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IN the great Central Valley
of California there are only two seasons — spring and summer. The spring
begins with the first rainstorm, which usually falls in November. In a few
months the wonderful flowery vegetation is in full bloom, and by the end of
May it is dead and dry and crisp, as if every plant had been roasted in an
oven.
Then the lolling, panting
flocks and herds are driven to the high, cool, green pastures of the Sierra.
I was longing for the mountains about this time, but money was scarce and I
couldn't see how a bread supply was to be kept up. While I was anxiously
brooding on the bread problem, so troublesome to wanderers, and trying to
believe that I might learn to live like the wild animals, gleaning
nourishment here and there from seeds, berries, etc., sauntering and
climbing in joyful independence of money or baggage, Mr. Delaney, a
sheep-owner, for whom I had worked a few weeks, called on me, and offered to
engage me to go with his shepherd and flock to the headwaters of the Merced
and Tuolumne Rivers — the very region I had most in mind. I was in the mood
to accept work of any kind that would take me into the mountains whose
treasures I had tasted last summer in the Yosemite region. The flock, he
explained, would be moved gradually higher through the successive forest
belts as the snow melted, stopping for a few weeks at the best places we
came to. These I thought would be good centers of observation from which I
might be able to make many telling excursions within a radius of eight or
ten miles of the camps to learn something of the plants, animals, and rocks;
for he assured me that I should be left perfectly free to follow my studies.
I judged, however, that I was in no way the right man for the place, and
freely explained my shortcomings, confessing that I was wholly unacquainted
with the topography of the upper mountains, the streams that would have to
be crossed, and the wild sheep-eating animals, etc.; in short that, what
with bears, coyotes, rivers, canons, and thorny, bewildering chaparral, I
feared that half or more of his flock would be lost. Fortunately these
shortcomings seemed insignificant to Mr. Delaney. The main thing, he said,
was to have a man about the camp whom he could trust to see that the
shepherd did his duty, and he assured me that the difficulties that seemed
so formidable at a distance would vanish as we went on; encouraging me
further by saying that the shepherd would do all the herding, that I could
study plants and rocks and scenery as much as I liked, and that he would
himself accompany us to the first main camp and make occasional visits to
our higher ones to replenish our store of provisions and see how we
prospered. Therefore I concluded to go, though still fearing, when I saw the
silly sheep bouncing one by one through the narrow gate of the home corral
to be counted, that of the two thousand and fifty many would never return.
I was fortunate in getting a fine St. Bernard
dog for a companion. His master, a hunter with whom I was slightly
acquainted, came to me as soon as he heard that I was going to spend the
summer in the Sierra and begged me to take his favorite dog, Carlo, with me,
for he feared that if he were compelled to stay all summer on the plains the
fierce heat might be the death of him. "I think I can trust you to be kind
to him," he said, "and I am sure he will be good to you. He knows all about
the mountain animals, will guard the camp, assist in managing the sheep, and
in every way be found able and faithful." Carlo knew we were talking about
him, watched our faces, and listened so attentively that I fancied he
understood us. Calling him by name, I asked him if he was willing to go with
me. He looked me in the face with eyes expressing wonderful intelligence,
then turned to his master, and after permission was given by a wave of the
hand toward me and a farewell patting caress, he quietly followed me as if
he perfectly understood all that had been said and had known me always.
June 3,1869. This morning provisions,
camp-kettles, blankets, plant-press, etc., were packed on two horses, the
flock headed for the tawny foothills, and away we sauntered in a cloud of
dust: Mr. Delaney, bony and tall, with sharply hacked profile like Don
Quixote, leading the pack-horses, Billy, the proud shepherd, a Chinaman and
a Digger Indian to assist in driving for the first few days in the brushy
foothills, and myself with notebook tied to my belt.
