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THE wild sheep ranks highest
among the animal mountaineers of the Sierra. Possessed of keen sight and
scent, and strong limbs, he dwells secure amid the loftiest summits, leaping
unscathed from crag to crag, up and down the fronts of giddy precipices,
crossing foaming torrents and slopes of frozen snow, exposed to the wildest
storms, yet maintaining a brave, warm life, and developing from generation
to generation in perfect strength and beauty.
Nearly all the lofty
mountain-chains of the globe are inhabited by wild sheep, most of which, on
account of the remote and all but inaccessible regions where they dwell, are
imperfectly known as yet. They are classified by different naturalists under
from five to ten distinct species or varieties, the best known being the
burrhel of the Himalaya (Ovis burrhel, Blyth); the argali, the large wild
sheep of central and northeastern Asia (O. ammon, Linn., or Caprovis
argali); the Corsican mouflon (O. musimon, Pal.); the aoudad of the
mountains of northern Africa (Ammotragus tragelaphus); and the Rocky
mountain bighorn (0. montana, Cuv.). To this last-named species belongs the
wild sheep of the Sierra. Its range, according to the late Professor Baird,
of the Smithsonian Institution, extends "from the region of the upper
Missouri and Yellowstone to the Rocky Mountains and the high grounds
adjacent to them on the eastern slope, and as far south as the Rio Grande.
Westward it extends to the coast ranges of Washington, Oregon, and
California, and follows the highlands some distance into Mexico."
Throughout the vast region
bounded on the east by the Wahsatch Mountains and on the west by the Sierra
there are more than a hundred subordinate ranges and mountain groups,
trending north and south, range beyond range, with summits rising from eight
to twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea, probably all of which,
according to my own observations, is, or has been, inhabited by this
species.
Compared with the argali,
which, considering its size and the vast extent of its range, is probably
the most important of all the wild sheep, our species is about the same
size, but the horns are less twisted and less divergent. The more important
characteristics are, however, essentially the same, some of the best
naturalists maintaining that the two are only varied forms of one species.
In accordance with this view, Cuvier conjectures that since central Asia
seems to be the region where the sheep first appeared, and from which it has
been distributed, the argali may have been distributed over this continent
from Asia by crossing Bering Strait on ice. This conjecture is not so ill
founded as at first sight would appear; for the Strait is only about fifty
miles wide, is interrupted by three islands, and is jammed with ice nearly
every winter. Furthermore the argali is abundant on the mountains adjacent
to the Strait at East Cape, where it is well known to the Tschuckchi hunters
and where I have seen many of their horns.
On account of the extreme
variability of the sheep under culture, it is generally supposed that the
innumerable domestic breeds have all been derived from the few wild species;
but the whole question is involved in obscurity. According to Darwin, sheep
have been domesticated from a very ancient period, the remains of a small
breed, differing from any now known, having been found in the famous Swiss
lake dwellings.
Compared with the best-known
domestic breeds, we find that our wild species is much larger, and, instead
of an all-wool garment, wears a thick overcoat of hair like that of the
deer, and an undercovering of fine wool. The hair, though rather coarse, is
comfortably soft and spongy, and lies smooth, as if carefully tended with
comb and brush. The predominant color during most of the year is brownish-gray,
varying to bluish-gray in the autumn; the belly and a large, conspicuous
patch on the buttocks are white; and the tail, which is very short, like
that of a deer, is black, with a yellowish border. The wool is white, and
grows in beautiful spirals down out of sight among the shining hair, like
delicate climbing vines among stalks of corn.
The horns of the male are of
immense size, measuring in their greater diameter from five to six and a
half inches, and from two and a half to three feet in length around the
curve. They are yellowish-white in color, and ridged transversely, like
those of the domestic ram. Their cross-section near the base is somewhat
triangular in outline, and flattened toward the tip. Rising boldly from the
top of the head, they curve gently backward and outward, then forward and
outward, until about three fourths of a circle is described, and until the
flattened, blunt tips are about two feet or two and a half feet apart. Those
of the female are flattened throughout their entire length, are less curved
than those of the male, and much smaller, measuring less than a foot along
the curve.
A ram and ewe that I obtained
near the Modoc lava-beds, to the northeast of Mount Shasta, measured as
follows: —
The measurements of a male
obtained in the Rocky Mountains by Audubon vary but little as compared with
the above. The weight of his specimen was three hundred and forty-four
pounds, which is, perhaps, about an average for full-grown males. The
females are about a third lighter.
