Glimpses of America / A Pictorial and Descriptive History of Our Country's Scenic Marvels

Soon after reaching St. Paul our party divided, two of our photographers being instructed to take views of the falls, lakes and river-scenery thereabouts, while the other set out with the camera car, over the Chicago, St. Paul and Omaha Railroad, to Sioux City, and thence by the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley Railroad to Deadwood. There is nothing of particular interest to entertain the traveler in search of scenic wonders until Iowa is crossed and we reach the Big Sioux River; nor is the immediate district about Sioux City one affording scenery of much importance. But at Dell Rapids, something more than one hundred miles north, we come in contact with some surprises which are without example, save in the Wisconsin River, hereafter to be described. The town derives its name from the remarkable freaks of nature displayed along the river-banks, and known as the Dells, and which are recognized as the safety-valves of the immense water-power at Dell Rapids. This picturesque stretch of fantastic bluffs and eccentric stream is thus described by a writer who recently made the passage in a canoe from Dell Rapids to Sioux Falls.

“Beginning at a break in the Big Sioux River, on the south bank, opposite the town, at first the Dells present the appearance of a rivulet flowing out of the main body of water, taking a circuitous direction to re-unite with the parent stream some two and one-half miles further along its eccentric course. Yet only in the highest stages of its waters does the Sioux overflow the dam across the aperture between itself and the Dells, and it becomes instantly apparent that it is not from the river that this peculiar branch, which is not a branch, obtains its water supply. Investigation determines that the Dells are fed by invisible springs, indefinite in number and indefinable in volume, which maintain in the bed of this curious stream an average depth of about eleven feet, although a much greater depth is found in various places. As you progress along the banks of the Dells, you notice increasing accumulations of the well-known Big Sioux quartzite, in its dull red and leaden colors; the banks grow more and more precipitous; the rocks are heaped strata upon strata in immeasurable quantities, and take on fantastic shapes and unusual formations; the Dells deepen into a gorge, far down into the bottom of which the waters taking their hues from the sky above them, creep along in almost imperceptible ripples. Overhead, pile on pile, hangs the rugged quartzite, shelving out over the liquid blue beneath; in the sides of the rocky banks innumerable swallows build their nests, while above them shrubbery clings and cacti grow, seemingly nurtured in a soil of adamant. Perhaps the highest perpendicular point, from the summits of the overhanging rocks to the waters below, is very nearly forty-five feet; but so precipitous is the descent, and so grotesquely wild the aspect, that it is no wonder the majority of tourists report the height much greater. Descending a fissure, gazing down which descent seemed impossible, the writer pushed off in a rude canoe and paddled for some distance under the overshadowing banks. Here, indeed, looking upward, the impression was intensified, for upheavals had torn these banks apart and given to them, with whimsical violence, their strangely weird formations.” Beyond Sioux City the country is monotonously level until, far in Nebraska, the road rushes into Elkhorn Cañon and passes for a considerable distance between walls sometimes vertical, but never very high, and which lack the grandeur and coloring that characterize those of mountain streams. Emerging from Elkhorn Cañon, the road runs for a long distance through the Niobrara Valley, though never close to that stream, until it crosses the river at Valentine. The southern line of South Dakota lies only a few miles north, and from Valentine west the road approaches to within twenty-five miles of the Rose-Bud and Pine Ridge Reservations, and of Wounded Knee, the scene of the last Indian insurrection, and of Pine Ridge Agency, where Sitting Bull was killed. Crossing White River at Dakota Junction, the road turns due north, and passing out of the plains of Nebraska enters the mountainous country known as the Black Hills, at Buffalo Gap. On the east are the Mauvais Terres, or Bad Lands of South Dakota, which extend west to the South Fork of Cheyenne River, while towards the west is the rugous, rough and riotous district known as the Black Hills. At Buffalo Gap connection is made with a narrow-gauge spur of the main line of road, which runs southwesterly a distance of fifteen miles and terminates at the Minnekahta, or Hot Springs. In making this run we pass through a mighty gorge whose age-swept and vertical walls climb up, stratum upon stratum, to a height of several hundred feet, and then break into spear-pointed peaks, called the “Needles.” This is Fall River Cañon, noted for its spires, parti-colored walls, and beautiful waterfalls that leap from a hundred brinks into the arms of the rushing river. That this is a land of gold is not better proved by the fact that the Black Hills were purchased of the Sioux by the Government in 1876, at the enormous price of $70,000,000 and support of the Indians for seven generations, than that the output of the several gold and silver mines of the district exceeds $100,000,000; verily, a richer land than Ophir.