The home ranch from which we set out is on the
south side of the Tuolumne River near French Bar, where the foothills of
metamorphic gold-bearing slates dip below the stratified deposits of the
Central Valley. We had not gone more than a mile before some of the old
leaders of the flock showed by the eager, inquiring way they ran and looked
ahead that they were thinking of the high pastures they had enjoyed last
summer. Soon the whole flock seemed to be hopefully excited, the mothers
calling their lambs, the lambs replying in tones wonderfully human, their
fondly quavering calls interrupted now and then by hastily snatched
mouthfuls of withered grass. Amid all this seeming babel of bags as they
streamed over the hills every mother and child recognized each other's
voice. In case a tired lamb, half asleep in the smothering dust, should fail
to answer, its mother would come running back through the flock toward the
spot whence its last response was heard, and refused to be comforted until
she found it, the one of a thousand, though to our eyes and ears all seemed
alike. The flock
traveled at the rate of about a mile an hour, outspread in the form of an
irregular triangle, about a hundred yards wide at the base, and a hundred
and fifty yards long, with a crooked, ever-changing point made up of the
strongest foragers, called the "leaders," which, with the most active of
those scattered along the ragged sides of the "main body," hastily explored
nooks in the rocks and bushes for grass and leaves; the lambs and feeble old
mothers dawdling in the rear were called the "tail end."
About noon the heat was hard to bear; the poor
sheep panted pitifully and tried to stop in the shade of every tree they
came to, while we gazed with eager longing through the dim burning glare
toward the snowy mountains and streams, though not one was in sight. The
landscape is only wavering foothills roughened here and there with bushes
and trees and outcropping masses of slate. The trees, mostly the blue oak (Quercus
Douglasii), are about thirty to forty feet high, with pale blue-green leaves
and white bark, sparsely planted on the thinnest soil or in crevices of
rocks beyond the reach of grass fires. The slates in many places rise
abruptly through the tawny grass in sharp lichen-covered slabs like
tombstones in deserted burying-grounds. With the exception of the oak and
four or five species of manzanita and ceanothus, the vegetation of the
foothills is mostly the same as that of the plains. I saw this region in the
early spring, when it was a charming landscape garden full of birds and bees
and flowers. Now the scorching weather makes everything dreary. The ground
is full of cracks, lizards glide about on the rocks, and ants in amazing
numbers, whose tiny sparks of life only burn the brighter with the heat,
fairly quiver with unquenchable energy as they run in long lines to fight
and gather food. How it comes that they do not dry to a crisp in a few
seconds' exposure to such sun-fire is marvelous. A few rattlesnakes lie
coiled in out-of-the-way places, but are seldom seen. Magpies and crows,
usually so noisy, are silent now, standing in mixed flocks on the ground
beneath the best shade trees, with bills wide open and wings drooped, too
breathless to speak; the quails also are trying to keep in the shade about
the few tepid alkaline water-holes; cottontail rabbits are running from
shade to shade among the ceanothus brush, and occasionally the long-eared
hare is seen cantering gracefully across the wider openings.
After a short noon rest in a grove, the poor
dust-choked flock was again driven ahead over the brushy hills, but the dim
roadway we had been following faded away just where it was most needed,
compelling us to stop to look about us and get our bearings. The Chinaman
seemed to think we were lost, and chattered in pidgin English concerning the
abundance of "litty stick" (chaparral), while the Indian silently scanned
the billowy ridges and gulches for openings. Pushing through the thorny
jungle, we at length discovered a road trending toward Coulterville, which
we followed until an hour before sunset, when we reached a dry ranch and
camped for the night.
Camping in the foothills with a flock of sheep is simple and easy, but far
from pleasant. The sheep were allowed to pick what they could find in the
neighborhood until after sunset, watched by the shepherd, while the others
gathered wood, made a fire, cooked, unpacked and fed the horses, etc. About
dusk the weary sheep were gathered on the highest open spot near camp, where
they willingly bunched close together, and after each mother had found her
lamb and suckled it, all lay down and required no attention until morning.
Supper was announced by the call, "Grub!" Each
with a tin plate helped himself direct from the pots and pans while chatting
about such camp studies as sheep-feed, mines, coyotes, bears, or adventures
during the memorable gold days of pay dirt. The Indian kept in the
background, saying never a word, as if he belonged to another species. The
meal finished, the dogs were fed, the smokers smoked by the fire, and under
the influences of fullness and tobacco the calm that settled on their faces
seemed almost divine, something like the mellow meditative glow portrayed on
the countenances of saints. Then suddenly, as if awakening from a dream,
each with a sigh or a grunt knocked the ashes out of his pipe, yawned, gazed
at the fire a few moments, said, "Well, I believe I'll turn in," and
straightway vanished beneath his blankets. The fire smouldered and flickered
an hour or two longer; the stars shone brighter; coons, coyotes, and owls
stirred the silence here and there, while crickets and hylas made a
cheerful, continuous music, so fitting and full that it seemed a part of the
very body of the night. The only discordance came from a snoring sleeper,
and the coughing sheep with dust in their throats. In the starlight the
flock looked like a big gray blanket.
