122 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



LMabch 12, 1885. 



THROUGH TWO-OCEAN PASS. 



YII. — DOWN IjEWIS FORK. 



A LL night long the wind howled over the lake and among 

 -^ ^ the trees, and when we turned out next morning it was still 

 blowing a gale and the lake was in a turmoil. A few drops 

 of rain had fallen during the night, but not enough to seri- 

 ously wet anything. Now, however, it was quite cold, and 

 to wash was a serious mortification of the flesh. The train 

 moved out about 8 o'clock and a little later we followed, 

 The trail led south through an attractive open country, full of 

 streams and springs and dotted with clumps of thick willow 

 brush, while upon the higher land appeared the ever present 

 pines. On the left was the lofty ridge of the Bed Mountain 

 range, down which half a hundred beautiful cascades hurry 

 toward the river. To the right, beyond the stream, was the 

 steep face of the Pitchstone Plateau— so called from the 

 black, glossy fragments of the decomposed rhyolitc of which 

 its soil is largely made up. In the early summer it would 

 seem that this trail must be almost impassable, for it is so 

 low and wet that, except at the dry season, it must be very 

 miry and difficult. 



About six miles from our camp is the ford, where Lewis 

 Fork of Snake liiver is to be crossed, and just before reach- 

 ing this we had a glimpse of some beautiful falls but a short 

 distance below the lake, and about forty feet in height, as 

 we estimated. The ford was a long one and rather deep, the 

 water coming more than half way up the horses' bodies. 

 We therefore tucked our feet up behind us on the saddle, 

 and rode along with some anxiety lest a false step on the 

 horses' part, or a stumble over some great boulder, should 

 throw one of the animals on his knees, and so wet either the 

 pack or the rider. On the right bank of the river, just 

 above where the ford came out, is a high precipice, partly 

 broken down and its base obscured by a talus of huge frag- 

 ments of lava, among which old Granny turned off and 

 wandered about for a few moments to the great peril of 

 her legs. 



At this point the trail left the river and ascending the. hill 

 entered the green timber, and continued for a long distance 

 over the ridges and away from the stream, though at times 

 glimpses of its dark water or of a stretch of foaming rapids 

 were seen from some hilltop. There was considerable fallen 

 timber across the trail, but nothing that gave any trouble- 

 Here, as almost everywhere in these mountains, the fire has 

 destroyed previous forests and their debris now lies thickly 

 strewn amid the living tree-trunks. It is quite curious 

 to observe the different courses taken by the truuks of 

 certain trees. Most of the pines are straight as an arrow, 

 but there are some which are curiously bent. The com- 

 monest form is that w-here the trunk is sharply bent at' 

 right angles to the vertical, and then again a foot further 

 on changes once more to an upright course. Or the curve 

 may be less than a right angle, and the trunk from vertical 

 may turn toward the earth, and then by another sharp curve 

 again take a vertical direction, thus forming a rough letter 

 S lying on its side. These curious curves in trees which 

 are in habit so straight as the pines, require an explanation, 

 which it is not easy to give unless the circumstances for ob- 

 servation are favorable. The manner in which they are 

 formed is, however, very simple. They are always found in 

 forests which have been burned over, and there is nearly 

 always an intimate connection between this burning and the 

 bent trunks. As has been said before, the fire which passes 

 over the forest kills but does not consume the trees, and 

 among their dead but standing trunks a young growth of 

 pines springs up. After a while the trees begin to fall, and 

 as they fall they strike more or less of the young trees, which 

 have not yet become stiff and brittle, but are still very 

 springy and readily bent. A certain proportion of the young 

 growth thus overwhelmed is crushed and destroyed, but there 

 are some young and vigorous plants which are caught be- 

 neath the tops or branches within a foot or two of the ground 

 and not materially injured, but merely held down. Such 

 trees are sometimes pressed flat to the ground, in which case 

 they usually die before long; but more often they are bent at 

 right angles a few inches above the ground and held there. 

