The Mountains
S >>
Stewart Edward White >> The Mountains
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11 |
12
"If your brains were all made of dynamite, you
couldn't blow the top of your head off."
"I wouldn't speak to him if I met him in hell
carrying a lump of ice in his hand."
"That little horse'll throw you so high the black-
birds will build nests in your hair before you come
down."
These are ingenious and amusing, but need the
blazing settings from which I have ravished them to
give them their due force.
In Arizona a number of us were sitting around
the feeble camp-fire the desert scarcity of fuel
permits, smoking our pipes. We were all contemplative
and comfortably silent with the exception of one
very youthful person who had a lot to say. It was
mainly about himself. After he had bragged awhile
without molestation, one of the older cow-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't you say `elephant'?"
The young fellow subsided. We went on smoking
our pipes.
Down near the Chiracahua Range in southeastern
Arizona, there is a butte, and halfway up that butte
is a cave, and in front of that cave is a ramshackle
porch-roof or shed. This latter makes the cave into
a dwelling-house. It is inhabited by an old "alkali"
and half a dozen bear dogs. I sat with the old fellow
one day for nearly an hour. It was a sociable visit,
but economical of the English language. He made
one remark, outside our initial greeting. It was
enough, for in terseness, accuracy, and compression,
I have never heard a better or more 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 than in any other country
in the world."
Now this peculiar directness of phrase means but
one thing,--freedom from the influence of convention.
The cowboy respects neither the dictionary nor
usage. He employs his words in the manner that
best suits him, and arranges them in the sequence
that best expresses his idea, untrammeled by tradition.
It is a phase of the same lawlessness, the same
reliance on self, that makes for his taciturnity and
watchfulness.
In essence, his dress is an adaptation to the
necessities of his calling; as a matter of fact, it is an
elaboration on that. The broad heavy felt hat he
has found by experience to be more effective in turning
heat than a lighter straw; he further runs to
variety in the shape of the crown and in the nature
of the band. He wears a silk handkerchief about his
neck to turn the sun and keep out the dust, but
indulges in astonishing gaudiness of color. His gauntlets
save his hands from the rope; he adds a fringe
and a silver star. The heavy wide "chaps" of leather
about his legs are necessary to him when he is riding
fast through brush; he indulges in such frivolities
as stamped leather, angora hair, and the like. High
heels to his boots prevent his foot from slipping
through his wide stirrup, and are useful to dig into
the ground when he is roping in the corral. Even
his six-shooter is more a tool of his trade than a
weapon of defense. With it he frightens cattle from
the heavy brush; he slaughters old or diseased steers;
he "turns the herd" in a stampede or when rounding
it in; and especially is it handy and loose to his
hip in case his horse should fall and commence to
drag him.
So the details of his appearance spring from the
practical, but in the wearing of them and the using
of them he shows again that fine disregard for the
way other people do it or think it.
Now in civilization you and I entertain a double
respect for firearms and the law. Firearms are
dangerous, and it is against the law to use them
promiscuously. If we shoot them off in unexpected places,
we first of all alarm unduly our families and neighbors,
and in due course attract the notice of the police.
By the time we are grown up we look on shooting
a revolver as something to be accomplished after
an especial trip for the purpose.
But to the cowboy shooting a gun is merely what
lighting a match would be to us. We take reasonable
care not to scratch that match on the wall nor to
throw it where it will do harm. Likewise the
cowboy takes reasonable care that his bullets do not land
in some one's anatomy nor in 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 time was evening. A half-dozen
cowboys were sprawled out on the beds smoking,
and three more were playing poker with the Chinese
cook. A misguided rat darted out from under one
of the beds and made for the empty fireplace. He
finished his journey in smoke. Then the four who
had shot slipped their guns back into their holsters
and resumed their cigarettes and drawling low-toned
conversation.
On another occasion I stopped for noon at the
Circle I ranch. While waiting for dinner, I lay on
my back in the bunk-room and counted three hundred
and sixty-two bullet-holes in the ceiling. They
came to be there because the festive cowboys used to
while away the time while lying as I was lying, waiting
for supper, in shooting the flies that crawled about
the plaster.
This beautiful familiarity with the pistol as a parlor
toy accounts in great part for a cowboy's propensity
to "shoot up the town" and his indignation
when arrested therefor.
The average cowboy is only a fair target-shot with
the revolver. But he is chain lightning at getting
his gun off in a hurry. There are exceptions to this,
however, especially among the older men. Some can
handle the Colts 45 and its heavy recoil with almost
uncanny accuracy. I have seen individuals who could
from their saddles nip lizards darting across the road;
and one who was able to perforate twice before it hit
the ground a tomato-can tossed into the air. The
cowboy is prejudiced against the double-action gun,
for some reason or other. He manipulates his
single-action weapon fast enough, however.