June 4. The camp was astir at daybreak; coffee,
bacon, and beans formed the breakfast, followed by quick dish-washing and
packing. A general bleating began about sunrise. As soon as a mother ewe
arose, her lamb came bounding and bunting for its breakfast, and after the
thousand youngsters had been suckled the flock began to nibble and spread.
The restless wethers with ravenous appetites were the first to move, but
dared not go far from the main body. Billy and the Indian and the Chinaman
kept them headed along the weary road, and allowed them to pick up what
little they could find on a breadth of about a quarter of a mile. But as
several flocks had already gone ahead of us, scarce a leaf, green or dry,
was left; therefore the starving flock had to be hurried on over the bare,
hot hills to the nearest of the green pastures, about twenty or thirty miles
from here. The
pack-animals were led by Don Quixote, a heavy rifle over his shoulder
intended for bears and wolves. This day has been as hot and dusty as the
first, leading over gently sloping brown hills, with mostly the same
vegetation, excepting the strange-looking Sabine pine (Pinus Sabiniana),
which here forms small groves or is scattered among the blue oaks. The trunk
divides at a height of -fifteen or twenty feet into two or more stems,
out-leaning or nearly upright, with many straggling branches and long gray
needles, casting but little shade. In general appearance this tree looks
more like a palm than a pine. The cones are about six or seven inches long,
about five in diameter, very heavy, and last long after they fall, so that
the ground beneath the trees is covered with them. They make fine resiny,
light-giving camp-fires, next to ears of Indian corn the most beautiful fuel
I've ever seen. The nuts, the Don tells me, are gathered in large quantities
by the Digger Indians for food. They are about as large and hard-shelled as
hazelnuts — food and fire fit for the gods from the same fruit.
June 5. This morning a few
hours after setting out with the crawling sheep-cloud, we gained the summit
of the first well-defined bench on the mountain-flank at Pino Blanco. The
Sabine pines interest me greatly. They are so airy and strangely palm-like I
was eager to sketch them, and was in a fever of excitement without
accomplishing much. I managed to halt long enough, however, to make a
tolerably fair sketch of Pino Blanco peak from the southwest side, where
there is a small field and vineyard irrigated by a stream that makes a
pretty fall on its way down a gorge by the roadside.
After gaining the open summit of this first
bench, feeling the natural exhilaration due to the slight elevation of a
thousand feet or so, and the hopes excited concerning the outlook to be
obtained, a magnificent section of the Merced Valley at what is called
Horseshoe Bend came full in sight — a glorious wilderness that seemed to be
calling with a thousand songful voices. Bold, down-sweeping slopes,
feathered with pines and clumps of manzanita with sunny, open spaces between
them, make up most of the foreground; the middle and background present fold
beyond fold of finely modeled hills and ridges rising into mountain-like
masses in the distance, all covered with a shaggy growth of chaparral,
mostly adenostoma, planted so marvelously close and even that it looks like
soft, rich plush without a single tree or bare spot. As far as the eye can
reach it extends, a heaving, swelling sea of green as regular and continuous
as that produced by the heaths of Scotland. The sculpture of the landscape
is as striking in its main lines as in its lavish richness of detail; a
grand congregation of mas- sive heights with the river shining between, each
carved into smooth, graceful folds without leaving a single rocky angle
exposed, as if the delicate fluting and ridging fashioned out of metamorphic
slates had been carefully sandpapered. The whole landscape showed design,
like man's noblest sculptures. How wonderful the power of its beauty! Gazing
awestricken, I might have left everything for it. Glad, endless work would
then be mine tracing the forces that have brought forth its features, its
rocks and plants and animals and glorious weather. Beauty beyond thought
everywhere, beneath, above, made and being made forever. I gazed and gazed
and longed and admired until the dusty sheep and packs were far out of
sight, made hurried notes and a sketch, though there was no need of either,
for the colors and lines and expression of this divine landscape-countenance
are so burned into mind and heart they surely can never grow dim.
