Hawk Eyes

by David Althouse

  Amigo pushed onward and upward. At times, I would look down the slope and see the trail we’d just come up, runnin’ parallel to the path we were on above. Clusters of aspen shadowed much of the trail, and their shade was a welcome thing, as the glare of the sun can hinder a man’s vision as he looks out at the surroundin’ vistas from his high-mountain perch.

  The slopes of Black Mountain and other peaks to the south were sometimes in full view, as was the little high-mountain park below which folks today refer to as Red River. The lighter green of the faraway aspen groves stood out amongst the darker green of the vast and dominant spruce forests. There were bare hints of a blue sky overhead, but the clouds seem always to find the high-up peaks of this wonderful southwestern country. And such was the case this day.

  However, I noticed the countryside thereabouts seemed as dry as a gourd, and a well-placed lightnin’ strike could set off the whole powder keg. The clouds overhead hinted at rain, but a typical afternoon mountain rain wouldn’t be enough to end this kind of drought. At the very least that year, the country needed a couple of all day soakin’s to set things right.

  Anyways, I didn’t want to be around if this area of the Sangre de Cristos was set ablaze by lightnin’ or some such. Amigo and me would play hell tryin’ to meander our way out of that kind of predicament.

  I thought of the people who lived down in Taos. I wondered how many times over the years they’d looked and beheld great clouds of wood smoke bellowin’ into the sky because of lightnin’ fires durin’ a southwestern dry spell. Hell, I laughed to myself, it could appear like a summer drought in this high-up country one minute, and then the sky could spit snow and sleet the next. As impossible as that may sound to folks who aren’t familiar with this high-up world of the southwest, such was and is still the case.

  A man ridin’ the trails of the Rocky Mountains needs to be mindful of the different sounds of the country. Things just have a different sound in the high-up country. The sounds of these Sangre de Cristo Mountains, for example, are a lot different from the sounds of the little Ouachita Mountains of western Arkansas and eastern Indian Territory. In this mountain country of the southwest, the wind makes a special music as it plays off the high-up peaks and deep canyons. You hear the echo of sound as it plays off the high rocky surroundings. Even the birds sound different up there. Out on the sun-baked plains of the Texas Panhandle or Indian Territory, you will hear the singin’ of the birds in the mornin’ and theirs is a different kind of music from that of the high-up critters. Their singin’ is lost out over the endless horizons of this open country. But birds sound altogether different when they’re flyin’ betwixt spruce-laden slopes or down deep rocky canyons or gulches. Back on the plains, the waters of the Cimarron and Canadian Rivers move slowly along as a rule, not makin’ much sound. The rivers and streams of the Rocky Mountain country roar their way along non-stop, fed by the snow that covers the high-up mountains most of the year. The roar of these waters stay at such a high pitch that it drowns out all of the other sounds nearby. This is the reason I fought shy of makin’ camp near rushin’ water. A body could snake his way into camp at night and I might not even hear him.

  A long time ago, my Pappy taught me an important lesson concernin’ the sounds of the wild. He told me to close my eyes now and then, and allow only my ears to sense my surroundin’s. It’s amazin’ what the ears can detect when the eyes are at rest. This also works the other way around. Try coverin’ your ears and relyin’ on only your eyes as your main tool for sensin’ your surroundin’s. Soon, you grow to appreciate the powers of each of your senses workin’ in tandem, and you’re an altogether better man on the trail.

  I took a look to the slope to the east of Flag Mountain. A vertical strip of the slope was mostly bare of larger trees and rocks, probably a sign of an avalanche in recent years. A lone black bird flew by, and the air was also filled with the clip-clop sound of Amigo’s hooves on the rocks and the squeakin’ of saddle leather as we topped out at the end of the trail. A good part of the high-mountain park was still in view from our perch, as were the surroundin’ peaks and slopes. This is a country of impressive rock formations and such was the case at the top of this trail. Right in front of me, as I faced the south, stood a sturdy slab of roc ’bout eight feet tall and the same distance wide. Upon first sight, the slab looked brittle to the touch. I knew such to be the case as I began to pry pieces of the slab away from the face.

  This was the first time in my life that I ever found gold.

