GLIMPSES OF AMERICA.
The most interesting, because most diversified, country in the world is America, and the center of that unexampled interest belongs to the territory comprised within the United States. The castles of England, crushed by the hand of time; the lochs and friths of Scotland, that murmur to the sea their wails of the Viking invaders; the lakes and heaths of Ireland, around which old legends hold perpetual carnival; the Rhine of Germany, whose banks are strewn with the relics of feudalism; the Bernese Alps, that flaunt their whitened locks like aged giants taunting the walled cities about which the sound of battle still seems to linger; the red glare of Vesuvius, wrestling with fiery wrath in mad ambition to overwhelm the cities built upon her ashes; the roar and blaze of Ætna, that growls with the voice of Polyphemus thirsting for the life of Ulysses; the hills of Greece, on which a thousand gods held council; the welling breast of Mother Nile, carrying to the sea remembrances of her ancient children; the Holy Land, blooming with sacred memories that fill the human heart with fragrance; the mighty peaks of Himalayas, piercing the heavens with frosted heads and draped with the fogs of centuries; the plains of Asshur, where Babylon stood, and the wrath of God was kindled. All these, and more, speak with siren tongue to lure the traveler and give him appetite for history. But, if we except the associations which make these places of the Old World memorable, the student of nature will find a thousand greater charms in the picturesque, grand, marvelous and sublime scenery that diversifies our own country. No picture has ever equaled the real, and no book has ever vividly described the wonders that God has scattered over the American landscape. We have had glimpses of mountain, plain, lake, river and cañon, but they have been little more than shadows of the reality, an intimation of a grandeur almost too great to depict. But as great telescopes have brought within our vision surprising views of other worlds, the rings of Saturn, the seas of Mars, and the burnt-out craters of the Moon, so has inventive genius been active in delineating the physical features of the earth, and through the perfection of photography we are now practically enabled to take the world in our hand and examine it with the same convenience that we can an orange. Travel is no longer necessary for the masses in order to behold the marvels of American scenery, for the camera has gathered them all and lays every inspiring scene upon even the poor man’s table, to minister to the delight of his family circle. But photography likewise blesses the traveler, for study of the picture establishes acquaintanceship with that which is represented, while accompanying description quickens his understanding and gives a more intelligent conception of the pictorial subject.
It has been my good fortune to make many trips across the continent over the various railway lines; and business and pleasure have taken me during the past several years to nearly all the accessible parts of the country, reached by rail, boat or stage-coach. Always an admirer of nature, I have longed for the means to sketch or photograph the imposing scenery which caught my enraptured eye as I hurried by. This ambition prompted the really stupendous undertaking whose fruitage is now offered to the public in all its delicious flavor, in the form of a book as herewith submitted.
How the photographic views herein reproduced were obtained may be thus briefly told, and is well worthy the relation: This book was conceived more than half a dozen years ago, but a press of other engagements caused a postponement of any effort at its preparation until the spring of 1890, when the publishers engaged a corps of artists, consisting of three of the best out-door photographers in the country. A passenger car was next chartered, which was remodeled so as to provide comfortable sleeping quarters for the men in one end, a kitchen in the other, while the center was fitted up as an operating-room for taking, developing and finishing pictures. Three cameras, of as many sizes, were also provided, with three thousand prepared plates, and a great quantity of paraphernalia which might be found useful for the expedition.
A FAMILY OF PUEBLO INDIANS, NEW MEXICO.
Thus equipped, our photographic party left St. Louis early in May, going directly west to Denver, from which point we made excursions to all the near-lying parks, thence to Manitou, and by way of the Colorado Midland to Salt Lake. Our work about Salt Lake occupied considerable time, and after leaving there we proceeded to Weber Cañon and then by way of the Union Pacific to Shoshone Falls. We next returned by way of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, making a sweep southward, through Ouray and the Valley of the Gunnison, over Marshall Pass and to Pueblo by way of the Royal Gorge. Our party divided several times in order to cover the territory more expeditiously, and in making the trip into New Mexico one part entered by way of Trinidad from Pueblo and the other traveled directly south through Antonito, forming a junction again at Santa Fe.
Some weeks were spent traveling off the line of road among the ruined villages of the Cliff-Dwellers, and in photographing the more rugged scenery of the Rio Grande River. Then we continued our journey westward over the Atlantic and Pacific and the Southern Pacific Railroads to California, where nearly three months were spent among the towns, Yosemite Valley, Big Trees and mountains of that summer-land. On the appearance of spring we traveled north by way of the California and Oregon Railroad, still making side trips by stage-coach and wagon, to Portland, from which point excursions were made up the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. At Victoria, British Columbia, we took steamer for Alaska, and returning we passed through the Cascade Range over the Northern Pacific, working our way back east. But we continued to make detours a long way off the main line of road, thus visiting the Falls of the Missouri, the Black Hills, the Custer battle-field, Devil’s Tower, and Yellowstone National Park, in which latter wonderland we spent two weeks photographing its scenery and extraordinary formations.
“WHALE-BACK” BOAT of the NORTHERN LAKES.
More than three-fourths of the grandest views were inaccessible by rail, so other means of travel had to be adopted. Often it was by stage-coach, but frequently donkeys were our sole reliance; and when these little animals could not carry us to the most rugged points, we shouldered our instruments and scrambled to the peaks and abysses of necessary observation. The difficulties, dangers and hardships thus encountered were both great and numerous, while the expense involved was so far beyond our first calculations, that had it been anticipated in the beginning the enterprise would certainly never have been undertaken.
GOVERNOR’S RESIDENCE, PUEBLO OF TESUQUE, NEW MEXICO.
We resumed our eastward journey thence to Superior Lake, Dells of the St. Croix, rapids of the Wisconsin, lakes and waterfalls of Minnesota, the Upper Mississippi through Lake Pepin, and back to St. Louis, the entire trip occupying more than eighteen months.
THE URNS, MANITOU PARK.
Our camera car had served our purposes in a most gratifying manner while making the long tour of the West, but in the eastern tour, which remained to be performed, it was considered that the car would be of no special advantage, since accommodations are so much more easily obtained in the built-up sections of the East than in the thinly and sometimes totally unsettled districts of the West, where in many cases our car was our only shelter. The journey east was begun in October, from St. Louis to Chicago, thence to Niagara Falls, and then up the St. Lawrence. Our route next lay through the Green and White Mountains, and other famous sections of the New England States; thence west into the Adirondacks, Mohawk Valley and Lakes George and Champlain, then down the picturesque Hudson into the Catskills. Continuing our journey southward, we visited the points of grandest scenery in Virginia, North Carolina, and Eastern Tennessee, and then proceeded on to Florida, where a part of the winter was spent photographing everything worthy of a place in this volume. On the return trip Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, and Wyandotte Cave, in Indiana, received our attention, as well as other interesting places along the way, and early in February our labors were ended by a return to St. Louis to put the results in book form. Nearly all the descriptive writing was done while our party was on the way, and while the impressions produced by the glorious visions were fresh in the author’s mind. This work, accordingly, is practically one of inspiration, the whole constituting a story of extraordinary interest and a history of incomparable value.
ON THE OCKLAWAHA RIVER, FLORIDA.
Illustrations, however fine, whether of wood or steel, represent the artist’s conceptions, dashed with an individual coloring that prevents a natural reproduction. The painter sketches his landscape from a special point of view, and working many days blends the sunrise with midday and sunset, the mists of morning with the clouds of noon, thus striving to please the eye rather than to truthfully present nature, without artificial adornments.
Photography, on the other hand, is the mirror which reflects nature in all her changeful moods; the absolutely faithful reproducer of her every aspect, exhibiting her in her every-day garb, noting the disfigurements with no less fidelity than the sublime graces which she exhibits and all the widely diversified physical features which render her countenance so variable that admirer and scoffer alike find reason for urging their claims. No other attempt has ever been made to so perfectly picture the wonders of America, and the work has been so thoroughly accomplished that it is confidently believed no one, however great his ambition or lavish his expense, will be able to add anything to the completeness of our undertaking, as here submitted. Whatever may be the measure of deserving of the descriptive part of this book, certainly the photographic illustrations are worthy of all praise as fulfilling the conditions of masterpieces of American scenery, while the publishers are entitled to most generous public recognition for conceiving and so liberally endowing an enterprise, which has flowered in the fragrance and beauty of this exquisite work.
ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT TACOMA, WASHINGTON.
It is seemly to add that our tour was made wholly at the expense of the publishers. Free transportation was offered us over all the railroads on which we traveled, but all such courtesies were uniformly refused, because an acceptance would have placed us under obligations to manifest some favoritism, and thus interfere with the declared purpose of the publishers to issue a work on American scenery in which the views and descriptions should be given truthfully, and without partiality. We therefore selected the routes which promised most satisfactory results, without regard to personal convenience, having in view the ambition to present and describe the most interesting, if not always the most famous, scenery of our country, and in so doing produce a work of which all Americans, like the publishers, may be justly proud. In this our celebrant year such a book is particularly appropriate, and the hope of the publishers, as it is of the author, is that our ambitious and worthy enterprise may find a warm welcome at the fireside of every American family.
VIEW OF FORT WRANGEL, ALASKA.
CHAPTER I.
AMONG THE WILD SCENES OF COLORADO.
“Go abroad
Upon the paths of Nature, and when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep mystery of the World,
Kneel at its ample altar.”
PIKE’S PEAK FROM COLORADO SPRINGS.