The evening of this charmed day is cool, calm,
cloudless, and full of a kind of lightning I have never seen before — white
glowing cloud-shaped masses down among the trees and bushes, like
quick-throbbing fireflies in the Wisconsin meadows rather than the so-called
"wild fire." The spreading hairs of the horses' tails and sparks from our
blankets show how highly charged the air is.
June 6. We are now on what may be called the
second bench or plateau of the Range, after making many small ups and downs
over belts of hill-waves, with, of course, corresponding changes in the
vegetation. In open spots many of the lowland composite are still to be
found, and some of the Mariposa tulips and other conspicuous members of the
lily family; but the characteristic blue oak of the foothills is left below,
and its place is taken by a fine large species (Quercus Californica) with
deeply lobed deciduous leaves, picturesquely divided trunk, and broad,
massy, finely lobed and modeled head. Here also at a height of about
twenty-five hundred feet we come to the edge of the great coniferous forest,
made up mostly of yellow pine with just a few sugar pines. We are now in the
mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve
quiver, filling every pore and cell of us. Our flesh-and-bone tabernacle
seems transparent as glass to the beauty about us, as if truly an
inseparable part of it, thrilling with the air and trees, streams and rocks,
in the waves of the sun, — a part of all nature, neither old nor young, sick
nor well, but immortal. Just now I can hardly conceive of any bodily
condition dependent on food or breath any more than the ground or the sky.
How glorious a conversion, so complete and wholesome it is, scarce memory
enough of old bondage days left as a standpoint to view it from! In this
newness of life we seem to have been so always.
Through a meadow opening in the pine woods I see
snowy peaks about the headwaters of the Merced above Yosemite. How near they
seem and how clear their outlines on the blue air, or rather in the blue
air; for they seem to be saturated with it. How consuming strong the
invitation they extend! Shall I be allowed to go to them? Night and day I'll
pray that I may, but it seems too good to be true. Some one worthy will go,
able for the Godful work, yet as far as I can I must drift about these
love-monument mountains, glad to be a servant of servants in so holy a
wilderness. Found a
lovely lily (Calochortus albus) in a shady adenostoma thicket near
Coulterville, in company with Adiantum Chilense. It is white with a faint
purplish tinge inside at the base of the petals, a most impressive plant,
pure as a snow crystal, one of the plant saints that all must love and be
made so much the purer by it every time it is seen. It puts the roughest
mountaineer on his good behavior. With this plant the whole world would seem
rich though none other existed. It is not easy to keep on with the camp
cloud while such plant people are standing preaching by the wayside.
During the afternoon we passed a fine meadow
bounded by stately pines, mostly the arrowy yellow pine, with here and there
a noble sugar pine, its feathery arms outspread above the spires of its
companion species in marked contrast; a glorious tree, its cones fifteen to
twenty inches long, swinging like tassels at the ends of the branches with
superb ornamental effect. Saw some logs of this species at the Greeley Mill.
They are round and regular as if turned in a lathe, excepting the butt cuts,
which have a few buttressing projections. The fragrance of the sugary sap is
delicious and scents the mill and lumber yard. How beautiful the ground
beneath this pine thickly strewn with slender needles and grand cones, and
the piles of cone-scales, seed-wings and shells around the instep of each
tree where the squirrels have been feasting! They get the seeds by cutting
off the scales at the base in regular order, following their spiral
arrangement, and the two seeds at the base of each scale, a hundred or two
in a cone, must make a good meal. The yellow pine cones and those of most
other species and genera are held upside down on the ground by the Douglas
squirrel, and turned around gradually until stripped, while he sits usually
with his back to a tree, probably forafety. Strange to say, he never seems
to get himself smeared with gum, not even his paws or whiskers — and how
cleanly and beautiful in color the cone-litter kitchen-middens he makes.
We are now approaching the region of clouds and
cool streams. Magnificent white cumuli appeared about noon above the
Yosemite region, — floating fountains refreshing the glorious wilderness, —
sky mountains in whose pearly hills and dales the streams take their rise, —
blessing with cooling shadows and rain. No rock landscape is more varied in
sculpture, none more delicately modeled than these landscapes of the sky;
domes and peaks rising, swelling, white as finest marble and firmly
outlined, a most impressive manifestation of world building. Every
rain-cloud, however fleeting, leaves its mark, notonly on trees and flowers
whose pulses are quickened, and on the replenished streams and lakes, but
also on the rocks are its marks engraved whether we can see them or not.
