High Country

The mule deer buck was just across the clearing behind a cluster of aspens, but Daniel couldn't see anything but the antlers when the buck raised his head at intervals to listen and scent the air. As he browsed, the buck moved across the clearing, and had the eagle not screeched, would have been in the sights of Daniel's rifle in a few more minutes.

The buck had raised its head at the sound and its large ears swiveled, searching for any sound that might mean a wolf or cougar was near. The eagle screeched again, and all Daniel could see was the black tip of a tail as the buck disappeared into the dense underbrush that surrounded the fallen ponderosa pine. Daniel cursed silently and looked up to see the huge nest perched at the top of tall, dead oak.

He'd come across the fallen tree the day before while scouting for trapping sites for the coming winter. It lay just a few yards from the bank of a beaver pond and Daniel had found the small, round pellet droppings of deer sign when he investigated. The next morning at first daylight, he'd gone back to the small clearing and waited. The tall grass and shrubs were ideal forage for deer, and his meat supply was getting low.

Daniel had seen areas like this many times in the past years. As age and boring insects weakened the tall, thick trunk, the big tree eventually began to rot at the base. Through the years, wind and snow weighted the branches and stressed the partially rotted trunk. Ultimately the tree fell over, another casualty in the never-ending cycle of life and death in Nature. In the process of falling to the ground, the massive trunk and spreading limbs would clear a swath through the other trees and underbrush.

The falling of the pine meant sunlight could reach the ground again, and it was as if some unseen planter had sprinkled the seeds of grasses, small, bushy plants and aspen trees on the needle covered ground. The snowmelt and subsequent rains brought those seeds to life. They sprouted, then flourished into grasses, wild flowers, small bushes, and the thickets of aspen that seemed to be everywhere.

Here and there, small pine trees only half a foot tall dotted the clearing. These were the offspring of the giant pine that now lay dead and rotting into more topsoil. Only one, or maybe two would enjoy the protection of the aspens until strong enough to stretch for the sun and fill the clearing again. The rest would be eaten by grouse and other animals, or would be choked out by the underbrush. It was the way of Nature that many would be born, but few would reach maturity.

Daniel squinted as he looked up at the eagle. There were two, instead of one as he'd thought before seeing the nest. The pair would have a chick in that nest by now, and they were just telling him to stay away. Daniel smiled at the pair of large birds screeching at him through open, yellow hooked beaks as they spiraled through the brilliant blue sky.

"Go back to your chick, I ain't a gonna bother you none."

Daniel smiled again when the eagles paid him no heed and continued to screech. Six years before, he would have been infuriated at losing the buck and probably would have taken a shot at one of the eagles, but that was before he grew to understand the ways of the mountains. The eagles were doing exactly as Nature intended them to do. The buck had done exactly what Nature intended him to do. Daniel waved at the angry birds as he walked down to the beaver pond. He understood that Nature intended for him to miss a kill now and then.

Daniel walked quietly on feet accustomed to feeling through the soles of his moccasins for sticks that might snap or leaves that might rustle and betray his presence. Just as had the mule deer, he stopped often to listen. That action had become reflex rather than conscious thought, a reflex honed over the years of hunting to survive and surviving to live the life he loved. He wasn't hunting now, but the reflex was still there, protecting him from the only animal likely to harm him -- a grizzly bear. Bears could be incredibly quiet for such a large animal, but still made some sounds one experienced at listening could hear.

Just inside the aspens and willows that ringed the large pond, Daniel stopped. The twin wakes of two beavers broke the flat surface that mirrored the sky above. Another beaver surfaced just in front of him and ambled slowly up the bank toward an aspen that already bore the marks of a beaver's massive front teeth. Had Daniel wanted a beaver stew for his supper, it would have been a simple matter to raise his rifle and shoot. He didn't. It was still early spring, and the beavers would be thin from the winter. They would also have young in the dome shaped lodge in the middle of the pond, young that would fill his traps when the snow fell. The pelt wouldn't be worth much anyway, not until the chill of fall caused it to grow long, thick, and glossy.

