WHEN we encamped on the Arkansas, we were still seventy miles from Cañon City, by the practicable trail. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an easy journey, but our animals were fagged by the severe mountain travel, the sky was threatening, our provisions were short, and there was no settlement on the way, except a few miles below us, in the Arkansas Valley. Nevertheless, we determined to push on as far as possible, and, if need be, divide the party at the end of the day.

It was a little hard to come back to the normal diet of salt pork and biscuit, but Mr. Londoner, our faithful ally, set us the example. We slept soundly on elastic mattresses of fir, breakfasted early, and continued our slow way down the valley. There was a deep creek to be forded, and we took the precaution of attaching lariats to the wagon-tongue, whereby a catastrophe like that of the previous day was prevented. After this, the rough, broken country ceased, the valley opened out more broadly, and we saw — or would have seen, but for gathering clouds —the Sahwatch Range. An irrigating ditch from the river pleasantly surprised us. Following it, we came to a large inclosed field of wheat — the first since leaving the neighborhood of Denver. The place is called Frenchman’s Ranche from its owner, whom we saw at a distance, engaged in looking after his growing crops. It is a cheerful oasis in the wilderness reached. The house of Mr. Hall, the superintendent of the works, received our dripping party, so rejoiced to find warmth, food, and protection from the storm, that I am afraid we were not fully aware of the inconvenience we occasioned to our kindly hostess. Ourselves, blankets, saddles, and other traps, almost filled the little cottage; we made a solid circle around the stove ; yet, somehow, the bountiful supper was swiftly and quietly prepared, and two strangers who came after us were received with equal hospitality. The life of a settler in Colorado necessarily entails these duties, and if they are always so cheerfully and kindly performed as in our case, the Territory may be proud of its citizens.

Two miles further we crossed the Arkansas on a rude but substantial log bridge. The river is here a flashing, foaming torrent, about the size of the Saco at Conway. The road, clinging for a mile or two to the grassy meadows and scattered groves of the valley, gradually climbs along the hills on its eastern side, and then suddenly enters a narrow, winding glen. A little further to the south the great Cañon of the Arkansas, through which no road has yet been made, commences ; and all the travel from the farming country below Cañon City to the mining regions about the head of the river must cross the lower part of the South Park. Fortunately, the mountain boundaries of the Park are here broad and low, and the passage of them is not difficult. Not far from the commencement of the Arkansas Cañon there is a pass across the Sahwatch (the "Poncho Pass ") into the great San Luis Park, which is drained by the Rio del Norte, and extends two hundred and fifty miles southward into New-Mexico. Governor Gilpin says that the San Luis Park is the centre of the Continent — " the best gem upon its zone".— with a "velvety" atmosphere, and scenery of a cosmical character.

With the first winding of the glen we entered, the Arkansas Valley disappeared, and the scenery instantly changed. The hills were heaps of dark red boulders, arranged in fantastic piles — Cyclopean pyramids, sometimes topped by single blocks, twenty or thirty feet in diameter, sometimes disposed so as to form apparent bastions in front of long, tumbling ramparts. Every undulation of the ranges, far and near, was crowned with these natural ruins. Out of the thin, sandy soil, grew clumps of piñones (a pine with edible cones), which denoted a warmer climate than we had yet found in the mountains. The cactus, also, reappeared, and these two features gave a savage picturesqueness to the landscapes.

After a few scorching sun-bursts, the sky became overspread with a gray film, gathering into blackness along the Alpine ranges behind us. For mile after mile we wound through the labyrinths of rocks and bushy pines, a slow, straggling, and rather melancholy procession. My poor, shoeless pony could not be persuaded to trot. Mr. D.’s mule refused to carry him, and he was added to the wagon load, greatly discouraging its team. Mr. Byers’s horse, alone, seemed equal to the emergency. Two of the party pushed ahead, in the hope of finding game, and the remainder of us lagged so much that we were obliged to camp at noon without overtaking them. The rest and pasture slightly encouraged our animals, but it was very evident that we could no longer depend upon them.

We had travelled eight miles after entering the hills, before there were any signs of a " divide." What seemed to be the highest ridge then rose before us. Its crest was bare, and as we emerged from the trees and looked backward, a most remarkable landscape was revealed. Over a foreground of hill-tops, from which shot up hundreds of rocky towers and pyramids, we looked down into the Arkansas Valley, which here formed a basin several miles in breadth. Seen through the filmy atmosphere, the silvery sage-plains seemed to be transparent. The meandering lines of timber which marked the courses of the Arkansas and its tributaries, were of the purest ultramarine hue. In the background, the intensely dark clouds, resting on the summits of the Sahwatch, were lifted in an arch, which was filled with a marvellous glow of pale-gray light, enshrining a great snow-peak in the centre. This was the luminous part of the picture — all else was seen through transparent shadow, the gradations of which were so exquisite, the tones so rare and delicate, that Color itself could scarcely represent them.

