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

Having satisfied our curiosity and embalmed the views of Shoshone Falls, as here presented, our party of photographers and historiographer returned to Colorado over the same route that we had come, but at Grand Junction we proceeded southward over the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad to Gunnison, Ouray and Tulleride. At Grand Junction, Grand River divides, the southern branch of which is called Gunnison River, and takes its rise in the Sagauche and Elk ranges; and it was along the valley of this south branch that our route lay. It is characteristic of Colorado rivers that all of them flow through large fissures, and a majority have cleft the mountains into mighty chasms, thus producing the matchless scenery which has helped so much to make the State famous. It fortunately happens that the most picturesque places in the west are either directly upon the lines or in the near vicinity of railroads, for necessity has compelled their construction along the river valleys, since there are few other passes in the mountains, and no other routes so feasible.

The scenery along the south branch of Grand River is very similar to that which we have described on the main stream, and leaving Grand Junction we almost immediately entered the Unaweep Cañon, thence in succession Puniweep and Escalante. The road leaves the valley of the main stream at Delta, and follows a smaller branch (Cedar River) a distance of fifty or sixty miles, until Cimarron is reached, below the southern terminus of the Mesa Verde. In this interval, and running along the north side of the Mesa Verde—Green Plateau—is the Grand Cañon of the Gunnison, a cleft in the earth that is magnificently imposing, possessing as it does many of the characteristics of Grand River, though the walls are of limestone and hence not so precipitous, as being more easily eroded than granite, the base of the walls are cut until in many places they shelve far over the stream, while at frequent intervals the river is broken by cascades and waterfalls, those of Chippeta being particularly beautiful.

Black Cañon, which begins near the town of Cimarron, is another wild gorge, through which the river glides with stately and uninterrupted majesty, a deep crystalline stream, until it passes Currecanti Needle, when the smooth flow is interrupted by bowlders which convert it into a rapid. Currecanti Needle is an object which excites the almost reverent wonder of every beholder. It is a symmetrical cone of red basalt, resting its feet in the Gunnison River and shooting up to an amazing height, its summit terminating in a spire that pierces the clouds, while its body is as variegated with bright colors as was Joseph’s coat. On each side of the stream the bluffs reach up 2,000 feet, but the needle soars very much more loftily, a great sachem among the stone giants that stand in colossal files along the river. Near Sapinero, which is at the eastern end of the cañon, the walls draw so near together that the light of day is almost entirely excluded, but at places where the sun is admitted they sparkle with dazzling lustre, caused by reflections from the mica of which they are largely composed.