I have been examining the curious and
influential shrub Adenostoma fasciculata, first noticed about Horseshoe
Bend. It is very abundant on the lower slopes of the second plateau near
Coulterville, forming a dense, almost impenetrable growth that looks dark in
the distance. It belongs to the rose family, is about six or eight feet
high, has small white flowers in racemes eight to twelve inches long, round
needle-like leaves, and reddish bark that becomes shreddy when old. It grows
on sun-beaten slopes, and like grass is often swept away by running fires,
but is quickly renewed from the roots. Any trees that may have established
themselves in its midst are at length killed by these fires, and this no
doubt is the secret of the unbroken character of its broad belts. A few
manzanitas, which also rise again from the root after consuming fires, make
out to dwell with it, also a few bush compositor — baccharis and linosyris,
and some liliaceous plants, mostly calochortus and brodiaea, with deepset
bulbs safe from fire. A multitude of birds and "wee, sleekit, cow'rin',
tim'rous beasties" find good homes in its deepest thickets, and the open
bays and lanes that fringe the margins of its main belts offer shelter and
food to the deer when winter storms drive them down from their high mountain
pastures. A most admirable plant! It is now in bloom, and I like to wear its
pretty fragrant racemes in my buttonhole.
Azalea oceidentalis, another charming shrub,
grows beside cool streams hereabouts and much higher in the Yosemite region.
We found it this evening in bloom a few miles above Greeley's Mill, where we
are camped for the night. It is closely related to the rhododendrons, is
very showy and fragrant, and everybody must like it not only for itself but
for the shady alders and willows, ferny meadows, and living water associated
with it. Another
conifer was met to-day — incense cedar (Libocedrus decurrens), a large tree
with warm yellow-green foliage in flat plumes like those of arborvitae, bark
cinnamon-colored, and as the boles of the old trees are without limbs they
make striking pillars in the woods where the sun chances to shine on them —
a worthy companion of the kingly sugar and yellow pines. I feel strangely
attracted to this tree. The brown close-grained wood, as well as the small
scale-like leaves, is fragrant, and the flat over-lapping plumes make fine
beds, and must shed the rain well. It would be delightful to be storm-bound
beneath one of these noble, hospitable, inviting old trees, its broad
sheltering arms bent down like a tent, incense rising from the fire made
from its dry fallen branches, and a hearty wind chanting overhead. But the
weather is calm to-night, and our camp is only a sheep camp. We are near the
North Fork of the Merced. The night wind is telling the wonders of the upper
mountains, their snow fountains and gardens, forests and groves; even their
topography is in its tones. And the stars, the everlasting sky lilies, how
bright they are now that we have climbed above the lowland dust! The horizon
is bounded and adorned by a spiry wall of pines, every tree harmoniously
related to every other; definite symbols, divine hieroglyphics written with
sunbeams. Would I could understand them! The stream flowing past the camp
through ferns and lilies and alders makes sweet music to the ear, but the
pines marshaled around the edge of the sky make a yet sweeter music to the
eye. Divine beauty all. Here I could stay tethered forever with just bread
and water, nor would I be lonely; loved friends and neighbors, as love for
everything increased, would seem all the nearer however many the miles and
mountains between us.
June 7. The sheep were sick last night, and many of them are still far from
well, hardly able to leave camp, coughing, groaning, looking wretched and
pitiful, all from eating the leaves of the blessed azalea. So at least say
the shepherd and the Don. Having had but little grass since they left the
plains, they are starving, and so eat anything green they can get.
"Sheep-men" call azalea "sheep-poison," and wonder what the Creator was
thinking about when he made it — so desperately does sheep business blind
and degrade, though supposed to have a refining influence in the good old
days we read of. The California sheep owner is in haste to get rich, and
often does, now that pasturage costs nothing, while the climate is so
favorable that no winter food supply, shelter-pens, or barns are required.
Therefore large flocks may be kept at slight expense, and large profits
realized, the money invested doubling, it is claimed, every other year. This
quickly acquired wealth usually creates desire for more. Then indeed the
wool is drawn close down over the poor fellow's eyes, dimming or shutting
out almost everything worth seeing.
As for the shepherd, his case is still worse,
especially in winter when he lives alone in a cabin. For, though stimulated
at times by hopes of one day owning a flock and getting rich like his boss,
he at the same time is likely to be degraded by the life he leads, and
seldom reaches the dignity or advantage — or disadvantage — of ownership.
