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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Glimpses of America," James W. Buel offers a compelling exploration of the American landscape through a series of richly textured essays and vibrant narratives. Written in a lyrical style that juxtaposes personal reflection with historical context, Buel weaves a tapestry of diverse experiences that capture the spirit of America'Äôs multifaceted identity. His prose invites readers into the heart of various American locales, revealing the interplay between the land's beauty and its tumultuous history. This work stands as both a homage to America's natural wonders and a critical examination of its societal challenges, making it a significant contribution to contemporary American literature. James W. Buel, a seasoned traveler and keen observer of human landscapes, draws upon his extensive journeys across the United States to inspire this lyrical anthology. His background in environmental studies and passion for sociocultural issues infuse the book with authenticity and depth. Buel's unique perspective is further shaped by his adventures and interactions with locals, enriching the narrative with personal anecdotes that resonate with both nostalgia and contemporary relevance. Readers seeking a profound understanding of America's diverse cultural and natural tapestry will find "Glimpses of America" immensely rewarding. Buel'Äôs insightful reflections encourage contemplation on the nation'Äôs past while inspiring a sense of hope for its future. This book is an essential read for anyone with an interest in American culture and the narratives that shape our collective identity.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Glimpses of America
Table of Contents
The most interesting, because most diversified, country in the world is America, and the center of that unexampled interest belongs to the territory comprised within the United States. The castles of England, crushed by the hand of time; the lochs and friths of Scotland, that murmur to the sea their wails of the Viking invaders; the lakes and heaths of Ireland, around which old legends hold perpetual carnival; the Rhine of Germany, whose banks are strewn with the relics of feudalism; the Bernese Alps, that flaunt their whitened locks like aged giants taunting the walled cities about which the sound of battle still seems to linger; the red glare of Vesuvius, wrestling with fiery wrath in mad ambition to overwhelm the cities built upon her ashes; the roar and blaze of Ætna, that growls with the voice of Polyphemus thirsting for the life of Ulysses; the hills of Greece, on which a thousand gods held council; the welling breast of Mother Nile, carrying to the sea remembrances of her ancient children; the Holy Land, blooming with sacred memories that fill the human heart with fragrance; the mighty peaks of Himalayas, piercing the heavens with frosted heads and draped with the fogs of centuries; the plains of Asshur, where Babylon stood, and the wrath of God was kindled. All these, and more, speak with siren tongue to lure the traveler and give him appetite for history. But, if we except the associations which make these places of the Old World memorable, the student of nature will find a thousand greater charms in the picturesque, grand, marvelous and sublime scenery that diversifies our own country. No picture has ever equaled the real, and no book has ever vividly described the wonders that God has scattered over the American landscape. We have had glimpses of mountain, plain, lake, river and cañon, but they have been little more than shadows of the reality, an intimation of a grandeur almost too great to depict. But as great telescopes have brought within our vision surprising views of other worlds, the rings of Saturn, the seas of Mars, and the burnt-out craters of the Moon, so has inventive genius been active in delineating the physical features of the earth, and through the perfection of photography we are now practically enabled to take the world in our hand and examine it with the same convenience that we can an orange. Travel is no longer necessary for the masses in order to behold the marvels of American scenery, for the camera has gathered them all and lays every inspiring scene upon even the poor man’s table, to minister to the delight of his family circle. But photography likewise blesses the traveler, for study of the picture establishes acquaintanceship with that which is represented, while accompanying description quickens his understanding and gives a more intelligent conception of the pictorial subject.
It has been my good fortune to make many trips across the continent over the various railway lines; and business and pleasure have taken me during the past several years to nearly all the accessible parts of the country, reached by rail, boat or stage-coach. Always an admirer of nature, I have longed for the means to sketch or photograph the imposing scenery which caught my enraptured eye as I hurried by. This ambition prompted the really stupendous undertaking whose fruitage is now offered to the public in all its delicious flavor, in the form of a book as herewith submitted.
How the photographic views herein reproduced were obtained may be thus briefly told, and is well worthy the relation: This book was conceived more than half a dozen years ago, but a press of other engagements caused a postponement of any effort at its preparation until the spring of 1890, when the publishers engaged a corps of artists, consisting of three of the best out-door photographers in the country. A passenger car was next chartered, which was remodeled so as to provide comfortable sleeping quarters for the men in one end, a kitchen in the other, while the center was fitted up as an operating-room for taking, developing and finishing pictures. Three cameras, of as many sizes, were also provided, with three thousand prepared plates, and a great quantity of paraphernalia which might be found useful for the expedition.
A FAMILY OF PUEBLO INDIANS, NEW MEXICO.
Thus equipped, our photographic party left St. Louis early in May, going directly west to Denver, from which point we made excursions to all the near-lying parks, thence to Manitou, and by way of the Colorado Midland to Salt Lake. Our work about Salt Lake occupied considerable time, and after leaving there we proceeded to Weber Cañon and then by way of the Union Pacific to Shoshone Falls. We next returned by way of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, making a sweep southward, through Ouray and the Valley of the Gunnison, over Marshall Pass and to Pueblo by way of the Royal Gorge. Our party divided several times in order to cover the territory more expeditiously, and in making the trip into New Mexico one part entered by way of Trinidad from Pueblo and the other traveled directly south through Antonito, forming a junction again at Santa Fe.
Some weeks were spent traveling off the line of road among the ruined villages of the Cliff-Dwellers, and in photographing the more rugged scenery of the Rio Grande River. Then we continued our journey westward over the Atlantic and Pacific and the Southern Pacific Railroads to California, where nearly three months were spent among the towns, Yosemite Valley, Big Trees and mountains of that summer-land. On the appearance of spring we traveled north by way of the California and Oregon Railroad, still making side trips by stage-coach and wagon, to Portland, from which point excursions were made up the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. At Victoria, British Columbia, we took steamer for Alaska, and returning we passed through the Cascade Range over the Northern Pacific, working our way back east. But we continued to make detours a long way off the main line of road, thus visiting the Falls of the Missouri, the Black Hills, the Custer battle-field, Devil’s Tower, and Yellowstone National Park, in which latter wonderland we spent two weeks photographing its scenery and extraordinary formations.
