WE arose from our moist couch on the banks of Grand  River, to find the stream still rising, and a thick mist, foreboding rain, spread over the face of the earth. Mr. Byers’s friend, Dr. Wharton, who was encamped at the Springs, came down to the opposite bank, and some notes, tied to stones, were exchanged. I received in this way a pink malva, which made the airy journey without damage. Our further route gave rise to a serious consultation. In three days more I had appointed to be in Breckenridge, at the head of Blue River, about seventy-five miles from the Springs. There was no probability that we could ford the Blue, in the present swollen condition of all the mountain streams, and the regular trail lay beyond that river. We were aware, indeed, that the Ute Indians made use of another trail on this side, striking directly across the Middle Park (the diameter of which is nearly a hundred miles), but none of our party had ever traversed it, or knew anything about it beyond the rumor that it was exceedingly difficult and dangerous.

Yet there was no alternative — we were limited to the choice of this unknown route. It was a matter of great regret that we had failed in reaching the Hot Springs, and I proposed to start for Breckenridge in company with White, leaving the rest of the party to cross the Grand at the upper ford if they preferred. They decided, however, that we should keep together, and we made immediate preparations for departure.

We first retraced our trail for two miles or more, then, turning westward, crossed a high ridge wooded with aspen, and descended toward the Grand over aromatic slopes of sage-bush. The mist rolled into clouds and hid all the higher mountains from view, — which I greatly regretted, as from this point we might have seen the Rabbit-Ears —two remarkable Alpine horns on the western border of the North Park. We struck the Grand in the cañon below the Springs, and for some distance the path was notched along the side of a fir-wooded steep, over the roaring flood. Small brooks, invisible under dense willow thickets, came down on our left, making deep side-dells in the bluff It was not very far, however, before the cañon opened, revealing a broad gray landscape, through which the Grand could be traced into the distance by its belt of cotton-woods.

We rode forward over what is called the "second bottom" a low table-land, rising into hills a mile from the river, covered with a uniform growth of silvery sage, and dotted with grazing antelope. The sun came out, the mist arose from the snowy ranges, and all aspects were cheerful except the company of the Arapahoe mare, which, thank Heaven! was not to last long. We heard the cry of an eagle circling in the air over our heads, and had not proceeded half a mile further before we discovered an eagle’s nest in the top of a cotton-wood, just under the edge of the bluff We were able to ride within a hundred feet and look into it. Three eaglets — awkward, owlish creatures, completely covered with thick gray down — sat on the edges of the nest, which was a huge structure of sticks, and yelped piteously. It was a rare piece of good fortune for all of us, none of whom had ever seen (and probably will never see again) an eagle’s nest with the brood in it. Mr. Beard, with the aid of a good glass, made a permanent acquisition; and when his picture is exhibited, I can testify that he paints what he has seen.

Williams Fork,—or, as it is better called, Roaring Fork, — a large affluent of the Grand, now announced itself in front, by the tops of its timber rising above the bluff. It was also much swollen, and the fording was a matter of some difficulty. Mr. Byers, as usual, led the way, breasting the icy water, which, striking his horse’s side, almost swept over its back. We all took an extremely cold leg-bath, and my pony came within an ace of being carried down the stream. On the opposite bank we divided our party, White taking the spare animals (including the Arapahoe mare) to Charley Utter’s cabin, five miles further down the Grand, while the rest of us determined to try the Ute trail, up the west bank of Roaring Fork. This arrangement would save us several miles of the journey, as White, on his strong mule, could easily rejoin us during the afternoon. Somewhere ahead of us lay the famous moss-agate region, which we were especially desirous of visiting, each one having his private hopes of jewelry for wife or sweetheart.

The soil on the narrow bottoms of Roaring Fork is the purest humus, producing grass of astonishing rankness and richness, which our animals snapped at with crazy eagerness. We had not proceeded a mile, however, before our way was barred by an abrupt mountain, through the centre of which the stream forced its way, in a narrow, rock-walled slit — a cañon (funnel) in the strictest sense of the word. The trail led us into this cleft, taking the very edge of a precipice two hundred feet in perpendicular depth, where there was barely room for our horses to set their hoofs. Under us the river was a mass of foam: opposite — not a stone’s throw across — rose the jagged walls of dark-red rock, terminating in fantastic pinnacles. It was an exciting passage, not unmixed with fear, especially when the disarrangement of a saddle in advance forced Mr. Beard and myself to halt for five minutes in the narrowest part of the pass, where portions of the rock under us had crumbled away.

