One day heavy clouds rested upon the snowy earth around my cabin, nine thousand feet above sea-level. In these, and in the falling snow, I started up the Long's Peak trail, in what now is the Rocky Mountain National Park. I wished to measure the storm-cloud's vertical depth and to observe its movements. Only a ravine and instinct enabled me to snow-shoe through the blinding, flying snow and almost opaque sheep's-wool cloud. The cloud was three thousand feet thick.

Suddenly, at twelve thousand feet, the depth of snow became markedly less. Within a few rods I burst through the upper surface of the cloud into brilliant sunshine! Not a bit of snow or cloud was there above this upper level.

From a high ridge I watched the top surface of the storm-cloud as it lay before me in the sun--a silvery expanse of unruffled sea, pierced by many peaks. Half a mile above towered vast, rugged Long's Peak.

Like a huge raft becalmed in a quiet harbor, the cloud-sea moved slowly and steadily, almost imperceptibly, a short distance along the mountains; then, as if anch.o.r.ed in the center, it swung in easy rotation a few degrees, hesitated, and slowly drifted back.

Occasionally it sank, very slowly, several hundred feet, only to rise easily to its original level.

With wonder I long watched this beautiful sunny spectacle, finding it hard to realize that a blinding snow was falling beneath it. Later I learned that this snowfall was thirty inches deep over several hundred thousand square miles; but it fell only below the alt.i.tude of twelve thousand feet and not on the high peaks.

Mountain-tops have more sunshine and fewer storms than the lowlands.

The middle slopes of a peak regularly receive heavier falls of rain and snow than does the summit.

The rugged mountains in all Parks are wonderful in the snow. Snowshoe excursions, climbs, skiing--all the sports of winter--may be enjoyed in these magnificent wilds. Mountains in winter hold splendid decorations--sketches of black and white, ice architecture, rare groups that form a wondrous winter exhibition. Forests, canons, meadows, plateaus and peaks, where hills of snow and gigantic snow canons form dazzling structures and new topography, are marvelous exhibitions. The thousand and one decorations of frost and snow-flowers are treasures found only under the winter sky.

During a high wind one winter, as I fought my way up Long's Peak, above timber-line I was pelted with gravel and sand till the blood was drawn. The milling air-currents simply played with me as they swept down from the heights. I was knocked down repeatedly, blown into the air, and then dropped heavily, or rolled about like some giant's toy as I lay resting in the lee of a crag. Standing erect was usually impossible and at all times dangerous. Advancing was akin to swimming a whirlpool. At last I reached the buzzing cups of an air-meter I had previously placed in Granite Pa.s.s, twelve thousand feet above sea-level. This instrument was registering the awful wind-speed of one hundred and sixty-five miles an hour! It flew to pieces later during a swifter spurt.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LONG'S PEAK FROM CHASM LAKE ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK]

Although I intended going no farther, the wild and eloquent elements lured me to keep on to the summit of the peak, nearly three thousand feet higher. All my strength and climbing knowledge were necessary to prevent me from being blown into s.p.a.ce. Gaining each new height was a battle. Forward and upward I simply wrested my way with an invisible, tireless contestant who seemed bent on breaking my bones or hurling me into unbanistered s.p.a.ce.

In one rocky gully the uprising winds became so irresistible that I had to reverse ends and proceed with feet out ahead as bracers and hands following as anchors. There was no climbing from here on: the blast dragged, pulled, and floated me ever upward to the sunny, wind-sheltered Narrows. The last stretch was a steep icy slope with a precipice beneath. Casting in my lot with the up-sweeping wind, I pushed out into it and let go. Sprawling and b.u.mping upward, I had little else to do but guide myself. At last I stood on the top and found it in an easy eddy--almost a calm compared to the roaring conditions below. Far down the range great quant.i.ties of snow were being explosively hurled into the air, then thrown into spirals and whirls that trimmed the peak-points with gauzy banners and silky pennants, through which the sunlight played splendidly.

Stirring and wild, wonderful scenes are encountered during storms on mountain-tops, by the lakesh.o.r.e, and in canons. The dangers in such times and places are fewer than in cities. Discomforts? Scarcely. To some persons life must be hardly worth living. If any normal person under fifty cannot enjoy being in a storm in the wilds, he ought to reform at once.

In the intensity and clash of the elements there is a vigorous building environment. The storms furnish energy, inspiration, and resolution. There are no subst.i.tutes "just as good," no experiences just as great.