His sense of humor takes the same unexpected
slants, not because his mental processes differ from
those of other men, but because he is unshackled by
the subtle and unnoticed nothingnesses of precedent
which deflect our action toward the common
uniformity of our neighbors. It must be confessed that
his sense of humor possesses also a certain robustness.
The J. H. outfit had been engaged for ten days in
busting broncos. This the Chinese cook, Sang, a
newcomer in the territory, found vastly amusing.
He liked to throw the ropes off the prostrate broncos,
when all was ready; to slap them on the flanks; to
yell shrill Chinese yells; and to dance in celestial
delight when the terrified animal arose and scattered
out of there. But one day the range men drove up
a little bunch of full-grown cattle that had been
bought from a smaller owner. It was necessary to
change the brands. Therefore a little fire was built,
the stamp-brand put in to heat, and two of the men
on horseback caught a cow by the horns and one
hind leg, and promptly upset her. The old brand
was obliterated, the new one burnt in. This irritated
the cow. Promptly the branding-men, who were of
course afoot, climbed to the top of the corral to be
out of the way. At this moment, before the horsemen
could flip loose their ropes, Sang appeared.
"Hol' on!" he babbled. "I take him off;" and
he scrambled over the fence and approached the cow.
Now cattle of any sort rush at the first object they
see after getting to their feet. But whereas a steer
makes a blind run and so can be avoided, a cow
keeps her eyes open. Sang approached that wild-
eyed cow, a bland smile on his countenance.
A dead silence fell. Looking about at my
companions' faces I could not discern even in the depths
of their eyes a single faint flicker of human 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 good look, and then started for Sang.
What followed occurred with all the briskness of
a tune from a circus band. Sang darted for the corral
fence. Now, three sides of the corral were railed,
and so climbable, but the fourth was a solid adobe
wall. Of course Sang went for the wall. There,
finding his nails would 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 by that infuriated cow. Did any one help
him? Not any. Every man of that crew was hanging
weak from laughter to the horn of his saddle or
the top of the fence. The preternatural solemnity
had broken to little bits. Men came running from
the bunk-house, only to go into spasms outside, to
roll over and over on the ground, clutching handfuls
of herbage in the agony of their delight.
At the end of the corral was a narrow chute. Into
this Sang escaped as into 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 a little opening, too small for cows, back
into the main corral. He squeezed through. The
cow crashed through after him, smashing the boards.
At the crucial moment Sang tripped and fell on his
face. The cow missed him by so close a margin that
for a moment we thought she had hit. But she had
not, and before she could turn, Sang had topped the
fence and was halfway to the kitchen. Tom Waters
always maintained that he spread his Chinese sleeves
and flew. Shortly after a tremendous smoke arose from
the kitchen chimney. Sang had gone back to cooking.
Now that Mongolian was really in great danger,
but no one of the outfit thought for a moment of
any but the humorous aspect of the affair. Analogously,
in a certain small cow-town I happened to be
transient when the postmaster shot a Mexican.
Nothing was done about it. The man went right on
being postmaster, but he had to set up the drinks
because he had hit the Mexican in the stomach.
That was considered a poor place to hit a man.
The entire town of Willcox knocked off work for
nearly a day to while away the tedium of an enforced
wait there on my part. They wanted me to go fishing.
One man offered a team, the other a saddle-horse. All
expended much eloquence in directing me accurately, so
that I should be sure to find exactly the spot where
I could hang my feet over a bank beneath which there
were "a plumb plenty of fish." Somehow or other
they 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 were
undoubtedly there too, but they were fossil fish. I
borrowed a pickaxe and shovel and announced myself
as ready to start.
Outside the principal saloon in one town hung a
gong. When a stranger was observed to enter the
saloon, that gong was sounded. Then it behooved him
to treat those who came in answer to the summons.
But when it comes to a case of real hospitality
or helpfulness, your cowboy is there every time.
You are welcome to food and shelter without price,
whether he is at home or not. Only it is etiquette to
leave your name and thanks pinned somewhere about
the place. Otherwise your intrusion may be
considered in the light of a theft, and you may be
pursued accordingly.
Contrary to general opinion, the cowboy is not
a dangerous man to those not looking for trouble.
There are occasional exceptions, of course, but they
belong to the universal genus of bully, and can be
found among any class. Attend to your own business,
be cool and good-natured, and your skin is
safe. Then when it is really "up to you," be a man;
you will never lack for friends.
The Sierras, especially towards the south where
the meadows are wide and numerous, are full of cattle
in small bands. They come up from the desert
about the first of June, and are driven back again
to the arid countries as soon as the autumn storms
begin. In the very high land they are few, and to
be left to their own devices; but now we entered a
new sort of country.
