Our National Parks — Ch 6, Part 3

The woodchuck (_Arctomys monax_) dwells on high bleak ridges and boulder piles; and a very different sort of mountaineer is he,—bulky, fat, aldermanic, and fairly bloated at times by hearty indulgence in the lush pastures of his airy home.

And yet he is by no means a dull animal.

In the midst of what we regard as storm-beaten desolation, high in the frosty air, beside the glaciers he pipes and whistles right cheerily and lives to a good old age.

If you are as early a riser as he is, you may oftentimes see him come blinking out of his burrow to meet the first beams of the morning and take a sunbath on some favorite flat-topped boulder.

Afterward, well warmed, he goes to breakfast in one of his garden hollows, eats heartily like a cow in clover until comfortably swollen, then goes a-visiting, and plays and loves and fights.

In the spring of 1875, when I was exploring the peaks and glaciers about the head of the middle fork of the San Joaquin, I had crossed the range from the head of Owen River, and one morning, passing around a frozen lake where the snow was perhaps ten feet deep, I was surprised to find the fresh track of a woodchuck plainly marked, the sun having softened the surface.

What could the animal be thinking of, coming out so early while all the ground was snow-buried?

The steady trend of his track showed he had a definite aim, and fortunately it was toward a mountain thirteen thousand feet high that I meant to climb.

So I followed to see if I could find out what he was up to.

From the base of the mountain the track pointed straight up, and I knew by the melting snow that I was not far behind him.

I lost the track on a crumbling ridge, partly projecting through the snow, but soon discovered it again.

Well toward the summit of the mountain, in an open spot on the south side, nearly inclosed by disintegrating pinnacles among which the sun heat reverberated, making an isolated patch of warm climate, I found a nice garden, full of rock cress, phlox, silene, draba, etc. , and a few grasses; and in this garden I overtook the wanderer, enjoying a fine fresh meal, perhaps the first of the season.

How did he know the way to this one garden spot, so high and far off, and what told him that it was in bloom while yet the snow was ten feet deep over his den?

For this it would seem he would need more botanical, topographical, and climatological knowledge than most mountaineers are possessed of.

[Illustration: A Mountain Woodchuck.

] The shy, curious mountain beaver, Haplodon, lives on the heights, not far from the woodchuck.

He digs canals and controls the flow of small streams under the sod.

And it is startling when one is camped on the edge of a sloping meadow near the homes of these industrious mountaineers, to be awakened in the still night by the sound of water rushing and gurgling under one’s head in a newly formed canal.

Pouched gophers also have a way of awakening nervous campers that is quite as exciting as the Haplodon’s paln; that is, by a series of firm upward pushes when they are driving tunnels and shoving up the dirt.

One naturally cries out, “Who’s there?

” and then discovering the cause, “All right.

Go on.

Good-night.

” and goes to sleep again.

The haymaking pika, bob-tailed spermophile, and wood-rat are also among the most interesting of the Sierra animals.

The last Neotoma is scarcely at all like the common rat, is nearly twice as large, has a delicate, soft, brownish fur, white on the belly, large ears thin and translucent, eyes full and liquid and mild in expression, nose blunt and squirrelish, slender claws sharp as needles, and as his limbs are strong he can climb about as well as a squirrel; while no rat or squirrel has so innocent a look, is so easily approached, or in general expresses so much confidence in one’s good intentions.

He seems too fine for the thorny thickets he inhabits, and his big, rough hut is as unlike himself as possible.

No other animal in these mountains makes nests so large and striking in appearance as his.

They are built of all kinds of sticks (broken branches, and old rotten moss-grown chunks and green twigs, smooth or thorny, cut from the nearest bushes), mixed with miscellaneous rubbish and curious odds and ends,—bits of cloddy earth, stones, bones, bits of deer-horn, etc. : the whole simply piled in conical masses on the ground in chaparral thickets.