Daniel grinned and stepped out of the aspens. Though beavers didn't see very well at a distance, this one saw the movement and ran the short distance to the pond as quickly as its short legs would carry it. Once in the water, it dived for the bottom and gave the water's surface a hard slap with it's broad, flat tail as it went under. At that sound, the other two beavers did the same, and except for a few ripples, the pond was again a mirror of the sky and the pines on the opposite shore. Daniel turned and retraced his steps back to the clearing where the walls of the small cabin he was building already reached his chest.

Daniel was the fourth son of Johnathan and Martha Graves, and grew up on the family farm about twenty miles from St. Louis, Missouri. His three brothers inherited his mother's easy-going manner and unquestioning belief in the Bible. They fit into the family like peas in the same pod.

Daniel's personality was a copy of his father's. Though Johnathan Graves was just as devout in his beliefs as Martha, he found it a challenge to live his life according to those beliefs. Johnathan was quick tempered when challenged and not one to give in to anything or anyone. Only Martha's quiet kindness kept him in check.

When Daniel was just a boy, that same fiery personality resulted in several black eyes when he refused to back down from boys older and larger than he. Though not quickly enough to suit him, Daniel grew up, both in size and strength. By the time he was sixteen, Daniel was a little over six feet tall and weighed two hundred and ten pounds on the scale at the general store in Runyon, the closest town to the farm. His height gave him confidence, and the work hardened muscles gave him the strength to back up that confidence.

Those older boys no longer taunted the boy who would not back down even though they bloodied his nose or blacked his eye. Now, they backed away from Daniel, the young man who used his size to intimidate them. Too often, they'd felt the pain of Daniel's fist to their gut or to the side of their head. As a result, Daniel had no real friends, and the few girls his age who went to the church in Runyon on Sunday thought him a bully.

It was at that same age that Daniel slowly began to realize he hated farming. It was just an endless cycle of the same plowing, planting, hoeing, and harvesting, and the continual feeding of the livestock and then cleaning the manure from the small barn and chicken house and spreading it on the fields.

The family worked the fields for the single purpose of providing food for themselves and the livestock for the coming winter. They kept the livestock to assist in that work and to provide meat and eggs. There was no future that looked better. Were he to take a wife and clear land for his own farm, that would only mean even more work until he could plow and plant, and then slipping back into the same unending cycle. Still, just as his father and his grandfather, Daniel knew no other way to live.

The alternative came to Daniel in the spring of 1822 by way of a travelling man who sold remedies for about anything that could ail a body, or so he allowed. Dr. Horace Mason had just come from St. Louis where he made the medicine, and brought news of an expedition being formed. A former Army officer by the name of Ashley needed strong, young men to find the source of the Missouri River, and once there, trap beaver for three years.

Daniel knew nothing about trapping, but it was a way to find out if there was more to life than the farm. That Thursday, Daniel sat down with his mother and father after supper to tell them of his decision. Though they'd expected something like this to happen, Daniel's mother and father were taken aback by the three-year time span and by the distance their son would be away from home.

Martha sniffed into her hanky.

"What if something happens to you, if you break your leg, or if those heathen Indians attack you? You might be dead and I wouldn't even know for three years."

Daniel chuckled.

"I'm not gonna break my leg, and as for the Indians, I'll have a rifle and they'll just have bows and arrows. They won't get close enough to hurt me."

Johnathan was a bit more understanding, but also more critical.

"Daniel, I know you don't like farming and this expedition seems like a way to a different life. You need to think about if this is the right thing to do. Once you get there, if you decide you don't like it, there won't be any way to come home except by yourself. I've heard it's pretty wild county and most men alone don't live to get out."

"I have thought about it", said Daniel. "I don't know if it's what I want to do forever, but it's what I want to do now. If they'll take me, I'll be back in three years. If not, I'll see if I can find work in St. Louis and I'll send word. I can't stay here and farm any longer."

In another hour, he was walking down the dirt road to St. Louis, walking away from everything he knew and into something about which he knew almost nothing.

It wasn't difficult to find the place to sign up for the expedition. Everyone he asked knew the name of the hotel. The man at the table that said "Rocky Mountain Fur Company" asked his name and age.

