With the first sound of the violins, the couples took the floor, and kept it up vigorously to the "wee sma' hours." The older people participated less, but young and old were all there, apparently the whole population, in their best "bib and tucker." Women came carrying their infants, and others held the babies while their mothers danced. The younger people, down to mere boys and girls, of course, all danced. First came some slow, stately Spanish dances; but presently they slid into schottisches and polkas, and performed these with a vigor worthy of New York or Paris. Many present were dressed humbly, and but few comparatively were well dressed; but ornaments abounded, and the baille or fandango seemed to put all on an equality. Most of our party selected partners, and soon were lost in the maze and whirl. True, they could not speak a word of Spanish, nor their señoritas any English; but that did not matter, as the Mexicans regard it as a mark of ill-breeding to converse while dancing. Their manner of saluting each other, when first they met, was unique and original, to wit: the sexes poked their heads over each other's shoulders, and took a good old fashioned hug. Throughout the evening, of course, there was a total absence of indecorum. As a whole, they seemed to be honest, simple folk, who took life as it came, without fret or worriment, and enjoyed themselves greatly. There was less beauty among the women, but more intelligence among the men, than we expected; their hospitality was hearty and generous—they did their best to give us a pleasant evening; and altogether the baille at Culebra was an event long to be remembered. I left Gov. C. at 11 p. m., looking on and enjoying it, and went to sleep on a good wool bed—the only kind used there—in a comfortable room, for the first time since leaving Denver.
[CHAPTER VII.]
AMONG THE MOUNTAINS (Continued).
Returning next day from Culebra to Fort Garland, we proceeded thence subsequently up the Park to the Indian treaty on the Rio Grande; and from there via Homan's Park and Poncho Pass north to Fair Play in South Park. These "parks," so called, are a peculiar feature of the Rocky Mountains and play an important part in the scenery. There are five of them—North, Middle, South, Homan's, and San Luis—of which we passed through the last three. They constitute in reality a great system of plateaus or valleys, morticed as it were into the very heart of the mountains, from twenty-five to fifty miles long by half as many wide, disconnected by intervening ranges, yet all alike in their general features. One of the main ranges of the Rocky Mountains bounds them on the east; but the main range, the real Sierra Nevada or Mother Range—the great Snowy Range or real water-shed of the continent, dividing the waters of the Pacific from those of the Atlantic—runs along the west. True, this is disputed by enthusiastic Coloradoans; but the facts seem nevertheless, as above. The North Platte, South Platte, Arkansas, and Rio Grande, all take their rise there, and piercing the eastern range flow thence to the Atlantic or the Gulf, while no considerable stream flows thence to the Pacific. Kit Carson, whom we met at Fort Garland, the best geographer of that region, took this view of the subject, and I humbly concur.
The largest of these Parks, by far, is the San Luis, and we found it fairly gridironed with trout streams, and rimmed around with mountains. Its general elevation is from six to seven thousand feet above the sea, with its surrounding peaks and ridges about as much more, which is too cold for Indian corn, though the other cereals—such as wheat, barley, oats, etc.—may readily be grown there. Volcanic agencies have had much to do with its formation, as its wide-spread igneous rocks and pebbles still plainly show. Along the Rio Grande and its numerous affluents wide bottoms have been formed, that are very rich—the very washings of the mountains; but elsewhere you have only rocks and gravel, sage-brush and grease-wood. It contains no timber, except a fringe of cottonwoods and poplars along most of the larger streams; but cedar, pine, and fir are found in the neighboring cañons and mountains. Cattle and other live-stock find good grazing in summer along the streams, and in winter they were said to thrive well on the coarse bunch-grass, with which the surrounding cañons all abound. The broad bottoms of the Rio Grande, waving with tall grass and fatter than the prairies of Illinois, ought to make magnificent meadows, and will some day when more of our Anglo-Saxon population overflows there. The population of the Park was grouped mainly in two or three Mexican hamlets, and was computed by Kit Carson (then Colonel of New Mexico Volunteers and Post Commandant at Fort Garland) at about five or six thousand only. A noted citizen of Denver, who owned a large part of the Park, had reported it to us as about twenty thousand. Not that he intended to be inexact; but his imagination was naturally very vivid, and his language apt to be poetic. In purchasing property there, under an old Spanish grant, he certainly acquired any quantity of magnificent mountain, and a wide stretch of plain; but we suspected, he would wait some time before he saw his money back again.
Our general ride up the San Luis Park, and so through Homan's to Poncho Pass, was unique and perfect in its way. Our route on leaving Fort Garland was first across several mountain brooks, where the trout were so abundant, that the soldiers at the fort caught them with blankets and feasted on them at will, and then directly up the Park, with the Sierra Blanca or Snowy Range towering on our right. Striking the Rio Grande, we found it alive with geese and ducks, and when we went into camp, L.—our champion sportsman—caught several noble trout, weighing from five to six pounds each. Singularly enough, the streams flowing to the Rio Grande all abound in trout, while those going to the Mississippi, we were told, all lack them. We halted two days here, attending the Indian Treaty before alluded to, and then proceeded on. At Fort Garland, we were advised to return to Denver by the same route we had come, as the season was already advancing and nobody had come through by Poncho Pass since the previous spring. Moreover, the trail was reported impracticable for ambulances, and even Kit Carson shook his head, unless we went by pack-mules. But as the pack-mules were not to be had, and we were all averse to returning over the old route, we resolved to push ahead by Poncho Pass, and get through the mountains that way, if possible. From the Treaty-Ground, our route lay nearly due north, with the snowy crest and peaks of the Sierra Blanca on our right and about parallel. Bidding our friends good-bye, we set out early (Sept. 24), with the wind dead-ahead and bitter cold. Toward noon, the weather moderated somewhat; but snow-squalls chased each other along the mountains all day, and once we counted nine in view—one careering along behind the other—at the same time. Now and then one would expand its wings, and sweep across the Park; and several times in the course of the day we were thus in the midst of real winter. The range to the west was more or less broken into foot-hills and ridges; but the Sierra Blanca to the right seemed a solid rampart, rugged, inaccessible, sublime. Its serrated crest, white with perpetual snow, rose five or six thousand feet above the level of the Park; its tree-line was distinctly marked, as with a rule; and the whole seemed so near and so gorgeous, when the sunset swallowed up the snow-squalls, that we could scarcely realize it was yet miles away. As we got farther up the Park, the soil grew thinner, and more volcanic in its origin; but we crossed several handsome streams, that might be made to irrigate considerable land there.