Some of these cabins are five or six feet high, and occasionally a dozen or more are grouped together; less, perhaps, for society’s sake than for advantages of food and shelter.

Coming through deep, stiff chaparral in the heart of the wilderness, heated and weary in forcing a way, the solitary explorer, happening into one of these curious neotoma villages, is startled at the strange sight, and may imagine he is in an Indian village, and feel anxious as to the reception he will get in a place so wild.

At first, perhaps, not a single inhabitant will be seen, or at most only two or three seated on the tops of their huts as at the doors, observing the stranger with the mildest of mild eyes.

The nest in the centre of the cabin is made of grass and films of bark chewed to tow, and lined with feathers and the down of various seeds.

The thick, rough walls seem to be built for defense against enemies—fox, coyote, etc. —as well as for shelter, and the delicate creatures in their big, rude homes, suggest tender flowers, like those of Salvia carduacea, defended by thorny involucres.

Sometimes the home is built in the forks of an oak, twenty or thirty feet from the ground, and even in garrets.

Among housekeepers who have these bushmen as neighbors or guests they are regarded as thieves, because they carry away and pile together everything transportable (knives, forks, tin cups, spoons, spectacles, combs, nails, kindling-wood, etc. , as well as eatables of all sorts), to strengthen their fortifications or to shine among rivals.

Once, far back in the high Sierra, they stole my snow-goggles, the lid of my teapot, and my aneroid barometer; and one stormy night, when encamped under a prostrate cedar, I was awakened by a gritting sound on the granite, and by the light of my fire I discovered a handsome neotoma beside me, dragging away my ice-hatchet, pulling with might and main by a buckskin string on the handle.

I threw bits of bark at him and made a noise to frighten him, but he stood scolding and chattering back at me, his fine eyes shining with an air of injured innocence.

A great variety of lizards enliven the warm portions of the Park.

Some of them are more than a foot in length, others but little larger than grasshoppers.

A few are snaky and repulsive at first sight, but most of the species are handsome and attractive, and bear acquaintance well; we like them better the farther we see into their charming lives.

Small fellow mortals, gentle and guileless, they are easily tamed, and have beautiful eyes, expressing the clearest innocence, so that, in spite of prejudices brought from cool, lizardless countries, one must soon learn to like them.

Even the horned toad of the plains and foothills, called horrid, is mild and gentle, with charming eyes, and so are the snakelike species found in the underbrush of the lower forests.

These glide in curves with all the ease and grace of snakes, while their small, undeveloped limbs drag for the most part as useless appendages.

One specimen that I measured was fourteen inches long, and as far as I saw it made no use whatever of its diminutive limbs.

Most of them glint and dart on the sunny rocks and across open spaces from bush to bush, swift as dragonflies and humming-birds, and about as brilliantly colored.

They never make a long-sustained run, whatever their object, but dart direct as arrows for a distance of ten or twenty feet, then suddenly stop, and as suddenly start again.

These stops are necessary as rests, for they are short-winded, and when pursued steadily are soon run out of breath, pant pitifully, and may easily be caught where no retreat in bush or rock is quickly available.

If you stay with them a week or two and behave well, these gentle saurians, descendants of an ancient race of giants, will soon know and trust you, come to your feet, play, and watch your every motion with cunning curiosity.

You will surely learn to like them, not only the bright one, gorgeous as the rainbow, but the little ones, gray as lichened granite, and scarcely bigger than grasshoppers; and they will teach you that scales may cover as fine a nature as hair or feathers or anything tailored.

There are many snakes in the cañons and lower forests, but they are mostly handsome and harmless.

Of all the tourists and travelers who have visited Yosemite and the adjacent mountains, not one has been bitten by a snake of any sort, while thousands have been charmed by them.

Some of them vie with the lizards in beauty of color and dress patterns.

Only the rattlesnake is venomous, and he carefully keeps his venom to himself as far as man is concerned, unless his life is threatened.

