Deer-steak threaded on switches and "barbecued" over the coalsis delicious. The outside will be a little blackened, but all thejuices will be retained. To enjoy this to the utmost you should takeit in your fingers and GNAW. The only permissible implement is yourhunting-knife. Do not forget to peel and char slightly the switches onwhich you thread the meat, otherwise they will impart their fresh-woodtaste. 

By this time the ribs are in condition. Cut little slits between them, and through the slits thread in and out long strips of bacon. Cutother little gashes, and fill these gashes with onions chopped veryfine. Suspend the ribs across two stones between which you have alloweda fire to die down to coals. 

There remain now the hams, shoulders, and heart. The two former furnishsteaks. The latter you will make into a "bouillon. " Here insertsitself quite naturally the philosophy of boiling meat. It may bestated in a paragraph. 

If you want boiled meat, put it in hot water. That sets the juices. If you want soup, put it in cold water and bring to a boil. That setsfree the juices. Remember this. 

Now you start your bouillon cold. Into a kettle of water put your deerhearts, or your fish, a chunk of pork, and some salt. Bring to a boil. Next drop in quartered potatoes, several small whole onions, a halfcupful of rice, a can of tomatoes--if you have any. Boil slowly for anhour or so--until things pierce easily under the fork. Add severalchunks of bread and a little flour for thickening. Boil down to abouta chowder consistency, and serve hot. It is all you will need for thatmeal; and you will eat of it until there is no more. 

I am supposing throughout that you know enough to use salt and pepperwhen needed. 

So much for your deer. The grouse you can split and fry, in which casethe brown gravy described for the fried deer-steak is just the thing. Or you can boil him. If you do that, put him into hot water, boilslowly, skim frequently, and add dumplings mixed of flour, baking-powder, and a little lard. Or you can roast him in your Dutchoven with your ducks. 

Perhaps it might be well here to explain the Dutch oven. It is a heavyiron kettle with little legs and an iron cover. The theory of it isthat coals go among the little legs and on top of the iron cover. Thisheats the inside, and so cooking results. That, you will observe, isthe theory. 

In practice you will have to remember a good many things. In the firstplace, while other affairs are preparing, lay the cover on the fire toheat it through; but not on too hot a place nor too long, lest it warpand so fit loosely. Also the oven itself is to be heated through, andwell greased. Your first baking will undoubtedly be burned on thebottom. It is almost impossible without many trials to understand justhow little heat suffices underneath. Sometimes it seems that thewarmed earth where the fire has been is enough. And on top you do notwant a bonfire. A nice even heat, and patience, are the properingredients. Nor drop into the error of letting your bread chill, andso fall to unpalatable heaviness. Probably for some time you willalternate between the extremes of heavy crusts with doughy insides, andwhite weighty boiler-plate with no distinguishable crusts at all. Above all, do not lift the lid too often for the sake of taking a look. Have faith. 

There are other ways of baking bread. In the North Country forests, where you carry everything on your back, you will do it in thefrying-pan. The mixture should be a rather thick batter or a ratherthin dough. It is turned into the frying-pan and baked first on oneside, then on the other, the pan being propped on edge facing the fire. The whole secret of success is first to set your pan horizontal andabout three feet from the fire in order that the mixture may bethoroughly warmed--not heated--before the pan is propped on edge. Still another way of baking is in a reflector oven of tin. This ishighly satisfactory, provided the oven is built on the scientificangles to throw the heat evenly on all parts of the bread-pan andequally on top and bottom. It is not so easy as you might imagine toget a good one made. These reflectors are all right for a permanentcamp, but too fragile for transportation on pack-animals. 

As for bread, try it unleavened once in a while by way of change. Itis really very good, --just salt, water, flour, and a very little sugar. For those who like their bread "all crust, " it is especially toothsome. The usual camp bread that I have found the most successful has been inthe proportion of two cups of flour to a teaspoonful of salt, one ofsugar, and three of baking-powder. Sugar or cinnamon sprinkled on topis sometimes pleasant. Test by thrusting a splinter into the loaf. Ifdough adheres to the wood, the bread is not done. Biscuits are made byusing twice as much baking-powder and about two tablespoonfuls of lardfor shortening. They bake much more quickly than the bread. Johnny-cake you mix of corn-meal three cups, flour one cup, sugar fourspoonfuls, salt one spoonful, baking-powder four spoonfuls, and lardtwice as much as for biscuits. It also is good, very good. 

The flapjack is first cousin to bread, very palatable, and extremelyindigestible when made of flour, as is ordinarily done. However, theself-raising buckwheat flour makes an excellent flapjack, which islikewise good for your insides. The batter is rather thin, is pouredinto the piping hot greased pan, "flipped" when brown on one side, andeaten with larrupy-dope or brown gravy. 

When you come to consider potatoes and beans and onions and suchmatters, remember one thing: that in the higher altitudes water boilsat a low temperature, and that therefore you must not expect yourboiled food to cook very rapidly. In fact, you'd better leave beans athome. We did. Potatoes you can sometimes tease along by quarteringthem. 

Rolled oats are better than oatmeal. Put them in plenty of water andboil down to the desired consistency. In lack of cream you willprobably want it rather soft. 

Put your coffee into cold water, bring to a boil, let boil for abouttwo minutes, and immediately set off. Settle by letting a half cup ofcold water flow slowly into the pot from the height of a foot or so. If your utensils are clean, you will surely have good coffee by thissimple method. Of course you will never boil your tea. 

The sun was nearly down when we raised our long yell. The cow-puncherpromptly responded. We ate. Then we smoked. Then we basely left allour dishes until the morrow, and followed our cow-puncher to his logcabin, where we were to spend the evening. 

By now it was dark, and a bitter cold swooped down from the mountains. We built a fire in a huge stone fireplace and sat around in theflickering light telling ghost-stories to one another. The place wasrudely furnished, with only a hard earthen floor, and chairs hewn bythe axe. Rifles, spurs, bits, revolvers, branding-irons in turn caughtthe light and vanished in the shadow. The skin of a bear looked at usfrom hollow eye-sockets in which there were no eyes. We talked of theLong Trail. Outside the wind, rising, howled through the shakes of theroof. 

[1] Camp-lingo for any kind of syrup. 

XV

ON THE WIND AT NIGHT

The winds were indeed abroad that night. They rattled our cabin, theyshrieked in our eaves, they puffed down our chimney, scattering theashes and leaving in the room a balloon of smoke as though a shell hadburst. When we opened the door and stepped out, after our good-nightshad been said, it caught at our hats and garments as though it had beenlying in wait for us. 

To our eyes, fire-dazzled, the night seemed very dark. There would bea moon later, but at present even the stars seemed only so manypinpoints of dull metal, lustreless, without illumination. We felt ourway to camp, conscious of the softness of grasses, the uncertainty ofstones. 

At camp the remains of the fire crouched beneath the rating of thestorm. Its embers glowed sullen and red, alternately glaring with ahalf-formed resolution to rebel, and dying to a sulky resignation. Once a feeble flame sprang up for an instant, but was immediatelypounced on and beaten flat as though by a vigilant antagonist. 

We, stumbling, gathered again our tumbled blankets. Across the brow ofthe knoll lay a huge pine trunk. In its shelter we respread ourbedding, and there, standing, dressed for the night. The power of thewind tugged at our loose garments, hoping for spoil. A towel, shakenby accident from the interior of a sweater, departed white-winged, likea bird, into the outer blackness. We found it next day caught in thebushes several hundred yards distant. Our voices as we shouted weresnatched from our lips and hurled lavishly into space. The very breathof our bodies seemed driven back, so that as we faced the elements, webreathed in gasps, with difficulty. 

Then we dropped down into our blankets. 

At once the prostrate tree-trunk gave us its protection. We lay in alittle back-wash of the racing winds, still as a night in June. Overus roared the battle. We felt like sharpshooters in the trenches; asthough, were we to raise our heads, at that instant we should enter azone of danger. So we lay quietly on our backs and stared at theheavens. 

The first impression thence given was of stars sailing serene andunaffected, remote from the turbulence of what until this instant hadseemed to fill the universe. They were as always, just as we shouldsee them when the evening was warm and the tree-toads chirped clearlyaudible at half a mile. The importance of the tempest shrank. Thenbelow them next we noticed the mountains; they too were serene and calm. 

Immediately it was as though the storm were an hallucination; somethingnot objective; something real, but within the soul of him who lookedupon it. It claimed sudden kinship with those blackest days whennevertheless the sun, the mere external unimportant sun, shines withsuperlative brilliancy. Emotions of a power to shake the foundationsof life seemed vaguely to stir in answer to these their hollow symbols. For after all, we were contented at heart and tranquil in mind, andthis was but the outer gorgeous show of an intense emotional experiencewe did not at the moment prove. Our nerves responded to itautomatically. We became excited, keyed to a high tension, and so layrigid on our backs, as though fighting out the battles of our souls. 

It was all so unreal and yet so plain to our senses that perforceautomatically our experience had to conclude it psychical. We were inair absolutely still. Yet above us the trees writhed and twisted andturned and bent and struck back, evidently in the power of a mightyforce. Across the calm heavens the murk of flying atmosphere--I havealways maintained that if you looked closely enough you could SEE thewind--the dim, hardly-made-out, fine debris fleeing high in theair;--these faintly hinted at intense movement rushing down throughspace. A roar of sound filled the hollow of the sky. Occasionally itintermitted, falling abruptly in volume like the mysterious rarehushings of a rapid stream. Then the familiar noises of a summer nightbecame audible for the briefest instant, --a horse sneezed, an owlhooted, the wild call of birds came down the wind. And with a howl thelegions of good and evil took up their warring. It was too real, andyet it was not reconcilable with the calm of our resting-places. 

For hours we lay thus in all the intensity of an inner storm andstress, which it seemed could not fail to develop us, to mould us, toage us, to leave on us its scars, to bequeath us its peace or remorseor despair, as would some great mysterious dark experience direct fromthe sources of life. And then abruptly we were exhausted, as we shouldhave been by too great emotion. We fell asleep. The morning dawnedstill and clear, and garnished and set in order as though such thingshad never been. Only our white towel fluttered like a flag of truce inthe direction the mighty elements had departed. 

XVI

THE VALLEY

Once upon a time I happened to be staying in a hotel room which hadoriginally been part of a suite, but which was then cut off from theothers by only a thin door through which sounds carried clearly. Itwas about eleven o'clock in the evening. The occupants of that nextroom came home. I heard the door open and close. Then the bedshrieked aloud as somebody fell heavily upon it. There breathed acrossthe silence a deep restful sigh. 