Enthusiasm sometimes exaggerates the reality, just as colored glass confuses the sight; but when it serves to please without doing harm, the fault may be pardoned. To the enthusiasm of the occasion, and our great and unique enterprise, may therefore be charged the burst of admiration that manifested our feelings, when, rolling along the prairies on the Union Pacific R. R., we saw, rising far to the southwest, nearly one hundred miles away, the broad shoulders of Pike’s Peak, breaking into russet above the clouds and showing a head of saffron, mellowed by the soft rays of a sun just falling into the deep valleys of the Occident. It was the chief object to chain our attention for the while, and this first impression awakened most delightful anticipations of the work which lay before us. A few hours later we were in Denver, making final preparations for a photographing tour of the picturesque West. Fortunately, our arrangements were so nearly complete upon leaving St. Louis that only a short stay in Denver was necessary, and it was with eager desire that we had our car attached to a Union Pacific train and started for the heart of the Rockies. The long range of mountains, rising into sharp peaks, and again spreading their tops into truncated cones, elbowing and pushing each other like a brigade in too close quarters at parade-rest, are only fifteen miles from Denver, forming a grand background to an immense expanse of prairie landscape. Starting on the Colorado Central Branch of the Union Pacific, we soon pass through the gate-way of the Rockies; thence on to Golden, a beautiful mining town that nestles in the bed of a dried-up lake, and looks up with pleasing satisfaction to the guardian gods of North and South Table Mountains. Here a stop is made for a trip up Bear Creek Cañon, which is reached by stage, by which conveyance the traveler is trundled into a gorge of surpassing beauty and noble grandeur. Through this great gash the water dashes, swollen by melting snows, and fed by a thousand sources. On either side the frowning and dusky walls, weaving a tortuous way like the path of a drunken giant, rear up their castellated heads until they remind us of the walled cities of Jericho, over which Joshua’s spies were lowered by Rahab.
MARSHALL FALLS, CLEAR CREEK CAÑON.
Only a few miles from Golden is Clear Creek Cañon, another wondrous cleavage wrought by water that goes tumbling through the passage with rumble of breakers and roar of waterfall. The walls of the cañon rise perpendicularly to varying heights of 500 to 1,500 feet, and at places approach so near to each other that an observer looking upward from the cavernous depths can see only a thin strip of blue sky. Away up on the brows of the parallel cliffs are large trees that look like feather dusters, and little streams of liquid silver appear in the distance to be pouring their contributions from crevice and apex to swell the mad creek that rushes with complaining voice down the age-swept gorge. Along this water-bed was formerly the roadway, or trail, used by freight-wagons and stage-coaches, but it is now become the exclusive thoroughfare of the Central Branch, so that the magnificent view which the cañon affords is before the eyes of railroad travelers.
Less than three miles from Georgetown is Green Lake, an exquisite body of water which has been very appropriately called the Gem of the Mountain. Its translucent depths are animated by myriads of trout that are tinged by the green waters to the color of emeralds, while away down in its profound recesses is distinguishable a forest of stately trees which has been swept into the lake by some glacial avalanche. Not a branch appears to have been broken or a position disturbed, for the trees stand boldly upright in all their original gracefulness, but through calcareous depositions, that are a peculiarity of this lake, they have been converted into stone. Thus it is a submerged forest of petrified trees.
Looking beyond the lake we perceive, some seven miles away, the famous Argenta Pass, the summit of which is reached by the highest wagon-road in the world, and from this elevation an almost boundless and marvelously picturesque view may be had, stretching away to the west as far as Holy Cross Mount, and eastward to the prairies of Kansas.
A VIEW OF PIKE’S PEAK.
But we have now reached the backbone of the divide and our train starts down the western grade, circling like a hawk out of the sky. Over immense fills, through deep cuts, across bridges, following a swiftly-flowing stream, until at length we gain the level valley and go dashing away to Graymont, on the way to Idaho Springs and Georgetown. To avoid tunneling in crossing the divide, the railroad winds around the mountain elevations, up a steep grade, over a way that has been blasted out of the eternal rocks, until from away up the lofty sides the traveler may look upon a scene of marvelous beauty and ruggedness that fades into indistinctness miles below. Leaning out of the car window we view a wondrous panorama, and pause directly to bring our cameras into use, that the scene may be caught and held on paper. There on one side of the depths is Devil’s Gate, in close proximity, as it seems, to Bridal Veil Falls, where the clear mountain stream plunges over a precipice of great height to join the gamboling creek that rushes away on its errand hundreds of feet below. There, too, is a spider’s web of steel, eighty-six feet high, that has served as a passage-way for our train across a chasm 300 feet wide, whose bottom can scarcely be distinguished from our lofty eminence; but we see that the track makes a complete loop, and that the road parallels itself, at a constantly increasing grade, no less than three times. All the while that we are winding around and crossing our own track, Georgetown continues visible, but it is dwarfed by the distance to the appearance of a prairie-dog village.
CHALK CLIFFS, CLEAR CREEK CAÑON.
The picturesqueness of the route now changes from wild scenery of lofty mountain and the dark awesomeness of deep cañon, to a park-like landscape, through tillable lands, and on to Silver Plume, a great feat of mining engineering, and beautiful beyond description. Gray’s Peak rises like a giant phantom a few miles beyond, and becomes a charming signet in the ring of park and town of Graymont that lies near its feet.
Returning east a distance of twenty miles, a junction is reached at Fork’s Creek, where another branch of the Union Pacific leads to Central City and Black Hawk. Here a marvelous thing is to be seen: The two towns are only a mile apart, measured by a straight line, yet so fearfully rugged is the territory to be traversed that the distance by rail between the places is four miles, and this interval is covered by means of a “Switch Back,” so called because of the tortuous route and the extraordinary grades. All along this vicinity are famous mines, and a wealth of mining machinery, that converts the country into a maze of industry, and the mountains into smoking mills and cornucopias of silver. In this mountainous region all roads seem to radiate from Denver, and hence to reach other charming scenery by means of our camera car, it was necessary to return again for a trip to Gunnison, which is on the South Park Branch. But in order to facilitate our work it was decided to divide our party, so that one photographer might proceed to Gunnison, while the other two took the northwest route to Estes and Middle Park, where a larger amount of work was to be done, and which could be reached only by stage.
A VIEW OF PLATTE CAÑON.
ARGENTA FALLS.
Continuing our trip, therefore, towards the southwest, our first stop was in Platte Cañon, which is twenty miles from Denver, and there many exquisite views were taken. This cañon, formed by the Platte River, resembles Clear Creek Cañon, but is longer and somewhat wilder. The route is over Kenosha Hill, which is Alpine in its grandeur, and so rugged that the road is as sinuous as the trail of a serpent. The cañon spreads at places until it runs between gradually sloping steeps, but again the walls draw closer, and rise perpendicularly to a sheer height of a thousand feet, excluding the sunlight except as it is strained at times through a narrow rift, until it looks like a pencil of light cleaving the pall of night. What mighty forces were gathered here in the age of the world’s infancy! what terrific convulsions and frenzied spasms of nature that rent in twain the earth’s envelope and left cañons and mountains where once were lake and plain!
Along the way rushes the impetuous Platte River, that has torn and eroded a great fissure through the rocks, and in so doing has left many wonderful incongruities to mark its eccentricity as well as power.
ALONG THE BREAST OF THE CAÑON WALLS OF THE RIO DE LOS ANIMAS, COLORADO.
BRIDAL VEIL FALLS, NEAR DEVIL’S GATE.
Dome Rock is one of the conspicuous curiosities in the cañon, resembling as it does, the top of a mosque that has sunk just behind the wall of beetling cliff, leaving a graceful dome as its burial monument. But all along, at frequent intervals, spires, with cathedral proportions, shoot skyward, lending an appearance not unlike a vast row of churches, where we may fancy nature worships, and the roar of waters is a perpetual hymnal invocation. On the same route, fifty miles from Platte Cañon, is the Alpine Tunnel, which is reached by the road winding about and upward until a height of 11,600 feet is gained, when, suddenly, the train makes an abrupt turn, and leaps into the very bowels of a mountain from which it emerges after many minutes on the other side, and then descends towards the Pacific. This tunnel is one of the most remarkable in all the world. It is at the highest point ever reached by any railroad in America, and in the center of its 1,773 feet of length is the dividing line of altitude between the two oceans. The boring of this mighty channel not only involved the naturally stupendous labor of digging through a mountain, but the work was rendered a hundred fold more difficult by reason of the rare atmosphere in which the workmen had to labor. In addition to this, 70,000 linear feet of California redwood was required for the inside bracing, and this had to be brought up the mountain side on the backs of burros, the only animals of burden that could make the ascent. It was a remarkable undertaking; its accomplishment was very like a miracle.
As we emerge from the tunnel, and creep around the perpendicular side of the mountain on a roadway barely wide enough to accommodate a single train of cars, a bewilderingly magnificent panorama opens to us. Away towards the southwest, one hundred and fifty miles, we observe the lofty and regular heads of the San Juan range, while a little further west we are able to distinguish Uncompaghre Peak, that looks down with benignant aspect upon the town of Ouray. There, too, is the green and happy valley of the Gunnison, towards the end of which we see Elk Mountains and their chief peaks, Mount Gothic and Crested Butte.
