92 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 4, 1894. 
Gibbon Falls). Here the light had grown perceptibly 
stronger, though we could not see with perfect distinct- 
ness at any very great distance. Here again " Billy inti- 
mated carelessly that on the whole I might as well ride 
my pole, when we got to the last sharp, where the hill 
spills itself into the valley of the river. Down to this 
point on the hill we had come by a succession of easy 
grades, whose pleasant slides had made us think that snow- 
shoeing wasn't such hard work after all. At the last 
pitch Larsen went ahead, dropping out of sight like a 
bird in flight. As he turned into the forest around the 
first bend we heard him give a great shout, and supposed 
at once he had met something in the trail. This turned 
out later to have been a red fox, which for an instant tried 
to keep ahead of the skis, but gave it up and disappeared 
in the forest a very much scared fox as the yelling Scan- 
dinavian swept close up to it. When Larsen yelled Billy 
started off after him, and giving Billy time to get clear, I 
dropped off in turn, having by this time a clean-cut trail 
to travel in. I rode my pole, as per Billy's late advice, or 
tried to do so, though the hind end of the staff insisted on 
jumping up out of the snow and giving the skis a better 
run for their money, evidently thinking it a shame to 
spoil a good hill. The last short hitch of that hill was like 
the roof of a house, and moreover, it had a compound 
curve in it which must have applied a severe torsional 
strain to the backbone of the mountain. Lastly, there 
was a drift about 15ft. deep at the bottom of the hill. 
This latter I could not see, for in that dim light the sur- 
face of the snow seemed to have no inequalities at all. I 
found the drift, however. Coming down the chute of the 
last grade, the first thing I knew I was entirely buried in 
the drift, my shoes going into it before I was aware of any 
difference in the level. Billy was standing beyond me, in 
the woods away off from the trail. Larsen also was off 
the trail, and was pulled up by the river, above the bridge. 
The last run of the Canon Creek hill is a screamer, and it 
is said that no shoer of the Park except John Folsorn has 
ever run it and made the bridge across the river without 
flying out of the trail. Snowshoe Pete has twice run into 
the river here, and I am inclined to think he would not 
have done that purposely. 
It was still too dim to see well the full glories of the 
Gibbon as we passed up it, but enough of its snow-clad 
steeps could be made to prove of interest. The Gibbon 
hereabout is an ideal stream for the angler, but there are 
no native trout above the falls, I believe, though plant- 
ings have been made which are yet to be heard from. 
At daybreak we built a fire on the bank of the river, 
made coffee and ate our little breakfast with keen, relish. 
At this point there was a beautiful series of rapids, and 
altogether it was a fine place for a breakfast in the snow. 
Snow began to fall as we sat at breakfast and the morn- 
ing broke gray. 
After breakfast I started out up the canon ahead, but I 
found to my surprise that in the short time of our halt 
some mysterious change had taken place in the quality 
of the snow. That which we dreaded had happened. 
The snow had begun to stickl I turned back and found 
the others already waxing up their skis. In turn they 
now set out and left me alone at the fife waxing my 
shoes. I gave them a good going over, taking a quarter 
of an hour to it perhaps, and set out after the others, hot 
foot. By the trail I passed one of those great wonders 
which are so common in the Park that they seem almost 
unable to attract notice — the Beryl Spring, a great cald- 
dron spring of bubbling, beautiful, (gem-colored, boiling 
hot water, which pours a brook into the Gibbon, over 
which a culvert is a necessity. I paused here alone for 
quite a time, until I felt obliged to hurry up the trail. 
The shoes were sticking frightfully. 
A Narrow Escape. 
Of course the Gibbon does not freeze at any time of the 
year. It is here a rapid, rushing mountain river, as I re- 
member it, about 20yds. wide and perhaps 3 to 5ft. deep, 
though it is no doubt deeper than it looks. The foot trail 
for Norris crosses the Gibbon hereabout by means of a 
foot bridge, the latter being constructed of two logs. On 
top of these two narrow logs, which had no hand rail to 
them, the Bnow lay in a long white ridge, about 2 or 3ft. 
