LOST IN THE ROCKIES.
But to our story. They were safely in camp, by a roaring log fire, the deep cañon protecting them from the raging winds. As they discussed with thankful hearts the perils of the day, from which they had been rescued, they made plans for to-morrow, but here the guide spoke up and said, "I go back, I cannot take you over this mountain." General Lovejoy says, "Whitman talked and plead with the guide until a late hour, but could not change his mind. To any except such a character as Whitman, the situation would have been indeed hopeless; but before he slept his plans were made. He said to General Lovejoy: "You stay here in the cañon and recuperate the stock, and I will return to the fort and get a new guide." At the first streak of dawn the men were mounted and on their way. It was a cheerless wait for Lovejoy, but he had the companionship of his dog, and he busied himself in cutting bunch grass and tender twigs for the animals and bringing in logs for his fire. The General says, "Whitman was gone just one week, when the old dog heard his distant halloo and answered it with a rejoicing bark." He and his new guide, hungry and tired, were soon enjoying the bright log fire, always the crowning comfort of camp-life.
I trust that my readers may all live to have a camp-fire experience. Permit me to tell you of one great camp-fire, near the summit of the Sierras, which lives in the memory after nearly fifty years of busy life. Our pack-train had been toiling up the mountain, hoping for a resting-place, when our scouts came and reported. Following them along winding paths which grizzlies and Indians had made, around the rugged rocks, we reached a beautiful little valley covered with luxuriant grass. We picketed our tired animals in the meadow, built a great fire of cedar logs against a marble wall straight up for a thousand feet, sang songs, sounded the bugle, and listened to the scores of echoes from the mountain peaks. But we were young and ready to enjoy nature's grand scenes.—Nowhere are they grander than in our own Western mountains.
But our heroic snow-bound travelers were burdened with far too much anxiety to enjoy nature in her magnificent winter adornment. Their eyes were not upon the lofty mountain peaks, but far along unknown trails towards the nation's capital. After they had succeeded in passing the well-nigh impassable mountains, they struck a more level country with sheltered valleys having a bountiful supply of wood and good water. I have often asked myself, when pondering over these events, was it a simple accident that the old scouts reached Fort Hall that October night and turned Whitman and Lovejoy a thousand miles off their direct route? That year the snow lay unusually deep all over the great plains. Had they started and been able to have crossed the Rockies, they would have met snow-covered, treeless plains, and for weeks at a time would have had to go without fires, having to depend upon the Bois de vache for fuel, which, covered deep with the snow, would have been impossible to find. This, with the lack of grass for the animals, would have made the route, not only impracticable, but nearly impossible. The scout and the old map seemed insignificant events, but yet how often they and their kind loom up in grand proportions. They may be marked by the thoughtless as mere happenings, but it is not a tax upon reason to believe that the soul attuned to listen and receive ever has a guidance higher than the wisdom of men.
This detention in the cañon and along other parts of the route caused the scant supplies to run lower. The bears were holed up in their winter quarters, they could have found deer and elk, had they stopped and hunted; but Whitman's maxim was forever, "travel, travel." He led upon the trail from morning until night, with eyes ever to the front. General Lovejoy tells us they finally reached a great emergency, and the first animal sacrificed to keep them from starving was the faithful old dog. I doubt not, that some of my young readers will stop to criticize so noble a man as Whitman for having any part in such an act, and the writer would sympathize with the sentiment. The dog is man's closest friend, that clings to him when all others forsake him. Seventy-four years ago, when the author's parents came to the Western wilderness across the Alleghanies, we had a great dog named Watch. He kept guard over us children as we rambled through the woods and along the way, as if he were wholly responsible for our safety. He grew old and nearly helpless. A conference was held among the older members, and it was thought merciful to put him out of his obvious misery, and an old friend of the family was selected for the task. I believe that after all three-quarters of a century of years the children, who loved the old dog, never quite forgave his executioner.
General Lovejoy tells us none of the particulars, but it is reasonable to suppose that Whitman was not consulted at all in the matter, and likely knew nothing of it until long after. The second animal used for food was one of the pack mules. They knew if they could live until they reached Taos, in New Mexico, they could secure supplies, and trade their broken-down stock for fresh animals. So they made forced marches.
I have indulged in only enough description of locality as to keep in touch with the travelers, and to note historic events. To-day the same scenes they viewed are the wonderlands of thousands of tourists each year.
They Reach Grand River