We found only one ranch, however, north of Fort Garland—a Mr. Russell's, at the extreme north-eastern end of the Park. We camped there one night, and found the proprietor to be a good specimen of the average Coloradoan. Born in Illinois and bred a blacksmith, the gold-fever had taken him to California, where he worked partly in the mines and partly at his trade. When he failed in the mines, as he usually did, he again resorted to his trade; and had he stuck to his anvil, he verily believed, he would have been well-off long before. But as soon as he had hammered out a little money, his evil genius led him back to the "diggings;" and so he had wandered all up and down our mining regions—California, Nevada, Colorado, etc.,—until 1861, when he found himself in Denver, without a cent in his pockets. Mining happened to be dull there, a regiment of volunteers was then forming for service against the Indians, and so he turned soldier. Before his three years were up, he had saved a moderate "pile," and when he was finally mustered out and discharged, he came here and "squatted" on a quarter-section. The money saved while thus soldiering started him in farming, and he now thought his future secure. This was his first year there, but he had got along very well so far. The Indians had not disturbed him, though frequently there, and his Mexican peons had proved faithful laborers, though a little slow. He had raised fine crops of oats, barley, and potatoes, which he would sell to the garrison at Garland at good prices; but his wheat was a failure—he feared, for want of sufficient warmth. He had a good adobe house, which he meant to enlarge and improve, and a fine flock of sheep, besides considerable cattle. The worst feature of his ranch was, that he had to irrigate; but he said he had plenty of water for this, and the cost was small. His nearest neighbor was eighteen miles off, and that was too near; his post-office, sixty miles; and church, two hundred. It is strange, that men can be content to bury themselves thus, in the heart of a wilderness, when God and nature are so bountiful elsewhere. It is the everlasting itching, I suppose, that we Americans have for change, which comes to little good after all. No doubt plenty of Coloradoans would emigrate to the moon, or even to Le Verrier, if there were a practicable "trail" there.
The next day crossing a low ridge, through a forest of gnarled cedars, we entered Homan's Park, and found it to be nearly a duplicate of the San Luis, on a smaller scale. It is about thirty miles long, by perhaps half as many wide, and its essential features are about the same as those of the San Luis, though its soil seemed deeper and more generous. About half way up, a lusty mountain-stream crosses from west to east, lined with cottonwoods, and here four Germans had each "pre-empted" a quarter-section, all lying together. They had all been officers of Colorado Volunteers, and when mustered out came and "squatted" here together, in this picturesque little valley. The last year of their service, being stationed at Fort Garland, they had been up that way on a scout after Indians; and, falling in love with the Park, selected it for their future homes. One of them was married, and his wife—a tidy young German woman—kept house for all. They began operations the previous year, and already had accomplished large results. They put in seven thousand dollars as joint-capital, and with this purchased all the necessary animals, implements, provisions, seeds etc., to start well with. Among the rest, they bought a hundred and forty cows, which the following spring brought them in nearly as many calves, all of which they were now raising. Pasturage was abundant in summer, and in the winter the adjoining cañons supplied bunch-grass, etc. They milked all their cows, and converted the milk into butter and cheese, which two items alone had paid their current expenses so far, with a small margin over. A sluice-way from the brook carried the water into their milk-house, where instead of tin or earthen pans, they had long milk-troughs hollowed out of logs, around which the water flowed, and then passed back into the stream again. A bowl of buttermilk, that they tendered us, fresh from the churn, was an unlooked-for luxury in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, that none of us could refuse. The ensuing winter they proposed to build a water-churn, and so make their friendly brook serve them still further. They had had tolerable crops of barley, oats, and potatoes, all of which that could be spared they were husbanding for seed the coming year. They had tried some corn and wheat, but neither had matured well, and they would hardly venture them again. Their butter and cheese they sold to the miners over in South Park, and some they sent even to Denver and a market. They called their place Kerber's Ranch, after their leading partner, who seemed to be a live Dutchman all over. Of course, we had to stop to dinner, though it was not yet noon; and when that meal was announced, they conducted us to a table Denver might have envied. Trout, venison, grouse, krout, with all the vegetables of the season, and lager-beer home-brewed, made up a meal not to be despised anywhere, least of all in the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains. They had seen no officers and hardly any body else, for months, and would take no pay for anything; but gratefully accepted an armful of "literature," as we bade them good-bye—the last of our newspapers, magazines, and books still left from our supply on leaving Denver. Their nearest neighbor was eighteen miles off, and nearest post-office seventy-five. To Denver was a hundred and fifty miles, and it took a team a month or more to go there and return via Poncho Pass. They pronounced the Pass, in response to our eager inquiries, entirely practicable, with careful driving, if we crossed by daylight; and with their kindest wishes, we went on our way rejoicing.