Besides these differences in
size, color, hair, etc., as noted above, we may observe that the domestic
sheep, in a general way, is expressionless, like a dull bundle of something
only half alive, while the wild is as elegant and graceful as a deer, every
movement manifesting admirable strength and character. The tame is timid;
the wild is bold. The tame is always more or less ruffled and dirty; while
the wild is as smooth and clean as the flowers of his mountain pastures.
The earliest mention that I
have been able to find of the wild sheep in America is by Father Picolo, a
Catholic missionary at Monterey, in the year 1797, who, after describing it,
oddly enough, as "a kind of deer with a sheep-like head, and about as large
as a calf one or two years old," naturally hurries on to remark: "I have
eaten of these beasts; their flesh is very tender and delicious." Mackenzie,
in his northern travels, heard the species spoken of by the Indians as
"white buffaloes." And Lewis and Clark tell us that, in a time of great
scarcity on the head waters of the Missouri, they saw plenty of wild sheep,
but they were "too shy to be shot."
A few of the more energetic
of the Pah Ute Indians hunt the wild sheep every season among the more
accessible sections of the High Sierra, in the neighborhood of passes,
where, from having been pursued, they have become extremely wary; but in the
rugged wilderness of peaks and canons, where the foaming tributaries of the
San Joaquin and King's Rivers take their rise, they fear no hunter save the
wolf, and are more guileless and approachable than their tame kindred.
While engaged in the work of
exploring high regions where they delight to roam I have been greatly
interested in studying their habits. In the months of November and December,
and probably during a considerable portion of midwinter, they all flock
together, male and female, old and young. I once found a complete band of
this kind numbering upward of fifty, which, on being alarmed, went bounding
away across a jagged lava-bed at admirable speed, led by a majestic old ram,
with the lambs safe in the middle of the flock.
In spring and summer, the
full-grown rams form separate bands of from three to twenty, and are usually
found feeding along the edges of glacier meadows, or resting among the
castle-like crags of the high summits; and whether quietly feeding, or
scaling the wild cliffs, their noble forms and the power and beauty of their
movements never fail to strike the beholder with lively admiration.
Their resting-places seem to
be chosen with reference to sunshine and a wide outlook, and most of all to
safety. Their feeding-grounds are among the most beautiful of the wild
gardens, bright with daisies and gentians and mats of purple bryanthus,
lying hidden away on rocky headlands and canon sides, where sunshine is
abundant, or down in the shady glacier valleys, along the banks of the
streams and lakes, where the plushy sod is greenest. Here they feast all
summer, the happy wanderers, perhaps relishing the beauty as well as the
taste of the lovely flora on which they feed.
When the winter storms set
in, loading their highland pastures with snow, then, like the birds, they
gather and go to lower climates, usually descending the eastern flank of the
range to the rough, volcanic tablelands and treeless ranges of the Great
Basin adjacent to the Sierra. They never make haste, however, and seem to
have no dread of storms, many of the strongest only going down leisurely to
bare, wind-swept ridges, to feed on bushes and dry bunch-grass, and then
returning up into the snow. Once I was snow-bound on Mount Shasta for three
days, a little below the timber line. It was a dark and stormy time, well
calculated to test the skill and endurance of mountaineers. The snow-laden
gale drove on night and day in hissing, blinding floods, and when at length
it began to abate, I found that a small band of wild sheep had weathered the
storm in the lee of a clump of dwarf pines a few yards above my storm-nest,
where the snow was eight or ten feet deep. I was warm back of a rock, with
blankets, bread, and fire. My brave companions lay in the snow, without
food, and with only the partial shelter of the short trees, yet they made no
sign of suffering or faintheartedness.
In the months of May and
June, the wild sheep bring forth their young in solitary and almost
inaccessible crags, far above the nesting-rocks of the eagle. I have
frequently come upon the beds of the ewes and lambs at an elevation of from
twelve to thirteen thousand feet above sea-level. These beds are simply
oval- shaped hollows, pawed out among loose, disintegrating rock-chips and
sand, upon some sunny spot commanding a good outlook, and partially
sheltered from the winds that sweep those lofty peaks almost without
intermission. Such is the cradle of the little mountaineer, aloft in the
very sky; rocked in storms, curtained in clouds, sleeping in thin, icy air;
but, wrapped in his hairy coat, and nourished by a strong, warm mother,
defended from the talons of the eagle and the teeth of the sly coyote, the
bonny lamb grows apace. He soon learns to nibble the tufted rock grasses and
leaves of the white spiraea his horns begin to shoot, and before summer is
done he is strong and agile, and goes forth with the flock, watched by the
same divine love that tends the more helpless human lamb in its cradle by
the fireside.