deep. Along the top of this ridge of snow I could see the 
ski trail of Billy and Larsen, who had incontinently 
walked right on out on to it, in child-like confidence that 
everything was all right until proved otherwise. I noticed 
that the snow bridge had sagged and cracked beneath 
their weight, but what was I going to do about it? There 
was that river, and I had to get across. Therefore I 
stepped out boldly in the tracks of my predecessors. I 
had gone out to near midstream, when crash! down went 
a whole section of the snow ridge under me, and down I 
came to bed rock on the logs, fortunately astride the logs, 
but with my pack hanging down to one side, down 
stream, my skis just hanging to my feet and just barely 
clearing the rushing water, and my whole center of 
gravity entirely lost in the confusion. I presume that 
was the nearest I came to a serious accident while in the 
Park. Had I gone into the river I could hardly have 
hoped to get out. Had one of my skis slipped off, as I 
feared each moment it would, it was on the instant gone 
beyond all chance of recovery. Thanks, then, to muscles 
well toughened. Slowly, it seemed to me an age } I 
gripped with knee and hand until inch by inch I got back 
over the logs, with that ton's weight pack above me, and 
not dragging me down. Then, lying face down along the 
log, I twisted my feet under and got my left ski off with 
my right hand and the right one off with the left hand, 
being careful to keep my toes turned up stiff, so the skis 
would not get caught bythe water. Then I put them on. 
the broken snow ridge ahead of me, and every moment 
expecting onother break and tumble, crawled the rest of 
the way on my hands and knees, with my hands in the 
toe straps. I was perspiring some and plenty scared when 
I got over. Some folk never get scared. I do. I don't 
want any more midwinter carnival of athletics of just 
that sort. 
Not far beyond the Gibbon I found Billy and Larsen 
sitting by the wayside, on some hot ground about a min- 
iature set of geysers which kept up a great fretting and 
fuming. They had built a fire and we all now waxed up 
our shoes, remaining here for quite a while, as the snow 
was now in horrible shape, though it was still early in the 
day. After a time we got into our packs again and 
plodded on to Norris Station across the beautiful Gibbon 
meadows and in over the Geyser Basin. We saw no game 
whatever either on the Gibbon meadows or in the Elk Park. 
We thought Jhe haying operations might possibly have 
driven the elk out. We each took his own gait, as we 
knew we were well in. Toward the last the snow became 
very soft and wet, and in this condition it did not stick to 
the shoes, this showing another phase of the infinite 
variety of ski travel. We reached Norris at 11 A.M., 
having b^en on the way ten hours, though not traveling 
all the time. At noon a heavy snowstorm was in swing 
at Norris Station. ' Here we stopped and spf-nt the after- 
noon and the night till midnight. At 1 A.M. of Wednes- 
day, March 28, we were again on the skis and off for 
another night journey, the last between us and the Post. 
Night Stage from Norris In. 
I will not weary readers with a minute story of our 
journey in, as all that can be wished is a presentation of 
features enough to show the character of the trip, and not 
a story of personal exploits or experiences except as the 
latter are incidental and so useful. We made this last 
night stage of twenty miles in good shape, and it was 
more of a pleasure than that of the night before, much 
by reason of the greater strength of the light, it not being 
cloudy, but clear and very cold. It grew colder as the 
night advanced, and for almost the only time except on 
Hay den Valley we tied up our ears and faces. The 
thermometer was no doubt well below zero. Our clothing 
was covered with a white rime of frost. 
The night continued bright and pleasant and we ven- 
tured an occasional jest as we pushed along. Every fel- 
low was now hard and fit, and the fatigue of this journey 
in was very different from that felt on the same ground 
coming out. 
At the Crystal Springs we thought we might see one of 
the mountain lions which are known to lurk in the rough 
country thereabout. We did not see our lion, but we saw 
his tracks along the trail ahead of us, as if he had been 
following along a ski track, in curiosity to learn what 
made it. 
At the Swan Lake Flats we had a great privilege — that 
of seeing perfect winter sunrise in the mountains. The 
sun broke glorious over the mountains mab ing the eastern 
rim of this level glittering plain, and slowly, one by one, 
we could see the tips of the peaks on the west of the flats 
grow pink, purple, white, under the advancing rays. 
Electric Peak, Trilobite Point, Antler Peak, Mt. Holmes — 
all these look well in summer, so they tell me. One can 
vouch that in the winter and at sunrise they are simply 
glorious. We stopped and looked at the lovely panorama 
for many moments. As usual, the coyotes were saluting 
the morning sun with a series of ragged, thin-edged 
howls. It sounded as though there were a hundred of 
them. 
The Last Risky Run. 
