WITH the parting view of the South Park we left the chief glories of the Rocky Mountains behind us. The main branch of the South Platte finds an outlet to the plains through a cañon which is yet impassable, and the road to Denver strikes diagonally across the eastern spurs of the snowy range, where the scenery is generally of a rough, cramped, and confined character. For some miles we had very fine views of the lofty peaks at the southeastern corner of the Middle Park, but after passing the "Kenosha House," a lonely tavern-ranche, the road lay mostly through close, winding dells, leading us to one of the branches of the Platte. Our anglers succeeded in getting a dozen trout, which made a welcome addition to our diminishing stores. We might have found a tolerable "square meal" at the tavern, but our camp-life was drawing near its close just as we were becoming properly habituated to it, and there was no dissenting voice to the proposition that we should avoid both kitchens and roofs for the rest of the journey. A single exception was allowed, toward evening, in the purchase of a loaf of bread.

I have no doubt that, had the course of our journey been reversed — had we been fresh from the monotony of the Plains — we should have found the scenery very delightful. Though the glens were hot, close, and dusty, the road occasionally passed over breezy ridges, whence there were bold views of the lower mountains. We missed the breadth and sweep of the Parks and the Arkansas Valley, with their new and wonderful coloring. During the last fortnight the soil has become parched and dry, and even the narrow patches of meadow, fed by living springs, have a brownish hue. The absence of vivid green turf; the scarcity of ferns, and the lack of variety in the forms of the timber, are noticeable in this portion of the mountains. It occurs to me, as I write, that I have not discovered the first specimen of moss since reaching Colorado. Even where there is perpetual moisture, moss is absent; the rock-lichens, also, are rare. On the other hand, the flora is superb. We had found but very few flowers in the South Park; but now the road was fringed with the loveliest larkspurs, columbines, wild roses of powerful and exquisite odor, gillyflowers, lupines, sweet-peas, and coreopsis. The trees were principally fir, pine, and aspen. A variety of balsam-fir, with young shoots of a pale-blue tint, grew in moist places. Those of us who suffered with sunburn or bruises opened the gummy blisters of the young trees, and anointed ourselves with the balm. In my own case, the effect was marvellous, — the pain of days was healed in an hour or two.

We passed two ranches, with their beginnings of agriculture, during the afternoon, and encamped before sunset in a charming spot on the banks of the stream. Great towers of rock rose on either side, leaving us barely room for the beds and camp-fire, beside the roaring water. Up the Valley we saw mountain forests and a distant snowy peak. Mr. Beard and I decided that our fir-bed, now much more skilfully made than at the start, was preferable to lodging in any hotel in Colorado. We had stories around the camp-fire that evening; and for the first time during the trip no one seemed in haste to get under his blankets.

We had not gone a mile down the Valley next morning before we came upon another camp, much more luxurious than our own. There was a powerful two-horse wagon, a  tent, trunks, and provision boxes. The party which had thus preempted one of the prettiest spots in the Valley consisted of Mr. Ford, the artist, of Chicago, with his wife, and Messrs. Gookins and Elkins, also Chicago artists. They had made the entire trip from the Missouri in the wagon, and were now on their way into the Parks for the summer. Mrs. Ford, I was glad to notice, was not the least satisfied member of the party, though the artists were delighted with what they had found — and the best was yet to come. Mr. Whittredge, who crossed the Plains with General Pope, was at that time in the neighborhood of Pike’s Peak; so that Art has sent five pioneers to the Rocky Mountains this Summer.

While we were looking over the sketches, the hospitable mistress of a ranche a little further down the stream made her appearance, with a basket of eggs for Mrs. Ford. She could have brought nothing more scarce and valuable —not even nuggets of gold. We passed a pleasant hour with the artists, and then left them to push on toward the South Park, our own hope being to get out of the mountains before camping.

Leaving this branch of the Platte, we struck across the line of the ranges, which are here intersected by many lateral valleys. There is a good wagon-road, of a much more easy grade than that from Denver to Central City. In one of the glens I met Mr. L., of Philadelphia, who called out, in passing, — "The President has signed the Railroad Bill!" This was good news to the Coloradians of the party. The Smoky Hill route, on account of its forming the shortest and most direct connection with St. Louis and the eastern cities as far as New York, is becoming more and more popular here, especially since it is uncertain whether the Central Pacific Railroad will touch Denver.