Turning back, we resumed our journey northward over the Elkhorn road, and passed through many miles of the most magnificent scenery to be found anywhere on the American Continent. The entire region is mountain infested, and to penetrate it by rail the road is compelled to follow the almost interminable sinuosities of creeks and broken valleys, with tunnels every few miles, and bridges quite as frequent. Through Fan-Tail Gulch the road winds in tortuous ways that sometimes draw grotesque figures, and in one place the road-bed is of the exact shape of a horseshoe, while on both sides of Elk Creek Cañon there are butting and pinnacled walls that suggest ruins of gigantic cathedrals, or monuments in a graveyard of Titans. Everywhere we turn there is the carving and hieroglyphic writing of the glacier and the volcano that in some age wrestled with the rocks and left them in a confusion of whimsical forms. Particularly is this true of Elk Creek Cañon, which presents many curious bluffs and isolated shafts of stone, worn into monoliths of oddity by wind and water.

After passing Piedmont the region is less rugged and gradually falls away into a plain, dotted here and there with buttes of clay, some of them reaching a height of fifty feet, and in the distance resembling large buildings. Fort Meade and Bear Butte are on the right as we make a turn towards the west, then run south, until we enter Deadwood, which lies at the gnarled and bunioned feet of the Hills. We have scarcely been out of a cañon since leaving Hot Springs, but at Deadwood the granite walls that have become so familiar slope away until they become hills of slate and red clay, which have been denuded of their vestures of pine to supply fuel for the reduction mills. Through one of the last rifts in the walls that confine the track of the railroad a glimpse of Central City is obtained, several miles away, and a few minutes later we roll into the great mining town that is celebrated for its wealth, energy, golden prospects, and as being the place where Wild Bill was killed, and Calamity Jane broke the biggest faro bank in the settlement. Though Deadwood is only sixteen years old, few cities have passed through so many terrible vicissitudes. In 1876 the gold prospectors in the Hills were harried by Indians; then when the district was purchased and active settlement began, gamblers and shady women flocked to the place, considering that every honest person was legitimate prey, until the vigilantes restored order. Building was rapid, so that three years after the miners staked their first claims in the Hills, Deadwood had become a place of 5,000 inhabitants and was rapidly flowering into a great city. Then a dreadful fire broke out, which ravaged and swept the town, leaving scarcely a house uninjured, and nearly every citizen homeless. The loss was estimated at $1,500,000, but in its effects the loss was probably twice that amount. But with that courageous energy which characterizes western settlements, the people went to work to rebuild before even the embers had turned to ashes, and by 1883, Deadwood was a second time showing a metropolitan bud. She had emerged from the crucible, but fate had resolved that she should be subjected to another ordeal. Accordingly, the elements gathered their forces all around upon the mountains and in the gulches. For weeks unprecedented snow-storms bombarded the country and covered it to an extraordinary depth. Then the windows of heaven were opened and the rain descended. Day and night a terrific down-pour continued, followed directly by a flood that struck the town from every direction, and with irresistible might washed nearly every building from its foundation, leaving even small opportunity for the unhappy people to escape to the hills. But though the town was twice destroyed, the citizens lost none of their pluck, and before the cruel waters were fully assuaged they resumed the work of building again on the same twice stricken site, and have so continued until Deadwood is fortified against calamity and is moving on at the head of the procession, with colors flying and drums beating, the capital city of a capital country.

