CHAPTER XXII
OUR CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS
We camped in a broad and sunny valley, with lovely grassy meadows, groups of firs and tapering spruces; where clear streams of ice-cold water wound their way through thickets of alder and willows. Across a lake was a snow-capped peak, with foaming cataracts falling over timbered cliffs, and a hanging valley where the slopes of two mountains met in a massive rock wall.
That evening the fish were rising in the lake. After picketing my horse, I lost no time in getting out my rod and fly-book to fish the outlet, where the current was broad and swift. From a high bank at the mouth I made my first cast. The water was clear and many fish in sight, darting hither and thither over a bottom of clean sand and gravel, with pebbles of many shapes and colors shining in the sunlight.
Soon I had a strike. My line tightened and there came a holding back, a palpitation of the rod. Then a big tail flashed in the sunlight and thrashed the surface. It was an open river with good going along the shore. I gave my fish plenty of line and held him in the current. Before long I had a four-pound Dolly Varden flopping on the pebbly shore. I caught several Dolly Vardens, and then a double catch of brook trout, a two-pound and a one-pound fish. My largest brook trout weighed three pounds.
We pitched our lodges near the lake, in a meadow where wild geranium and blue camas were in bloom. Little Creek and his wife were in one of the tepees, Onesta and Nitana and their small daughter Yellow Mink in the other. I slept outside under a pine tree and on the shore of the lake. Overhead were the feathery arms of the tree, with clusters of cones at the ends of the branches. The ground was covered with fragrant pine needles, piles of cone scales and shells where the squirrels had been feasting.
From my bed I watched the stars come slowly out above the dark battlements of the mountains. Overhead the nighthawks were feeding, pitching about and diving with a rushing sound of their wings. I saw a flock of ducks on the lake and a solitary beaver swimming in the twilight. After dark the night wind began to blow, sighing through the branches of my pine tree. I heard the lapping of water along the sandy shore, roar of an avalanche, and the distant thunder of cataracts wind-borne across the lake.
There is no sweeter chorus than the songs of birds in the early northern dawn. I heard thrushes and purple finches in the willows and Western yellow-throats and evening grosbeaks in groves of quaking aspen. Along the lake-shore the dominant singers were the white-crowned sparrows with sweet and uplifted melody.
After sunrise I had a swim luxuriously cold. I dove deep and gazed through the depths of the clear green water, while little bubbles floated around my body; then came up into the sunlight and floated on my back, gazing into a sky of deepest blue. For a moment I lay still and my body seemed to leave me; then swam into the lake, cutting through the clear cold water until I landed on a sandy beach, where the sun felt hot on my back and I tingled from head to foot.
My Indian friends never burdened themselves with work. They lay in the sun for hours and did not work until they felt like it. We cut the straight and slender trees of lodge-pole pine for tepee poles, peeling off the bark and standing them in the sun to dry. The women also gathered plants and herbs in meadow and forest, both for eating and healing; and they helped me make a botanical collection1 of my own.
For vegetables they gathered wild onions, wild potatoes, cow parsnip, bitterroot and prairie turnip. But the camas was their favorite vegetable. It had a root like a small potato and had a sweet flavor. They roasted the stalks of the cow parsnip, when they were tender and juicy in the spring; and dried the leaves of bearberry for tobacco, also pipsissewa or princess pine. They used a lichen that grows on pine trees as yellow dye, a pore fungus for cleaning buckskin, and yellow orthocarpus for dyeing skins. For eye inflammation they used the blossoms of horsemint, the long plumed avens for coughs, Oregon grape for stomach trouble, and gum plant for the liver.
One day I went with Little Creek for a hunting trip on the mountains. He took his rifle and I my camera for pictures. Little Creek was a good guide. He had the instinct of an Indian for traveling in the forest and a wonderful memory for landmarks. He was a fountain of shrewd wisdom and something of a philosopher.
