Adventures in the Rocky Mountains (Penguin Great Journeys)
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Inspired by Penguin’s innovative Great Ideas series, our new Great Journeys series presents the most incredible tours, voyages, treks, expeditions, and travels ever written—from Isabella Bird’s exaltation in the dangers of grizzlies, rattlesnakes, and cowboys in the Rocky Mountains to Marco Polo’s mystified reports of a giant bird that eats elephants during his voyage along the coasts of India. Each beautifully packaged volume offers a way to see the world anew, to rediscover great civilizations and legends, vast deserts and unspoiled mountain ranges, unusual flora and strange new creatures, and much more.
animals are merrily trotting homewards. I saw them two miles off an hour ago with him after them. His wife, who is also after them, goaded to desperation, said, ‘He’s the most ignorant, careless, good-for-nothing man I ever saw,’ upon which I dwelt upon his being well-meaning. There is a sort of well here, but our ‘afternoon tea’ and watering the horses drained it, so we have had nothing to drink since yesterday, for the canteen, which started without a cork, lost all its contents when the mule
and being much shaken by my fall at Canyon, I earnestly wished that the Greeley Tribune had not given me a reputation for horsemanship, which had preceded me here. The young men who were to escort me ‘seemed very innocent,’ he said, but I have not arrived at his meaning yet. When the horse appeared in the street at 8.30, I saw, to my dismay, a high-bred, beautiful creature, stable-kept, with arched neck, quivering nostrils, and restless ears and eyes. My pack, as on Hawaii, was strapped behind
corners. Seven men, smoking, were lying about on the floor, a sick man lay on the couch, and a middle-aged lady sat at the table writing. I went out again and asked Evans if he could take me in, expecting nothing better than a shakedown; but, to my joy, he told me he could give me a cabin to myself, two minutes’ walk from his own. So in this glorious upper world, with the mountain pines behind and the clear lake in front, in the ‘blue hollow at the foot of Long’s Peak,’ at a height of 7500 feet,
bright stream trickling under ice and icicles, and there a grove of the beautiful silver spruce marked our camping ground. The trees were in miniature, but so exquisitely arranged that one might well ask what artist’s hand had planted them, scattering them here, clumping them there, and training their slim spires towards heaven. Hereafter, when I call up memories of the glorious, the view from this camping ground will come up. Looking east, gorges opened to the distant Plains, then fading into
mountains was Bear Canyon, quite near Boulder, I struck across the prairie for it, and then found the Boulder track. ‘The best-laid schemes of men and mice gang aft agee,’ and my exploits came to an untimely end to-day. On arriving here, instead of going into the mountains, I was obliged to go to bed in consequence of vertigo, headache, and faintness, produced by the intense heat of the sun. In all that weary land there was no ‘shadow of a great rock’ under which to rest. The gravelly, baked soil