From Gunnison the road follows Tomachi Creek eastward, passing over a country devoid of particular interest, except as views are afforded of high mountains in the Fossil Ridge, Sagauche and Sangre de Cristo ranges far away, until the ascent of Marshall’s Pass is begun. The road now rises rapidly until it crosses the Rocky Mountains, at an elevation of 11,000 feet. But the ascent is indirect, in a serpentine course close to the cone of Mount Ouray, which penetrates the depths of heaven, to a height of 14,000 feet; so lofty that the sun shines brightly upon its snow-covered summit, while the earth below is wrapped in the sable garments of deepest night. Round and round, but in an ascending circle, the laboring train makes its toilsome way, until we see the tracks below us looking like a succession of terraces. At the apex we run through a long tunnel of snow-sheds, through openings in which a view may be had of the extinct crater of Ouray, while a hundred miles away towards the south, and across a wide expanse of plain, the frosted ridge of Sangre de Cristo is clearly visible through the tenuous air. The ride over this great mountain is one of the most delightful and picturesque in all the world, and leaves an impression which is as charming and fadeless as the memory of a boy’s first triumph. After passing down the mountain side, a short run brings us to Poncha Junction, at the entrance of the Valley of the Arkansas, and a few miles further Salida is reached, a splendid little town that is begirt with mountains, but reposes like a jewel in a green sea of amazing fertility and beauty. As we rush eastward down this lovely valley, some wondrous sights are viewable from our car. On the right the Arkansas River bowls along close by the track, while far beyond the horizon is belted with the Sangre de Cristo range. On our left our eyes are gladdened with the sight of three bristling peaks, known as Harvard, Princeton and Yale, which rise above their more humble brothers in the Park range. The scene now undergoes a quick change, for the valley becomes rapidly narrowed by the mountains drawing together, as if to bar our passage; but as their seared sides and snowy crests become more distinct by a closer approach, the scenery increases in interest until soon it develops into positive grandeur. At Parkdale we observe that the sloping sides of the mountains are becoming more abrupt and rocky, until five miles beyond, the gigantic, the marvelous and the terror-inspiring Royal Gorge bursts full upon our amazed and startled senses. The colossal peak has been cut in twain; sliced by the persistent waters of the Arkansas, that with remorseless jaws have eaten through the heart of the giant mountain that lay down in its way; and there the great gash breaks before us, into which the ravening river rushes, with a growling voice and imperious dash, as reckless as a bandit, and impetuous as a fiery youth. Pines and aspens struggle up the mountain sides, but where the waters have split a way there is nothing save vertical walls of stone that soar up, up, so high that it wearies the sight to travel to their summits. There are seams and depressions in their awful cliffs, and projections and cavities that show imprints of the teeth of frost, and away up on these eagles have found resting places, and built their eyries where only the storm-god can reach them. Distance, as expressed in feet on paper, conveys scarcely an idea of mountain height or cañon depth, for the awesome presence is lacking. But the height of the walls of the Royal Gorge, or, as it is sometimes called, the Grand Cañon of the Arkansas, is 3,000 feet, or more than half a mile, while the chasm is only fifty feet wide where the river rushes through, and but seventy feet at the summit. Three Eiffel towers, set upon top of each other, would hardly reach the crown of these tremendous cliffs, around the crests of which flying eagles look like flies lazily swimming in a haze of distance. In order to avoid cutting a road-bed through the base of the perpendicular cliffs, which come very close together, an iron bridge has been thrown around the defile and suspended by anchoring its sides in the granite walls, so that it has no pillared supports, for none are needed. Upon this suspended bridge, which runs parallel with and over the stream, every passenger train stops for the space of several minutes to give opportunity for an inspection of the Royal Gorge, which is most appalling and wonderful at this point.

The eastern end of the gorge is at Cañon City, and after leaving this place the valley widens rapidly and spreads out into an arid plain that joins the prairies of Kansas. The change from a weirdly wild and savagely astounding cañon, to the pale landscape of a verdureless desert, is very sudden, and there is no variation in the passionless monotony of alkaline plain that lies between the mountain and Pueblo, a distance of forty miles. The Arkansas loses much of its volume and activity in struggling through the parched lands, becoming a listless stream, and murky with sediment that is gathered from its fast-washing banks.

We had to double upon our route very often in order to reach the numerous points of interest and charming scenery which is accessible by railroad, but in many cases much time was saved by dividing our party, though we refrain from wearying the reader with the uninteresting particulars of these movements. In the present instance, however, two of our photographers, with the camera car, proceeded southwest from Pueblo, over the Denver & Rio Grande R. R., to Wagon-Wheel Gap, while the others of our party returned, by way of the same route we had just traversed, to Montrose, thence to Ouray, and from that terminus, by stage, to Ironton, a distance of seven miles. From this latter point they followed the sweep of the same road, called the Rainbow route, around to Alamoso, where a junction was made with the two photographers on their return journey from Wagon-Wheel Gap.

