The rugged existence of early American frontier trappers was often punctuated by evenings spent gathered around a roaring fire, a cherished tradition known as the trappers’ bivouac. These isolated camps, deep in the wilderness, were not just places of rest but vibrant hubs of storytelling, where tales of daring adventure, narrow escapes, and fantastical encounters were spun under the vast night sky.
The Heart of the Frontier: Life at the Trappers’ Bivouac
For the majority of seasoned trappers and scouts, life on the frontier meant an inexhaustible supply of anecdotes and adventures. These narratives truly came alive at night, after the arduous day’s duties were complete: the traps checked, the beaver skinned, and the precious pelts hung to cure. With a simple supper consumed, men would settle comfortably around their blazing log fires, each indulging in his preferred smoking ritual. While some clung to traditional clay pipes, others, more particular, opted for expensive meerschaums. Many, however, were content with a modest cigarette rolled in a corn husk, a habit famously adopted by the legendary Kit Carson, an inveterate smoker. Often, genuine tobacco was scarce, forcing these hardy individuals to rely on substitutes provided by various Native American tribes, such as the dried, bruised bark of the red willow or the genuine kin-nik-i-nick, a little evergreen vine found atop the highest elevations, known as larb.
Discovering one of these solitary camps during a prolonged hunt was always a rare and cherished treat. Visitors were assured a warm welcome, with the generous inhabitants freely sharing whatever provisions they possessed. The ultimate pleasure, however, unfolded after nightfall, as stories were exchanged beneath the silvery pines, with a canopy of stars glittering overhead. Around the glowing campfire, wondrous tales were passed around, captivating listeners until the late hour signaled it was time to roll into their robes and seek sleep.
The Art of Frontier Storytelling
Imagine yourself transported to a thunder-splintered canyon within the great, rock-ribbed Continental Divide. As night’s shadows creep along the mountains, you seek out one of these sequestered trappers’ bivouacs. Taking your place in the magic circle, you listen intently to the fascinating tales. Nothing disturbs the magnificent silence save the occasional soughing of a fitful breeze through the towering pines or the gentle babbling of a tiny rivulet, its water soothingly flowing over rounded pebbles. The profound charm of such an environment etches its picture onto memory, becoming a gem among life’s most varied experiences.
Old Hatcher: The Legendary Raconteur
Among the most esteemed raconteurs was Old Hatcher, a name synonymous with legendary trapping exploits across the mountains in the late 1840s. Hatcher embodied the Western spirit in his gestures, moods, and dialect, possessing an endless repertoire of amusing and often marvelous stories. It was never difficult to persuade him to recount scenes from his wild, ever-changing life, especially if his spirits were further lifted by a good-sized bottle of whiskey, of which he was inordinately fond. As he spun his yarns, he invariably kept his pipe clamped between his teeth, using his hands to cut fresh tobacco from a solid plug of Missouri leaf whenever his pipe showed signs of exhaustion. His eyes would fix on an imaginary object in the fire’s blaze, his countenance reflecting deep concentration, as if summoning the unfolding tale from the shadowy past—a tale often made more attractive by its sheer improbability.
Hatcher famously declared he had once visited the realms of Pluto, an illusion no one ever succeeded in disabusing him of. His incredible narrative, presented here with its challenging dialect made more readable, begins with a journey to Bent’s Fort.
Hatcher’s Journey to the “Underworld”
“Well!” Old Hatcher began, taking a vigorous pull at his pipe. “I’d been down to Bent’s Fort for powder, lead, and supplies for the buffalo season. I waited a good while for a caravan from the States, and prices were sky-high – a beaver skin for a plug of tobacco, three for a cup of powder, and other trinkets in proportion.” He recalled Jim Finch, an old trapper lost to the Ute, telling him of untouched beaver on the Purgatoire. “So down I go to that canyon, all alone, and set my traps. Next thing, ten Injuns are screeching right after me! I cached, I did, and those red devils made off with my animals. I was mad, but I stayed hidden for an hour or more.”
Bent’s Fort, Colorado by Kathy Alexander.
Later, hearing his mule, Blue, he realized the “’Rapahoes” weren’t as smart as he thought. But the beaver were scared, so he stayed put, starving. Then, a sudden thought struck him—he’d been there before, trading liquor with the Ute. He found his old cache, marked with his butcher knife, and drank the delicious Taos lightning. “I was weaker than a goat in the spring, but that Taos set me right. In four swallows, I decided to head for the Purgatoire headwaters for meat.” He saddled old Blue, tied on his traps, and set off.
