



Produced by Dianne Bean.  HTML version by Al Haines.









THE MOUNTAINS


BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE



AUTHOR OF

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





PREFACE

The author has followed a true sequence of events practically in all
particulars save in respect to the character of the Tenderfoot.  He is
in one sense fictitious; in another sense real.  He is real in that he
is the apotheosis of many tenderfeet, and that everything he does in
this narrative he has done at one time or another in the author's
experience.  He is fictitious in the sense that he is in no way to be
identified with the third member of our party in the actual trip.



CONTENTS

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




THE MOUNTAINS



I

THE RIDGE TRAIL

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

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

You rode three miles on the flat, two in the leafy and gradually
ascending creek-bed of a canon, a half hour of laboring steepness in
the overarching mountain lilac and laurel.  There you came to a great
rock gateway which seemed the top of the world.  At the gateway was a
Bad Place where the ponies planted warily their little hoofs, and the
visitor played "eyes front," and besought that his mount should not
stumble.

Beyond the gateway a lush level canon into which you plunged as into a
bath; then again the laboring trail, up and always up toward the blue
California sky, out of the lilacs, and laurels, and redwood chaparral
into the manzanita, the Spanish bayonet, the creamy yucca, and the fine
angular shale of the upper regions.  Beyond the apparent summit you
found always other summits yet to be climbed.  And all at once, like
thrusting your shoulders out of a hatchway, you looked over the top.

Then came the remarks.  Some swore softly; some uttered appreciative
ejaculation; some shouted aloud; some gasped; one man uttered three
times the word "Oh,"--once breathlessly, Oh! once in awakening
appreciation, OH! once in wild enthusiasm, OH! Then invariably they
fell silent and looked.

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

In a little, after the change had come to you, a change definite and
enduring, which left your inner processes forever different from what
they had been, you turned sharp to the west and rode five miles along
the knife-edge Ridge Trail to where Rattlesnake Canon led you down and
back to your accustomed environment.

To the left as you rode you saw, far on the horizon, rising to the
height of your eye, the mountains of the channel islands.  Then the
deep sapphire of the Pacific, fringed with the soft, unchanging white
of the surf and the yellow of the shore.  Then the town like a little
map, and the lush greens of the wide meadows, the fruit-groves, the
lesser ranges--all vivid, fertile, brilliant, and pulsating with
vitality. You filled your senses with it, steeped them in the beauty of
it.  And at once, by a mere turn of the eyes, from the almost crude
insistence of the bright primary color of life, you faced the tenuous
azures of distance, the delicate mauves and amethysts, the lilacs and
saffrons of the arid country.

This was the wonder we never tired of seeing for ourselves, of showing
to others.  And often, academically, perhaps a little wistfully, as one
talks of something to be dreamed of but never enjoyed, we spoke of how
fine it would be to ride down into that land of mystery and
enchantment, to penetrate one after another the canons dimly outlined
in the shadows cast by the westering sun, to cross the mountains lying
outspread in easy grasp of the eye, to gain the distant blue Ridge, and
see with our own eyes what lay beyond.

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

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

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



II

ON EQUIPMENT

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

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

Some men possess it; others do not.  The distinction seems to be almost
arbitrary.  It can be largely developed, but only in those with whom
original endowment of the faculty makes development possible. No matter
how long a direction-blind man frequents the wilderness, he is never
sure of himself. Nor is the lack any reflection on the intelligence.  I
once traveled in the Black Hills with a young fellow who himself
frankly confessed that after much experiment he had come to the
conclusion he could not "find himself."  He asked me to keep near him,
and this I did as well as I could; but even then, three times during
the course of ten days he lost himself completely in the tumultuous
upheavals and canons of that badly mixed region.  Another, an old
grouse-hunter, walked twice in a circle within the confines of a thick
swamp about two miles square. On the other hand, many exhibit almost
marvelous skill in striking a bee-line for their objective point, and
can always tell you, even after an engrossing and wandering hunt,
exactly where camp lies.  And I know nothing more discouraging than to
look up after a long hard day to find your landmarks changed in
appearance, your choice widened to at least five diverging and similar
canons, your pockets empty of food, and the chill mountain twilight
descending.