On Swan Lake Flats we found the snow crusted, and on 
the great descent of the Golden Gate hill we found it still 
more crusted. Here the snow had thawed and frozen, 
and presented a surface which we knew would make it 
risky running the great hill on which we had counted so 
much for an exciting but pleasant run. Each fellow got 
down after his own fashion, but there was no fellow who 
kept on the trail, or who got off without fall and risk of 
limb. Larsen had his shoe get away and go down into a 
canon, but fortunately the crust bore him up so that he 
could get down after it. After that he seems to have 
turned everything loose and gone down the rest of the 
grades helter-skelter and haphazard. He missed the trail 
in many places. I often caught Billy riding slopes sitting 
down on his skis — an act which we were now almost 
ready to call unprofessional conduct. I was close behind 
Billy, getting down the slowest I knew how, when finally 
I saw him stop at the top of a long, sharp slope, and peer 
curiously over. Evidently Billy was thinking, and I 
slid over to ask him what he thought. Just before 
I got to him he swung astride his pole, Blid off, 
and was out of sight. The next moment, as I happened 
to look off to tne right of the trail, when I got to the 
place where Billy had started, there was Billy three- 
quarters of a mile below, away off to the right of the trail 
and headed for the Post meadows. He wasn't longer 
than a lead pencil, and was whizzing like a bullet, doing 
his best to come to anchor. For my part, I wished I was 
down where he was. That was an awful run. I could 
not keep the pole down in the snow for a break, do all I 
could. I lost control of the shoes entirely, flew from the 
trail, and went at terrible velocity down the mountain 
side. The hard, glassy crust gave no bite on the snow at 
all for the shoes. What should have been a pleasure ride 
became a wild and risky flight on a pair of runaway skis, 
My education as a ski man was to be rounded out, and a 
trifle of my conceit removed. This the runaway skis 
seemed to say to me as they clocked together, going side- 
ways and every other way, utterly beyond my control. 
We jumped all sorts of things, the skis and I, and I kept 
my feet, leaning back on the pole heavily. At length, 
a group of trees appeared, directly in the course 
and they got bigger, and blacker every half sec- 
ond, and the more unwelcome as I realized 
that I could not avoid them. I saw that one tree was 
square in my line, and felt that to strike it meant bad dis- 
aster at least. Unable to do better I threw myself on my 
side and went rolling on down instead of sliding. The 
force of the bullet-like flight sent me bounding up into 
the air, pack and all. When I stopped at length the heels 
of my skis were just where the toes ought to be, and my 
feet were doubled under me. Saved by the Forest and 
Stream luck once more, I got out of an awful fall with 
nothing worse than a game ankle, which was nearly well 
before I left the Park. That tree is still standing. If I 
had ever hit it it wouldn't be, and I have no doubt Capt. 
Anderson would have had me arrested for defacing natu- 
ral objects of interest in the Park. 
It was Capt. Anderson himself who at 8 o'clock that 
morning was welcoming us back, and asking me what I 
thought of America, and how I liked snowshoeing in gen- 
eral. I was glad enough to surrender without conditions, 
and though at first a little timid about soap and water, 
not being used to them, I gradually got around to where 
a private soldier would look at me without pulling a gun. 
The main trip through the Park was over. 
Yancey's to Follow. 
I have already spoken of our trip to Yancey's, twenty 
miles northeast of the Post, after the elk. Of this rather 
interesting part of our game explorations I shall wish to 
speak a bit more fully in the concluding article of this 
series. On this, the last journey of them all, we saw more 
game in two days than we had seen in the whole Park up 
to that time. E. HOUOH. 
909 Security Bcildeno. Chicago 
POETRY, VERSE AND RHYMES. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
It has been observed by more writers than one, and 
truly enough, that poetry has not received and doee not 
receive in America the appreciation, encouragement and 
consideration which is its due. Poetry, if not the most 
important and useful branch of literature, is still its most 
beautiful and inspired essence; and in my judgment it 
has done more to impress upon the English-speaking 
races their most sterling and commendable traits than all 
other influences. Other nations are more musical and 
poetical in their every -day affairs than either English or 
Americans, but to measure the influence poetry has had 
upon the destinies of either race would require that very 
generous acknowledgment of its importance and signifi- 
cance be made. 
Poetry in its true nature pervades everything in nature, 
and art as well. Take the spirit of poetry from music 
and you hush melody completely; take the poetry from 
the most divine conception of the artist and you rob It 
of its soul; take the lines suggestive of poetry and fancy 
from the architect and his creations would be crude in- 
deed. Poetry cannot be entirely separated from many 
words in any language, and it can no more be obliterated 
from a group of sentences than from any part of nature. 