"Mary, " said a man's voice, "I'm mighty sorry I didn't join thatAssociation for Artificial Vacations. They guarantee to get you just astired and just as mad in two days as you could by yourself in twoweeks. "

We thought of that one morning as we descended the Glacier Point Trailin Yosemite. 

The contrast we need not have made so sharp. We might have taken theregular wagon-road by way of Chinquapin, but we preferred to stick tothe trail, and so encountered our first sign of civilization within anhundred yards of the brink. It, the sign, was tourists. They weremale and female, as the Lord had made them, but they had improved onthat idea since. The women were freckled, hatted with alpines, inwhich edelweiss--artificial, I think--flowered in abundance; theysported severely plain flannel shirts, bloomers of an aggressive andunnecessary cut, and enormous square boots weighing pounds. The menhad on hats just off the sunbonnet effect, pleated Norfolk jackets, bloomers ditto ditto to the women, stockings whose tops rolled overinnumerable times to help out the size of that which they should havecontained, and also enormous square boots. The female children theyput in skin-tight blue overalls. The male children they dressed inbloomers. Why this should be I cannot tell you. All carried toyhatchets with a spike on one end built to resemble the pictures ofalpenstocks. 

They looked business-like, trod with an assured air of veterans and aseeming of experience more extended than it was possible to pack intoany one human life. We stared at them, our eyes bulging out. Theypainfully and evidently concealed a curiosity as to our pack-train. Wewished them good-day, in order to see to what language heaven hadfitted their extraordinary ideas as regards raiment. They inquired theway to something or other--I think Sentinel Dome. We had just arrived, so we did not know, but in order to show a friendly spirit we blandlypointed out A way. It may have led to Sentinel Dome for all I know. They departed uttering thanks in human speech. 

Now this particular bunch of tourists was evidently staying at theGlacier Point, and so was fresh. But in the course of that morning wedescended straight down a drop of, is it four thousand feet? The trailwas steep and long and without water. During the descent we passedfirst and last probably twoscore of tourists, all on foot. A good halfof them were delicate women, --young, middle-aged, a few gray-haired andevidently upwards of sixty. There were also old men, and fat men, andmen otherwise out of condition. Probably nine out of ten, counting inthe entire outfit, were utterly unaccustomed, when at home where growstreet-cars and hansoms, to even the mildest sort of exercise. Theyhad come into the Valley, whose floor is over four thousand feet up, without the slightest physical preparation for the altitude. They hadsubmitted to the fatigue of a long and dusty stage journey. And thenthey had merrily whooped it up at a gait which would have appalledseasoned old stagers like ourselves. Those blessed lunatics seemedpositively unhappy unless they climbed up to some new point of viewevery day. I have never seen such a universally tired out, frazzled, vitally exhausted, white-faced, nervous community in my life as I didduring our four days' stay in the Valley. Then probably they go away, and take a month to get over it, and have queer residual impressions ofthe trip. I should like to know what those impressions really are. 

Not but that Nature has done everything in her power to oblige them. The things I am about to say are heresy, but I hold them true. 

Yosemite is not as interesting nor as satisfying to me as some of theother big box cañons, like those of the Tehipite, the Kings in itsbranches, or the Kaweah. I will admit that its waterfalls are better. Otherwise it possesses no features which are not to be seen in itssister valleys. And there is this difference. In Yosemite everythingis jumbled together, apparently for the benefit of the tourist with alinen duster and but three days' time at his disposal. He can turnfrom the cliff-headland to the dome, from the dome to the half dome, tothe glacier formation, the granite slide and all the rest of it, withhardly the necessity of stirring his feet. Nature has put samples ofall her works here within reach of his cataloguing vision. Everythingis crowded in together, like a row of houses in forty-foot lots. Themere things themselves are here in profusion and wonder, but theappropriate spacing, the approach, the surrounding of subordinatedetail which should lead in artistic gradation to the supremefeature--these things, which are a real and essential part of estheticeffect, are lacking utterly for want of room. The place is not naturalscenery; it is a junk-shop, a storehouse, a sample-room wherein theelements of natural scenery are to be viewed. It is not an arrangementof effects in accordance with the usual laws of landscape, but anabnormality, a freak of Nature. 

All these things are to be found elsewhere. There are cliffs which tothe naked eye are as grand as El Capitan; domes, half domes, peaks asnoble as any to be seen in the Valley; sheer drops as breath-taking asthat from Glacier Point. But in other places each of these is led upto appropriately, and stands the central and satisfying feature towhich all other things look. Then you journey on from your cliff, orwhatever it happens to be, until, at just the right distance, so thatit gains from the presence of its neighbor without losing from itsproximity, a dome or a pinnacle takes to itself the right ofprominence. I concede the waterfalls; but in other respects I preferthe sister valleys. 

That is not to say that one should not visit Yosemite; nor that onewill be disappointed. It is grand beyond any possible human belief;and no one, even a nerve-frazzled tourist, can gaze on it without thestrongest emotion. Only it is not so intimately satisfying as itshould be. It is a show. You do not take it into your heart. "Whew!"you cry. "Isn't that a wonder!" then after a moment, "Looks just likethe photographs. Up to sample. Now let's go. "

As we descended the trail, we and the tourists aroused in each other amutual interest. One husband was trying to encourage his young andhandsome wife to go on. She was beautifully dressed for the part in amarvelous, becoming costume of whipcord--short skirt, high lacedelkskin boots and the rest of it; but in all her magnificence she hadsat down on the ground, her back to the cliff, her legs across thetrail, and was so tired out that she could hardly muster interestenough to pull them in out of the way of our horses' hoofs. The maninquired anxiously of us how far it was to the top. Now it was a longdistance to the top, but a longer to the bottom, so we lied a lie thatI am sure was immediately forgiven us, and told them it was only ashort climb. I should have offered them the use of Bullet, but Bullethad come far enough, and this was only one of a dozen such cases. Inmarked contrast was a jolly white-haired clergyman of the bishop typewho climbed vigorously and hailed us with a shout. 

The horses were decidedly unaccustomed to any such sights, and wesometimes had our hands full getting them by on the narrow way. Thetrail was safe enough, but it did have an edge, and that edge jumpedpretty straight off. It was interesting to observe how the touristsacted. Some of them were perfect fools, and we had more trouble withthem than we did with the horses. They could not seem to get thenotion into their heads that all we wanted them to do was to get on theinside and stand still. About half of them were terrified to death, sothat at the crucial moment, just as a horse was passing them, they hadlittle fluttering panics that called the beast's attention. Most ofthe remainder tried to be bold and help. They reached out the hand ofassistance toward the halter rope; the astonished animal promptlysnorted, tried to turn around, cannoned against the next in line. Thenthere was a mix-up. Two tall clean-cut well-bred looking girls of ourslim patrician type offered us material assistance. They seemed tounderstand horses, and got out of the way in the proper manner, didjust the right thing, and made sensible suggestions. I offer them myhomage. 

They spoke to us as though they had penetrated the disguise of longtravel, and could see we were not necessarily members of Burt Alvord'sgang. This phase too of our descent became increasingly interesting tous, a species of gauge by which we measured the perceptions of those weencountered. Most did not speak to us at all. Others responded to ourgreetings with a reserve in which was more than a tinge of distrust. Still others patronized us. A very few overlooked our faded flannelshirts, our soiled trousers, our floppy old hats with their rattlesnakebands, the wear and tear of our equipment, to respond to us heartily. Them in return we generally perceived to belong to our totem. 

We found the floor of the Valley well sprinkled with campers. They hadpitched all kinds of tents; built all kinds of fancy permanentconveniences; erected all kinds of banners and signs advertising theiridentity, and were generally having a nice, easy, healthful, jolly kindof a time up there in the mountains. Their outfits they had eitherbrought in with their own wagons, or had had freighted. The store nearthe bend of the Merced supplied all their needs. It was truly apleasant sight to see so many people enjoying themselves, for they weremostly those in moderate circumstances to whom a trip on tourist lineswould be impossible. We saw bakers' and grocers' and butchers' wagonsthat had been pressed into service. A man, his wife, and little babyhad come in an ordinary buggy, the one horse of which, led by the man, carried the woman and baby to the various points of interest. 

We reported to the official in charge, were allotted a camping andgrazing place, and proceeded to make ourselves at home. 

During the next two days we rode comfortably here and there and lookedat things. The things could not be spoiled, but their effect was verymaterially marred by the swarms of tourists. Sometimes they weresilly, and cracked inane and obvious jokes in ridicule of the grandestobjects they had come so far to see; sometimes they were detestable andleft their insignificant calling-cards or their unimportant names wherenobody could ever have any object in reading them; sometimes they werepathetic and helpless and had to have assistance; sometimes they wereamusing; hardly ever did they seem entirely human. I wonder what thereis about the traveling public that seems so to set it apart, to make ofit at least a sub-species of mankind?

Among other things, we were vastly interested in the guides. They weretypical of this sort of thing. Each morning one of these men took apleasantly awe-stricken band of tourists out, led them around in thebrush awhile, and brought them back in time for lunch. They wore broadhats and leather bands and exotic raiment and fierce expressions, andlooked dark and mysterious and extra-competent over the most trivial ofdifficulties. 

Nothing could be more instructive than to see two or three of theseimitation bad men starting out in the morning to "guide" a flock, sayto Nevada Falls. The tourists, being about to mount, have outdonethemselves in weird and awesome clothes--especially the women. Nineout of ten wear their stirrups too short, so their knees are hunchedup. One guide rides at the head--great deal of silver spur, clankingchain, and the rest of it. Another rides in the rear. The third ridesup and down the line, very gruff, very preoccupied, very careworn overthe dangers of the way. The cavalcade moves. It proceeds for about amile. There arise sudden cries, great but subdued excitement. Theleader stops, raising a commanding hand. Guide number three gallopsup. There is a consultation. The cinch-strap of the brindle shave-tailis taken up two inches. A catastrophe has been averted. The noblethree look volumes of relief. The cavalcade moves again. 

Now the trail rises. It is a nice, safe, easy trail. But to thetourists it is made terrible. The noble three see to that. They passmore dangers by the exercise of superhuman skill than you or I coulddiscover in a summer's close search. The joke of the matter is thatthose forty-odd saddle-animals have been over that trail so many timesthat one would have difficulty in heading them off from it once theygot started. 

