| The immense, isolated mountain is a dead
volcano which probably once rose 3,000 feet higher than now. Countless
centuries of erosion have scored its slopes with ravines and gouged out a deep
valley into the heart of the old cone from the east. Round the valley's head
the volcano's rim has cut into a horseshoe of ragged summits which form the
present San Francisco Peaks. In the depths of this great gash is Core Ridge,
consisting of the four former volcanic vents that built the mighty mountain.
During the Pleistocene Ice Age a small glacier flowed eastward down the valley
from the rim of peaks, and its moraines can still be seen for a distance of
four miles. The last event to disturb the serenity of this secluded valley was
a disastrous fire which destroyed a magnificent stand of Engelmann spruce in
1876. A new forest is beginning to clothe the slopes with aspen thickets and
thousands of pointed-topped young spruces. A couple of Cassin's purple finches-I think they were- visited me and hopped about chittering a lively song, and over the summit. Otherwise I had the mountaintop to myself. Just by chance I spied Papa, Mama and Baby Bear, looking little bigger than brown ants, crossing the rocky saddle under Humphreys Peak. They were probably returning home after a day-long, cafeteria-style meal on the west side of the mountain. I don't know how many hours I lingered there watching the kaleidoscopic change of colors over mountain and plateau, while little cotton-white puffy clouds floated overhead and cast their polka-dot shadows on the land beneath. But it was late afternoon when I dropped down into Doyle Saddle and made camp. I couldn't have picked a more delightful spot. Here, between Agassiz and Fremont, at an elevation of 11,250 feet, were the greenest of meadows spread with wildflowers and dotted with groves of spruce and fir. The mountain dropped steeply on both sides, giving tree-framed vistas of peaks, valleys and the wide-spreading plateau far beneath. The only thing this high-perched Elyssium lacked was water, but I soon found a frozen supply in a lingering snowbank a couple of hundred feet below. For four days this was home, and I slept under the stars, cooked my meals, and sat by my evening campfire in that perfect peace that is found only in Nature's unspoiled places. At such tunes we mountain addicts experience a sort of sustained, disembodied elation that is perhaps akin to the effect of a drug. Our senses and immental perceptions become keener and infinitely more pleasurable than in the heavy, humanity-charged atmosphere below. Possibly this explains mountainitis, possibly it doesn't, but all lovers of the high places will know what I mean. Each day I explored the summits and wandered the lofty ridges of time grand semicircle of peaks, and dropped down through the forest to inspect the once-fiery heart of the mountain at Core Ridge. One night, too, I sat atop Fremont Peak in the frosty, crystal-clear air and watched the moon rise and flood the world with a spectral silver radiance. Three times I met my bear friends, and they came to accept me as a harmless fellow mammal-inspecting me calmly going unhurriedly going about their business. The last morning, as I was packing my knapsack, I heard a call, and a little dark-skinned man approached the Camp. He carried a shiny 30-06 high-powered rifle almost as long as he was. He broke into a torrent of Spanish, patted his gun proudly, and pointed into the woods. My Spanish is of the California real estate variety, mostly consisting of such |
phrases as Mui Vista and Lagnua Alta, but I
did catch the words oso and muerto as they flew by. I gathered that he was a
Mexican sheepherder out to get a bear that had been bothering his woolly
charges. That my mountain bears had done any such thing I didn't believe for a
moment, and I suspected the little man simply wanted to have some sport with
his new rifle, for which he must have paid six months wages. Had I seen any bears. he demanded. Yes. I admitted. I had. Where had I seen them? he asked excitedly. I saw them on the east slope of Fremont Peak. And I carefully pointed to the spot. "Gracias," he grinned. showing all his teeth. He started up the ridge, then turned and held up his rifle. "Boom! Boom!" he shouted. "Oso muerto!" The little man laughed heartily and disappeared. I shouldered my pack and started down the mountain. Sure, I saw my friends, the bears, over on Fremont Peak. But that was three days ago. I knew they were now on the north side of Humphreys Peak in the opposite direction. Dead bear! I should say not! I thought as I dropped rapidly down from the high places back to civilization. |
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