At this great height the snow lies packed in the deep crevices all summer through, while upon its borders may be seen beautiful flowers nodding their bright heads in the delightful wind that plays about the peak. Now we go down the mountain side with brakes set, marveling all the way at the natural wonders which have been strewn by some Titanic hand along the route. There, on the right, are the Palisades, which might be called sculptured rocks, so graceful and artistic that they appear to be the creation of the great Phidias, or pupils of his school. Further on lies Quartz Valley, like a pearl nestling in depths far below the angry waves of giant mountains. Now we cross Quartz Creek, where nature laughs with blossoms and fruitage, through Uncompaghre, around Hair-Pin Curve, with the Fossil range to our right, by Juniata Hot Springs, and at length arrive at Gunnison. We are now in the midst of the most magnificent mountain scenery, and in the heart of a great mining country, where there is bustle above ground and activity and visions of amazing wealth underneath. The town is at an elevation of more than 7,000 feet, but many peaks rise high above it, from which extensive views may be had of the Elk Mountain, San Juan and Uncompaghre ranges, while to the southwest a beautiful valley stretches away to mark the devious path of the Gunnison River.
VALLEY OF THE GUNNISON, NEAR SAPINERO.
THE LOOP NEAR GEORGETOWN.
Having taken many views of this famous region, we turned back again to Denver, and from that point of radiation started for North Park. Our route was by way of Boulder, at which place we took the narrow-gauge road for Fort Collins. A few miles from Boulder is Boulder Cañon, a stupendous mountain gorge seventeen miles long, and in places the walls rise to almost the incredible height of 3,000 feet. The falls of Boulder Creek are not without interest, but the mightiness and awful grandeur of the granite cañon weighs so heavily upon the startled perceptions of the spectator, that even the roar of water-fall is scarcely heard, all the five senses being concentrated in that of sight. The eye is set to climbing these terrific precipices of stone; up, up, from niche to niche, from wave upon wave of dizzy height, until it rests upon a world on high that seems to lift its parapets to the sky and bathe its brow in the azure of the heavens. Can it be that the little stream that runs complaining along the ravine has eroded this mighty fissure? No, not this alone, for water has been no more than a servant of other greater forces that have torn the earth into clefts and upheavals. Bursting volcano, denuding glacier, devastating deluge, and cooling fires of internal furnaces that brought a collapse of the earth crust, have all been agencies in this work of mighty disturbance.
MARY LAKE AND LONG’S PEAK, ESTES PARK.
ENTRANCE TO ESTES PARK, FROM ROCKY POINT.
HIGH LINE CANAL, SILVER FLUME AND PLATTE RIVER.
The temptation is very great to step aside into Estes Park, and explore Long’s Peak, which, though thirty-six miles distant, looms up in the clear atmosphere like a frosty-crowned giant almost near enough to speak to. But the rest of our party have preceded us and are no doubt in need of photographic supplies, so we hurry on, pausing only long enough to take a snap-shot at Boulder Falls. Reaching Fort Collins, we had the good fortune to find the others of our party awaiting us. They had made an extensive trip through Estes Park, and had a splendid lot of views as a reward for their labors. It was fortunate, therefore, that we did not stop, for we could have done no more than duplicate their work, and repeated the experiences which they reported to me substantially as follows:
After dividing our party, as already explained, two of our photographers followed the Colorado Central Branch of the Union Pacific to Loveland, at which place they side-tracked our camera car, and having made preparations for the trip, started west to make a tour of Estes Park, their principal objective point being Long’s Peak. The park is conveniently reached by a daily stage-line, which travels over a good road and, with the exception of a few miles of level plains, traverses a picturesque region, with mountains sweeping every side, the monotony of which is relieved by many lakes, thirty-five of which may be seen from a single station, scattered over the plain and bathing the foot-hills. The road leads up Bald Mountain and Pole Hill to an elevation that brings into view the valleys of three rivers, and from Park Hill the whole entrancing scenery of Estes Park, probably the finest in Colorado, is spread out in one unbroken and bewildering panorama of astounding beauty. It is not all a vision of primeval nature, for the vast table-land is abloom with fields of husbandry, and immense herds of cattle give animation to the seemingly boundless pasturage.
From Ferguson’s ranch there is a lovely prospect of Mummy range, with its conspicuous peaks, aglow with the soft colors of sunset in the evening, and mist-crowned in the early hours of the day. On the west are the Front and Rabbit Ear ranges, whose inaccessible heights run up so sharply to where storms have their breeding places, that they are browned by exposure and look inexpressibly bleak. Here, on these wild peaks, safe from human foes, bear and mountain sheep have their habitations, and the caterwaul of the puma rings out upon the air of lofty desolation as a warning to those who would attempt to gain their savage haunts.
DOME ROCK, BOULDER CAÑON.
Long’s Peak is hardly more than a half-dozen miles from Table Mountain, measured by a straight line, but to pass from one to the other is very difficult, except by a long detour, so that the open route is by way of Loveland to Ferguson’s ranch, which is near the base of Long’s Peak, and from which point the ascent is best made. The east side of the mountain is precipitous and hence inaccessible; viewed from this side the peak appears so lofty as to almost fade into the cerulean of sky depths, and for this reason it has been not inaptly called the American Matterhorn. Its apex, seen from below, bears a striking similitude to an impregnable citadel surrounded by giant ramparts.
The road from Ferguson’s passes Mary’s Lake, a lovely body of water, thence over a hill to a forest that is begirt by Lily Mountain with its monster cliffs impending from a height of 11,500 feet above sea-level. The ascent may be made by horses as far as what is known as “Boulder Field,” but from that point foot climbing is necessary. To secure the finest view, a place called the “Key-hole” must be gained, and it is not reached without great exertion of muscle and careful equilibrium while passing along the ledges, since a false step may be attended by serious result. Having reached the Key-hole, the sight that rewards the climber is sublimely grand, for he is brought to face a vertical wall of sheer 2,000 feet, extending up to within what appears to be one or two hundred feet of the apex. The altitude is so great that a finer prospect, perhaps, never greeted human vision, for the world seems to be spread out for examination. A little higher up the scene changes, but is scarcely so beautiful, for every additional foot taken upward increases the indistinctness of the valley below and the mountain scenery in the distance. But by the aid of a field-glass we make out Big Thompson River, Boulder Cañon, and some remarkable columnar cliffs that exhibit fantastic shapes, sculptured by the erratic hand of nature. Mountains appear like legions to the right, to the left, upon all sides, but we are now above them all, and towards the southeast, sixty miles away, we see a smoke-cloud that has formed from the Denver Smelters. Still further southward are visible the hazy heads of Pike’s Peak and its twin brother, Cheyenne Mountain, while a hundred miles north are dimly distinguishable the range of bluffs east of the city of Cheyenne.
After gaining the summit our party had a still better view, for a bright sun had now come out from behind clouds that had before obscured his rays, and so completely dissipated the misty atmosphere that the panorama was greatly increased. They were lifted so far above the Front range that beyond the divide there broke into view, in the far southwest, the Mount of the Holy Cross, while beside it were the very pale outlines of Jackson Peak, the two almost blending into one.
BOULDER FALLS.
As they descended on the northeastern side, suddenly their sight was arrested by a lake slumbering in a little basin that had been scooped out of the granite sides of the mountain. It is almost immediately under the vertical cliffs, and so clear that the observer seems to look through it, as he would through a looking-glass, upon great walls which appear below, but are in reality reflections of the precipice examined when making the ascent. Lily Mountain was in bold outline on the right, where reposed another lake of somewhat greater size, whose water appeared to feed a stream that ran gamboling down a deep gorge into the plain which it nourished.
On every side there were evidences of glacial erosion, not only in the form of bowlders and debris, but in lateral moraines, where the glacier had left deposits, and in gorges where great granite blocks had been tumbled, over which in places the water cantered and fell in beautiful sheets. In one place, towards the base, were found many small aspen trees cut down, and most frequently the trunks were divested of their bark, and the tender limbs were missing. Investigating the cause, it was directly discovered to be the work of beavers, several of whose dams were perceived in a creek that ran through a beautiful meadow land, but no one of the party was able to catch sight of the wary animals.
Our party being satisfied with their trip in the park, and especially with the ascent of Long’s Peak, where they had secured more than a score of magnificent photographic views, returned to Loveland to be rejoined by at Fort Collins, as will be presently described.
MOUNTAIN OF THE HOLY CROSS, COLORADO.
GRAYMONT MOUNTAIN, MIDDLE PARK.
We tarried a short while at Fort Collins, then set off for Mason City, eighty miles distant, the road to which leads through the world-famous Cache La Poudre (Powder River) region. After leaving the south fork of this stream we passed Monitor Peak, crossed the Big Laramie, and brought up at Medicine Bow range. North Park proper lies west of the range, but the physical features of the immediately eastern district are almost identical, and to traverse the whole would have required more than a month. The park is an elevated plain 9,000 feet above sea level, and embraces an area of about 2,500 square miles. Properly speaking, it is a fertile valley enclosed by spurs and branches of the Rocky Mountains, and is so seldom visited that there are as yet no resorts for travelers, and the stage is a poor reliance for reaching the most interesting districts. We also experienced insurmountable obstacles, which compelled us to abandon our purpose of making a tour of the park. The only possible way of going through the district and to chief points of photographic interest (pardon the expression) would have been by horses, and these were not procurable because the country is devoid of settlements; besides, we were unprovided with camp equipment. We saw the mountains rising on every side into jagged spires, and occasional lakes nestling on their bosoms, but they were inaccessible to us, and after making so long a journey we were compelled to return without accomplishing anything worthy to be narrated. Photographs of some mineral springs bubbling up icy-cold in stony basins, wide stretches of landscape, hemmed in by a wall of mountains, and some fine views of scenery along the Cache La Poudre, was all the reward we had for days of uncomfortable traveling, much of which was done on foot, and on horses borrowed for short tours. We traversed enough of the district, however, to satisfy us of its beauty and fertility, and that the region was a vast game park, in which mountain sheep, bear, deer, pumas were numerous, and ptarmigan abundant. We caught sight of several wild sheep and had a far-away (not too far) look at a cinnamon, or grizzly bear, we were not able to positively decide which, and not being equipped for entertaining game of that character were indisposed to permit curiosity to supersede judgment.