We picked up our foiled hunters, whom we found sitting beside a fire, in an attitude of dejection, which may have been the effect of hunger. On the summit of the divide the rain began to fall, though not rapidly enough to obscure the beauty of the long and lovely valley on the other side. As we descended this valley, it soon became evident that we were not yet in the South Park ; it turned westward and slanted toward the Arkansas. Mr. Byers and I held a consultation as we rode, he proposing that we twain should push on for Cañon City, leaving the others (who had no lectures to deliver) to make for Denver. To do this, however, we must take no baggage, and very little provender, ride twenty miles further before camping, and run the risk of my pony giving out on the way. We were on the point of deciding for this plan, when the sky closed over us more darkly than ever, the rain fell in steady, dreary streams, and the road (which, meanwhile, had almost imperceptibly crossed another ridge and entered the South Park) divided into two trails. One of these, Mr. Londoner informed us, led to the Salt Works, about five miles distant, where we could find food and shelter; the other to Cañon City, with a single deserted ranche on the way.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon: we were hungry, wet, and sore: our horses seemed scarcely able to drag their feet through the mud: the water was slowly soaking through our shoulders and trickling into our boots; and the heroic resolutions of half an hour previous rapidly melted away as we paused at the parting of the ways. Like many another, the narrow and difficult trail lost its self-denying attractions; the short and broad trail became suddenly very fascinating. The wind blew and the rain dashed more harshly in our faces; we yielded, turned our horses’ heads, and rode silently toward the Salt Works.

A lone mountain, glimmering dimly across the melancholy plain, was our beacon. Another hour brought to view a column of smoke, rising from its base — the welcome sign of habitation and shelter! Then we saw grazing herds — white patches of saline incrustations — shanties and cabins, and just before nightfall the goal was reached. The house of Mr. Hall, the superintendent of the works, received our dripping party, so rejoiced to find warmth, food, and protection from the storm, that I am afraid we were not fully aware of the inconvenience we occasioned to our kindly hostess. Ourselves, blankets, saddles, and other traps, almost filled the little cottage; we made a solid circle around the stove; yet, somehow, the bountiful supper was swiftly and quietly prepared, and two strangers who came after us were received with equal hospitality. The life of a settler in Colorado necessarily entails these duties, and if they are always so cheerfully and kindly performed as in our case, the Territory may be proud of its citizens.

Mr. Hall gave me some information concerning the Salt Works, from which it appears that the yield of the springs, which are very strongly impregnated, is capable of supplying the wants of Colorado, for many years to come. In spite of the high price of labor, fuel, and supplies, the production of salt is now vigorously and successfully carried on; the capacity of the works will soon be doubled. I ought, properly, in my character of traveller, to have visited them: the curious reader, perhaps, may not be willing to excuse my neglect; but, at the time, I found it so much more agreeable to nurse my soaked existence beside the stove than to trudge a quarter of a mile in mud and rain, that I suppressed the voice of conscience. We all know, however, that a salt spring is like any other spring, except as to taste; that the water is evaporated by boiling, and that the importance of the works depends on the quantity and quality of the water. I believe Mr. Hall stated twenty thousand gallons per day as the present yield: the percentage of salt is equal to that of the best springs in the world.

That night, we filled the sofas, benches, and the floors of the kitchen and sitting-room. Fir in the trunk, I discovered, makes a much more uneasy bed than fir in the bough. Toward morning the sleepers were restless, and if we arose before the sun we deserved no special credit for it. The South Park was still moist, sodden, and shrouded in mist. Cañon City being now out of the question, Colorado City and Pike’s Peak were next discussed. Seventy-five miles, partly of very rocky travel, and no blacksmith’s shop on the way, were altogether too much for my pony, and we finally decided to make for the little mining village of Fairplay, twenty miles distant, to the north. Thence to Denver is a three days’ journey, along the South Platte. Our animals had enjoyed the richest pasturage during the night, and a lick of salt, so that they were in rather better condition when we started.

This part of the South Park is a nearly level plain, covered with the finest grass. Detached hills, or short mountain-ridges, some of them streaked with snow, occasionally interrupt the level; but, looking northward, the view always reaches to Mount Lincoln and the lofty summits of the central chain. On the eastern and southern sides the mountains are lower, although they rise toward Pike’s Peak, which derives its apparent height and imposing appearance from its isolation. It is separated by a distance of fifty or sixty miles from the snowy spurs of the Rocky Mountains. The altitude of the South Park is considerably higher than that of the Arkansas Valley: it is, in fact, equal to that of the Middle Park — between eight and nine thousand feet above the sea. Hence, it is doubtful whether grain can be successfully grown.