Nothing is more commonly
remarked by noisy, dusty trail travelers in the Sierra than the want of
animal life -no song-birds, no deer, no squirrels, no game of any kind, they
say. But if such could only go away quietly into the wilderness, sauntering
afoot and alone with natural deliberation, they would soon learn that these
mountain mansions are not without inhabitants, many of whom, confiding and
gentle, would not try to shun their acquaintance.
In the fall of 1873 I was
tracing the South Fork of the San Joaquin up its wild caņon to its farthest
glacier fountains. It was the season of alpine Indian summer. The sun beamed
lovingly; the squirrels were nutting in the pine trees, butterflies hovered
about the last of the goldenrods, the willow and maple thickets were yellow,
the meadows brown, and the whole sunny, mellow landscape glowed like a
countenance in the deepest and sweetest repose. On my way over the
glacier-polished rocks along the river, I came to an expanded portion of the
caņon, about two miles long and half a mile wide, which formed a level park
inclosed with picturesque granite walls like those of Yosemite Valley. Down
through the middle of it poured the beautiful river shining and spangling in
the golden light, yellow groves on its banks, and strips of brown meadow;
while the whole park was astir with wild life, some of which even the
noisiest and least observing of travelers must have seen had they been with
me. Deer, with their supple, well-grown fawns, bounded from thicket to
thicket as I advanced; grouse kept rising from the brown grass with a great
whirring of wings, and, alighting on the lower branches of the pines and
poplars, a!- lowed a near approach, as if curious to see me. Farther on, a
broad-shouldered wildcat showed himself, coming out of a grove, and crossing
the river on flood jamb of logs, halting for a moment to look back. The
bird-like tamias frisked about my feet everywhere among the pine needles and
seedy grass tufts; cranes waded the shallows of the river bends, the
kingfisher rattled from perch to perch, and the blessed ouzel sang amid the
spray of every cascade. Where may lonely wanderer find a more interesting
family of mountain dwellers, earth- born companions and fellow mortals? It
was afternoon when I joined them, and the glorious landscape began to fade
in the gloaming before I awoke from their enchantment. Then I sought a
camp-ground on the river-bank, made a cupful of tea, and lay down to sleep
on a smooth place among the yellow leaves of an aspen grove. Next day I
discovered yet grander landscapes and grander life. Follow'ing the river
over huge, swelling rock bosses through a majestic caņon, and past
innumerable cascades, the scenery in general became gradually wilder and
more alpine. The sugar pine and silver firs gave place to the hardier cedar
and hemlock spruce. The caņon walls became more rugged and bare, and
gentians and arctic daisies became more abundant in the gardens and strips
of meadow along the streams. Toward the middle of the afternoon I came to
another valley, strikingly wild and original in all its features, and
perhaps never before touched by human foot. As regards area of level
bottom-land, it is one of the very smallest of the Yosemite type, but its
walls are sublime, rising to a height of from two to four thousand feet
above the river. At the head of the valley the main caņon forks, as is found
to be the case in all yosemites. The formation of this one is due chiefly to
the action of two great glaciers, whose fountains lay to the eastward, on
the flanks of Mounts Humphrey and Emerson and a cluster of nameless peaks
farther south.
The gray, boulder-chafed
river was singing loudly through the valley, but above its massy roar I
heard the booming of a waterfall, which drew me eagerly on; and just as I
emerged from the tangled groves and brier thickets at the head of the
valley, the main fork of the river came in sight, falling fresh from its
glacier fountains in a snowy cascade, between granite walls two thousand
feet high. The steep incline down which the glad waters thundered seemed to
bar all farther progress. It was not long, however, before I discovered a
crooked seam in the rock, by which I was enabled to climb to the edge of a
terrace that crosses the caņon, and divides the cataract nearly in the
middle. Here I sat down to take breath and make some entries in my notebook,
taking advantage, at the same time, of my elevated position above the trees
to gaze back over the valley into the heart of the noble landscape, little
knowing the while what neighbors were near.