“WHALE-BACK” BOAT of the NORTHERN LAKES.
More than three-fourths of the grandest views were inaccessible by rail, so other means of travel had to be adopted. Often it was by stage-coach, but frequently donkeys were our sole reliance; and when these little animals could not carry us to the most rugged points, we shouldered our instruments and scrambled to the peaks and abysses of necessary observation. The difficulties, dangers and hardships thus encountered were both great and numerous, while the expense involved was so far beyond our first calculations, that had it been anticipated in the beginning the enterprise would certainly never have been undertaken.
GOVERNOR’S RESIDENCE, PUEBLO OF TESUQUE, NEW MEXICO.
We resumed our eastward journey thence to Superior Lake, Dells of the St. Croix, rapids of the Wisconsin, lakes and waterfalls of Minnesota, the Upper Mississippi through Lake Pepin, and back to St. Louis, the entire trip occupying more than eighteen months.
THE URNS, MANITOU PARK.
Our camera car had served our purposes in a most gratifying manner while making the long tour of the West, but in the eastern tour, which remained to be performed, it was considered that the car would be of no special advantage, since accommodations are so much more easily obtained in the built-up sections of the East than in the thinly and sometimes totally unsettled districts of the West, where in many cases our car was our only shelter. The journey east was begun in October, from St. Louis to Chicago, thence to Niagara Falls, and then up the St. Lawrence. Our route next lay through the Green and White Mountains, and other famous sections of the New England States; thence west into the Adirondacks, Mohawk Valley and Lakes George and Champlain, then down the picturesque Hudson into the Catskills. Continuing our journey southward, we visited the points of grandest scenery in Virginia, North Carolina, and Eastern Tennessee, and then proceeded on to Florida, where a part of the winter was spent photographing everything worthy of a place in this volume. On the return trip Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, and Wyandotte Cave, in Indiana, received our attention, as well as other interesting places along the way, and early in February our labors were ended by a return to St. Louis to put the results in book form. Nearly all the descriptive writing was done while our party was on the way, and while the impressions produced by the glorious visions were fresh in the author’s mind. This work, accordingly, is practically one of inspiration, the whole constituting a story of extraordinary interest and a history of incomparable value.
ON THE OCKLAWAHA RIVER, FLORIDA.
Illustrations, however fine, whether of wood or steel, represent the artist’s conceptions, dashed with an individual coloring that prevents a natural reproduction. The painter sketches his landscape from a special point of view, and working many days blends the sunrise with midday and sunset, the mists of morning with the clouds of noon, thus striving to please the eye rather than to truthfully present nature, without artificial adornments.
Photography, on the other hand, is the mirror which reflects nature in all her changeful moods; the absolutely faithful reproducer of her every aspect, exhibiting her in her every-day garb, noting the disfigurements with no less fidelity than the sublime graces which she exhibits and all the widely diversified physical features which render her countenance so variable that admirer and scoffer alike find reason for urging their claims. No other attempt has ever been made to so perfectly picture the wonders of America, and the work has been so thoroughly accomplished that it is confidently believed no one, however great his ambition or lavish his expense, will be able to add anything to the completeness of our undertaking, as here submitted. Whatever may be the measure of deserving of the descriptive part of this book, certainly the photographic illustrations are worthy of all praise as fulfilling the conditions of masterpieces of American scenery, while the publishers are entitled to most generous public recognition for conceiving and so liberally endowing an enterprise, which has flowered in the fragrance and beauty of this exquisite work.
ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT TACOMA, WASHINGTON.
It is seemly to add that our tour was made wholly at the expense of the publishers. Free transportation was offered us over all the railroads on which we traveled, but all such courtesies were uniformly refused, because an acceptance would have placed us under obligations to manifest some favoritism, and thus interfere with the declared purpose of the publishers to issue a work on American scenery in which the views and descriptions should be given truthfully, and without partiality. We therefore selected the routes which promised most satisfactory results, without regard to personal convenience, having in view the ambition to present and describe the most interesting, if not always the most famous, scenery of our country, and in so doing produce a work of which all Americans, like the publishers, may be justly proud. In this our celebrant year such a book is particularly appropriate, and the hope of the publishers, as it is of the author, is that our ambitious and worthy enterprise may find a warm welcome at the fireside of every American family.
VIEW OF FORT WRANGEL, ALASKA.
CHAPTER I.AMONG THE WILD SCENES OF COLORADO.
PIKE’S PEAK FROM COLORADO SPRINGS.
Enthusiasm sometimes exaggerates the reality, just as colored glass confuses the sight; but when it serves to please without doing harm, the fault may be pardoned. To the enthusiasm of the occasion, and our great and unique enterprise, may therefore be charged the burst of admiration that manifested our feelings, when, rolling along the prairies on the Union Pacific R. R., we saw, rising far to the southwest, nearly one hundred miles away, the broad shoulders of Pike’s Peak, breaking into russet above the clouds and showing a head of saffron, mellowed by the soft rays of a sun just falling into the deep valleys of the Occident. It was the chief object to chain our attention for the while, and this first impression awakened most delightful anticipations of the work which lay before us. A few hours later we were in Denver, making final preparations for a photographing tour of the picturesque West. Fortunately, our arrangements were so nearly complete upon leaving St. Louis that only a short stay in Denver was necessary, and it was with eager desire that we had our car attached to a Union Pacific train and started for the heart of the Rockies. The long range of mountains, rising into sharp peaks, and again spreading their tops into truncated cones, elbowing and pushing each other like a brigade in too close quarters at parade-rest, are only fifteen miles from Denver, forming a grand background to an immense expanse of prairie landscape. Starting on the Colorado Central Branch of the Union Pacific, we soon pass through the gate-way of the Rockies; thence on to Golden, a beautiful mining town that nestles in the bed of a dried-up lake, and looks up with pleasing satisfaction to the guardian gods of North and South Table Mountains. Here a stop is made for a trip up Bear Creek Cañon, which is reached by stage, by which conveyance the traveler is trundled into a gorge of surpassing beauty and noble grandeur. Through this great gash the water dashes, swollen by melting snows, and fed by a thousand sources. On either side the frowning and dusky walls, weaving a tortuous way like the path of a drunken giant, rear up their castellated heads until they remind us of the walled cities of Jericho, over which Joshua’s spies were lowered by Rahab.