 As time passes, the top of the tree so held tends constantly 

 to grow toward the light above it, and in the course of a few 

 years, if the injury to the plant is not sufficient to kill it or 

 materially retard its growth, all of it which is above the por- 

 tion imprisoned by the dead tree, will be found to be grow- 

 ing vertically like its neighbors. After a while the dead 

 stick which holds the young tree becomes rotten and finally 

 moulders away. The injured plant increases in size, and 

 there is then nothing to explain how the great forest tree, 

 perhaps a foot or more in diameter, should have grown in 

 such a curious fashion. 



The wind still swept over the mountain side in furious 

 blasts, and the forest was still vocal with its strange, weird 

 complainings, an inarticulate murmur of sighs and moans 

 and wild screams, that seemed to be all about us but that 

 we could not trace. At frequent intervals we could hear on 

 the Red Mountain Eange, on the other side of the river, the 

 loud snapping and crackling of roots and branches, and then 

 the final thundering crash which told of some ancient tree 

 overthrown by vEolian power. 



At length, after a descent of seven or eight hundred feet 

 in about twelve miles, we passed out of the forest into an 

 open parkdike country of great beauty. On the broad level 

 meadows the grass grew thick and rank, and on the rolling 

 uplands, though less luxuriant, it was not less nutritious. The 



trees werejbeautifully grouped, and the view, though limited 

 by the high hills on either hand and by the turns of the val- 

 ley to the southward, was very charming and picturesque. 

 But while so attractive to the eye at this season, there were 

 many signs that this was the best time of the year for visit- 

 ing this valley. In winter the snow falls deep and the 

 weather is severe. 



Springs and marshy places are numerous, and in the early 

 summer travel would no doubt be difficult. During the 

 afternoon we passed two lakes— Beulah and Herring— on 

 which great flocks of ducks and geese were seen. Numer- 

 ous tracks of elk were observed, but thej'' had all been made 

 earlier in, the season, at a time when the ground was soft, so 

 that the hoof marks were deeply imprinted in the soil. As 

 we advanced down the valley the mass of the Teton Range 

 began to appear, and before we had reached camp numerous 

 lofty and snow-covered peaks were in sight. They are 

 wonderfully majestic and imposing, more from their mas- 

 siveness and abruptness than frorn any other characteristics, 

 for the needle-like sky -reaching pinnacles of the principal 

 peaks of the range were still concealed from our view by the 

 extremity of the Red Mountain Range. Even at this distance 

 the glacial carvings were beautifully shown, and in many 

 of the ravines on the northern slopes of the mountain, there 

 are still ice masses, which, when examined through the 

 field glass, appear to have all the characteristics of true 

 glaciers. 



Camp was made on the west bank of Snake River, in a 

 little clump of pines close to the water's edge. On the west 

 was the broad valley from which rose beautifully terraced hills 

 finally crowned with the stately pine forest, into the depths 

 of which glimpses were given by little glades and openings 

 running back into it. To the south, where the great river 

 makes its turn to run parallel to the Teton Range, the hills 

 draw nearer together, and, at first low and then higher cones 

 and ridges, all sculptured and eroded into curious and sightly 

 shapes, and set off by the dark green of the pines, rise one 

 after another as if to prepare one for the mighty mass of 

 the mountains beyond them. This preparation is, however, 

 in vain, for as the eye rose above the tops of these lower 

 hills, it was still unprepared for the height and grandeur of 

 those beyond. 



At this point Snake River is already an important stream 

 and carries the drainage of a very large area. It abounds in 

 trout of great size and beauty, and of superb energy and fire. 

 Enough were caught by the anglers of the party to furnish 

 several meals, and among these was one giant, secured by 

 Saddlemeyer, which I estimated to weigh between three and 

 one-half and four pounds. While I was earnestly occupied 

 in endeavoring to capture a similar one, two great shadows 

 passed over the water near me, and on looking up I saw 

 within a few yards of my head a pair of huge sandhill cranes 

 They manifested not the slightest fear, and alighted on the 

 meadow only a few hundred yards from the camp, where 

 they remained, stalking about for an hour or two in the dig- 

 nified manner peculiar to their kind. 