The journey south from Montrose is along Uncompaghre River—every little stream is called a river in the far west—which, like many other streams we have described, has worn a deep bed, in which it is now confined by high walls of polychromatic colors, very beautiful to see. From the occasional rises over which the road passes, very lovely views are to be had of Horse-Fly Peak on the west, and the rather gentle elevation of Tongue Mesa on the east. At Dallas the scenery becomes much more rugged, and thence to Ouray, and Silverton, which is twenty miles from Ironton, the landscape is tumultuous; for nature is here in strange derangement, not to say chaotic dismemberment. It appeared an impossible feat to connect Ouray and Ironton by a stage-road, so tempestuously craggy is the interval, rent as it is by mighty chasm and spurred by amazing peaks of stones piled up into vast pyramids of confusion. But engineering skill dominated even here, and not only was a wagon-road cut through this chain of obstacles, but a narrow-gauge railroad was successfully constructed between Ironton and Silverton.

The approach to Ouray is by a way impressively magnificent, through rifts in castellated walls that are rich with the primary colors, and lofty enough to bathe their crests in the clouds. There goes the river, like a belated business man trying to overtake time, roaring, fretting, panting, with hardly enough space between the escarpments to admit its passage. Along, and over and around this mad-dashing stream the road winds, up and down, in and out, until the points of the compass lose their bearings, and swing around in distraction.

Ouray lies at peace with the world, in a basin whose sides are like a giant’s punch-bowl, only that the confinement is by a succession of mountain ranges piling up behind each other until the highest attain an altitude of 14,235 feet, and hold perpetual carnival with the snow-storm. That little basin seems to be the paint-pot of the Titans, and the mountains their mixing-boards. Letting our sight travel slowly up the soaring slopes, every step of the way is one of beauty. Clothed with a luxurious growth of yellow aspen, the brown of oak, the deep green of spruce, and the silver sheen of mountain pine, the picture needs only a frame to make it perfect. And there above is the thing desired; for where the timber line ends, the flaming colors of red, orange, purple, gray and brown stone begins, rising ever higher until they fade away behind the mists that gather about the peaks.

As we proceed on the way to Silverton the road inclines through forests whose autumn tints keep the eye dancing with admiration, and having descended two thousand feet, the mouth of Bear Creek is reached, where it rolls along a terrible cataract, known as Bear Creek Cascade. A little further on, we dash out upon a bridge which spans a dizzy height, for, there below us, the raging creek plunges over a precipice 275 feet high, and is dashed into vapor upon the rocks. It is a startling sight to behold the surging waters, and watch the mad plunge that falls into a caldron as angry as ever witches stretched hands about.

Thence onward we pursue our exciting ride, with mountains on either side, by the Needles, Sultan Peak, silver cascades, until soon we reach the Valley of the Animas, and are presently hurled into the wildly weird and awfully sublime Animas Cañon. A very suggestive name was given by the early Spaniards to this stream: Rio de los Animas, signifying the river of lost souls, for nothing could be more gruesomely somber. The cañon proper is about fifteen miles long, and lies between Rockwood and Durango, and is a cleavage that separates the San Juan and San Miguel ranges. The walls are perpendicular, and the passage so narrow that the sunlight can hardly get through. The railroad runs along the breast of the solid rock walls, on a ledge or balcony that had to be cut in the sheer escarpment, 1,500 feet above the river, but the top of the frowning enclosure is still 500 feet higher. Sitting at the car window, the traveler looks down into what appears to be an almost bottomless gulch, and sees the beating waters swirling in pools, and tossing in a terrific tumult that fills the cañon with deafening roar. While the river here is a succession of cataracts, there are waterfalls on either side, leaping down from bordering cliffs and joining hands with the impetuous river.

A few miles from Los Pinos Cañon and Toltec Gorge is the bustling town of Durango, which is the supply depot for the San Juan mining district. This place received a great impetus by the reported discovery of rich placer gold mines in southeastern Utah, in November of 1892, and at this time its future appears to be very promising. The region is altogether one of extraordinary interest alike for the miner, tourist and relic-hunter, for thirty miles west of the town are the picturesque ruins of very ancient cliff-dwellers, who, in the early centuries, excavated deep recesses in the perpendicular walls along the Rio Mancos, and there made their homes. Evidently they were of the same race, and no doubt were contemporary with those who fled from the Spanish persecutors and took refuge in artificial caves in the Grand Cañon of the Colorado.

