To spend a day in the rain at the source of a stream was an experience I had long desired, for the behavior of the waters in collecting and hurrying down slopes would doubtless show some of Nature\'s interesting ways. On the Rockies no spot seemed quite so promising as the watershed on which the St. Vrain made its start to the sea. This had steep and moderate slopes, rock ledges, and deep soil; and about one half of its five thousand acres was covered with primeval forest, while the remainder had been burned almost to barrenness by a fierce forest fire. Here were varied and contrasting conditions to give many moods to the waters, and all this display could easily be seen during one active day.
June was the month chosen, since in the region of the St. Vrain that is the rainiest part of the year. After thoroughly exploring the ground[Pg 268] I concluded to go down the river a few miles and make headquarters in a new sawmill. There I spent delightful days in gathering information concerning tree-growth and in making biographical studies of several veteran logs, as the saw ripped open and revealed their life-scrolls.
One morning I was awakened by the pelting and thumping of large, widely scattered raindrops on the roof of the mill. Tree stories were forgotten, and I rushed outdoors. The sky was filled with the structureless gloom of storm-cloud, and the heavy, calm air suggested rain. "We\'ll get a wetting such as you read of, to-day!" declared the sawmill foreman, as I made haste to start for the wilds.
I plunged into the woods and went eagerly up the dim, steep mountain trail which kept close company with the river St. Vrain. Any doubts concerning the strength of the storm were quickly washed away. My dry-weather clothes were swiftly soaked, but with notebook safe under my hat, I hastened to gain the "forks" as soon as possible, enjoying the gen[Pg 269]eral downpour and the softened noise that it made through the woods. I had often been out in rains on the Rockies, but this one was wetting the earth with less effort than any I had ever experienced. For half an hour no air stirred; then, while crossing a small irregular opening in the woods, I was caught in a storm-centre of wrangling winds and waters, and now and then their weight would almost knock me over, until, like a sapling, I bowed, streaming, in the storm. The air was full of "water-dust," and, once across the open, I made haste to hug a tree, hoping to find a breath of air that was not saturated to strangulation.
Neither bird nor beast had been seen, nor did I expect to come upon any, unless by chance my movements drove one from its refuge; but while I sat on a sodden log, reveling in elemental moods and sounds, a water-ouzel came flying along. He alighted on a boulder which the on-sweeping stream at my feet seemed determined to drown or dislodge, and, making his usual courtesies, he began to sing. His melody is penetrating; but so sustained was the combined[Pg 270] roar of the stream and the storm that there came to me only a few notes of his energetic nesting-time song. His expressive attitudes and gestures were so harmoniously united with these, however, that I could not help feeling that he was singing with all his might to the water, the woods, and me.
Keeping close to the stream, I continued my climb. My ear now caught the feeble note of a robin, who was making discouraged and disconsolate efforts at song, and it seemed to issue from a throat clogged with wet cotton. Plainly the world was not beautiful to him, and the attempt at music was made to kill time or cheer himself up.
The robin and the ouzel,—how I love them both, and yet how utterly unlike they are! The former usually chooses so poor a building-site, anchors its nest so carelessly, or builds so clumsily, that the precious contents are often spilled or the nest discovered by some enemy. His mental make-up is such that he is prone to predict the worst possible outcome of any new situation. The ouzel, on the other hand, is sweet[Pg 271] and serene. He builds his nest upon a rock and tucks it where search and sharp eyes may not find it. He appears indifferent to the comings and goings of beast or man, enjoys all weathers, seems entranced with life, and may sing every day of the year.
Up in the lower margin of the Engelmann spruce forest the wind now ceased and the clouds began to conserve their waters. The territory which I was about to explore is on the eastern summit slopes of the Rockies, between the altitudes of ninety-five hundred and twelve thousand feet. Most of these slopes were steep, and much of the soil had a basis of disintegrated granite. The forested and the treeless slopes had approximately equal areas, and were much alike in regard to soil, inclination, and altitude, while the verdure of both areas before the forest fire had been almost identical. The St. Vrain is formed by two branches flowing northeasterly and southeasterly, the former draining the treeless area and the latter the forested one. Below the junction, the united waters sweep away through the woods, but at it, and a short dis[Pg 272]tance above, the fire had destroyed every living thing.