MARSHALL FALLS, CLEAR CREEK CAÑON.
Only a few miles from Golden is Clear Creek Cañon, another wondrous cleavage wrought by water that goes tumbling through the passage with rumble of breakers and roar of waterfall. The walls of the cañon rise perpendicularly to varying heights of 500 to 1,500 feet, and at places approach so near to each other that an observer looking upward from the cavernous depths can see only a thin strip of blue sky. Away up on the brows of the parallel cliffs are large trees that look like feather dusters, and little streams of liquid silver appear in the distance to be pouring their contributions from crevice and apex to swell the mad creek that rushes with complaining voice down the age-swept gorge. Along this water-bed was formerly the roadway, or trail, used by freight-wagons and stage-coaches, but it is now become the exclusive thoroughfare of the Central Branch, so that the magnificent view which the cañon affords is before the eyes of railroad travelers.
Less than three miles from Georgetown is Green Lake, an exquisite body of water which has been very appropriately called the Gem of the Mountain. Its translucent depths are animated by myriads of trout that are tinged by the green waters to the color of emeralds, while away down in its profound recesses is distinguishable a forest of stately trees which has been swept into the lake by some glacial avalanche. Not a branch appears to have been broken or a position disturbed, for the trees stand boldly upright in all their original gracefulness, but through calcareous depositions, that are a peculiarity of this lake, they have been converted into stone. Thus it is a submerged forest of petrified trees.
Looking beyond the lake we perceive, some seven miles away, the famous Argenta Pass, the summit of which is reached by the highest wagon-road in the world, and from this elevation an almost boundless and marvelously picturesque view may be had, stretching away to the west as far as Holy Cross Mount, and eastward to the prairies of Kansas.
A VIEW OF PIKE’S PEAK.
But we have now reached the backbone of the divide and our train starts down the western grade, circling like a hawk out of the sky. Over immense fills, through deep cuts, across bridges, following a swiftly-flowing stream, until at length we gain the level valley and go dashing away to Graymont, on the way to Idaho Springs and Georgetown. To avoid tunneling in crossing the divide, the railroad winds around the mountain elevations, up a steep grade, over a way that has been blasted out of the eternal rocks, until from away up the lofty sides the traveler may look upon a scene of marvelous beauty and ruggedness that fades into indistinctness miles below. Leaning out of the car window we view a wondrous panorama, and pause directly to bring our cameras into use, that the scene may be caught and held on paper. There on one side of the depths is Devil’s Gate, in close proximity, as it seems, to Bridal Veil Falls, where the clear mountain stream plunges over a precipice of great height to join the gamboling creek that rushes away on its errand hundreds of feet below. There, too, is a spider’s web of steel, eighty-six feet high, that has served as a passage-way for our train across a chasm 300 feet wide, whose bottom can scarcely be distinguished from our lofty eminence; but we see that the track makes a complete loop, and that the road parallels itself, at a constantly increasing grade, no less than three times. All the while that we are winding around and crossing our own track, Georgetown continues visible, but it is dwarfed by the distance to the appearance of a prairie-dog village.
CHALK CLIFFS, CLEAR CREEK CAÑON.
The picturesqueness of the route now changes from wild scenery of lofty mountain and the dark awesomeness of deep cañon, to a park-like landscape, through tillable lands, and on to Silver Plume, a great feat of mining engineering, and beautiful beyond description. Gray’s Peak rises like a giant phantom a few miles beyond, and becomes a charming signet in the ring of park and town of Graymont that lies near its feet.
Returning east a distance of twenty miles, a junction is reached at Fork’s Creek, where another branch of the Union Pacific leads to Central City and Black Hawk. Here a marvelous thing is to be seen: The two towns are only a mile apart, measured by a straight line, yet so fearfully rugged is the territory to be traversed that the distance by rail between the places is four miles, and this interval is covered by means of a “Switch Back,” so called because of the tortuous route and the extraordinary grades. All along this vicinity are famous mines, and a wealth of mining machinery, that converts the country into a maze of industry, and the mountains into smoking mills and cornucopias of silver. In this mountainous region all roads seem to radiate from Denver, and hence to reach other charming scenery by means of our camera car, it was necessary to return again for a trip to Gunnison, which is on the South Park Branch. But in order to facilitate our work it was decided to divide our party, so that one photographer might proceed to Gunnison, while the other two took the northwest route to Estes and Middle Park, where a larger amount of work was to be done, and which could be reached only by stage.
A VIEW OF PLATTE CAÑON.
ARGENTA FALLS.
Continuing our trip, therefore, towards the southwest, our first stop was in Platte Cañon, which is twenty miles from Denver, and there many exquisite views were taken. This cañon, formed by the Platte River, resembles Clear Creek Cañon, but is longer and somewhat wilder. The route is over Kenosha Hill, which is Alpine in its grandeur, and so rugged that the road is as sinuous as the trail of a serpent. The cañon spreads at places until it runs between gradually sloping steeps, but again the walls draw closer, and rise perpendicularly to a sheer height of a thousand feet, excluding the sunlight except as it is strained at times through a narrow rift, until it looks like a pencil of light cleaving the pall of night. What mighty forces were gathered here in the age of the world’s infancy! what terrific convulsions and frenzied spasms of nature that rent in twain the earth’s envelope and left cañons and mountains where once were lake and plain!
Along the way rushes the impetuous Platte River, that has torn and eroded a great fissure through the rocks, and in so doing has left many wonderful incongruities to mark its eccentricity as well as power.
ALONG THE BREAST OF THE CAÑON WALLS OF THE RIO DE LOS ANIMAS, COLORADO.
BRIDAL VEIL FALLS, NEAR DEVIL’S GATE.
