OUR plans for the mountain journey had been fixed before leaving Denver, and we adhered to them in spite of warnings and persuasions. Mr. Byers is an accomplished mountaineer, to whom much of the ground is familiar, and I preferred taking his advice to that of others who spoke from hearsay rather than experience. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to cross Berthoud Pass, many persons asserted; the hardships of Colonel Babcock’s party, a fortnight ago, were constantly cited, and the spectres of risk and danger, which those who stay at home delight to evoke for those who travel, accompanied us up to the very moment of starting.

At Empire, however, the people contented themselves with predicting that we could not get over the Pass in a day; and, indeed, there seemed a strong probability that they were right. White set out at daybreak to corral the horses and mules; we also rose early, washed our faces in the frosty air, in the midst of a panorama of rose-tinted Alps, took an early "square" breakfast, and tied our equipments in comfortable parcels for packing. But the animals, well suspecting what was before them, refused to be corralled. First one assistant, then another, was dispatched, until five persons were busy, and nine o’clock had arrived before there was any prospect of our departure. In the mean time, the landlord produced a boiled ham, and a tin kettle full of hot biscuit, which we put into a coffee-bag. "They might ha’ been sadder," said he, speaking of the biscuit; "they pack better when they‘re sad."

General Pierce had set out on his return to Denver, takIag with him our "biled shirts and store clothes." We were attired in flannel, and becomingly rough, each with the handle of a tin cup hooked into the button-hole of his coat, his trousers tucked into huge riding-boots, spur on heel, and buckskin gloves on hand. By this time White had arrived with the animals, — two cute little pack-mules, a lean dun mare for myself, and a large brown mule for Mr. Beard. The other gentlemen had their own beasts. The packing, strapping, and other final preparations were done hastily, and by ten o’clock we were in the saddle. "You ‘ll camp on this side of the Pass to-night," said Judge Cowles; and so we rode out of Empire.

I wish we had a word in the English language corresponding to the German "reiselust" — because that word, and none other, expresses the feeling with which one sets out on a journey, in the pure upper air of a mountain region. The blood circulates with nimble alacrity; the lungs expand with a tingling sense of delight; all sights and sounds of Nature have a character of cheer and encouragement; life is a most agreeable condition, and one’s fellow-men are good fellows, every one of them.

It was a superb day. The wind blew down from the snow-fields, tempering the heat of a dazzling sun in a cloudless sky. The village, behind us showed between groups of tall, dark fir-trees; the creek, dammed for a stamp-mill, spread out a bright lake in the lap of the valley; and southward the sharp summit of Montgomery Peak rose high above all the surrounding mountains. We had still a good wagon-road, with rough bridges across the torrents which came down from every rocky glen. The pack-mules maliciously strayed hither and thither, shaking out of balance their hastily arranged loads, and sometimes even hiding behind the trees in the hope of escaping their destiny.

The valley gradually narrowed, and we entered a defile far grander than anything I had yet seen in the Rocky Mountains. On either side enormous masses of dark-red rock towered over our heads to the height of fifteen hundred feet, so torn and split into colossal towers, walls, and buttresses, that every minute presented a new combination of forms. The bed of the glen was filled with huge fragments, tumbled from above. Even here, high up on almost inaccessible points, the prospectors had left their traces, lured by the indications of ore in cliffs above, to which they dare not climb. Our necks ached with gazing at the sharp sky-piercing summits, in the hope of detecting mountain sheep; but none were to be seen.

We forded the South Clear, which, swollen by the melting snows, reached to the horses’ bellies, and was so swift that they could scarcely keep their footing. The road then entered a forest of fir and pine, over the tops of which we now and then caught the glimmer of snowy summits. But the new and beautiful flora of the mountains kept my gaze to the earth. Both new flowers and new varieties of familiar families made their appearance. A lovely species of the columbine (aquilegia), large and white, the horns and external petals of a pale violet, would be a great ornament to our gardens. There were also several handsome varieties of sedum and saxifrage, the flame-colored euchroma, and an unknown spicy flower of the purest turquoise blue. The mahonia, here called the "Oregon grape," is very abundant in the forests. I have found it in all parts of the mountains which I have yet visited.