The day was excessively hot, not only in the glens, but upon the heights; and our animals suffered much from the attacks of flies. We had a journey of more than thirty miles to make; or nearly ten hours, measuring by the pace of the weary horses. When we halted at noon, the mules ran into a willow thicket and there remained; while my pony left off grazing and came to me, holding down his neck that I might brush away his tormentors. There was so little variation in the scenery that I should only confuse the reader by attempting to describe it in other than general terms. The peaks of the snowy range were seldom visible. It was, apparently, a broken, hilly region, out of which rose wooded ridges or isolated summits, faced with bold escarpments of rock. The soil was thinly covered with grass, gray on the slopes and green in the bottoms; timber was plentiful but not of large size; yet the few evidences of farming which we met from time to time showed that a great part of the region may be made productive. We passed a number of ranches in the course of the day, in one of which a notable speculation was recently made. A daughter being about to be married, the mother invited the neighbors far and near to the number of forty. They came, supped, danced, and wished good luck to the nuptials, and — were each presented with a bill of six dollars!

As we drew nearer to the Plains, the signs of settlement and travel increased. We passed a saw-mill in operation, a two-story hotel at a place called Junction (whence there is a road to Central City), and many a "preempted" tract in the sheltered little valleys. Late in the afternoon we reached Bradford’s Hill, Mr. Byers cheering us up the ascent with the assurance that it was the last of the Rocky Mountains. For nearly two miles we toiled along in the scorching sun, sometimes pausing in the thin aspen shade to look backward on some rock-buttressed peak. The summit was wooded, but an opening presently disclosed to our sight a far, blue horizon-line, probably a hundred miles to the eastward. It was only a passing glimpse, and as comforting as water in a thirsty land.

On the first step of the descent, I found for the first time — oaks. They were small saplings, which had sprung up where the large primitive trees had been felled. Mr. Byers informed me that he had frequently seen trunks two feet in diameter, all of which have now disappeared. The mountain pine is a soft, spongy wood, liable to a great deal of shrinkage; the carpenters even declare that it shrinks "endwise." Cotton-wood is only fit for interior work, so that good building lumber is scarce, in spite of the abundant forests. I am not surprised that the oaks were swept away, but I regret that it was necessary.

I have said nothing of the wild fruits of the mountains, which have become of some importance in the absence of orchards. The currants, gooseberries, and service-berries (amelanc1ier) are found everywhere; the bushes are small, yet bear profusely. Whortleberries are also found, but not in such quantities. There is a wild red cherry, a plum, and, in the southern part of the territory, grapes. Strawberries carpet the forests up to the line of snow, but will not be ripe for two or three weeks to come. They resemble precisely the small, fragrant fruit of Switzerland and Norway. With the exception of the " Oregon grape" (mahonia), I noticed no new varieties of fruit. The cones of the piñones appear to be the only edible nuts. There is a singular poverty in the Rocky Mountain sylva.

While we were discussing the matter of oaks, the road climbed a little ridge, turned around a bare, stony headland, and— there ! Half a continent seemed to lie beneath us. We stood on the eaves of the mountains, above all the soil between us and the Atlantic Ocean. As from the car of a balloon, or the poise of a bird in mid-air, we looked down on an immense hemisphere of plain, stretching so far that we could only guess at its line of union with the sky. North, south, and east, the vision easily reached a hundred miles. Wild plain, farm-land, and river-courses were as distinctly marked and colored as on a map. We saw the South Platte, issuing from its mountain gateway, gathering Plum, Cherry, and Bear Creeks, skirting Denver, and curving far away on its course toward Julesburg and Nebraska. Beyond Denver, the valleys of Clear Creek, Boulder, Thompson, and St. Vrains were distinctly marked, and somewhere in the vapors of the horizon lay Cache-la-Poudre. Scarcely a house or a tree in all this vast landscape was hidden from view. Its uniform tint of dead gold contrasted exquisitely with the soft blue-gray and pink-flushed snows of Long’s Peak and his neighboring summits in the north.