A valley succeeded; then a second and loftier range, where the dividing cañon disclosed the most singular formations of rock — natural fortresses and towers. One trail wound away to the right; another (possibly an old elk-path) seemed to lead directly into the gorge. The former was preferable, on account of the pack-mules; but Mr. McCandless and myself determined to try the latter, believing that we might gain in time what we lost in laborious travel. The ascent was so steep, that we could with difficulty keep our foothold in climbing; and it was wonderful to see the confidence which the horses had in our leadership and the dexterity with which they followed us. My pony used his hoofs as I did my hands, taking hold of grass-tufts and projections of rock, and resting with his nose on my shoulder when I stopped to take breath. Huge, detached masses of rock and bushes prevented our having a good view of the chasm, but the general wildness and picturesqueness of the scenery was an ample repayment for our toil. From the highest part of the Pass another grand gray landscape opened to the southward, magnificently bounded by a dark-green mountain chain, every summit of which was a jagged pyramid of snow.

After half an hour of rather laborious scrambling, I reached the grassy meadow beyond the cañon. Looking back, I saw the others of the party slowly creeping over a mountain ridge a mile or more to the west. I thereupon struck a diagonal course, and presently came upon the Indian trail, on the "second bottom." Here the ground was strewn with rough agates, but with all my search I could find no mossy specimens. When the others arrived, in the course of half an hour, I found that their experience had been precisely similar. Our dreams of complete sets of jewelry diminished to a single brooch or ring, and then faded into the thin atmosphere of disappointed hopes. None of us found a single moss-agate.

Here and there on the trail we could detect the marks of lodge-poles, which, we supposed, were made by the Utes in passing from Blue to Grand River. As this was our only guidance through the unknown portion of the Park, we followed it, although its general direction seemed too much east of south. The mountain range in front was apparently a spur thrust out from the south into the very heart of the Park, and we must cross it in order to reach the Valley of Blue River. The government maps were of no assistance, — they omitted the mountains, and inserted streams which have no existence. Directly in front of us towered a splendid peak, not less than fourteen thousand feet in height; and there seemed to be no practicable pass across the range except immediately on either side of it: so long, therefore, as our trail tended toward it, we could not go very far astray. It was about twenty miles to the base of the range, the intermediate country being a mixture of rich, grassy valleys, sage-clad table-land, and picturesque, broken hills, flecked with groves of aspen and fir.

We started up several sage-hens, with their broods of young. They are a kind of grouse, about the size of the prairie-chicken, and of gray, mottled plumage. Their color seems to be their chief protection, as was shown by their reliance upon it. The young birds scarcely took the trouble to get out of our way, and one of them was caught sitting under a sage-bush, and looking with bright, unshrinking eyes directly in the face of its captor. Of course we did not shoot the hens, — an act of self-denial (our salt fare being considered) which ought to be set down to our credit. Ere long we reached meadows again, threaded by swift tributary brooks of the Roaring Fork. The passage of these streams, small as they were, gave us some trouble, owing to the treacherous character of the soil. Mr. Beard’s mule went down and rolled over upon him, pinning him fast in the mud, and my pony only avoided a like disaster by his great shrewdness and agility.