"Daniel Graves, Sir, and I'm eighteen"

The man looked up and studied him for a minute or so.

"You don't look old enough to be eighteen. You lying to me?"

Daniel tried to maintain his confidence. He would still be only sixteen for another six months.

"No Sir, I'm not."

"You ever trap before?"

"No Sir, but I learn fast."

"Do you have a horse?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, can you drive a team?"

"Yes, Sir. I've been driving a team since I was ten. I can drive a team to hell and back if that's what you want."

"I suppose you'll make a teamster then. Sign here."

Daniel signed his name on the paper the man pushed in front of him. The man examined his signature, blotted the ink with a rolling blotter, and then looked back up at Daniel.

"We start on Monday. Go down to the docks, Pier seven, and see Jonas. He'll tell you what you need, and sell it to you if you don't have it."

"I don't have any money."

The man smiled.

"Jonas will take the cost out of your pay when you get back. Be at the same docks at daylight on Monday. If you're not there, you stay behind."

The rifle he got wasn't new as he'd hoped. It was an 1803 Harper's Ferry, but it was in good condition, or so Jonas had said, and with the short barrel and stock, it looked almost like the real mountain rifles he saw older men carrying. Daniel didn't argue about the five dollar cost, though five dollars seemed like a lot of money. Jonas had laughed and said just three beaver pelts would pay for the rifle and then some.

The knife was only a dollar and the handle scales were just wood, but it was sharp and Jonas said he'd never send a man into the wilderness with a knife that wouldn't hold an edge.

By the time he'd been issued a powder flask and five pounds of powder, spare flints, a bullet pouch, bullet mold, and ten pounds of lead, canteen, and another set of clothing, Daniel was in debt to the tune of thirty dollars. In his father's whole life, he'd never had thirty dollars all at one time. Daniel only hoped what Jonas had said was true, that he could earn a hundred a year if he learned how to trap well.

What Daniel found after the long march to the north and west was what he knew to be his calling in life. It was a hard life, what with wading in freezing streams to retrieve trapped beavers, going hungry when no game was to be found, and putting up with the Indians, but it was a life he loved.

Every day was different, and presented a different challenge. Some days it was the disappointment of walking a trap line and finding no sprung traps. Some days it was walking the same trap line, and finding so many beaver he'd staggered under the load getting them back. Some days it was just sitting in the cabin he'd helped build with the four other men in his trapping party and hoping the firewood would last until the blizzard stopped. Some days it was walking through fresh snow that nearly blinded him with the reflected sun rays as he tracked a deer or an elk..

Daniel had loved it all, even facing a charging grizzly bear as he'd done once, except for the Indians. The Piegan's, or Blackfeet, as the experienced trappers called them, had raided the camps at regular intervals over the three years. Daniel had at first been afraid during the attacks, but after one of his trapping party was killed, the fear turned to hatred for the Piegans in particular, and for all Indians in general. He seldom missed with his rifle, and several had gone down with one of his lead balls in the chest or head.

As well as trapping for furs, the trappers sometimes traded with other, friendly Indians for deer and buffalo hides. The Crows and Salish were reasonably friendly, but Daniel only viewed them with scorn because they seemed stupid. They would trade ten deerskins for a bottle of cheap whiskey and then proceed to get drunk. After that, the price in hides for everything would go up.

They would make their trades and stagger away happy with a few wool blankets, maybe an axe head or two, or a cheap knife that wouldn't hold an edge. A month or so later, they'd be back with more hides and repeat the same mistakes. Daniel knew the traders enjoyed cheating them, and wondered why the Indians didn't understand.

Daniel also wondered at the women of the Crow and Salish. They sometimes came to trade with men he supposed were their husbands. While the men usually dressed in decorated shirts and pants made from deer hides, the women wore plain dresses of other hides. Sometimes the dresses were mountain sheep, sometimes buffalo, and were never decorated. They wore leggings and moccasins also of plain leather.

