Chapter VI: San Luis Park

The plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air.
--TENNYSON.

San Luis Park, exceeding in size the State of Connecticut, is identified with the earliest and most romantic history of Colorado. It was here that brave old pioneer, Colonel Zebulon Pike, established his winter quarters almost a century ago, and was captured by the Mexican forces, for at that time all this region was Spanish territory. It was here the northernmost habitations of the Mexican people, the ranches at Conejos, Del Norte, and all along between, were placed, and so became the first farms in what now is Colorado. Here were pastured the first herds and flocks of the early settlers, and the great Maxwell grant, whose ownership has been the subject of so much litigation, included a large portion of this park. To this region, long ago Governor Gilpin directed the attention of immigrants, and lauded it as the "garden of the world." Gardening is practicable here, without doubt; but colonists have found other parts of the State so much more favorable, that, in spite of its superior advertising, the park has kept nearly its pristine innocence of agriculture outside of the old Mexican estates along the principal streams.

That Colorado can ever produce cereals enough for the sustenance of a large population is doubtful. The great rarity and dryness of the atmosphere; the light rainfall, and almost instant disappearance of moisture; the large proportion of alkaline constituents in the earth, and the climate caused by great altitude, seem to handicap this region when compared with the Mississippi valley or the Pacific coast. By irrigation only, can agriculture thrive in this State; and the amount of arable land that can be cultivated without enormous expenditure for irrigating canals can hardly be considered wide enough to long supply the local population, which increases faster than the acreage under the plow is extended. The nature of the soil, and the effect of the short, hot seasons, under careful regularity of watering, combine, however, to make the product of Colorado farms extremely heavy to the acre, and of the finest quality in every article grown.

"The San Luis valley," says a recent report to the Government, "bears witness to the wealth of the produce returned by the soil under proper cultivation. In following up the Rio Grande, the Mexicans ascended divers tributary waters, and upon these and along the main river can their apologies for farms be seen. Generally content with simple existence, but little variety in the products of their land is observed. The turning of the earth with oxen and a sharpened stick, the threshing by flail and trampling under foot, and the crushing of the grain between stones, can be so frequently seen, that the charm of novelty is lacking and one's curiosity is soon satiated. Progress is not their hope or desire, and, content to eke out a bare subsistence, their ambition does not extend beyond a _baile_, or the tripping of the 'light fantastic,' with surroundings that are here, as a rule, far from enchanting.

"Their cultivation of the ground tells of eastern origin and traditions, and is by irrigation from _acequias_ or canals. Smaller ditches at intervals lead out from the main, and furrows of earth of varying height, connected thereto, are raised at stated points parallel to one another, cutting up the entire area into many patches nearly square and of small extent. With the planting of the seed and the main ditch filled, all the smaller outlets and various sections being simultaneously overflowed, the entire area is carefully submerged, the little furrows confining the water in each section. To the inexperienced farmer, the first successful irrigation of his land is a matter of considerable labor and pains. Besides the thorough moistening of the earth, obtained by the gradual settling of the waters, a fertilizing process is at the same time ensured. These streams carry in solution much rich and valuable material from the denudation of sections drained in their passage, which is left in deposit like a substratum of manure. The latter is never used, the farmer depending on irrigation for the supply of those constituents extracted from the soil in the growth of produce.

"The Rio Grande descends from seven thousand seven hundred and fifty feet at Del Norte, to seven thousand four hundred on leaving the State for New Mexico. Upon its western side numbers of locations are along the Piedra Pintada, which sinks a few miles from the Rio Grande, the Alamosa and La Jara, but chiefly along the Conejos, the most thickly settled of all its tributaries; upon the eastern side are the Trinchera, Culebra, Costilla, the Culebra above San Luis being on this side the seat of largest habitation. In the upper part of San Luis valley is situated the finest land of the section, with the mountain range encircling it upon the east, north and west. Exposed only upon the south, whence do not come the heavy snow storms and coldest winds, it contains the best lands for cereal and other productions. Drained by the San Luis creek, and the Saguache, its tributary, the ranchmen who have located along the streams have been rewarded for their labor by very abundant crops of all kinds. Throughout the valley large herds of cattle find ample sustenance, the property mainly of Americans, while numerous flocks of sheep of Mexican ownership, are driven to and fro. The valley of the Conejos, with its affluents, San Antonio and Los Pinos creeks, is a most fertile region. Several miles east of Conejos, during the highest stages of the rivers, in June, water from the San Antonio finds its way into the former river above the latter's mouth, forming an island. This section is especially rich, and there exists almost a natural irrigation, the Mexican ranchmen raising large crops of all kinds at the cost of but little labor therefor.