Southwest of these now vacant cave dwellings, in the northeast corner of Arizona, is a short branch of the San Juan River, known as the Rio de Chelly, which runs through a cañon celebrated in the history of Indian warfare as presenting the most serious obstacles encountered by expeditions under Colonel Sumner and General Canby. The region, and particularly De Chelly Cañon, was the stronghold of the Navajoe Indians, who rendered the defile almost impregnable. Time and again efforts were made by large bodies of troops to force a passage, but as often they were driven back by the Indians hurling stones down the thousand feet of perpendicular height. The rear was likewise protected by remarkable ruggedness of the approach, and an army sent against them was thus held at bay by the Indians for several months. Kit Carson was finally given a commission as colonel and sent against the defiant marauders with a force of five hundred men. Understanding all the difficulties of the situation, he so disposed his army as to hold the Indians within their lines of refuge, and choosing winter as the best time for action, laid a siege that effectually cut off all communication. Aid from the outside being thus prevented, and all supplies shut off, the Navajoes were presently reduced to such straits that after three desperate but futile efforts to escape, the entire band surrendered.

After passing through Animas Cañon, on the eastern journey, the scenery continues impressively beautiful, for several pellucid streams are crossed at points where they have cut deep furrows in the earth, and eaten their way through opposing mountains. At Ignacio we met with the first considerable number of Indians seen thus far during our trip. This place is the headquarters of the Southern Utes’ reservation, and was named after their chief. Twenty miles beyond we cross the Rio Piedra and enter the valley of the San Juan, which is followed for nearly sixty miles, and until Navajo is reached, where another small band of miserable-looking Indians have their quarters, and besiege incoming passenger trains with importunities that travelers almost invariably generously respond to. Now we are running along the borders of New Mexico, a line of demarkation indicated by the San Juan range that lies north of us, while southward stretches away the undulating and arid plains. At Amargo we are met by another band of Indians, whose sullen countenances and bedraggled appearance plainly show them to be Apaches, whose numbers, however, are now so reduced that the murderous raids which made the tribe celebrated in the early annals of the far west, are not likely to be repeated again.

We cross the Conejos range at Cumbres, at an elevation of 10,000 feet, and after traversing a lower range of the San Juan we again strike the Los Pinos River, and, taking a turn around Prospect Peak, come in view of Toltec Gorge, one of the most fearfully grand cañons in the world. The mountain is pierced by a tunnel near its summit, which is approached by a balcony trestle, on which the east-bound train stops several minutes to permit the passengers to gaze into the dreadful depths of the chasm over which they hang. For it must be understood that the road-bed is built here upon a trestle that has all its fastenings in the perpendicular walls, and without any support beneath, so that to one looking from the car window the train appears to be suspended in mid-air, 1,000 feet above the rolling waters below.

The gorge is 1,200 feet deep, and besides being narrow, the walls are perpendicular, so that daylight tarries but a short while in its profound recesses. As we pass the Toltec Gorge, Phantom Curve is approached, and from the grandeur and awesomeness with which the great abyss impressed us, our interest is quickened and spell-bound by objects that at once excite wonder and curious amazement. We are suddenly introduced to forms more strange than monstrous, more remarkable for their incongruity than significant for their grandeur. The chisels of nature’s sculptors, frost, water, storms, ice and decay have wrought many astounding things in stone, which rival in grotesque eccentricity the queer figures that render famous the Garden of the Gods. Passing this parade-ground of nature’s idols, we strike the Big Horn Curve, and twist like a contortionist in making a devious descent, that winds and winds until at last we reach the feet of the Sangre de Cristo range, at Antonito. Thence our direction was due north, over a level country, until we reached Alamosa, where, as per arrangement, we met the others of our party on their return from Wagon-Wheel Gap. Here we received reports of the trip from Pueblo, and tarried a while to write up our journals, pack our negatives, and prepare for the journey that by a long sweep was to take us to the lands of the Pacific.