Returning to Fort Collins, we retraced our route to Longmount, from which point we determined to visit Table Mountain, near by, and Mount Hallett, a little further towards the west. To carry this decision into effect it was necessary to make some provision for conveyance and camping, as the mountain cannot be explored in a day, and a few evenings must be spent in camp in order to do the work satisfactorily. Fortunately, supplies are easy to procure, and being fully provided, we set out a merry party on a pleasant errand. We reached the foot of Table Mountain towards the close of the day, and went into camp beside a beautiful little stream that had its source somewhere up the gorge that cleft one side of the mountain. At this point we were also able to take some pretty views of the imposing scenery by which we were surrounded.
SADDLE ROCK, AT THE SUMMIT OF THE PASS.
WITHIN THE GATES, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
Near noon of the following day we accomplished the ascent, and from that vantage point surveyed a scene of bewildering grandeur. The wind, however, blew a gale that made our position extremely uncomfortable, and one of our party lost his hat, that was borne away and dropped into an abyss of almost measureless depth. There were mountains to the west that seemed to hang on the edge of the horizon, and down, far down, below us was an immense expanse of bowlders that had evidently once been the sport of a glacier. Indeed, the glacier was still there, a great solid field of compacted snow that at midday hugged the shadow side of the mountain, but was evidently moving gradually, imperceptibly, towards the gorge. Water was pouring from the base and forming waterfalls, cascades and swift streams, showing that heat radiation from the earth was melting the glacier more rapidly than the sun’s rays. The effect was extremely beautiful, for the afternoon sun was changing the edges of the snow-pack into beautiful reflections of aqua-marine, and waves of light shimmered above the glacier that made the ice coverlet scintillant with color.
TORREY’S PEAK, MIDDLE PARK, COLORADO.
Table Mountain is a truncated cone, from which fact it takes its name; but it is deeply fissured on every side, and on the west side there is an appalling gorge, over the edges of which, in places, colossal sheets of ice impend, vast ledges they appear, threatening the vegetation far down below, and rendering traveling along the slopes very dangerous. Having photographed Table Mountain and the fine scenery that is tributary, we descended and passed over to Mount Hallett, where we were delighted to find views of yet greater grandeur. The way to this mount is necessarily over Table Mountain and into Estes Park, the solid ramparts of rocks which surround the park, as far as Willow Cañon, preventing the access of pack animals.
Gaining the base of Table Mountain, we followed up Timber Creek over a natural roadway until the foot of Hallett was reached. The way was easy and pleasant, being level and almost floored with moss and flowers, while many species of birds flitted across our path, and in and out through the trees and bushes, with voices of tuneful glee.
As we ascended the mountain on the northeastern side, a magnificent view was presented down a deep gorge. A little higher up, and as we veered towards the west, we saw, a thousand feet below us, a deep, dark lake whose sides were walled, giving to it the appearance of a crater that had now become a lake basin. Still further up the steep, in a ravine, was another lake, the edges of which served to mark both the timber and snow line. Away off in the southeast was Long’s Peak, frowning in bleak desolation above a lake that hugged its feet. On every side the scenery was ruggedly sublime, while immediately at our right was a great chasm with a vertical wall of stone fully one thousand feet high.
THE GREAT WESTWARD FLOOD OF EMIGRATION—CROSSING THE PLATTE RIVER IN 1868 (from a painting).
The timber was now below us, and our horses picked their way over an indistinct trail through patches of snow. Occasionally, there were suspicious places, where the snow was deeply impacted, which might conceal a treacherous way, a chasm bridged with nothing more substantial than cakes of ice. Yet, on this lonesome mountain, chilled by perpetually arctic winds, swathed by eternal snows, and covered by giant bowlders that menaced everything by their apparent instability, there was no scarcity of animal life. The mountain rat, chipmunk, woodchuck, Rocky Mountain sheep and a few lions make this uninviting region their haunt, while ptarmigan, or mountain grouse, are fairly plentiful. One enthusiastic photographer who climbed Hallett some years before, claimed to have found a herd of mountain sheep so tame that he was able to take their pictures, but none of us had such good fortune.
FREMONT’S PASS, NORTH PARK.
At one point of the elevation we had an enrapturing view of Middle Park and Grand Lake, whose waters looked like a vast sea of quicksilver, on which the sunlight danced in a glorious reflection. North Park might have been also visible from this same lofty point of observation but for the intervention of Mummy Mountain, the monumental mark of Medicine Bow range, far to the northwest, too distant for our cameras to reproduce the view with satisfaction.
Our visits to Table Mountain and Mount Hallett had proven so delightful that our previously contemplated trip to Middle Park was now undertaken with the most pleasant anticipations. Returning to Longmont, we proceeded over the Union Pacific to Sunset, an arm of the road that stretches out into the Front range until it fairly grasps the beautiful scenery of that marvelously grand region. Georgetown would have been a more convenient point of departure for Midland Park, but we chose to avoid staging, and by means of pack animals to reach the park by the quickest, even though it was a more troublesome, route. Middle Park is separated from North Park by an east and west sweep of the great Continental Divide, and like its northern sister is completely encircled by lofty mountains, whose sentinels are Long’s Peak, Gray’s Peak and Mount Lincoln, with elevations above sea level of respectively 14,500, 14,200 and 14,300 feet. The elevation of the park itself is about 7,500 feet, and its area some 3,000 square miles, or about one-third less than the State of Connecticut. It is drained principally by the Blue and Grand Rivers, whose waters flow generally through smiling meadows until they escape from the park. We traveled by horse through Berthoud Pass to Hot Sulphur Springs, which is on a small tributary of Grand River, and only about twelve miles from the south boundary of the park. From this point we went to Grand Lake, the beautiful body of water that we had seen from the heights of Mount Hallett. If the scene was grand when viewed from that distant elevation, it was sublimely picturesque when we reached its shores. The western shore line of the lake washes the vertical base of towering mountains, which enclose it on three sides, and throw their giant shadows into its pellucid depths, where reflections of brown peaks mingle with the beautiful green of tall tufted pines. Its bed appears to be a glacier basin, for all about are cliffs that bear distinct marks of an ice deluge that thousands of years ago, perhaps, invaded this retreat of nature and tore asunder the earth, ground its way through stone, scoured the face of the mountains, and scooped a depression in the plain.
DODGE’S BLUFF, CAÑON OF GRAND RIVER.
GRAND LAKE, MIDDLE PARK.
Strange it is that near the shores of this lake the water is singularly crystalline, while towards the center it is dark as midnight. The lake is also a treacherous body, subject to appalling disturbments from inrushing storms that first gather on the surrounding peaks and then swoop down to break with sudden and appalling force upon its expansive bosom. No wonder that from time immemorial, the Ute Indians have regarded the lake with superstitious fears, and tell ghostly stories of its treachery. Upon one occasion, as an old Indian related, a band of Utes were encamped upon its shores, pleasantly and profitably engaged in trout fishing. They had their women and children with them, and having prepared for a stay of some weeks, they had rafts made of pine logs, and it was from these they did their fishing. While thus engaged they were attacked by a war party of Arrapahoes, their implacable enemies. The Utes committed their wives and children to the rafts, which they pushed far out into the lake, and then engaged with their ferocious adversaries, whom, after a desperate battle, they repulsed. During the fight, however, a storm arose on the lake, which quickly lashed the water into such fury that the piercing cries of the helpless women and children were scarcely audible above the breaking waves and screech of savage wind. When the Utes turned from pursuing their enemies, they saw that a more dangerous foe had attacked their helpless ones. The rafts were quickly broken up by wild surges of the infuriated lake, and every woman and child was swallowed up. The Indians, whose minds are peculiarly susceptible to impressions of a supernatural character, were prompt to attribute the calamity to a manifestation of the Great Spirit’s anger, and since that fatal event they have regarded the lake as being the haunt of water demons, and no Indian has since that calamitous incident dared to venture upon its bosom.
From Grand Lake we followed its outlet some twenty miles south, and entered a beautiful valley of Grand River, where the grass was long and green, the sky a beautiful indigo-blue, and the mountain scenery around us was magnificent. A marvelously clear atmosphere made the distance deceptive, so that peaks which were fifty miles away appeared to be scarcely five. From one point of observation we swept the ragged horizon with our enraptured eyes, and plainly perceived a battalion of well-known mountains that locked their massive arms around Middle Park like loving guardsmen. Roundtop lifted its head to gaze into the mysterious depths of Grand Lake; and far beyond, Long’s Peak, the great gray sentinel of Estes Park, loomed up like a cloud gathering inspiration from the heavens. A little to the right, Elk Mountain projects its snowy cap far into the sky and looks up into the face of its taller kinsmen. Following the waving lines of peak upon peak, our eyes caught sight of a pass through which a river had found its way, and behind the interval were the faded fronts of Medicine Bow range. A little further to the left there is another rent in the continuity of mountains, which closer inspection discovers to us is Gore’s Cañon of Grand River, where it leaves the park through a fissure made in the eruptive rocks quite three miles long, and in places nearly 2,000 feet deep. So perpendicular are these cliffs that a person standing upon the dizzy brink may drop a stone into the rushing river below.
GORE’S CAÑON, MIDDLE PARK.
