WILMINGTON TO FORT YUMA.
We had intended to go by stage from Los Angelos to Fort Yuma, to
save time, though we knew it would be a "weariness to the flesh;"
but the route had just been changed there from San Diego, and as
it would take a fortnight to transfer the stock, and get things to
working smoothly again, we decided to proceed by ambulance. To this
end, we returned to Wilmington, or Drum Barracks, the military post
there, whence we left for Arizona, Feb. 19th. Our "outfit," furnished
by the quartermaster there, consisted of a substantial vehicle,
half-ambulance and half-Jersey wagon, loaned for the trip by Gen.
Banning, equipped with four stout mules and a plucky driver. A fifth
mule was also added, to meet contingencies; but this was only as a
led mule. The vehicle was a contrivance of Gen. Banning's own, with a
boot before and behind, capacious boxes under the seats, pockets for
books and periodicals, slings for rifles, pistols, etc., which he was
accustomed to use in his own long trips through Southern California
and Arizona, looking after his widely extended business. Originally,
we designed using this only as far as Fort Yuma; but afterwards it
proved to be our home for two months, through fifteen hundred miles
or more of long and desolate land-travel. A gentleman from San
Francisco, connected with the Post-Office department, (Hon. B. T.),
accompanied me, and relieved the tedium of many an hour by his rare
wit and humor. Our baggage consisted only of a light valise and roll
of blankets each, a box of writing-materials and official orders, a
sack or two of barley and oats, and some packages of canned fruits
and vegetables. For lodgings and provisions generally, we decided to
depend on the scattered ranches and stage-stations, notwithstanding
vague rumors we would be likely to "rough it," in doing so. With
"Adios!" and "Good luck to you!" from broad-shouldered, big-hearted
Gen. Banning, we rolled out of Wilmington one day toward noon; and
crossing numerous sloughs and quicksands, past countless flocks of
wild-geese, arrived the same evening at Anaheim.
Here we found quite a settlement of Germans, fresh from Rhineland,
engaged chiefly in wine-making. It appears, they had clubbed together
in San Francisco, and bought a thousand acres of the Los Angelos
Plains, bordering on the Santa Anna river, whose waters they now
used for irrigating purposes. This they divided into twenty-acre
lots, with a town-plot in the centre and convenient streets, each
lot-holder being also owner of a town-lot of half an acre besides.
Here were some five hundred or more Germans, all industriously
engaged, and exhibiting of course their usual sagacity and thrift.
They had constructed acequias, and carried the hitherto useless
Santa Anna river everywhere--around and through their lots, and past
every door; they had hedged their little farms with willows, and
planted them with vines, orange, lemon, and olive trees; and the
once barren plains in summer were now alive with perpetual foliage
and verdure. Of course, there had consequently been a great rise in
values. The land had cost them only two dollars per acre in 1857; but
now in 1867, it was rated at one hundred and fifty dollars, with
none to sell. We drove through the clean and well-kept avenues or
streets, scenting Rhineland on every side; and, indeed, this Anaheim
itself is nothing but a bit of Germany, dropped down on the Pacific
Coast. It has little in common with Los Angelos the dirty, but the
glorious climate and soil, and was an agreeable surprise every way.
We halted at the village-inn, which would have passed very well for
a Wein-Haus in Fatherland, and were entertained very nicely. The
proprietor was also the village-schoolmaster, and his frau was one
of the brightest and neatest little house-keepers, we had seen on
the Coast. They gave us bologna sausage and native wine for supper,
as well as excellent tea; and when bed time came, we were conducted
to apartments unimpeachable every way. In the course of the evening,
half the village seemed to drop in for a sip of wine or glass of beer
(they kept both, of course), and the guest-room became so thick with
smoke, you could have cut it with a knife. The next morning they gave
us some wine for our trip, five years old, that had lost much of its
alcoholic properties, and so soft and oily, it would have passed for
tolerable Hockheimer, or even Johannisberger, almost anywhere.