"The Alamosa and La Jara, during the lower parts of their courses upon the plains, run side by side. At the foothills they diverge, the head of the Alamosa being in the northwest, its course throughout in a generally narrow and very deep cañon, while the upper waters of the La Jara are due west. All the portions of the former that are available for agriculture, are its banks on the plain and a short part of its cañon-valley within the foothills, upon which the Mexican ranches are found. Upon the La Jara are a few more Americans than upon the former the ranch-owners being mainly, however, of Mexican descent. A tributary is called by the geographer North Fork, but is locally known as Aguas Calientes or Hot Springs Creek, and where its land is represented as suitable for grazing only, it is found in reality to be adapted to the agriculture of the Mexicans, ranches at intervals being passed along its banks.

"The entire course of the La Jara may be likened in its direction to a huge frying-pan in outline, the long handle upon the plain extending to the Rio Grande, the basin within the foothills to its source. Before reaching the plains the stream flows to the south, east, and north, the latter part in a steep, precipitous cañon, strewed with basaltic, which the road avoids. This road, built by the county over a natural route, is in good order, and affords the residents of the lower river easy access to its upper part, which, as we ascend and pass over the intervening rolling foothills, we find within a lovely valley, called by the Mexicans _El Valle_, to which they resort for hay. The volcanic rocks strewn along the foothills, well timbered with piñon, we leave behind us as we descend into the valley, a basin eroded from the general plateau by the waters of the stream, which has cut for itself, in its lower and more rapid descent, a small but impassable cañon. This valley, several miles long and of a varying width of from three-fourths to one and a half miles, is a beautiful spot, and has been located upon by several persons for cattle ranches. The grazing is very fine, and so nearly level is the land, that the stream, here small and at its headwaters, pursues a most tortuous course. Trout are found more abundantly than at any other point."

While we can scarcely compliment the syntax of the report above quoted, the facts are trustworthy.

Fairly out into the valley, where Ute creek, Sangre de Cristo, and one or two other streamlets unite to form the Trinchera, stands an old military post, Fort Garland. In one of the cañons near by was a still older one, Fort Massachusetts, now abandoned or used only as a cavalry cantonment when a larger body of troops is assembled here than there are barracks for. In 1852 and 1856, the dates when the two forts respectively were founded, the Indians--Utes, Apaches, Comanches, and Navajoes--were all troublesome, and the men were kept very busy in scouting, if not in resisting attacks. Now the crumbling buildings of adobe shelter only a score or so of men, and serve merely as a depot of supplies, a large amount of government stores being guarded here. Fort Garland is a pretty place, and from it will be likely to make his start anybody who wishes to ascend old Sierra Blanca, the loftiest peak in Colorado, whose triple head stands grandly opposite and near the railway; the United States Geological Survey is his sole predecessor.

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Long ere this we had become domesticated in our cars, and now I may digress sufficiently to jot down a little description of them. As I have said, there were three, and we spoke of them as our "train." The first was a parlor-car. It usually ran in the rear, and gave us the advantage of a lookout behind, something worth having among the mountains. This car was not homelike enough to suit us, however, so we rarely occupied it, when we were stationary, except as a bedroom for our masculine guests. But when running, this car was our resort. Into it we would hustle the Madame's sewing-basket and fancy work, a lot of books and papers, spy-glasses, wraps, and luncheon, and have the gayest of times as we sped along, unconfined by limited space, unsolicitous about baggage or appearances, unannoyed by other passengers, and above all, thank heaven! safe from the peanut-boy. If we were to run at night we converted it into a sleeper. Curtains were hung up at intervals, making staterooms; easy chairs were faced, a stool placed between them, then a mattress spread across, forming a capital bed; or else we simply cleared a place on the floor, spread our mattresses down, and camped. Usually both methods were followed by different occupants. It was snug, there was good ventilation, and we slept such slumbers as seemed to prove us in the poet's category of the "just." Where a long stay was made, cots were set up, and the car became a bed-room exclusively. I doubt whether our porter enjoyed it, though, as much as we. He rarely rode upon its easy springs, and he had a constant fight with circumstances to keep it neat.