If we look towards the southeast, across a stretch of sage-brush, we see the peak of heroic Powell, the most majestic elevation in the Park range, singular not only by reason of its cloud-piercing height, but also because it looks through the hazy distance like a mountain of sapphire, while behind it are lofty stretches of peaks with straggling locks of white, where snow has gathered in the wrinkles of their cheeks.
Our rambles through Middle Park had been so pleasant that it was with some reluctance we turned our steps eastward again, to pursue the work of photographing scenery in more southerly fields. We reached Sunset after an absence of twelve days, and were soon after switched on to the North Branch of the Union Pacific for Denver. Thence, our route was south to Colorado Springs and Manitou, where, as the following chapter will show, we repeated our delightful experiences in Middle Park, and saw even greater wonders.
IN THE CAÑON OF GRAND RIVER, COLORADO.
CHAPTER II.
MANITOU, THE MIGHTY!
THE SEAL AND BEAR, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
The glory of Colorado, in the splendor of its waterfalls, the awesomeness of its mountains, the wealth of its mines, and the picturesqueness of its natural parks, is by no means confined to those Rocky Mountain districts which we have just pictured and described, for greater marvels remain to be spoken of, and pictorially represented. Returning to Denver, our tour took us southward, across a plain that hugs the gnarled bosom of the Continental Divide, by the pearl of Palmer Lake, and on to Colorado Springs and Manitou, the twin cities that sit at the feet of Pike’s Peak. Here we are compelled to pause in a spell of mighty wonderment before the amazing prodigies of a riotously eccentric nature, that bursts into an exuberance of dashing cascades, top-lofty mountains, darkling cañons, gruesome formations, monolithic spires, babbling brooks and magnetic springs. Here are God’s acres of tumultuous stone, grand, amazing, chaotic, aberrant; a pantheon of forces, a Jovian council, a mythologic assemblage that sits like a Sanhedrim on the issues of Titanic upheaval, erosion, conglomeration and elemental disturbance. There, rising like a giant specter above its lesser brothers, and dipping its hoary head into the milky baldric of the heavens, stands Pike’s Peak, the grand old sentinel of millenniums, with sides gashed by tumbling cataracts and yellow with quivering leaves of the frosted aspen. So lofty that the stars can almost whisper to it, and the clouds, when tired of sailing through the sky, circle and settle upon its peak, while eternal night sleeps undisturbed, save by the lion’s call, in the deep gorges that split its base.
The first white man who caught sight of this towering mountain was Lieutenant Zebulon Pike, who was sent out by the Government in the year 1806 to make an exploration of the Territory of Louisiana and the Provinces of New Spain, a district now characterized as the great Southwest. From his diary of Saturday, November 15th, 1806, we quote the description of his discovery:
THE STALACTITE ORGAN, GRAND CAVERNS.
“Passed two deep creeks, and many high points of rocks; also large herds of buffaloes. At two o’clock in the afternoon I thought I could distinguish a mountain to our right, which appeared like a small blue cloud; viewed it with the spy-glass and was still more confirmed in my conjecture, and in half an hour it appeared in full view before us. When our small party arrived on the hill, they with one accord gave three cheers to the Mexican Mountains.”
On the 26th, following, this intrepid explorer attempted an ascent of Cheyenne Mountain, ten miles to the east of Pike’s Peak, from which to make an observation of the more lofty eminence, which he thus describes:
“Expecting to return to our camp that evening, we left all our blankets and provisions at the foot of the mountain, killed a deer of a new species, and hung its skin on a tree with some meat. We commenced ascending; found the way very difficult, being obliged to climb up rocks sometimes almost perpendicular; and after marching all day we encamped in a cave without blankets, victuals or water. We had a fine clear sky while it was snowing at the bottom. On the side of the mountain we found only yellow and pitch pine; some distance up we saw buffalo, and higher still, the new species of deer and pheasants.
“Thursday, 27th November.—Arose hungry, thirsty, and extremely sore, from the uneveness of the rocks on which we had lain all night; but we were amply compensated for our toil by the sublimity of the prospect below. The unbounded prairie was overhung with clouds, which appeared like the ocean in a storm, wave piled on wave, and foaming, whilst the sky over our heads was perfectly clear. Commenced our march up the mountain and in about an hour arrived at the summit of this chain; here we found the snow middle-deep, and discovered no sign of bird or beast inhabiting this region. The thermometer, which stood at nine degrees above zero at the foot of the mountain, here fell to four degrees below. The summit of the Grand Peak, which was entirely bare of vegetation, and covered with snow, now appeared at the distance of fifteen or sixteen miles from us, and as high again as we had ascended. It would have taken a whole day’s march to have arrived at its base, whence I believe no human being could have ascended to its summit. * * * * The clouds from below had now ascended the mountain, and entirely enveloped the summit, on which rest eternal snows.”
CATHEDRAL SPIRES, GARDEN OF THE GODS, COLORADO.
JUMBO TUNNEL, GRAND CAVERNS.
Being convinced in his own mind of its inaccessibility, Lieutenant Pike contented himself with the above brief notes in his diary, little thinking that his name would become perpetuated in the discovery, and that for all the ages thereafter Pike’s Peak would be one of the most famous of American mounts.
Not again was the lonely desolation of the mountain, or the marvelous scenery about its base, disturbed by the invasion of explorers until, forty-one years later, Geo. F. Ruxton came as a hunter to view its grandeur and make his camp within its game-haunted shadows. Soon afterwards gold was discovered in the vicinity, and then quickly followed a rush of adventurers whose hardy spirit accomplished that which Pike was fearful to undertake. An ascent of the peak was now made and the altitude ascertained to be 14,174 feet above the sea level.
Simultaneously, through the exploration of industrious prospectors, all the many amazingly curious formations which now render the region one of incomparable natural marvels were discovered, and the settlements of Manitou and Colorado Springs were presently made.
Pike’s Peak has been, since the time of Ruxton’s ascent, an object of great interest to travelers, and as early as 1852 a rough foot-trail was established to the summit, which was greatly improved twenty years later so as to admit the passage of vehicles. In the meantime, the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs had grown steadily and the number of visitors increased until some one conceived the idea of constructing a railroad from the base to the summit. This idea was seized upon by some eastern capitalists in 1884, and a large capital being subscribed for the purpose, the work of building this unique road was begun. The original company, however, met with difficulties which they were unable to overcome for lack of capital, and in 1888 a second organization, under the title of Manitou & Pike’s Peak Railway Company, succeeded the first corporation, and adopting what is known as the Abt Cog-wheel System of Mountain Climbing, renewed the work thus interrupted. As the higher altitudes were reached the air became so rare that labor was extremely difficult, so that the strongest men were unable to exert themselves for more than a few minutes at a time. In place of wagons burros were employed to carry on their sturdy little backs all the needful materials of ties, rails, tools and spikes, up the steep mountain side, and without them the obstacles would have been insuperable. But thus the work went on until the 20th of October, 1890, when the last spike was driven and the highest railroad in the world received its finishing stroke. Special locomotives and cars were built and by the use of cog-wheels the pinnacle of Pike’s Peak was thereafter to be gained comfortably, if not swiftly. The length of the road leading to the summit is nine and one-quarter miles, and at times the grade seems positively appalling (being 25 per cent.) as the noisily-laboring engine pushes the passenger coach up the devious way, over great bowlders that have been flung down by some Titan from immense heights above; under overhanging brows of threatening cathedrals of stone; over mad-dashing waterfalls; through ever-green forests of silver pines, then into groves of dwarf aspens, until at length the route reaches up and on above the timber line. The steepness of the way still continues, but there are no longer abutting rocks, nor rush of water; the mountain now becomes a measureless pile of broken stones, between which the chipmunk and woodchuck play hide and seek; mists of clouds begin to gather, the snow line shows itself beyond the breath of summer, and a cold wind rushes around the peak making sport of the enterprise that invaded their frigid solitude.
THE CARRIAGE ROAD UP PIKE’S PEAK.—Since the completion of the cog-wheel railway to the summit of Pike’s Peak, the older carriage road is not so much used as in former times; yet it is still preferred by many tourists who travel for pleasure or to gratify their love for the grand and the beautiful in nature. Those who have the time to adopt this slower method of climbing the mountain will be richly repaid for their trouble in the glorious view that bursts upon them at every turn of the winding way. A journey over this carriage road, either up or down, is an event to be remembered throughout the remainder of one’s lifetime.
TEMPLE OF ISIS, WILLIAM’S CAÑON.
After two hours of pushing and climbing the train ceases its deep respirations and stands seemingly exhausted before the stone observatory that crowns the peak. Ah, now what a view, when the clouds pass away and the sun bathes with golden splendor the panorama that lies in the greater charm of indistinctness many leagues below! Towards the west and south and north is a mighty army of mountains, in companies and battalions, bold, rugged, majestic; always standing in review before the Captain and Creator of worlds who seems to have halted His regiment for inspection before an impending battle; while away towards the east spreads the fading prairies, losing themselves in the horizon; and down below, in a long stretch of landscape, is Colorado Springs, with its intersecting streets looking like a corn-field, and its smoke-stacks like scare-crows.
At other times a terrible snow-storm may be raging on the peak, while summer sunshine bathes the plains below; or, standing under the arch of a clear sky, the summit visitor may see the rolling clouds gathering into scrolls of darkness, and the livid lightning running through the storm that is breaking in torrential rain away down the mountain side. So that winter and summer, storm and sunshine, have their eternal meeting place on the age-swept breast of this giant peak, and at this trysting place of the extreme seasons is one of the most beautiful lakes that ever nestled in the bosom of a mountain.
THE JAWS OF CLEAR CREEK CAÑON.
WILLIAMS CAÑON, NEAR THE CAVE OF THE WINDS.