The wind still blew furiously, and sweeping down from 

 the summit of the Teton range, was laden with the chilling 

 breath of the snow drifts that we saw so far above us. It 

 was very cold, and although we built a roaring fire after 

 dinner was over, this helped us but little, for it was almost 

 at once scattered by the blast: By rigging a canvas manta 

 over the line of aparejos, we made a wind-break, between 

 which and the fire we shivered for an hour or two { and at 

 length turned in. 



The next morning while the train was being packed, I took 

 mv rifle and started on ahead to see if 1 could not kill a deer 

 or an elk for, although the trout were very delicious, it was 

 thought that some good fat ribs would be an agreeable vari- 

 ety to our fare. The trail crossed the river just below 

 camp, and following down the bottom for two or three miles 

 passed over some low hills, and then turned south into Jack- 

 son's Hole, always skirting the river valley. On the riffle 

 where the ford crossed, the water was scarcely above the 

 Pinto's knees, and I rode on through the wide willowy bottom 

 and entered the timber, pushing directly up the hill so as to 

 cross the extremity of the Red Mountain Range. Down-tim- 

 ber and marshy spots made progress rather slow and diffi- 

 cult, and everywhere the vegetation showed the greater pre- 

 cipitation of the western slope of the main range. 



The mountain side among the green timbers is covered 

 with a thick, tangled undergrowth of plants, from three to 

 ten feet high. Willows grow along every little creek and on 

 each depression or raviue. 



Often it was difficult to force one's horse through the un- 

 derbrush and at the same time retain a seat in the saddle, for 

 the willows and alders made a vigorous resistance. Neither 

 the Pinto nor I liked it much; but at length, after some hard 

 climbing, most of which was done on foot, dragging after 

 me the unhappy horse, the upper edge of the timber was 

 reached. This was perhaps half a mile from the summit of 

 the mountain, though the forest had once extended quite to 

 the crest of the ridge, as was shown by the great charred 

 and rotting tree trunks, long ago killed by the fire, which 

 now covered the ground. By zigzagging my horse up the 

 steep ascent, and winding about among the low ridges that 

 run out from it, I at length reached the summit of the high- 

 est peak to the west. Two or three great pines crown the 

 summit, and dismounting here, I paused to survey the coun- 

 try through which we had come, and that toward which we 

 were going. 



