Cruisings in the Cascades Part 13

Great snow slides had for ages been coming down these mountain sides bringing their debris, such as rocks, and logs, and whole trees with them. These had frequently gone some distance into the creek bottom, breaking and felling all the trees in their path. Tornadoes had raged through the canon, also, breaking and lopping trees in various directions, so that we now encountered a body of woods through which the most expert woodsman could not possibly travel more than a mile an hour in daylight. Add to this the cimmerian darkness in which we were now groping (for there was no snow here in the bottom of the canon) and the reader may well imagine that our progress was slow and tedious in the extreme.

We sat down and held another consultation. I favored building a fire and staying there till morning, but Frank preferred pushing on to camp, so I acquiesced. We soon found, however, that it was utterly impossible for us to get through these windfalls in the darkness and with our heavy loads, and decided as a last resort to get into the bed of the creek and wade up it. We were already wet to the skin from head to foot, and this wading could be no worse than clambering over logs and through jungles of wet underbrush. We soon reached the creek and our hearts sank within us as we listened to its tumultuous roar and looked upon its angry bosom, for here we were enabled to see slightly, owing to the faint light admitted through the narrow opening in the trees overhead, how rough and boisterous it was! Its bed was a succession of bowlders from the size of a man's head to that of a small house, and its waters, coming direct from the snow, were ice cold. Yet to camp here was to suffer all night from wet and cold, and we preferred to push on.

By keeping near the sh.o.r.e we could nearly all the time have brush to hang to and steady ourselves, but where there were none of these in reach our rubber boots slipped on the smooth wet rocks, and several times we fell into the icy flood up to our chins. Once, in particular, I fell in water nearly three feet deep, dropped my gun and it went to the bottom. I fished it out, however, staggered to my feet, and struggled on.

After nearly two hours of this terrible trudging, wading, and staggering, we at last reached camp at eleven o'clock at night and triumphantly deposited our burdens within the tent.

Our two friends, from whom we had separated _en route_, had arrived only half an hour ahead of us, and notwithstanding the rain, which still fell heavily, Dr. Hale, who had remained in camp, had a great log-heap fire blazing in front of the tent. A pot of coffee steamed by the fire, and a sumptuous supper of broiled bear steaks, baked potatoes, and hot biscuits awaited us, but I was too tired to eat. I drank a pint of hot coffee, put on dry flannels, crawled into my blankets, and slept soundly till morning.

As further ill.u.s.trating the habits of the mountain goat and the perils attending its capture, I may be permitted to narrate the experience of Mr. Westlake, a ranchman in Eastern Idaho, who attempted to procure a pair of skins for a friend in the East a few years ago. He employed a Flathead Indian as guide and a.s.sistant, who claimed to know the country thoroughly in which they purposed hunting, and to have had considerable experience in hunting goats. Mr. Westlake provided himself with a good saddle-horse and one pack-horse, a rifle, camp outfit, including a small tent, and provisions for himself and the Indian for twenty days. The Indian was fairly mounted on a small but tough Indian pony and well armed. They set out on September 2, and traveled across the country to the Clearwater river, up which they rode several days, over a very difficult and tedious trail, and when well up toward the head of the stream they reached the mouth of one of its tributaries which debouches from a deep and rugged canon. Up this they decided to go, for it was their intention to reach the Bitter Root Mountains, one of the best known ranges for the goat.

This canon proved, like many others in that region, almost impa.s.sable for man or beast, and it was with the utmost difficulty and by the endurance of untold and incredible hardships that they were able to make seven or eight miles a day. They encountered plenty of game in the canon, however, among which were elks, bears, and mule-deer, and the creek which ran through the canon yielded them an abundance of trout, so that they fared sumptuously so far as food was concerned.

Finally, after several days in this canon, they reached the head of it and came out on a high plateau which was covered with heavy pine timber interspersed with beautiful parks or meadows and thickets of aspen and alder. Numerous springs boiling up here coursed down into the canon from which they had just emerged, and fed the creek which ran through it.