One rainy June day I started up a dim steep trail toward the headwaters of the river St. Vrain, near timber-line in what is now the Rocky Mountain National Park. While enjoying the general downpour and its softened noise through the woods, I was caught in a storm-center of wrangling winds and waters, and was almost knocked down. Like a sapling, I bowed streaming in the storm. Later, as I sat on a sodden log, reveling in the elemental moods and sounds, a water-ouzel began to sing, but I heard little of his serene optimistic solo above the roar of the wind and stream.

The storm raged louder as I approached timber-line. Clouds dragged among the trees. I could see nothing clearly. Every breath was like swallowing a wet sponge. Then a wind-surge rent the clouds and let me glimpse the blue sun-filled sky. I climbed an exceptionally tall spruce. A comic Fremont squirrel scolded in rattling, jerky chatter as I rose above the sea of clouds and trees. Astride the slender tree-top, I felt that the wind was trying hard to dislodge me, but I held on. The tree quivered and vibrated, shook and danced; we charged, circled, looped, and angled. Nowhere else have I experienced such wild, exhilarating joy. In the midst of this rare delight the clouds rose, the wind calmed, and the rain ceased. Then suddenly a blinding, explosive crash almost threw me from my observatory. Within fifty feet a tall fir was split to the ground. Quickly climbing back to earth, I eagerly examined the effects of the lightning-stroke. With one wild blow, in a second or less it had wrecked a century-old tree.

Although I have rarely known lightning to strike the heights, I have frequently experienced peculiar electric shocks from the air. I have never known such electrical storms to prove fatal nor to leave ill effects; and they may be beneficial. The day before the famous Poudre Flood, in May, 1904, I was traveling along the Continental Divide above timber-line near Poudre Lakes. While resting I was startled by the pulsating hum, the intermittent _buzz-z-z-z_ and _zit-zit_ and the vigorous hair-pulling of electricity-laden atmosphere.

Presently my right arm was momentarily cramped, and my heart seemed to lurch several times. These electric shocks lasted only about two seconds, but recurred every few minutes. The hair-pulling, palpitation, and cramps seemed slightly less when I fully relaxed on the ground. When I tried to climb, I found myself muscle-bound from the electricity. Points of dry twigs momentarily exhibited tips of smoky blue flame, and sometimes similar flame encircled green twigs below the lower limbs.

Later that day I came to North Specimen Mountain. There the electrical waves weakened or entirely ceased while I was in shadow, but they remained quite serious in the sun. I breathed only in gasps, and my heart was violent and feeble by turns. I felt as if cinched in a steel corset. After sundown I was again at ease and free from this strange electrical colic, which often worries or frightens strangers the first time they experience it. I soon forgot my own electrical experiences in the enjoyment that night of the splendidly brilliant electric effects beneath the enormous mountain-range of cloud-forms over the foothills. Its surface shone momentarily like incandescent gla.s.s, and occasionally down the slopes ran crooked rivers of gold.

I have had the good fortune to see geysers by sunlight, by moonlight, during gray stormy days, and also while the earth around them was covered with snow.

By moonlight the mountainous National Parks are enchanted lands.

There is a gentleness, a serenity, and a softness that is never known in daylight. Many a time I have explored all night long. The trail is strangely romantic when across it fall the moon-toned etchings of the pines. The waterfalls, crags, mountain-tops, forest glades, and alpine lakes have marvelous combinations of light and shade, and they stir the senses like music. I wish that every one might see in the moonlight the Giant Forest in the Sequoia National Park, or timber-line in the Rocky Mountain National Park. By moonlight the Big Trees will stir you with the greatest elemental eloquence. Those who go up into the sky on mountains in the moonlight will have the greatest raptures and make the highest resolves.

Miss Edna Smith is one of the most appreciative outdoor women I ever have known. Years ago I urged her to know the mountains at night. Here is one of her accounts of a night experience:--

At supper-time the chances seemed against a start. It was raining.

Later the rain stopped, but the full moon was almost lost in a heavy mist and the light was dim. Mr. S. N. Husted, the guide, thought an attempt to ascend Long's Peak hardly wise. At eleven o'clock I went to Enos Mills for advice. He said, "Go." So we mounted our ponies and started, chilled by the clammy fog about us.

After a short climb we were in another world. The fog was a sea of silvery clouds below us and from it the mountains rose like islands. The moon and stars were bright in the heavens. There was the sparkle in the air that suggests enchanted lands and fairies.

Halfway to timber-line we came upon ground white with snow, which made it seem all the more likely that Christmas pixies just within the shadows might dance forth on a moon-beam.

Above timber-line there was no snow, but the moonlight was so brilliant that the clouds far below were shining like misty lakes, and even the bare mountainside about us looked almost as white as if snow-covered.