Dome Rock is one of the conspicuous curiosities in the cañon, resembling as it does, the top of a mosque that has sunk just behind the wall of beetling cliff, leaving a graceful dome as its burial monument. But all along, at frequent intervals, spires, with cathedral proportions, shoot skyward, lending an appearance not unlike a vast row of churches, where we may fancy nature worships, and the roar of waters is a perpetual hymnal invocation. On the same route, fifty miles from Platte Cañon, is the Alpine Tunnel, which is reached by the road winding about and upward until a height of 11,600 feet is gained, when, suddenly, the train makes an abrupt turn, and leaps into the very bowels of a mountain from which it emerges after many minutes on the other side, and then descends towards the Pacific. This tunnel is one of the most remarkable in all the world. It is at the highest point ever reached by any railroad in America, and in the center of its 1,773 feet of length is the dividing line of altitude between the two oceans. The boring of this mighty channel not only involved the naturally stupendous labor of digging through a mountain, but the work was rendered a hundred fold more difficult by reason of the rare atmosphere in which the workmen had to labor. In addition to this, 70,000 linear feet of California redwood was required for the inside bracing, and this had to be brought up the mountain side on the backs of burros, the only animals of burden that could make the ascent. It was a remarkable undertaking; its accomplishment was very like a miracle.
As we emerge from the tunnel, and creep around the perpendicular side of the mountain on a roadway barely wide enough to accommodate a single train of cars, a bewilderingly magnificent panorama opens to us. Away towards the southwest, one hundred and fifty miles, we observe the lofty and regular heads of the San Juan range, while a little further west we are able to distinguish Uncompaghre Peak, that looks down with benignant aspect upon the town of Ouray. There, too, is the green and happy valley of the Gunnison, towards the end of which we see Elk Mountains and their chief peaks, Mount Gothic and Crested Butte.
At this great height the snow lies packed in the deep crevices all summer through, while upon its borders may be seen beautiful flowers nodding their bright heads in the delightful wind that plays about the peak. Now we go down the mountain side with brakes set, marveling all the way at the natural wonders which have been strewn by some Titanic hand along the route. There, on the right, are the Palisades, which might be called sculptured rocks, so graceful and artistic that they appear to be the creation of the great Phidias, or pupils of his school. Further on lies Quartz Valley, like a pearl nestling in depths far below the angry waves of giant mountains. Now we cross Quartz Creek, where nature laughs with blossoms and fruitage, through Uncompaghre, around Hair-Pin Curve, with the Fossil range to our right, by Juniata Hot Springs, and at length arrive at Gunnison. We are now in the midst of the most magnificent mountain scenery, and in the heart of a great mining country, where there is bustle above ground and activity and visions of amazing wealth underneath. The town is at an elevation of more than 7,000 feet, but many peaks rise high above it, from which extensive views may be had of the Elk Mountain, San Juan and Uncompaghre ranges, while to the southwest a beautiful valley stretches away to mark the devious path of the Gunnison River.
VALLEY OF THE GUNNISON, NEAR SAPINERO.
THE LOOP NEAR GEORGETOWN.
Having taken many views of this famous region, we turned back again to Denver, and from that point of radiation started for North Park. Our route was by way of Boulder, at which place we took the narrow-gauge road for Fort Collins. A few miles from Boulder is Boulder Cañon, a stupendous mountain gorge seventeen miles long, and in places the walls rise to almost the incredible height of 3,000 feet. The falls of Boulder Creek are not without interest, but the mightiness and awful grandeur of the granite cañon weighs so heavily upon the startled perceptions of the spectator, that even the roar of water-fall is scarcely heard, all the five senses being concentrated in that of sight. The eye is set to climbing these terrific precipices of stone; up, up, from niche to niche, from wave upon wave of dizzy height, until it rests upon a world on high that seems to lift its parapets to the sky and bathe its brow in the azure of the heavens. Can it be that the little stream that runs complaining along the ravine has eroded this mighty fissure? No, not this alone, for water has been no more than a servant of other greater forces that have torn the earth into clefts and upheavals. Bursting volcano, denuding glacier, devastating deluge, and cooling fires of internal furnaces that brought a collapse of the earth crust, have all been agencies in this work of mighty disturbance.
MARY LAKE AND LONG’S PEAK, ESTES PARK.
ENTRANCE TO ESTES PARK, FROM ROCKY POINT.
HIGH LINE CANAL, SILVER FLUME AND PLATTE RIVER.
The temptation is very great to step aside into Estes Park, and explore Long’s Peak, which, though thirty-six miles distant, looms up in the clear atmosphere like a frosty-crowned giant almost near enough to speak to. But the rest of our party have preceded us and are no doubt in need of photographic supplies, so we hurry on, pausing only long enough to take a snap-shot at Boulder Falls. Reaching Fort Collins, we had the good fortune to find the others of our party awaiting us. They had made an extensive trip through Estes Park, and had a splendid lot of views as a reward for their labors. It was fortunate, therefore, that we did not stop, for we could have done no more than duplicate their work, and repeated the experiences which they reported to me substantially as follows:
After dividing our party, as already explained, two of our photographers followed the Colorado Central Branch of the Union Pacific to Loveland, at which place they side-tracked our camera car, and having made preparations for the trip, started west to make a tour of Estes Park, their principal objective point being Long’s Peak. The park is conveniently reached by a daily stage-line, which travels over a good road and, with the exception of a few miles of level plains, traverses a picturesque region, with mountains sweeping every side, the monotony of which is relieved by many lakes, thirty-five of which may be seen from a single station, scattered over the plain and bathing the foot-hills. The road leads up Bald Mountain and Pole Hill to an elevation that brings into view the valleys of three rivers, and from Park Hill the whole entrancing scenery of Estes Park, probably the finest in Colorado, is spread out in one unbroken and bewildering panorama of astounding beauty. It is not all a vision of primeval nature, for the vast table-land is abloom with fields of husbandry, and immense herds of cattle give animation to the seemingly boundless pasturage.
From Ferguson’s ranch there is a lovely prospect of Mummy range, with its conspicuous peaks, aglow with the soft colors of sunset in the evening, and mist-crowned in the early hours of the day. On the west are the Front and Rabbit Ear ranges, whose inaccessible heights run up so sharply to where storms have their breeding places, that they are browned by exposure and look inexpressibly bleak. Here, on these wild peaks, safe from human foes, bear and mountain sheep have their habitations, and the caterwaul of the puma rings out upon the air of lofty desolation as a warning to those who would attempt to gain their savage haunts.