Below Farewell Gap and the volcanic regions
one's surroundings change entirely. The meadows
become high flat valleys, often miles in extent; the
mountains--while registering big on the aneroid--
are so little elevated above the plateaus that a few
thousand feet is all of their apparent 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, cool and green, with its
eight thousand feet of elevation. Consequently during
the hot months thousands of desert cattle are pastured
here; and with them come many of the desert men.
Our first intimation of these things was in the
volcanic region where swim the golden trout. From the
advantage of a hill we looked far down to a hair-grass
meadow through which twisted tortuously a brook,
and by the side of the brook, belittled by distance,
was a miniature man. We could see distinctly his
every movement, as he approached cautiously the
stream's edge, dropped his short line at the end of a
stick over the bank, and then yanked bodily the fish
from beneath. Behind him stood his pony. We
could make out in the clear air the coil of his raw-
hide "rope," the glitter of his silver bit, the metal
points on his saddle 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
jogged loosely away at the cow-pony's little Spanish
trot toward the south. Over a week later, having
caught golden trout and climbed Mount Whitney,
we followed him and so came to the great central
camp at Monache Meadows.
Imagine an island-dotted lake of grass four or five
miles long by two or three wide to which slope regular
shores of stony soil planted with trees. Imagine
on the very edge of that lake an especially fine grove
perhaps a quarter of a mile in length, beneath whose
trees a dozen different outfits of cowboys are camped
for the summer. You must place a herd of ponies
in the foreground, a pine mountain at the back, an
unbroken ridge across ahead, cattle dotted here and
there, thousands of ravens wheeling and croaking
and flapping everywhere, a marvelous clear sun and
blue sky. The camps were mostly open, though a
few possessed tents. They differed from the ordinary
in that they had racks for saddles and equipments.
Especially well laid out were the cooking arrangements.
A dozen accommodating springs supplied fresh water with
the conveniently regular spacing of faucets.
Towards evening the men jingled in. This summer
camp was almost in the nature of a vacation to
them after the hard work of the desert. All they had
to do was to ride about the pleasant hills examining
that the cattle did not stray nor get into trouble. It
was fun for them, and they were in high spirits.
Our immediate neighbors were an old man of
seventy-two and his grandson of twenty-five. At
least the old man said he was seventy-two. I should
have guessed fifty. He was as straight as an arrow,
wiry, lean, clear-eyed, and had, without food, ridden
twelve hours after some strayed cattle. On arriving
he threw off his saddle, turned his horse loose, and
set about the construction of supper. This consisted
of boiled meat, strong tea, and an incredible number
of flapjacks built of water, baking-powder, salt, and
flour, warmed through--not cooked--in a frying-
pan. He deluged these with molasses and devoured
three platefuls. It would have killed an ostrich, but
apparently did this decrepit veteran of seventy-two
much good.
After supper he talked to us most interestingly in
the dry cowboy manner, looking at us keenly from
under the floppy brim of his hat. He confided to us
that he had had to quit smoking, and it ground him
--he'd smoked 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 twinkled bravely 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 to disclose themselves as visitors. Out
on the plain the cattle lowed, the horses nickered.
The red firelight flashed from the metal of suspended
equipment, crimsoned the bronze of men's faces,
touched with pink the high lights on their gracefully
recumbent forms. After a while we rolled up in our
blankets and went to sleep, while a band of coyotes
wailed like lost spirits from a spot where a steer had
died.
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, fantastic
formations, bleak mountains of slabs, volcanic cones,
lava, dry powdery soil or loose shale, close-growing
grasses, and strong winds. You feel yourself in
an upper world beyond the normal, where only the
freakish cold things of nature, elsewhere crowded
out, find a home. Camp is under a lonely tree, none
the less solitary from the fact that it has companions.
The earth beneath is characteristic of the treeless
lands, so that these seem to have been stuck alien into
it. There is no shelter save behind great fortuitous
rocks. Huge marmots run over the boulders, like
little bears. The wind blows strong. The streams run
naked under the eye of the sun, exposing clear and
yellow every detail of their bottoms. In them there
are no deep hiding-places any more than there is
shelter in the land, and so every fish that swims shows
as plainly as in an aquarium.
We saw them as we rode over the hot dry shale
among the hot and twisted little trees. They lay
against the bottom, transparent; they darted away
from the jar of our horses' hoofs; they swam slowly
against the current, delicate as liquid shadows, as
though the clear uniform golden color of the bottom
had clouded slightly to produce these tenuous ghostly
forms. We examined them curiously from the
advantage our slightly 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 unique home of a unique fish. We
crossed a solid natural bridge; we skirted fields of
red and black lava, vivid as poppies; we gazed
marveling on perfect volcano cones, long since extinct:
finally we camped on a side hill under two tall
branchless trees in about as bleak and exposed a
position as one could imagine. Then all three, we
jointed our rods and went forth to find out what
the Golden Trout was like.