As we left our ponies at the edge of the Boulder Field and started across that rugged stretch of debris spread out flat in the brilliant moonlight, we found the silhouette of Long's Peak thrown in deep black shadow across it. Never before had that bold outline seemed so impressive.

At the western edge of Boulder Field there was a new marvel. As we approached Keyhole, right in the center of that curious nick in the rim of Boulder Field shone the great golden moon. The vast shadow of the peak, made doubly dark by the contrast, made us very silent. When we emerged from Keyhole and looked down into the Glacier Gorge beyond, it was hard to breathe because of the wonder of it all. The moon was shining down into the great gorge a thousand feet below and it was filled with a silvery glow. The lakes glimmered in the moonlight.

Climbing along the narrow ledge, high above this tremendous gorge, was like a dream. Not a breath of air stirred, and the only sound was the crunch of hobnails on rock. There was a supreme hush in the air, as if something tremendous were about to happen.

Suddenly the sky, which had been the far-off blue of a moonlit night, flushed with the softest amethyst and rose, and the stars loomed large and intimately near, burning like lamps with lavender, emerald, sapphire, and topaz lights. The moon had set and the stars were supreme.

The Trough was full of ice and the ice was hard and slippery, but the steps that had been cut in the ice were sharp and firm. We had no great difficulty in climbing the steep ascent. We emerged from the Trough upon a ledge from which the view across plains and mountain-ranges was seemingly limitless.

As we made our way along the Narrows the drama of that day's dawn proceeded with kaleidoscopic speed. Over the plains, apparently without end, was a sea of billowy clouds, shimmering with golden and pearly lights. One mountain-range after another was revealed and brought close by the rosy glow that now filled all the sky.

Every peak, far and near, bore a fresh crown of new snow and each stood out distinct and individual. Arapahoe Peak held the eye long. Torrey's Peak and Gray's Peak were especially beautiful. And far away, a hundred miles to the south, loomed up the summit of Pike's Peak. So all-pervading was the alpine glow that even the near-by rocks took on wonderful color and brilliance.

Such a scene could last but a short time. And it was well for us, for the moments were too crowded with sensations to be long borne.

Soon the sun burst up from the ocean of clouds below. The lights changed. The ranges gradually faded into a far-away blue. The peaks flattened out and lost themselves in the distance. The near-by rocks took on once more their accustomed somber hues. And in the bright sunlight of the new day we wondered whether we had seen a reality or a vision.

On the summit all was bright and warm. Long we lingered in the sunlight, loath to leave so much beauty, but at last we began the descent leisurely. It was a perfect trip. It seemed as if the stage were set for our especial benefit. It was an experience that will live with me always. At first I felt as if I could never ascend the peak again, lest the impressions of that perfect night should become confused or weakened. But I believe I can set this night apart by itself. And I shall climb Long's Peak again.

To enjoy the Parks, we need but to go to them realizing that these wilderness realms are the greatest places of safety on the earth. The thousand dangers of the city are absent; the alt.i.tude of high mountains is not harmful but helpful--the air is free from dust and germs; and even the wildest and most tempestuous weather within them will bear acquaintance.

The animals in the wilderness are not ferocious, and they wisely flee from the coming of Christian people. Extraordinary skill is required to get close to any wild animal. Even the camera will put the biggest wild folk to flight! They attack only in self-defense, only when cornered and a.s.sailed by the hunter. The animals that have survived and left descendants are those which used their wits for flight and not in ferocity. The grizzly constantly uses his wits to keep out of a locality where human beings are. Wolves may once have been ferocious, but at present the aggressive ones are those in the jungles of nature-faking; wolves keep apart from civilization, and travelers are not likely to go out of their way to find them. In story-books the mountain lion crouches upon the cliff or lies in wait upon a tree-limb to spring upon human prey; but real lions do not do this sort of thing.

Each year thousands of people scale peaks in the Rockies, the Sierra, and the Selkirks, or spend a less strenuous vacation in the heights, up several thousand feet above the sea. From anaemics who stay at home they hear the common superst.i.tion that alt.i.tude is harmful! But the travelers return to their homes in high hopes and in vigorous health.

The heights are helpful, and the outdoors is friendly at all times.

These are splendid sources of hopefulness. They "knit up the raveled sleave of care." They arouse new interests, give broader outlooks.

They are great blessings that every one needs.