DOME ROCK, BOULDER CAÑON.
Long’s Peak is hardly more than a half-dozen miles from Table Mountain, measured by a straight line, but to pass from one to the other is very difficult, except by a long detour, so that the open route is by way of Loveland to Ferguson’s ranch, which is near the base of Long’s Peak, and from which point the ascent is best made. The east side of the mountain is precipitous and hence inaccessible; viewed from this side the peak appears so lofty as to almost fade into the cerulean of sky depths, and for this reason it has been not inaptly called the American Matterhorn. Its apex, seen from below, bears a striking similitude to an impregnable citadel surrounded by giant ramparts.
The road from Ferguson’s passes Mary’s Lake, a lovely body of water, thence over a hill to a forest that is begirt by Lily Mountain with its monster cliffs impending from a height of 11,500 feet above sea-level. The ascent may be made by horses as far as what is known as “Boulder Field,” but from that point foot climbing is necessary. To secure the finest view, a place called the “Key-hole” must be gained, and it is not reached without great exertion of muscle and careful equilibrium while passing along the ledges, since a false step may be attended by serious result. Having reached the Key-hole, the sight that rewards the climber is sublimely grand, for he is brought to face a vertical wall of sheer 2,000 feet, extending up to within what appears to be one or two hundred feet of the apex. The altitude is so great that a finer prospect, perhaps, never greeted human vision, for the world seems to be spread out for examination. A little higher up the scene changes, but is scarcely so beautiful, for every additional foot taken upward increases the indistinctness of the valley below and the mountain scenery in the distance. But by the aid of a field-glass we make out Big Thompson River, Boulder Cañon, and some remarkable columnar cliffs that exhibit fantastic shapes, sculptured by the erratic hand of nature. Mountains appear like legions to the right, to the left, upon all sides, but we are now above them all, and towards the southeast, sixty miles away, we see a smoke-cloud that has formed from the Denver Smelters. Still further southward are visible the hazy heads of Pike’s Peak and its twin brother, Cheyenne Mountain, while a hundred miles north are dimly distinguishable the range of bluffs east of the city of Cheyenne.
After gaining the summit our party had a still better view, for a bright sun had now come out from behind clouds that had before obscured his rays, and so completely dissipated the misty atmosphere that the panorama was greatly increased. They were lifted so far above the Front range that beyond the divide there broke into view, in the far southwest, the Mount of the Holy Cross, while beside it were the very pale outlines of Jackson Peak, the two almost blending into one.
BOULDER FALLS.
As they descended on the northeastern side, suddenly their sight was arrested by a lake slumbering in a little basin that had been scooped out of the granite sides of the mountain. It is almost immediately under the vertical cliffs, and so clear that the observer seems to look through it, as he would through a looking-glass, upon great walls which appear below, but are in reality reflections of the precipice examined when making the ascent. Lily Mountain was in bold outline on the right, where reposed another lake of somewhat greater size, whose water appeared to feed a stream that ran gamboling down a deep gorge into the plain which it nourished.
On every side there were evidences of glacial erosion, not only in the form of bowlders and debris, but in lateral moraines, where the glacier had left deposits, and in gorges where great granite blocks had been tumbled, over which in places the water cantered and fell in beautiful sheets. In one place, towards the base, were found many small aspen trees cut down, and most frequently the trunks were divested of their bark, and the tender limbs were missing. Investigating the cause, it was directly discovered to be the work of beavers, several of whose dams were perceived in a creek that ran through a beautiful meadow land, but no one of the party was able to catch sight of the wary animals.
Our party being satisfied with their trip in the park, and especially with the ascent of Long’s Peak, where they had secured more than a score of magnificent photographic views, returned to Loveland to be rejoined by at Fort Collins, as will be presently described.
MOUNTAIN OF THE HOLY CROSS, COLORADO.
GRAYMONT MOUNTAIN, MIDDLE PARK.
We tarried a short while at Fort Collins, then set off for Mason City, eighty miles distant, the road to which leads through the world-famous Cache La Poudre (Powder River) region. After leaving the south fork of this stream we passed Monitor Peak, crossed the Big Laramie, and brought up at Medicine Bow range. North Park proper lies west of the range, but the physical features of the immediately eastern district are almost identical, and to traverse the whole would have required more than a month. The park is an elevated plain 9,000 feet above sea level, and embraces an area of about 2,500 square miles. Properly speaking, it is a fertile valley enclosed by spurs and branches of the Rocky Mountains, and is so seldom visited that there are as yet no resorts for travelers, and the stage is a poor reliance for reaching the most interesting districts. We also experienced insurmountable obstacles, which compelled us to abandon our purpose of making a tour of the park. The only possible way of going through the district and to chief points of photographic interest (pardon the expression) would have been by horses, and these were not procurable because the country is devoid of settlements; besides, we were unprovided with camp equipment. We saw the mountains rising on every side into jagged spires, and occasional lakes nestling on their bosoms, but they were inaccessible to us, and after making so long a journey we were compelled to return without accomplishing anything worthy to be narrated. Photographs of some mineral springs bubbling up icy-cold in stony basins, wide stretches of landscape, hemmed in by a wall of mountains, and some fine views of scenery along the Cache La Poudre, was all the reward we had for days of uncomfortable traveling, much of which was done on foot, and on horses borrowed for short tours. We traversed enough of the district, however, to satisfy us of its beauty and fertility, and that the region was a vast game park, in which mountain sheep, bear, deer, pumas were numerous, and ptarmigan abundant. We caught sight of several wild sheep and had a far-away (not too far) look at a cinnamon, or grizzly bear, we were not able to positively decide which, and not being equipped for entertaining game of that character were indisposed to permit curiosity to supersede judgment.
