Along Bear Creek are ranches where good crops of wheat are raised, and butter and milk made for the Denver market.  The grass in this region makes the most delicious butter; indeed, I may say that I never tasted poor butter in Colorado.  In the month of August it is as sweet and fragrant as the very best of our June butter in the States.  The time will come when the butter of Colorado will be sent to the Atlantic cities:  at present there is no surplus made.

We now began to ascend Bear Mountain by a road cut along its side:  it was smooth and easy of ascent, but only wide enough for one carriage, with a precipice of several hundred feet on either side, so that we shuddered to think of the consequences of our meeting a wagon.  Happily, we met with none, although we overtook one, and had to keep behind it till we reached the summit.  Then down the other side to a strip of bottom-land on a creek, where we camped for the night, having come twenty miles from Denver.

August 19.  Rose at five and breakfasted on fried pork, corn bread and coffee.  Started at ten, and drove fourteen miles to Omaha Ranch; then to St. Louis Ranch, six miles, Roland’s Ranch, five miles, and Bailey’s, five miles, on the North Fork of the South Fork of the Platte.  The weather was fine, and the air beautifully clear and bracing.  The road wound among the mountains, up a rocky ravine, down a wooded canon, then through little parks, surrounded by high hills and set with magnificent sugar pines, and carpeted with fresh grass and abundant flowers.  In the ravines and on the mountain-sides the road was narrow, but we were lucky and met nothing, although we frequently overtook the immense wagons drawn by five or six yoke of oxen, and driven by the most ferocious-looking teamsters whom I have ever seen, brandishing enormous whips, which crack like rifle-shots in the woods.  We found, however, that, being civilly entreated, they would always turn out of the road to let us pass.  We were now at an elevation of probably six thousand feet, having been constantly ascending since we left Denver; and this evening we rose still higher, having climbed a long mountain which overlooked the head-waters of the Platte.

Our last descent of fifteen hundred feet in three miles brought us to the neat log tavern kept by W.L.  Bailey, where we found a supper of trout just from the river, together with mountain-raspberries and delicious cream, and clean, comfortable beds.  When we looked out next morning everything appeared so pleasant in this sheltered valley, and the house was so comfortable, that we determined to stay here a day and enjoy some sketching and fishing.  Sepia took her pencils and ascended the hill behind the house, and we others got out our rods and followed the example set us by Simon Peter.