The degradation in his case has for cause one not far to seek. He is
solitary most of the year, and solitude to most people seems hard to bear.
He seldom has much good mental work or recreation in the way of books.
Coming into his dingy hovel-cabin at night, stupidly weary, he finds nothing
to balance and level his life with the universe. No, after his dull drag all
day after the sheep, he must get his supper; he is likely to slight this
task and try to satisfy his hunger with whatever comes handy. Perhaps no
bread is baked; then he just makes a few grimy flapjacks in his unwashed
frying-pan, boils a handful of tea, and perhaps fries a few strips of rusty
bacon. Usually there are dried peaches or apples in the cabin, but he hates
to be bothered with the cooking of them, just swallows the bacon and
flapjacks, and depends on the genial stupefaction of tobacco for the rest.
Then to bed, often without removing the clothing worn during the day. Of
course his health suffers, reacting on his mind; and seeing nobody for weeks
or months, he finally becomes semi-insane or wholly so.
The shepherd in Scotland seldom thinks of being
anything but a shepherd. He has probably descended from a race of shepherds
and inherited a love and aptitude for the business almost as marked as that
of his collie. He has but a small flock to look after, sees his family and
neighbors, has time for reading in fine weather, and often carries books to
the fields with which he may converse with kings. The oriental shepherd, we
read, called his sheep by name; they knew his voice and followed him. The
flocks must have been small and easily managed, allowing piping on the hills
and ample leisure for reading and thinking. But whatever the blessings of
sheep-culture in other times and countries, the California shepherd, as far
as I've seen or heard, is never quite sane for any considerable time. Of all
Nature's voices baa is about all he hears. Even the howls and ki-yis of
coyotes might be blessings if well heard, but he hears them only through a
blur of mutton and wool, and they do him no good.
The sick sheep are getting well, and the
shepherd is discoursing on the various poisons lurking in these high
pastures — azalea, kalmia, alkali. After crossing the North Fork of the
Merced we turned to the left toward Pilot Peak, and made a considerable
ascent on a rocky, brush-covered ridge to Brown's Flat, where for the first
time since leaving the plains the flock is enjoying plenty of green grass.
Mr. Delaney intends to seek a permanent camp somewhere in the neighborhood,
to last several weeks.
Before noon we passed Bower Cave, a delightful marble palace, not dark and
dripping, but filled with sunshine, which pours into it through its
wide-open mouth facing the south. It has a fine, deep, clear little lake
with mossy banks embowered with broad-leaved maples, all under ground,
wholly unlike anything I have seen in the cave line even in Kentucky, where
a large part of the State is honeycombed with caves. This curious specimen
of subterranean scenery is located on a belt of marble that is said to
extend from the north end of the Range to the extreme south. Many other
caves occur on the belt, but none like this, as far as I have learned,
combining as it does sunny outdoor brightness and vegetation with the
crystalline beauty of the underworld. It is claimed by a Frenchman, who has
fenced and locked it, placed a boat on the lakelet and seats on the mossy
bank under the maple trees, and charges a dollar admission fee. Being on one
of the ways to the Yosemite Valley, a good many tourists visit it during the
travel months of summer, regarding it as an interesting addition to their
Yosemite wonders.
Poison oak or poison ivy (Rhos diversiloba), both as a bush and a scrambler
up trees and rocks, is common throughout the foothill region up to a height
of at least three thousand feet above the sea. It is somewhat troublesome to
most travelers, inflaming the skin and eyes, but blends harmoniously with
its companion plants, and many a charming flower leans confidingly upon it
for protection and shade. I have oftentimes found the curious twining lily (Stropholirion
Californicum) climbing its branches, showing no fear but rather congenial
companionship. Sheep eat it without apparent ill effects; so do horses to
some extent, though not fond of it, and to many persons it is harmless. Like
most other things not apparently useful to man, it has few friends, and the
blind question, "Why was it made?" goes on and on with never a guess that
first of all it might have been made for itself.
Brown's Flat is a shallow fertile valley on the
top of the divide between the North Fork of the Merced and Bull Creek,
commanding magnificent views in every direction. Here the adventurous
pioneer David Brown made his headquarters for many years, dividing his time
between gold-hunting and bear-hunting. Where could lonely hunter find a
better solitude? Game in the woods, gold in the rocks, health and
exhilaration in the air, while the colors and cloud furniture of the sky are
ever inspiring through all sorts of weather. Though sternly practical, like
most pioneers, old David seems to have been uncommonly fond of scenery. Mr.