Returning to Fort Collins, we retraced our route to Longmount, from which point we determined to visit Table Mountain, near by, and Mount Hallett, a little further towards the west. To carry this decision into effect it was necessary to make some provision for conveyance and camping, as the mountain cannot be explored in a day, and a few evenings must be spent in camp in order to do the work satisfactorily. Fortunately, supplies are easy to procure, and being fully provided, we set out a merry party on a pleasant errand. We reached the foot of Table Mountain towards the close of the day, and went into camp beside a beautiful little stream that had its source somewhere up the gorge that cleft one side of the mountain. At this point we were also able to take some pretty views of the imposing scenery by which we were surrounded.
SADDLE ROCK, AT THE SUMMIT OF THE PASS.
WITHIN THE GATES, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
Near noon of the following day we accomplished the ascent, and from that vantage point surveyed a scene of bewildering grandeur. The wind, however, blew a gale that made our position extremely uncomfortable, and one of our party lost his hat, that was borne away and dropped into an abyss of almost measureless depth. There were mountains to the west that seemed to hang on the edge of the horizon, and down, far down, below us was an immense expanse of bowlders that had evidently once been the sport of a glacier. Indeed, the glacier was still there, a great solid field of compacted snow that at midday hugged the shadow side of the mountain, but was evidently moving gradually, imperceptibly, towards the gorge. Water was pouring from the base and forming waterfalls, cascades and swift streams, showing that heat radiation from the earth was melting the glacier more rapidly than the sun’s rays. The effect was extremely beautiful, for the afternoon sun was changing the edges of the snow-pack into beautiful reflections of aqua-marine, and waves of light shimmered above the glacier that made the ice coverlet scintillant with color.
TORREY’S PEAK, MIDDLE PARK, COLORADO.
Table Mountain is a truncated cone, from which fact it takes its name; but it is deeply fissured on every side, and on the west side there is an appalling gorge, over the edges of which, in places, colossal sheets of ice impend, vast ledges they appear, threatening the vegetation far down below, and rendering traveling along the slopes very dangerous. Having photographed Table Mountain and the fine scenery that is tributary, we descended and passed over to Mount Hallett, where we were delighted to find views of yet greater grandeur. The way to this mount is necessarily over Table Mountain and into Estes Park, the solid ramparts of rocks which surround the park, as far as Willow Cañon, preventing the access of pack animals.
Gaining the base of Table Mountain, we followed up Timber Creek over a natural roadway until the foot of Hallett was reached. The way was easy and pleasant, being level and almost floored with moss and flowers, while many species of birds flitted across our path, and in and out through the trees and bushes, with voices of tuneful glee.
As we ascended the mountain on the northeastern side, a magnificent view was presented down a deep gorge. A little higher up, and as we veered towards the west, we saw, a thousand feet below us, a deep, dark lake whose sides were walled, giving to it the appearance of a crater that had now become a lake basin. Still further up the steep, in a ravine, was another lake, the edges of which served to mark both the timber and snow line. Away off in the southeast was Long’s Peak, frowning in bleak desolation above a lake that hugged its feet. On every side the scenery was ruggedly sublime, while immediately at our right was a great chasm with a vertical wall of stone fully one thousand feet high.
THE GREAT WESTWARD FLOOD OF EMIGRATION—CROSSING THE PLATTE RIVER IN 1868 (from a painting).
The timber was now below us, and our horses picked their way over an indistinct trail through patches of snow. Occasionally, there were suspicious places, where the snow was deeply impacted, which might conceal a treacherous way, a chasm bridged with nothing more substantial than cakes of ice. Yet, on this lonesome mountain, chilled by perpetually arctic winds, swathed by eternal snows, and covered by giant bowlders that menaced everything by their apparent instability, there was no scarcity of animal life. The mountain rat, chipmunk, woodchuck, Rocky Mountain sheep and a few lions make this uninviting region their haunt, while ptarmigan, or mountain grouse, are fairly plentiful. One enthusiastic photographer who climbed Hallett some years before, claimed to have found a herd of mountain sheep so tame that he was able to take their pictures, but none of us had such good fortune.
FREMONT’S PASS, NORTH PARK.
At one point of the elevation we had an enrapturing view of Middle Park and Grand Lake, whose waters looked like a vast sea of quicksilver, on which the sunlight danced in a glorious reflection. North Park might have been also visible from this same lofty point of observation but for the intervention of Mummy Mountain, the monumental mark of Medicine Bow range, far to the northwest, too distant for our cameras to reproduce the view with satisfaction.
Our visits to Table Mountain and Mount Hallett had proven so delightful that our previously contemplated trip to Middle Park was now undertaken with the most pleasant anticipations. Returning to Longmont, we proceeded over the Union Pacific to Sunset, an arm of the road that stretches out into the Front range until it fairly grasps the beautiful scenery of that marvelously grand region. Georgetown would have been a more convenient point of departure for Midland Park, but we chose to avoid staging, and by means of pack animals to reach the park by the quickest, even though it was a more troublesome, route. Middle Park is separated from North Park by an east and west sweep of the great Continental Divide, and like its northern sister is completely encircled by lofty mountains, whose sentinels are Long’s Peak, Gray’s Peak and Mount Lincoln, with elevations above sea level of respectively 14,500, 14,200 and 14,300 feet. The elevation of the park itself is about 7,500 feet, and its area some 3,000 square miles, or about one-third less than the State of Connecticut. It is drained principally by the Blue and Grand Rivers, whose waters flow generally through smiling meadows until they escape from the park. We traveled by horse through Berthoud Pass to Hot Sulphur Springs, which is on a small tributary of Grand River, and only about twelve miles from the south boundary of the park. From this point we went to Grand Lake, the beautiful body of water that we had seen from the heights of Mount Hallett. If the scene was grand when viewed from that distant elevation, it was sublimely picturesque when we reached its shores. The western shore line of the lake washes the vertical base of towering mountains, which enclose it on three sides, and throw their giant shadows into its pellucid depths, where reflections of brown peaks mingle with the beautiful green of tall tufted pines. Its bed appears to be a glacier basin, for all about are cliffs that bear distinct marks of an ice deluge that thousands of years ago, perhaps, invaded this retreat of nature and tore asunder the earth, ground its way through stone, scoured the face of the mountains, and scooped a depression in the plain.