Pressing forward across this formation for a distance of about ten miles, they reached the base of one of the great snow-capped peaks, near the top of which they expected to find the particular game of which they were in search. But this mountain was so precipitous and so rough that it was impossible for them to get their horses up it in any way. They discussed various plans of accomplishing their object. It was highly dangerous to leave their horses here alone, lest the bears or mountain lions, which were so numerous in the vicinity, should stampede and run them off. It was impossible for either man to go alone and bring down two of the skins and heads suitably prepared for mounting, as they, with the other load which it was necessary to take along, would be more than any one man could carry. It would take two days to make the ascent, have a few hours for hunting, and return to where they then were, and in order to pa.s.s the night at all comfortably in that high alt.i.tude a liberal supply of blankets must be carried.

They therefore decided, as the only feasible plan, to make camp where they were and start up early the next morning, leaving their horses behind. They made all possible preparations that night, and the next morning arose at four o'clock. By sunrise they had breakfasted, and with their packs, consisting of two pairs of blankets each and a two days' supply of cooked food, they started. They did not dare picket or hobble their horses, as either would give the wild beasts a chance to attack and kill them, and could only trust to luck, an abundant supply of good gra.s.s and water, and the well-known attachment which nearly all Western horses feel for a camp, to keep them there until their return.

After a hard day's climb they came upon abundant signs of goats about the middle of the afternoon, and, preparing a temporary bivouac under a shelving rock, they deposited their loads, made a pot of coffee, ate a hearty dinner, and started out to look for the game. They had not gone far when Mr. Westlake sighted a large, handsome male goat standing on the top of a cliff, and approaching within easy rifle range he fired and killed it. It fell some twenty or thirty feet, and lodged behind a projecting slab of granite. It was secured after considerable hard work, hastily skinned, and the skin and some of the best cuts of the meat carried to their temporary camp. Night was now approaching, and the hunters set about preparing a supply of wood. There were numerous dead pine and cedar trees, of stunted growth and peculiar shapes, standing and lying among the rocks, and a generous supply was soon provided.

Next, a large quant.i.ty of cedar boughs were cut, brought in and spread under the overhanging rock, to a depth of a foot or more. On these the blankets were spread, and the hunters had a bed which many a tired lodger in Eastern city hotels might well envy them. By building a rousing fire in front, which was reflected against the rock wall behind them, and by occasionally replenishing it during the night, they slept comfortably, though the temperature ran several degrees below zero.

Early the next morning both men started out in search of a female goat to complete their undertaking. Nearly two hours had been spent in hunting, when the Indian found a fresh track in the snow some distance above their temporary camp. He followed it until it led in among a forest of rent and jagged cliffs of granite, and Westlake, who was some distance away, seeing by the Indian's motions that he was on a trail, started toward him. When within a few feet of where he had last seen the Indian he heard the report of his rifle, and a shout announced that his shot had been successful. Mr. Westlake followed on into the chasm from whence the report came and saw the Indian attempting to scale the side of a nearly perpendicular wall of rock, stepping cautiously from niche to niche and shelf to shelf; holding on with his hands to every projecting point that afforded him any a.s.sistance. He finally reached the top of the ledge, and reaching over caught hold of the now lifeless body of the goat that he had killed, and drew it toward him. But when it swung off from the top of the ledge its weight and the consequent strain on his muscular power was greater than the Indian had antic.i.p.ated, and before he had time to let go of the carca.s.s and save himself his slight hold on the rock was torn loose, and uttering a wild shriek he fell a distance of nearly sixty feet, striking on a heap of broken rocks! He was instantly killed.