The other two sections of our train were box cars, fresh from the shops, and of the most improved pattern. All through the trip, I may say in advance, they rode splendidly, though often attached to express trains which rattled them along at twice the speed the maker ever intended. Each of these cars had a door cut in one end, and these door-way ends were placed in juxtaposition and remained so always. At first two elaborate platforms were hinged to one of the cars, bridging the space between them; but they were smashed on almost the first curve, after which we laid a series of boards down from one buffer-head to the other and took them up whenever we moved--that is, if the porter didn't forget it, or get left. Here comes in the chronicle of our steps, the portable stairway by which we ascended and descended to and from our elevated house; _sed revocare gradus_,--"but to recall those steps" in their entirety would, I fear, be a hopeless task. The first set we had fell under the wheels and immediately became of no further interest to us. Then our invaluable forager found this second set, and thereby saddled himself with a responsibility he never could shake off. The whole Denver and Rio Grande railway corporation seemed to be bent on their destruction. Time fails me to tell of the numberless occasions when they were apparently crushed by some jar of the cars, as they stood in position at a station, and of the wrenchings that required a new hammering and more spikes to correct. But watched jealously by the porter, and lashed securely on the end of the car when we moved, they survived it all, and gave us _facilis decensus_ from first to last.

One of these box-cars became kitchen and commissary office. A partition was thrown across one-third of the distance from the end, forming a room for our porter and also a place of storage for our supplies. There was everything in there, from a pepper-box to a mattress, and from a lamp-chimney to a Winchester rifle. It had a table which might have been let down, two windows, and sundry racks and clothes-hooks. The remaining two-thirds of the car was devoted to the kitchen. One corner contained a monstrous ice-chest, and opposite it stood a huge wood-and-coal box, which it was the constant ambition of our boy to keep piled with kindling stuff almost to the ceiling; the result being, that frequently his improvised racks would come to pieces with the jarring of some rapid run, and the fuel be heaped up "mighty promiscuous" on the floor. The other corners of the kitchen held a fair-sized cooking-stove, securely bolted, and, lastly, an iron water-tank, as large as a barrel and mounted on a stand. With this water-tank we had a long contest. The face of our first colored cook, never much more cheerful than the big end of a coffin, took on a doubly rueful aspect at the conclusion of our first day out. The tank had been well filled before starting, but the cover fitted so loosely that half a barrel or so of the liquid splashed out, and the floor of the car was like a little sea. The Photographer generously sacrificed a blanket to spread across underneath the cover, and we were careful afterward not to fill the tank quite to the top; but it always shot jets and sprays down the back of your neck when you least expected, if you went near it when in motion. Then one day the faucet burst, and deluged the place with a stream like that from a hose-pipe. Next it fell to leaking, and so to the end of the trip we had that persistently mischievous tank to contend with. Beside the stove stood a narrow cupboard, the top of which was intended to be the kitchen-table; but we found water leaking through into the flour, etc., underneath, and so built another table, hinging it to the opposite side of the car, between the tank and the fuel box. There were plenty of shelves and racks; and, the two side-doors having been fastened shut, the walls of the car were soon garnished with all sorts of wares that could be hung up. After a week it was learned how to stow everything so well that almost no breakage occurred.

The dining-car was exactly similar in size, twenty-four feet long by seven feet wide. It had four windows, and we used to slide back the great doors on one or both sides when the weather was warm and pleasant. If cool or stormy we locked them, wedged them tight and caulked the cracks, yet could never quite keep out the gales. The wind, I found, bloweth not only where "_it_ listeth," but also where _I_ listed. We thought it a very cheerful place, as we entered this snug home--for it was the "living-room" of the train--after a hard tramp, or gathered about the dinner table in the strong rays of mail lamps, and the softer light from railway candles. The gayly striped _portiére_ shutting off the Madame's little nook of a bed-room at the rear end of the car; the bright oilcloth that covered the floor; the rich oak-brown of the paint on the door-frames, wainscoting, and stanchions that at frequent intervals supported the roof; the ruddy glow of the Turkey-red cloth filling all the panels, and the pictures, books, Indian pottery, burnished firearms and bits of decoration here and there, made a picture that never lost its cheer and air of comfort. Here were my friendly books and writing-desk, with all the little literary appliances, and pigeon-holes full of manuscript, memoranda and correspondence. Here was the easy chair behind the spindle-shaped, upright stove. Here was the Madame's rocking-chair and her work-stand, while the parted curtains let us peep into a diminutive but carefully convenient boudoir just behind her. Here stood her wardrobe--a trunk which lost its identity under the warm zigzags of a Navajo blanket; and here our hospitable dining-table, around which, perched on camp-stools, we ate good food with royal appetites, drank red wine with keen delight, and summoned all the imps of fun to laugh with us over quips and quirks to which, no doubt, the mad spirit of the day lent more wit than the brains of their makers. Shakespeare says,--

"A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it."