Here we bade good-bye to civilization, and at last were fairly off for
Arizona. The distance from Wilmington to Yuma is about three hundred
miles, and we hoped to make it in ten days at the farthest. We got an
early start from Anaheim, and crossing the Santa Anna river through
a congeries of quicksands rode all day, with the Coast Range to the
right of us, and another serrated ridge ten or twelve miles off to
the left, through what was mostly an arid and sterile plain, though
here and there it was broken up into ravines and "arroyas," or dry
water-courses, abounding in cottonwood and live-oaks. Just at sunset,
we crossed a divide, and before us lay a sheet of water, five miles
long by two wide, reposing like a sea of silver, skirted by wide
plateaus, and these in turn flanked by outlying ranges of mountains.
This was Laguna Grande, the pet lake of all that region. Draining a
wide extent of country, it always remains a large body of water, though
in summer much of it disappears, and the balance becomes brackish from
alkali. It continues palatable, however, for horses and cattle, and
accordingly here we found a great hacienda, one of the largest, south
of Los Angelos. The proprietors were two brothers Machado, who here
owned leagues square of land, from the summit of one mountain range to
the other, including the Laguna. They lived in a rude adobe hut, with
three rooms, that no common laborer East would think of inhabiting;
but they numbered their live-stock by the thousand, and esteemed their
rude home a second paradise. They raised a little barley and some beans
on a few acres, bordering on the lagoon; but devoted the great bulk of
their broad acres to stock-raising. Señor Dolores Machado met us at
the door, as we drove up; but as he could speak no English, and we no
Spanish, there seemed to be a predicament. Before leaving Los Angelos,
we had anticipated this, knowing the old Mexican or Spanish-speaking
population still prevailed over most of Southern California and
Arizona, and had provided ourselves with "Butler's method of learning
to speak Spanish quickly," accordingly. We had conned this over several
days, selecting the phrases that would apparently be most useful, and
now assailed Señor Machado with everything we could summon. Imagine our
disgust, when he looked wild at our attempted Spanish, and responded
to every phrase, "No sabe, Señors!" Our driver, Worth, at last came
to our rescue, with some mongrel Spanish he had picked up, when
soldiering formerly down in Arizona; and when Señor M. understood we
only wanted entertainment for the night, he smilingly replied, "O, Si!
Señors! Si! Si!" "Yes! Yes!" with true Castilian grace, and invited us
into his abode. He gave us a rough but substantial meal, of coffee,
frejoles, and mutton; and when bedtime came, allowed us the privilege
of spreading our blankets on the softest part of the only board floor
in the house. He and his wife occupied a rude bed in one corner of the
same room, while his brother slept on one in another. There was not,
and never had been, a pane of glass in the house, notwithstanding they
were such large-landed proprietors. The breeze stole in at the broken
shutter, that closed the only window in the room, and all night long we
could count the stars through the dilapidated roof.
Thence to Buena Vista, we passed through a succession of small valleys,
between the same general mountain ranges before mentioned. Though
wanting in water, yet these all had small streams of some sort flowing
through them, which if carefully husbanded could be made to irrigate
thousands of fertile acres all through here. Cottonwoods occurred
frequently, and along many of the bottoms there was a goodly growth of
scrubby live-oaks, that looked particularly green and inviting amidst
those arid landscapes. Buena Vista valley seemed to be the outlet of
several others, all of which might be largely reclaimed, with proper
industry and effort. The soil is rich, the water there, and the climate
matchless apparently the year round. Warner's Ranch stands in the midst
of Buena Vista valley, and consists only of an adobe hut or two, that
answer for grocery and road-side inn. We were detained here a day, by
a severe rain that set in at nightfall, just after our arrival, and
continued for twenty-four hours; but as it gave us and our team a bit
of rest, we did not greatly regret it. Thence to Villacito, the valley
opened broader and wider, and the grand San Bernardino peak--which day
after day had dominated the landscape off to the right--its outlines
sharply defined against that exquisite sky--dropped gradually out of
sight.