The familiar landscape seemed wrong. The bushes were scorched, cedars burnt, rocks smoke-blackened, and the creek dry. He was under the ‘Wa-te-yah’ peaks, their snowy tops a stark contrast to the desolation. He tried to turn back, but Blue, his trusty mule, refused. “I cursed and kicked till I saw blood, but Blue kept going forward. My knife was gone, a ‘Green River’ that wouldn’t come to hand. Some invisible spirit had a paw there, and I knew it was ‘bad medicine’ that trapping time.” He recounted losing his pistol and his Ute wife at Big Horn, swearing to press on, unwilling to be fooled after ten years in the mountains.
Old Trapper.
Hatcher spoke to Blue as if to a man, “Mules are knowing critters—next to humans.” At a sharp corner, Blue snorted, backed her ears, and squealed, rearing in terror. Before them was a black, brown, and gray-walled canyon, with burned piñon stumps threatening to fall. Rocks and trees shook and grated. Hatcher was stuck to his saddle. He struck Blue with his gun, but she dodged. “You didn’t cost more than two blankets, and two blankets ain’t worth more than two beaver skins at Bent’s Fort, two dollars a pair, you consarned ugly picture—darn you, anyhow!” Just then, a laugh. Two black critters appeared, not human, with black tails and red coats, Indian cloth with shiny white edging and brass buttons. They bowed low. Hatcher felt for his scalp knife, but they were too polite. One grinned, “Good morning, Mr. Hatcher!”
“H—!” Hatcher swore. “How do you know me? I never saw you before.” The other replied, “Oh, we’ve expected you a long time and are quite happy to see you. We’ve known you since your arrival in the mountains.” Hatcher grew scared, wishing for a drop of Taos. When he uttered “The devil!”, one screamed, “Hush! You must not say that here—keep still, you will see him presently.” A cold sweat broke out. He tried to pray. “Pshaw! I’m off again. I can’t say it, but if this child could have got off his animal, he’d taken hair and gone down the trail for Purgatoire.”
Trapper.
The long-tailed devils led Blue deeper into the canyon. The walls were smooth as beaver skin, ribbed, the ground covered with cedar bits like a mule graveyard. Overhead, it was roofed, dark save for small holes. Hatcher recognized the place, yet asked no questions. They stopped at a dead wall. No exit. He felt certain his time had come, pulling his hat over his eyes, thinking of trapped beaver, buffalo, poker at Bent’s Fort, feeling comfortable he hadn’t cheated anyone. Suddenly, the canyon brightened. A room with lights, people talking, laughing, fiddles screeching. Hatcher, recalling his preacher’s words about fiddles being the devil’s invention, believed it now.
“Get off your mule, Mr. Hatcher!” a little fellow squeaked. “Get off?!” Hatcher exclaimed, mad as a bull pricked by Comanche lances. “I’ve been trying since I came into this infernal hole!” The imp replied, “You can do so now. Be quick, for the company is waiting.” Everyone stared. Hatcher, riled, declared, “Darn your company. I’ve got to lose my scalp anyhow, no difference to me—but to oblige you—” and he slid off as easily as if never stuck. A hunchback boy took Blue. “Poor Blue! Good-bye, Blue!” Hatcher shouted. The young devil snickered. “Stop your laughing, you hell-cat—if I am alone, I can take you,” Hatcher growled, reaching for his knife, but it was gone—gun, bullet-pouch, and pistol, all lost in a stampede.
He stepped forward with a large, frizzled-haired man as people chattered like paroquets. The man shouted, “Mr. Hatcher, formerly of Wapakonnetta, latterly of the Rocky Mountains.” Hatcher stood bewildered. He tried to bow, but his breeches were too tight, shrunk by the canyon’s heat. He felt for his knife to rip them but remembered it was stolen, so he just bowed his head. A kind-looking, smallish old gentleman, with a black coat, gold spectacles, and a cute face, walked up and pressed Hatcher’s hand softly. “How do you do, my dear friend? I have long expected you. You cannot imagine how pleased I am to meet you at home. I have watched your peregrinations with much interest. Sit down, sit down; take a chair.”
Trappers and Hunters.
Hatcher squirmed, uneasy as a gunshot coyote, on the chair. He preferred the floor, cross-legged, like in camp. He reached for his pipe, but that too was gone. “You wish to smoke, Mr. Hatcher? We will have cigars. Here!” the gentleman called, and cigars were brought on a waiter. Hatcher, thinking them rare, emptied them into his hat, but seeing the old man’s expression, realized his error. “I beg pardon,” he said, scratching my scalp, “this hoss didn’t think—he’s been so long in the mountains he’s forgotten civilized doings,” and offered the hat back. The gentleman waved it off, saying, “Never mind, get others.” He took one, touched his finger to Hatcher’s cigar, and it smoked instantly. “Waugh! the devil!” Hatcher screamed. “The same!” the gentleman chimed in, biting off his own cigar end. “The same, sir.” “The same! what?” “Why—the devil.” “H–l! This ain’t the hollow tree for this coon—I’ll be making medicine,” Hatcher declared, offering his cigar to the sky and earth like an Injun. “You must not do that here—out upon such superstition,” the gentleman said sharply. “Why?” “Don’t ask so many questions—come with me,” he replied, rising and walking off, blowing cigar smoke in a long line, with Hatcher alongside. “I want to show you my establishment—you did not expect to find this down here, eh?”