After spending a few minutes
in this way, I chanced to look across the fall, and there stood three sheep
quietly observing me. Never did the sudden appearance of a mountain, or
fall, or human friend more forcibly seize and rivet my attention. Anxiety to
observe accurately held me perfectly still. Eagerly I marked the flowing
undulations of their firm, braided muscles, their strong legs, ears, eyes,
heads, their graceful rounded necks, the color of their hair, and the bold,
upsweeping curves of their noble horns. When they moved I watched every
gesture, while they, in no wise disconcerted either by my attention or by
the tumultuous roar of the water, advanced deliberately alongside the
rapids, between the two divisions of the cataract, turning now and then to
look at me. Presently they came to a steep, ice- burnished acclivity, which
they ascended by a succession of quick, short, stiff-legged leaps, reaching
the top without a struggle. This was the most startling feat of
mountaineering I had ever witnessed, and, considering only the mechanics of
the thing, my astonishment could hardly have been greater had they displayed
wings and taken to flight. "Sure-footed" mules on such ground would have
fallen and rolled like loosened boulders. Many a time, where the slopes are
far lower, I have been compelled to take off my shoes and stockings, tie
them to my belt, and creep barefooted, with the utmost caution. No wonder,
then, that I watched the progress of these animal mountaineers with keen
sympathy, and exulted in the boundless sufficiency of wild nature displayed
in their invention, construction, and keeping. A few minutes later I caught
sight of a dozen more in one band, near the foot of the upper fall. They
were standing on the same side of the river with me, only twenty-five or
thirty yards away, looking as unworn and perfect as if created on the spot.
It appeared by their tracks, which I had seen in the Little Yosemite, and by
their present position, that when I came up the caņon they were all feeding
together down in the valley, and in their haste to reach high ground, where
they could look about them to ascertain the nature of the strange
disturbance, they were divided, three ascending on one side the river, the
rest on the other. The main hand, headed by an experienced chief, now began
to cross the wild rapids between the two divisions of the cascade. This was
another exciting feat; for, among all the varied experiences of
mountaineers, the crossing of boisterous, rock-dashed torrents is found to
be one of the most trying to the nerves. Yet these fine fellows walked
fearlessly to the brink, and jumped from boulder to boulder, holding
themselves in easy poise above the whirling, confusing current, as if they
were doing nothing extraordinary.
In the immediate foreground
of this rare picture there was a fold of ice-burnished granite, traversed by
a few bold lines in which rock ferns and tufts of bryanthus were growing,
the gray caņon walls on the sides, nobly sculptured and adorned with brown
cedars and pines; lofty peaks in the distance, and in the middle ground the
snowy fall, the voice and soul of the landscape; fringing bushes beating
time to its thunder-tones, the brave sheep in front of it, their gray forms
slightly obscured in the spray, yet standing out in good, heavy relief
against the close white water, with their huge horns rising like the
upturned roots of dead pine trees, while the evening sunbeams streaming up
the caņon colored all the picture a rosy purple and made it glorious. After
crossing the river, the dauntless climbers, led by their chief, at once
began to scale the caņon wall, turning now right, now left, in long, single
file, keeping well apart out of one another's way, and leaping in regular
succession from crag to crag, now ascending slippery dome curves, now
walking leisurely along the edges of precipices, stopping at times to gaze
down at me from some flat-topped rock, with heads held aslant, as if curious
to learn what I thought about it, or whether I was likely to follow them.
After reaching the top of the wall, which, at this place, is somewhere
between fifteen hundred and two thousand feet. high, they were still visible
against the sky as they lingered, looking down in groups of twos or threes.
Throughout the entire ascent
they did not make a single awkward step, or an unsuccessful effort of any
kind. I have frequently seen tame sheep in mountains jump upon a sloping-
rock surface, hold on tremulously a few seconds, and fall back baffled and
irresolute. But in the most trying situations, where the slightest want or
inaccuracy would have been fatal, these always seemed to move in comfortable
reliance on their strength and skill, the limits of which they never
appeared to know. Moreover, each one of the flock, while following the
guidance of the most experienced, yet climbed with intelligent independence
as a perfect individual, capable of separate existence whenever it should
wish or be compelled to withdraw from the little clan. The domestic sheep,
on the contrary, is only a fraction of an animal, a whole flock being
required to form an individual, just as numerous flowerets are required to
make one complete sunflower.
Those shepherds who, in
summer, drive their flocks to the mountain pastures, and, while watching
them night and day, have seen them frightened by bears and storms, and
scattered like wind-driven chaff, will, in some measure, be able to
appreciate the self-reliance and strength and noble individuality of
Nature's sheep.