Here we struck the southern California or great Colorado Desert, and
thence on to Yuma--one hundred and fifty miles--we might as well have
been adrift on the Great Sahara itself. Until we reached this point,
the country consisted chiefly of arid plains, it is true; but broken,
more or less, into ravines and valleys, with some semblance of life,
or at least capacity for supporting life hereafter, should sufficient
intelligence and labor ever drift that way. But as we approached the
Desert, all this ceased, and the very genius of desolation seemed
to brood over the landscape. We descended into it through a narrow
rocky cañon, so rough and precipitous, that T. and I both got out and
walked down, leaving the driver to navigate the empty ambulance to
the foot, the best he could. Jolting and jumping from rock to gully,
now half upset, with wheels spinning in the air, and now all right
again, he got down safe and whole at last, and we augured well of our
wheels and springs, after such a rugged experience.
Quitting Villacito, we found the road sandy and heavy, the air sultry
and hot, and the nearest water eighteen miles off at Carissa Creek.
The country was one dreary succession of sand and gravel, barren
peaks and rocky ridges, with arroyas now and then, but no signs of
humidity anywhere. It was not, however, such a perfect desert, as we
had anticipated; for here and there were clumps of chemisal, mescal,
and cactus, and these somewhat relieved the general dreariness of
the landscape, poor apologies as they are for trees and shrubbery.
The chemisal grows in clumps, something like our alder-bushes east,
but with rods straighter and slenderer, bearing a pale-green leaf.
The mescal seems to be a bastard variety of aloes, much similar to
what is popularly known as Eve's Thread, though on a larger scale.
The Mexicans and Indians distil a villainous liquor from it, which
they also call "Mescal," that is worse in its effects than even
fusel-oil or strychnine-whiskey. The cacti appeared to be of several
varieties--many the same as we have in conservatories east, but all
vastly larger here. The flora, as we proceeded southward, constantly
became sparser and thornier; but the fauna continued about the
same--the chief species being jack-rabbits and California quails--the
latter a very handsome variety, with top-knots, never seen east. The
rabbits were numerous, and the quails whirred across our road in
coveys quite frequently, until we were well into the Desert, when
both mainly disappeared. We reached Carissa Creek, with its welcome
though brackish water, about 2 P. M.; but as it was thirty-three
miles yet to the next certain water, at Laguna, with only uncertain
wells between (dug by the Government), concerning which we could get
no definite information, we concluded to halt there till morning.
From there on, the first few miles were about the same as the day
before. Then we ascended an abrupt bluff, that looked in the distance
like an impassable castellated wall, and suddenly found ourselves on
an elevated _mesa_ or table-land, the very embodiment of dreariness
and desolation. On all sides, it was a vast, outstretched plain, of
coarse sand and gravel, without tree, or shrub, or living thing--even
the inevitable mescal and cactus here disappeared. Behind us, to the
north and east, there was a weird succession of grand terraces and
castellated mountains, reminding one of portions of Wyoming. On our
right, to the west, the ever-present Coast Range loomed along the
landscape, barren and ghostly. To the south, all was a dead level,
panting and quivering beneath the sun, as he neared the zenith,
except where here and there a heavy mirage obscured the view, or
vast whirlwinds careered over the desert, miles away--their immense
spirals circling upward to the very sky. These last, on first sight,
we took for columns of smoke, so erect and vast were they. But soon
they rose all along the southwestern horizon, one after another,
like mighty genii on the march, and our driver bade us look out for
a Yuma sand-storm. We had already here and there found the sand
drifted into ridges, like snow-banks, where sand-storms had preceded
us, and had heard ugly accounts of them before leaving Wilmington;
but, fortunately, we escaped this one--the whirlwinds keeping away to
the southwest, where they hugged the Coast Range, and in the course
of the afternoon obscured the whole landscape there. This was now
the Colorado or Yuma Desert in earnest, without bird, or beast, or
bush, or sign of life anywhere--nothing, in fact, but barrenness and
desolation, as much as any region could well be. A large portion of
it is so low, that the overflow of the Colorado often reaches it
during spring freshets, and remains for weeks. In travelling over
this portion, now baked dry and hard beneath the sun, we had frequent