There are many interesting points within a few miles of Deadwood; for aside from the rugged character of the scenery, in the near vicinity are several of the largest wealth-producing mines in the world. The trip to Bald Mountain over the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley narrow-gauge Road is one filled with pleasure and surprise. The way is almost incomparably winding, and exhibits remarkable examples of engineering skill and enormous investment. In several places the grade is four hundred and thirty feet to the mile, while the curves are said to be of one hundred and fifty feet radius. Passing up such grades and around such sharp turns, it is not so surprising that the train should in one minute be running along lofty benches, apparently in mid-air, over dizzy trestles, and in the next few moments be scurrying through a valley so deep that sunlight rarely ever visits it. North of Bald Mountain, and reached by a stage-line, are Crow Peak, Round-Top Mountain, and the town of Spearfish. This latter place is located on a creek of the same name that goes tumbling through a deep cañon with vertical, serrated walls, and diversified by roaring cascades and far-leaping waterfalls. Returning to Deadwood, we took the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad south through another long stretch of turbulent scenery, of rushing creeks, darksome gorges, under the shadows of lofty mountains, and by curious formations. Custer Peak is only two or three miles east of the road, and it is the center of a riotous region of broken stone, each one a very mountain of itself. Below, we strike Spring Creek, and go bowling along the valley cut out of the bills by that stream, until Harney’s Peak breaks into view, five miles to the east, and lifts its piney crest into the azure depths 8,000 feet. Hereabout are not only waterfalls, cañons, creeks, and huge bowlders dashed down from frost-riven peaks, for besides gold and silver, the region is said to abound with tin, that peculiarly elusive mineral which, though often found, seems to always dematerialize after the campaign is over; and though millions have been spent in developing the tin mines near Harney, the product has not yet paid the expense of mining. Three miles south of the peak are the Needles, bold-jutting pinnacles of sandstone that stand high above the bed of Squaw Creek and point their fingers toward the sky. Buckhorn Mountain stands very near the west side of the road, and close to its base reposes the town of Custer, the center of a broken district called Custer Park, famous for its scenery of river, tumultuary and distorted rocks over which a weasel can hardly make its way. A little further south we enter Red Cañon Creek, where the same general character of eroded and disrupted rocks continues, with occasional exhibitions of oddity exceeding those previously seen in the Hills. Evidently some terrific force has been at work in this uncanny region, for here and there our wonder is excited by extraordinary instances of displacement. Beecher Rocks are comicalities done in stone, but Wedge Rock must wear the garland as the most astounding example of natural tumult in this wonder-region, and which can be better understood by the accompanying illustration, than explained by the bare use of words.

But the country is not only rugged and mountain-spurred; it possesses curiosities even greater beneath the surface than those which diversify the sun-kissed landscape over which we have just passed. On Elk Creek, and entered from the cañon wall, is Keith’s Crystal Cave, a colossal rent in the mountain bowels, with passages fifteen miles in length. It is beautifully chambered, from which depend the most exquisite crystallizations in the form of stalactites and stalagmites that reflect the torchlight in glorious colors, dancing from column of onyx to pools of pellucid water.

But a more remarkable cave than Keith’s is found a little way west of Custer, and twelve miles north of Hot Springs. This marvelous natural excavation is ramified by many passages which have been explored for a distance of sixty-five miles, and the end is not yet. On account of the peculiar respiration of the cave, the air at one time rushing in with great velocity and again being expelled with equal force, it is called the Wind Cave; and no better name can be bestowed, for the cause of this inrushing and regurgitation of air seems to be beyond ascertainment. Like its more northerly cousin, Wind Cave is chambered and adorned with beautiful crystals that shimmer under the glances of the torch and are set aflame with color, with here and there such graceful formations as to suggest studios of monster sculptors.