DODGE’S BLUFF, CAÑON OF GRAND RIVER.
GRAND LAKE, MIDDLE PARK.
Strange it is that near the shores of this lake the water is singularly crystalline, while towards the center it is dark as midnight. The lake is also a treacherous body, subject to appalling disturbments from inrushing storms that first gather on the surrounding peaks and then swoop down to break with sudden and appalling force upon its expansive bosom. No wonder that from time immemorial, the Ute Indians have regarded the lake with superstitious fears, and tell ghostly stories of its treachery. Upon one occasion, as an old Indian related, a band of Utes were encamped upon its shores, pleasantly and profitably engaged in trout fishing. They had their women and children with them, and having prepared for a stay of some weeks, they had rafts made of pine logs, and it was from these they did their fishing. While thus engaged they were attacked by a war party of Arrapahoes, their implacable enemies. The Utes committed their wives and children to the rafts, which they pushed far out into the lake, and then engaged with their ferocious adversaries, whom, after a desperate battle, they repulsed. During the fight, however, a storm arose on the lake, which quickly lashed the water into such fury that the piercing cries of the helpless women and children were scarcely audible above the breaking waves and screech of savage wind. When the Utes turned from pursuing their enemies, they saw that a more dangerous foe had attacked their helpless ones. The rafts were quickly broken up by wild surges of the infuriated lake, and every woman and child was swallowed up. The Indians, whose minds are peculiarly susceptible to impressions of a supernatural character, were prompt to attribute the calamity to a manifestation of the Great Spirit’s anger, and since that fatal event they have regarded the lake as being the haunt of water demons, and no Indian has since that calamitous incident dared to venture upon its bosom.
From Grand Lake we followed its outlet some twenty miles south, and entered a beautiful valley of Grand River, where the grass was long and green, the sky a beautiful indigo-blue, and the mountain scenery around us was magnificent. A marvelously clear atmosphere made the distance deceptive, so that peaks which were fifty miles away appeared to be scarcely five. From one point of observation we swept the ragged horizon with our enraptured eyes, and plainly perceived a battalion of well-known mountains that locked their massive arms around Middle Park like loving guardsmen. Roundtop lifted its head to gaze into the mysterious depths of Grand Lake; and far beyond, Long’s Peak, the great gray sentinel of Estes Park, loomed up like a cloud gathering inspiration from the heavens. A little to the right, Elk Mountain projects its snowy cap far into the sky and looks up into the face of its taller kinsmen. Following the waving lines of peak upon peak, our eyes caught sight of a pass through which a river had found its way, and behind the interval were the faded fronts of Medicine Bow range. A little further to the left there is another rent in the continuity of mountains, which closer inspection discovers to us is Gore’s Cañon of Grand River, where it leaves the park through a fissure made in the eruptive rocks quite three miles long, and in places nearly 2,000 feet deep. So perpendicular are these cliffs that a person standing upon the dizzy brink may drop a stone into the rushing river below.
GORE’S CAÑON, MIDDLE PARK.
If we look towards the southeast, across a stretch of sage-brush, we see the peak of heroic Powell, the most majestic elevation in the Park range, singular not only by reason of its cloud-piercing height, but also because it looks through the hazy distance like a mountain of sapphire, while behind it are lofty stretches of peaks with straggling locks of white, where snow has gathered in the wrinkles of their cheeks.
Our rambles through Middle Park had been so pleasant that it was with some reluctance we turned our steps eastward again, to pursue the work of photographing scenery in more southerly fields. We reached Sunset after an absence of twelve days, and were soon after switched on to the North Branch of the Union Pacific for Denver. Thence, our route was south to Colorado Springs and Manitou, where, as the following chapter will show, we repeated our delightful experiences in Middle Park, and saw even greater wonders.
IN THE CAÑON OF GRAND RIVER, COLORADO.
CHAPTER II.MANITOU, THE MIGHTY!
THE SEAL AND BEAR, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
The glory of Colorado, in the splendor of its waterfalls, the awesomeness of its mountains, the wealth of its mines, and the picturesqueness of its natural parks, is by no means confined to those Rocky Mountain districts which we have just pictured and described, for greater marvels remain to be spoken of, and pictorially represented. Returning to Denver, our tour took us southward, across a plain that hugs the gnarled bosom of the Continental Divide, by the pearl of Palmer Lake, and on to Colorado Springs and Manitou, the twin cities that sit at the feet of Pike’s Peak. Here we are compelled to pause in a spell of mighty wonderment before the amazing prodigies of a riotously eccentric nature, that bursts into an exuberance of dashing cascades, top-lofty mountains, darkling cañons, gruesome formations, monolithic spires, babbling brooks and magnetic springs. Here are God’s acres of tumultuous stone, grand, amazing, chaotic, aberrant; a pantheon of forces, a Jovian council, a mythologic assemblage that sits like a Sanhedrim on the issues of Titanic upheaval, erosion, conglomeration and elemental disturbance. There, rising like a giant specter above its lesser brothers, and dipping its hoary head into the milky baldric of the heavens, stands Pike’s Peak, the grand old sentinel of millenniums, with sides gashed by tumbling cataracts and yellow with quivering leaves of the frosted aspen. So lofty that the stars can almost whisper to it, and the clouds, when tired of sailing through the sky, circle and settle upon its peak, while eternal night sleeps undisturbed, save by the lion’s call, in the deep gorges that split its base.
The first white man who caught sight of this towering mountain was Lieutenant Zebulon Pike, who was sent out by the Government in the year 1806 to make an exploration of the Territory of Louisiana and the Provinces of New Spain, a district now characterized as the great Southwest. From his diary of Saturday, November 15th, 1806, we quote the description of his discovery:
THE STALACTITE ORGAN, GRAND CAVERNS.
“Passed two deep creeks, and many high points of rocks; also large herds of buffaloes. At two o’clock in the afternoon I thought I could distinguish a mountain to our right, which appeared like a small blue cloud; viewed it with the spy-glass and was still more confirmed in my conjecture, and in half an hour it appeared in full view before us. When our small party arrived on the hill, they with one accord gave three cheers to the Mexican Mountains.”