PILLAR OF JUPITER, WILLIAM’S CAÑON.
One of the most picturesque, grand and charming routes in the world is Ute Pass, which starts out of Manitou and climbs around mountains, through cañons, and emerges into a roadway that leads direct to Leadville. The most beautiful section of this pass, however, is in sight of Manitou, where it rises with bold precipitation around the mountain side and passes Rainbow Falls, which has a perpendicular descent of seventy-five feet, and looks down into Cascade Cañon, that is weirdly wild and awesomely imposing. The beauty of the pass is not more in the rugged margin, bordered with precipice and waterfall, than in the marvelous coloring of the roadway and abutting rocks of sandstone which at a distance appear like the petrified primaries of the rainbow wrapped around the mountain.
As the road winds upward a mile from Manitou, a branch strikes off from Ute Pass, and continuing another half mile around and up the mountain the visitor finds the way abruptly terminated by the entrance to a giant cave known as the Grand Caverns. Like most places to which visitors are attracted by flamboyant advertisements, these caves are not so wonderful as they have been represented, yet they possess considerable interest. The corridors are spacious and comparatively level, with here and there formations of stalactites and stalagmites of considerable beauty, though never large. Each compartment has been given a romantic and attractive name intended to increase the imagination, and give support to the marvelous tales with which guides entertain visitors, such as Canopy Avenue, Alabaster Hall, Stalactite Hall, Opera House, Concert Hall, Jewel Casket, Bridal Chamber, etc. The one principal object of interest in the Grand Caverns—a curiosity indeed—is what has been denominated the “Grand Pipe Organ of Musical Stalactites,” a formation which gives forth a great variety of sounds, capable, under the skilful touch of a player, of producing really ear-entrancing music. An “organist” is employed to entertain visitors by performing many familiar instrumental pieces, which, emanating from such a strange instrument, and echoing through the torch-lighted chambers of the grotto, produce a charming effect not easily forgotten.
In another compartment, particularly dark, if not noisome, and partitioned off by a grating to prevent profanation, are deposited some very ancient skeletons, which are said to have been found inurned here by the original cave discoverer in 1881. The photographer, by a trick, has pictured these bones as gigantic in size, whereas in fact they are slightly smaller than those of modern men.
TRIPLE FALLS, CHEYENNE CAÑON, COLORADO.—It would be exceedingly difficult to find a more gloriously beautiful scene than the one depicted by the photograph on this page. The pleasure of beholding it is also greatly increased by the assurance that it is absolutely true to nature, for the camera cannot misrepresent. Cheyenne Cañon is one of the wrinkles that sears the face of Cheyenne Mountain, some five or six miles east of Pike’s Peak, and both cañon and mountain are even more celebrated than their famous neighbor for the wildness and picturesque beauty of their scenery. This region is the Switzerland of America, except that its scenery surpasses that of Switzerland in the same proportion that America is larger and grander than the sturdy little republic of the Alps.
A half-mile further around the mountain, towards William’s Cañon, and approached by a long stair-way that leads down to a dusky, rock-hewn platform, is the entrance to the “Cave-of-the-Winds,” as unforbidding a place as Mephistopheles himself could choose for his abode. This cave is nothing more than a tunnel, too narrow to admit the passage of a fat man without squeezing, and with ceilings so low as to compel a person of ordinary height to keep a stooped position. It is up and down steep stair-ways, across chasms of uncertain depths, and over obstructions which are quite enough to exhaust the visitor before half the cavern is traversed. The stalactites that are found here are very small, but often clustered in resemblance of chrysanthemums and other composite plants. Like the Grand Caverns, every little chamber in the Cave-of-the-Winds is designated by some curious or charm-impelling name, such as Cascade Hall, Canopy Hall, Boston Avenue, Diamond Hall, Hall of Beauty, Dante’s Inferno, Crystal Palace, etc.; while the coral-like stalagmites are represented by the tricky photographer as being of imposing size and bewildering splendor.
ANVIL ROCK, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
Emerging from the stifling, half-artificial Cave-of-the-Winds, and passing down the hill a few yards, a magnificent view of William’s Cañon bursts upon the enraptured vision of the spectator, the contrast from the dismal and disappointing cave lending additional sublimity to the scene. The south entrance to this herculean gorge is within a short walk of Manitou, and at the very door-way the walls rise up perpendicularly to a stupendous height and in fantastic forms that positively bewilder with a grandeur and beauty almost unexcelled by any scenery in the world. This gigantic gash in the mountain is evidently the effect of erosion, the result of a rushing torrent that drove down for centuries through the pass until it wore out a bed hundreds of feet deep and then found other outlet, or became absorbed in the process of drying-up which the world is undergoing. High upon the sides of this wondrous channel may be seen the distinct markings of glacial drift in deposits of shell-fish and bowlders, while in the bed there are fragments of tufa, betraying the action of volcanic fires which burned out ages upon ages ago.
Two miles north of Manitou, and reached by a perfect roadway, over which carriage driving is a supreme pleasure, is the gate-way to that chaotically curious and fantastically marvelous district known as the Garden of the Gods. I know not who gave name to this region of grotesque formations, but its appropriateness lends belief that it was christened by one who had in mind the heroes of some eastern mythology, the Assyrian or Chinese, or the witchcrafts of the Samians. The Greeks, the Romans, and Egyptians conceived their gods as physically perfect, symmetrically beautiful; the idols of these people could never have suggested the wild, distorted, conglomerate forms that are marshalled in this garden of sweet confusion. Yet, the Greeks personified evil in horrid forms, and we have here their conception of deep iniquity done in nature’s sculpturings.
RAINBOW FALLS, UTE PASS.—Winding its serpentine way up the side of the mountain to the right of Pike’s Peak, is Ute Pass, along which a carriage-way has been made. The scenery is incomparably grand and beautiful. The pass has been cut in the side of the mountain by centuries of washings from the little stream that seeks its level by this course, breaking into numerous waterfalls and lending an additional charm to the picturesque surroundings by the music of its rushing waters. Rainbow Falls, so splendidly reproduced on this page, is one of the most celebrated and inspiring of the numerous cataracts to be found in this locality.
TOWER OF BABEL, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
The old legends tell us of the Sabbat, a nocturnal assembly at which demons and sorcerers celebrated their revels, and to the imaginative mind, stored with remembrances of the tales wherein are described the riot of nameless things and loathsomely fearful personages around the throne of Satan, it is easy to fancy this spot as the assembling place, and the strange forms of stone, that sit like dumb monstrosities waiting the call of a master, as the bodies of maleficent devils petrified in the very midst of their orgies. There on that mound squats old Sagittary, the man-beast who shot arrows of lightning from his bow, until he was struck down by a bolt of his own forging. A little beyond is the foul witch Sycorax, the dam of Caliban, whose raven wings shelter a demoniac progeny. In that depression, which looks afar like a seething quagmire, sits Abaddon, the promoter of wars, combustions and plagues, his face awry with fretful anxiety to renew his course of destruction. Behind a mound, that may well be called a breastwork, stand Ægæon, Cottus and Gyges, the brother triplets, each with a hundred arms and fifty heads, who made war upon the Titans and then stormed Olympus with stones plucked from the core of Ætna. Still further up the hillside, protruding from a gash in the side of a giant bowlder of red sandstone, is the distorted face of Hagen, that demon dwarf of a single eye, whose devilish claws tore out the heart of Siegfried. Everywhere, to the right and left, are these garish and ghastly remembrancers of the tales that make children crouch closer to grandmother’s knees, and people the darkness with forms infuriate. But the comical side is not wanting; for nature is protean in this godless garden of quaint conceits done in stone. If we have cause to laugh, it is at the Brobdingnagian frog that we see to the left of the door of the garden, sitting beneath a mushroom, with his gaze towards the mountain. But there is a whole settlement of giant fungi, each capable of giving shelter to a pond-full of modern-day frogs; and we can only explain the absence of other representatives of the croaking batrachia by the possibility that the one who has his home under the petrified umbrella was a political boss in his time and compelled all his followers to remain out in the rain when the big wet spell set in. On the first rock that we pass as we enter the garden, is the perfect outline of a stag’s head, with antlers laid back and nose high, as if startled by the sudden baying of the hounds; while a few yards within the entrance is a huge stone of two hundred tons weight perched like a spinning top upon the shoulder of another, so nicely balanced that every wind seems to threaten its stability, and yet centuries have failed to disturb its equilibrium. Still further on, and to the left, are to be seen a duck complete in all its outlines, and as demure as though she was hatching a brood. Then in succession is shown an alligator stretched out at full length, taking a siesta as natural as though it had life. Next in this procession of statuary wonders are Punch and Judy, peaceful folks in vermilion raiment, with faces full of righteous satisfaction, as if they were on their way to church. Punch’s cap is a little the worse for the long service it has seen, and Judy has a rent in her gown, but they affect no false pride and are evidently content with their fortune. Why should they not be happy, when within a few yards of them there is a poor old washer-woman bending over a tub, and a child tugging at her skirts? Certainly by contrast their lot is infinitely more bearable. And the washer-woman has been at her hard task as long as Punch and Judy have been on their way to the meeting house.
OBSERVATORY ON THE SUMMIT OF PIKE’S PEAK.—The Observatory is built of stones collected from the immediate vicinity. It occupies the highest point on the mountain, and was erected by the Government as a home for the officers who are employed in taking meteorological observations. It is a stormy region, and a place of unrest. Many tourists assert that snow falls here every day in the year, but while this is not literally true it is always cold enough to snow, even when the valleys at the foot of the mountains are sweltering in an August sun. The altitude is so great that tourists frequently faint before reaching the top, and in other instances blood is forced from the nostrils and mouth by the terrible pressure of the atmosphere.
