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BLACK LAKE IN 1878
Two or three years since, a couple of divines, imbued, doubtless, with a spirit of adventure, found their way up one of the tributaries of the Blue. They discovered a lake nestled away in the grand old hills, and in about the last place one would think of looking for a lake. They called it Black Lake, very appropriately, and when they made known their discovery there were found some of those disagreeable two-legged animals who are never surprised at anything, and who knew, of course, that “the lake had been there all the time.” The ministers, however, took away with them the credit of the discovery, though but few people manifested any interest in the matter. As a result of the indifference, the merits of the lake have been but little talked about, and when mentioned at all, it has been treated with a sort of indefiniteness, as a place that had been heard of, but was not known, except that it was “up there, somewhere,” in the rugged range of the Blue. One was, and is, also, always reminded by the would-be informant that “a couple of preachers found it;” in that particular sort of tone that at once conveys the impression that, because a preacher was instrumental in making the discovery, it must be a kind of slough of despond, or an eight-by-ten waterhole, or a beaver pond, with a few decayed water-lilies mourning round the margin. It may be that there is much skepticism hereaway concerning the general level-headedness of gentlemen in orders, where our mountain scenery is involved. Your “rugged frontiersman” – to whom these grandeurs are every-day affairs, still new every day, and not the less revered – worships in silence, and is apt to think your enthusiast off his tender feet the moment he opens his mouth. “There is no use trying to do the subject justice by attempting to describe what you see. Just look about you, realize that you are not the greatest thing in creation, and, with a chastened spirit, go tell your friends to come and see and worship.” So your gentlemen in flannel shirt and foxed breeches would recommend, and they mean well. But if enthusiasm is pardonable at all, it may be overlooked in a man fresh from his books and his daily, dull routine, suddenly set down in the midst of such evidences of God’s handiwork as one finds here. The ordained discoverers of Black Lake did not, evidently, adopt the reticent method of expressing their veneration for the grand surroundings, and their delight at the beautiful lake so unexpectedly revealed to them. They were unquestionably very enthusiastic, and consequently more the object of doubt. If they had said simply: “We found a lake up there, just under the base of that cone-shaped peak,” and pointed out the mountain, there would have been a dozen visitors to the spot before the end of the summer. Your pioneer would have told it that way, and that would have been notoriety. As it was, Grand Lake, the Twin Lakes, and other known lakes in the mountains, made Black Lake a possibility. A few have taken the trouble to go in search of it, the Doctor, who is no tenderfoot, and myself, a little younger, among the number.
The trip determined upon, the next step was to make preparation. The experience of my indefatigable Mentor enabled him to speedily devise all plans and complete them. A pack animal was at once forthcoming, and upon it were secured four days’ provisions, a coffee pot, frying-pan, two tin cups, a pair of blankets and a rubber poncho; the limited number of utensils inculcating a lesson in economy – a practical illustration of what we need and what we think we must possess to be happy. With our four days lares and penates thus secured and armed with our fishing tackle, a bright August morning saw us in the saddle and on the road.
The first few miles of our route were by the Indian trail, already familiar as far as Williams’ Fork, thence up the long mesa bordering that stream, toward Ute Mountain. Bands of antelope frequently starting up and scampering away refuted the insinuation of another young gentlemen in glasses and lavender pants who had been hunting up and down the high roads for a week, within half a mile of the Springs, and “couldn’t find any game in the Park.” The same young gentleman told me that he had seen what he understood to be sage hens, but could not kill them with a rifle – he must have something larger – and then wanted to know of me if there were no “sage roosters.” I told him there were, lots of ’em; that they were web-footed, had ruffles round their necks and wore lavender-colored legs at this season; whereat he expressed himself satisfied and said he would find one. I expect to see him chased into camp some day by a mountain woodchuck – then we’ll have another bear story. While I am writing this, that same young man is fishing in the Grand in sight of my tent; he has waded out and is standing knee deep, whipping the stream just where a hot sulphur spring bubbles up throwing the steam above the surface. He, too, has a valuable rod. I wish he had to stay there enjoying his homeopathic sulphur bath till the fellow with the club could come along and kill him.