Before I learned to respect rattlesnakes I killed two, the first on the San Joaquin plain.

He was coiled comfortably around a tuft of bunch-grass, and I discovered him when he was between my feet as I was stepping over him.

He held his head down and did not attempt to strike, although in danger of being trampled.

At that time, thirty years ago, I imagined that rattlesnakes should be killed wherever found.

I had no weapon of any sort, and on the smooth plain there was not a stick or a stone within miles; so I crushed him by jumping on him, as the deer are said to do.

Looking me in the face he saw I meant mischief, and quickly cast himself into a coil, ready to strike in defense.

I knew he could not strike when traveling, therefore I threw handfuls of dirt and grass sods at him, to tease him out of coil.

He held his ground a few minutes, threatening and striking, and then started off to get rid of me.

I ran forward and jumped on him; but he drew back his head so quickly my heel missed, and he also missed his stroke at me.

Persecuted, tormented, again and again he tried to get away, bravely striking out to protect himself; but at last my heel came squarely down, sorely wounding him, and a few more brutal stampings crushed him.

I felt degraded by the killing business, farther from heaven, and I made up my mind to try to be at least as fair and charitable as the snakes themselves, and to kill no more save in self-defense.

The second killing might also, I think, have been avoided, and I have always felt somewhat sore and guilty about it.

I had built a little cabin in Yosemite, and for convenience in getting water, and for the sake of music and society, I led a small stream from Yosemite Creek into it.

Running along the side of the wall it was not in the way, and it had just fall enough to ripple and sing in low, sweet tones, making delightful company, especially at night when I was lying awake.

Then a few frogs came in and made merry with the stream,—and one snake, I suppose to catch the frogs.

Returning from my long walks, I usually brought home a large handful of plants, partly for study, partly for ornament, and set them in a corner of the cabin, with their stems in the stream to keep them fresh.

One day, when I picked up a handful that had begun to fade, I uncovered a large coiled rattler that had been hiding behind the flowers.

Thus suddenly brought to light face to face with the rightful owner of the place, the poor reptile was desperately embarrassed, evidently realizing that he had no right in the cabin.

It was not only fear that he showed, but a good deal of downright bashfulness and embarrassment, like that of a more than half honest person caught under suspicious circumstances behind a door.

Instead of striking or threatening to strike, though coiled and ready, he slowly drew his head down as far as he could, with awkward, confused kinks in his neck and a shamefaced expression, as if wishing the ground would open and hide him.

I have looked into the eyes of so many wild animals that I feel sure I did not mistake the feelings of this unfortunate snake.

I did not want to kill him, but I had many visitors, some of them children, and I oftentimes came in late at night; so I judged he must die.

Since then I have seen perhaps a hundred or more in these mountains, but I have never intentionally disturbed them, nor have they disturbed me to any great extent, even by accident, though in danger of being stepped on.

Once, while I was on my knees kindling a fire, one glided under the arch made by my arm.

He was only going away from the ground I had selected for a camp, and there was not the slightest danger, because I kept still and allowed him to go in peace.

The only time I felt myself in serious danger was when I was coming out of the Tuolumne Cañon by a steep side cañon toward the head of Yosemite Creek.

On an earthquake talus, a boulder in my way presented a front so high that I could just reach the upper edge of it while standing on the next below it.

Drawing myself up, as soon as my head was above the flat top of it I caught sight of a coiled rattler.

My hands had alarmed him, and he was ready for me; but even with this provocation, and when my head came in sight within a foot of him, he did not strike.

The last time I sauntered through the big cañon I saw about two a day.

One was not coiled, but neatly folded in a narrow space between two cobble-stones on the side of the river, his head below the level of them, ready to shoot up like a Jack-in-the-box for frogs or birds.

My foot spanned the space above within an inch or two of his head, but he only held it lower.

In making my way through a particularly tedious tangle of buckthorn, I parted the branches on the side of an open spot and threw my bundle of bread into it; and when, with my arms free, I was pushing through after it, I saw a small rattlesnake dragging his tail from beneath my bundle.