Here work was done, too. Have I not seen the Madame busily sewing, and quiet? Did not the Artist often paint, I know not how long, without speaking?--I know not how long because I was so intent upon shaping this chronicle you read. If our trip had been all picnic and void of serious purpose, we should not have enjoyed it half so well. Charles Lamb asked pettishly,--

"Who first invented work, and bound the free
And holiday-rejoicing spirit down?"

But surely our holiday was fraught with a deeper zest, because our not too onerous duties now and then encroached upon our pleasures, and so made us value merry times the higher.

Well, now you may understand how and where we lived, and moved, and had our work and play. It was a warm, snug, handsome home and office, bed-chamber and kitchen on wheels. There were little hardships and annoyances, no doubt, but why remember them? _Le diable est mort!_

* * * * *

The railway down San Luis Park is straight as a surveyor's line, and trains often run at a high rate of speed with perfect safety. At Alamosa it halted in construction for a long time. The town then became the forwarding point for all southern Colorado and New Mexico. Very large commission houses were placed there, enormous trains of wagons and pack mules were coming and going, stages left daily for Lake City and Gunnison, Saguache and Pitkin, Tierra Amarilla and the lower San Juan, Taos and Santa Fe, and the vim and excitement of an outfitting station prevailed. But presently the railway moved southward and westward, and Alamosa settled down into a quiet yet prosperous place, with a local agricultural population to back it, and the headquarters of the second division of the railway which extends to--to--well _towards_ Mexico.

Twenty-nine miles south of Alamosa is Antonito, where the line branches off to the San Juan country. The town is supported by the money the railway and the passengers spend, and is quite uninteresting; but over to the westward is the larger and older village of Conejos, which is better, though "distance lends enchantment." Conejos means _hares_: probably the Mexican pioneers found a superfluity of jack rabbits there. The place has been a farming and grazing center of supplies for many years. Along Conejos creek are numerous small Mexican ranches, good enough types of their sort (we shall find far better ahead), but the town itself has been Americanized until its claim to being a Mexican plaza is about lost; nor have the innovations added to its interest in any degree. In a real Mexican town, for example, the church is always an entertaining place to visit, because it is ruinously ancient and strange; but here the large, well-conditioned structure has been roofed, painted and modernized until it is not worth a glance except from the point of comfort and security from decay. Annexed to it is an academy for boys, and another for girls, both under the charge of priests and nuns of the Roman Catholic Church. These schools have no counterparts among the Mexicans nearer than Santa Fe, and have a wide reputation.

Lacking interest for the tourist, the practical man will learn that Conejos is a very fair business place in certain lines. It is the headquarters of the sheep and cattle men of the San Luis Park. In sheep, I learn that although about two hundred and fifty thousand are sold out of the park annually, fully five hundred thousand are left. The large majority of these are of the inferior sort called Mexican sheep, which are worth from one dollar to one dollar and twenty-five cents a head. The better minority sell at one dollar and fifty cents and two dollars a head, and this minority is increasing through a constant effort to improve the breed by introducing highly-bred Merino and Cotswold rams. The average yield is two and a half pounds of wool annually, and the product is shipped almost entirely to Philadelphia, for use in making carpets. Cattle is less an industry here, because the sheep are so numerous as to consume most of the pasturage. Something like ten thousand head, however, are able to exist in the park and adjacent foothills, and are sold to great advantage.

Nearly midway between Alamosa and Antonito, and easterly, but within sight of the railway, the Mormon settlements of Manassa and Ephraim have been founded, and have now a population of about six hundred. These people do not practice polygamy, and are frugal, industrious and prosperous. They are under the jurisdiction of the church in Utah, which also maintains similar colonies in the corners of Arizona and New Mexico adjacent to the Utah and Colorado line.