Looking round after the antelope resulted in our losing the trail. We started in the direction to cross it, but, with the exasperating contrariness peculiar to the country, traveled parallel with it for more than a mile, and until we ran into a body of timber which the Doctor knew the trail had nothing to do with. Then we struck off at right angles. I told the Doctor that he was heading for camp; he said he intended to make camp about six o’clock. I urged him not to be discouraged, that we might yet reach our destination, and that I did not like to be disappointed. But he trotted on, in silence, found the trail within two hundred yards and turned into it. By this time I did not know Ute Mountain from Gray’s Peak. We jogged on to the timber clothing the hills on the north side of Ute Pass, crossed a little brook, left a blind trail to the right, recrossed the brook, and in about five minutes we were playing circus among a lot of fallen timber, with no more sign of a trail in sight than there was a prospect of our getting out of the blasted place inside a week. Had the devil been really a man of genius, instead of covering Job with boils, destroying his flocks and killing his relatives, he would some forenoon have inveigled that much abused patriarch up a steep mountain side and deposited him in about forty acres of fallen timber. Then when Job’s dinner-hour came round he would have tried to get out of that, and after about ten minutes of that kind of pastime he would have begun to realize that old Mrs. Job would be looking for him with the same kind of disposition they keep dinner waiting for us in these days. Just then the devil would have gained his point.
I ventured to ask the Doctor, while he and his horse were crawling through a symmetrical masterpiece of accidental log-architecture, if he knew where the trail was. I was deferential, knowing the subject of trails was to him a delicate one. He said, of course, he knew where it was; on the other side of the brook. Encouraged by his affability, I then inquired why he had left it; he said there were some rough places ahead of us, and that he wanted to drill the horses a little before we reached them. Then I asked him if he didn’t think we had better go back to the Springs and give me an opportunity to employ a broncho breaker to drill my horse; he said if I did not break my dashed neck before I got out of that I might do so. All this time I was trying to follow him round, between, under and over dead tree, wondering what sort of battle-field was in store for me if this was only a parade ground. We finally, deployed by a perpendicular-horizontal-right-and-left-oblique, gained the other side of the brook and the trail. Then the Doctor said that we were all right, in a tone that carried conviction.
We jogged on, up hill and down, through timbered land and little meadows, by the sides of deep gorges and under huge cliffs, now in the sunlight and again through such dense forests of heavy firs that night seemed to have set in, until we reached the summit of the Pass, and looked beyond upon the massive and frowning Blue River range, riven in mighty fissures, its sharp peaks kissing the azure sky, its great gorges filled with the eternal snows, now rosy under the rays of the setting sun, and over all brooding a solemn stillness that bade the heart bow in humility and reverential awe. In such a presence if a man does not realize his own utter insignificance, he is justified in believing that “all things are created for him,” even office. Toiling slowly down, we reached the Blue, now, however, yellow with the work of the gold hunter, crossed it, and made camp before dark. After supper, and tired with our day’s ride, we spread our blankets under the great roof fretted with golden fire, and slept the sleep of the weary.
The sun was scarcely out of bed next morning before we were astir, and on the road to Roaring Fork. A boisterous name, truly, and indicating nearly five miles of cascade. Since the discovery of the lake it is sometimes called Black Lake Creek, but the noisy name is more apt. Crossing the Fork we followed up the right bank, without any trail, for about four miles, at which point we deemed it advisable to camp, picket our horses and proceed on foot. We reached the lake after a tiresome climb of a few hundred yards, afterwards, of course, discovering a much easier route from our camp, and over which we might have ridden the horses to our destination.
The lake is about a mile by three-quarters in size, a narrow point jutting out at the foot giving it somewhat the shape of a crescent. Along the margin, when the lake is perfectly calm, the bottom seems to shelve to irregular distances, when the light color of the crystal water suddenly changes to a hue almost black, at once suggestive of precipitous and tremendous depths, and which, no doubt, prompted the giving of its name. To the left, its base lapped by this gem of the mountains, rises a cone-shaped spur of the range with summit far above timber-line, and its rugged clefts filled with snow. In front of you the main range, seemingly lower only because more distant, with rocky, snow-crowned heads overtopping the velvety-looking firs that reach down to the western margin; and from out the dense foliage coming and receding upon the pure air is the music of falling waters. For there is hidden there a beautiful fall, with its source far away in front of you in those great snow fields; in one place having a perpendicular descent of fifty feet or more, and in another dashing and tumbling down its precipitous bed over huge boulders for hundreds of feet, like a great artery pouring crystal life and beauty into the little queen below. And on the right, yet another mighty mountain, with verdant base and snow-crowned head, sloping gradually away behind the nearer hills. It must, indeed, have been a revelation and a glad surprise to the man who first discovered it, as it was to us who went not to be surprised, but for another pleasant purpose.