I soon discovered a number of things, as follows:
The stream at this point, near its source, is very
narrow--I could step across it--and flows beneath
deep banks. The Golden Trout is shy of approach.
The wind blows. Combining these items of knowledge
I found that it was no easy matter to cast forty
feet in a high wind so accurately as to hit a three-foot
stream a yard below the level of the ground. In fact,
the proposition was distinctly sporty; I became as
interested in it as in accurate target-shooting, so that
at last I forgot utterly the intention of my efforts and
failed to strike my first rise. The second, 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, the color was the thing. And that
was indeed golden. I can liken it to nothing more
accurately than the twenty-dollar gold-piece, the
same satin finish, the same pale yellow. The fish was
fairly molten. It did not glitter in gaudy burnishment,
as does our aquarium gold-fish, for example,
but gleamed and melted and glowed as though fresh
from the mould. One would almost expect that on
cutting the flesh it would be found golden through
all its substance. This for the basic color. You
must remember always that it was a true trout, without
scales, and so the more satiny. Furthermore,
along either side of the belly ran two broad longitudinal
stripes of exactly the color and burnish of the
copper paint used on racing yachts.
I thought then, and have ever since, that the
Golden Trout, fresh from the water, is one of the
most beautiful fish that swims. Unfortunately it
fades very quickly, and so specimens in alcohol
can give no idea of it. In fact, I doubt if you will
ever be able to gain a very clear idea of it unless
you take to the trail that leads up, under the end
of which is known technically as the High Sierras.
The Golden Trout lives only in this one stream,
but occurs there in countless multitudes. Every little
pool, depression, or riffles has its school. When not
alarmed they take the fly readily. One afternoon I
caught an even hundred in a little over an hour. By
way of parenthesis it may be well to state that most
were returned unharmed to the water. They run
small,--a twelve-inch fish is a monster,--but are
of extraordinary delicacy for eating. We three
devoured sixty-five that first evening in camp.
Now the following considerations seem to me at
this point worthy of note. In the first place, the
Golden Trout occurs but in this one stream, and is
easily caught. At present the stream is comparatively
inaccessible, so that the natural supply probably
keeps even with the season's catches. Still the
trail is on the direct route to Mount Whitney, and
year by year the ascent of this "top of the Republic"
is becoming more the proper thing to do. Every
camping party stops for a try at the Golden Trout,
and of course the fish-hog is a sure occasional migrant.
The cowboys told of two who caught six hundred
in a day. As the certainly increasing tide of summer
immigration gains in volume, the Golden Trout, in
spite of his extraordinary numbers at present, is going
to be caught out.
Therefore, it seems the manifest duty of the Fisheries
to provide for the proper protection and distribution
of this species, especially the distribution.
Hundreds of streams in the Sierras are without trout
simply because of some natural obstruction, such as
a waterfall too high to jump, which prevents their
ascent of the current. These are all well adapted to
the planting of fish, and might just as well be stocked
by the Golden Trout as by the customary Rainbow.
Care should be taken lest the two species become
hybridized, as has occurred following certain misguided
efforts in the South Fork of the Kern.
So far as I know but one attempt has been made
to transplant these fish. About five or six years ago
a man named Grant carried some in pails across to a
small lake near at hand. They have done well, and
curiously enough have grown to a weight of from one
and a half to two pounds. This would seem to show
that their small size in Volcano Creek results entirely
from conditions of feed or opportunity for development,
and that a study of proper environment might
result in a game fish to rival the Rainbow in size and
certainly to surpass him in curious interest.
A great many well-meaning people who have
marveled at the abundance of the Golden Trout
in their natural habitat laugh at the idea that
Volcano Creek will ever become "fished out." To such
it should be pointed out that the fish in question is
a voracious feeder, is without shelter, and quickly
landed. A simple calculation will show how many
fish a hundred moderate anglers, camping a week
apiece, would take out in a season. And in a short
time there will be many more than a hundred, few
of them moderate, coming up into the mountains to
camp just 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 at the idea that
the buffalo and wild pigeons would ever disappear.
They are gone.
ON GOING OUT
XXI
ON GOING OUT
The last few days of your stay in the wilderness
you will be consumedly anxious 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 from civilization. Nor does it mean
especially that you are glad to leave the wilds.
Merely does it come about that you drift unconcernedly
on the stream of days until you approach the
brink of departure: then irresistibly the current
hurries you into haste. The last day of your week's
vacation; the last three of your month's or your
summer's or your year's outing,--these comprise the
hours in which by a mighty but invisible transformation
your mind forsakes its savagery, epitomizes
again the courses of social evolution, regains the poise
and cultivation of the world of men. Before that you
have been content; yes, and would have gone on
being content for as long as you please until the
approach of the limit you have set for your wandering.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11 |
12