The trip southward from Pueblo possesses comparatively little interest until Cuchara Junction is reached, where one branch of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad starts directly west, while the other continues south to Trinidad, and there forms a junction with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.

At Cuchara the scenery changes from waste plains to a tumultuary landscape similar to sections which we have just described. The road follows the valley of Cuchara for a distance of twenty miles, and then begins a rapid ascent towards Veta Pass, which is, in some respects, more wonderful than even Marshall Pass. In one place the grade is 216 feet to the mile, so steep that two locomotives are required to haul even light trains, and so serpentine that to passengers the cars appear to be moving in a circle. When the summit is reached, an altitude of 9,400 feet above sea level has been gained, and there is a panorama presented that it seems almost sacrilegious to attempt to describe. Away to the south rises up, like monsters plucking stars from the sky, the Spanish Peaks, whose frosted heads are often hidden by clouds that gather about them; towards the west, dim with distance, is seen the commanding form of Sierra Blanca, whose crown is the very heavens; and northward, La Veta Mountain, stupendous and sublime, stands like a grizzly sentinel, surveying the lesser wonders of nature and protecting them against the fierce storms that beat the bronzed breasts of the Rockies. Muleshoe Curve, over which we made the approach up Dump Mountain, is plainly visible, as are the numerous tracks that gridiron the slopes, and the waterfalls that play hide and seek along the mountain sides. Looking down we see the fast-receding banks and almost perpendicular cliffs, and the giant bowlders that have been hurled from the summit into the abyssmal depths a mile below, gathered into dams to impede the flow of waters. The view towards the east is unbroken, and there, spreading out like the lap of bounty, we watch the green prairie running away from the mountain base to meet the horizon.

Crossing La Veta’s lofty pass, the descent is rapid and tortuous, until a level is reached in the San Luis Park, which is abloom with the glories of cultivated fields, and animate with grazing herds. This great park, that covers an area equal to the State of Connecticut, was, in the early years of the world’s life, a vast inland sea, though its elevation is now more than 7,000 feet. The earth has absorbed nearly all its waters, though San Luis Lake still lies near its center, shining like a sheet of silver, and is fed by thirty mountain streams. All around this lake, whose length is sixty miles, is a waving savanna of luxuriant grasses, which form the frame of as pretty a picture as the eye of man ever wandered over.

As we proceed westward from La Veta Pass, the landscape becomes somewhat tame, though when we reach Fort Garland the grandest view is obtainable of Sierra Blanca Mountain, whose peak is at an elevation of 14,500 feet, the second highest in America. We cross San Luis Park, and having again reached Alamosa, continue on towards Wagon-Wheel Gap, by way of the picturesque valley of the Rio Grande del Norte. Though while en route we pass through no wonderful cañons, the way is full of interest and beautiful scenery. The river, in places, spreads out into a noiseless and sluggish stream, while again it is contracted by narrow walls into cascades and roaring waterfalls of exceeding magnificence. Especially is this true when we draw near to Wagon-Wheel Gap, where the walls are not only narrow, but rise into palisades of great height and beauty, and at one place, for the distance of half a mile, there are cliffs that soar skyward and lean towards the river, making a rocky canopy above the roadway that hugs the rushing stream.

We are now in the famous Creede mining region, where, besides silver to lure the avaricious seeker of riches, there is much to excite the admiration of the tourist and lover of nature. La Gorita Mountains lie towards the north in vast banks of haze, and the southern horizon is broken by the San Juan range. Here, also, is a region of surprising springs, where boiling-hot and ice-cold waters gush out of neighboring hills, and in places actually strike hands to neutralize each other. Creede, which is ten miles from Wagon-Wheel Gap, is a typical mining camp, full of excitement and all the concomitants of a new and rich discovery, though it is rapidly acquiring civilized ways. Willow Gulch is the scene of greatest activity, and there is now to be obtained, for a fair equivalent, everything from bad fighting whiskey to a spring bed, though the latter is still a scarce luxury, particularly in the immediate vicinity of Willow Gulch.