Here was a sad blow to poor Westlake. His only companion, his faithful guide, and the only human being within fifty miles of him, lay a corpse at his feet. He had no means whatever of getting the body back to their camp, much less of returning it to the unfortunate red man's friends. He had not even a tool of any kind to dig a grave with, and the only thing he could do in that direction was to build a wall of rocks around the body, lay some flat slabs across the top, and then carry and lay on top of these a number of the largest and heaviest rocks he could handle, to protect it from the ravages of wild beasts. When this sad duty was completed he returned with a heavy heart to their temporary camp, and with as much of their luggage as he was able to carry started down the mountain. Arriving about noon at the tent, he was horrified to find the tracks of a large bear in and about it, the greater portion of his supplies eaten up or destroyed, and his horses nowhere in sight. A hasty examination showed that the bear had pa.s.sed through the little park in which they had last been grazing--evidently early that morning--that they had taken flight and fled in the direction of the head of the canon up which they had come. Westlake followed them several miles until convinced that they had really started on their back trail, and then he returned to camp. By this time night was again approaching and it was with a heavy heart that he prepared to pa.s.s it there, all alone, and still further depressed with the thought that he had now a journey of a hundred miles or more before him, to the nearest settlement, which he must undoubtedly make on foot. He ate his supper alone and in sadness, and as the camp fire blazed in front of his tent it cast fitful shadows into the gloom, which was unbroken by any sound save the occasional soughing of the wind through the pine trees or the cry of some wild animal. He finally retired to rest, but his sleep was broken by troubled dreams. As the sun arose he prepared a hasty meal, which was eaten in silence, and with a pair of blankets, a few pounds of flour, salt, and coffee, and his rifle, he started, leaving his tent standing and all else in it as a monument to the memory of his friend and a landmark to future hunters and mountaineers to locate the scene of his great misfortune. He traveled seven days before seeing the face of a human being or sleeping under a shelter of any kind, when he finally reached a ranch where his horses had preceded him and had been corraled to await an owner.

It is fortunate that all goat hunters do not meet with such disasters as did poor Westlake and his young friend, or the n.o.ble sport would have still fewer votaries than it now has.

CHAPTER XXVI.

TROUTING IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

In September, 1884, I joined a party of genial sportsmen at Fort Missoula, Mont., for a month's outing in the Bitter Root Mountains. Our special mission was to hunt large game; but while perfecting arrangements for the trip, which occupied two days, and during the mornings and evenings of the several days occupied in traveling up and down the river to and from the hunting grounds, those of us who had our fishing tackle with us turned what would otherwise have been long hours of impatient waiting into merrily-fleeing moments, by luring the grand mountain trout (_Salmo purpuratus_) with which this river abounds from their crystalline retreats and transferring them to our creels and our camp table.

The Bitter Root is a typical mountain stream, rising among the snow-clad peaks in the vicinity of the Big Hole basin and flowing with the mighty rush imparted to it by a fall of 200 to 300 feet per mile, fed by the scores of ice-cold brooks that tumble out of the high ranges on either side from its source to its mouth. After traversing a distance of perhaps 200 miles, it empties its pure waters into the h.e.l.lgate river, just west of Missoula.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RISE.]

Its valley is two to four miles wide, and the lower portion of this is occupied by numerous ranches. The soil is tilled by well-to-do farmers or "ranchmen," to speak in the vernacular of the country, so that the angler, while within a mile or two of rugged mountain peaks, is still in the midst of civilization, where his larder may daily be replenished with nearly all the varieties of good things that grow on any New England farm. The banks of the stream are fringed with stately pines and cottonwoods, and in places with thickets of underbrush.

From a tiny brook at its source the stream grows rapidly to a veritable river of thirty to fifty yards in width as it pa.s.ses on toward its destination. It sweeps and whirls in its course, here running straight and placidly for a hundred yards, then turning abruptly to right or left and returning almost parallel to itself, forming "horse-shoe bends,"

"ox-bow bends," compound S's, right angles, etc.

In many cases it tumbles down over a long, steep pavement of granite bowlders, working itself into a very agony of bubbles and foam, and when the foot of this fall is reached it whirls and eddies in a great pool ten or twenty feet deep and covering half an acre of ground, almost surrounded by high-cut banks, and seeming to have lost its way. It eventually finds an exit, however, through an opening in the willows and ma.s.ses of driftwood, and again speeds on.

In many of these large, deep pools whole trees, of giant size, brought down by the spring freshets, have found lodgment beyond the power of the mighty current to drive them further, and underneath these drifts the angler is liable to hook a l.u.s.ty trout that will make short work of his tackle if he be not very gentle and expert in manipulating it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOLID COMFORT.]

This river may be fished from a canoe or boat, if it be manned by a master of the art of fresh-water cruising; but no amateur oarsman or canoeist should ever attempt it or he will surely come to grief. It may also be fished from the bank or by wading; and I have even known it to be fished from the hurricane-deck of a cayuse, so that all lovers of the gentle art may be accommodated.