To the eastward the Red Mountain Range cut off the view, 

 but to the northeast was the valley of Snake River, broad at 

 my feet, but narrowing a few miles further off, until the 

 mountains, closing in, concealed the silver ribbon of the 

 stream's course. To the west was the sombre gray and white 

 mass of the Teton Range, low and rounded toward its north- 

 western end, with long easy ridges of moderate steepness, 

 and crowned with tremendous fields of snow. The mount- 

 ains became more and more abrupt to the southward, till the 

 peaks culminated in the Grand Teton and then gradually 

 sank away again, becoming lower and lower in the blue 

 and misty distance. East of the range and directly to 

 the south of my perch on the mountain top, was Jackson's 

 Hole, for many years a spot unknown to white men and one 

 about which fabulous stories were told; by miners of rivers 

 paved with nuggets of gold; by trappers of streams and 

 forests abounding in fur ; by hunters of game so abundant 

 and tame that it could be secured without effort. The white 

 man came. The miner washed the sands of the rivers, but 

 they did not "pay"; the trapper caught the beaver and the 

 martin, but did not find the supply inexhaustible ; the hunter 

 found that it did not take long to drive away the game. But 

 as it is to-day Jackson's Hole is a lovely spot. At its upper 

 end lies the lake shining like a sheet of silver in the sunlight 

 and dotted with low pine-clad islands. On the west its 

 waters kiss the feet of the frowning mountains which form 

 its shores, but on the other three sides a belt of forest encir- 

 cles the w^ater, and then back of this belt lie broad meadow 

 lands with groups of trees and low rounded clumps of wil- 

 lows—a veritable park. Still further to the eastward lie low 

 bare ridges, the foothills of the main range, over which the 

 fire has swept, and now rough and difficult with fallen tim- 

 ber. Further still to the east and southeast rises the massive 

 range of mountains, which seems low only by comparison 

 with the stupendous altitude of the Tetons, and in which 

 lies the Continental Divide. Looking down from where I 

 sat on the lake with the tremendous snow-clad mountains 

 rising directly above it, I was forcibly reminded of some of 

 the Inlet scenery in British Columbia, where, as on Jervis 

 Inlet, similar conditions prevail. 



The rock of the mountain which I had climbed is a brown- 

 ish-red rhyolite, which weathers down with a square frac- 

 ture, forming broken precipices on the sides of all the higher 

 hills. Crossing the ridge and starting down the south side 

 of the mountain, great quantities of drift pebbles of red and 

 white quartzite w T ere noticed within two or three hundred 

 feet of the summit, In descending toward the lake I kept 

 along the mountain side where it was quite steep . Below 

 and to the left was a wide valley, at the head of which was 

 a considerable body of green timber, and a good deal more 

 that was dead. I was riding along slowly, letting the Pinto 

 pick his way among the loose rock, when 1 caught sight of 

 an animal standing tail toward me, in a little opening among 

 the trees. For a second I thought it was a "buckskin" 

 horse, and the idea flashed througn my mind that there was 

 a camp down- there, but almost before this thought had taken 

 form, the animal moved its head, and I saw that it was an elk. 

 To slip off my horse on the side furthest from the animal 

 and lead the Pinto out of sight behind a clump of pines was 

 the work of a very few seconds. Then divesting myself of my 

 spurs I crept back to the ridge. In the opening were a bull 

 and two or three cow elk, and further off, moving among 

 the dead timber, could be seen a number of others. Those 

 in the opening were within one hundred yards of the muzzle 

 of my rifle, and I could readily have killed one or two of 

 them. I considered, however, that as I had probably twenty- 

 five miles further to go before reaching camp, it was scarcely 

 worth while to kill a full-grown elk. If 1 did that, I should 

 either have to load my horse down with meat and walk to 

 camp leading him, or else leave the carcase where it fell, tak- 

 ing only the sirloins. I did not care to do either, and so waited 

 about in the hope that a calf might show itself, for the meat 

 of a calf I could pack behind the saddle and still ride. For 

 ten or fifteen minutes I watched the animals without seeing 

 the one I wished to shoot at. The band were not at ease, 

 but moved about in a nervous fashion, as if they had been 

 recently alarmed at something and had not yet recovered 

 from their fright. They did not feed, but wandered about 

 among the timber, and sometimes two or three of them 

 would take fright and trot a few yards and then stop and 

 stare in all directions. Notwithstanding all this restlessness 

 the band did not move much and still remained within easy 

 range, several of them being always in the open, though 

 most were seen indistinctly through the trees. Suddenly, 

 without any apparent cause, the elk all threw up their heads, 

 seemed to listen and look for a moment, and then plunged 

 into the dense timber. I could hear them for quite a long 

 time as they trotted through the forest, making the dead 

 sticks crack and rattle in their reckless haste, and at length 

 saw them climb the steep ascent near the head of the ravine 

 and pause huddled together on the bare hillside. There were 

 about twenty -five of them, the bull, half a dozen yearlings, 

 as many calves, and the rest old cows. Most of the calves 

 still wore the spotted coat. After standing for a while, look- 

 ing about to ascertain the cause of their alarm, they turned 

 away again, and slowly clambering up the slope disappeared 

 over the ridge. I was content to have them go. Life — even 

 though it be only that of a beast or bird— is too sacred a 

 thing to be taken except for some good reason, There are 

 enough who are ready to kill; too few who are willing to 

 hold their hands. 