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

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

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

Third, you must know horses.  I do not mean that you should be a
horse-show man, with a knowledge of points and pedigrees.  But you must
learn exactly what they can and cannot do in the matters of carrying
weights, making distance, enduring without deterioration hard climbs in
high altitudes; what they can or cannot get over in the way of bad
places.  This last is not always a matter of appearance merely.  Some
bits of trail, seeming impassable to anything but a goat, a Western
horse will negotiate easily; while others, not particularly terrifying
in appearance, offer complications of abrupt turn or a single bit of
unstable, leg-breaking footing which renders them exceedingly
dangerous.  You must, moreover, be able to manage your animals to the
best advantage in such bad places.  Of course you must in the beginning
have been wise as to the selection of the horses.

Fourth, you must know good horse-feed when you see it.  Your animals
are depending entirely on the country; for of course you are carrying
no dry feed for them.  Their pasturage will present itself under a
variety of aspects, all of which you must recognize with certainty.
Some of the greenest, lushest, most satisfying-looking meadows grow
nothing but water-grasses of large bulk but small nutrition; while
apparently barren tracts often conceal small but strong growths of
great value.  You must differentiate these.

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

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

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

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

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

You will in the changing altitudes be exposed to greater variations in
temperature.  At morning you may travel in the hot arid foot-hills; at
noon you will be in the cool shades of the big pines; towards evening
you may wallow through snowdrifts; and at dark you may camp where
morning will show you icicles hanging from the brinks of little
waterfalls. Behind your saddle you will want to carry a sweater, or
better still a buckskin waistcoat.  Your arms are never cold anyway,
and the pockets of such a waistcoat, made many and deep, are handy
receptacles for smokables, matches, cartridges, and the like.  For the
night-time, when the cold creeps down from the high peaks, you should
provide yourself with a suit of very heavy underwear and an extra
sweater or a buckskin shirt.  The latter is lighter, softer, and more
impervious to the wind than the sweater.  Here again I wish to place
myself on record as opposed to a coat.  It is a useless ornament,
assumed but rarely, and then only as substitute for a handier garment.

Inasmuch as you will be a great deal called on to handle abrading and
sometimes frozen ropes, you will want a pair of heavy buckskin
gauntlets.  An extra pair of stout high-laced boots with small
Hungarian hob-nails will come handy.  It is marvelous how quickly
leather wears out in the downhill friction of granite and shale.  I
once found the heels of a new pair of shoes almost ground away by a
single giant-strides descent of a steep shale-covered
thirteen-thousand-foot mountain.  Having no others I patched them with
hair-covered rawhide and a bit of horseshoe. It sufficed, but was a
long and disagreeable job which an extra pair would have obviated.

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

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

Now as to the equipment for your horses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besides the picket-ropes, you will also provide for each horse a pair
of strong hobbles.  Take them to a harness-maker and have him sew
inside each ankle-band a broad strip of soft wash-leather twice the
width of the band.  This will save much chafing.  Some advocate
sheepskin with the wool on, but this I have found tends to soak up
water or to freeze hard.  At least two loud cow-bells with neck-straps
are handy to assist you in locating whither the bunch may have strayed
during the night.  They should be hung on the loose horses most
inclined to wander.

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

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



III

ON HORSES

I really believe that you will find more variation of individual and
interesting character in a given number of Western horses than in an
equal number of the average men one meets on the street.  Their whole
education, from the time they run loose on the range until the time
when, branded, corralled, broken, and saddled, they pick their way
under guidance over a bad piece of trail, tends to develop their
self-reliance.  They learn to think for themselves.

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

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

I once was engaged with a crew of cowboys in rounding up mustangs in
southern Arizona.  We would ride slowly in through the hills until we
caught sight of the herds.  Then it was a case of running them down and
heading them off, of turning the herd, milling it, of rushing it while
confused across country and into the big corrals.  The surface of the
ground was composed of angular volcanic rocks about the size of your
two fists, between which the bunch-grass sprouted.  An Eastern rider
would ride his horse very gingerly and at a walk, and then thank his
lucky stars if he escaped stumbles.  The cowboys turned their mounts
through at a dead run.  It was beautiful to see the ponies go, lifting
their feet well up and over,