At one o’clock we camped on the banks of a brook, and our fishers immediately got their gear in readiness for trout. Two of us determined on a bath in spite of mosquitoes and ice-water; and while a portion of the party were playing leap-frog solitaire, in the search for grasshopper bait, another portion landing an occasional diminutive fish, and the remainder attempting to dry their tingling skins, there was a sudden cry of "How, how!" across the low willow thickets. Indians, with vermilion faces and streaming black hair! There were two braves and squaws, mounted, and two pappooses. They crossed to us without ceremony, shook hands, and attempted conversation, which was not very edifying until we discovered that one of them understood a little Spanish. We then learned that they were on their way from the Blue to join the remainder of their tribe on the head-waters of the Grand; their chief, Colorado, was at Breckenridge, and they thought the rivers could be forded. One of the men — who wore, singularly enough, an Austrian military coat (from Maximilian’s army?) — possessed some tact and discretion. He prevented the other from going too near our luggage, and withdrew with him to a little distance when we sat down to our meal. He showed a little curiosity about a satchel of mine; but when I told him it was "medicine," and made certain mysterious signs, he seemed satisfied. The squaws brought their shy pappooses to look at us — beautiful beings, all of them, with paint-smeared faces, and hideously suggestive hair and blankets. Uncas and Cora, — heroes and heroines of romance!

Presently another horseman appeared, galloping toward us over the hills, from the opposite direction. It was White, who, to our great joy, had a sage-hen at his saddle-bow, and a supply of antelope-venison for our supper. He, too, had crossed a corner of the moss-agate patch, without finding any of the jewels. Considerably refreshed by the bath and by one delicious trout apiece, (would it had been a dozen!) we pushed forward, entering a hilly region, where dense tracts of woodland alternated with fields of flowers. The tracks of elk, deer, and even bear, were frequent, but much as our hunters dashed away from the trail, they brought us nothing. After some miles, we found ourselves suddenly on a bluff, overlooking Roaring Fork, which issued, with many a snaky twist, from a stretch of pine forest. Into this forest went the trail, so obstructed with fallen timber that our progress was an unintermitted series of leaps. We outdid all the performances that were ever made with bars in the circus-ring.

On emerging from this wood we found ourselves in the loveliest meadow-park, several miles long, opening before us directly to the foot of the great snowy peak. A swift brook sped down it, under bowery thickets and past clumps of trees; the turf was brilliantly green and spangled with flowers; low hills bounded it on either side, the forests with which they were covered sending out irregular capes, and arms embracing bays of grass; and over the sweet pastoral seclusion towered the Alpine chain, here smitten with gold by the sinking sun, there glooming broad and blue under the shadows of thunder-clouds. Nothing could have been more unexpected than the change from aspen woods and silvery hills of sage to this green, pine-enframed, Arcadian landscape. We made our camp for the night in a grove of trees, which our huge fire of pine-logs illuminated with magical effect. Moreover, we had fresh meat for the first time, couches on a matting of pine needles, the best of pasturage for our beasts, and for the first time since leaving Empire, enjoyed a feeling of comfort. It rained during the night, but the trees made a partial shelter. Our day’s travel could not have been less than thirty miles.

It was now very evident that the pass we sought lay to the right of the high peak, and that the Valley of the Blue was beyond the range. The majestic mountain has no name. It is very near the centre of the Middle Park, and its summit must command a view of this whole inclosed region. I therefore suggest that it be called Park Peak (rather than such a name as Cummings or Doolittle), and — if no one has any objection — will so designate it.

We soon reached the head of the meadow, where a jungle of willow-bushes, threaded by a net-work of streams, lay between us and the mountain. The trail was wet and boggy, and the dripping boughs through which we forced our way, wet us to the skin. Then ensued a horrible scramble, which lasted for nearly two miles. We either floundered in mud in the bottom of a glen, climbed over piles of fallen timber, or crept up and down slippery, crumbling staircases, of loose soil. In such places our pack-mules showed a wonderful talent. The skill with which they passed between trees, leaped logs, and steadied themselves along the edge of ticklish declivities, without disarranging their packs, could never be imagined by one who had not seen it. We considered these two miles equal to ten of good road. The trail gradually improved, and we entered a region, which was a perfect reproduction of the mountain-dells of Saxony. Meadows of velvet turf lay embedded in tall, dark forests of fir, which stretched up the slopes above us until they formed a fringe against the sky. At every winding of the valley, I looked, involuntarily, for the old, mossy mill, and the squares of bleaching linen on the grass. Snow-drifts made their appearance where the shade was deepest, and the few aspens and alders were just putting forth their leaves.

