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[Written at Eureka, Nevada, in
October, 1878. Editor.]
WHEN the traveler from
California has crossed the Sierra and gone a little way down the eastern
flank, the woods come to an end about as suddenly and completely as if,
going westward, he had reached the ocean. From the very noblest forests in
the world he emerges into free sunshine and dead alkaline lake- levels.
Mountains are seen beyond, rising in bewildering abundance, range beyond
range. But however closely we have been accustomed to associate forests and
mountains, these always present a singularly barren aspect, appearing gray
and forbidding and shadeless, like heaps of ashes dumped from the blazing
sky.
But wheresoever we may
venture to go in all this good world, nature is ever found richer and more
beautiful than she seems, and nowhere may you meet with more varied and
delightful surprises than in the byways and recesses of this sublime
wilderness - lovely asters and abronias on the dusty plains, rose- gardens
around the mountain wells, and resiny woods, where all seemed so desolate,
adorning the hot foothills as well as the cool summits, fed by cordial and
benevolent storms of rain and hail and snow; all of these scant and rare as
compared with the immeasurable exuberance of California, but still amply
sufficient throughout the barest deserts for a clear manifestation of God's
love.
Though Nevada is situated in
what is called the "Great Basin," no less than sixty-five groups and chains
of mountains rise within the bounds of the State to a height of about from
eight thousand to thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, and as
far as I have observed, every one of these is planted, to some extent, with
coniferous trees, though it is only upon the highest that we find anything
that may fairly be called a forest. The lower ranges and the foothills and
slopes of the higher are roughened with small scrubby junipers and nut
pines, while the dominating peaks, together with the ridges that swing in
grand curves between them, are covered with a closer and more erect growth
of pine, spruce, and fir, resembling the forests of the Eastern States both
as to size and general botanical characteristics. Here is found what is
called the heavy timber, but the tallest and most fully developed sections
of the forests, growing down in sheltered hollows on moist moraines, would
be regarded in California only as groves of saplings, and so, relatively,
they are, for by careful calculation we find that more than a thousand of
these trees would be required to furnish as much timber as may be obtained
from a single specimen of our Sierra giants.
The height of the timber-line
in eastern Nevada, near the middle of the Great Basin, is about eleven
thousand feet above sea-level; consequently the forests, in a dwarfed,
storm- beaten condition, pass over the summits of nearly every range in the
State, broken here and there only by mechanical conditions of the surface
rocks. Only three mountains in the State have as yet come under my
observation whose summits rise distinctly above the tree-line. These are
Wheeler's Peak, twelve thousand three hundred feet high, Mount Moriah, about
twelve thousand feet, and Granite Mountain, about the same height, all of
which are situated near the boundary-line between Nevada and Utah Territory.
In a rambling mountaineering
journey of eighteen hundred miles across the state, I have met nine species
of coniferous trees, - four pines, two spruces, two junipers, and one fir, -
about one third the number found in California. By far the most abundant and
interesting of these is the Pinus Fremontiana, or nut pine. In the number of
individual trees and extent of range this curious little conifer surpasses
all the others combined. Nearly every mountain in the State is planted with
it from near the base to a height of from eight thousand to nine thousand
feet above the sea. Some are covered from base to summit by this one
species, with only a sparse growth of juniper on the lower slopes to break
the continuity of these curious woods, which, though dark- looking at a
little distance, are yet almost shadeless, and without any hint of the dark
glens and hollows so characteristic of other pine woods. Tens of thousands
of acres occur in one continuous belt. Indeed, viewed comprehensively, the
entire State seems to be pretty evenly divided into mountain-ranges covered
with nut pines and plains covered with sage - now a swath of pines
stretching from north to south, now a swath of sage; the one black, the
other gray; one severely level, the other sweeping on complacently over
ridge and valley and lofty crowning dome.
The real character of a
forest of this sort would never be guessed by the inexperienced observer.
Traveling across the sage levels in the dazzling sunlight, you gaze with
shaded eyes at the mountains rising along their edges, perhaps twenty miles
away, but no invitation that is at all likely to be understood is
discernible. Every mountain, however high it swells into the sky, seems
utterly barren. Approaching nearer, a low brushy growth is seen, strangely
black in aspect, as though it had been burned. This is a nut pine forest,
the bountiful orchard of the red man. When you ascend into its midst you
find the ground beneath the trees, and in the openings also, nearly naked,
and mostly rough on the surface - a succession of crumbling ledges of lava,
limestones, slate, and quartzite, coarsely strewn with soil weathered from
them. Here and there occurs a bunch of sage or linosyris, or a purple aster,
or a tuft of dry bunch-grass.