exhibitions of mirage, on a magnificent scale. One day in particular,
we had been driving since early morning, over a heavy sandy road,
with the sun blazing down upon us like a ball of fire, with no water
since starting, our poor mules panting with heat and thirst, when
long after noon we observed--apparently a mile or so ahead--what
seemed like a great outspread pond or lake, with little islands
here and there, their edges fringed with bushes, whose very images
appeared reflected in the water. The scene was so perfect, that the
driver and T. both insisted it must be water; however, I inclined
to believe it mirage, as it afterwards turned out, but the optical
illusion was so complete in this and other instances, that when later
in the day we really did approach a veritable sheet of water at the
Laguna, we all of us mistook this for mirage also. Here, however, we
found a body of water a mile long by half a mile wide, surrounded by
a rank growth of coarse grass, and covered with water-fowl--a perfect
oasis in the desert. This was also a part of the overflow of the
Colorado, there being a depression in the Desert just here, which
holds the water like a cup. The quantity is so large, that it lasts
for two seasons; but after that, is apt to dry up, if the overflow
does not come. But as this usually happens every year, this Laguna
(Spanish for _lagoon_ or _lake_) becomes a perfect god-send to the
traveller here. On its southern margin, a Mr. Ganow from Illinois had
established a ranch, and already was acquiring a comfortable home.
His horses and cattle found ample subsistence in the brakes, on the
borders of the lagoon, and the passing travel to and from California
and Arizona made him considerable patronage in the course of the year.
Thence past Alamo to Pilot Knob, where we rounded the corner of
the mountains, and struck the valley proper of the Colorado, the
country continued more or less an unbroken desert. The roads were
heavy and dusty, the air hot and stifling, the landscape barren and
monotonous; and when, at last, we made Pilot Knob and struck the
river, eight or ten miles below Fort Yuma, we rejoiced heartily,
that the first stage of our tour was so nearly over. The Colorado
flowed by our side, red and sluggish, but of goodly volume; the
breeze came to us cool and moist across its broad bosom; and as we
neared the post, the garrison-flag floating high in air seemed to
beckon us onward, and welcome us beneath its folds. Starting long
before daylight, and lying by in the middle of the day, we had driven
fifty-three miles that day, over a country that equals, if it does
not surpass Bitter Creek itself (see p. 150-3); and when at last
we drew rein at Fort Yuma, we were thoroughly jaded ourselves, and
our poor animals quite fagged out. We had made the distance from
Wilmington in nine driving days, instead of ten; but they seemed the
longest we had ever driven.
Of the intervening country as a whole, especially from Villacito,
it may justly be said, not only is it practically a desert, but
even what streams it has seem to be slowly but surely disappearing.
There were evidences frequently, that the country had formerly been
much better watered than now, and the population--sparse as it
was--appeared to be diminishing. After leaving Anaheim, there was
only a scattered ranch here and there, every ten or twelve miles
apart, of the rudest character--sometimes not even these--where
coarse groceries, canned fruits and vegetables, and whiskey and
mescal, were kept for sale to Indians and passing travellers. These
had mostly been stage-stations on the great Butterfield Overland
Route before the war, and when this broke that up, these ranchmen
still remained, hoping something would "turn up." The station at
Carissa Creek was a good representative of this, and likewise of
many others. "Carissa Creek" itself is one of southern California's
"blind" streams, like so many in Arizona, beginning and ending
nowhere in particular--without either source or mouth apparently.
Issuing from a sand-heap, it terminates in another a few miles away;
but just here at the station is a shallow creek--a few yards wide,
by six inches deep--tainted, of course with alkali. The station
itself is the adobe remains of an old stage-station, whose roof
was all gone, and as a substitute the enterprising proprietor had
thrown some poles across, and covered them with willows and coarse
grass. This turned the sun somewhat, and the easy-going proprietor
said, "'Twer'nt no use, no how, to roof agin rain; 'cause, you
bet, stranger, no rain ever gits yer!" His forlorn structure, part
of which was used for a chicken-roost, also served its owner as
bar-room, grocery, kitchen, parlor, bed-room, etc., and yet contained
only one rude apartment, altogether.
