CHAPTER XX.

THE MOUNTAIN REGION OF NEVADA.

Mount Davidson, of which frequent mention has been made, was originally called “Sun Peak.” This was the name given it by the early miners of Gold Cañon—Old Virginia, Comstock, O’Riley, and the other pioneers of the country. It was a very appropriate name, as the towering granite peak reaching far above all others about it is the first to be lighted by the morning sun and the last on which rest his evening rays.

The mountain was given its present name in honor of the late Donald Davidson, of San Francisco, who in the early days purchased the ores of the Ophir and other companies on the Comstock, sending them to England for reduction. On one of his trips to Virginia, Donald Davidson accompanied a party of men to the summit of the mountain. On their return to the town it was unanimously agreed that the tall peak which they had that day scaled should be called Mount Davidson.

Half a score of the hardy miners whose camps were pitched along the lead had accompanied Mr. Davidson up the mountain, and while on their way a number of quartz veins of more or less promising appearance were found. In the evening, while in a saloon, talking over the events of the day, it was thought that it would not be a bad idea to locate some of the ledges they had seen. The charge was then fifty cents per name for recording a claim of two hundred feet on a ledge. A man called “Joe Bowers,” but probably not the original “Joe” immortalized by the poet, took the lead in making out the notices and arranging for the recording. Joe swore that all the ledges they had seen were immensely rich—millions in them!—and would make the fortune of any man who had an interest in any one of them. As the names were mentioned and written down on the notices, Joe called for “four-bits.” This must be put up, in order that it might be handed over to the recorder of the district the first thing in the morning.

Donald Davidson would say: “Well, here is Mr. A., a neighbor of mine in San Francisco, and a very worthy man; suppose we put him down for a claim in this mine?”

“All right, Mr. Davidson,” Joe would cry, “all right, sir; put up for him and in he goes!”

“Then there is Mr. B., a friend of mine and a worthy fellow; we might put him down.”

“All right, Mr. Davidson,” cried Joe, who cared not how long the string of names might be, provided each name were represented in his pocket by a half-dollar, “down he goes!”

All the notices were finally made out, and all the half-dollars paid in. Joe was to attend to the recording the first thing in the morning, but that night he struck a “little game of draw,” and to this day those claims have not been recorded—at least not by Joseph.

As the leads upon the side of Mount Davidson have turned out, it was no doubt a fortunate thing for the old Scotchman’s “worthy friends” that Joe found his “little game.” The height of Mount Davidson above the level of the sea is 7,775 feet, and the altitude of C street, the principal business street in Virginia City, is 6,205 feet. Thus, it will be seen, the peak of the mountain towers to the height of 1,570 feet above the town. As the city stands on the eastern face of the mountain, the sunsets in Virginia are rather early. In winter the sun sinks behind the top of Mount Davidson about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when the city lies in shadow and it at once begins to grow cold. The altitude of the place is so great that, at any season, when clouds obscure the sun and shut out his rays it rapidly becomes cold. During the summer, however, clouds are seldom seen—weeks and weeks pass without a cloudy day. In order to have the benefit of the sun in winter, until a late hour each day, a Washoe genius once proposed to run a large tunnel through the peak of Mount Davidson. Through this tunnel he proposed to bring the light and heat of the sun after it had gone down behind the mountain. As he could not expect the sun to shine directly through the tunnel at all points in his course down to the western horizon, our inventor proposed to set at the western terminus of his tunnel a huge mirror, moved by clock-work, which should pour the rays of the sun in a constant stream through the tunnel. At the eastern terminus was to be placed a large receiving mirror, which should catch the rays coming through the tunnel and throw them to a distributing mirror down in the town, and from this the sunlight would be reflected throughout the town by smaller mirrors placed at proper points on all the streets. Although this grand scheme was much admired, capital—which is proverbially timid—could never be found to begin the work.

There is a grand view from the summit of Mount Davidson. On a clear day the eye reaches hundreds of miles in many directions. The Sierra Nevada Mountains, twenty-five miles away to the west, and extending north and south as far as the eye can reach, form a magnificent panorama of wild mountain scenery, embracing hundreds of tall snowy peaks and dark, pine-clad ridges reaching upwards toward naked granite towers. To the southward along the great range, the peaks are taller and more imposing than those rising along the northern part of its course. To the southward, then, we turn and see at the distance of from forty to seventy-five or eighty miles, scores of massive peaks standing stately and clearly defined against the sky. Seen when robed from head to foot in glittering snow, these peaks present a particularly striking appearance. They may easily be imagined an army of giants marching up from the desert wilds of Arizona in meandering array.

Far away the tail of this procession of the peaks is seen to sweep miles on miles to the eastward, while above the white hoods of the giants forming this lagging curve, is dimly discerned through the haze a hint of heads in the still more distant rear, swinging back to the west and falling, as it were, into the general line of march to the northward. All above, beyond, and about the giant army, looks so settled, calm, and silent that one is awed into all manner of weird imaginings in regard to its motionless march. These mighty peaks are impressive at any time, but when they come before us in procession robed in their trailing shrouds they set us to thinking ponderous, solemn thoughts that we don’t more than half like. The view to the eastward is unobstructed for over one hundred miles, and by its vastness and its stern ruggedness is made imposing and grand, though but a region of rocky sterile mountains and broad deserts crested over with salt and alkaline exudations from the sandy and bitter soil.

