WHEN we awoke in our camp, on the banks of the river which we supposed to be Snake, yesterday morning, the ground was covered with a white frost, and the water remaining in our tin cups was turned to ice. To bathe a sun-blistered face on such a morning, is a torture rather than a luxury; yet the air was at once a tonic, a stimulant, and a flavor. The peaks across the valley — not much less than fifteen thousand feet in height— flashed in rosy splendor; the dew sprinkled with diamonds the silver of the sage-fields; the meadow-larks sang joyously, and our spirits rose with the belief that the uncertain portion of our journey was nearly over.

A ride of three miles up the valley brought us to another river — a fuller stream than the last, foaming down through a wild gap in the mountains on our left. At this place the Blue receives a considerable affluent on the opposite side —a circumstance which told us precisely where we were. The stream where we had encamped is still nameless; it was the Snake which we had now reached. We forded it with some difficulty, the water rushing over our saddles, and followed a barely discernible trail along the foot of the mountains. The Valley of the Blue became narrow, hemmed in by the feet of spurs from the main chain. The bottomland was marshy and full of pools, and we were sometimes forced to climb around quagmires and fallen timber, at points of threatening steepness. Sometimes, also, a slide of rocks had come down from above, leaving piles over which the animals must slowly and cautiously be led. The little gray coneys sat on the stones above, and barked at us as we passed.

It is rather difficult to measure distance during travel of this kind; but I suppose we had made about three miles after fording Snake River, when the trail — or, rather, what was left of it — terminated at the Blue. There were signs that the stream had been crossed here, and as we had been looking with longing eyes at the pleasant open bottoms on the other side, we imagined our troubles at an end. Mr. McCandless plunged in, his mule breasting the impetuous current, and, after being carried down some yards, succeeded in getting out on the other bank. Mr. Byers followed, and then the pack-mule, Peter; but, on reaching the centre of the stream both were carried away. I was watching the horse, madly endeavoring to swim against the current, when there was a sudden call for help. The drift-timber had made a raft just below, the force of the stream set directly toward it, and horse and rider were being drawn, as it appeared, to inevitable destruction. Mr. Sumner sprang into the water and caught Mr. Byers’s hand; but the next moment he was out of his depth, and barely succeeded in swimming ashore.

All this seemed to take place in a second. The river made a short curve around a little tongue of land, across which we sprang, in time to see Mr. Byers catch at and hold the branch of a drifted tree, in passing. In another moment he had extricated himself from the saddle. White rushed into the water with a lariat, and the danger was over. Horse and rider got out separately, without much trouble, although the latter was already chilled to the bones and nearly benumbed. The pack-mule, with all our luggage, was completely submerged, and we should probably have lost everything, had not White grasped the mule’s ear at the turn of the river, and thus assisted the beast to recover his footing. It was all over before we were clearly aware of the full extent of the danger and of our own fears.

When the wet clothes had been wrung out, and the wet pistols fired, we set forward, compelled to follow the east bank of the Blue, with no trail. We had the choice between mud-holes and fallen timber, or a steep of loose gravel and sliding stones, which defied us to get a firm foothold. Thus we worked our way along, with almost incredible labor, for an hour or more, when we reached an overhanging rocky wall, at the foot of which the river foamed and roared in a narrow channel. When we had climbed around the rocks and reached the mountain side above, a fearful-looking slant of disintegrated shale, through which a few stunted aspen bushes grew, lay before us. One more degree of steepness would have made the pass impossible. The crumbled rock slid from under our feet, and rattled in showers from the brink of the precipice into the water below; and but for the help which the bushes gave us in the worst places, we should probably have followed. Messrs. Byers and Davis, who were in advance, seemed at times to be hanging in the air. In the midst of this pass, a badger whisked around the corner of a rock, tempting one of the party to let himself down to the edge of the bluff in the hope of getting a shot; but the animal was safe in some hole or crevice.

While resting among the roots of a pine-tree, which enabled me also to support my pony, I descried Mr. McCandless riding up the meadows beyond the river, with a mounted Indian on each side of him. I noticed, moreover, that the latter kept pace with him, and took pains to keep him between them. As they were Utes, there was no trouble to be feared, and we supposed they were guiding him toward Breckenridge. Beyond this perilous corner of the mountain we found a faint trail, with a promise of better travel ahead. Mr. Beard and White were in the rear, and it was amusing to watch them follow us, clinging for life to the bushes and roots, while their animals, with more than human cunning, picked their way step by step, through the sliding fragments.

A mile or two more, and a broad valley opened on our left. A very muddy stream — which could be none other than Swan River — came down it to join the Blue. Mr. McCandless and one of the Indians here rode down to the opposite bank and hailed us. The latter was the famous Ute chief, Colorado; he said we could now either ford the Blue, or take a good trail to Breckenridge on our side of the river. We chose the latter, and presently came in sight of Delaware Flats — a collection of log-cabins, across the open valley. Leaving them to the left, we struck toward another settlement called Buffalo Flats; both places are inhabited by miners engaged in gulch washing. The cattle pasturing on the grassy bottoms were a welcome sight, after five days of savage Nature. I greeted a young fellow, herding mules on horseback, with a very superfluous feeling of friendship; for he made a short, surly answer, and rode away.

Being now but four miles from Breckenridge, we spurred our weary animals forward, taking a trail which led for a long distance through a burned forest. It was scenery of the most hideous character. Tens of thousands of charred black poles, striped with white where the bark had sprung off, made a wilderness of desolation which was worse than a desert. The boughs had been almost entirely consumed; the sunshine and the blue of the sky were split into a myriad of parallel slices, which fatigued and distracted the eye, until one almost became giddy in riding through. I cannot recall any phase of mundane scenery so disagreeable as this. 