Continuing our way southward to the junction of the Wyoming Division, in Fall River county, we turned north on that small branch whose temporary terminus is Merino, at which point a team was engaged to take us to what is truly one of the seven wonders of the world. In our trip of several thousand miles through the mountainous regions of the great West, we had seen and photographed many extraordinary and startling prodigies of nature, so that all sentiment of awe, surprise and admiration had been aroused, but we were now to be confronted by a miracle in stone that confounded and mingled all feelings of wonderment and fascination into stupefaction of bewildered senses.

We had to travel about twenty-five miles across a fairly level stretch of country before reaching the Belle Fourche River, a main branch of the Cheyenne, on the west bank of which is located this marvelous monument of the ages, which for its astounding size and unaccountable formation is called the Devil’s Tower. Among the Sioux Indians, who have always regarded it with superstitious dread, it is known as the Mateo’s Tepee, signifying the Bear’s Lodge, and was by them supposed to be the haunt of a were-animal, who possessed the power of becoming a bear or man at pleasure. The country within a radius of fifty miles is slightly broken by high table-lands, but there is nothing to indicate any special spasm of nature by which so great a freak might have been formed; yet out of this undulating expanse of landscape suddenly rises a stupendous obelisk of vitrified stone, to the amazing height of eight hundred feet. The base, which measures 326 feet at its longest diameter, is 400 feet above the river-bed, which in turn is 500 feet above sea level. Thus measured, the peak of this amazing tower is 1,700 feet above the sea; no surprise therefore that it is visible for a distance of forty miles. But the wonder which such a colossal shaft naturally excites is immensely increased by the fact that the Devil’s Tower is a composition of huge crystals of basalt, or volcanic rock, which lie in columns some three feet in diameter, and continue unbroken from the base to the peak, giving to it a fibrous appearance. The walls are almost vertical, with a slightly vertical slope, to give it a more graceful contour, and though there are occasional rifts in the sides, no human being, however skilful as a spire-climber, can ever accomplish its ascent.

The enquiry is irresistible: “What wondrous force created this petrified monster of the Wyoming table-lands?” One plausible answer may be built upon the theory that here, at one time, was the bed of an ocean, a supposition supported by such evidences as the finding of sea-shells and bones of extinct sea-creatures all about over the ground, and deeply embedded in the earth throughout the section. When the waters receded, this inequality, which might have existed as an island, was left as the product of volcanic action. But a yet more reasonable cause may be found in the supposition that along the Belle Fourche was the center of intense volcanic energy sometime during the very remote past, during which period the spot occupied by the tower was a volcano-vent out of which poured lava in such a slow and steady flow that it deposited in basaltic columnar crystals at the apex. Thus gradually it grew in size and height, like many of the formations in Yellowstone Park, until the volcano had expended its force and left this vast monument as an everlasting evidence of its persistence through centuries of activity. But however it was formed, the Devil’s Tower takes a place in the first list of the world’s greatest natural wonders, and it deserves to be much better known than it is.

Returning from a long and very wearying ride to the Tower, we again took the Burlington Road, retracing much of the way we had come, and proceeded to Crawford, Nebraska, in order to view two famous curiosities known as Crow Butte and Signal Rock, which are near that town. Fort Robinson post and military reservation are a mile west, on White River, and the country is picturesque with buttes, which rise out of the prairie lands in singular impertinence and unseemliness, while considerable bluffs confine the river. The territory was for many years the scene of bitter strifes between the Sioux and Crow Indians, who reddened nearly every acre of the ground with their blood, and left remembrances of their occupancy and incidents of their adventures in names which they gave to a hundred points in the near vicinity of Crawford. South of the town, about five miles, a conspicuous object in a wide range is Crow Butte, a titanic elevation of stone, nearly two hundred feet in height and several hundred yards in circumference, with vertical walls on all sides except one, in which there is a winding-way by which a horseman may ride to the top. The legend is told that on one occasion a party of Crow Indians were so savagely pursued by their old enemies that they took refuge on the top of Crow Butte, where, though much fewer in number, they so valorously defended the narrow roadway that the Sioux were driven back each time they attempted to gain the summit. Being unable to dislodge them, the Sioux resolved to besiege the Crows until starvation compelled them to surrender. For several days and nights the siege continued, until at length hunger drove the Crows to a desperate expedient. Watching their time, when the night was darkest, they killed some of their ponies, and converting their hides into lariats, lowered one after another of their number to the ground below on the opposite side of the butte, until all but one old Indian had been safely delivered, who was left a while to keep the camp-fire burning. On the following day the old man came down and surrendered himself to the Sioux, and related to them the wonderful means by which his comrades had escaped. Instead of killing him, as might have been expected, on this one occasion the Sioux magnanimously gave him his liberty as a recompense for the loyalty and bravery which he had exhibited.

