Yarns Of Western Ways
Short Stories BY
Leo Vargason
The Great West
November 21, 1968
Somewhere between the Mississippi River and the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains, the Great West begins. Some people say it starts at the Mississippi, others say that the Missouri is the line that divides the east and west. No one has ever seen the line, nor can anyone tell exactly where it lies. But somewhere, at a river or a range of hills or a fence line or a highway, the Great West begins and stretches onward to the Pacific Ocean.
What’s so great about the Great West? Size, for one thing. It stretches westward across the rolling plains, climbs upward through the foothills of the Rockies to the Continental Divide, then soars onward to its sudden drop into the Pacific. From the southern border of Canada, it stretches southward to Mexico’s northern line. That’s a sizeable chunk of land in anybody’s language. East of the Rockies, vast and open grassy plains, treeless and rolling like a great restless sea, seem to have no end. Once those plains were known only to the animals that fed upon the grass, the other animals that fed upon the grass eaters, and the roaming Indians. Other men came, conquered the Indians, slaughtered and scattered the animals, built railroads and highways and cities and towns, fenced the land into farms and ranches, and harnessed the flowing streams. But even their accomplish-ments are dwarfed by the vastness of the plains.
West of the highest plains lie the foothills of the Rockies. To the easterner, they look like rather small hills, backed up as they are by the towering peaks of the Rockies, but he’ll have more respect for their size when he gets to know them better. They’re hills, all right, but they’re mighty big hills and after one is surmounted, there always seems to be another waiting to be climbed. Where the foothills end and the mountains begin is another line often asked about by the easterner. Does anyone know just where it is? As one old settler said, “I guess there ain’t no line atween ‘em. They’s all mountains, only some’s higher’n others.”
“Some’s higher’n others,” sure enough. Unlike the invisible line that divides the east and the west, and the other line that marks the end of the foothills and the beginning of the mountains, the line between the high mountains and the highest ones is well defined. Timberline, the point on the side of a towering slope where trees, no matter how hardy, must cease to grow, is plain to see. Above it, where the arctic winds and snow squalls can chill and dampen the rocky cliffs even on a pleasant midsummer day, only the hardiest of plants and animals can thrive, or even survive.
Beyond, toward the Pacific from the jagged ridge of the high Rockies, lie miles and miles of wooded hills and pleasant valleys, rocky cliffs and grassy slopes, sandy wastes and salt flats, canyons and buttes, mesas and jagged peaks. For many people, the west is a scary thing. Afraid of the vastness of the plains, some of them feel insecure and lost, like a rowboat afloat upon a limitless sea. Others fear the mountains, with their towering, forbidding cliffs, their almost endless wooded slopes and valleys, their dark and boulder-strewn canyons, their sudden changes from warmth to cold, their gusty winds.
But to many other people the west is a challenge, a beloved place that brings out a desire in them to do great things. Builders of railroads pushed their rails across the plains, probed the canyons, conquered the slopes and even drilled holes through the solid rock to let their railroads through. Other holes, almost unbelievable in their intricacies, were drilled to bring precious metals to the surface, still others bring water from where it is plentiful to where it is needed.
Highways are built to places that were thought by the early explorers to be inaccessible. Narrow roads lead off from the highways to probe deep into the wilderness, and foot trails guide the hardiest adventurers even farther away from civilization. Thousands of people come from the east to see, to admire, to gaze in awe at the wonders of the Great West. They dash from here to there, look awhile, snap a few pictures, and go on to the next “point of interest.” But do they really see the west and get to know it? They see some of it, are awed by its vastness and beauty, perhaps frightened by its heights and depths and distances. As far as they’re concerned, when they’ve seen the widely known “points of interest” they’ve seen the west. They know nothing of the remote canyons, the abandoned mines, the mountain meadows, the empty shells of once thriving towns, the miles of pine and spruce and aspen, teaming with wildlife, that are threaded by dim trails that lead on to who knows what discovery hidden in the hills.
To many of these travelers, their trips across the plains bring only boredom. “It’s all the same,” they say, “mile after mile of the same old thing. It’s as monotonous as anything can be.” They’re unaware of the old Indian and campgrounds, the wagon roads of the pioneers, the sites of battles that raged during the Indian Wars. They see, but take no special notice of, the farms and ranches scattered over the hills and in the valleys and fail to realize that each is a part of someone’s life, each has a history all its own. In a little over a hundred years, many changes have been wrought in the west. It’s been traveled upon and dug and scraped and scarred, climbed over and blasted and plowed and marred. It’s brought wealth to some, health to others, troubles and happiness to many more. Through it all, through summer’s heat and winter’s cold, through sunny days under bright skies, through sudden squalls and showers, and crisp cool nights, it goes on being what it’s always been, the Great West.
This is the Introduction to his book. It has Pencil drawings that were originally crafted for each story by Joe Vargason. There are photos with each story.
If you would like to get a copy please send $15.00 to:
Leo Vargason
6840 W. Ray Ct.
Homossa FL. 34448