Looking at the base of the mountains immediately below us, I became aware of a remarkable feature of their structure. Parallel with the general direction of their bases, and from a quarter to half a mile distant, ran a straight outcropping of vertical rock, abruptly broken through by the streams which issued upon the plains. Each section of this ridge, which was from one to two hundred feet in height, resembled a ship’s hull, keel upward. They are called "hog’s-backs" in Colorado. Not only is their formation distinct from that of the mountains, but they are composed of different rock — mostly limestone, gypsum, or alabaster. Their peculiar appearance suggests the idea of their having been forced up by the settling back of the great chain of the Rocky Mountains, after upheaval. I am told that this formation extends for a long distance along the eastern base of the mountains.

As the road wound back and forth down the bare, treeless slope, contracting the semicircle of the plains, the objects enclosed within this lower rampart attracted us more and more. Much of the space near at hand was already farmed, and green with lush fields of wheat, and the narrow terrace which it formed, seemed, at first sight, to have been inhabited for thousands of years. What appeared to be the ruins of giant cities arose behind the walls of rock, casting their shadows across the green. Rude natural towers, obelisks, and pyramids, monoliths two hundred feet in height, of a rich red color, were gathered in strange labyrinthine groups, suggesting arrangement or design. Beyond the Platte there was a collection of several hundred of these.. Mr. Byers, who had visited the place, assured me that they greatly surpass the curious rock-images near Colorado City, called the " Garden of the Gods." A nearer view of them through a glass filled me with astonishment. I saw single rocks a hundred feet square, and nearly as high as Trinity spire, worn into the most fantastic outlines, and in such numbers that days might be spent in examining them. On our own road there were several detached specimens of lesser height, and beyond Bear Creek two lofty masses of a rude Gothic character. The wonders of Colorado have not yet been half explored, much less painted.

Our proposed camping-place lay inside the nearest "hog-back," at the foot of one of those rocky masses. We came down the long slant and reached the spot before sunset, less fatigued by the journey than by the great labor (both of spirit and flesh) of keeping up the failing courage of our animals. Our bread was at an end, but Colonel Bradford’s ranche, with its stately stone residence, seemed to offer indefinite supplies; so, after unsaddling beside the rock and turning the beasts loose to graze, we called upon the Colonel in a body. He kindly gave us all he had —not bread, but flour and soda, a bunch of onions from the garden, and a wash-basin full of lettuce. Moreover, we had unlimited water from a spring in the garden, and milk from the dairy. The Colonel, a native of Alabama, is justly proud of his ranche, the location of which is wonderfully picturesque.

Mr. Sumner and I made slapjacks of the flour, and with a little exertion we got up a passable meal at twilight. Our beds were soon made among the fragrant herbs, and the night passed rapidly and quietly, except that a coyote stole the remainder of our pork. The breakfast, however, was a matter of little consequence, as we expected to dine in Denver. A fierce African sun came up in the cloudless sky, driving away in ten minutes the scanty dew that had fallen. After more coffee and slapjacks we packed hastily and started on the last pull of sixteen miles. Four of the gentlemen determined to go up Bear Creek and fish for trout; Messrs. Beard and Thomas, with the mule-team, and I on my pony, made a direct line for civilization.

By the time we reached Bear Creek crossing, the heat was intense. My pony had at last reached the limit of his performance, and I was fain to dismount, seat myself in the rear of the wagon, and pull him after us with the lariat. We resisted the shady invitation of the "Pennsylvania Hotel" beside the stream, admired as much as was possible in our condition the splendid fields of wheat, farm succeeding to farm from the mountains to the Platte, and then took to the rolling, fiery upland. Two hours more, and from a ridge we hailed Denver, only three miles away, its brick blocks flashing in the sun, its square spire shooting above, the dark green cotton-woods, and its shallow river reflecting the blue of the zenith — a consoling sight!

What life there was in the mules, had to come out then: we all became suddenly conscious that we were dirty, ragged, hungry, thirsty, and terribly fatigued. An intense longing for the comforts and conveniences of life moved our souls: Denver became to us what New York is to the moral native of Connecticut. I am not ashamed to confess that we halted at the lager-beer brewery, half a mile from the town, and took a refreshing draught to correct the effects of the "thin air and alkali water."

The Platte bridge was crossed and we entered the streets, a party more picturesque than respectable in appearance. There were three battered wide-awakes; three flannel shirts, one scarlet, one blue, and one gray; three brown faces, one skinless nose, and one purple ditto.; dusty rolls of blankets, a bent coffee-pot, a box of colors, and some saddles. This was the picture which slowly moved up Laramie and F Streets, and stopped at the door of the Pacific Hotel.  NEXT