  I’d chipped away enough of the rotten rock to expose a thin vein of the yellow stuff. I figured if I kept pullin’ off the loose and rotten outer layer of the slab, then maybe more of the yellow stuff would show itself. And I was right in my thinkin’. I chipped and pulled at both sides of the slab until I’d given it a thorough once-over. Usin’ my bandana as a pouch, I went away with enough of the soft metal to last me. I’d sure enough have somethin’ to spend the next time I was around folks.

  And I wouldn’t be forgettin’ the trail I followed to find my rock slab. Fact, I came back to that area many times over the comin’ years, before folks got there, and found yellow more than once.

  I’d been traipsin’ all around those Sangre de Cristos for quite a spell, avoidin’ all the people comin’ and goin’ over east at what folks would one day call Elizabethtown. It weren’t my intent to hang out a shingle announcin’ my whereabouts, and the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid people. Still, it had been a long time since I’d heard another human voice, and the callin’ of my own kind was within me. Chisholm, Youngbird, and Baker had each told me all ’bout Taos, the sleepy Spanish town situated ’bout thirty or forty miles to the southwest of my high-mountain park.

  I’d been told Taos was a place what didn’t ask questions, and that it had been that way for many years. I figured that made Taos my kind of place. Taos, and all of that New Mexico country, had once belonged to Spain, and Spain had declared outsiders – that meant folks from the United States – not welcome. Despite all of that, those folks in Taos often turned the other cheek to them rules, allowin’ in who they wanted, includin’ those famous mountain men, traders, and explorers like William Becknell, Charlie Bent, Ceran St. Vrain, Kit Carson, and Jim Bridger.

  After New Mexico broke from Spain, things changed a mite in New Mexico and that meant Taos, too. By the 1830’s, the Mexican government was growin’ worried that too many Yankees was makin’ their way into New Mexico. Sure, the Mexican government wanted the Yankee trade, as that was good for New Mexicans. What the Mexican government worried ‘boutwas the Yankee way of life takin’ over. Yankees was pourin’ into that New Mexico country in larger numbers with each passin’ year.

  By the 1840’s, American military forces had just ‘bouttaken control of Santa Fe, Taos, and most all of New Mexico. Charlie Bent had become the territorial governor. Just ‘boutthe time the Americans figured they’d everything nice and tidy, a group of Mexicans and Indians thought they might carry out a little insurrection, and that’s just what they did. They scalped and killed Bent right there in front of his wife and daughter in his home just off the Taos Plaza. After that, a sizeable bunch of Yankee dragoons came back in and mopped up the place, makin’ sure that New Mexico stayed American for good. Sure, there was some lingerin’ bitterness among some of the Mexicans and Indians toward the Americans, but soon everyone commenced to gettin’ along with one another and things settled down for good.

  That was well and fine for me because avoidin’ trouble was my own intent. I wanted to get a first-hand taste of that Taos Lightnin’, a drinkable concoction what had been brewed by those Taos folks for many years. I heard you drank the mixture at your own risk, and that you might find yourself flat on your ass after only a few swigs. I wanted to find me a señorita who’d cook me up some Mexican grub. Maybe I’d find myself a cantina where a man who lived life on the edge could wet his pipes, without fear of trouble from a flat-headed blue-belly what might still be on my trail after all
this time. Yes sir, my ears longed to hear happy conversation, singin’, and maybe the tinklin’ sound of dishes comin’ from a señorita’skitchen.

  I made it down off those high-up peaks, down the slopes and through the pinion forests, and there I was down in Taos, with them big, beautiful Taos Mountains standin’ guard over the place. It seems they’re right close to you, when you’re standin’ down there in that old Spanish town. They sure make a man feel mighty unimportant when he’s standin’ there gazin’ up at ’em. The cuts and gulches seem easy to make out at that distance. Them peaks to the south are somewhat farther off, and the cuts and ravines and such are not so easy to make out from down there in Taos. They stand as great, mysterious, grayish-blue monsters. The peaks to the east are right there on you, it seems. You can make out all the divides and cuts, and many of the green slopes, which, here and there, show hints of the tan soil underneath.

  I couldn’t help but to breathe in all the wonderful scenery all ’round me.