This part of the Pass was so beautiful, that we reached the summit — much sooner than we expected — almost with regret. We had not risen more than a thousand feet above the general level of the Park. From the top we looked down a narrow, winding glen, between lofty parapets of rock, and beheld mountains in the distance, dark with shadow, and vanishing in clouds. The descent was steep, but not very toilsome. After reaching the bed of the glen, we followed it downward through beds of grass and flowers, under the shade of castellated rocks, and round the feet of natural ramparts, until it opened upon wide plains of sage-bush, which formed the shelving side of an immense valleys The usual line of cotton-wood betrayed a stream, and when we caught a glimpse of the water, its muddy tint — the sure sign of gold-washing — showed that we had found the Blue River. We had crossed the Ute Pass, as it is called by the trappers, and are among the first white men who have ever traversed it. We now looked on Park Peak from the west side.

Instead of descending to the river, our trail turned southward, running nearly parallel with its course, near the top of the sloping plane which connects the mountains with the valley. The sun came out, the clouds lifted and rolled away, and one of the most remarkable mountain landscapes of the earth was revealed to our view. The Valley of the Blue, which, for a length of thirty miles, with a breadth varying from five to ten, lay under our eyes, wore a tint of pearly silver-gray, upon which the ripe green of the timber along the river, and the scattered gleams of water seemed to be enamelled. Opposite to us, above this sage-color, rose huge mountain-foundations, where the grassy openings were pale, the forests dark, the glens and gorges filled with shadow, the rocks touched with lines of light — making a chequered effect that suggested cultivation and old settlement. Beyond these were wilder ridges, all forest; the bare masses of rock, streaked with snow, and, highest of all, bleak snow-pyramids, piercing the sky. From south to north stretched the sublime wall — the western boundary of the Middle Park; and where it fell away toward the cañon by which Grand River goes forth to seek the Colorado, there was a vision of dim, rosy peaks, a hundred miles distant. In breadth of effect — in airy depth and expansion — in simple yet most majestic outline, and in originality yet exquisite harmony of color, this landscape is unlike anything I have ever seen. I feel how inadequate are my words to suggest such new combinations of tints and forms. There is greater vertical grandeur among the Alps: here it is the vast lateral extent which impresses you, together with the atmospheric effect occasioned by great elevation above the sea. You stand on the plane of the Alpine glaciers; a new vegetation surrounds you; a darker sky is over your head; yet the grand picture upon which you look is complete in all its parts, or, if any element is wanting, its absence is swallowed up in the majesty that is present.

"If Gifford were only here!" said Beard; and did not take out his own sketch-book.

[A BG pause: Two miles or so up Boulder Creek, emptying into the Blue River from the west, is the location of a homestead by Edwin and Almeda Peabody. North of Boulder Creek and east of the Blue River was the ranch later owned by Elmer Clifton Peabody and his wife, Halsey Victoria Rosedahl (Aunt Vic) and later by their granddaughters Cynthia and Sally Peabody.  When Sally died, her ashes were scattered in the Blue River, bordering the Peabody Ranch.]

We enjoyed this landscape for several miles, until the hills, reaching across the valley, formed a cañon, to avoid which we crossed spurs which shut everything but the snowy range. The base of Park Peak, on our right, offered many picturesque features; but I will not attempt to describe them. Other snowy summits appeared before us, overlooking the head of Blue River Valley; charming valleys opened among the nearer mountains; yet the remembrance of what we had seen made us indifferent to them. In the afternoon we came upon several lodges of Utes, one of which I entered, not without misgivings. The occupant was a sharp, shrewd Indian, who wanted to trade a buckskin for much more powder than it was worth. There were but two men at home, but a number of squaws and children. A herd of rough ponies was grazing near. We found little to interest us, and presently left Mr. Low (Low, the poor Indian, as the people here say) to his own devices.

A mile or two further we came to a swift stream, which we supposed to be Snake River, and the prospect of trout was so promising that, after effecting a crossing, we encamped for the night, calculating that we were within fifteen miles of this place. Hunters and fishers went forth, while the artist and myself tried both pencil and pen with little effect. We agreed that we were demoralized by fatigue, and that lying on our blankets before the fire was better than either Art or Literature.

Though so near Breckenridge, we were not yet out of the woods, as my next will show.  NEXT