You may cause a desert, but in the desert itself the senti- 
mental essence survives. 
Forest and Srream, as its name suggests, should be full 
of poetry. Much of the language in its columns comes 
directly from the source of all poetry, Nature herself. 
No record of incidents in its field of research and devo- 
tion can be made that does not contain the spirit and im- 
agery of poesy. The very advertisements which inclose 
its soul cannot be scanned without filling the mind with 
thoughts of woods and streams, although they comprise 
good words for Smith's tobacco, Brown's dog cakes, Rob- 
inson's flea powder and Yucatan chewing gum. Even the 
"head" of the fine old journal (which has been criticised) 
with the poor old moose's head and Roman nose, the un' 
fortunate deer with unornamental and useless horns, the 
dude with his rigid spinal column and unyielding ap- 
parel— even this has poetry in it. The notice of a new 
brand of powder or make of cartridge does not fail to 
suggest thoughts of pleasant scenes, happy hours Or days 
and sentimental moods. 
In the columns of your journal there is no dearth of 
information, and I would not presume to criticise any 
line it contains, nor even intimate that it lacks sentiment 
or poetry in its contents; but I will venture to say that it 
does not, in my opinion, contain enough of what is com- 
monly recognized as poetry, as distinguished from mere 
prose. 
a , Is it because there are so few in the fraternity of sports- 
men who are ' 'sentimental" enough to attempt verse, do 
they really lack the necessary inspiration to rhyme — or is 
the poetry editor of the Forest and Stream cold and 
cruel? I do not think the fault can lie with the editorial 
autocrat, for I have seen his department teem with poetry 
that only needed to be cut into equal lines to deserve a 
place with beautiful and true thoughts anywhere, with 
things immortal. 
I rhyme myself, I cannot help it, and would not if I 
could. Sometimes I destroy my oWn productions as soofl. 
as they get cold. At other times I have paid to get them 
printed, and then have wished I had adopted the for mef 
course. I have contributed them to publications which 
have really printed them — at no expense to me— but 1 
always felt, after they appeared in print, that there must 
have been a great lack of "copy" in the poetry depart- 
ment of those publications, and began from that moment 
to question their taste, for which I had hitherto felt ad- 
miration and awe. However, I still have a weakness for 
poetry, and I think if my ancestors had been less practical 
and matter-o'-f act I would have inherited genius in this 
particular quality, I have been unsuccessful enough in 
other qualities to be a mighty good poet. 
Certainly these columns have not been void of measured 
and rhymed poetry, but the quantity of verBe contributed 
(or at least that has been printed), has, it eeems to me, 
been small as compared with the quantity of good reading 
matter supplied. Many prose stories, full of poetry and 
poetical incidents, appear from time to time, but few of 
your,.readers seem to attempt versification. I like to read 
poetry, even when it may not deserve to rank high in 
mere literary value, as judged by its correctness of con- 
struction, meter, rhyme or other qualification. Many 
noble thoughts and sentiments have been expressed in 
halting and imperfect lines, and I think those who attempt 
poetry profit by their experiments in more ways than one. 
I fancy the true poet is inclined to close observation, and 
is constantly trying to see the good in everything and the 
beautiful everywhere; and no class of persons have better 
opportunities for observation and for the cultivation of 
poetic taste than sportsmen. 
Take, as a single instance of the power of poetry, 
Walter Scott's opening lines in the "Lady of the Lake," 
where he describes the chase of the stag. ' The stag 
escapes and evades his pursuers, but what a picture the 
grea,t poet has put into wordsl 
Reduced to prose the ordinary observer and writer 
would have said, "They chased the stag several miles, 
but lost him in the Trosachs." He could not possibly 
have said in prose — 
"The antlered monarch of the waste 
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste, 
But, ere his fleet career he took, 
The dewdrops from his flanks he shook; 
Like crested leader, proud and high, 
Toss'd his beamed frontlet to the sky; 
A moment gazed a-down the dale, 
A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 
A moment listened to the cry 
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh; 
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, 
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, 
And, stretching forward free and far 
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var," etc. 
The poet began his picture with an incident that only 
a poet would have-thought worthy of words, but what a 
picture the few words make! 
"The-stag at eve had drank his fill, 
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, 
And deep his midnight lair had made 
In lone GHenartney's hazel shade." 
Of course there are few Walter Scotts— it a century 