We crossed a valley to the base of a mountain; then went slowly up the steep slope, stopping to rest and smoke and listen to the birds, to see the trees and flowers and look for signs of game. I heard a Gambel sparrow singing among the spruces. It closely resembles the white-crowned sparrow and is related to our Eastern white-throat. But its song has only three notes which are of different tones, like the sounding of clear bells. Many squirrels chattered at our approach and ceased from hiding cones to watch us pass. We raised some blue grouse, saw signs of wapiti and moose and the splay footprints of a wolverine, called “Mountain Devil” by the Indians, because of its meanness and wonderful cunning.
We went through a chain of meadows with masses of wild flowers of many shades and colors, crimson, yellow, pink and blue, growing luxuriantly among the tall grasses. A warm wind swept across their faces, bearing a delicious fragrance that reminded me of the sweet clover fields of our Eastern States in June.
Deep down in the soft grass were anemones and lady’s-slipper, and along streams masses of pink wild heliotrope, bluebells, and shooting stars—vivid little red flowers that held their pointed yellow noses downward towards the ground. In the woods were tiny twin flowers, golden arnica growing high above the forest floor, and clematis with lovely purple blossoms, festooning with its vines the shrubs and logs and lower branches of trees. The Indian called clematis “Ghost’s Lariat,” because it catches people and trips them up in the dark.
In the forest the largest trees were Engelmann spruce and Douglas fir, growing in scattered groups, some one hundred feet in height. But the chief tree was the lodge-pole pine, tall, slender, and clean-shafted.
Near timber-line many trees were broken, having been thrown by the southwest wind. The forest became open and the trees shorter, till we passed from the cover and came to battered and storm-twisted “limber-pines.” Some of them were centuries old, undersized and imperfect, with trunks only a foot in diameter and several feet in height; some trailed on the ground, like serpents and long-bodied animals; others, in exposed places on the mountain side, looked like tattered and wind-torn banners, with branches all flung out on one side of the trunk.
On the high slopes it was still early spring; the flowers followed close upon retreating snowdrifts. There the growing season is so brief, the spring and autumn flora bloom together. High up I saw blossoms in all their vernal freshness, that had long ago faded on the prairies.
Along the borders of streams and in mossy bogs, the swamp laurel was in flower, its blossoms rosy pink, also snow buttercups and the Western globeflower. Close by a snowbank, I saw a carpet of yellow snow lilies, a belt of solid gold, false forget-me-nots and chalice cups of cream-white blossoms and fluffy gold-green centers.
We followed an old game trail across an upland meadow, through a carpet of heath and heather with delicate pink flowers. On the rocks were colored lichens; dainty wind-flowers bloomed in every sheltered nook. In crevices of cliffs were maidenhair ferns, and in moist meadows the fragrant alpine lady fern.
Little Creek was a tireless climber and as sure-footed as a mountain goat. We crossed snowdrifts, ledges, broken rock and treacherous shale, climbing along frowning red precipices where I dared not look down, but kept my eyes on the sky and rock wall. Finally, we gained the summit and stood at the edge of a cliff, where the mountain fell abruptly a thousand feet. Far below in the valley lay our miniature camp, with its white lodges on the lake-shore. Everywhere were snow-clad peaks and glistening glaciers, rock-strewn ridges and gorges with rushing streams, forest slopes and valley lakes of emerald and blue. Far off the green ocean of the prairie stretched into the eastern horizon and hundreds of miles beyond.
About us was a wilderness of solitude and silence, not a sound of bird or beast, only the rushing of the summit wind. Dark blue was the sky; the air pine-scented, clear and luminous, uplifting the soul and attuning it to the majesty of our surroundings.
Pointing to a mountain that overlooked the plains, Little Creek said: “That is the place where Swift Eagle died.”
“How did he come to die there?” I asked.
“He was wounded in a fight with the Flathead Indians,” replied Little Creek. “He was the leader of a band of warriors. Early one summer they crossed the mountains after horses. They came to a Flathead camp in a park, which was surrounded by forest. That night, when they were ready to make off with the horses of the Flatheads, Swift Eagle came upon an Indian of the Nez Percé tribe, who was after the same horses. He was a famous chief named Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot, but Swift Eagle did not know this.
“The Nez Percé saw the Blackfoot chief and rushed at him with his war club. They fought hand-to-hand. Swift Eagle struck the stranger with his knife. But before he died, the Nez Percé swung his terrible war club and hit Swift Eagle.