When he caught sight of me he eyed me angrily, and with an air of righteous indignation seemed to be asking why I had thrown that stuff on him.

He was so small that I was inclined to slight him, but he struck out so angrily that I drew back, and approached the opening from the other side.

But he had been listening, and when I looked through the brush I found him confronting me, still with a come-in-if-you-dare expression.

In vain I tried to explain that I only wanted my bread; he stoutly held the ground in front of it; so I went back a dozen rods and kept still for half an hour, and when I returned he had gone.

One evening, near sundown, in a very rough, boulder-choked portion of the cañon, I searched long for a level spot for a bed, and at last was glad to find a patch of flood-sand on the river-bank, and a lot of driftwood close by for a campfire.

But when I threw down my bundle, I found two snakes in possession of the ground.

I might have passed the night even in this snake den without danger, for I never knew a single instance of their coming into camp in the night; but fearing that, in so small a space, some late comers, not aware of my presence, might get stepped on when I was replenishing the fire, to avoid possible crowding I encamped on one of the earthquake boulders.

There are two species of Crotalus in the Park, and when I was exploring the basin of Yosemite Creek I thought I had discovered a new one.

I saw a snake with curious divided appendages on its head.

Going nearer, I found that the strange headgear was only the feet of a frog.

Cutting a switch, I struck the snake lightly until he disgorged the poor frog, or rather allowed it to back out.

On its return to the light from one of the very darkest of death valleys, it blinked a moment with a sort of dazed look, then plunged into a stream, apparently happy and well.

Frogs abound in all the bogs, marshes, pools, and lakes, however cold and high and isolated.

How did they manage to get up these high mountains?

Surely not by jumping.

Long and dry excursions through weary miles of boulders and brush would be trying to frogs.

Most likely their stringy spawn is carried on the feet of ducks, cranes, and other waterbirds.

Anyhow, they are most thoroughly distributed, and flourish famously.

What a cheery, hearty set they are, and how bravely their krink and tronk concerts enliven the rocky wilderness!

None of the high-lying mountain lakes or branches of the rivers above sheer falls had fish of any sort until stocked by the agency of man.

In the high Sierra, the only river in which trout exist naturally is the middle fork of Kings River.

There are no sheer falls on this stream;

some of the rapids, however, are so swift and rough, even at the lowest stage of water, that it is surprising any fish can climb them.

I found trout in abundance in this fork up to seventy-five hundred feet.

They also run quite high on the Kern.

On the Merced they get no higher than Yosemite Valley, four thousand feet, all the forks of the river being barred there by sheer falls, and on the main Tuolumne they are stopped by a fall below Hetch-Hetchy, still lower than Yosemite.

Though these upper waters are inaccessible to the fish, one would suppose their eggs might have been planted there by some means.

Nature has so many ways of doing such things.

In this case she waited for the agency of man, and now many of these hitherto fishless lakes and streams are full of fine trout, stocked by individual enterprise, Walton clubs etc. , in great part under the auspices of the United States Fish Commission.

A few trout carried into Hetch-Hetchy in a common water-bucket have multiplied wonderfully fast.

Lake Tenaya, at an elevation of over eight thousand feet, was stocked eight years ago by Mr. Murphy, who carried a few trout from Yosemite.

Many of the small streams of the eastern slope have also been stocked with trout transported over the passes in tin cans on the backs of mules.

Soon, it would seem, all the streams of the range will be enriched by these lively fish, and will become the means of drawing thousands of visitors into the mountains.

Catching trout with a bit of bent wire is a rather trivial business, but fortunately people fish better than they know.

In most cases it is the man who is caught.

Trout-fishing regarded as bait for catching men, for the saving of both body and soul, is important, and deserves all the expense and care bestowed on it.

[Illustration: A Trout Stream in the Sierra Nevada (King’s River).

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