Bridger was a large man, fully six feet high, all rawhide and mountain-wise. He was wiry in action, with a quick, dangerous movement in handling weapons. His hair was auburn; his eyes were light blue. They were keen, friendly eyes in conversation but veritable hawk eyes for the game trail which he followed at maximum speed. Jim was shrewdly intelligent, although he could neither read nor write. He learned to speak French and Spanish from other trappers. In addition, he spoke several Indian languages, and he was able to communicate with all tribesmen by means of sign language. Indeed, he had a reputation as an entertainer among the natives. However, it is said that he exercised reserve and caution because he was suspiciously alert against deception of any kind. His very life depended upon accurately seeing and interpreting the signs of the wilderness. When serving as a guide for the army Jim once reported a thin column of smoke many miles away. Several officers trained field glasses upon the designated point without seeing any. They expressed their doubt of its existence. Jim was indignant: “Dam paper-collar soldiers, a tellin’ thar ain’t no smoke, when I seen it!” He was sure of his ability to outsee them even with the aid of field glasses, and he was right![111] A frontiersman named Vaughn left an account of his introduction to this master guide in 1850: ... On they came, a big, strong, broad-shouldered, flaxon-haired, and blue-eyed man in the lead, riding as fine a saddle animal as I ever saw. They were now quite close; they came within a few paces and stopped. “How?” exclaimed the big man. “How, how,” we exclaimed, shaking hands with him in turn. “Who are you?” he asked, “free trappers?” “No,” I replied, “we belong to the Company. And you?” “My name is Bridger,” he said, “Jim Bridger. Maybe you’ve heard of me.” We had. There wasn’t a man west of the Mississippi River who did not know him or know of him, for he was the greatest hunter, trapper, and Indian fighter of us all.[112] Yes, Bridger was the real tobacco chew, “thirty-third degree” mountain man, and he certainly knew his way around. Every ridge and canyon of the Rockies dropped their last shadows of oblivion before his restless energy. He spent his winters in trapping and his summers in exploration. On most of these trips he chose to go alone, relying upon his faithful horse, trusty rifle, and hatchet of the finest steel. One excursion took him so far north that only the North Star served as guide. He followed the McKenzie River to the Arctic Ocean. This journey took eighteen months.[113] The rivers, mountains, and valleys of the Rockies were as one great plantation to him. He knew them all and kept a picture of the whole area in his mind. He was possessed by an insatiable curiosity. In wandering about the untouched West he kept poking into the off-trail corners to feast his eyes on strange wonders of hidden fairylands.