“It was night, and the Blackfoot warriors found their chief lying beside the body of the Nez Percé. They recognized the war club. It was made from the huge antler of a bull elk and was different from all others. They knew it belonged to the famous chief, Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot.
“Then they made a litter of poles and carried Swift Eagle across the mountains. After they had passed the summit, he opened his eyes. His warriors told him he would soon be home. But he said:
“ ‘My children, it is useless to carry me farther. Before I started on this trip I had a strong dream that I would never come back alive.’
“He told them to take him to a high cliff on that mountain. He died there and his followers left beside him the war club of the Nez Percé chief.”
After the story we sat awhile on the summit to look out over the plains, and then descended into a basin, a beautiful amphitheater with a peaceful little lake, clusters of pines and a moist green meadow with a sheep-lick. In the meadow were golden snow lilies, sky-blue forget-me-nots, and the rose-red monkey flower, growing close to a cold brook that came leaping down the mountain. At the head of the basin was a lofty rock wall, with silvery waterfalls and a great gray glacier, close to the saw-tooth cliffs of the Continental Divide.
Then we lay silently behind some stunted spruces and watched the sheep-lick for game. We saw some conies on the slide-rock, a timid little rabbit-people who live among the rocks at timber-line. They scampered about, squeaking and running back and forth with grass and flowers in their mouths. From a rock-cliff a hoary marmot came waddling across a barren slope to his feeding grounds on the green turf. He was gray in color, with short legs and heavy body and a white band round his nose.
The only sound was the singing of a waterfall at the head of the lake, and of the brook flowing softly through the grass. Suddenly a stone came tumbling down, followed by a rattling of shale; a small ram came into view, making his way leisurely along the mountain, stopping now and then to take a bite of grass. The spot where he had chosen to feed was beyond our range and without cover to approach. But the wind was favorable. Then Little Creek crawled among the rocks to get near enough for a shot. Finally I saw him lie flat, and with elbows resting on the ground, he took aim and fired. The ram leaped into the air and started up the mountain with wonderful speed. At several more shots it scarcely seemed to touch the ground, but bounded along and disappeared among the high cliffs.
Then we left the basin and followed the gorge of a mountain torrent, which descended into the valley. We came down through a series of parks and meadows with many kinds of grasses, the brightest greens I have ever seen; and an open forest of alpine firs, with long-pointed crowns and blue-green leaves and bark so pale and smooth their trunks seemed carved from stone.
We came upon two black-tail deer, a buck and a doe, and, as we had the wind in our favor, we approached under cover of the forest to within one hundred yards. Little Creek rested his rifle in a forked tree and fired. At the shot the buck stretched out his limbs and bounded away, running in a zigzag course, then round and round until he fell dead. And, after cutting up the carcass, we took the meat back to camp.
By our camp-fire my Indian friends talked about a trip to Canada. Nomads by nature, they loved to wander and were happier on the move. They liked trips of all kinds, to hunt and fish and visit friends; but most of all to go among their northern relatives, the Bloods, North Piegans and North Blackfoot.
Said my Indian sister: “We should start right away; the weather is warm and clear; this is the best time of year to travel.”
“But we cannot get a permit from our Agent,” replied Onesta. “And besides the North-West Mounted Police would stop us at the Line. I know Indians who tried to cross into Canada and were stopped. The police turned them back and they had to come home.”
For a moment there was silence; and then I said: “Your Agent is my friend. From him I have a pass to go whither I please. You can all come with me and we will make the north trip together.”
Then Onesta was glad and said: “We will take you to our friends and relatives among the Blood Indians, to the tribe of the North Piegans and camp of Brings-Down-the-Sun. He is my uncle and I shall ask him to help you. He lives with his children and grandchildren in a camp on Old Man’s River. He is the wisest of all our medicine men; and knows more than any one about our legends and worship of the Sun.”
“Let us go at once,” I replied. “I want to visit that uncle of yours.”
Then were all happy and like children they showed it. They wanted to start next morning at the rising of the sun.
1 Medicinal and Useful Plants of the Blackfoot Indians. See Appendix. ↑