Beyond the rocky gorge which I have described, the valley opens again, revealing its head, inclosed by a semicircular sweep of the snowy range. As this is one of the points suggested for the passage of the Rocky Mountains by the Pacific Railroad, we took careful note of its conformation, and the facilities offered for overcoming the altitude of the range. The average fall of Clear Creek, from the base of the dividing ridge to the Plains near Denver, is about one hundred feet per mile, and there is no difficulty in building a road through that part of the valley which I traversed. On reaching the head of the valley, three passes offer themselves. The first is the famous Berthoud Pass, on the right, offering a way into the Middle Park through a depression in the main chain. Five miles further is the Vasquez Pass, also on the right hand. This, however, is rather a trail, over the crest of the mountain, than a pass. Some four or five miles further, at the very head of the valley, is a new pass, recently discovered by Mr. Jones, who is at present engaged in constructing a wagon-road over it into the Park. Both the latter passes are higher than the Berthoud, but the new one is said to offer the easiest approaches. It has not yet been surveyed, and may prove the most favorable for a railroad.

At the foot of the Berthoud Pass, we had already risen more than nine thousand feet above the sea, leaving about two thousand feet still to be surmounted. We were eight miles from Empire, and three from the summit. Our pack-mules were forced, with great difficulty, to leave the wagon-road, and take the narrow trail which struck directly up the steep flank of the mountain. It was, indeed, a terrible pull which awaited them. We had not made a hundred yards before our horses stopped, almost gasping for breath. I could feel the heart of my lean mare knocking rapidly against her ribs. A few little knobs or projections from the line of descent favored the poor beasts for awhile, but it was not long before these ceased, and the terrific slant of the mountain presented itself unrelieved, to be overcome. The trail was a mere mark in the gravelly soil, where a stone loosed by the foot would find no rest until it reached the level of the valley. The angle of descent was in some places not less than 50º. Here there were few trees, and the valley yawned under us like an enormous green basin, with a jagged white border.

From this point I overlooked the course of Clear Creek from its very source. The main valley seemed to be formed out of four or five small ones, radiating down from between the buttresses of the main chain. It appeared to be doubtful whether a railroad could obtain a sufficient return curve to overcome the first precipitous part of the Berthoud Pass without running up to the head of the valley on the opposite side — in which case, each of these lateral valleys, or rather glens, would be an obstacle. Still —judging merely by the eye — the difficulty did not seem to be much greater than in the case of the Pennsylvania Central, or the Baltimore and Ohio roads. What lay beyond the angle of the mountain we were climbing I could not see; hut there is certainly valley enough above the foot of the Berthoud Pass to effect a rise of one thousand feet, which (with a tunnel three miles in length, cutting off fifteen hundred feet of elevation) is all that would be necessary.

Mr. Beard and myself were so moved by the breathless toil of our animals that we dismounted at a safe place, and walked. In five minutes we were in a worse condition than the horses; our knees tottered, our bodies were drenched with sweat, our eyes dim, heads giddy, and lungs utterly collapsed. At every tenth step we were obliged to pause in order to breathe, and after not more than three hundred steps I defied the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and mounted again. I am no light weight, and therefore it was Cruelty to Man (which is worse) to carry one’s self up such a steep. I think we must have climbed in this style for a mile and a half; it seemed interminable. Then the angle of ascent fell off very greatly; the fir forest grew thick around us, shutting off the view of valley and mountains, and heaps of rotten snow began to appear in shady places. Where the trail had been shovelled out of drifts a month ago, we now rode over moist earth, between dripping, crumbling walls of snow. Another quarter of an hour, and the steeps fell back in front, leaving a lovely Alpine meadow, dotted with clumps of pine, the vivid green of its turf sprinkled with snowy star-flowers, and a brook of icy crystal winding through it.