"Mine host" here was a Texan, who somehow had strayed away out here,
and dropped down at Carissa Creek--he hardly knew how. He "didn't
think it much of a place, that's a fact; no how, stranger! But then,
you see, I'm yer; and it's a heap of trouble to move elsewhar!
Besides, yer know, I couldn't recommend nobody else to buy me out,
no how! Somebody has got to live at Carissa Creek, anyhow; and why
not me?" His philosophy, under the circumstances, seemed delicious,
worthy of Mr. Mark Tapley himself, and, of course, we had not the
heart to disturb it.
For meals and lodgings _en route_, we did indeed have to "rough
it" pretty generally, nearly everywhere--especially after passing
Villacito. Salt pork fried, saleratus biscuit hot, and coffee plain,
came again into vogue, as in the famous Bitter Creek region; but we
supplemented them this time with some excellent canned fruits and
vegetables, that we had the foresight to bring along. Our evenings
usually ended in long "yarns," after which, spreading our blankets in
the hay-corral, or on a sand-heap, we went cosily to sleep beneath
the stars. We always slept with our revolvers under our heads, and
our rifles by our sides; and though a bit nervous sometimes when we
reflected how much we were at the mercy of the rough customers we met
_en route_, yet we slept well, and went through safely.
At Porte de la Cruz, before reaching the Desert, we passed an Indian
village; but they all seemed quiet and peaceable. They belonged to the
Dieganos, a tribe extending from the Coast Range to the Colorado, and
wandering over much of the country we had passed through. A score or
more of them lay basking in the sun, as we drove by, and they seemed
to be about as helpless and idiotic a people, as human nature could
well furnish. They are said to subsist chiefly on snakes, lizards,
grasshoppers, mescal, etc., and appeared to be worse off than any Red
Skins we had encountered yet. At Laguna, in the midst of the Desert, we
chanced upon another party of them. As we drove up to Mr. Ganow's, the
station-keeper there, we observed quite a crowd of them running around
the corner of the lagoon, and making for the station. We supposed, at
first, that our arrival was the sensation that attracted them; but as
they drew nearer, we saw they were angry and excited, and Mr. Ganow
presently explained, that one of them had been robbed of a knife and a
silver dollar by a white man at Indian Wells--some four miles farther
on--and, when afterwards he remonstrated, the white man had tied him
up and flogged him. The poor wretch, still bruised and bleeding, now
came with twenty or thirty of his comrades, from their camp beyond
the Laguna, to Mr. Ganow--to report the outrage and seek redress.
Ganow said the white man referred to was a mean fellow, bad enough
for anything, who made a living chiefly by gambling with the Indians,
and selling them mescal and needle-gun whiskey, and that he kept the
countryside in a constant turmoil. He advised his copper-colored
friends to return to the Wells, and demand their property again, and
say a U. S. officer was at his ranch, and would be along next day and
look after him, if he did not give it up. This seemed to satisfy them,
and they all started off on a long trot, kicking a ball before them
as they ran, and were soon out of sight. One of them, rejoicing in
the name of Charley, was dressed in cast-off army-clothing, and spoke
broken-English pretty well. We gave him a handful of cigarritos and
matches, in return for his broken talk, and he went trotting off with
the rest.
That night we spread our blankets as usual, in the corral, at the foot
of a hay-stack, and before going to sleep fell to talking about this
affair, and its possible consequences--perhaps even to Ganow and his
family themselves. He had a smart wife and two bright children, and
it seemed strange a man like him would expose them thus, in such a
remote and dangerous locality. From this we strayed to other topics,
and talked far into the night, as was often our wont on this trip--the
stars were so brilliant, and the night-air so inviting. Near midnight,
while T. was spinning one of his longest yarns, and I was lazily
listening--on my back, with my hands under my head, and knees at an
angle--suddenly an Indian, half naked, loomed up just at our feet,
with bow and arrows in hand, and a revolver at his waist. To seize my
Spencer was the work of an instant, and the next I demanded:
"Who's there? What do you want this time of night?"