Very much the same criticism would hold as to the popular notion of theYosemite stage-drivers. They drive well, and seem efficient men. Buttheir wonderful reputation would have to be upheld on rougher roadsthan those into the Valley. The tourist is, of course, encouraged tobelieve that he is doing the hair-breadth escape; but in reality, asmountain travel goes, the Yosemite stage-road is very mild. 

This that I have been saying is not by way of depreciation. But itseems to me that the Valley is wonderful enough to stand by itself inmen's appreciation without the unreality of sickly sentimentalism inregard to imaginary dangers, or the histrionics of playing wildernesswhere no wilderness exists. 

As we went out, this time by the Chinquapin wagon-road, we met onestage-load after another of tourists coming in. They had not yetdonned the outlandish attire they believe proper to the occasion, andso showed for what they were, --prosperous, well-bred, well-dressedtravelers. In contrast to their smartness, the brilliancy ofnew-painted stages, the dash of the horses maintained by the YosemiteStage Company, our own dusty travel-worn outfit of mountain ponies, ourown rough clothes patched and faded, our sheath-knives and firearmsseemed out of place and curious, as though a knight in medieval armorwere to ride down Broadway. 

I do not know how many stages there were. We turned our pack-horsesout for them all, dashing back and forth along the line, coercing thediabolical Dinkey. The road was too smooth. There were noobstructions to surmount; no dangers to avert; no difficulties toavoid. We could not get into trouble, but proceeded as on a countyturnpike. Too tame, too civilized, too representative of the touristelement, it ended by getting on our nerves. The wilderness seemed tohave left us forever. Never would we get back to our own again. Aftera long time Wes, leading, turned into our old trail branching off tothe high country. Hardly had we traveled a half mile before we heardfrom the advance guard a crash and a shout. 

"What is it, Wes?" we yelled. 

In a moment the reply came, --

"Lily's fallen down again, --thank God!"

We understood what he meant. By this we knew that the tourist zone wascrossed, that we had left the show country, and were once more in theopen. 

XVII

THE MAIN CREST

The traveler in the High Sierras generally keeps to the west of themain crest. Sometimes he approaches fairly to the foot of the lastslope; sometimes he angles away and away even down to what finallyseems to him a lower country, --to the pine mountains of only five orsix thousand feet. But always to the left or right of him, accordingto whether he travels south or north, runs the rampart of the system, sometimes glittering with snow, sometimes formidable and rugged withsplinters and spires of granite. He crosses spurs and tributary rangesas high, as rugged, as snow-clad as these. They do not quite satisfyhim. Over beyond he thinks he ought to see something great, --some wideoutlook, some space bluer than his trail can offer him. One day oranother he clamps his decision, and so turns aside for the simple andonly purpose of standing on the top of the world. 

We were bitten by that idea while crossing the Granite Basin. Thelatter is some ten thousand feet in the air, a cup of rock five or sixmiles across, surrounded by mountains much higher than itself. Thatwould have been sufficient for most moods, but, resting on the edge ofa pass ten thousand six hundred feet high, we concluded that we surelywould have to look over into Nevada. 

We got out the map. It became evident, after a little study, that bydescending six thousand feet into a box cañon, proceeding in it a fewmiles, and promptly climbing out again, by climbing steadily up thelong narrow course of another box cañon for about a day and a half'sjourney, and then climbing out of that to a high ridge country withlittle flat valleys, we would come to a wide lake in a meadow eleventhousand feet up. There we could camp. The mountain opposite wasthirteen thousand three hundred and twenty feet, so the climb from thelake became merely a matter of computation. This, we figured, wouldtake us just a week, which may seem a considerable time to sacrifice tothe gratification of a whim. But such a glorious whim!

We descended the great box cañon, and scaled its upper end, followingnear the voices of a cascade. Cliffs thousands of feet high hemmed usin. At the very top of them strange crags leaned out looking down onus in the abyss. From a projection a colossal sphinx gazed solemnlyacross at a dome as smooth and symmetrical as, but vastly larger than, St. Peter's at Rome. 

The trail labored up to the brink of the cascade. At once we entered along narrow aisle between regular palisaded cliffs. 

The formation was exceedingly regular. At the top the precipice fellsheer for a thousand feet or so; then the steep slant of the debris, like buttresses, down almost to the bed of the river. The lower partsof the buttresses were clothed with heavy chaparral, which, nearermoisture, developed into cottonwoods, alders, tangled vines, flowers, rank grasses. And away on the very edge of the cliffs, close under thesky, were pines, belittled by distance, solemn and aloof, like Indianwarriors wrapped in their blankets watching from an eminence thepassage of a hostile force. 

We caught rainbow trout in the dashing white torrent of the river. Wefollowed the trail through delicious thickets redolent with perfume;over the roughest granite slides, along still dark aisles of forestgroves, between the clefts of boulders so monstrous as almost to seeman insult to the credulity. Among the chaparral, on the slope of thebuttress across the river, we made out a bear feeding. Wes and I satten minutes waiting for him to show sufficiently for a chance. Then wetook a shot at about four hundred yards, and hit him somewhere so heangled down the hill furiously. We left the Tenderfoot to watch thathe did not come out of the big thicket of the river bottom where lastwe had seen him, while we scrambled upstream nearly a mile looking fora way across. Then we trailed him by the blood, each step one ofsuspense, until we fairly had to crawl in after him; and shot him fivetimes more, three in the head, before he gave up not six feet from us;and shouted gloriously and skinned that bear. But the meat was badlybloodshot, for there were three bullets in the head, two in the chestand shoulders, one through the paunch, and one in the hind quarters. 

Since we were much in want of meat, this grieved us. But that noonwhile we ate, the horses ran down toward us, and wheeled, as though incavalry formation, looking toward the hill and snorting. So I put downmy tin plate gently, and took up my rifle, and without rising shot thatbear through the back of the neck. We took his skin, and also his hindquarters, and went on. 

By the third day from Granite Basin we reached the end of the longnarrow cañon with the high cliffs and the dark pine-trees and the veryblue sky. Therefore we turned sharp to the left and climbed laboriouslyuntil we had come up into the land of big boulders, strange sparetwisted little trees, and the singing of the great wind. 

The country here was mainly of granite. It out-cropped in dikes, itslid down the slopes in aprons, it strewed the prospect in boulders andblocks, it seamed the hollows with knife-ridges. Soil gave theimpression of having been laid on top; you divined the granite beneathit, and not so very far beneath it, either. A fine hair-grass grewclose to this soil, as though to produce as many blades as possible inthe limited area. 

But strangest of all were the little thick twisted trees with the richshaded umber color of their trunks. They occurred rarely, but still insufficient regularity to lend the impression of a scatteredgrove-cohesiveness. Their limbs were sturdy and reaching fantastically. On each trunk the colors ran in streaks, patches, and gradations from asulphur yellow, through browns and red-orange, to a rich red-umber. They were like the earth-dwarfs of German legend, come out to view theroof of their workshop in the interior of the hill; or, more subtly, like some of the more fantastic engravings of Gustave Dore. 

We camped that night at a lake whose banks were pebbled in the mannerof an artificial pond, and whose setting was a thin meadow of the finehair-grass, for the grazing of which the horses had to bare theirteeth. All about, the granite mountains rose. The timber-line, even ofthe rare shrub-like gnome-trees, ceased here. Above us was nothingwhatever but granite rock, snow, and the sky. 

It was just before dusk, and in the lake the fish were jumping eagerly. They took the fly well, and before the fire was alight we had caughtthree for supper. When I say we caught but three, you will understandthat they were of good size. Firewood was scarce, but we dragged inenough by means of Old Slob and a riata to build us a good fire. Andwe needed it, for the cold descended on us with the sharpness and vigorof eleven thousand feet. 

For such an altitude the spot was ideal. The lake just below us wasfull of fish. A little stream ran from it by our very elbows. Theslight elevation was level, and covered with enough soil to offer afairly good substructure for our beds. The flat in which was the lakereached on up narrower and narrower to the foot of the last slope, furnishing for the horses an admirable natural corral about a milelong. And the view was magnificent. 

First of all there were the mountains above us, towering grandly sereneagainst the sky of morning; then all about us the tumultuous slabs andboulders and blocks of granite among which dare-devil and hardy littletrees clung to a footing as though in defiance of some great forceexerted against them; then below us a sheer drop, into which our brookplunged, with its suggestion of depths; and finally beyond those depthsthe giant peaks of the highest Sierras rising lofty as the sky, shrouded in a calm and stately peace. 

Next day the Tenderfoot and I climbed to the top. Wes decided at thelast minute that he hadn't lost any mountains, and would prefer to fish. 

The ascent was accompanied by much breathlessness and a heavy poundingof our hearts, so that we were forced to stop every twenty feet torecover our physical balance. Each step upward dragged at our feetlike a leaden weight. Yet once we were on the level, or once we ceasedour very real exertions for a second or so, the difficulty left us, andwe breathed as easily as in the lower altitudes. 

The air itself was of a quality impossible to describe to you unlessyou have traveled in the high countries. I know it is trite to saythat it had the exhilaration of wine, yet I can find no better simile. We shouted and whooped and breathed deep and wanted to do things. 

The immediate surroundings of that mountain peak were absolutely barrenand absolutely still. How it was accomplished so high up I do not know, but the entire structure on which we moved--I cannot say walked--wascomposed of huge granite slabs. Sometimes these were laid side by sidelike exaggerated paving flags; but oftener they were up-ended, piled ina confusion over which we had precariously to scramble. And thesilence. It was so still that the very ringing in our ears came to aprominence absurd and almost terrifying. The wind swept by noiseless, because it had nothing movable to startle into noise. The solideternal granite lay heavy in its statics across the possibility of evena whisper. The blue vault of heaven seemed emptied of sound. 

But the wind did stream by unceasingly, weird in the unaccustomednessof its silence. And the sky was blue as a turquoise, and the sunburned fiercely, and the air was cold as the water of a mountain spring. 

We stretched ourselves behind a slab of granite, and ate the luncheonwe had brought, cold venison steak and bread. By and by a marvelousthing happened. A flash of wings sparkled in the air, a brave littlevoice challenged us cheerily, a pert tiny rock-wren flirted his tailand darted his wings and wanted to know what we were thinking of anywayto enter his especial territory. And shortly from nowhere appeared twoCanada Jays, silent as the wind itself, hoping for a share in our meal. Then the Tenderfoot discovered in a niche some strange, hardy alpineflowers. So we established a connection, through these wondrous bravechildren of the great mother, with the world of living things. 

