00
feet, we saw at last Estes Park, lying 1,500 feet below in the glory of
the setting sun, an irregular basin, lighted up by the bright waters of
the rushing Thompson, guarded by sentinel mountains of fantastic shape
and monstrous size, with Long's Peak rising above them all in
unapproachable grandeur, while the Snowy Range, with its outlying spurs
heavily timbered, come down upon the park slashed by stupendous canyons
lying deep in purple gloom. The rushing river was blood red, Long's
Peak was aflame, the glory of the glowing heaven was given back from
earth. Never, nowhere, have I seen anything to equal the view into
Estes Park. The mountains "of the land which is very far off" are very
near now, but the near is more glorious than the far, and reality than
dreamland. The mountain fever seized me, and, giving my tireless horse
one encouraging word, he dashed at full gallop over a mile of smooth
sward at delirious speed.

But I was hungry, and the air was frosty, and I was wondering what the
prospects of food and shelter were in this enchanted region, when we
came suddenly upon a small lake, close to which was a very trim-looking
log cabin, with a flat mud roof, with four smaller ones; picturesquely
dotted about near it, two corrals,[13] a long shed, in front of which a
steer was being killed, a log dairy with a water wheel, some hay piles,
and various evidences of comfort; and two men, on serviceable horses,
were just bringing in some tolerable cows to be milked. A short,
pleasant-looking man ran up to me and shook hands gleefully, which
surprised me; but he has since told me that in the evening light he
thought I was "Mountain Jim, dressed up as a woman!" I recognized in
him a countryman, and he introduced himself as Griffith Evans, a
Welshman from the slate quarries near Llanberis. When the cabin door
was opened I saw a good-sized log room, unchinked, however, with
windows of infamous glass, looking two ways; a rough stone fireplace,
in which pine logs, half as large as I am, were burning; a boarded
floor, a round table, two rocking chairs, a carpet-covered backwoods
couch; and skins, Indian bows and arrows, wampum belts, and antlers,
fitly decorated the rough walls, and equally fitly, rifles were stuck
up in the corners. Seven men, smoking, were lying about on the floor,
a sick man lay on the couch, and a middle-aged lady sat at the table
writing. I went out again and asked Evans if he could take me in,
e