here.”
He introduced me. The father was Wakumassee, the son Degamawaku. The mother was called Tihikanima, the older daughter Tenikawaku, the youngest girl was Mikikawaku. Mouthfuls, those names.
The father spoke English, although poorly. The son knew a few words, too. Zach explained that we had just arrived from Bent’s Fort and he was eager to get home. He promised the Nansusequa to bring me over to visit in a day or two.
Presently, we were out of the trees and in the open air, and for the first time I saw King Valley in all its magnificent splendor. I was so dazzled, I again reined up.
The problem with language is that while words can come close to conveying our meaning, they are a poor substitute for the experiences that spawn them. In this instance, my powers of description cannot do King Valley justice. It was magnificent.
But to give you some idea: imagine an immense bowl. The bottom and sides of the bowl were green with grass and woodland. Higher up, where the timber ended, was the brown of earth and rock. Splashes of ivory crowned several of the highest peaks, and to the northwest was the white of a glacier. I asked Zach if he would take me up to see it.
“When elk sprout wings and fly,” was his reply.
“What do you have against glaciers?” I figured he was joking with me.
“Only that they can kill you if you are not careful.”
(I later learned that he and his wife had a harrowing experience when they went up to see it.)
The blue-green of the lake was breathtaking. The water was fed in part by runoff from the glacier. It was refreshingly cold and delicious to the taste, and so clear that I could see the bottom for up to fifty or sixty feet out.
We reined to the north and followed the shoreline. I was gazing out over the lake, noting the variety of waterfowl. There were geese and ducks galore. Scores and scores of them, some of which, unless I was grossly mistaken, were unknown to science. I couldn’t wait to sketch and paint them.
Zach’s cabin appeared to be remarkably well constructed. At my inquiry, he revealed that his father oversaw the work. He spoke with such pride, I gathered that the two of them were exceptionally close.
Zach rode faster. His eyes were on the cabin. He was no doubt hoping for his wife to rush out to greet him, but no one had appeared by the time we drew rein in a cloud of dust. Zach immediately swung down and ran inside, emerging moments later to inform me no one was there.
“She must be at my folks’.”
We left the packhorses in the corral. Zach said we would strip them when we got back. He was so eager to see his beloved, it was humorous. But I did not laugh. Even though we were friends by now, I sensed there were certain things you did not do or say to him.
We headed for his father’s cabin at the west end of the lake, riding at the water’s edge. A dozen or so large white birds caught my attention. I gave a start when I recognized them as trumpeter swans. They were swimming with their heads held high in regal poise. I confess that swans are my favorites, and I made it my first order of business that as soon as I met the rest of Zach’s family, I would retrieve my easel and paints and render the trumpeters on canvas.
I was watching them, entranced by their grace and beauty, when the nearby water, which was quite still since no wind was blowing, suddenly swelled upward as if thrust by some invisible force. I could not believe what I was seeing. The water rose to a height of four or five feet and then swept in a wave toward a flock of mallards. The ducks instantly took wing, quacking in alarm.
“Look there!” I cried, pointing.
Zach glanced around, but he did not show the least bit of interest in the extraordinary phenomenon.
“Don’t you see it?” I excitedly asked. The strange wave was slowly subsiding. It might have been a trick of the light or my imagination, but I would have sworn a large, dark form was just below the surface.
“All the time,” Zach said.
“How is that again?”
“It is the lake monster.”
Chapter Ten
I refused to go on until he explained.
“You know as much as we do,” Zach said. “There is something in the lake. Something big. We see its wake a lot, we see the water rise up as it just did, but we never see the thing that causes it. Not clearly enough to tell what it is.”
“My word,” I marveled.
“The Indians say lake creatures like this one are to be left alone, that to disturb them is bad medicine. Some tribes offer sacrifices, horses and such, so lake creatures will leave them be.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Are you saying this is not the only one? That there are more of these creatures in other lakes?”
Zach nodded. “The Shoshones call them water buffalo but say they are not like buffalo at all. The Nez Perce won’t go near Wallowa Lake for fear of them. Word is, the things are also in that big lake up in Flathead country.”
“But what are they?” I stared out over the lake, hoping to see the swell again.
“Some tribes say they are big snakes. The Nez Perce think they’re giant crayfish or lobsters.”
“That’s absurd,” I said.
“Ask them yourself if you don’t believe me. They have a legend that these things used to come out of Wallowa Lake at night from time to time to kill animals and people.” Zach paused. “It gets even stranger. Although the Nez Perce swear the creatures are lobsters, they say the things have flippers.”
“Flippers?”
“There is another lake off in Oregon Country where these giant lobsters are supposed to live,” Zach related. “The lake is in an extinct volcano, or so I have been told.”
I did not know what to make of it, but I determined to always keep one eye on the lake. “Do you believe these tales, yourself?”
Zach shrugged. “I don’t dismiss them out of hand, like most whites do. “The NunumBi turned out to be true, so why not lake monsters?”
I was developing the habit of repeating what he said. “NunumBi?” But he rode on without responding.
It came to me that perhaps I should include a section on Indian legends in my journal. Strictly speaking, they are not the province of a naturalist, but they would be of interest to those who studied folklore and the like.
I was so deep in thought that I fell farther behind than I intended. At a shout from Zach I glanced up. He was fifty yards away, jabbing a finger at me.
“Look out! It’s heading your way!”
I turned toward the lake, thinking he referred to the lake creature, but the surface was tranquil and undisturbed. Then I heard a mewing sound, and turning toward where a finger of forest poked at the shore, I saw a bear cub waddling toward me. A black bear cub, so cute and adorable I grinned in delight. Apparently, it was making for the lake to drink.
“Get out of there!” Zach hollered.
The cub had its head low to the ground and was mewing and grunting as bears often do. It did not realize I was there until I reined my mount to one side. Instantly, it stopped, rose onto its hind legs, and let out with the most awful cry. Almost immediately the undergrowth crackled and snapped, and out of the woods flew four hundred pounds of motherly fury.
Jabbing my heels, I galloped toward Zach. I reasoned that when the mother bear saw me move away from her cub, she would no longer consider me a threat.
“Ride, Robert, ride!”