After we had eaten, which was the very first thing we did, we walked tothe edge of the main crest and looked over. That edge went straightdown. I do not know how far, except that even in contemplation weentirely lost our breaths, before we had fallen half way to the bottom. Then intervened a ledge, and in the ledge was a round glacier lake ofthe very deepest and richest ultramarine you can find among yourpaint-tubes, and on the lake floated cakes of dazzling white ice. Thatwas enough for the moment. 

Next we leaped at one bound direct down to some brown hazy liquid shotwith the tenderest filaments of white. After analysis we discoveredthe hazy brown liquid to be the earth of the plains, and the filamentsof white to be roads. Thus instructed we made out specks which weretowns. That was all. 

The rest was too insignificant to classify without the aid of amicroscope. 

And afterwards, across those plains, oh, many, many leagues, were theInyo and Panamit mountains, and beyond them Nevada and Arizona, andblue mountains, and bluer, and still bluer rising, rising, risinghigher and higher until at the level of the eye they blended with theheavens and were lost somewhere away out beyond the edge of the world. 

We said nothing, but looked for a long time. Then we turned inland tothe wonderful great titans of mountains clear-cut in the crystallineair. Never was such air. Crystalline is the only word which willdescribe it, for almost it seemed that it would ring clearly whenstruck, so sparkling and delicate and fragile was it. The crags andfissures across the way--two miles across the way--were revealedthrough it as through some medium whose transparence was absolute. They challenged the eye, stereoscopic in their relief. Were it not forthe belittling effects of the distance, we felt that we might count thefrost seams or the glacial scorings on every granite apron. Far belowwe saw the irregular outline of our lake. It looked like a pond a fewhundred feet down. Then we made out a pin-point of white movingleisurely near its border. After a while we realized that thepin-point of white was one of our pack-horses, and immediately the flatlittle scene shot backwards as though moved from behind andacknowledged its due number of miles. The miniature crags at its backbecame gigantic; the peaks beyond grew thousands of feet in theestablishment of a proportion which the lack of "atmosphere" haddenied. We never succeeded in getting adequate photographs. As welltake pictures of any eroded little arroyo or granite cañon. Relativesizes do not exist, unless pointed out. 

"See that speck there?" we explain. "That's a big pine-tree. So bythat you can see how tremendous those cliffs really are. "

And our guest looks incredulously at the speck. 

There was snow, of course, lying cold in the hot sun. This phenomenonalways impresses a man when first he sees it. Often I have ridden withmy sleeves rolled up and the front of my shirt open, over drifts whoseedges, even, dripped no water. The direct rays seem to have absolutelyno effect. A scientific explanation I have never heard expressed; butI suppose the cold nights freeze the drifts and pack them so hard thatthe short noon heat cannot penetrate their density. I may be quitewrong as to my reason, but I am entirely correct as to my fact. 

Another curious thing is that we met our mosquitoes only rarely belowthe snow-line. The camping in the Sierras is ideal for lack of thesepests. They never bite hard nor stay long even when found. But justas sure as we approached snow, then we renewed acquaintance with ourold friends of the north woods. 

It is analogous to the fact that the farther north you go into the furcountries, the more abundant they become. 

By and by it was time to descend. The camp lay directly below us. Wedecided to go to it straight, and so stepped off on an impossibly steepslope covered, not with the great boulders and granite blocks, but witha fine loose shale. At every stride we stepped ten feet and slid five. It was gloriously near to flying. Leaning far back, our arms spreadwide to keep our balance, spying alertly far ahead as to where we weregoing to land, utterly unable to check until we encountered ahalf-buried ledge of some sort, and shouting wildly at every plunge, wefairly shot downhill. The floor of our valley rose to us as the earthto a descending balloon. In three quarters of an hour we had reachedthe first flat. 

There we halted to puzzle over the trail of a mountain lion clearlyprinted on the soft ground. What had the great cat been doing away upthere above the hunting country, above cover, above everything thatwould appeal to a well-regulated cat of any size whatsoever? Wetheorized at length, but gave it up finally, and went on. Then afamiliar perfume rose to our nostrils. We plucked curiously at a bedof catnip and wondered whether the animal had journeyed so far to enjoywhat is always such a treat to her domestic sisters. 

It was nearly dark when we reached camp. We found Wes contentedlyscraping away at the bearskins. 

"Hello, " said he, looking up with a grin. "Hello, you dam fools! I'VEbeen having a good time. I've been fishing. "

XVIII

THE GIANT FOREST

Every one is familiar, at least by reputation and photograph, with theBig Trees of California. All have seen pictures of stage-coachesdriving in passageways cut through the bodies of the trunks; of troopsof cavalry ridden on the prostrate trees. No one but has heard of thedancing-floor or the dinner-table cut from a single cross-section; andprobably few but have seen some of the fibrous bark of unbelievablethickness. The Mariposa, Calaveras, and Santa Cruz groves have becomehousehold names. 

The public at large, I imagine, meaning by that you and me and ourneighbors, harbor an idea that the Big Tree occurs only as a remnant, in scattered little groves carefully fenced and piously visited by thetourist. What would we have said to the information that in the veryheart of the Sierras there grows a thriving forest of these greattrees; that it takes over a day to ride throughout that forest; andthat it comprises probably over five thousand specimens?

Yet such is the case. On the ridges and high plateaus north of theKaweah River is the forest I describe; and of that forest the treesgrow from fifteen to twenty-six feet in diameter. Do you know whatthat means? Get up from your chair and pace off the room you are in. If it is a very big room, its longest dimension would just aboutcontain one of the bigger trunks. Try to imagine a tree like that. 

It must be a columnar tree straight and true as the supports of a Greekfacade. The least deviation from the perpendicular of such a masswould cause it to fall. The limbs are sturdy like the arms ofHercules, and grow out from the main trunk direct instead of dividingand leading that main trunk to themselves, as is the case with othertrees. The column rises with a true taper to its full height; then isfinished with the conical effect of the top of a monument. Strangelyenough the frond is exceedingly fine, and the cones small. 

When first you catch sight of a Sequoia, it does not impress youparticularly except as a very fine tree. Its proportions are soperfect that its effect is rather to belittle its neighbors than toshow in its true magnitude. Then, gradually, as your experience takescognizance of surroundings, --the size of a sugar-pine, of a boulder, ofa stream flowing near, --the giant swells and swells before your veryvision until he seems at the last even greater than the mere statisticsof his inches had led you to believe. And after that first surpriseover finding the Sequoia something not monstrous but beautiful inproportion has given place to the full realization of what you arebeholding, you will always wonder why no one who has seen has evergiven any one who has not seen an adequate idea of these magnificentold trees. 

Perhaps the most insistent note, besides that of mere size and dignity, is of absolute stillness. These trees do not sway to the wind, theirtrunks are constructed to stand solid. Their branches do not bend andmurmur, for they too are rigid in fiber. Their fine thread-likeneedles may catch the breeze's whisper, may draw together and apart forthe exchange of confidences as do the leaves of other trees, but if so, you and I are too far below to distinguish it. All about, the otherforest growths may be rustling and bowing and singing with the voicesof the air; the Sequoia stands in the hush of an absolute calm. It isas though he dreamed, too wrapt in still great thoughts of his youth, when the earth itself was young, to share the worldlier joys of hisneighbor, to be aware of them, even himself to breathe deeply. You feelin the presence of these trees as you would feel in the presence of akindly and benignant sage, too occupied with larger things to enterfully into your little affairs, but well disposed in the wisdom ofclear spiritual insight. 

This combination of dignity, immobility, and a certain serenedetachment has on me very much the same effect as does a mountainagainst the sky. It is quite unlike the impression made by any othertree, however large, and is lovable. 

We entered the Giant Forest by a trail that climbed. Always we entereddesirable places by trails that climbed or dropped. Our access toparadise was never easy. About halfway up we met five pack-mules andtwo men coming down. For some reason, unknown, I suspect, even to thegod of chance, our animals behaved themselves and walked straight aheadin a beautiful dignity, while those weak-minded mules scattered andbucked and scraped under trees and dragged back on their halters whencaught. The two men cast on us malevolent glances as often as theywere able, but spent most of their time swearing and running about. Wehelped them once or twice by heading off, but were too thankfullyengaged in treading lightly over our own phenomenal peace to pay muchattention. Long after we had gone on, we caught bursts of rumpusascending from below. Shortly we came to a comparatively levelcountry, and a little meadow, and a rough sign which read

"Feed 20C a night. "

Just beyond this extortion was the Giant Forest. 

We entered it toward the close of the afternoon, and rode on after ourwonted time looking for feed at less than twenty cents a night. Thegreat trunks, fluted like marble columns, blackened against the westernsky. As they grew huger, we seemed to shrink, until we moved fearfulas prehistoric man must have moved among the forces over which he hadno control. We discovered our feed in a narrow "stringer" a few mileson. That night, we, pigmies, slept in the setting before which shouldhave stridden the colossi of another age. Perhaps eventually, in spiteof its magnificence and wonder, we were a little glad to leave theGiant Forest. It held us too rigidly to a spiritual standard of whichour normal lives were incapable; it insisted on a loftiness of soul, adignity, an aloofness from the ordinary affairs of life, the ordinaryoccupations of thought hardly compatible with the powers of anycreature less noble, less aged, less wise in the passing of centuriesthan itself. 

XIX

ON COWBOYS

Your cowboy is a species variously subdivided. If you happen to betraveled as to the wild countries, you will be able to recognize whenceyour chance acquaintance hails by the kind of saddle he rides, and therigging of it; by the kind of rope he throws, and the method of thethrowing; by the shape of hat he wears; by his twist of speech; even bythe very manner of his riding. Your California "vaquero" from theCoast Ranges is as unlike as possible to your Texas cowman, and bothdiffer from the Wyoming or South Dakota article. I should be puzzledto define exactly the habitat of the "typical" cowboy. No matter whereyou go, you will find your individual acquaintance varying from thetype in respect to some of the minor details. 

Certain characteristics run through the whole tribe, however. Of thesesome are so well known or have been so adequately done elsewhere thatit hardly seems wise to elaborate on them here. Let us assume that youand I know what sort of human beings cowboys are, --with all theirtaciturnity, their surface gravity, their keen sense of humor, theircourage, their kindness, their freedom, their lawlessness, theirfoulness of mouth, and their supreme skill in the handling of horsesand cattle. I shall try to tell you nothing of all that. 