We found on the point of land and down near the water’s edge, a shelter of canvass and pine boughs, a Dutch oven, tin cans empty and full, an old pair of boots, some fishing tackle and other evidences of man’s presence. Besides there was a boat and a couple of rafts moored to the beach and a fish box anchored a short distance out. We contented ourselves with looking over these desecrations, which had on first view taken nine-tenths of the romance out of the picture, and walked back to camp, intent only upon the quantity of trout we were to take out of the prolific depths.
The first hour’s effort after dinner produced only disappointment. I could see nothing of the Caliban of the Point, and was loth to touch his property, feeling that most men under like surroundings are always ready to grant favors and equally quick to resent a liberty. Casting the fly from the shore resulted in only an occasional strike, while all parts of the lake were being aggravatingly broken into circles by the leaping trout. Finally I worked round the point toward the outlet, somewhat disgusted but determined to exhaust all my temptations. The first cast there, with a red-bodied gray hackle, brought an instant rise, and I was kept busy for half an hour, the fish varying but little in size, running from ten to twelve inches. I did not make slow work of my part of the business, and in less than an hour had about eight pounds of the little fellows in my creel. The Doctor had found quarters where equal success had attended him, so far as quantity was concerned, but as usual, he had to catch one fine fellow larger than any I could boast. The bright salmon color of the beauty flashed upon me irritatingly not five rods away as he was seized upon and held up exultantly by my companion.
Satisfied with our afternoon’s sport, we returned to camp with the prospect of a wetting from overhead. The clouds continued to thicken; we got supper – coffee, bread and trout. You of Denver, who get trout only in the market, have yet to learn the exquisite flavor of the fish. The first time you eat one, properly prepared, within an hour from the time of his capture, you will wager on your ability to eat trout only, three times a day for a month; believe me, and I am no particular lover of fish diet either, as you may have readily concluded. The rain had not begun yet, and the Doctor, full of resources, had improvised a shelter out of the rubber poncho, and with our blankets spread under it, and a bright camp fire to take off the chill of the night air, we realized the comforts of roughing it in genuine style. But it did not rain, and we went to sleep; I maturing ways and means to discover the owner of the property on the Point.
About noon next day I discovered my man, in buckskin, and lost no time in making his acquaintance. We intended to start upon our return trip at four o’clock; as yet, that morning, I had enticed out of the lake barely eight trout, and had but little time left to remunerate myself for a thirty-five mile ride. He said if I would be patient till he got some dinner he would take me out on a raft and teach me to catch trout. I said I was willing to learn, and he asked me to dine with him, which I did, off bread and butter and stewed blackberries with lake water for grog, and I have made worse meals. Then we went down and got on board one of those rafts; it was constructed of four logs each about six inches in diameter and eight feet long, held together by cleats and wooden pins – a rollicking craft to put to sea in. Notwithstanding its questionable appearance, I took my seat on a soap box to which I was invited, and my chaperone seized his paddle and pushed the machine from the shore into deep water. I would rather it had not been so deep, and as I tried to see bottom and couldn’t, I thought it would be less disagreeable to drown in ten feet of water than two hundred – your friends could find your precious remains so much easier, and would not be debarred the luxury of a funeral. While there was conviction in the assurance of the captain that “the old thing” was safe, I nevertheless handled myself gingerly. I cast my fly upon the waters with immediate success. The skipper, inspired by my example, dropped his paddle, and attempted competition. After a few minutes of unavailing effort, during which time I had all I could attend to, he looked down at me with a puzzled expression in his gray eyes, and exclaimed:
“Why, Mister, you beat all the men to catch trout I ever see; what kind of fly you got?”
I gave him the infallible gray hackle with the red body; he took it doubtingly, while I bore my honors meekly. After landing half a dozen trout in quick succession, the doubter again broke silence:
“I say, Mister, have you got any of them flies to spare?”
I told him I had, and he was happy.
The Doctor had gone round to the inlet upon our arrival in the morning, and was apparently busy when I started on my voyage. We were about an hour in reaching him, when he informed us that he had all he could carry. My own creel was nearly full, and before we got back to our starting point it was running over, and I dropped the surplus in the fish-box with which the raft was provided, that the skipper might be helped, as he was fishing for market, and doing it in a legitimate way.
I had flattered myself that in previous years, in some of our virgin streams, I had enjoyed the sport, but the hour and a half spent upon Black Lake demonstrated that, as to the race against time, my previous seasons had been failures. A man under such circumstances is tempted to make a “trout hog” of himself, and I told my new acquaintance that I’d like to stay with him a week.
“Just fetch your traps right up here, Mister, I’d be mighty glad to have you,” was his cordial response. But I was obliged to decline; it was too much of a good thing.