A large b.u.mp of caution would also be a good thing for the man to take along who essays to wade it, for he will find places--slippery places--where even the wicked can not stand; for over the surface thereof flows such a mighty torrent of waters that his pride will surely have a fall, even if he do not; and if he get out with a dry thread on his back he will regard it as a miracle and not owing to any skill or strength of his. I think a day on that stream will take the conceit out of any living man and show him what a poor, weak worm he is, _if_ he get into some of the places I have been in. He will find himself in positions from whence he would give half his worldly possessions to be delivered; where he would forgive his bitterest enemy the meanest thing he ever did if he were only there and would cast him a friendly line.

The bed of the stream is composed of glacial drift, all the rapids being paved with bowlders varying in size from an inch to two or three feet in diameter. These are worn smooth by the action of the water and coated with a light growth of fungus, so that they furnish a very precarious footing at best, and when the power of the raging torrent is brought to bear against one's nether limbs, he is, indeed, fortunate who is not swept into the pool below.

On the riffles or more placid portions of the stream wading is not attended with so much danger or difficulty. And while the angler beguiles the hours in dalliance with these beauties of the river, gazing into its crystalline depths and toying with its poetic denizens, a glance to east or west reveals to him scenes of even grander and more inspiring loveliness; for there, so close as to reveal their every rock and shrub, tower the shapely peaks, the shattered crags and beetling cliffs which const.i.tute the Bitter Root range of mountains. And even in midsummer the fresh, pure breezes sweeping down from these snow-clad summits fan his parched brow and render existence, under such circ.u.mstances, the realization of a poet's dream.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MID RUSHING WATERS.]

On a bright, cheery September morning, Private Westbrook, of the Third Infantry, and myself left camp as soon as the sun had expelled the frost from the vegetation. On the way down we caught a number of gra.s.shoppers--the orthodox bait in this region--to fall back on in case of necessity; for there are days when the mountain trout, as well as his cousin, the brook trout of the East, declines the most seductive fly on the bill of fare, and will have nothing but his favorite every-day diet.

Arriving at the river, Westbrook skirmished through the brush until he found an alder about an inch and a quarter in diameter at the ground and ten or twelve feet high. This he cut, trimmed up, and attached his line, a number two Sproat hook and a split shot, put on a "hopper," and was ready for business. I remonstrated gently with him on the heathenish character of his tackle, but he said, pleasantly and politely, that it was the kind that generally got to the front when trout-fishing was the business in hand. He said the fancy rods and reels and flies were all well enough for those who wanted to use them, but he preferred something with which he could round up his fish and corral them without losing any time. He said it was all right for any gentlemen to spend half an hour monkeying a trout after he had hooked it, if he wanted to, but for his part, he never could see much fun in that sort of fishing. He thought it was decidedly more interesting to yank a fish in out of the wet the instant he bit, and then lay for another.

He walked boldly out into the stream, waded down a little way below the ford, on a riffle, till he reached a point where the water was about two feet deep and where it rolled sullenly and gloomily over a series of large bowlders.

Here he made a cast, and his bait had barely touched the water when there was a vicious rush, a swirl and a dash downstream, but the cruel pole was brought to bear in the opposite direction. Then there was a flop, a splash, a hop, skip and a jump, and a three-pound trout took a header and went down into the soldier's haversack.

The bait was renewed, another cast made, and the act was repeated on a half-pounder. Then another weighing one-and-a-half pounds and a couple of about a pound each followed in rapid succession, when this portion of the stream failed to yield, and Westbrook moved on down. I followed along the bank and watched him for half an hour before attempting to rig my tackle at all. To watch the play of the various emotions on his hard, brown, honest face; to study the effect of the intense enthusiasm which possessed him; to note the utter disregard of personal safety and comfort with which he would plunge into the surging rapids and eddies up to his waist, or even to his arm-pits, wherever he thought he could catch a trout by so doing, was a genuine treat.

