The Awakening of the Desert

by Julius Charles Birge

EXCEPT perhaps a sudden view of the blue waters of the broad ocean, few things in nature are more inspiring to the pilgrim who has plodded his way across our barren plains than is the first glimpse of some towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Riding my horse in advance of the train, which on an exceedingly hot July day was toiling up a long and difficult sandy grade, I reached a flat summit from which there suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon my view the entire panorama of the lofty peaks of the Wind River range, from Fremont Peak to South Pass. They were "crowned with a diadem of snow," but were not "in a robe of clouds," for not a speck of mist was visible in any direction. The mountains in all their detail stood out against the blue sky with wonderful clearness and it seemed as if they were not ten miles away. I may have been unduly excited, but in calling to those below me, who were next in advance, I shouted that the snow mountains were in sight. One after another of the party soon arrived at the summit, and being considerably heated after the climb they had made under the sharp rays of the sun, some of the men insisted that the brilliant white on the distant peaks was not snow. As one driver put it, "Do you think I'm a fool, to think that snow wouldn't melt in hot weather like this?" This man from the prairie did not appreciate the towering height of those far away peaks. On the following morning we were informed that they were still thirty miles away, and after two more days of travel, we were told that even then Fremont Peak was nearly one hundred miles beyond us. Fred accordingly declared that we should never reach it unless we turned back in the other direction, because the longer we traveled toward it, the further it was away.

THE ROCKIES

The day after we obtained our first view of Fremont Peak, we knew that we were near a certain strange freak of nature known as Ice Springs. Its location is carefully noted on the old charts, and it is described in the reports of numerous explorers and travelers. In every description of the springs that I had read or heard, it was stated that at any time of the year, even in the late summer, a solid mass of ice could be found within a foot of the surface. We determined to see this remarkable phenomenon. The springs lie near the foothill on the edge of a somewhat extensive area of swampy ground from which no water issues on the surface. Digging down a spade's depth we reached the white crystal and found it to be cold enough to answer all requirements, but it was so hard and the superimposed mud was so deep, that it seemed hardly worth the effort to obtain a block under such difficulties. We reported to our friends as had been done to us by former travelers that solid ice was there, and endeavored to explain to each other by what processes ice could be formed on an open plain during hot summer days, but never arrived at a satisfactory solution of the problem. Professor W. H. Reed, of the University of Wyoming, has finally come to my assistance and exploded the "ice" theory in toto. Having learned of the generally accepted belief that natural ice is formed in those springs, he made the matter the subject of personal investigation and informs me that "the springs show what appears to be ice, but what in reality is soda and gypsum. The so-called ice springs yield a bitter water; this is because of the dissolving of the gypsum, one of the lime deposits." The springs like many frauds in other lands are very interesting to the deluded seeker of curiosities and marvels, but it causes a shock to learn that this midsummer ice is a fiction. The gypsum resembles soda and also salt and ice. And thus is our popular delusion dispelled!

A few rods west of the springs we observed two or three small ponds of water, which were exceedingly bitter to the taste. The surrounding soil was covered thickly with a saline efflorescence. Beyond the springs, we reached a creek that was strongly impregnated with sulphur. On the dry plain adjacent I discovered the finest specimens of petrifaction I have ever seen. They were evidently sections of red cedar and were nearly transparent. Here and there lying upon the ground were carcasses of buffaloes, which, though they had doubtless lain there for many weeks under the direct rays of a midsummer sun, gave no evidence of decomposition, but such portions as had not been removed by the wolves were preserved and dried solid in the pure air, in which there were no germs of decay. Availing themselves of this property, the Indians and trappers preserve meat by hanging it up to dry in the sun.

During the day, members of the party despatched an antelope, two jack rabbits, and a few healthy rattlesnakes; and they reported that they saw Indians sneaking up a distant ravine.

Truly interesting was this land of wonders, which we are hardly justified in calling "Wyoming" in this description, because there was no territory having that name until 1886.

One of those bright days, when the train had 'laid by' to give the stock a rest, Ben and I strolled out on foot for a hunt. After wandering a few hours over treeless hills and into dry valleys, we began to suffer severely from thirst. We changed our course from time to time, allured by indications of any distant ravine along the bottom of which might creep a rivulet. We were invariably disappointed. As our travel had at all times carried us away from the trail, we soon realized that many hours must pass before we could again find relief in our camp. One little diversion temporarily turned our thoughts from our personal discomforts. We were standing above a narrow ravine counseling together as to our future course when we heard the report of a rifle shot coming from an unseen point up the valley, possibly a mile distant. We were not previously aware of the presence of any other person in that vicinity nor did we learn who fired the shot. It was evidently directed toward a herd of antelopes, for in a few seconds about a dozen of the graceful beasts came sweeping toward us along the bottom of the ravine. I had seen many herds of antelopes skimming over the plains, usually in the distance, but never before nor since that time have I beheld such poetry of motion or such remarkable speed in an animal as was exhibited by those frightened creatures. Along the valley were numerous dense clumps of sage brush six or seven feet in height and in some cases covering rather a large area. These obstacles did not seem to retard the flight of the airy creatures in the slightest degree. Bunched closely together, the antelopes fairly sailed over one obstruction after another with wonderful ease and grace, never touching a twig and always alighting upon all four feet; and again springing from all fours they bounded swiftly onward, glancing like arrows over the next patch of sage brush. One quick and seemingly light touch now and then upon the earth was all that was needed to send them onward. As they approached the point where we stood, each of us fired a shot at them, but we were too slow for their movements. Much has been written concerning the gazelle, the springbok, the chamois, and other congeners of this beautiful animal, but there appears to be no definite information concerning the maximum speed of the antelope of our plains, which is known by zoologists as the pronghorn antelope. The opportunity was afforded us to witness from a favorable position but a few rods distant a wonderful burst of speed, which in our judgment would have left the swiftest race horse quickly out of sight. When this swiftly moving picture had vanished we shouldered our rifles for the long tramp toward the train.

Hardly a day had passed during the few preceding weeks in which we had not seen herds of antelopes and black-tailed deer, but our approach toward antelopes was usually discovered by them very quickly and a few rapid bounds put them beyond reach of our rifles, where they would sometimes suddenly turn, and with long, sleek ears tipped forward and large eyes turned toward the source of danger often remain to watch the closer approach of the hunter. Paul Beemer was our most accomplished sportsman and his patience was occasionally rewarded.

When we started upon our return from the long wanderings of the day to which I have referred, we realized that a drink of cool water would have been more welcome than an antelope would have been. As our course outward had been tortuous, without any objective point in view, and had carried us possibly eight miles from camp, our knowledge of plainscraft was fully tested, for the camp was pitched in a little valley invisible from any point forty rods distant. Many of the ravines were dry runs, down which the water evidently had flowed in time of storms, but in the sides of many of them were exposed strata of alkali several feet in thickness. We finally observed in the distance the glistening of water in a broad, sandy valley and changed our course to reach it. It proved to be one of those remarkable water courses common in parts of that country, where a stream filters along beneath the dry quicksand and here and there appears for a short distance at the surface, but it would have been impossible to dip the tiniest cup of water from it, for the sand instantly refilled the slightest depression made in it. A strainer of fine cloth might possibly have prevented one from drinking sand. There was, indeed, an opportunity to moisten our lips, but wet sand is an unsatisfactory beverage at best. The water was found to be strongly alkaline, therefore unfit to quench thirst—an unpleasant disappointment on a hot day in the midst of a hot, arid plain.