Their hair was black, a color uncommon in Missouri except among the Negroes, but unlike a Negro woman's tight curls, the Indian women's hair was long and straight. The women wore their hair in two braids, one on each side of their face, and used only a thin lace of leather to secure it.

Daniel's experience with women was slim, but the women at home enjoyed looking their best when going to church or visiting. Indian women seemed not to care how they looked. They just stood behind their husbands and said little during the trades.

Daniel arrived back in St. Louis three years and eight days after leaving. He was paid three hundred and sixty dollars for his three years of work, and felt rich beyond his wildest dreams. That feeling did not rob him of judgement as it did some of his fellow trappers. As soon as they received their gold dollars, they left for the saloons and whorehouses of St. Louis. Daniel used some of his money to purchase two horses, a tall bay gelding and a smaller, but stocky, black mare. He also purchased a saddle and bridle for the gelding and a pack saddle for the mare. Then he rode back to the family farm.

Daniel remembered his mother's worry that he would die in the wilderness. He wanted to show her he was alive and well and had earned money as a trapper. He had another reason for going home as well.

As Daniel had come to realize his love for the wilderness, a plan had begun to take shape in his mind. The fur company had paid him half of the amount his share of furs brought in the market in St. Louis. In return, he'd given the fur company three years of his life.

While he had loved those three years, it was the fur company expedition leader who determined where they would trap and what animals they sought. That meant beaver, but there were other animals whose fur was in demand and commanded higher prices. He'd seen that demand during the trades with the Indians. For the same item, it cost less in hides if those hides were pine marten or fisher than if they were beaver.

Ashley, the owner of the fur company had declined to send more expeditions to the mountains. Instead, he would send teamsters and traders to the Cache Valley in the spring, and trade for furs with the trappers and Indians, then take the furs back to St. Louis for sale. Daniel intended to return to the mountains and trap on his own. He would still trap beaver, but he'd set traps for marten and fisher along with his beaver traps.

His parents didn't recognize him at first. Daniel's hair fell down over the buckskin shirt and almost covered his shoulders, and his beard hid almost all of his face. Once he spoke, though, his mother hugged him until he could barely breathe, and then set about fixing the meal that had been his favorite. His father shook his hand, and said he'd not had any doubt that Daniel would return.

He knew his mother and father would not like the real reason for his trip home. Daniel didn't intend to return to Missouri, ever. This would be the last time they would see him. He enjoyed what he remembered as one of the few things he would miss in the future -- his mother bustling around her kitchen cooking for them and singing as she did -- and tried to think of a gentle way to tell them.

The next morning, he told them of his decision. It was difficult, but Daniel knew it was the only decision he could make. His mother burst into tears, and hugged him to her breast. His father didn't do anything except to shake his hand and say the farm would be there if trapping didn't work out.

Three days later, Daniel was riding north and west up the length of the Missouri. Hung on both sides of the mare's pack saddle were panniers filled with gun powder, lead, coffee, corn meal, salt, traps, and ten pounds of large spikes he'd use in building his cabin. One pannier also carried six wool blankets, a dozen axe heads and a dozen knives he bought to trade with the Indians.

In the scabbard under his left stirrup sat the Harper's Ferry rifle he'd taken on his first trip to the mountains. Cradled in the scabbard under the right was the Hawken rifle he'd purchased with most of the money he had left after buying his supplies.

The Hawken was lighter than the Harper's Ferry, and had a reputation for being more reliable than any other rifle made. Though the Hawken was smaller in caliber, fifty for the Hawken and fifty four for the Harper's, Hawkens were more accurate than most other rifles. Daniel had learned that accuracy was more important than caliber. Many of the shots at mule deer and elk that he'd missed over the past three years were at long range. The Hawken had a vernier sight and set triggers. Those improvements would put meat in his cache better than the Harper's and the Hawken was easier to carry and swing quickly in the trees.

On a leather thong around his neck was a "large cent" coin. The coin had been given to his mother by her grandfather for good luck when she married his father. His father had pierced the copper coin and strung it on the thong so Daniel could keep it close to his heart. His mother said he should give it to his wife when he found one so she would have good luck too.