Although the mist gathered into clouds, these latter hung low for several hours, hiding the mountains, which constitute the finest feature of the Park scenery. We passed Buffalo Springs, forded several small affluents of the Platte, vainly tried to plunder an eagle’s nest on the top of a pine-tree, and then entered on a slightly undulating plain, eight or ten miles in breadth. Now, at least, the sky cleared, revealing snowy chains in front and on both sides of us; stretches of evergreen forests on the lower elevations; isolated ranges to the eastward — landscapes, shifting in the relation of their forms, but never to be measured with a radius of less than thirty miles. We should have enjoyed the scenery more keenly, but for our anxiety to reach Fairplay. Mr. Byers pointed out the location of the place near the foot of the northern mountains, yet many a weary mile still intervened. The plain terminated in a belt of scattering timber, then dropped down a slope into broad meadows, crossing which we found ourselves on the edge of a bluff, with the main stream of the South Platte foaming fifty feet below us.

The bridge had been washed away, and fording, after our — previous experiences, was anything but an agreeable necessity. The water was so very swift that I fully expected to see Mr. Byers carried away; but it proved not to be deep, and the bottom was firm. Leaving the others to haul the wagon across, I pushed on up the other bank to Fairplay, left my pony with the blacksmith, and engaged dinner for the party in a spacious log hotel, kept by the genial and loyal Judge Castillo. Fairplay is a quiet little place, with perhaps two hundred inhabitants, at the foot of a wooded slope, looking to the south, with a charming view far down the Park. There is gulch-mining along the Platte and its small tributaries, and lodes, I am told, in the adjacent mountains. Although the rains returned in the afternoon and the sky was threatening, we determined to make ten miles more before night.

The road was rolling, and still heavy from the rains, crossing the low spurs and insteps of hills thrust out from the snowy range. We made slow and weary progress, but the latter part of the way was illuminated with a wonderful sunset. Under the glowing orange of a cloud-bank in the east, the mountains around Pike’s Peak lay in ashen shadow, and all the broad, intervening plain, rosy-gray, shimmered with faint, evanescent tints of green and turquoise-blue and gold, where the light struck across it. This was no fleeting effect: it lingered for at least half an hour, slowly darkening until the contrasts of light and shade became as weird and unearthly as in some of the sketches of Doré. Before the stars appeared, we reached our destination, "Dan’s Ranche," a two-story frame tavern, kept by a German. There was a dark, dirty bar-room, in which half a dozen miners were waiting for supper; good, clean beds and bed-rooms, and a landlady who conversed enthusiastically with me about Sculler.

Four or five miles north of this ranche lies Hamilton, at the foot of the Tarryall Pass, by which wagons cross the snowy range to Breckenridge. The soil, in all this portion of the Park, shows "color," and the beautiful swells and undulations which delighted our eyes are destined, no doubt, to be dug up, washed down, and torn to pieces. Already hydraulic mining has commenced, and the yield of the earth is half an ounce a day per man. This is the only part of Colorado where I have seen this form of mining applied. There was a slight attempt at gardening at the ranche, apparently made without much hope of success, yet I thought it promised very well.

This morning we awoke to a cloudless sky — every shred of vapor had disappeared, and the dewy plains glittered in the sunshine. We saddled immediately after breakfast, and set out to cross the northeastern corner of the Park to the opposite mountains, which were ten or twelve miles distant. Had our beasts been fresher, it would have been an inspiring ride. The ground was traversed by Fremont in one of his explorations (I think in 1842 or ‘43), but how little he has told us of the scenery! The idea one gets from his descriptions and those of other explorers, is that of dark, stern, northern mountains, — the Adirondacks or White Mountains on a larger scale, — whereas, in color and atmospheric effects they have all the characteristics of a southern latitude. The chain of the Taurus in Asia Minor most resembles them. They have nothing in common with our conventional American scenery. Bierstadt’s large picture gives a fair representation of some of their forms (though the height of his central peak is exaggerated), but he has not chosen their peculiar atmosphere.

When we had noticed Hamilton at a distance, and the two log-cabins which mark the site of the deserted town of Jefferson; when we had caught sight of Pike’s Peak — through a long vista between the hills, passed ruined ranches where men were murdered, and meadows of peat which burned under all the winter’s snows, — the boundary of the South Park was reached, and we climbed the bare steep, from the summit of which we should look upon it for the last time.

At this point it has the appearance of a little enclosed world, like the Valley of Mexico. The lesser undulations of the soil vanish, but the loftier ridges scattered over its surface and more or less wooded, make dark waves on its broad ground of faint golden-gray. At a distance of twenty or thirty miles the colors appear transparent; still further, the purple peaks, capped with snow, are painted on the air. The most distant tints are pale lilac rather than blue. On the right, the great snowy range carries its grand, solid, positive features beyond the line where the Park becomes more of a vision than a reality, and its sharp rock-shadows and snow-fields keen against the sky form a wonderful contrast to the airy, sunlit gleam of the plains below. On the one hand there is softness, delicate color, and vanishing distance; on the other, height, strength and dazzling clearness.

Yet, as I write, I feel only what my words fail to convey. All the rarer and subtler qualities of the picture fade in the effort to express them. If the characteristic features of Rocky Mountain scenery can be inferred from the fragments of description scattered through these letters, I shall be satisfied. It is impossible to compress them into a single paragraph. Each day’s travel, and almost every landscape of each day, has its own distinct individuality.   NEXT