Imatges de pàgina
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A COLORADO SKETCH.

It would appear that the American continent was originally of considerably larger dimensions than it is at present. It was probably found to be altogether too large for comfort or convenience, and it was reduced by the simple process of pressing or squeezing it together from the sides-an operation which caused it to crumple up towards the centre, and produced that great, elevated, tumbled, and tossed region generally and vaguely known as the Rocky Mountains. If this simple theory of the formation of a continent sounds somewhat infantile, it must be remembered that I am not a scientific man, and that it is not more unscientific than many other theories of creation. There is no such thing as a chain of Rocky Mountains. Under that name are included various ranges and belts of mountains and hills, which embrace within their far-stretching arms fertile valleys, arid deserts, sunny hill-slopes clothed with valuable timber, parks full of pastoral beauty basking beneath a sun that warms them into semi-tropical life, but which never melts the virgin snow whitening the hoary heads of the mountains that for ever look down upon those smiling scenes. Rich and extensive plains, tracts of inhabitable land almost large enough to be the cradle and home of nations, are included in the Rocky Mountains. Among all the states and territories that lie wholly or partially within the borders of this vast, upheaved region, there is none, so far as I am aware, more favoured by nature, and, at the same time, more accessible to man, than Colorado. It is easily reached from all the great cities of the Eastern States; its scenery is varied, beautiful, grand, and even magnificent. Crystal streams of pure, wholesome water rush down the hill-sides, play at hide-and-seek in the woods, and wander deviously through the parks. The climate is health-giving-unsurpassed, as I believe, anywhere-giving to the jaded spirit, the unstrung nerves, and weakened body a stimulant, a tone, and a vigour that can only be appreciated by those who have had the good fortune to travel or reside in that region.

The parks of Colorado constitute its special feature: there is nothing elsewhere on the American continent resembling them in

natural characteristics. They are not valleys; they are too flat and too extensive for that. They cannot be called plains, for they are not flat enough; and, besides, plains are generally bare and destitute of trees, while the parks are rich in timber, with beautifully undulating surfaces, broken up by hills, spurs from the parent range, and isolated mountains. The term 'Park' is usually applied to ground more or less artificially made; and these places are very properly called parks, for they look, if it be not rank heresy to liken nature to art, as if ground naturally picturesque had been carefully laid out and planted with most consummate skill and taste. Some of them are of great size, such as the North, Middle, South, and St. Louis Parks; others-and it is with them I am best acquainted-are comparatively small.

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There are many things to arouse deep interest in that favoured region. Where you find lofty mountains, foot-hills, plain, valley, forest, and quick-flowing stream, in a southern latitude, you have in combination all that can gratify the scientific student, as well as all. that can content the eye of man, in the way of scenery. The philosopher who devotes himself to the study of atmospheric conditions could nowhere find a more fitting field for observation. The mountain ranges and extensive level spaces comprised within their limits are important factors in the economy of nature. The great masses of heat-radiating rock temper the winds that blow over them, and shed genial warmth far and wide. The whole region is one vast brewery of storms. Chemical changes are constantly going on. Electricity is working with exceptional vigour, riving the solid rocks, devastating trees, and putting forth most vividly the awful and mysterious manifestations of its strength. Hot currents and cold currents fight aërial battles round those patient peaks, that stand unmoved amidst the roar and racket of elemental strife. Fre quent lightnings blaze or flicker round the mountain heads; continuous thunder crashes on their slopes, and rolls and rumbles in the caverns and valleys that seam their sides. Tempests shriek round the crags, and moan dismally as they toss the gnarled and matted branches of the stunted trees that force their adventurous way up the broad shoulders of the range. Snow in winter, rain and hail in summer, pour upon the higher summits; while, beneath, the land is glowing under a cloudless sky. Contending air-currents of different density discharge their moisture on the hills. The sun draws up fresh moisture from the valleys, like drawing water from a well. All nature seems seething in that region of heat and cold, sunshine and tempest, dryness and damp, constantly fabricating those great cloud masses that, breaking away from their cradle, carry rain and fertility over thousands and thousands of miles. Sometimes they over-exert themselves, carry their good intentions too far, exceed their proper limits, and, transgressing the boundaries of their native land, cross

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the wide Atlantic and pour their accumulated store of rain upon those already sodden little islands, Great Britain and Ireland.

The parks and valleys which spread out beneath the mountains, or nestle cosily amid the warm folds of the forest mantles which clothe them, play also an important part. They act as reservoirs ; they catch the little, tiny, ice-cold rills that trickle out from under the ever-melting but never-melted snow, gather them together, hold them till they grow strong enough to carve their way through the granite flanks that hem them in, and launch them out into the world, forming rivulets bright and sparkling, flecked with light and shade, over which the quivering aspen bends from banks sweet and bright with flowers; growing into brooks down which lumber may be rafted; swelling into streams which carry irrigation and fertility to arid wastes; becoming rivers upon which steamboats ply, and ships ride at anchor.

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Physical geography is a fascinating science; and to the student of it nothing can be more interesting than to stand upon some commanding mountain top, and, with a large, comprehensive view, study the configuration of the country that gives birth to those rivers that in their course determine the natural geographical features of a continent, and consequently shape the destiny of a race. From many a peak in Colorado the geographer can trace the devious line of the water-shed,' the divide' that separates the rivers and sends them out, each on its appointed course; and can see, shining like silver threads, the rivulets from which they spring. Looking westward, and to the north and south, he can see the fountains of both Plattes, of the Rio Grande—the Grand river-the Arkansas, the Blue, the White, and the Bear rivers, and other streams which unite to form that most extraordinary of all rivers on the American continent -the Colorado. Turning to the east, a very different scene greets his eye; there, spread out like an ocean beneath him, lies the Prairie, that great deposit of gravel, sand, and unstratified clays, the débris of the mountain range on which he stands.