If one thinks down doggedly to the last analysis, he will find that thebasic reason for the differences between a cowboy and other men restsfinally on an individual liberty, a freedom from restraint either ofsociety or convention, a lawlessness, an accepting of his own standardalone. He is absolutely self-poised and sufficient; and thatself-poise and that sufficiency he takes pains to assure first of all. After their assurance he is willing to enter into human relations. Hisattitude toward everything in life is, not suspicious, but watchful. He is "gathered together, " his elbows at his side. 

This evidences itself most strikingly in his terseness of speech. Aman dependent on himself naturally does not give himself away to thefirst comer. He is more interested in finding out what the other fellowis than in exploiting his own importance. A man who does muchpromiscuous talking he is likely to despise, arguing that manincautious, hence weak. 

Yet when he does talk, he talks to the point and with a vivid anddirect picturesqueness of phrase which is as refreshing as it isunexpected. The delightful remodeling of the English language in Mr. Alfred Lewis's "Wolfville" is exaggerated only in quantity, not inquality. No cowboy talks habitually in quite as original a manner asMr. Lewis's Old Cattleman; but I have no doubt that in time he would beheard to say all the good things in that volume. I myself havenote-books full of just such gorgeous language, some of the best ofwhich I have used elsewhere, and so will not repeat here. [1]

This vividness manifests itself quite as often in the selection of theapt word as in the construction of elaborate phrases with ahalf-humorous intention. A cowboy once told me of the arrival of atramp by saying, "He SIFTED into camp. " Could any verb be moreexpressive? Does not it convey exactly the lazy, careless, out-at-heels shuffling gait of the hobo? Another in the course ofdescription told of a saloon scene, "They all BELLIED UP TO the bar. "Again, a range cook, objecting to purposeless idling about his fire, shouted: "If you fellows come MOPING around here any more, I'LL SUREMAKE YOU HARD TO CATCH!" "Fish in that pond, son? Why, there's somefish in there big enough to rope, " another advised me. "I quitshoveling, " one explained the story of his life, "because I couldn'tsee nothing ahead of shoveling but dirt. " The same man describedploughing as, "Looking at a mule's tail all day. " And one of the mostsuccinct epitomes of the motifs of fiction was offered by an old fellowwho looked over my shoulder as I was reading a novel. "Well, son, "said he, "what they doing now, KISSING OR KILLING?"

Nor are the complete phrases behind in aptness. I have space for onlya few examples, but they will illustrate what I mean. Speaking of acompanion who was "putting on too much dog, " I was informed, "He walkslike a man with a new suit of WOODEN UNDERWEAR!" Or again, in answerto my inquiry as to a mutual acquaintance, "Jim? Oh, poor old Jim!For the last week or so he's been nothing but an insignificant atom ofhumanity hitched to a boil. "

But to observe the riot of imagination turned loose with the bridleoff, you must assist at a burst of anger on the part of one of thesemen. It is mostly unprintable, but you will get an entirely new ideaof what profanity means. Also you will come to the conclusion thatyou, with your trifling DAMNS, and the like, have been a very good boyindeed. The remotest, most obscure, and unheard of conceptions aredragged forth from earth, heaven, and hell, and linked together in asequence so original, so gaudy, and so utterly blasphemous, that yougasp and are stricken with the most devoted admiration. It is genius. 

Of course I can give you no idea here of what these truly magnificentoaths are like. It is a pity, for it would liberalize your education. Occasionally, like a trickle of clear water into an alkali torrent, astraight English sentence will drop into the flood. It is refreshingby contrast, but weak. 

"If your brains were all made of dynamite, you couldn't blow the top ofyour head off. "

"I wouldn't speak to him if I met him in hell carrying a lump of ice inhis hand. "

"That little horse'll throw you so high the blackbirds will build nestsin your hair before you come down. "

These are ingenious and amusing, but need the blazing settings fromwhich I have ravished them to give them their due force. 

In Arizona a number of us were sitting around the feeble camp-fire thedesert scarcity of fuel permits, smoking our pipes. We were allcontemplative and comfortably silent with the exception of one veryyouthful person who had a lot to say. It was mainly about himself. After he had bragged awhile without molestation, one of the oldercow-punchers grew very tired of it. He removed his pipe deliberately, and spat in the fire. 

"Say, son, " he drawled, "if you want to say something big, why don'tyou say 'elephant'?"

The young fellow subsided. We went on smoking our pipes. 

Down near the Chiracahua Range in southeastern Arizona, there is abutte, and halfway up that butte is a cave, and in front of that caveis a ramshackle porch-roof or shed. This latter makes the cave into adwelling-house. It is inhabited by an old "alkali" and half a dozenbear dogs. I sat with the old fellow one day for nearly an hour. Itwas a sociable visit, but economical of the English language. He madeone remark, outside our initial greeting. It was enough, for interseness, accuracy, and compression, I have never heard a better ormore comprehensive description of the arid countries. 

"Son, " said he, "in this country thar is more cows and less butter, more rivers and less water, and you kin see farther and see less thanin any other country in the world. "

Now this peculiar directness of phrase means but one thing, --freedomfrom the influence of convention. The cowboy respects neither thedictionary nor usage. He employs his words in the manner that bestsuits him, and arranges them in the sequence that best expresses hisidea, untrammeled by tradition. It is a phase of the same lawlessness, the same reliance on self, that makes for his taciturnity andwatchfulness. 

In essence, his dress is an adaptation to the necessities of hiscalling; as a matter of fact, it is an elaboration on that. The broadheavy felt hat he has found by experience to be more effective inturning heat than a lighter straw; he further runs to variety in theshape of the crown and in the nature of the band. He wears a silkhandkerchief about his neck to turn the sun and keep out the dust, butindulges in astonishing gaudiness of color. His gauntlets save hishands from the rope; he adds a fringe and a silver star. The heavywide "chaps" of leather about his legs are necessary to him when he isriding fast through brush; he indulges in such frivolities as stampedleather, angora hair, and the like. High heels to his boots preventhis foot from slipping through his wide stirrup, and are useful to diginto the ground when he is roping in the corral. Even his six-shooteris more a tool of his trade than a weapon of defense. With it hefrightens cattle from the heavy brush; he slaughters old or diseasedsteers; he "turns the herd" in a stampede or when rounding it in; andespecially is it handy and loose to his hip in case his horse shouldfall and commence to drag him. 

So the details of his appearance spring from the practical, but in thewearing of them and the using of them he shows again that finedisregard for the way other people do it or think it. 

Now in civilization you and I entertain a double respect for firearmsand the law. Firearms are dangerous, and it is against the law to usethem promiscuously. If we shoot them off in unexpected places, wefirst of all alarm unduly our families and neighbors, and in due courseattract the notice of the police. By the time we are grown up we lookon shooting a revolver as something to be accomplished after anespecial trip for the purpose. 

But to the cowboy shooting a gun is merely what lighting a match wouldbe to us. We take reasonable care not to scratch that match on thewall nor to throw it where it will do harm. Likewise the cowboy takesreasonable care that his bullets do not land in some one's anatomy norin too expensive bric-a-brac. Otherwise any time or place will do. 

The picture comes to me of a bunk-house on an Arizona range. The timewas evening. A half-dozen cowboys were sprawled out on the bedssmoking, and three more were playing poker with the Chinese cook. Amisguided rat darted out from under one of the beds and made for theempty fireplace. He finished his journey in smoke. Then the four whohad shot slipped their guns back into their holsters and resumed theircigarettes and drawling low-toned conversation. 

On another occasion I stopped for noon at the Circle I ranch. Whilewaiting for dinner, I lay on my back in the bunk-room and counted threehundred and sixty-two bullet-holes in the ceiling. They came to bethere because the festive cowboys used to while away the time whilelying as I was lying, waiting for supper, in shooting the flies thatcrawled about the plaster. 

This beautiful familiarity with the pistol as a parlor toy accounts ingreat part for a cowboy's propensity to "shoot up the town" and hisindignation when arrested therefor. 

The average cowboy is only a fair target-shot with the revolver. Buthe is chain lightning at getting his gun off in a hurry. There areexceptions to this, however, especially among the older men. Some canhandle the Colts 45 and its heavy recoil with almost uncanny accuracy. I have seen individuals who could from their saddles nip lizardsdarting across the road; and one who was able to perforate twice beforeit hit the ground a tomato-can tossed into the air. The cowboy isprejudiced against the double-action gun, for some reason or other. Hemanipulates his single-action weapon fast enough, however. 

His sense of humor takes the same unexpected slants, not because hismental processes differ from those of other men, but because he isunshackled by the subtle and unnoticed nothingnesses of precedent whichdeflect our action toward the common uniformity of our neighbors. Itmust be confessed that his sense of humor possesses also a certainrobustness. 

The J. H. Outfit had been engaged for ten days in busting broncos. This the Chinese cook, Sang, a newcomer in the territory, found vastlyamusing. He liked to throw the ropes off the prostrate broncos, whenall was ready; to slap them on the flanks; to yell shrill Chineseyells; and to dance in celestial delight when the terrified animalarose and scattered out of there. But one day the range men drove up alittle bunch of full-grown cattle that had been bought from a smallerowner. It was necessary to change the brands. Therefore a little firewas built, the stamp-brand put in to heat, and two of the men onhorseback caught a cow by the horns and one hind leg, and promptlyupset her. The old brand was obliterated, the new one burnt in. Thisirritated the cow. Promptly the branding-men, who were of courseafoot, climbed to the top of the corral to be out of the way. At thismoment, before the horsemen could flip loose their ropes, Sang appeared. 

"Hol' on!" he babbled. "I take him off;" and he scrambled over thefence and approached the cow. 

Now cattle of any sort rush at the first object they see after gettingto their feet. But whereas a steer makes a blind run and so can beavoided, a cow keeps her eyes open. Sang approached that wild-eyedcow, a bland smile on his countenance. 

A dead silence fell. Looking about at my companions' faces I could notdiscern even in the depths of their eyes a single faint flicker ofhuman interest. 

Sang loosened the rope from the hind leg, he threw it from the horns, he slapped the cow with his hat, and uttered the shrill Chinese yell. So far all was according to programme. 

The cow staggered to her feet, her eyes blazing fire. She took one goodlook, and then started for Sang. 

What followed occurred with all the briskness of a tune from a circusband. Sang darted for the corral fence. Now, three sides of thecorral were railed, and so climbable, but the fourth was a solid adobewall. Of course Sang went for the wall. There, finding his nailswould not stick, he fled down the length of it, his queue streaming, his eyes popping, his talons curved toward an ideal of safety, gibbering strange monkey talk, pursued a scant arm's length behind bythat infuriated cow. Did any one help him? Not any. Every man ofthat crew was hanging weak from laughter to the horn of his saddle orthe top of the fence. The preternatural solemnity had broken to littlebits. Men came running from the bunk-house, only to go into spasmsoutside, to roll over and over on the ground, clutching handfuls ofherbage in the agony of their delight. 