On the 26th, following, this intrepid explorer attempted an ascent of Cheyenne Mountain, ten miles to the east of Pike’s Peak, from which to make an observation of the more lofty eminence, which he thus describes:
“Expecting to return to our camp that evening, we left all our blankets and provisions at the foot of the mountain, killed a deer of a new species, and hung its skin on a tree with some meat. We commenced ascending; found the way very difficult, being obliged to climb up rocks sometimes almost perpendicular; and after marching all day we encamped in a cave without blankets, victuals or water. We had a fine clear sky while it was snowing at the bottom. On the side of the mountain we found only yellow and pitch pine; some distance up we saw buffalo, and higher still, the new species of deer and pheasants.
“Thursday, 27th November.—Arose hungry, thirsty, and extremely sore, from the uneveness of the rocks on which we had lain all night; but we were amply compensated for our toil by the sublimity of the prospect below. The unbounded prairie was overhung with clouds, which appeared like the ocean in a storm, wave piled on wave, and foaming, whilst the sky over our heads was perfectly clear. Commenced our march up the mountain and in about an hour arrived at the summit of this chain; here we found the snow middle-deep, and discovered no sign of bird or beast inhabiting this region. The thermometer, which stood at nine degrees above zero at the foot of the mountain, here fell to four degrees below. The summit of the Grand Peak, which was entirely bare of vegetation, and covered with snow, now appeared at the distance of fifteen or sixteen miles from us, and as high again as we had ascended. It would have taken a whole day’s march to have arrived at its base, whence I believe no human being could have ascended to its summit. * * * * The clouds from below had now ascended the mountain, and entirely enveloped the summit, on which rest eternal snows.”
CATHEDRAL SPIRES, GARDEN OF THE GODS, COLORADO.
JUMBO TUNNEL, GRAND CAVERNS.
Being convinced in his own mind of its inaccessibility, Lieutenant Pike contented himself with the above brief notes in his diary, little thinking that his name would become perpetuated in the discovery, and that for all the ages thereafter Pike’s Peak would be one of the most famous of American mounts.
Not again was the lonely desolation of the mountain, or the marvelous scenery about its base, disturbed by the invasion of explorers until, forty-one years later, Geo. F. Ruxton came as a hunter to view its grandeur and make his camp within its game-haunted shadows. Soon afterwards gold was discovered in the vicinity, and then quickly followed a rush of adventurers whose hardy spirit accomplished that which Pike was fearful to undertake. An ascent of the peak was now made and the altitude ascertained to be 14,174 feet above the sea level.
Simultaneously, through the exploration of industrious prospectors, all the many amazingly curious formations which now render the region one of incomparable natural marvels were discovered, and the settlements of Manitou and Colorado Springs were presently made.
Pike’s Peak has been, since the time of Ruxton’s ascent, an object of great interest to travelers, and as early as 1852 a rough foot-trail was established to the summit, which was greatly improved twenty years later so as to admit the passage of vehicles. In the meantime, the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs had grown steadily and the number of visitors increased until some one conceived the idea of constructing a railroad from the base to the summit. This idea was seized upon by some eastern capitalists in 1884, and a large capital being subscribed for the purpose, the work of building this unique road was begun. The original company, however, met with difficulties which they were unable to overcome for lack of capital, and in 1888 a second organization, under the title of Manitou & Pike’s Peak Railway Company, succeeded the first corporation, and adopting what is known as the Abt Cog-wheel System of Mountain Climbing, renewed the work thus interrupted. As the higher altitudes were reached the air became so rare that labor was extremely difficult, so that the strongest men were unable to exert themselves for more than a few minutes at a time. In place of wagons burros were employed to carry on their sturdy little backs all the needful materials of ties, rails, tools and spikes, up the steep mountain side, and without them the obstacles would have been insuperable. But thus the work went on until the 20th of October, 1890, when the last spike was driven and the highest railroad in the world received its finishing stroke. Special locomotives and cars were built and by the use of cog-wheels the pinnacle of Pike’s Peak was thereafter to be gained comfortably, if not swiftly. The length of the road leading to the summit is nine and one-quarter miles, and at times the grade seems positively appalling (being 25 per cent.) as the noisily-laboring engine pushes the passenger coach up the devious way, over great bowlders that have been flung down by some Titan from immense heights above; under overhanging brows of threatening cathedrals of stone; over mad-dashing waterfalls; through ever-green forests of silver pines, then into groves of dwarf aspens, until at length the route reaches up and on above the timber line. The steepness of the way still continues, but there are no longer abutting rocks, nor rush of water; the mountain now becomes a measureless pile of broken stones, between which the chipmunk and woodchuck play hide and seek; mists of clouds begin to gather, the snow line shows itself beyond the breath of summer, and a cold wind rushes around the peak making sport of the enterprise that invaded their frigid solitude.
THE CARRIAGE ROAD UP PIKE’S PEAK.—Since the completion of the cog-wheel railway to the summit of Pike’s Peak, the older carriage road is not so much used as in former times; yet it is still preferred by many tourists who travel for pleasure or to gratify their love for the grand and the beautiful in nature. Those who have the time to adopt this slower method of climbing the mountain will be richly repaid for their trouble in the glorious view that bursts upon them at every turn of the winding way. A journey over this carriage road, either up or down, is an event to be remembered throughout the remainder of one’s lifetime.
TEMPLE OF ISIS, WILLIAM’S CAÑON.
After two hours of pushing and climbing the train ceases its deep respirations and stands seemingly exhausted before the stone observatory that crowns the peak. Ah, now what a view, when the clouds pass away and the sun bathes with golden splendor the panorama that lies in the greater charm of indistinctness many leagues below! Towards the west and south and north is a mighty army of mountains, in companies and battalions, bold, rugged, majestic; always standing in review before the Captain and Creator of worlds who seems to have halted His regiment for inspection before an impending battle; while away towards the east spreads the fading prairies, losing themselves in the horizon; and down below, in a long stretch of landscape, is Colorado Springs, with its intersecting streets looking like a corn-field, and its smoke-stacks like scare-crows.