I was delighted when Mr. Byers gave the word to unsaddle. It was barely three quarters of a mile, he said, to the summit of the Pass; whether we could cross was still a doubtful matter; and, before attempting it, both beasts and men must be fed. The former were turned loose to graze at will, with their long lariats dragging after them; the latter unhooked the cups from their button-holes, opened the coffee-bags, cut the ham with hunting-knives, and partook of the biscuits which were not sufficiently "sad." The water of the brook was so intensely cold that it almost made one scream. Yet immediately out of and through it grew clusters of a flower so purely beautiful that we all cried out with admiration on discovering it. Out of a ring of broadly ovate leaves (under the water) rose a straight stem twelve to fifteen inches in height, crowned at the top with a cluster of dark crimson-velvet flowers, about the size and with the rich mealy bloom of the polyanthus. It is called, here, the "Alpine primrose;" but I know of neither cowslip nor primrose that will compare with it. The odor is very peculiar, resembling that of Russia leather. Here is a treasure for our florists!

While we took our lunch and rested our bones Mr. Byers and White discussed the passage of the mountains. Directly in front of us a depression in the fir-clad ridge indicated the summit of the Pass, on either side of which bald, snowy peaks rose considerably above the timber line. White had crossed the range last week, with a drove of twenty-two government horses; but he had gone considerably to the northward of the Pass, in order to avoid the snows. It was a question whether we should try to reopen the old trail, or follow his example and climb the frightful. looking steep on our right to a point beyond the timber. Being a green hand, I said nothing; but I felt relieved when the Pass was selected, for the snows had been melting very rapidly, and I was convinced that we could falsify the predictions of our friends.

The horses were saddled, the mules repacked, and we set out upon the uncertain adventure. There was snow all around us, — some drifts, even, lay on the meadow, —and, even where it had melted, the soil was such an elastic, treacherous bog, that we did not venture to ride. On all sides rills came rushing down, uprooted trees barred the way, or pools of black mud had collected. It was impossible to follow the trail, although we could trace it by the marks of the shovels. Slowly, in single file, stopping every two minutes to lean upon our horses’ necks and gasp for breath, spattered with mud and wet with snow-water, we climbed through the forest, taking heart from the knowledge that this was our last hard pull. The trees rapidly grew thinner, the roaring rills became noiseless threads of water, the snow-drifts overlapped each other and must be waded, and then — the steep suddenly flattened, and a keen wind blew over the summit of the Pass.

It is a sharp crest, with not ten yards between the opposite declivities. Here there was an open space, covered with bunch-grass, among the fields of snow. We were just at the limit of timber, a little more than eleven thousand feet above the sea-level. No general panorama of the range is visible, but there are inclosed views to the east and west. Behind us, a sweep of bleak, frosty summits, too near (apparently), too hard and sharp, to be beautiful. Before us, far away over the deeps of endless dark-green forest, a grand Alpine range,

"lifting there

A thousand shadow-pencilled valleys

And snowy dells in a golden air."

Still further, thirty or forty miles behind it, arose two great snowy pyramids, evidently beyond the North Park, and not inferior in height to Mont Blanc. This view was superior, in all the elements of sublimity, to anything I had seen since entering the mountains. In the centre of the bare spot where we gathered grew a ranunculus, a blossom of which I transferred to my note-book.

Beyond us, on the Pacific slope, we could see nothing but a waste of snow. Our two mountaineers, therefore, determined to make a preliminary exploration. Plunging into the drifts, wherein they sank to their thighs at nearly every step, they disappeared from sight, while we discussed the chances of reaching the Park before night. It was now two o’clock in the afternoon, the distance somewhere between twelve and fifteen miles, and unknown hardships and perils on the way — by no means an encouraging prospect! In half an hour Mr. Byers and White made their appearance, very much fagged and not particularly cheerful. The former simply said, —" We ‘ll try it!" and took his horse’s bridle. We followed, keeping the pack-mules near the centre of the line, and commenced the descent.