Finally I went back to the ford, jointed up my rod, put on a gray professor, and walking down the bank to a sudden bend in the river where the current had cut a deep hole near the bank, I made a cast. The fly dropped on the riffle just above the eddy, and as it floated gracefully on the little wavelets down and out upon the bosom of the deep-blue miniature ocean, it turned hither and thither with the capricious currents that played there, for perhaps five minutes. I was just in the act of reeling up for another cast, when a gleam of silvery light flashed upon my vision, flecked with settings of jet and gold. There was a mighty commotion upon the surface and a monster trout leaped full into the air as he seized the feathered bait and then shot down, down into the crystal fluid, leaving the water in the vicinity of his exploit bubbling, effervescing, and sparkling like the rarest old champagne. For the nonce I was paralyzed with the suddenness and viciousness of his coming and going, and my reel was singing merrily when I awoke to a realization of what it all meant.

Then I thumbed the cylinder and checked him in his wild flight, but he continued to fight his way clear down to the lower end of the pool, a distance of twenty yards. Then he turned and came toward me with the speed of an arrow, but the automatic reel took up the slack as rapidly as he gave it. When within twenty feet of me he turned out into the stream, and as I checked him he again vaulted into the air and the sun-light glistened on his beautifully-colored sides and fins as he struggled to free himself. Finding this impossible he started for the bank, where brush and roots projected into the water; but by a vigorous and fortunate sweep of the rod I was enabled to check him again. Again he sounded and again rushed up, down, and out into the river, but the steel was securely set, and he was compelled at last to succ.u.mb.

Gradually I reeled him in, and as I brought him up to the bank he turned on his side exhausted. He weighed two and three-quarter pounds and measured seventeen inches in length.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN ANXIOUS MOMENT]

I took two others, nearly as large, out of the same hole, and then proceeding down fifty yards, I saw a large cottonwood tree lying in the middle of the stream where it had lodged and been securely anch.o.r.ed, probably a year or two before. The current had scooped out a great cavity about its roots and I felt sure there must be a giant old trout lying amongst them, but I could not reach it with a cast from the sh.o.r.e.

To attempt to wade to it I saw would be hazardous, for the channel between me and it was waist deep and ran with all the velocity of a mill tail. But what danger will not an enthusiastic angler brave when in pursuit of a trout? I started in, and when half way to the trunk, would gladly have retreated, but was actually afraid to attempt to turn in the midst of this current, so I pressed forward, finally reached the trunk of the tree and climbed upon it. I made a cast up near the root and hooked a handsome fellow, but after playing him until I had him completely under control and almost ready to land, the hook, which had been but slightly caught, tore out and he drifted down the river on his side.

Another effort secured a two-pounder, and failing to get any further encouragement, I climbed into the icy torrent and with great difficulty again reached the sh.o.r.e.

A little further down I saw another very deep pool, into which a small, green cottonwood tree had lately fallen and hung by its roots to the bank. I felt sure of making a good catch here, for the hole was ten or twelve feet deep, and the driftwood that had lodged about this tree afforded excellent cover for the wary old fellows that always seek such secluded and impregnable strongholds. The fly settled gracefully on the surface at the upper end of the pool, and as it floated listlessly down toward the drift, Westbrook, who had come down and was fishing from the bank opposite, said:

"You'll get a good one there, sir. That's a splendid hole for a big old fellow."

"I think so; but he seems backward about coming forward."

"Maybe that blasted bird has scared him," said he, referring to a coot that floated unconcernedly and even impudently about the pool, eyeing us without a symptom of fear, but evincing the liveliest curiosity as to who and what we were.

I reeled up and made another cast farther out on the pool. As the fly fell, Mrs. Coot swam up to it as if inclined to pick it up. I almost hoped she would, for I should really have enjoyed yanking her a few times. But she thought better of it, and turned away. After exhausting all my ingenuity on this pool, and finding it impossible to induce a rise, I laid down my rod, picked up a rock, and threw it at the ill-omened bird, whom I blamed for my lack of success.

Westbrook took his cue from this and also sent a rock after her. Both made close calls for her, but she only scurried about the livelier, making no effort to get away. She, however, swam behind a projection in the bank, so that I could not see her, and I told Westbrook to continue the attack and drive her out.

He picked up another bowlder as large as a league baseball and hurled it at her, when the dullest and most "thudful" sound I ever heard, accompanied by a faint squawk, came from behind the bank.

"Well, bleach my bones if I haven't killed her!" said Westbrook, as he threw down his hat and jumped on it.