Finally the wood came to an end, and green meadows and snowy peaks refreshed our eyes. Over ditches, heaps of stone and gravel, and all the usual debris of gulch-mining, we rode toward some cabins which beckoned to us through scattered clumps of pine. A flag-staff, with something white at half-mast; canvas-covered wagons in the shade; a long street of log-houses; signs of "Boarding," "Miner’s Home," and "Saloon," and a motley group of rough individuals, among whom we detected the beard of our parted comrade and the blanket of the chief— such was Breckenridge!

The place dates from 1860 — yet, of the five thousand miners who flocked to this part of the Middle Park in that year, probably not more than five hundred remain. At present there is a slight increase of life. Some new cabins are going up, and for some distance beyond the limits of building one sees lots staked out, and signs displayed, —"Preempted by — —." At the first house we reached, we found a long table set for dinner, and a barrel of beer on tap, which had come over the snowy range from Montgomery the previous day. The host, Mr. Sutherland, suspected our impatient hunger, and only delayed the meal long enough to add the unexpected delicacy of oyster soup. Then, taking the bugle with which he blew the signal for the immortal Light Brigade to charge at Balaklava, he made the notes of "Peas upon a trencher" ring over the shanties of Breckenridge. Since that splendid Crimean episode, Mr. Sutherland and his bugle have done loyal service in a Colorado regiment. I was glad of the chance which made us almost the first guests of his new establishment — especially as his bounty in providing equals his gallantry in fighting.

In strolling up the street, after dinner, I discovered that the apparent flag of truce at half-mast was in reality a national ensign, out of which the mountain rains had washed every particle of color. The Stars and Stripes were only to be distinguished by the seams. There was comical cause of mourning; the bully of Breckenridge — a German grocer — had been whipped, the day before, by the bully of Buffalo Flats! The flag-staff is planted in front of a log court-house. While I was gazing upon the emblem of defeat and regret, I noticed two individuals entering the building. One was middle-aged, and carried a book under his arm; he wore "store clothes." The other, a lively young fellow, with a moustache, sported a flannel shirt. The latter reappeared on the. balcony, in a moment, and proclaimed in a loud voice, —

"Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Probate Court is now in session!"

Thereupon he withdrew. The announcement produced no effect, for he immediately came forth again, and cried,—

 "Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Probate Court is now adjourned!"

I waited, to see the Honorable Probate Court come forth, with the book under his arm; but, instead of that, the lively

young man made his appearance for the third time, with a new announcement, —

"Oh yes! Oh yes! The Honorable Commissioners’ Court is now in session!"

How many other Courts were represented by these two individuals, I am unable to say; but the rapidity and ease with which the sessions were held gave me a cheerful impression of the primitive simplicity and peace of the population. To be sure, the flag at half-mast hinted of other customs; yet these may not be incompatible with an idyllic state of society.

We discovered a hotel — or its equivalent — kept by Mr. and Mrs. Silverthorn, who welcomed us like old friends. The walls of their large cabin were covered with newspapers, and presented a variety of advertisements and local news, from New Hampshire to Salt Lake. If the colored lithographs on the wall were doubtful specimens of art, there were good indications of literature on the table. The kind hostess promised us beds, — real beds, with sheets and pillows, — and the good host would have taken me to any number of lodes and gulch-washings, if I had not been almost too sore to bend a joint. I barely succeeded in going far enough to inspect a patch of timothy grass, grown from the wild seed of the mountains. It is a slight experiment, but enough to show what may be made of those portions of the Middle Park which are too cold for grain. The residents of the place profess to be delighted with the climate, although there is no month in the year without frost, and the winter snow is frequently three or four feet in depth. They have very little sickness of any kind, and recover from wounds or hardships with a rapidity unknown elsewhere. I was informed that the Honorable Probate and Commissioners’ Court once tumbled down a fearful precipice, and was picked up a mass of fractures and dislocations — yet here he was, good for several sessions a day!

Our friends, Byers and Sumner, were so chilled to the marrow by their adventure in the Blue River, that neither the subsequent ride, nor dinner, nor the hot noonday sun, could warm their benumbed bodies. They therefore built a fire in the adjoining wood, and lay beside it nearly all the afternoon. I would gladly have joined them, but for the duty of recording our journey, and the task which awaited me in the evening. The court-house, to my surprise, was filled with an attentive and intelligent audience, and I regretted that I was unable to comply with their request that I should recite Mrs. Norton’s poem of "Bingen."

There had been some doubt concerning the practicability of the pass across the main chain to Montgomery, which is in the South Park, on the head-waters of the South Platte; but in the afternoon Mr. Matthews arrived, having ridden from Buckskin Joe to pilot us over. This is called, I believe, the Hoosier Pass; a little to the east of it is the Tarryall Pass [now Boreas Pass], from Hamilton to Breckenridge, which is traversed by vehicles, even during the winter. There is also a direct trail from Breckenridge to Georgetown, near the head of Snake River. Without doubt other and probably better points for crossing the mountains will be found, when they are more thoroughly explored.

Mrs. Silverthorn kept her promise. When the artist and myself found ourselves stretched out in a broad featherbed, with something softer than boots under our heads, we lay awake for a long time in delicious rest, unable to sleep from the luxury of knowing what a perfect sleep awaited us. Every jarred bone and bruised muscle claimed its own particular sensation of relief, and I doubted, at last, whether unconsciousness was better than such wide-awake fulness of rest.

I shall always retain a very pleasant recollection of Breckenridge, and shall henceforth associate its name with the loyal divine, not the traitor politician.  NEXT