Like the Alp-climbing ibex of
Europe, our mountaineer is said to plunge headlong down the faces of sheer
precipices, and alight on his big horns. I know only two hunters who claim
to have actually witnessed this feat; I never was so fortunate. They
describe the act as a diving head foremost. The horns are so large at the
base that they cover the upper portion of the head down nearly to a level
with the eyes, and the skull is exceedingly strong. I struck an old,
bleached specimen on Mount Ritter a dozen blows with my ice-axe without
breaking it. Such skulls would not fracture very readily by the wildest
rock-diving, but other bones could hardly be expected to hold together in
such a performance; and the mechanical difficulties in the way of
controlling their movements, after striking upon an irregular surface, are,
in themselves, sufficient to show this boulder-like method of progression to
be impossible, even in the absence of all other evidence on the subject;
moreover, the ewes follow wherever the rams may lead, although their horns
are mere spikes. I have found many pairs of the horns of the old rams
considerably battered, doubtless a result of fighting. I was particularly
interested in the question, after witnessing the performances of this San
Joaquin band upon the glaciated rocks at the foot of the falls; and as soon
as I procured specimens and examined their feet, all the mystery
disappeared. The secret, considered in connection with exceptionally strong
muscles, is simply this: the wide posterior portion of the bottom of the
foot, instead of wearing down and becoming flat and hard, like the feet of
tame sheep and horses, bulges out in a soft, rubber-like pad or cushion,
which not only grips and holds well on smooth rocks, but fits into small
cavities, and down upon or against slight protuberances. Even the hardest
portions of the edge of the hoof are comparatively soft and elastic;
furthermore, the toes admit of an extraordinary amount of both lateral and
vertical movement, allowing the foot to accommodate itself still more
perfectly to the irregularities of rock surfaces, while at the same time
increasing the gripping power.
At the base of Sheep Rock,
one of the winter strongholds of the Shasta flocks, there lives a
stock-raiser who has had the advantage of observing the movements of wild
sheep every winter; and, in the course of a conversation with him on the
subject of their diving habits, he pointed to the front of a lava headland
about one hundred and fifty feet high, which is only eight or ten degrees
out of the perpendicular. "There," said he, "I followed a band of them
fellows to the back of that rock yonder, and expected to capture them all,
for I thought I had a dead thing on them. I got behind them on a narrow
bench that runs along the face of the wall near the top and comes to an end
where they couldn't get away without falling and being killed; but they
jumped off, and landed all right, as if that were the regular thing with
them."
"What!" said I, "jumped one
hundred and fifty feet perpendicular! Did you see them do it?"
"No," he replied, "I didn't
see them going down, for I was behind them; but I saw them go off over the
brink, and then I went below and found their tracks where they struck on the
loose rubbish at the bottom. They just sailed right off, and landed on their
feet right side up. That is the kind of animal they is - beats anything else
that goes on four legs."
On another occasion, a flock
that was pursued by hunters retreated to another portion of this same cliff
where it is still higher, and, on being followed, they were seen jumping
down in perfect order, one behind another, by two men who happened to be
chopping where they had a fair view of them and could watch their progress
from top to bottom of the precipice. Both ewes and rams made the frightful
descent without evincing any extraordinary concern, hugging the rock
closely, and controlling the velocity of their half-falling, half-leaping
movements by striking at short intervals and holding back with their
cushioned, rubber feet upon small ledges and roughened inclines until near
the bottom, when they "sailed off" into the free air and alighted on their
feet, but with their bodies so nearly in a vertical position that they
appeared to be diving.
It appears, therefore, that
the methods of this wild mountaineering become clearly comprehensible as
soon as we make ourselves acquainted with the rocks, and the kind of feet
and muscles brought to bear upon them.
The Modoc and Pah Ute Indians
are, or rather have been, the most successful hunters of the wild sheep in
the regions that have come under my own observation. I have seen large
numbers of heads and horns in the caves of Mount Shasta and the Modoc
lava-beds, where the Indians had been feasting in stormy weather; also in
the canons of the Sierra opposite Owen's Valley; while the heavy obsidian
arrow-heads found on some of the highest peaks show that this warfare has
long been going on.
In the more accessible ranges
that stretch across the desert regions of western Utah and Nevada,
considerable numbers of Indians used to hunt in company like packs of
wolves, and being perfectly acquainted with the topography of their
hunting-grounds, and with the habits and instincts of the game, they were
pretty successful. On the tops of nearly every one of the Nevada mountains
that I have visited, I found small, nest-like inclosures built of stones, in
which, as I afterward learned, one or more Indians would lie in wait while
their companions scoured the ridges below, knowing that the alarmed sheep
would surely run to the summit, and when they could be made to approach with
the wind they were shot at short range.