At the end of the corral was a narrow chute. Into this Sang escaped asinto a burrow. The cow came too. Sang, in desperation, seized a pole, but the cow dashed such a feeble weapon aside. Sang caught sight of alittle opening, too small for cows, back into the main corral. Hesqueezed through. The cow crashed through after him, smashing theboards. At the crucial moment Sang tripped and fell on his face. Thecow missed him by so close a margin that for a moment we thought shehad hit. But she had not, and before she could turn, Sang had toppedthe fence and was halfway to the kitchen. Tom Waters always maintainedthat he spread his Chinese sleeves and flew. Shortly after atremendous smoke arose from the kitchen chimney. Sang had gone back tocooking. 

Now that Mongolian was really in great danger, but no one of the outfitthought for a moment of any but the humorous aspect of the affair. Analogously, in a certain small cow-town I happened to be transientwhen the postmaster shot a Mexican. Nothing was done about it. The manwent right on being postmaster, but he had to set up the drinks becausehe had hit the Mexican in the stomach. That was considered a poor placeto hit a man. 

The entire town of Willcox knocked off work for nearly a day to whileaway the tedium of an enforced wait there on my part. They wanted meto go fishing. One man offered a team, the other a saddle-horse. Allexpended much eloquence in directing me accurately, so that I should besure to find exactly the spot where I could hang my feet over a bankbeneath which there were "a plumb plenty of fish. " Somehow or otherthey raked out miscellaneous tackle. But they were a little too eager. I excused myself and hunted up a map. Sure enough the lake was there, but it had been dry since a previous geological period. The fish wereundoubtedly there too, but they were fossil fish. I borrowed a pickaxeand shovel and announced myself as ready to start. 

Outside the principal saloon in one town hung a gong. When a strangerwas observed to enter the saloon, that gong was sounded. Then itbehooved him to treat those who came in answer to the summons. 

But when it comes to a case of real hospitality or helpfulness, yourcowboy is there every time. You are welcome to food and shelter withoutprice, whether he is at home or not. Only it is etiquette to leaveyour name and thanks pinned somewhere about the place. Otherwise yourintrusion may be considered in the light of a theft, and you may bepursued accordingly. 

Contrary to general opinion, the cowboy is not a dangerous man to thosenot looking for trouble. There are occasional exceptions, of course, but they belong to the universal genus of bully, and can be found amongany class. Attend to your own business, be cool and good-natured, andyour skin is safe. Then when it is really "up to you, " be a man; youwill never lack for friends. 

The Sierras, especially towards the south where the meadows are wideand numerous, are full of cattle in small bands. They come up from thedesert about the first of June, and are driven back again to the aridcountries as soon as the autumn storms begin. In the very high landthey are few, and to be left to their own devices; but now we entered anew sort of country. 

Below Farewell Gap and the volcanic regions one's surroundings changeentirely. The meadows become high flat valleys, often miles in extent;the mountains--while registering big on the aneroid--are so littleelevated above the plateaus that a few thousand feet is all of theirapparent height; the passes are low, the slopes easy, the trails good, the rock outcrops few, the hills grown with forests to their very tops. Altogether it is a country easy to ride through, rich in grazing, cooland green, with its eight thousand feet of elevation. Consequentlyduring the hot months thousands of desert cattle are pastured here; andwith them come many of the desert men. 

Our first intimation of these things was in the volcanic region whereswim the golden trout. From the advantage of a hill we looked far downto a hair-grass meadow through which twisted tortuously a brook, and bythe side of the brook, belittled by distance, was a miniature man. Wecould see distinctly his every movement, as he approached cautiouslythe stream's edge, dropped his short line at the end of a stick overthe bank, and then yanked bodily the fish from beneath. Behind himstood his pony. We could make out in the clear air the coil of hisraw-hide "rope, " the glitter of his silver bit, the metal points on hissaddle skirts, the polish of his six-shooter, the gleam of his fish, all the details of his costume. Yet he was fully a mile distant. After a time he picked up his string of fish, mounted, and joggedloosely away at the cow-pony's little Spanish trot toward the south. Over a week later, having caught golden trout and climbed MountWhitney, we followed him and so came to the great central camp atMonache Meadows. 

Imagine an island-dotted lake of grass four or five miles long by twoor three wide to which slope regular shores of stony soil planted withtrees. Imagine on the very edge of that lake an especially fine groveperhaps a quarter of a mile in length, beneath whose trees a dozendifferent outfits of cowboys are camped for the summer. You must placea herd of ponies in the foreground, a pine mountain at the back, anunbroken ridge across ahead, cattle dotted here and there, thousands ofravens wheeling and croaking and flapping everywhere, a marvelous clearsun and blue sky. The camps were mostly open, though a few possessedtents. They differed from the ordinary in that they had racks forsaddles and equipments. Especially well laid out were the cookingarrangements. A dozen accommodating springs supplied fresh water withthe conveniently regular spacing of faucets. 

Towards evening the men jingled in. This summer camp was almost in thenature of a vacation to them after the hard work of the desert. Allthey had to do was to ride about the pleasant hills examining that thecattle did not stray nor get into trouble. It was fun for them, andthey were in high spirits. 

Our immediate neighbors were an old man of seventy-two and his grandsonof twenty-five. At least the old man said he was seventy-two. Ishould have guessed fifty. He was as straight as an arrow, wiry, lean, clear-eyed, and had, without food, ridden twelve hours after somestrayed cattle. On arriving he threw off his saddle, turned his horseloose, and set about the construction of supper. This consisted ofboiled meat, strong tea, and an incredible number of flapjacks built ofwater, baking-powder, salt, and flour, warmed through--not cooked--in afrying-pan. He deluged these with molasses and devoured threeplatefuls. It would have killed an ostrich, but apparently did thisdecrepit veteran of seventy-two much good. 

After supper he talked to us most interestingly in the dry cowboymanner, looking at us keenly from under the floppy brim of his hat. Heconfided to us that he had had to quit smoking, and it ground him--he'dsmoked since he was five years old. 

"Tobacco doesn't agree with you any more?" I hazarded. 

"Oh, 'taint that, " he replied; "only I'd ruther chew. "

The dark fell, and all the little camp-fires under the trees twinkledbravely forth. Some of the men sang. One had an accordion. Figures, indistinct and formless, wandered here and there in the shadows, suddenly emerging from mystery into the clarity of firelight, there todisclose themselves as visitors. Out on the plain the cattle lowed, the horses nickered. The red firelight flashed from the metal ofsuspended equipment, crimsoned the bronze of men's faces, touched withpink the high lights on their gracefully recumbent forms. After awhile we rolled up in our blankets and went to sleep, while a band ofcoyotes wailed like lost spirits from a spot where a steer had died. 

[1] See especially Jackson Himes in The Blazed Trail; and The Rawhide. 

XX

THE GOLDEN TROUT

After Farewell Gap, as has been hinted, the country changes utterly. Possibly that is why it is named Farewell Gap. The land is wild, weird, full of twisted trees, strangely colored rocks, fantasticformations, bleak mountains of slabs, volcanic cones, lava, dry powderysoil or loose shale, close-growing grasses, and strong winds. You feelyourself in an upper world beyond the normal, where only the freakishcold things of nature, elsewhere crowded out, find a home. Camp isunder a lonely tree, none the less solitary from the fact that it hascompanions. The earth beneath is characteristic of the treeless lands, so that these seem to have been stuck alien into it. There is noshelter save behind great fortuitous rocks. Huge marmots run over theboulders, like little bears. The wind blows strong. The streams runnaked under the eye of the sun, exposing clear and yellow every detailof their bottoms. In them there are no deep hiding-places any morethan there is shelter in the land, and so every fish that swims showsas plainly as in an aquarium. 

We saw them as we rode over the hot dry shale among the hot and twistedlittle trees. They lay against the bottom, transparent; they dartedaway from the jar of our horses' hoofs; they swam slowly against thecurrent, delicate as liquid shadows, as though the clear uniform goldencolor of the bottom had clouded slightly to produce these tenuousghostly forms. We examined them curiously from the advantage ourslightly elevated trail gave us, and knew them for the Golden Trout, and longed to catch some. 

All that day our route followed in general the windings of this uniquehome of a unique fish. We crossed a solid natural bridge; we skirtedfields of red and black lava, vivid as poppies; we gazed marveling onperfect volcano cones, long since extinct: finally we camped on a sidehill under two tall branchless trees in about as bleak and exposed aposition as one could imagine. Then all three, we jointed our rods andwent forth to find out what the Golden Trout was like. 

I soon discovered a number of things, as follows: The stream at thispoint, near its source, is very narrow--I could step across it--andflows beneath deep banks. The Golden Trout is shy of approach. Thewind blows. Combining these items of knowledge I found that it was noeasy matter to cast forty feet in a high wind so accurately as to hit athree-foot stream a yard below the level of the ground. In fact, theproposition was distinctly sporty; I became as interested in it as inaccurate target-shooting, so that at last I forgot utterly theintention of my efforts and failed to strike my first rise. Thesecond, however, I hooked, and in a moment had him on the grass. 

He was a little fellow of seven inches, but mere size was nothing, thecolor was the thing. And that was indeed golden. I can liken it tonothing more accurately than the twenty-dollar gold-piece, the samesatin finish, the same pale yellow. The fish was fairly molten. Itdid not glitter in gaudy burnishment, as does our aquarium gold-fish, for example, but gleamed and melted and glowed as though fresh from themould. One would almost expect that on cutting the flesh it would befound golden through all its substance. This for the basic color. Youmust remember always that it was a true trout, without scales, and sothe more satiny. Furthermore, along either side of the belly ran twobroad longitudinal stripes of exactly the color and burnish of thecopper paint used on racing yachts. 

I thought then, and have ever since, that the Golden Trout, fresh fromthe water, is one of the most beautiful fish that swims. Unfortunatelyit fades very quickly, and so specimens in alcohol can give no idea ofit. In fact, I doubt if you will ever be able to gain a very clearidea of it unless you take to the trail that leads up, under the end ofwhich is known technically as the High Sierras. 