  Off to the west, and much farther away, stand mountain peaks that, from down in Taos, are big, grayish colors against a great blue horizon. Fact is, them mountains to the west stand kind of layered over one another, and this is a real pretty sight to see in itself. The closest mountain shows off a dark gray, whilst the farthest mountain behind it appears as a lighter gray color. And, all around you down there in Taos, betwixt you and all of these mountains on all sides, are beautiful sage-dotted fields, lookin’ like somethin’ a fancy artist might paint on a canvas. You look around and you see the prettiest little adobes surrounded by mighty cottonwoods, their leaves flutterin’ and their branches swayin’ from their ancient trunks. And to top it all off, you look up and you see the bluest of blue skies, with a scatterin’ of great cloud puffs of white and gray. I knew right then and there, as I stood down in that wonderous valley, that this here place called to my heart and soul, that no matter what kinda life I lived before this, weren’t nobody ’round Taos goin’ to know or care a damn. Somehow, I knew right then that no matter where I traveled in this life, Taos would always be callin’ my name.

  Well, I soaked up the sights, sounds, and smells of Taos real good, whilst not believin’ how happy I was in this new land what’d made me feel so alive once again. But, as much as I knew I would forever love this mountain, mesa, and desert country of New Mexico, I knew I had to make for that Colorado country of Charles Baker. The wonderful thing ’bout a lone, travelin’ man like me is that when I feel like movin’ out, then I move out.

  That’s what I did after only a few days in Taos. I took the Old Spanish Trail north out of Taos, up through more of that beautiful New Mexico country, across into Colorado, past the sand dunes, and smack dab into some of the most majestic mountain country in all of God’s great beautiful world.

  After many days of travelin’, I found myself in an area that, I know now, lies south of the current minin’ camp of Leadville. That first night there, I made camp on a rocky rise northeast of two of the prettiest little natural lakes you ever seen. It was a rocky area, with sage, pine, spruce, fir, and aspen in abundance. Despite the rocky area, I was able to find a nice spot blanketed with pine needles to bed down on. I saw deer droppin’s nearby and thought maybe the deer had bedded down on this bed of needles afore. I stayed up into the night listenin’ to the night sounds. I reckon it was around midnight, white man time.

  The clouds rolled in, but the water of the lakes still shone bright. I could make out the full moon showin’ through the clouds, and it hung almost directly over the peaks at the south of the lake. Those peaks stood as a three-humped mass, framed by the pine and fir trees surroundin’ my camp, and the moon sat directly over the center hump. I heard what sounded like a bear off to the west, maybe a hundred feet away. I stoked my fire an’ figured he wouldn’t pester me if I didn’t pester him.

  I awoke the next day with the full breath of life within me.

  Of a day, the sight of the lakes from atop my perch at the north and east was one of the prettiest pictures I’d ever seen, prettier than any scene an artist could ever hope to paint on a canvas. To the south and west, the lakes are hugged by a series of massive peaks. I remembered the clouds hoverin’ over the peaks, with spots of blue sky peekin’ through. I figured if there was ever a picture of heaven on earth, this here spot would come the closest of bein’ it. I beheld the aspen, the fir, the sage, the green-covered slopes, the crystal lakes. I listened at the birds callin’ from all around, the wind whisperin’ through my perch. I took in those slopes that still had snow on ’em in late summer, snow that wouldn’t have time to melt before the comin’ winter storms; and I realized that I’d best cherish ever’ bit of it, ’cause I might not ever lay eyes on it again.

  In the lulls betwixt the birdcalls, all was as quiet as could be, except for the wind, which was just as much a song to my ears as was the birds singin’. Back when I was growin’ up in Arkansas and the Indian Territory, I’d heard folks usin’ such words as “majesty” and the like. I figured this place was reason enough to use that word. I climbed a short, rocky slope behind me and could make out the Mosquito Range to the north and east.