The snow, we soon found, was of very irregular texture. .After walking three or four steps on the surface, we would suddenly plunge into a loose, melting mass, men and horses foundering together. It was necessary to lead by a long rein, to avoid the leaps and struggles of the latter. Where the descent was steep, I frequently found myself buried nearly to the hips and thrown upon my face, with the horse‘s head resting on my back. Now and then a rock, a log or the top of a sharp knoll offered us a resting-place, and the chance of shaking off the snow, the penetrative cold of which pierced to one’s very marrow. In one place there was a gulf of snow overhanging an arrowy torrent. I cleared it with a leap, and then, as my mare prepared to follow, took a second leap, to give her room to land. For a moment she hung by her forefeet, but a strong pull on the bridle brought her out of the danger. The dry, horny branches of the firs were also to be avoided; they both stabbed and tore, and in our headlong plunges it was not easy to keep out of their way. After nearly a mile of this travel, when strength, hope, and courage were on the point of giving out, the drifts diminished, and we could now and then walk in a bog of black mud, which was a pleasant relief. A little further, and Mr. Byers announced that the trail was found, although not yet practicable — we must still break our own way.

Our faces were smarting and our throats were parched, yet the snow-water, which set our teeth on edge with its coldness, did not seem to quench thirst in the least. We were soon enabled, however, to mount, and throw the burden of fatigue on the horses. After a short but very steep descent, the path was barred by an impetuous torrent, which was crossed at one point by a frail arch of snow left from a drift. White boldly walked over, leading his horse after him; but no one else dared to follow. After a little search we found a fordable place, and crossed, with the water foaming up to our saddles. There was yet another branch of the same river before us, and this proved to be both deeper and swifter. Mr. Beard’s mule tottered and gave way, but regained his footing just on the brink of a rapid, and with a little care we all got safely over.

We were now able to follow the trail, except where it led into boggy holes, where the horses frequently sank to their bellies. On account of the fallen timber, it was a work of considerable difficulty to get around these holes. An interminable forest surrounded us. During the first four or five miles, we had an occasional glimpse of open green meadows on our right, and spurs of the snowy range towering beyond; afterwards, nothing but a dark wilderness of pines, firs, and aspens. The descent was very gradual — so much so, that after travelling for three hours, we were still in the ‘midst of snow-drifts. My boots were completely sodden, and my feet and legs soon became so icy cold that I was forced to walk a good part of the way, although the exercise seemed to rack every joint in the body. Mile after mile and hour after hour passed by, and still the same gloomy, dreary forest; still snow, mud-holes, and fallen logs. We had forced the Berthoud Pass, and expected to camp in the Park, which was cause for congratulation; but how devoutly we longed for the valley to open!

A break in the wood showed us the evening shadows high on the opposite mountain. The air was already damp and chill, and the open, level portion of the Park was yet two miles distant. All at once the trail entered a meadow of deep grass, two acres in extent, and our leader dismounted under a clump of trees. Mr. Beard and myself rolled out of our saddles, ungirthed, turned the animals loose, and then threw ourselves down before the fire (which had been immediately kindled), too fatigued to be very conscious of rest. It was very fortunate that Mr. Sumner has a talent for cooking; had the meal depended on either of us, I fear it would have been of the "square" order. A pot of coffee — hot, black, and strong — soon circulated among us, a veritable lubricating oil to stiff joints, and an anodyne to bruised muscles.

There were no songs and stories around the camp-fire. Each one made haste to find a portion of the earth’s surface as little lumpy as possible, and dispose his blankets with a view to warmth and comfort. The artist and I united our stock of bedding, and I added a mattress of fir boughs, but we had little comfort during the night. The mosquitoes were plentiful, the noises of the animals disturbed us, and toward morning it became wretchedly cold. The meadow was flooded with splendid moonlight, and whenever I opened my eyes on the mysterious mazes of light and gloom in the depth of the forest, I became excited and restless. It seemed a long while until the chilly dawn arrived; but then, the last nap I took, while somebody else was kindling the fire, refreshed me more than all the broken sleep of the night.   NEXT