The Golden Trout lives only in this one stream, but occurs there incountless multitudes. Every little pool, depression, or riffles hasits school. When not alarmed they take the fly readily. One afternoonI caught an even hundred in a little over an hour. By way ofparenthesis it may be well to state that most were returned unharmed tothe water. They run small, --a twelve-inch fish is a monster, --but areof extraordinary delicacy for eating. We three devoured sixty-fivethat first evening in camp. 

Now the following considerations seem to me at this point worthy ofnote. In the first place, the Golden Trout occurs but in this onestream, and is easily caught. At present the stream is comparativelyinaccessible, so that the natural supply probably keeps even with theseason's catches. Still the trail is on the direct route to MountWhitney, and year by year the ascent of this "top of the Republic" isbecoming more the proper thing to do. Every camping party stops for atry at the Golden Trout, and of course the fish-hog is a sureoccasional migrant. The cowboys told of two who caught six hundred in aday. As the certainly increasing tide of summer immigration gains involume, the Golden Trout, in spite of his extraordinary numbers atpresent, is going to be caught out. 

Therefore, it seems the manifest duty of the Fisheries to provide forthe proper protection and distribution of this species, especially thedistribution. Hundreds of streams in the Sierras are without troutsimply because of some natural obstruction, such as a waterfall toohigh to jump, which prevents their ascent of the current. These areall well adapted to the planting of fish, and might just as well bestocked by the Golden Trout as by the customary Rainbow. Care should betaken lest the two species become hybridized, as has occurred followingcertain misguided efforts in the South Fork of the Kern. 

So far as I know but one attempt has been made to transplant thesefish. About five or six years ago a man named Grant carried some inpails across to a small lake near at hand. They have done well, andcuriously enough have grown to a weight of from one and a half to twopounds. This would seem to show that their small size in Volcano Creekresults entirely from conditions of feed or opportunity fordevelopment, and that a study of proper environment might result in agame fish to rival the Rainbow in size and certainly to surpass him incurious interest. 

A great many well-meaning people who have marveled at the abundance ofthe Golden Trout in their natural habitat laugh at the idea thatVolcano Creek will ever become "fished out. " To such it should bepointed out that the fish in question is a voracious feeder, is withoutshelter, and quickly landed. A simple calculation will show how manyfish a hundred moderate anglers, camping a week apiece, would take outin a season. And in a short time there will be many more than ahundred, few of them moderate, coming up into the mountains to campjust as long as they have a good time. All it needs is better trails, and better trails are under way. Well-meaning people used to laugh atthe idea that the buffalo and wild pigeons would ever disappear. Theyare gone. 

XXI

ON GOING OUT

The last few days of your stay in the wilderness you will be consumedlyanxious to get out. It does not matter how much of a savage you are, how good a time you are having, or how long you have been away fromcivilization. Nor does it mean especially that you are glad to leavethe wilds. Merely does it come about that you drift unconcernedly onthe stream of days until you approach the brink of departure: thenirresistibly the current hurries you into haste. The last day of yourweek's vacation; the last three of your month's or your summer's oryour year's outing, --these comprise the hours in which by a mighty butinvisible transformation your mind forsakes its savagery, epitomizesagain the courses of social evolution, regains the poise andcultivation of the world of men. Before that you have been content;yes, and would have gone on being content for as long as you pleaseuntil the approach of the limit you have set for your wandering. 

In effect this transformation from the state of savagery to the stateof civilization is very abrupt. When you leave the towns your clothesand mind are new. Only gradually do they take on the color of theirenvironment; only gradually do the subtle influences of the greatforest steal in on your dulled faculties to flow over them in a tidethat rises imperceptibly. You glide as gently from the artificial tothe natural life as do the forest shadows from night to day. But atthe other end the affair is different. There you awake on the appointedmorning in complete resumption of your old attitude of mind. The tideof nature has slipped away from you in the night. 

Then you arise and do the most wonderful of your wilderness traveling. On those days you look back fondly, of them you boast afterwards intelling what a rapid and enduring voyager you are. The biggest day'sjourney I ever undertook was in just such a case. We started at fourin the morning through a forest of the early spring-time, where thetrees were glorious overhead, but the walking ankle deep. On our backswere thirty-pound burdens. We walked steadily until three in theafternoon, by which time we had covered thirty miles and had arrived atwhat then represented civilization to us. Of the nine who started, twoIndians finished an hour ahead; the half breed, Billy, and I staggeredin together, encouraging each other by words concerning the bottle ofbeer we were going to buy; and the five white men never got in at alluntil after nine o'clock that night. Neither thirty miles, nor thirtypounds, nor ankle-deep slush sounds formidable when considered asabstract and separate propositions. 

In your first glimpse of the civilized peoples your appearance in yourown eyes will undergo the same instantaneous and tremendous revulsionthat has already taken place in your mental sphere. Heretofore youhave considered yourself as a decently well appointed gentleman of thewoods. Ten to one, in contrast to the voluntary or enforced simplicityof the professional woodsman you have looked on your little luxuries ofcarved leather hat-band, fancy knife sheath, pearl-handled six-shooter, or khaki breeches as giving you slightly the air of a forest exquisite. But on that depot platform or in presence of that staring group on thesteps of the Pullman, you suddenly discover yourself to be nothing lessthan a disgrace to your bringing up. Nothing could be more evidentthan the flop of your hat, the faded, dusty appearance of your blueshirt, the beautiful black polish of your khakis, the grime of yourknuckles, the three days' beard of your face. If you are a fool, youworry about it. If you are a sensible man, you do not mind;--and youprepare for amusing adventures. 

The realization of your external unworthiness, however, brings to yourheart the desire for a hot bath in a porcelain tub. You gloat over thethought; and when the dream comes to be a reality, you soak away in asvoluptuous a pleasure as ever falls to the lot of man to enjoy. Thenyou shave, and array yourself minutely and preciously in clean clothesfrom head to toe, building up a new respectability, and you leavescornfully in a heap your camping garments. They have heretoforeseemed clean, but now you would not touch them, no, not even to putthem in the soiled-clothes basket, let your feminines rave as they may. And for at least two days you prove an almost childish delight in mereraiment. 

But before you can reach this blissful stage you have still to orderand enjoy your first civilized dinner. It tastes good, not becauseyour camp dinners have palled on you, but because your transformationdemands its proper aliment. Fortunate indeed you are if you stepdirectly to a transcontinental train or into the streets of a moderntown. Otherwise the transition through the small-hotel provender isapt to offer too little contrast for the fullest enjoyment. But aboardthe dining-car or in the cafe you will gather to yourself suchill-assorted succulence as thick, juicy beefsteaks, and creamedmacaroni, and sweet potatoes, and pie, and red wine, and real cigarsand other things. 

In their acquisition your appearance will tell against you. We wereonce watched anxiously by a nervous female head waiter who at lastmustered up courage enough to inform me that guests were not allowed toeat without coats. We politely pointed out that we possessed no suchgarments. After a long consultation with the proprietor she told us itwas all right for this time, but that we must not do it again. Atanother place I had to identify myself as a responsible person byshowing a picture in a magazine bought for the purpose. 

The public never will know how to take you. Most of it treats you asthough you were a two-dollar a day laborer; some of the more astute arepuzzled. One February I walked out of the North Country on snowshoesand stepped directly into a Canadian Pacific transcontinental train. Iwas clad in fur cap, vivid blanket coat, corded trousers, Germanstockings and moccasins; and my only baggage was the pair of snowshoes. It was the season of light travel. A single Englishman touring theworld as the crow flies occupied the car. He looked at me so askancethat I made an opportunity of talking to him. I should like to readhis "Travels" to see what he made out of the riddle. In similarcircumstances, and without explanation, I had fun talking French andswapping boulevard reminiscences with a member of a Parisian theatricaltroupe making a long jump through northern Wisconsin. And once, at sixof the morning, letting myself into my own house with a latch-key, andsitting down to read the paper until the family awoke, I was nearlybrained by the butler. He supposed me a belated burglar, and had armedhimself with the poker. The most flattering experience of the kind wasvoiced by a small urchin who plucked at his mother's sleeve: "Look, mamma!" he exclaimed in guarded but jubilant tones, "there's a realIndian!"

Our last camp of this summer was built and broken in the full leisureof at least a three weeks' expectation. We had traveled south from theGolden Trout through the Toowah range. There we had viewed wonderswhich I cannot expect you to believe in, --such as a spring of warmwater in which you could bathe and from which you could reach to dip upa cup of carbonated water on the right hand, or cast a fly into a troutstream, on the left. At length we entered a high meadow in the shapeof a maltese cross, with pine slopes about it, and springs of waterwelling in little humps of green. There the long pine-needles wereextraordinarily thick and the pine-cones exceptionally large. Theformer we scraped together to the depth of three feet for a bed in thelea of a fallen trunk; the latter we gathered in armfuls to pile on thecamp-fire. Next morning we rode down a mile or so through the grasses, exclaimed over the thousands of mountain quail buzzing from the creekbottoms, gazed leisurely up at our well-known pines and about at thegrateful coolness of our accustomed green meadows and leaves;--andthen, as though we had crossed a threshold, we emerged into chaparral, dry loose shale, yucca, Spanish bayonet, heated air and the bleachedburned-out furnace-like country of arid California in midsummer. Thetrail dropped down through sage-brush, just as it always did in theCalifornia we had known; the mountains rose with the fur-likedark-olive effect of the coast ranges; the sun beat hot. We had leftthe enchanted land. 

The trail was very steep and very long, and took us finally into thecountry of dry brown grasses, gray brush, waterless stony ravines, anddust. Others had traveled that trail, headed the other way, andevidently had not liked it. Empty bottles blazed the path. Somebodyhad sacrificed a pack of playing-cards, which he had stuck on thornsfrom time to time, each inscribed with a blasphemous comment on thediscomforts of such travel. After an apparently interminable intervalwe crossed an irrigating ditch, where the horses were glad to water, and so came to one of those green flowering lush California villages sostartlingly in contrast to their surroundings. 

By this it was two o'clock and we had traveled on horseback since four. A variety of circumstances learned at the village made it imperativethat both the Tenderfoot and myself should go out without the delay ofa single hour. This left Wes to bring the horses home, which was toughon Wes, but he rose nobly to the occasion. 

When the dust of our rustling cleared, we found we had acquired a teamof wild broncos, a buckboard, an elderly gentleman with a white goatee, two bottles of beer, some crackers and some cheese. With these we hopedto reach the railroad shortly after midnight. 