Signal Rock is only a short distance from Crow Butte, and is a similar formation, though not nearly so large; and while the summit is nearly as high, it is peaked and not difficult to reach. It derives its name from the use to which it was frequently put by the Indians in previous years, who by means of fire at night were able to signal to their friends as far away as the Bad Lands of South Dakota.

The Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri River Road crosses the Burlington at Crawford, and our work of photographing the Black Hills district being completed, the trip back to St. Paul was made, and a junction with other members of the expedition was formed, whose artist labors have already been described.

The twin cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis represent the intrusion of civilization upon the primeval lands of romance, and thus while we admire the imposing wealth and architectural beauties of these great metropoli, we cannot avoid a feeling of semi-regret that they have grown at the expense and sacrifice of some of the most charming natural wonders that first attracted public interest to the vast Northwest. The head of navigation on the Mississippi is unalterably fixed at St. Paul, for above that point the river is a brawling stream, flowing over ledges and rushing through contracted passages lined with bluffs. At Minneapolis are the Falls of St. Anthony, but no longer do these present the furious aspect which once characterized them, for the wild riot of turbulent waters that formerly went dashing over a high brink with a roar that made the shore to tremble, have been harnessed, and are now driven over sloping tables so as to glide softly into the bed below. The channel, too, has been cut and buttressed with masonry, so that the strong right arm of the falls is made a servant of commerce in supplying the motive-power for many immense flouring mills.

The sight-seer turns with feelings of disappointment at the artificial appearance of St. Anthony’s Falls, and seeking the wonders of nature unadorned, drives over to Minnehaha’s sylvan solitudes, but upon which, alas, the encroachments of sacrilegious improvements characteristic of city extension are now apparent. But the voice of its falling waters is still attuned to the rhythm of the poet that sang it into fame. Down through flower-sprinkled meadows purls and gambols a silver stream, slaking the thirst of the linnet and bathing the feet of the dove, until weary of the sunshine it spreads itself over a ledge like a veil of gossamer and drops into the cool shades that welcome its embraces. The Falls of Minnehaha are an example of that coy and quiet comportment which sometimes blushes into notoriety, for no one with less imagery than a poet would discover the sublimity of its aspect, or the artfulness of its graces. It is to Longfellow, therefore, that we owe the immortality with which these laughing waters are invested, and the imperishable fame of Hiawatha, who, while in quest of better weapons

But no one with a love for the picturesque can close an eye to the fairy-like beauty of Minnehaha, as it pours over a crescent brink in a sheet of gauze, so thin that the wall behind loses little of its distinctness, and the rocks upon which the water breaks are refreshed like the head of a babe at its christening. A lace curtain is not more delicate, and thistle-down is scarcely more dainty, as the illustration shows.

The eroding fingers of percolating waters have worn the soft rock behind the fall, until a shelf is formed that extends three or four feet beyond the face of the wall. Visitors may therefore pass under this shelf and look outward through the transparent liquid sheet as it pours in a broad but tenuous stream, not unlike valencienne drapery gently agitated. A pathway leads from the falls down a gracefully embowered ravine to spots so temptingly secluded that maidens never wander there that love does not follow; and so many darts have been hurled at wooing swains in this romantic dell that I am almost persuaded to believe that it was not Hiawatha, but Cupid, who came here to get his arrows.