The harshest mountain-sides,
hot and waterless, seem best adapted to the nut pine's development. No slope
is too steep, none too dry; every situation seems to be gratefully chosen,
if only it be sufficiently rocky and firm to afford secure anchorage for the
tough, grasping roots. It is a sturdy, thickset little tree, usually about
fifteen feet high when full grown, and about as broad as high, holding its
knotty branches well out in every direction in stiff zigzags, but turning
them gracefully upward at the ends in rounded bosses. Though making so dark
a mass in the distance, the foliage is a pale grayish green, in stiff,
awl-shaped fascicles. When examined closely these round needles seem
inclined to be two-leaved, but they are mostly held firmly together, as if
to guard against evaporation. The bark on the older sections is nearly
black, so that the boles and branches are clearly traced against the
prevailing gray of the mountains on which they delight to dwell.
The value of this species to
Nevada is not easily overestimated. It furnishes fuel, charcoal, and timber
for the mines, and, together with the enduring juniper, so generally
associated with it, supplies the ranches with abundance of firewood and
rough fencing. Many a square mile has already been denuded in supplying
these demands, but, so great is the area covered by it, no appreciable loss
has as yet been sustained. It is pretty generally known that this tree
yields edible nuts, but their importance and excellence as human food is
infinitely greater than is supposed. In fruitful seasons like this one, the
pine-nut crop of Nevada is, perhaps, greater than the entire wheat crop of
California, concerning which so much is said and felt throughout the food-
markets of the world.
The Indians alone appreciate
this portion of Nature's bounty and celebrate the harvest home with dancing
and feasting. The cones, which are a bright grass-green in color and about
two inches long by one and a half in diameter, are beaten off with poles
just before the scales open, gathered in heaps of several bushels, and
lightly scorched by burning a thin covering of brushwood over them. The
resin, with which the cones are bedraggled, is thus burned off, the nuts
slightly roasted, and the scales made to open. Then they are allowed to dry
in the sun, after which the nuts are easily thrashed out and are ready to be
stored away. They are about half an inch long by a quarter of an inch in
diameter, pointed at the upper end, rounded at the base, light-brown in
general color, and handsomely dotted with purple, like birds' eggs. The
shells are thin, and may be crushed between the thumb and finger. The
kernels are white and waxy-looking, becoming brown by roasting, sweet and
delicious to every palate, and are eaten by birds, squirrels, dogs, horses,
and man. When the crop is abundant the Indians bring in large quantities for
sale; they are eaten around every fireside in the State, and oftentimes fed
to horses instead of barley.
Looking over the whole
continent, none of Nature's bounties seems to me so great as this in the way
of food, none so little appreciated. Fortunately for the Indians and wild
animals that gather around Nature's board, this crop is not easily harvested
in a monopolizing way. If it could be gathered like wheat the whole would be
carried away and dissipated in towns, leaving the brave inhabitants of these
wilds to starve.
Long before the harvest-time,
which is in September and October, the Indians examine the trees with keen
discernment, and inasmuch as the cones require two years to mature from the
first appearance of the little red rosettes of the fertile flowers, the
scarcity or abundance of the crop may be predicted more than a year in
advance. Squirrels, and worms, and Clarke crows, make haste to begin the
harvest. When the crop is ripe the Indians make ready their long
beating-poles; baskets, bags, rags, mats, are gotten together. The squaws
out among the settlers at service, washing and drudging, assemble at the
family huts; the men leave their ranch work; all, old and young, are mounted
on ponies, and set off in great glee to the nut lands, forming cavalcades
curiously picturesque. Flaming scarfs and calico skirts stream loosely over
the knotty ponies, usually two squaws astride of each, with the small baby
midgets bandaged in baskets slung on their backs, or balanced upon the
saddle-bow, while the nut-baskets and water-jars project from either side,
and the long beating-poles, like old-fashioned lances, angle out in every
direction.
Arrived at some central point
already fixed upon, where water and grass is found, the squaws with baskets,
the men with poles, ascend the ridges to the laden trees, followed by the
children; beating begins with loud noise and chatter; the burs fly right and
left, lodging against stones and sagebrush; the squaws and children gather
them with fine natural gladness; smoke-columns speedily mark the joyful
scene of their labors as the roasting-fires are kindled; and, at night,
assembled in circles, garrulous as jays, the first grand nut feast begins.
Sufficient quantities are thus obtained in a few weeks to last all winter.
The Indians also gather
several species of berries and dry them to vary their stores, and a few deer
and grouse are killed on the mountains, besides immense numbers of rabbits
and hares; but the pine-nuts are their main dependence - their staff of
life, their bread.
Insects also, scarce noticed
by man, come in for their share of this fine bounty. Eggs are deposited, and
the baby grubs, happy fellows, find themselves in a sweet world of plenty,
feeding their way through the heart of the cone from one nut-chamber to
another, secure from rain and wind and heat, until their wings are grown and
they are ready to launch out into the free ocean of air and light. |