Where could the geologist find a region more suitable for the exercise of his peculiar branch of science than one which combines the vast deposit of the prairies with mountain masses obtruded from the bowels of the earth, and deep cañons exposing broad sections of the earth's crust to his view? And where is the mineralogist more likely to be rewarded for his pains? As to the botanist, I would almost warn him from visiting those scenes, lest he should never be able to tear himself away; for the variety of the flora is in→ finite, ranging from Alpine specimens blooming amid everlasting snows, to flowers of a very different character, growing in rich luxuriance in deep valleys under a subtropical sun. phuo

03 I have not included hunting among the sciences, but in reality I might have done so. It is a very exact science, and one in which

excellence is rarely obtained. Many men never become, never can become, good hunters. They are not endowed with the necessary faculties; and those who are gifted with them require years of study and hard work before they can be entitled to call themselves masters of the art. I hope no one labours under the delusion that hunting is a mere barbarous, bloodthirsty sport. Every good hunter will agree with me that it is not the killing of the animal that gives pleasure. The charm lies in overcoming difficulties-in matching your natural intelligence and acquired knowledge and skill against the instinct, cunning, intellect, and reason of the animal you are endeavouring to outwit. The reward of the hunter is the same as that of the student of languages, of the archæologist, of the geologist-in fact, of all scientific people. His triumph is the triumph of unravelling a mystery, tracing and discovering a hidden fact, grappling with and overcoming a difficulty. It is the fact of overcoming, not the act of killing, that brightens the hunter's eye, and renders his occupation so charming. The hunter's craft gives health, its surroundings are beautiful, it calls forth some of the best qualities of man, it is full of fascination, and it is no wonder that primitive races find it difficult to emerge from the hunting condition. It is most annoying that everything that is pleasant is all wrong. We all know that peoples, in their progress towards civilisation, advance from the hunting to the pastoral state, from the pastoral to the agricultural, and from thence to a condition of existence in which the manufacturing instincts of man are fully developed. This is the sequence-hunting, cattle-tending, sheep-herding, fresh air, good water, lovely scenery, wholesome excitement, healthy lives, and-barbarism; agriculture, manufactures, great cities, hideous country, poisoned water, impure air, dirt, disease, and-civilisation. It is difficult sometimes to know exactly what to say when preaching civilisation to the savage. It is certain that, so far as the masses of the people are concerned, the highest aim of civilisation is to secure to a large number the same blessings that a small number obtain, freely and without trouble, in an uncivilised state.

It was sport-or, as it would be called in the States, huntingthat led me first to visit Estes Park. Some friends and I had visited Denver at Christmas to pay our proper devotions to the good things of this earth at that festive season, and, hearing rumours of much game at Estes Park, we determined to go there. We spent a day or two laying in supplies, purchasing many of the necessaries and a few of the luxuries of life, and wound up our sojourn in Denver with a very pleasant dinner at an excellent restaurant, not inaptly styled the 'Delmonico' of the West. During dinner one of those sudden and violent storms peculiar to that region came on. When we sat down the stars were shining clear and hard with the brilliancy that is so beautiful in those high altitudes on a cold dry mid-winter night, and

not a breath of wind disturbed the stillness of the air; but, before we had half satisfied the appetites engendered by the keen frosty atmosphere, the stars were all shrouded in cloud, the gale was howling through the streets, and snow was whirling in the air, piling up in drifts wherever it found a lodgment, and sifting in fine powder through every chink and cranny in the door. It did not last long. Before morning the sky was clear, cloudless, steely, star-bespangled as before, and when we left by an early train for Longmont Station the sun was shining undimmed upon fields of freshly-fallen snow.

By way of enlivening the journey we were treated by thoughtful nature to a magnificent spectacle—a beautiful exhibition of that phenomenon known, I believe, as a parhelion. The sun was only a few degrees above the horizon. The sky was very clear and intensely blue overhead, but slightly clouded with a thin gauzy film round the horizon, and, on looking up, one could see that the air was full of minute crystals of ice. It was tolerably cold-probably about fifteen or twenty degrees below zero-and perfectly calm. All round the horizon ran a belt of pure bright white light, passing through the sun. This belt was not exactly level, but dipped a little to the east and west, and rose slightly to the north and south. The sun was surrounded by a halo showing rainbow colours on the inside, which faded into white light on the outside edge. A bright perpendicular ray of white light cut through the sun, forming, with the belt that ran round the horizon, a perfect cross. There was a similar cross in the west, and another in the north, but none in the south at first, but after an hour or so a fourth cross formed in that quarter also. Right overhead was a partially-formed horizontal rainbow, the colours of which were very bright. Sometimes this rainbow would develop into an almost perfect circle; then again it would diminish till there remained only a small segment of the circle. The points where the solar halo cut the belt which encircled the horizon were intensely brilliant-almost as bright as the sun-and rays of white light struck down from them. As the sun rose the halo surrounding it became very dazzling, and assumed the colours of the rainbow, and a second rainbow-tinted circle formed outside it. The rainbow in the zenith increased at the same time in brilliancy, and a second circle formed outside that also. The whole phenomenon was very beautiful; it continued some hours, gradually fading away, and finally disappeared about three in the afternoon.

The next morning we loaded up a wagon with stores, and started on our toilsome expedition to the Park. It is very easy work—it is not work at all, in fact—to get into the Park nowadays. It was a very different affair at that time. There are two good stage roads now; there was no road at all then-only a rough track going straight up hill and down dale, and over rocks and through trees and along nearly perpendicular slopes, with the glorious determination to

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