UTE PASS, NEAR MANITOU.
As we advance further into this museum of wonders, and turn our eyes away from the imps, reptiles and broad-smiling people of stone, our gaze is arrested by still stranger freaks of nature. There, before us, in awful sublimity, is the red sentinel who guards the north portals of the garden, flanked on either side by cathedrals and fortresses of amazing size, and aflame with brilliant coloring. There are thin slabs of sandstone standing on edge and lifting their heads a hundred feet high, on which the gods or witches have sculptured images of birds, animals, and moving caravans. A herculean lion is crouching on the peak of one, looking towards the north, where a bear and seal are eyeing each other from a lofty perch, uncertain of their safety, and undetermined whether to attack or retreat. Away up on the pinnacle of another peak sits a little old man in a rusty coat, but semi-respectable in a plug hat, very intently contemplating a coach-and-four driven by a pioneer stage engineer muffled to the chin in a shag overcoat, and bowling along over the dangerous comb of the Tower of Babel. Turning to look back, our sight is arrested by the towering form of Pike’s Peak, and a view that is incomparably and overwhelmingly grand.
Leaving the Garden of the Gods, and passing massive hills of gypsum, virgin in their whiteness and soft velvety reflection, the roadway north lies through a large prairie-dog village, where scores of wish-ton-wishes, of Indian name, scamper through the grass and lift themselves into comical postures on their little mounds to watch the carriage roll by. To the left is Glen Eyrie, where a few disaffected gods seem to have started a small, independent park of wonders, chief of which is Major Domo, a monolith of red sandstone thirty feet in circumference and more than one hundred feet tall; a frowning shaft with slightly inclined head, as if threatening the lesser forms about its base.
Five miles still beyond, nature has opened another museum of surprises, which some human invader has named Monument Park, but which might better be called Fiddler’s Green, or the Devil’s Ante-Chamber, for tradition tells us that the former place is located just five miles this side of Hades, and that all fiddlers en route stop there twenty minutes for refreshments. This assembling place of monstrosities; this parliament of satyr, sibyl, succuba and grim-visaged ogres, is rarely visited, not particularly because the sights superinduce nightmare, but probably because it is at the end of a long and dusty way, and the gruesome formations are not numerous. The views which delight those who love to fellowship with the incongruous and distempered products of nature, are pillars of white—almost calcareous—sandstone which the wind and sand have eroded into fantastic and outre shapes, leaving a top layer of dark limestone to complete the multitude of strange images.
GATEWAY TO GARDEN OF THE GODS.—The next best thing to seeing a thing itself is to see its counterpart in a good photograph. Any one who has ever looked at an object through a camera will realize the force of this assertion, for a photograph is a perfect reproduction of the view as it is reflected in the camera. There cannot be any misrepresentation. Hence a good photograph is far more valuable than a painting or a drawing, let the latter be ever so well done, for the best artist that ever lived cannot draw or paint a scene just as nature made it. We see these facts clearly illustrated in this beautiful photograph. Every line, crevice and indentation of the huge rocks is brought out and stamped upon the printed page, while in the distance we observe the snow-covered summit of Pike’s Peak just as thousands of tourists have seen it with their natural vision.
THE DUTCH WEDDING, MONUMENT PARK.
Here we find the Devil’s Anvil, apparently used by his swarthy majesty in the dim ages in fashioning his roasting spits. And near by is a concourse attending what is known as The Dutch Wedding, where all the goodly company are disattired outrageously, for not one has a stitch to his or her back. But they are more decent folks than old Mother Grundy, who stands in a nook to herself, trying to gossip with her shabby surroundings, and looking for all the world like a hag who has lost her teeth through salivation. Not far below her is The Idiot, as repulsive appearing a fellow as ever violated the laws of nature, and who might well be the offspring of a harridan like Mrs. Grundy. But there are other shapes and misshapes scarcely less wonderful; and if the visitor is at all imaginative, they take forms that are variable and astounding. Doré never pictured creatures of his fancy more weird than the wind-sculptures of Monument Park.
Turning back, and passing south of Colorado Springs some four or five miles, we are brought again into the Rocky range and enter at one of the Cheyenne Cañons, between beetling brows of tremendously high cliffs, through which a mad-dashing water-course has eaten its way. Whether we visit North or South Cañon, the view is augustly sublime and awful in its grandeur. We stand in the bed of the gorge and gaze upward on either side to a dizzy height, where the eagles float lazily about, just below the level of the summit, and build their nest upon the breast of the escarpment because the apex is sky-piercing in its loftiness. Yet tumbling down from that great eminence, where the gray spires of the peaks are dwarfed by distance until they grow thin as needles, is a stream of water, fed by springs that lie in the lap of still taller mountains in the rear, rushing in tumultuous flow until it breaks into seven waterfalls, and then checks its pace as it joins the river that runs on to the sea. A stair-way has been built alongside of the falls, by which the visitor may mount to a height of two hundred feet, and then stand upon a platform and watch the play of leaping waterfall as it breaks into rainbows and mist below, and hear its ceaseless song of praise mingling with the echoes that sport between the cañon walls. They who can feel no inspiration under the moving power of Cheyenne Mountain are hopelessly prosaic, who close their ears against the most entrancing hymns of nature.
It is not strange that the simple people who were reared centuries ago in this cradle of natural wonders entertained strange conceptions of the curious formations and mighty mountains that distinguished their surroundings from other places. Indeed, it would be matter for surprise had the primitive tribes of this region left no legends telling how Manitou, the Great Spirit, had upheaved the peaks, fashioned the grotesque images, scooped out the cañons and set his sign of ever-flowing mercy in the welling spring and roaring waterfall.
BALANCED ROCK, GARDEN OF THE GODS.—Balanced Rock is one of the most remarkable curiosities in the Garden of the Gods. It is an immense stone, weighing thousands of tons, balanced upon so small a pedestal that it seems as if the hand of a child could push it over, and yet the winter storms and the summer cyclones have raged around it for centuries without shaking it from its solid bearings. Nature does many things more wonderful than art or ingenuity of man can devise, and this is one of them. If Balanced Rock were the only curiosity in the Garden of the Gods it would be worth a trip there to see it, and as many of us are not able to bear the expense of such a trip it is gratifying to have within our reach, almost without cost, the living image of these wonders of nature.
THE DEVIL’S TOOTH, CHEYENNE CAÑON.
VULCAN’S ANVIL, MONUMENT PARK.
Among the several traditions which are preserved, we have the fragments of the following, which appear to have been left by the Toltecs, who undoubtedly at one time had their dwelling place in the Manitou district: A certain tribe, whose name is forgotten, living somewhere on the great plains towards the east, were driven from their homes by a mighty flood, and hearing that lofty mountains lay several days’ journey towards the setting sun, they fled to these for refuge. Having thus escaped the fury of what they believed was an angry god, and found safety under the benign shadow of Pike’s Peak, they came to regard it as the dwelling place of Manitou, and instituted a form of worship as an evidence of their gratitude. The climate being healthful and the region abounding with game, this tribe prospered and so increased in power that they made war on their less fortunate neighbors and reduced them to slavery. In other ways they so offended Manitou that, having once saved them from a deluge that drowned a large part of the world, he would now punish them with another flood visitation. And so the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain poured down in such volume that the valley was soon overflowed, and the rising waters began to rapidly climb the mountain sides. Perceiving that the deluge was an infliction sent upon them for their sins, the tribe gathered all of their possessions and with them hastened to ascend Pike’s Peak—which no one before had ever attained—to make an offering to the Great Spirit of all that they had, with the hope of propitiating his anger. All the members of the tribe succeeded in reaching the summit, where they prayed so fervently that the heart of Manitou relented and he consented to save the people by admitting them into heaven. But he would receive none of their earthly possessions, and these were accordingly thrown down and in time were changed into stone, so that by the accretion of the burdens thus rejected, the mountain became much higher than nature had formed it. The deluge was finally assuaged by a dragon which Manitou unchained from a huge rock in heaven, where it was kept prisoner, and sent down to drink up all the water. This dragon never came back to heaven, for after abating the flood it was turned into stone and laid on Cheyenne Mountain, where its crocodilian form may still be recognized by an observer stationed at Colorado Springs.
MAJOR DOMO, GLEN EYRIE.
NEEDLE ROCKS, GARDEN OF THE GODS.
The two photographs on this page furnish us additional evidence of the wonders and beauties of the scenic region embraced by the Garden of the Gods and that immediate locality. There is no other place in the world like it. Nature has run riot here in the manufacture of strange and curious things. But the names which have been bestowed by chance upon these curiosities are not always appropriate. Needle Rocks, for instance, hear a much stronger resemblance to the ruins of some ancient cathedral than they do to the useful and pointed instrument whose name has been unadvisedly bestowed upon them. It is quite probable, however, that the bold pioneer who first beheld and named them was more familiar with needles than castles and cathedrals, and we can afford to let the misnomer pass with the assurance that it was given in good faith, and it certainly does not lessen the pleasure of beholding the object.
MEDICINE ROCK, MONUMENT PARK.
