36 



AMERICAN FORESTRY 



settlement, which seems to snuggle down into the hills, 

 trying to forget the present in drowsy remembrances of 

 its past. The coming of our car to the town must have 

 been an event for several men quit work where they 

 were wrecking some old mine buildings for the lumber 

 to be salvaged, and one or two women peered at us out 

 of cabin windows. These were the only souls we saw in 

 this old settlement, which one day in the past was a fam- 

 ous city of Colorado, and was at one time talked of as a 

 location for Colorado's State Capitol. 



But past glories and activities of man and the shroud 

 of romance of the past which, today hangs over Querida, 

 could hold our attention only so long as we were unable 

 to gaze upon the Sangre de Cristos. A moment after 

 we passed the last mouldering prospector's cabin, again 

 swinging around the side of the hill, we came into the 

 presence of the mountain range masterpiece of the San 

 Isabel. From there on, mile after mile, we traveled 

 towards the range with its lofty peak tops ever in vision. 

 Did we travel a foot towards these craggy heads they 

 came no nearer. If we covered a mile on the road they 

 seemed as far away as ever. 



The whole Wet Mountain Valley spread before us as 

 a great landscape unit as we came to the foothills of the 

 Green-horns. Two small groups of white and colored 

 dots were pointed out as the houses of the towns of Sil- 

 vercliffe and Westcliffe. We knew that the latter was 

 where we were to board a train and it seemed almost 

 ludicrous that we should expect to find an engine and 

 cars there, so tiny did the wee town seem, dwarfed as 

 it was by the breath taking sweep of range and valley. 



Skimmering along over a road that climbed down into 

 the valley the Supervisor pointed qut to us 'the different 

 peaks of the range. He told of lakes hidden under 

 frowning cliffs that stood hundreds of feet above the 

 water surface. Some of these cliffs we saw from the 

 car, but the distance and the massive uplifts of which they 



were but small parts, made them seem like mere ripples 

 on the earth's surface. He told of lost gold mines in the 

 range, of great forested areas, of rugged creeks cut by 

 ancient glaciers, and with every new fact told, and with 

 every look at the range, we all knew that some day we 

 would return again to this valley, and on that visit, be- 

 fore we bade good-bye to the .peaks and the valley, we 

 would have trod the slopes of the range, sniffed the 

 spicy airs of the forest, and scaled the heights of some 

 of these peaks which we now had to pass without getting 

 an intimate touch. 



So finally we came to Westcliffe and the end of the 

 railway. And there we did find a town and a train. 

 After a very hasty lunch and a parting word with our 

 host,' the Supervisor, we boarded the train with regret, 

 and then left the valley and its sentinel peaks. 



But I knew that no matter where I went, or what 

 mountains I might view, some day, as soon as 1 

 could, I would return. And I feel sure that while the 

 other two visitors to the valley spoke no resolve that 

 they too knew that they would return, for that is the 

 way you feel when in the presence of the Sangre de 

 Cristos. 



Of the three of us that left the valley on the train that 

 day, so far, I, alone have gone back. Four months 

 later I came to the valley over the same twisty railroad 

 with the same snorting, little engine pulling the mixed 

 train of passenger coaches and freight cars into the 

 valley. Often you return to find your dream of scenic 

 splendor dimmed through having seen many things 

 meanwhile. But although I had viewed the country of 

 the Shoshone, had visited Yellowstone Park, and had 

 viewed many other things known as superlative scenery, 

 I came back to the Sangre de Cristos and there found the 

 same appeal, the same majestic qualities I had met on 

 that morning when the Supervisor had said, "Now meet f 

 my pet mountain range, the Sangre de Cristos." 



OUR NATIONAL TREE 



WHAT should be our national tree? Thousands of 

 grownups and thousands of school children, at the 

 suggestion of the American Forestry Association, are 

 now voting on this question. The number of candidates 

 is really surprising. There is black walnut, and hickory, 

 and elm, and ash, and oak, and white pine, and sprue, and 

 longleaf pine, and Douglas fir, and redwood, and a host of 

 others. Hardly a tree can be mentioned that does not 

 have its particular diampions, and every one of them 

 has its own peculiar claims for consideration. Perhaps 

 it will turn out that to do impartial justice we shall have 

 to have several national trees ! 



However that may be, it is certain that the present 

 friendly competition between the various trees and their 

 admirers has an important educational value. Classes 

 of public school students are being interested in the trees 

 in a way they never were before. They are learning to 



tell the different kinds of trees apart in summer and in 

 winter, and to call them by their common names or by 

 their more dignified Latin titles, as occasion may require. 

 They are learning how trees grow and reproduce, and 

 what kind of a climate and what sort of a soil each one 

 likes. And above all, they are learning what the dif- 

 ferent trees are good for, what part they play in the 

 life of the community and of the Nation, and how im- 

 portant it is that we should take steps to assure our- 

 selves permanently of an ample supply of trees and 

 forests. Grownups, too, are learning these same things 

 and are getting to know the trees in the familiar sort of 

 way which will make them more appreciative of their 

 true value. Who knows how much new and effective 

 support the national tree contest, indirect as the con- 

 nection may seem, may bring to the national forestry 

 movement. 