There is a growing appreciation of the safe and sane outdoors. People are rapidly realizing that vacations in the Parks and wild places are needful first aids to impaired health, and also that outdoor life is absolutely necessary for sustained or increased efficiency. From the wilderness the traveler returns a man, almost a superman. Its elemental songs, pictures, and stories are a language of eloquent uplift. Go to the wilderness and get its good tidings! The wilderness is democratic and is full of ideas. It gives efficiency and sympathy.

The mingling of all cla.s.ses in the Parks is a veritable blessing; it is one of the greatest means of preventing internal strife and also of averting international war.

Nature is an educational stimulus of rare force. The crumbling cliff, the glacial landscape, the wild, free clouds, birds, and trees, compel children--old and young--to observe and to think. They bring development and sympathy. They build the brain. They increase courage and kindness. Scenes and sunsets, cloud and storm, the stars and the sky, the music of wind and water, the purple forests, the white cascades, the colored flowers, the songs of birds, the untrimmed and steadfast trees, the shadows on the ground, the tangled gra.s.s, the round, sunny hills, the endless streams, the magic rainbow, and the mysterious echo--all these arouse thought, wonder, and delight in the mind of every child; and they have been the immortal nourishment of the great souls who have come from Mother Nature's loving breast to bless and beautify the world.

"The robe doth change the disposition." During summer vacations, the all-important rainy-day costume will save endless disappointment and worry. Rainy days will bear acquaintance--if you have clothes for the occasion. Cheerfulness and rainy days are united by waterproofs. One simply cannot cheerfully face a rainstorm in clothes that water will ruin. Hats or shoes that go to pieces in a downpour, skirts with colors that run--these mean the Waterloo of some one when the rain comes down. But an inexpensive hat, strong boots, and a raincoat--then let it rain!

When one is in the woods, the foremost thing to remember is the direction back to camp. In a general way this is answered in the familiar caution: "Stop, look, and listen!" A traveler through the woods should occasionally stop and make sure of the direction in which he is traveling. At every important bend in his course he should look ahead and notice the most conspicuous landmark directly in front of him; then, about face for a look at the most important point or landmark that he has pa.s.sed. He would thus be able, if he doubled on his own trail, to be guided by familiar objects, just as if he had traveled over it before in the same direction, with eyes open. Then, too, he should look to right and left for prominent or peculiar trees, cliffs, or other objects.

Keeping eyes thus open and mind alert is not a burden; it adds to the pleasure along the way. Any one who has thus traveled through strange woods should have taken a mental picture of what he has seen as he went on, and should be able to sit down and make a rough sketch of the locality and of his trail, showing the location of camp, the course he has traveled from it, and the prominent objects on both sides. A fair knowledge of woodcraft will enable any one to determine the points of the compa.s.s. While this is important, it is of less importance than remembering the direction to camp.

If a person gets lost, he would do well at once to climb into a tree-top, or to the summit of the highest near-by place, and from the commanding height survey the surrounding country. This may enable him to see a familiar landmark. If he fails to recognize any point, let him make a comparatively small circle with the purpose of picking up his trail. He should be careful to avoid aimless wandering, to which often lost people are so p.r.o.ne. This he may do by following along the summit of a ridge, or down the first brook or stream he can find. Of course, he will keep downhill in looking for running water. A few hours, or at most a few days, of stream-side travel will bring him where some one lives.

One is not likely to starve to death in the wilds. Starving is a slow process, and experiences show that a fast of a few days may be beneficial. Then, too, roots, berries, fruit, mushrooms, and tree-bark are to be found. With nothing but these, I have repeatedly lived for two weeks or longer, even at times when I was most active in exploring or mountain-climbing.

If a man is hopelessly lost, and if he knows that his companions are sure to look for him, he should stop right where he is when he finds that he is lost, and should camp and light two signal fires, giving a call at intervals.

Go into the Parks and get their encouragement. Among the serene and steadfast scenes you will find the paths of peace and a repose that is sweeter than sleep. If you are dulled and dazed with the fever and the fret, or weary and worn,--tottering under burdens too heavy to bear,--go back to the old outdoor home. Here Nature will care for you as a mother for a child. In the mellow-lighted forest aisles, beneath the beautiful airy arches of limbs and leaves, with the lichen-tinted columns of gray and brown, with the tongueless eloquence of the bearded, veteran trees, amid the silence of centuries, you will come into your own.

Some time the grizzled prospector will lead his stubborn burro down the mountain and cease the search for gold; some time the miner will lay down his pick, blow out his lamp or his candle, and leave the worked-out mine; some time eternal night will come upon the gas- and coal-oil lamp; but our sunny hanging wild gardens--our Parks--are immortal; they will give us their beauty and their inspiration forever.