In after times, a new tribe came into the valley, and finding it fruitful and inviting, they established their homes and prospered so well that they soon grew mighty. For a long while no people were so grateful and devout, so worshipful and kindly as they; but power always begets arrogance, and in time these favored people became filled with conceit and began to esteem themselves as the equals of Manitou and to defy his power. This so offended the Great Spirit that he sent a mighty host of monsters out of the north to punish the vain bigots who thus contemned him. But some of the priests of the people had remained true in their devotion, and these now interposed with Manitou and made many offerings and sacrifices to appease his wrath. They so far prevailed that many of the people also purged their hearts of all iniquity, and Manitou was propitiated. As the host of monsters came swooping down, like an army of invincible Centaurs, suddenly Pike’s Peak appeared as if on fire, and the face of the Great Spirit was visible above it, shining with a splendor greater than the sun. On the next instant that invading army of satyrs and gorgons was changed to stone, and it is their bodies that stand, and lie, and posture in strange incongruity in the Garden of the Gods, Glen Eyrie, Bear Athol and Fiddler’s Green.
Many other legends are told to account for the singular formations, but none are so old and often repeated as the one here related. The region was certainly regarded by the early people who occupied it as possessing supernatural features, a fact attested not alone by the traditions so carefully preserved, but by rude carvings found on pieces of shale dug up in the valley, and winged images carved from gypsum, which appear to be very crude representations of a conception of preternatural creatures. These relics, however, are very few, and by many are pronounced spurious, so that it would be treading on doubtful ground to attempt to introduce evidence of the faith imposed by the Toltecs in such legends, or how they sought to perpetuate them. It is sufficient, therefore, to accept the curiosities that are in this wonderful garden merely as strange freaks of nature, without considering the tales handed down from a questionable source, pretending to show that the formations are the results of supernatural causes.
THE IDIOT, MONUMENT PARK.
MOTHER GRUNDY, MONUMENT PARK.
PHANTOM FALLS, NORTH CHEYENNE CAÑON.
CASTLE FALLS, NORTH CHEYENNE CAÑON.
HELL GATE, AUSABLE CHASM.
CHAPTER III.
THE GRAND CAÑONS OF WESTERN RIVERS.
CRYSTAL FALLS, CASCADE CAÑON.
Having pretty thoroughly photographed the region roundabout Manitou, we hitched our camera car to a train on the Colorado Midland and started westward for Salt Lake, and to embalm the scenery that lay between. The way led around the base of Pike’s Peak, passed Cascade Cañon, and along Bear Creek, the road doubling upon itself and twisting around in the most tortuous course imaginable in order to get through the mountain defiles. Every foot of the route is grand, for there is no point that does not offer a view of scenic splendors beautiful, awesome and sublime. So rugged, tumultuous and wonderfully aberrant is the way, that the road plunges through no less than eight tunnels in traversing as many miles, and thus the traveler is whirled through the heart and arms of the mountains. The approach to Green Mountain Falls is up a valley which spreads out into a fascinating landscape, where the green of the meadowlands is set in a brown frame of sky-piercing peaks and impending cliffs. Fontaine River refreshes the glade that opens through the towering range, and a little way from the town the water goes leaping down Foster’s Falls in a sheet of liquid crystal. It is from this cascade that Green Mountain Falls takes its name. But besides this deep dash of broken water, there are many other beautiful falls in the vicinity which have served to make of the place a popular resort, indeed, one of the greatest in Colorado.
Onward we speed through valleys aflame with flowers and noisy with the laughter of gamboling streams, until, seventy miles from Colorado Springs, we plunge into a gorge known by its length as Eleven-Mile Cañon. It lies directly in the way to South Park, and is wonderful not so much for its darkling depths as for its marvelous petrifactions and other natural curiosities; its great masses of granite that have broken away from the peaks above and become a wall to the turbulent torrent that has cleft the mountains on its bridleless way to the sea. Thence our train winds around, up hill, past lakes, trout streams, and ranches, until we stop a while at Buena Vista, where the train pauses on the side of Gold Hill Mountain, fully one thousand feet above the town. From this natural observatory a beautiful view is had indeed: Below is the madly-rushing Arkansas, and the silvery Cottonwood Creek that joins its waters with the river at this point. Buena Vista is in a valley that glows like an emerald in the sun, across which rises a giant bank of mountains known as the Saguache range, in which we distinguish the collegiate trinity of mounts Harvard, Yale and Princeton, each being above 14,000 feet, and the former the second highest in the Rocky Mountains. Snowy and Sangre de Cristo ranges are also visible from this point, while eleven miles up Cottonwood Pass is Cottonwood Lake, a very gem set in a wilderness of snow-covered peaks. It is the same distance from Buena Vista to the summit of Mt. Princeton, reached by an easy wagon road, and on this lofty pedestal the observer sweeps the horizon with enraptured vision that commands a view of Salida, Poncha Pass, the wide expanse of South Park, and grand old Pike’s Peak one hundred miles away; Twin Lakes are twenty-five miles to the north, near Buffalo Peaks, where the sportsman finds a paradise and the health-seeker is exhilarated with balsamic winds; while all around, whichever way we look, the omnipotence of the Creator is exhibited in the mightiness of His handiwork as displayed in the weirdly broken landscape of jocund mountain peaks, bowlders of granite torn from the great heart of the earth, babbling streams, tumbling water-falls, and teeming valleys.
THE BEARS’ CAVE, NEAR GREEN LAKE.
After leaving Buena Vista the route was along the Arkansas River, through somewhat less rugged scenery, and on by Leadville, a city whose life is drawn from the bowels of the mountain. The whole territory is speckled and dotted with engine houses, and derricks, and flumes, and cavities, where the cupidity of man has laid a tribute upon the everlasting hills, and is collecting it by the sweat of his brow and the exercise of his genius.
The road continues to rise until we reach Hagerman Tunnel, a mammoth passage-way bored through solid rock. Its length is 2,164 feet, and to provide perfect ventillation the cut is eighteen feet wide and nearly as many high. The grade is a continually ascending one from Colorado Springs to this point, where an altitude of 11,530 feet is reached, and the slope towards the Pacific begins. Just as we emerge from Hagerman Tunnel, Loch Ivanhoe bursts into glorious view, a silvery sheet that wraps the cold feet of Snowy Mountain, while off to the left, like a sign of hope to the Christian traveler, is the Mount of the Holy Cross. This wonderful peak has become a veritable shrine, visited as it is by thousands, whose reverent feelings it never fails to excite. The mountain obtains its name and reputation from the clefts on its northern side near the summit, which are in the form of a cross and in which the snow lies at such a depth that summer suns never melt it. The height of this peak is 14,176 feet, but though not so lofty as some others in Colorado, it is apparently more exposed and holds the snow longest, the summit being nearly always covered.
PORTAL OF GRAND RIVER CAÑON.—Grand and Green Rivers form the Colorado River, and all are rich in scenery of the most splendid and imposing character. A fine example of the beautiful and the grand blended and combined is seen in the photograph on this page. This is the gateway or portal, as it is aptly named, to other views equal in all respects to this one. A tour through this region is worth the toil and effort of a lifetime, and yet how few there are who can afford to spend their accumulations in giving to themselves such a supreme pleasure. But the camera overcomes the difficulty, giving us mirror-like reflections of these majestic wonders, in which we behold them as perfectly as if we were there in person.
SYLVAN FALLS, CASCADE CAÑON.
The next point of interest on the way to Salt Lake is Glenwood Springs, situated at the junction of Grand and Roaring Fork Rivers. This place derives its importance from its numerous thermal springs of great remedial virtues, and the beautiful adornments which a lavish but well-directed use of money has provided. The situation, too, is one of great natural picturesqueness, as the scenery rivals that about Manitou. Glenwood Springs is located at the head of Grand River Cañon, which extends a distance of sixteen miles through colossal mountains, the palisades of which rise in serried ranks and terminate in towering columns and gigantic turrets frequently 2,000 feet above the bed of the river. It is through this tremendous chasm that the railroad runs, so that travelers have a perfect view of the Titanic scenery from the car windows, as they are whirled through it. Three miles from Glenwood Springs is No Name Cañon, while further up the stream is a tremendous fissure which admits the river, and on account of its wildly savage appearance is called Grizzly Cañon. Ten miles more towards the river’s source is Dead Horse Cañon, which may be gained only at the expense of most laborious effort, for the trail is over great bowlders and along crumbling walls which frown far above the roaring waters below. But away up in this darksome retreat of nature, where the lion and bear have their haunts, is Meteor Falls, that leaps almost out of the mouth of the cañon and hurls its waters down a precipice nearly one hundred feet deep, and then spreads through crevices of the rocks into a score of separate streams. Not far distant is Alexander’s Cave, which, though not so well known, is much grander in size and more curious with stalactite formations than those near Manitou, which have an undeserved fame. From the summit of a mountain just east of Glenwood, and reached by a walk of three miles, an immense expanse of charming scenery is viewable. For seventy miles towards the east extends the snow-crowned chain of the Continental Divide, while towards the north, like a babe sleeping to the lullabys of a brooklet’s voice, lies the White River plateau. Southward the observer’s vision swings across the valleys of Roaring Fork and Crystal River to the Elk range, and then sweeps around to the west, where it lingers on Book Cliffs, ninety miles away, which gleam with scintillant beauty, and inspire with a grandeur that fills the very soul with wondering ecstasy.
BOOK CLIFFS, WALLS OF GRAND RIVER CAÑON.—It would be a difficult thing to find a more beautiful picture than the one that embellishes this page. It is gloriously beautiful. The camera has done its work so well that the very reflection of the sun’s rays and the soft glimmer of the summer air are shown as perfectly as they could be seen with the natural eye. In fact it has been said, and truly so, that the camera is a good detective, for it discovers objects which are invisible to ordinary human sight, and prints them indelibly upon its sensitive plates. Hence good photographs, like those in Glimpses of America, are in many respects more desirable than a visit to the scenes themselves.