Still larger bands of Indians
used to make extensive hunts upon some dominant mountain much frequented by
the sheep, such as Mount Grant on the Wassuck Range to the west of Walker
Lake. On some particular spot, favorably situated with reference to the
well- known trails of the sheep, they built a high- walled corral, with long
guiding wings diverging from the gateway; and into this inclosure they
sometimes succeeded in driving the noble game. Great numbers of Indians were
of course required, more, indeed, than they could usually muster, counting
in squaws, children, and all; they were compelled, therefore, to build rows
of dummy hunters out of stones, along the ridge-tops which they wished to
prevent the sheep from crossing. And, without discrediting the sagacity of
the game, these dummies were found effective; for, with a few live Indians
moving about excitedly among them, they could hardly be distinguished at a
little distance from men, by any one not in the secret. The whole ridge-top
then seemed to be alive with hunters.
The only animal that may
fairly be regarded as a companion or rival of the sheep is the so- called
Rocky Mountain goat (Aplocerus montana, Rich.), which, as its name
indicates, is more antelope than goat. He, too, is a brave and hardy
climber, fearlessly crossing the wild- est summits, and braying the severest
storms, but he is shaggy, short-legged, and much less dignified in demeanor
then the sheep. His jet- black horns are only about five or six inches in
length, and the long, white hair with which he is covered obscures the
expression of his limbs. I have never yet seen a single specimen in the
Sierra, though possibly a few flocks may have lived on Mount Shasta a
comparatively short time ago.
The ranges of these two
mountaineers are pretty distinct, and they see but little of each other; the
sheep being restricted mostly to the dry, inland mountains; the goat or
chamois to the wet, snowy glacier-laden mountains of the northwest coast of
the continent in Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska. Probably
more than two hundred dwell on the icy, volcanic cone of Mount Rainier; and
while I was exploring the glaciers of Alaska I saw flocks of these admirable
mountaineers nearly every day, and often followed their trails through the
mazes of bewildering crevasses, in which they are excellent guides.
Three species of deer are
found in California, - the black-tailed, white-tailed, and mule deer. The
first mentioned (Cervus Columbianus) is by far the most abundant, and
occasionally meets the sheep during the summer on high glacier meadows, and
along the edge of the timber-line; but being a forest animal, seeking
shelter and rearing its young in dense thickets, it seldom visits the wild
sheep in its higher homes. The antelope, though not a mountaineer, is
occasionally met in winter by the sheep while feeding along the edges of the
sage plains and bare volcanic hills to the east of the Sierra. So also is
the mule deer, which is almost restricted in its range to this eastern
region. The white-tailed species belongs to the coast ranges.
Perhaps no wild animal in the
world is without enemies, but highlanders, as a class, have fewer than
lowlanders. The wily panther, slipping and crouching among long grass and
bushes, pounces upon the antelope and deer, but seldom crosses the bald,
craggy thresholds of the sheep. Neither can the bears be regarded as
enemies; for, though they seek to vary their everyday diet of nuts and
berries by an occasional meal of mutton, they prefer to hunt tame and
helpless flocks. Eagles and coyotes, no doubt, capture an unprotected Iamb
at times, or some unfortunate beset in deep, soft snow, but these cases are
little more than accidents. So, also, a few perish in long-continued
snowstorms, though, in all my mountaineering, I have not found more than
five or six that seemed to have met their fate in this way. A little band of
three were discovered snow-bound in Bloody Caņon a few years ago, and were
killed with an axe by mountaineers, who chanced to be crossing the range in
winter.
Man is the most dangerous
enemy of all, but even from him our brave mountain dweller has little to
fear in the remote solitudes of the High Sierra. The golden plains of the
Sacramento and San Joaquin were lately thronged with bands of elk and
antelope, but, being fertile and accessible, they were required for human
pastures. So, also, are many of the feeding- grounds of the deer, - hill,
valley, forest, and meadow, - but it will be long before man will care to
take the highland castles of the sheep. And when we consider here how
rapidly entire species of noble animals, such as the elk, moose, and
buffalo, are being pushed to the very verge of extinction, all lovers of
wildness will rejoice with me in the rocky security of Ovis montana, the
bravest of all the Sierra mountaineers. |