The elevation was five thousand feet, the road dusty and hot, thecountry uninteresting in sage-brush and alkali and rattlesnakes andgeneral dryness. Constantly we drove, checking off the landmarks in thegood old fashion. Our driver had immigrated from Maine the yearbefore, and by some chance had drifted straight to the arid regions. He was vastly disgusted. At every particularly atrocious dust-hole orunlovely cactus strip he spat into space and remarked in tones ofbottomless contempt:--

"BEAU-ti-ful Cal-if-or-nia!"

This was evidently intended as a quotation. 

Towards sunset we ran up into rounded hills, where we got out at everyrise in order to ease the horses, and where we hurried the oldgentleman beyond the limits of his Easterner's caution at every descent. 

It grew dark. Dimly the road showed gray in the twilight. We did notknow how far exactly we were to go, but imagined that sooner or laterwe would top one of the small ridges to look across one of the broadplateau plains to the lights of our station. You see we had forgotten, in the midst of flatness, that we were still over five thousand feetup. Then the road felt its way between two hills;--and the blacknessof night opened below us as well as above, and from some deep andtremendous abyss breathed the winds of space. 

It was as dark as a cave, for the moon was yet two hours below thehorizon. Somehow the trail turned to the right along that tremendouscliff. We thought we could make out its direction, the dimness of itsglimmering; but equally well, after we had looked a moment, we couldimagine it one way or another, to right and left. I went ahead toinvestigate. The trail to left proved to be the faint reflection of aclump of "old man" at least five hundred feet down; that to right was aburned patch sheer against the rise of the cliff. We started on themiddle way. 

There were turns-in where a continuance straight ahead would require anairship or a coroner; again turns-out where the direct line wouldtelescope you against the state of California. These we could make outby straining our eyes. The horses plunged and snorted; the buckboardleaped. Fire flashed from the impact of steel against rock, momentarily blinding us to what we should see. Always we descendedinto the velvet blackness of the abyss, the cañon walls rising steadilyabove us shutting out even the dim illumination of the stars. Fromtime to time our driver, desperately scared, jerked out cheering bitsof information. 

"My eyes ain't what they was. For the Lord's sake keep a-lookin', boys. "

"That nigh hoss is deef. There don't seem to be no use saying WHOA toher. "

"Them brakes don't hold fer sour peanuts. I been figgerin' on tackin'on a new shoe for a week. "

"I never was over this road but onct, and then I was headed th' otherway. I was driving of a corpse. "

Then, after two hours of it, BING! BANG! SMASH! our tongue collidedwith a sheer black wall, no blacker than the atmosphere before it. Thetrail here took a sharp V turn to the left. We had left the face ofthe precipice and henceforward would descend the bed of the cañon. Fortunately our collision had done damage to nothing but our nerves, sowe proceeded to do so. 

The walls of the crevice rose thousands of feet above us. They seemedto close together, like the sides of a tent, to leave only a narrowpale lucent strip of sky. The trail was quite invisible, and even thesense of its existence was lost when we traversed groves of trees. Oneof us had to run ahead of the horses, determining its generaldirection, locating the sharper turns. The rest depended on theinstinct of the horses and pure luck. 

It was pleasant in the cool of night thus to run down through theblackness, shouting aloud to guide our followers, swinging to theslope, bathed to the soul in mysteries of which we had no time to takecognizance. 

By and by we saw a little spark far ahead of us like a star. The smellof fresh wood smoke and stale damp fire came to our nostrils. Wegained the star and found it to be a log smouldering; and up the hillother stars red as blood. So we knew that we had crossed the zone ofan almost extinct forest fire, and looked on the scattered camp-firesof an army of destruction. 

The moon rose. We knew it by touches of white light on peaksinfinitely far above us; not at all by the relieving of the heavyvelvet blackness in which we moved. After a time, I, running ahead inmy turn, became aware of the deep breathing of animals. I stopped shortand called a warning. Immediately a voice answered me. 

"Come on, straight ahead. They're not on the road. "

When within five feet I made out the huge freight wagons in which werelying the teamsters, and very dimly the big freight mules standingtethered to the wheels. 

"It's a dark night, friend, and you're out late. "

"A dark night, " I agreed, and plunged on. Behind me rattled and bangedthe abused buckboard, snorted the half-wild broncos, groaned theunrepaired brake, softly cursed my companions. 

Then at once the abrupt descent ceased. We glided out to the silveredflat, above which sailed the moon. 

The hour was seen to be half past one. We had missed our train. Nothing was visible of human habitations. The land was frosted withthe moonlight, enchanted by it, etherealized. Behind us, huge andformidable, loomed the black mass of the range we had descended. Before us, thin as smoke in the magic lucence that flooded the world, rose other mountains, very great, lofty as the sky. We could notunderstand them. The descent we had just accomplished should havelanded us on a level plain in which lay our town. But here we foundourselves in a pocket valley entirely surrounded by mountain rangesthrough which there seemed to be no pass less than five or six thousandfeet in height. 

We reined in the horses to figure it out. 

"I don't see how it can be, " said I. "We've certainly come far enough. It would take us four hours at the very least to cross that range, evenif the railroad should happen to be on the other side of it. "

"I been through here only once, " repeated the driver, --"going the otherway. --Then I drew a corpse. " He spat, and added as an afterthought, "BEAU-ti-ful Cal-if-or-nia!"

We stared at the mountains that hemmed us in. They rose above us sheerand forbidding. In the bright moonlight plainly were to be descriedthe brush of the foothills, the timber, the fissures, the cañons, thegranites, and the everlasting snows. Almost we thought to make out athread of a waterfall high up where the clouds would be if the nighthad not been clear. 

"We got off the trail somewhere, " hazarded the Tenderfoot. 

"Well, we're on a road, anyway, " I pointed out. "It's bound to gosomewhere. We might as well give up the railroad and find a place toturn-in. "

"It can't be far, " encouraged the Tenderfoot; "this valley can't bemore than a few miles across. "

"Gi dap!" remarked the driver. 

We moved forward down the white wagon trail approaching the mountains. And then we were witnesses of the most marvelous transformation. Foras we neared them, those impregnable mountains, as thoughpanic-stricken by our advance, shrunk back, dissolved, dwindled, wentto pieces. Where had towered ten-thousand-foot peaks, perfect in theregular succession from timber to snow, now were little flat hills onwhich grew tiny bushes of sage. A passage opened between them. In ahundred yards we had gained the open country, leaving behind us themighty but unreal necromancies of the moon. 

Before us gleamed red and green lights. The mass of houses showed halfdistinguishable. A feeble glimmer illuminated part of a white signabove the depot. That which remained invisible was evidently the nameof the town. That which was revealed was the supplementary informationwhich the Southern Pacific furnishes to its patrons. It read:"Elevation 482 feet. " We were definitely out of the mountains. 

XXII

THE LURE OF THE TRAIL

The trail's call depends not at all on your common sense. You know youare a fool for answering it; and yet you go. The comforts ofcivilization, to put the case on its lowest plane, are not lightly tobe renounced: the ease of having your physical labor done for you; thejoy of cultivated minds, of theatres, of books, of participation in theworld's progress; these you leave behind you. And in exchange youenter a life where there is much long hard work of the hands--work thatis really hard and long, so that no man paid to labor would consider itfor a moment; you undertake to eat simply, to endure much, to lie onthe rack of anxiety; you voluntarily place yourself where cold, wet, hunger, thirst, heat, monotony, danger, and many discomforts will waitupon you daily. A thousand times in the course of a woods life eventhe stoutest-hearted will tell himself softly--very softly if he isreally stout-hearted, so that others may not be annoyed--that if everthe fates permit him to extricate himself he will never venture again. 

These times come when long continuance has worn on the spirit. Youbeat all day to windward against the tide toward what should be but anhour's sail: the sea is high and the spray cold; there are sunkenrocks, and food there is none; chill gray evening draws dangerouslynear, and there is a foot of water in the bilge. You have swallowedyour tongue twenty times on the alkali; and the sun is melting hot, andthe dust dry and pervasive, and there is no water, and for all youreffort the relative distances seem to remain the same for days. Youhave carried a pack until your every muscle is strung white-hot; thewoods are breathless; the black flies swarm persistently and bite untilyour face is covered with blood. You have struggled through cloggingsnow until each time you raise your snowshoe you feel as though someone had stabbed a little sharp knife into your groin; it has come to benight; the mercury is away below zero, and with aching fingers you areto prepare a camp which is only an anticipation of many more such campsin the ensuing days. For a week it has rained, so that you, pushingthrough the dripping brush, are soaked and sodden and comfortless, andthe bushes have become horrible to your shrinking goose-flesh. Or youare just plain tired out, not from a single day's fatigue, but from thegradual exhaustion of a long hike. Then in your secret soul you utterthese sentiments:--

"You are a fool. This is not fun. There is no real reason why youshould do this. If you ever get out of here, you will stick right homewhere common sense flourishes, my son!"

Then after a time you do get out, and are thankful. But in three monthsyou will have proved in your own experience the following axiom--Ishould call it the widest truth the wilderness has to teach:--

"In memory the pleasures of a camping trip strengthen with time, andthe disagreeables weaken. "

I don't care how hard an experience you have had, nor how little of thepleasant has been mingled with it, in three months your generalimpression of that trip will be good. You will look back on the hardtimes with a certain fondness of recollection. 

I remember one trip I took in the early spring following a long driveon the Pine River. It rained steadily for six days. We were soaked tothe skin all the time, ate standing up in the driving downpour, andslept wet. So cold was it that each morning our blankets were so fullof frost that they crackled stiffly when we turned out. Dispassionately I can appraise that as about the worst I ever got into. Yet as an impression the Pine River trip seems to me a most enjoyableone. 

So after you have been home for a little while the call begins to makeitself heard. At first it is very gentle. But little by little arestlessness seizes hold of you. You do not know exactly what is thematter: you are aware merely that your customary life has lost savor, that you are doing things more or less perfunctorily, and that you area little more irritable than your naturally evil disposition. 

And gradually it is borne in on you exactly what is the matter. Thensay you to yourself:--

"My son, you know better. You are no tenderfoot. You have had too longan experience to admit of any glamour of indefiniteness about thisthing. No use bluffing. You know exactly how hard you will have towork, and how much tribulation you are going to get into, and howhungry and wet and cold and tired and generally frazzled out you aregoing to be. You've been there enough times so it's pretty clearlyimpressed on you. You go into this thing with your eyes open. Youknow what you're in for. You're pretty well off right here, and you'dbe a fool to go. "

"That's right, " says yourself to you. "You're dead right about it, oldman. Do you know where we can get another pack-mule?"