Hatcher’s breeches were stiff from the canyon’s heat. His host, noticing, rubbed them, and they became soft as when traded from the Pi-Ute on the Gila. Feeling brave, Hatcher walked with him like an old acquaintance. They stopped before a stone door that opened without touch. “Here’s damp powder and no fire to dry it,” Hatcher shouted, stopping. “What’s the matter; do you not wish to perambulate through my possessions?” “This hoss doesn’t say what the human for perambulating is, but I’ll walk plum to the hottest fire in your settlement if that’s all you mean.”
Brown’s Hole cabin.
The place was hot and smelled of brimstone. Amid the screeching, Hatcher spied Jake Beloo, who had trapped with him at Brown’s Hole. Hell-cats pulled at Jake’s ears, jumped on his shoulders, and swung from his long hair, some even running hot irons into him. They scurried to a corner, gibbering like wildcats, as Hatcher approached. Poor Jake looked like a sick buffalo, bones protruding, matted hair, white blisters. “Hatch, old fellow! You here too? How are you?” he croaked, staggering. He looked at the old gentleman behind Hatcher, who gave him such a look that Jake howled, foamed at the mouth, and fell, rolling on the damp stones. A chuckling devil with a hot iron branded Jake’s back. Hatcher yelled, “You audacious little hell-pups, let him alone! If my scalp-taker were here, I’d make buzzard feed of your meat!” They squeaked, “Go to the devil.” “Waugh!” Hatcher exclaimed, “if I ain’t pretty close to his lodge, I’m a n***er!”
The old gentleman, with a soft, kind voice and a calm, devilish smile that nearly froze Hatcher, said, “Take care of yourself, Mr. Hatcher.” Hatcher thought, “You saint-forsaken, infernal hell-chief, how I’d like to stick my knife in your withered old bread-basket.” The gentleman, reading his thoughts, responded, “Ah! My dear fellow, no use trying—that’s a decided impossibility.” Hatcher jumped ten feet, amazed the man knew his unspoken thoughts. “I see your nervous equilibrium is destroyed; come with me.”
At the other side, the old gentleman instructed Hatcher to reach for a brass knob. Suspecting a trick, Hatcher dodged. “Do not be afraid; turn it when you pull; steady; that’s it.” With a final, hesitant pull, the knob yielded. Hatcher felt a dizzying lurch, a sudden, blinding flash, and then, a profound silence. He found himself lying on the rough ground of the Purgatoire canyon, the scorching sun beating down, a half-empty bottle of Taos lightning beside him, and old Blue grazing peacefully nearby. The stench of brimstone was gone, replaced by the scent of parched earth and pine. He staggered to his feet, dazed, realizing the entire hellish ordeal must have been a powerful delirium, brought on by thirst, exhaustion, and the potent liquor. He swore off Taos lightning right then and there, at least until the next time he found himself truly desperate for warmth and courage in the vast, unforgiving wilderness.
The Enduring Legacy of Trapper’s Tales
Old Hatcher’s wild narrative, whether a fevered dream or a genuine brush with the supernatural, perfectly encapsulates the spirit of frontier storytelling. These hyperbolic accounts, often embellished with elements of fear, humor, and the incredible, served multiple purposes for the isolated trappers. They were a form of entertainment, a way to pass the long, dark hours. They were also a means of coping with the harsh realities and dangers of their lives, transforming hardships into grand adventures. Such tales built camaraderie among the men, cementing a shared culture and identity in the vast, untamed American West. The vivid imagery, the robust language, and the sheer audacity of stories like Hatcher’s are a testament to the resilience and imaginative spirit of those who carved a living from the wilderness, making the trappers’ bivouac a crucible for legendary lore.
Conclusion: Echoes from the Wilderness
The campfire stories of the trappers’ bivouac offer a priceless glimpse into the lives, fears, and dreams of the early American frontiersmen. More than simple entertainment, these narratives were integral to their survival, shaping their worldview and fostering a unique cultural heritage. From the practicalities of smoking substitutes to the fantastical journeys of figures like Old Hatcher, these tales paint a vibrant picture of a bygone era. They remind us that even in the most solitary existences, the human need for connection, wonder, and shared experience remains paramount, echoing from the wilderness through the ages.
