LETTER No. V.
Never had such a hard time—Camping out in the Rockies—Horses decamp—Left in the lurch—A terrible fright—Crossing a torrent—"Old Jim" taking a roll—Pack smashed—"Old Jim" in a snow-drift—Woke up by a grizzly—What the newspapers said of it—Cutting fencing poles in the snow—Christmas Day—Pickles and plum pudding—The consequences—A dance—Cowboys and farmers' daughters—"Shall I turn tail?"—A profitable old cow—The nicest little ranche in Montana—Start on a sheep drive 300 miles—"The healthiest place I ever struck."
London, August 20, 1885.
In the following May, 1884, he wrote: "I never had such a hard time of it in my life." And in September to his brother:—
"... The truth is, I have been some seventy miles away from home, and shall be gone again in a few days to look for a winter job. The new railway has knocked things topsy-turvy.
"Labour, when I first came here, was scarce, and well paid for, but now things are very dull here. However, there is a good prospect for better things. They all say that one railroad spoils a town, two bring it to par again, and three make it 'boom.' This seems the general rule throughout America. On my way out to the mountains after work, some three months back, I found a good prospect for copper, and since then we have taken up four distinct veins in the centre of a good mining camp; but we shall simply represent them each year to hold them so that it will not ruin us. (Representation is ten days' work each year on the mine for five years, then you can get your patent.) We may make a fortune from them, and we may not make a cent. However, we shall not let it interfere with our work. I could send one of your papers a decent article—'A Prospector's Life, or Hunting after Gold.' The newspapers come in mighty handy, and are read through and through.
"Camping out in the Rockies."
"Let me give you a short account of my little trip. Starting from my log cabin early in the spring, when the snow was still in drifts, in places fifteen feet deep, I made my way some seventy miles into the mountains. I had a little Indian pony, and a horse old enough in tricks, if not in years, to carry my pack, consisting of my blankets, tent, and grub. Grub! why, certainly. Fifty pounds of flour, a tin of self-raising flour, labelled 'absolutely pure' of course, (a lawsuit ought to follow up this libel,) two pounds of coffee, salt, frying-pan, cup, and a well-stocked box of matches. The above was to last me a month or more. I am forgetting the bacon. The day I set out was beautifully clear, and my journey progressed through ever-changing scenery. Before me and on each side were the snow-capped mountains, still white as they had been for six months past, and fringed along their sides by a massive belt of timber, at the foot of which my little pony and old carcase ahead were picking their way, treading lightly lest their weight should precipitate them through the hardened crust of snow.
"Looking back, I could see my little home nestled close against the mountains, and I fancied, too, that I could see my little kitten on the roof, perhaps mourning its late master, or more probably lamenting its cosy bed inside. I stayed but a short time to contemplate this scene, a fairer could not be found—a beautiful valley, surrounded on all sides by high-towering mountains of every shape and form. Three brooks teeming with trout wend their headlong way; I say headlong, for they rise from the very top of yon snowy peaks, and come tearing and roaring down at this season of the year, when the sun is getting the better of the snow, and feeding these streams, which eventually fall into the flowing Missouri.