AMONG THE CLOUDS AMONG THE CLOUDS
Continental Divide, near Long\'s Peak
At the forks I found many things of interest. The branch with dark waters from the barren slopes was already swollen to many times its normal volume and was thick with sediment from the fire-scarred region. The stream with white waters from the forest had risen just a trifle, and there was only a slight stain visible. These noticeable changes were produced by an hour of rain. I dipped several canfuls from the deforested drainage fork, and after each had stood half a minute the water was poured off. The average quantity of sediment remaining was one fifth of a canful, while the white water from the forested slope deposited only a thin layer on the bottom of the can. It was evident that the forest was absorbing and delaying the water clinging to its soil and sediment. In fact, both streams carried so much suggestive and alluring news concerning storm effects on the slopes above that I determined to hasten on in order to climb over and watch them while they were dashed and drenched with rain.
[Pg 273]
Planning to return and give more attention to the waters of both branches at this place, I started to inspect first the forested sides. The lower of these slopes were tilted with a twenty to twenty-five per cent grade, and covered with a primeval Engelmann spruce forest of tall, crowding trees, the age of which, as I had learned during previous visits, was only a few years less than two centuries.
The forest floor was covered with a thick carpet of litter,—one which the years had woven out of the wreckage of limbs and leaves. This, though loosely, coarsely woven, has a firm feeling when trodden during dry weather. To-day however, the forest floor seemed recently upholstered. It is absorbent; hence the water had filled the interstices and given elasticity. I cleared away some of this litter and found that it had an average depth of fifteen inches. The upper third lay loosely, but below it the weave was more compact and much finer than that on or near the surface. I judged that two inches of rain had fallen and had soaked to an average depth of eight inches. It was interesting to[Pg 274] watch the water ooze from the broken walls of this litter, or humus, on the upper sides of the holes which I dug down into it. One of these was close to a bare, tilted slope of granite. As I stood watching the water slowly dripping from the broken humus and rapidly racing down the rocks, the thought came to me that, with the same difference in speed, the run-off from the deforested land might be breaking through the levees at New Orleans before the water from these woods escaped and got down as far as the sawmill.
The forest might well proclaim: "As long as I stand, my countless roots shall clutch and clasp the soil like eagles\' claws and hold it on these slopes. I shall add to this soil by annually creating more. I shall heave it with my growing roots, loosen and cover it with litter rugs, and maintain a porous, sievelike surface that will catch the rain and so delay and distribute these waters that at the foot of my slope perennial springs will ever flow quietly toward the sea. Destroy me, and on stormy days the waters may wash away the unanchored soil as they run[Pg 275] unresisted down the slopes, to form a black, destructive flood in the home-dotted valley below."
The summit of the forested slope was comparatively smooth where I gained it, and contained a few small, ragged-edged, grassy spaces among its spruces and firs. The wind was blowing and the low clouds pressed, hurried along the ground, whirled through the grassy places, and were driven and dragged swiftly among the trees. I was in the lower margin of cloud, and it was like a wet, gray night. Nothing could be seen clearly, even at a few feet, and every breath I took was like swallowing a saturated sponge.
These conditions did not last long, for a wind-surge completely rent the clouds and gave me a glimpse of the blue, sun-filled sky. I hurried along the ascending trend of the ridge, hoping to get above the clouds, but they kept rising, and after I had traveled half a mile or more I gave it up. Presently I was impressed with the height of an exceptionally tall spruce that stood in the centre of a group of its companions. At[Pg 276] once I decided to climb it and have a look over the country and cloud from its swaying top.
When half way up, the swift manner in which the tree was tracing seismographic lines through the air awakened my interest in the trunk that was holding me. Was it sound or not? At the foot appearances gave it good standing. The exercising action of ordinary winds probably toughens the wood fibres of young trees, but this one was no longer young, and the wind was high. I held an ear against the trunk and heard a humming whisper which told only of soundness. A blow with broad side of my belt axe told me that it rang true and would stand the storm and myself.
The sound brought a spectator from a spruce with broken top that stood almost within touching distance of me. In this tree was a squirrel home, and my axe had brought the owner from his hole. What an angry, comic midget he was, this Frémont squirrel! With fierce whiskers and a rattling, choppy, jerky chatter, he came out on a dead limb that pointed toward me, and made a rush as though to annihilate me or to[Pg 277] cause me to take hurried flight; but as I held on he found himself more "up in the air" than I was. He stopped short, shut off his chatter, and held himself at close range facing me, a picture of furious study. This scene occurred in a brief period that was undisturbed by either wind or rain. We had a good look at each other. He was every inch alive, but for a second or two both his place and expression were fixed. He sat with eyes full of telling wonder and with face that showed intense curiosity. A dash of wind and rain ended our interview, for after his explosive introduction neither of us had uttered a sound. He fled into his hole, and from this a moment lat............