That afternoon the Doctor and I again made our camp on the banks of the Blue. I had had three days of genuine enjoyment, but when I laid down that night the heavens were overcast. We were to experience the felicity of sleeping with the rain pelting on us. I wished for a tent, a tree, a clump of willows, but it was too late; we had made our bed and must lie in it; there was no shelter anywhere, nor even the means to erect the poncho, so we spread it on top of us. When the drops began to fall, I pulled it over my head, and as they came thicker and faster, thought of “The Rain on the Roof,” and in about half an hour felt a chill on my weather side, put my hand down to straighten the cover and felt a pool of water. It crept up that side and under me. I told the Doctor of my condition. He said it was nothing; that it would do me good, in fact. I told him I thought I’d get up. He wanted to know where I would go. I said I did not know. Then he advised me to go to sleep. I asked him if he was under water, but he said he was dry as a bone and warm. I offered to change places with him, but he said he was sleepy, and that I had better say my prayers and go to sleep as he was about to do. I thought of all I had heard of the danger of damp sheets, of rheumatisms, fevers – chills I had – colds, and other ills resulting from such exposure; then of the men who had slept that way and lied about the comfort of it; then I wished it was day, and wondered how many hours I would have to lie there; then I felt that Coates Kinney was a fraud, and his “Rain on the Roof” a satire, and registered a vow that if I ever allowed myself to be again caught in such a d – amp fix, I hoped some fellow would hit me with a club; then I went to sleep, and awoke at sunrise. I would have had no reluctance in moving about had my clothes been dry, but the sensation to me of the clinging garments was – well, we kindled a fire; I got a cup of hot coffee under my waistband and felt better, and have been feeling better ever since. We reached the Springs about four o’clock, tired, of course, but with the memory of a four days’ jaunt to look back upon that half-a-dozen rainstorms could not wash out.
EGOTISM AND – RODS
A writer in The Angler, I think, apologized for giving his personal experiences, in that they savored of egotism. To my mind he should not have done so. What a world this would be if every man kept his personal experience to himself.
Egotism may not perhaps be a cardinal virtue; but good may come out of Nazareth. One’s personal experiences are more novel than romances; the egotist need not necessarily be a follower of Des Cartes. If my egotism affords a brother a few moments’ pleasure, or he is in any way profited, then my life has not been a total failure.
Then, again, what is the use of apologizing for a universal weakness. If we do not talk about ourselves, we are always tickled to have others talk of us, and many would rather be abused than not be noticed at all. Doubtless vanity and egotism are at the bottom of most of the good things of this life, just as discontent is the father of perfected things.
De Quincey would make a martyr of Judas; looked at from the De Quincey stand-point, Judas was a broad-gauge man. If so eminent a scholar may make a nobleman but of the King of Traitors, as we have been taught to regard him, certainly one, even so poor as I, may take up the cudgels in defense of mine own and my brother’s folly. I flatter myself, too, that I should be more successful in carrying conviction than the learned author of “murder considered as a fine art.” He combated a prejudice; I should tickle the tender side of nine out of ten – if the nine would only confess.
The pronoun I is the straightest letter in the alphabet; the only one independent of curves or angles for support; for this reason it is entitled to every man’s respect.
But I do not intend to enter into a defense of egotism at this writing; this is only to express a willingness to enter the lists should occasion demand, and to admonish the man who would deprecate egotism that he himself is full of that commendable weakness. I wish to give my experience, a very limited one, with rods.
An immediate change from a three pound plum bush pole to an esthetic split bamboo rod of a few ounces would drive a man crazy. It would be like putting a delicately turned Kirby into the hands of a pot hunter of the stone age. As the Kirby would compare with a bone sharpened at the ends, and a hole in the middle for the raw hide line, so the little bamboo with the plum bush. No doubt the prehistoric angler and his descendant of the nineteenth century would look, if they could, each upon the implements of the other with curiosity and utter lack of faith. But faith comes with education, and when the labor of learning is a labor of love, education becomes easy.
My experience with the plum bush was not satisfactory. Early in the “sixties,” depending on ox teams for bacon and flour, fishing rods were not counted as merchandise or articles of freight. Necessity therefore required, that, to indulge my liking, I must exert my skill, so that when I got back from Bear creek and my memorable first trouting, I made a rod; my first rod.
A piece of pine for the butt, cedar, straight grained and without flaw, for the second joint. A well selected hickory whip handle furnished the timber for a tip. A jack knife, glass and sand paper served for tools; and excellent tools they are with patience for capital.