T. stopped talking, and quickly fished up his revolver from the hay,
not seeing the Red Skin till after I challenged him. Back jumped the
Indian, exclaiming excitedly:
"Ugh! No shoot! Me friend! Me Charley!"
"Well, what are you doing here at this hour? What do you want now?"
"Me been down to Indian Wells. 'Tother fellow got him knife and
dollar. Good! Dieganos much friend to Gen-e-ral. Heap!"
"Well, then, Charley, why don't you go home, with the others? What
are you loafing here for?"
"Me been playin' cards, till now! Charley gamble a heap! _Mucho! O
mui mucho!_ Lost all. Coat, hat, shirt, all gone. Me beggar now; got
nothing. Charley want Gen-er-al and fat friend (T. _was_ a little
stout) give him one dollar. Win um all back, quick! Heap more!"
We pitied the poor fellow, but bade him leave till morning. He still
lingered, reluctant to go, but presently walked slowly off muttering
to himself, and we both became uneasy, as we knew there were a
hundred savages close within his call. However, after lying awhile
undisturbed, we concluded there was no use borrowing trouble, and
T. agreed to keep watch, if I would try to sleep. Once or twice he
woke me up with a "hist," and we fancied we heard the stealthy tread
of Red Skins about us; but none molested us, and morning broke at
last much to our relief. We breakfasted and were off too early for
Indian habits, so that Charley missed his "dollar," after all; but
we left him a plentiful supply of matches and "smoke-tobacco," which
doubtless served him far better. This experience, altogether, was
rather exciting at the time; and it is not too much to say, that our
friend Charley just escaped getting a bullet or two through him.
As to travel, we met but little, and this was chiefly Mexicans _en
route_ to California. At Carissa Creek, as we drove up, we found quite
a party of these, resting there during the heat of the day. The men
were lounging about the station, or sleeping in the sand; the women,
washing clothes in the little creek. Their animals--a heterogeneous
herd of horses, mules, and bronchos,--were browsing by the roadside,
on chemisal, mescal, or whatever they could pick up. The entire party
consisted of imperialists, who were now fleeing from the vengeance of
the just triumphant liberals in Sonora. When Maximilian first came,
the liberals had to leave; but now Juarez was in the ascendant, and
the imperialists had Hobson's choice of emigration or the halter. Our
host there said, that in the past four months about twelve hundred
imperialists had passed California-ward, while during the same period
only about two hundred liberals had returned Sonora-ward; so that
California seemed to be the gainer, by this exodus. We essayed some
talk with the party, in our hobbling Spanish, which daily improved, and
one who seemed to be the leader responded, as follows:
"Si, Senor! Imperialists we, all; Maximiliani! Sonora no good place
for imperialists now, Jesu, no! Liberals just take one knife, this
way (and he drew his hand significantly across his throat); or one
lariat, this way (and he twirled his fingers around his head); or
else, one carabina--bang! Carahu! We vamose to California!"
He said this, with such wild grimaces and mad gesticulations, as only
a Mexican can achieve; and presently, to our delight, the whole
banditti cut-throat looking crew moved off, with a friendly chorus of
"Adios! Senors! Adios!"
The few Americans we met _en route_--but a handful--all reported
themselves as going "inside," and smiled at us bound "outside." By
_inside_, of course, they meant California and civilization; by
_outside_, Arizona and something else! Of all the Borderisms we had
heard yet, these seemed the strangest, until we got well "outside"
ourselves, and thoroughly comprehended them; and then they appeared
the aptest, indeed, of any. How much so, this chapter suggests in
part already; and others will further disclose, when we get well into
Arizona. "Inside" and paradise, "outside" and purgatory--these were
the opposing ideas constantly expressed, and we learned not to wonder
at them.