  Of a night, things looked different around my camp. After the sun went down, the moon would make its ascent over those peaks to the south. Earlier in the evenin’, the moon would hug that easternmost peak, and then, around midnight, it would hang almost directly over the center one. After that, it would set atop that westernmost peak and start makin’ its way down the horizon as mornin’ came on. Of a night, even under cover of clouds, the water from the lakes was visible from my camp to the north. Of course, the water is all the more visible when the clouds aren’t there to hinder the moonlight upon the crystal water. From where I sat in my camp, the Mosquito Range set to my east, the Sawatch to my west, the Sangre de Cristos to my southeast, and the San Juans to the west of the Sawatch. Charles Baker had mentioned that San Juan country in a lot of detail at me. To my south, situated betwixt the Sangre de Cristo and San Juan ranges, lay the great San Luis Valley, which I’d traveled through from New Mexico to get to Colorado. Fort Garland lay down in that valley. Charles Baker mentioned this fort. I remember him tellin’ me that he went there after his stint in that high-mountain park in the San Juans. I remembered him tellin’ me that it was at Fort Garland that he’d first heard of the war breakin’ out in 1861.

  This country set my heart and soul on fire, and I was some happy to be alive. I would’ve been the happiest man in the whole world with all of the country thereabouts even if I hadn’t found gold amongst the nearby rocks and crags. But that’s just it – I found aplenty. I mapped away in my mind all of those places turnin’ up the yellow stuff, and would go back to those places time after time in the comin’ years. I spent ’bout a month in that area by the lakes, makin’ good use of my first time there.

  It was time to get on to that high-mountain park told of by Charles Baker, and so I set out.

  I knew I’d found Baker’s Park when I counted ten massive peaks visible from this high-up flat situated near the Animas River way up here in this beautiful San Juan range. Look all around and count ’em. There was ten of ’em then, and there’s ten of ’em now, and they frame some of the most beautiful country God ever blessed us folks down here on earth with.

  I’ll always remember my first night up here. I remember thinkin’ that I’d finally made it to that park Baker had told me ’bout so many years before. One of the first things I noticed after gettin’ up here was remnants of old cabins. At the time, I hadn’t any idea who had built them or when. Baker had never mentioned such out there on that cattle drive with Pappy and me so many years ago. I later found out that Baker’s discovery of placer gold here brought folks to the park who tried settin’ up a town and fortin’ up before becomin’ discouraged and eventually leavin’. That had all happened right up to ‘bout the beginnin’ of the war. When it was clear that a great war was closin’ in on the country, and that it took a lot of work to get that gold out of the groun
d, folks just packed up and left Baker’s Park.

  It was late July, maybe gettin’ on to August, when I lay near here by the banks of the Animas River. I looked up into the darkness and it seemed like I could just reach up and grab me a handful of them shiny stars. That’s how it is up here in these San Juans of a night in the summer. The Big Dipper hangs almost straight up and down over that peak to the north. And that’s how I knew it must’ve been an hour or so away from midnight.

  I learnt to tell time that way when I helped Pappy herd cattle up the Texas Road – not that I was givin’ a tinker’s damn ’bout the time. I considered myself a free-rovin’ sonofabitch, and I planned on me stayin’ that way. Layin’ out here on a July night can set a man to thinkin’ ’bout himself and his place in this world. Me, I considered myself the luckiest man alive to be a part of this beautiful world around us. But I’ll always remember that particular night, for it was on that night the Great Spirit sent a revelation ’bout this world to me, and it was a revelation that was both reassurin’ and horrifyin’. The moment seemed to have come to me from out amongst the stars, and it came like so many of the premonitions I get from time to time.

  You see, I took a look at all the world around – the sweet-smellin’ spruce, the aspen, the high mountain peaks, the Animas River gushin’ right there by me – and I realized that none of it was permanent. The spruce and the aspen would die, the mountain peaks would fade with the weatherin’ of time, and if these wonderful mountains eroded, then there wouldn’t be any rivers gushin’ down from ’em. And, of course, I would die just like we all do.

  Everything dies – the world all around and us. And, funny as it may seem, that was the reassurin’ part. You see, I realized that I had me a role in this grand picture, and it’s a temporary part just like the rivers, streams, trees, and everything else around us. But, there was somethin’ else the Great Sprit told me that night: If the mountains, rivers, trees, and people are all temporary, then so is the ground we walk on, this entire earth, and the entire world. That was the horrifyin’ part, and I couldn’t quite bear up to it – still can’t, if you want to know the truth. But, I accept my short time here. And knowin’ ‘bout the temporary nature of things makes these mountains and rivers and critters all the more beautiful to me. This is why I’m one of the luckiest men in the world, to be able to lay my eyes on it every day.