After our meeting and short stay at Alamosa, our party again divided, two of our photographers going south from that point, over the New Mexico extension of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, to Santa Fe, while the other proceeded east to Cuchara Junction, thence south to Trinidad, and from that place he went by way of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, to Santa Fe, where our party again united.

The route directly south from Alamosa is across a well-watered country, but there is nothing of particular interest in the way of scenery until the town of Barranca is reached, where the road strikes the Rio Grande. Out of a level plain the train now dashes into deep gorges, and winds along the banks of a stream that is justly celebrated for the wild and rugged pageantry of mountains which it pierces. Comanche Cañon bursts into view, a glorious revelation of chaos, whose cliffs of marl and basaltic rock have tried in vain to arrest the energy and daunt the skill of civil engineers. As a consequence, their sides are rent and bored into cuts and tunnels, until the mountains of stone are made to acknowledge man’s sovereignty.

Fifteen miles south of Barranca is Espanola, a quaint old Spanish town, whose chief interest, however, lies in the fact that it is the nearest railroad point to some of the most interesting pueblos and cliff ruins that are to be found in New Mexico. The Indian adobes in this vicinity, which claim the largest attention of the anthropologist, are those of San Juan, Santa Clara and San Idelfonso, all situated within three or four miles of Espanola. At Santa Clara are also the ruins of cliff dwellings, relics of the habitations of a race that exists no longer, save in uncertain traditions.

The little knowledge that we have respecting these ancient people is derived from the investigations of the late James Stevenson, chief of the Hayden Survey, who explored the cliff and cave dwellings of Arizona and New Mexico. His labors were rewarded also by the discovery of two perfect skeletons, in the Cañon de Chelly, which proved to be those of prehistoric inhabitants. He also, by patient study, obtained a very thorough knowledge of the religious mythology of the Zunis, and secured a complete collection of their fetich-gods, besides familiarizing himself with the manners and beliefs of the Navajoes and Moquis. We hold him in remembrance for his pioneer as well as scientific services. It was Stevenson that made the first survey of Yellowstone Park, who traced the Columbia and Snake Rivers to their sources, and who was the first white man to climb the Great Tetons, in Wyoming, and reach the Indians’ sacred altar, which has been kept inviolate for centuries.

The six ancient pueblos, which are still inhabited by Indians, were discovered by the Spaniards only forty-eight years after Columbus first landed on San Salvador, and they are thus entitled to rank among the earliest discoveries of this character ever made. In the neighboring cliffs are numerous cave dwellings equally prehistoric in their origin, but which Mr. Stevenson explored with the most valuable results, enabling him to determine the habits and peculiarities of these archaic people. On the west side of the road, and bounded by Caliente Creek, is the black Mesa, a curious elevation that might once have been an island in the ocean that covered this region when the world was young. Towards the east, and in bold view, is the Taos range, which merges into the Culebra range further north, and thence into the Sangre de Cristo. Between the railroad and the Taos Mountain, lies the town of Taos, in a beautiful valley, watered by branches of the Rio Grande. It is a quaint old place, composed chiefly of two great adobe buildings five stories high, surrounded by prosperous ranches and crumbling pueblos, and is celebrated as having been the home of Kit Carson, and the place where his body reposes. His grave is marked by an imposing monument erected to his memory, as a mark of gratitude for his intrepid services, by citizens of New Mexico. The place is accordingly something of a shrine, but is not much visited, because it is about twenty-five miles from the railroad, except on the 30th of September of each year, when it is the scene of a great festival, at which thousands of people gather. A more beautiful and fertile spot, however, is not to be found anywhere in the west.

Comanche Cañon is entered just above Embudo, by way of which the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad enters the Rio Grande Valley. The gorge is so rugged that it was necessary to make a great many deep cuts in the walls of marl and basalt, so that the way through the cañon is more picturesque by reason of the engineer’s work than nature designed it.