Delaney, who knew him well, tells me that he dearly loved to climb to the
summit of a commanding ridge to gaze abroad over the forest to the snow-clad
peaks and sources of the rivers, and over the foreground valleys and gulches
to note where miners were at work or claims were abandoned, judging by smoke
from cabins and camp-fires, the sounds of axes, etc.; and when a rifle-shot
was heard, to guess who was the hunter, whether Indian or some poacher on
his wide domain. His dog Sandy accompanied him everywhere, and well the
little hairy mountaineer knew and loved his master and his master's aims. In
deer-hunting he had but little to do, trotting behind his master as he
slowly made his way through the wood, careful not to step heavily on dry
twigs, scanning open spots in the chaparral, where the game loves to feed in
the early morning and towards sunset; peering cautiously over ridges as new
outlooks were reached, and along the meadowy borders of streams. But when
bears were hunted, little Sandy became more important, and it was as a
bear-hunter that Brown became famous. His hunting method, as described by
Mr. Delaney, who had passed many a night with him in his lonely cabin and
learned his stories, was simply to go slowly and silently through the best
bear pastures, with his dog and rifle and a few pounds of flour, until he
found a fresh track and then follow it to the death, paying no heed to the
time required. Wherever the bear went he followed, led by little Sandy, who
had a keen nose and never lost the track, however rocky the ground. When
high open points were reached, the likeliest places were carefully scanned.
The time of year enabled the hunter to determine approximately where the
bear would be found, — in the spring and early summer on open spots about
the banks of streams and springy places eating grass and clover and lupines,
or in dry meadows feasting on strawberries; toward the end of summer, on dry
ridges, feasting on manzanita berries, sitting on his haunches, pulling down
the laden branches with his paws, and pressing them together so as to get
good compact mouthfuls however much mixed with twigs and leaves; in the
Indian summer, beneath the pines, chewing the cones cut off by the
squirrels, or occasionally climbing a tree to gnaw and break off the
fruitful branches. In late autumn, when acorns are ripe, Bruin's favorite
feeding-grounds are groves of the California oak in park-like canon flats.
Always the cunning hunter knew where to look, and seldom came upon Bruin
unawares. When the hot scent showed the dangerous game was nigh, a long halt
was made, and the intricacies of the topography and vegetation leisurely
scanned to catch a glimpse of the shaggy wanderer, or to at least determine
where he was most likely to be.
"Whenever," said the hunter, "I saw a bear
before it saw me I had no trouble in killing it. I just studied the lay of
the land and got to leeward of it no matter how far around I had to go, and
then worked up to within a few hundred yards or so, at the foot of a tree
that I could easily climb, but too small for the bear to climb. Then I
looked well to the condition of my rifle, took off my boots so as to climb
well if necessary, and waited until the bear turned its side in clear view
when I could make a sure or at least a good shot. In case it showed fight I
climbed out of reach. But bears are slow and awkward with their eyes, and
being to leeward of them they could not scent me, and I often got in a
second shot before they noticed the smoke. Usually, however, they run when
wounded and hide in the brush. I let them run a good safe time before I
ventured to follow them, and Sandy was pretty sure to find them dead. If
not, he barked and drew their attention, and occasionally rushed in for a
distracting bite, so that I was able to get to a safe distance for a final
shot. Oh, yes, bear-hunting is safe enough when followed in a safe way,
though like every other business it has its accidents, and little doggie and
I have had some close calls. Bears like to keep out of the way of men as a
general thing, but if an old, lean, hungry mother with cubs met a man on her
own ground she would, in my opinion, try to catch and eat him. This would be
only fair play anyhow, for we eat them, but nobody hereabout has been used
for bear grub that I know of."
Brown had left his mountain home ere we arrived,
but a considerable number of Digger Indians still linger in their cedar-bark
huts on the edge of the flat. They were attracted in the first place by the
white hunter whom they had learned to respect, and to whom they looked for
guidance and protection against their enemies the Pah Utes, who sometimes
made raids across from the east side of the Range to plunder the stores of
the comparatively feeble Diggers and steal their wives. |