Far as the eye can range, not a tree, not a house, not a sign of life is seen. All is as dead, and as arid and wrinkled in death, as the valleys and the mountains of the moon. On this side—the east—clinging along the face of the mountain, we see below us Virginia City; turning again to the west, Washoe Lake is seen shimmering almost at the base of the peak on which we stand, its waves washing the feet of the hills that flank the Sierras. Where we stand, on the narrow circle of granite forming the apex of the mountain, is planted a tall flag-staff on which, upon each recurrence of the natal day of the nation, the Stars and Stripes are unfurled. The flag is run up during the night, by a man who is annually sent to the top of the mountain on this errand, and those who turn their eyes toward the peak, on the morning of the 4th of July, will always see the flag of their country floating there through the “dawn’s early light.”

On the occasion of the total eclipse of the moon, which occurred on the night of October 24, 1874, it was not only cloudy at Virginia City, but there prevailed a furious and blinding snow-storm. Not a glimpse of the heavens or of the rising moon could be obtained when evening set in. Not to lose a spectacle so grand as a total eclipse of the moon, I determined to make the ascent of Mount Davidson and so reach a point above the clouds. Accompanied by half a dozen friends, I started a few minutes before 8 o’clock in the evening, and, pressing upward through the fast-falling snow, and through the dense cloud-mass, which we entered on the upper slopes of the mountain, at 10 o’clock we reached the topmost peak, and to our delight found that we at last stood above the clouds and the storm.

It was one of the grandest sights ever witnessed by mortals. As far as the eye could reach, on all sides, stretched a level sea of clouds. All the surrounding mountains were shut—all the lower world was hidden; all but the extreme point of the bare granite peak on which we stood, a little island some fifty feet in circumference, with the tall flag-staff standing in its centre. High above, the full moon shone in splendor, and in all quarters of the heavens the stars twinkled brightly. The air was keen and frosty, but we were provided with blanket-overcoats and mufflers.

For some minutes after rising out of the sea of clouds in which we had so long been enveloped, our little party stood at the foot of the flag-staff and gazed on all around in speechless awe. It almost seemed that we had left the world. Our little island appeared to be all that remained of earth. Hundreds of miles on all sides, as it looked to us, stretched a smooth and level sea of pearl. In the distance this appeared to be motionless, but nearer it all moved slowly and majestically from west to east, while, at the same time, a peculiar swaying up and down was seen as it passed along. On and along the crests of these cloud-waves, or rather cloud-swells, were observed to run and faintly flicker such tints as are seen in mother-of-pearl. All this was very beautiful, but with it came a sense of isolation from the world—a feeling of loneliness that was most depressing. However, as the moon began to enter the shadow of the earth there were so many and such wonderful changes in the appearance of all about us, that our loneliness and littleness were forgotten.

The sea about us, which before had shown only the tints of the pearl, now took on the hue of amber, but still floated past and gently waved up and down as had the sea of pearl. As the obscuration progressed, the more distant portions of the cloud-sea changed from amber to brown, and this to black, gradually closing in upon us from all sides, but most from the northward. In our immediate neighborhood all had changed from amber to a deep burnt-sienna tinge. So deep and decided was this tint that at one time, for the space of some minutes, it seemed to pervade the whole atmosphere; our clothing partook of it, and the flag-staff near which we stood looked like a great rod of rusty iron.

During this dark stage a heavy breeze sprang up, and the swells in the vaporous sea surrounding us were tossed far higher than before. At times these billows rolled many feet above our heads, and the eclipse being then nearly total, we were sometimes, for minutes, left in midnight darkness, and but for the lanterns we had carried up the mountain, and which were standing at the foot of the flag-staff, we could not have seen our hands when held before our faces. But these waves of darkness seldom lasted more than two or three minutes, and we had, from first to last, an imposing and deeply impressive view of the eclipse. It is probable that a total eclipse of the moon was never before observed under precisely such circumstances as was this by our little party, standing on a mountain peak above the clouds. As the eclipse passed off, about the same phenomena were observed above and about us as in its coming on.

Being chilled to the very marrow in our bones, we left the top of the mountain, however, while nearly half the face of the moon was still obscured. Taking a last lingering look at all about us, observing that our cloud-sea was again assuming the hue of amber and that the horizon was widening and brightening in all directions, as the light spread abroad and drove back the brown and the more distant black, we plunged down into the thick cloud-stratum, and, guided by the light of our lanterns, made the best of our way down the bed of a huge gorge in the face of the mountain, and went back into the city. Strange as it may appear to some, we found it much warmer in the midst of the clouds and drifting snow than above on the summit of the mountain. Not one of the party will ever forget that total eclipse of the moon, seen from old Mount Davidson’s topmost height, nearly 8,000 feet above the level of the sea.

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