The second day after leaving the lake we came to a large stream which had not been examined hitherto. Though we were far from certain that this was the stream that had been indicated by Wilson, it seemed best to follow up the valley and see where we should come out. After ascending an exceedingly steep bank, we found easy travelling in a fairly open valley. One fact made us apprehensive that there was no pass out of the valley. There was no sign of a trail on either side of the stream, and none of the trees were blazed. Indian trails exist in almost every valley where an available pass leads over the summit, and where there are no trails the probability is that the valley is blind, or, in other words, leads into an impassable mountain wall. The valley curved around in such a manner that we could not tell what our prospects were, but at about two o’clock we reached a place far above timber line,—a region of open moors, absolutely treeless,—surrounded by bare mountains on every side.
Camp at Little Fork Pass.
Our tent was pitched in a ravine near a small stream. Immediately after lunch, Peyto and I ascended 1000 feet on a mountain north of the valley with the purpose of discovering a pass. From this point we saw Mount Hector due south, and the remarkable mountain named Mount Molar, nearly due east. Three possible outlets from the valley appeared from our high elevation. Peyto set off alone to explore a pass toward the north, in the direction of the Pipestone Pass, while I made an examination of a notch toward the east. Each proved impossible for horses, if not for human beings. The third notch lay in the direction of Mount Hector, and together we set out to examine it. A walk of about two miles across the rolling uplands of this high region brought us to the pass. It was very steep, but an old Indian trail proved that the pass was available for horses. The trail appeared more like those made by the mountain goats than by human beings, for it led up to a very rough and forbidding cliff, where loose stones and long disuse had nearly obliterated the path. We spent some time putting the trail in repair, by rolling down tons of loose stones, and making everything as secure as possible.
The next morning was threatening, and gray, watery clouds hung only a little above the summit of the lofty pass, which was nearly 8000 feet above sea-level. I started about an hour before the outfit, as I desired to observe the horses climbing the trail. I felt considerable anxiety as they approached. All my photographic plates, the result of many excursions and mountain ascents in a region where the camera had never before been used, were placed on one of the horses, for which purpose one of the most sure-footed animals had been selected. In case of a false step and a roll down the mountain side, the results of all this labor would be lost.
THE “BAY.”
The horses, however, all reached the summit in safety. These mountain pack-horses reveal a wonderful agility and sagacity in such difficulties as this place presented. In fact, the several animals in my pack-train had become old friends, for they had been with me all summer. Peyto, as packer, always rode in the saddle, for the dignity of this office never allows a packer to walk, and besides, from their physical elevation on a horse’s back they can better discern the trail. A venerable Indian steed, long-legged and lean, but most useful in fording deep streams, was Peyto’s saddle-horse. The bell-mare followed next, led by a head-rope. The other horses followed in single file, and never allowed the sound of the bell to get out of hearing. There were two horses in the train that were endowed with an unusual amount of equine intelligence and sagacity. The larger of the two was known as the “Bay,” and the other was called “Pinto,” the latter being a name given to all horses having irregular white markings. These animals were well proportioned, with thick necks and broad chests, and, though of Indian stock, they probably had some infusion of Spanish blood in their veins, derived from the conquest of Mexico.
The Pinto was remarkably quick in selecting the best routes among fallen timber, or in avoiding hidden dangers, but the Bay was far more affectionate and fond of human company. In camp, all the horses would frequently leave the pasture and visit the tent, where they would stand near the fire to get the benefit of the smoke when the flies were thick, or nose about in the hope of getting some salt. On the trail, it was always very interesting to watch the Bay and Pinto. They would unravel a pathway through burnt timber in a better manner than their human leaders, and would calculate in every case whether it were better to jump over a log or to walk around it. But one day I was surprised to see the Bay jump over a log which measured 3 feet 10 inches above the ground. With a heavy, rigid pack this is more of a feat than to clear a much greater height with a rider in the saddle. Sometimes when the trail was lost we would put the Pinto ahead to lead us, and on several occasions he found the trail for us.
The summit of the pass revealed to us one of those lonely places among the high mountains where silence appears to reign supreme. We were in an upland vale, where the ground was smooth and rolling, and carpeted with a short growth of grass and herbs. On either side were bare cliffs of limestone, unrelieved by vegetation or perpetual snow. Here no birds or insects broke the silence of the mountain solitude, no avalanche thundered among the mountains, and even the air was calm and made no sound in the scanty herbage. All was silent as the desert, or as the ocean in a perfect calm. The dull tramp of our horses, and the tinkling of the bell, were the only sounds that interrupted the death-like quiet of the place. It is said that such places soon drive the lost traveller to insanity, but in company with others these lonely passes afford a delightful contrast to the life and motion and sound of lower altitudes.