But if Minnehaha is beautiful in spring-time, it is sublime when folded in the crystal arms of winter, a frozen cascade of puffs and snow-balls, hibernating after its season of sporting, awaiting the return of bird, flower and lover. Not far away are lakes of various sizes, like Minnetonka and Great Bear, to which thousands resort when sultry winds blow and the blazing sun of summer-time drives sweltering humanity to such cool retreats. But the beauties of this northern region are not exhausted by lake and waterfall, which though charming, cannot compete for interest with some of the natural marvels that exist in the neighbor State of Wisconsin.

St. Croix River separates the two States and is a stream that exhibits both curious and exquisite formations along many miles of its banks, and but for the vast logging interests which it so admirably serves, penetrating as it does the great pine region, the river would be filled with pleasure-crafts throughout the summer, carrying tourists in and out among its dells and fairy-like grottos.

The bluffs of sandstone are a source of unending surprise, rising out of the water so nearly perpendicular that they defy all effort to scale them, and present a front like the walled cities of ancient times. Nature has not left them undisturbed, either, for their toussled brinks and seared sides show the finger-marks of frost in deep fissures and eccentric cleavages, while here and there fantastic images of stone stand like grim sentinels on commanding ledges, keeping unwearied watch upon the industrious river. Most curious of these erratic formations is the Devil’s Chair, which the Chippewa Indians verily believe was one time the resting-place of his sable majesty, probably when he went fishing. Anyhow, the rock bears the autographs of many adventurous persons who have been there to see. The fishing certainly was very good in this spot before Wisconsin lumbermen filled the stream so full of pine-logs that not even the devil himself could keep his line from fouling.

East of the St. Croix is Chippewa River, flowing in the same general direction, but aside from being a pretty stream it has nothing to specially interest tourists, for the banks gently shelve, and where stone appears it is in thin layers, and the shore-line never rises to the dignity of bluffs. But the Chippewa Indians, though now small in numbers, still retain their ancient homes in the vicinity of the stream, which, because of its shallowness, is not used as extensively as the St. Croix for shooting logs to the Mississippi. Though surrounded by a vigorous civilization, these Indians, if we except their clothing, exhibit little change from their original customs and manners of living, subsisting by hunting, fishing, and gathering berries for the neighboring markets. They still make birch-bark canoes, like their forefathers, and in a way, too, that white men do not appear to be able to imitate. Specimens of their deft work are on sale in all the towns of Wisconsin, from which source they derive no little profit.

In the eastern part of the State, in Howano county, lives a small tribe called the Menomines, who are in what may be called the transition period, for their manner of living is a composite of modern ways and ancient usage and belief. Some of the Menomines appear to be thoroughly civilized, at least so far as outward indications show, while the patriarchs of the tribe remain steadfast in the faith of their fathers. They have lost none of their confidence in the Medicine Man, whose counsel in political affairs is as important as their influence over diseases of the body is pronounced.

A Medicine Man being questioned as to how the power which he claimed was conferred, answered thus:

“My heart told me that I should be a Medicine Man, and I went out upon a mountain and fasted and prayed for two days, awaiting a sign from the Great Spirit. At the end of the second day, as the sun was going to sleep, I saw a great light which blinded my eyes, and heard a noise as of the rushing of many waters. I looked around again, and about me were four animals—a black-tailed deer, a white-tailed deer, a wolf and a buffalo. They all spoke the speech of men. They said that the Great Spirit had heard my prayer and had sent them to me. The animals then took me over the prairies and told me what plants were hurtful and what were good for my people. They told me what diseases of men the good herb would cure, and then they vanished as suddenly as they came. I returned to my people, told the chiefs what I had seen, was made and have since been a Medicine Man.”