I shall not say how many days I exhausted in working up those three sticks into satisfactory shape.
As to mounting, I had neither tools or metal, nor the genius of Tubal Cain, so I applied to a tinker of watches, made known my difficulty, and he fitted me out with two sets of ferrules and half a dozen guide rings for the modest sum of seven dollars in gold dust.
Drug stores and whisky shops get to the frontier with equal facility, so there was no scarcity of oil, shellac and alcohol. The wrapping of the rings was followed by the oil and shellac, and when I strung that rod together, and, in the privacy of our cabin, submitted it to the inspection of the madam, it was pronounced “just perfect.”
The verdict was no less delightful than the rod and the jury of one.
During the winter that marvel of excellence and beauty was subjected to weekly examinations and comment. The anticipated pleasures of the coming summer, because we were “both going,” were the prime subjects of evening conversations over the kitchen stove. There never had been, nor could there ever be, vouchsafed to any other couple the amount of enjoyment banked up and ready to draw upon, than was stored away during that memorable winter, and the rod was the pole star, so to speak. Everything pointed to that. But disappointments make life worth living; while they are sometimes severe, there is yet a genuine pleasure in setting one’s foot on their necks.
I never flourished my master-piece of mechanical skill over anything save the weeds and the few straggling vegetables that decorated our back yard. The rod was too good to keep. I lost it early, just as the good children die.
I had, and yet have, a friend, whom I’ll call Sam, because that is his name. About a month before the time fixed for our departure to the hills, Sam came over and told me I had a fishing rod, as though I had been the only man in town unacquainted with the fact. He said he wanted to borrow it for a few days, he wanted to go fishing and hoped I’d accommodate him! Think of loaning your watch to a two-year-old for a day or so. He promised, of course, to bring it back in good order; I expected no less – than the promise, I mean, and cheerfully allowed him to walk off with it. I never saw it again, but I am glad to say I saw Sam. He came back in about a week; there was nothing the matter with him, his bones were whole, he hadn’t got drowned, nor been bitten by rattlesnakes, nor chased by bears, nor clawed by mountain lions, nor lost his scalp. The mosquitoes had been a little troublesome; there was some comfort in that, but not enough to speak of. He had come over to see me, he said, about “that fishing rod.”
“Yes, the fact is, I found an old friend on South Boulder, and he took such a fancy to that rod, that I could do no less than make him a present of it. It’s a splendid rod, that’s a fact, and I don’t know exactly how I can replace it, just now; I’m sorry you’re disappointed at my not returning it, but I don’t see – ”
We were not a very ceremonious community in those days, though kindly disposed. At the outset I was on the point of telling Sam to say his shortest prayer, if he had more than one, but changed my mind and told him not to say any more about it. It was some time before he would be convinced that I was not mad.
That summer I fished with a clear conscience and a plum bush pole and had a good time.
By the time the season was over Sam came round again. He brought with him a rod; it had four joints and an extra tip; it was of ash and lance wood. Sam had sent to the states for the treasure by ox team, and had ordered a reel in addition. These he informally turned over to me, still doubtful of my condition of mind. I tried to make him understand that from the first I had felt that his love for me had prompted him to treat my property as his own. He finally caught the idea, and the first trout I caught on that rod was twenty inches long.
I have the rod yet, with one of the original tips; I have used it every summer since; if no accident happens it may last forever. A few years since I changed the reel seat, put the whole concern through a whip-wrapping machine, and think I have improved it. I have never weighed it, and I do not intend to say how many pounds of trout it has been fatal to. In accordance with the frontier rule “she” has a name: “the old reliable.”
Since the rod has been put into shape for this summer’s trip I have been made happy – No! it’s not a new baby, but the next thing to it – a split bamboo. I have it in my mind, that an old fellow capable of being made the recipient of a split bamboo, a genuine split bamboo (the donor for my guaranty), with the name of the maker upon it as a warrant to all the world, will be elevated in your estimation. I am that he. With this poem in my hand I yet felt as of the stone age. I have not been educated up to this standard. I don’t know what to do with it. I never felt just exactly the same way but once before, that was a little short of a year after I was married, and I thought I had got used to that sensation, but when my generous friend put into my hands this miracle of grace and artistic skill, the old feeling came back, and I was “two inches taller.” That, I believe, is the orthodox expression for such occasions.
It is said that hope ends in fruition; except in the matter of babies and split bamboos, I believe this to be true.
If you are bored with this effusion, lay it to my split bamboo, upon that hint I spake; for the rod, you know, is an emblem of affliction, save in your own hand.
