PRESCOTT TO LOS ANGELOS.
Prescott, as already intimated, was not Paradise, and we left there
April 13th, for Los Angelos, _via_ Hardyville and Fort Mojave, on
our return "inside," with real rejoicing. Our first stage was to
Fort Mojave, on the Colorado, distant one hundred and sixty miles,
and this we made in five days. Of course, we travelled by ambulance,
and "camped out" every night, as elsewhere mostly in Arizona. The
road was a toll-road, but its general condition was hardly such,
as to justify the collection of tolls ordinarily. As a whole, it
was naturally a very fair road, though there were some bad points,
as at Juniper Mountain and Union Pass, where considerable work had
been required to carry the grades along. At Williamson's Valley,
twenty miles out from Prescott, we found one of the best agricultural
and grazing districts, that we had yet seen in Arizona. There were
but two or three settlers there then, though there were apparently
several thousands of acres fit for farms. The hills adjacent abounded
in scattered cedars and junipers, that would do for fencing and fuel,
and game seemed more abundant near there, than in any place we had
yet been. Quails, found everywhere in Arizona to some extent, here
soon thickened up; the jack-rabbits bounded more numerously through
the bushes; even pigeons and wild-turkeys were heard of; and as we
rattled down through a rocky glen, at the western side of the valley,
a herd of likely deer cantered leisurely across the road--the first
we had seen in Arizona, or indeed elsewhere in the West.
Thence across Juniper Mountain to Rock Springs, some fifty miles,
the country was wild and desolate, with a scraggy growth of cedars
and junipers much of the way. A few scattered oaks and pines grew
here and there, but they could scarcely be called good timber, or
much of it. At Rock Springs was a fine bottom of several hundred
acres, but not a single inhabitant. Thence on to Hardyville, through
Cottonwood Cañon, past Hualapai Springs, Beale's Springs, etc., for
nearly a hundred miles, there were no ranches, and no cultivable
lands, indeed, worth mentioning. The country, as a whole, seemed a
vast volcanic desert--of mountains, cañons, and mesas--and what it
was ever made for, except to excite wonder and astonishment, is a
mystery to the passing traveller. Even at the high elevation we were
travelling, usually four or five thousand feet above the sea, the
sun was already intensely hot by day, though the air grew bitingly
cold at night, before morning. The principal growth, after leaving
Rock Springs, was sage-brush and grease-wood, and in many places it
proved difficult to secure sufficient for fires of even these. Water
was found only at distances of ten and twenty miles apart, and in the
dry summer months it must be still scarcer. Our poor animals suffered
greatly, and one day we came near losing several--two of them
continuing sick far into the night. Now and then we found an Indian
trail crossing the road, but the Red Skins either did not see us, or
else kept themselves well under cover, intimidated by the half-dozen
cavalrymen, that accompanied us as escort.
The prevailing hues of the landscape were a dull red and brownish
gray, and these produced at times some very singular and striking
effects. The one thing, that relieved our ride from utter dullness
and monotony, was the weird and picturesque forms, in which nature
has there piled up her rocks, and chiseled out her mountains. Domes,
peaks, terraces, castles, turrets, ramparts--all were sculptured
against the cloudless sky; and we fell to interesting ourselves
sometimes for hours, as we rode along, in tracing out the strange
resemblances to all sorts of architecture and animals, ancient and
modern, that nature, in her silent sublimity, has perpetrated there.
At sunset, when parting day lingered and played upon the surrounding
or distant mountains, it bathed their rock-ribbed sides and summits
in the most gorgeous tints of purple and maroon, and filled the
imagination with all that was most sublime and mysterious. What
Milton must have thought of in portraying Hell, or Dante imagined in
delineating the weird and sombre landscapes of his awful Inferno,
may well be realized in passing through this singular region, where
Desolation seems to have outstretched her wings, and made up her mind
to brood gloomily forever.
At Union Pass, we crossed the last mountain range, at an elevation of
fully five thousand feet, whence we caught welcome sight again of the
ruby waters of the Colorado. Debouching into the valley, we presently
struck the river at Hardyville. Here it winds its sinuous course,
through a broad valley of volcanic mesas and mountains, and has no
bottoms worth mentioning, except those occupied of old by the Mojave
Indians. These are fertilized by the annual overflow of the Colorado,
like the bottoms of the Nile, and no doubt might be made to produce
very largely. As it was, the Mojaves scratched them a little, so as
to plant some corn and barley, and raise a few beans, vegetables,
etc., the surplus of which they sold chiefly at Hardyville, for Mr.
Hardy to re-sell to the Government again--of course, at a profit. It
seemed, on the whole, that they did not usually raise enough, off of
all their broad acres, to feed and clothe themselves comfortably;
and we were told they would often go hungry, were it not for the
gratuitous issues of flour, meal, and other supplies occasionally
made to them by the commanding officer at Fort Mojave. We rode
through their villages one evening, while halting at Fort Mojave, and
found they numbered about a thousand or so just there; but farther
down the Colorado, at La Paz, there was said to be another branch
of them, even more numerous. They were usually a shapely, well-made
race, and seemed to take life even more easy, if possible, than their
red brethren elsewhere. Their women made a rude pottery ware, that
seemed in general use among them, and the men themselves sometimes
labored commendably, in gathering drift-wood for fuel for the petty
steamers, that occasionally ascended to Hardyville. These Mojaves
had been quiet and peaceable for years, and it seemed very moderate
efforts would put them on the road to civilization, as readily as the
Choctaws and the Cherokees. But they complained, and quite justly,
that the Government did not furnish them implements, tools, seeds,
etc., to enable them to work their lands and support themselves,
while the savage Hualapais, Pai-Utes, and other hostile tribes, were
being constantly bribed with presents and annuities. This, however,
was only another instance of the stupidity and blundering of our
Indian Department at that time, whose policy, or rather impolicy,
seemed to be to neglect friendly Indians, and exhaust its money and
efforts on hostile ones, under the plea of "pacifying" them! As
if "gifts" and "annuities" ever really pacified or civilized a Red
Skin yet, or ever will! No; the only true policy with our Indians,
then as now, is to encourage and reward the friendly, in every right
way; while the hostile ones should be turned over to the Army, for
chastisement and surveillance, to the uttermost, until they learn the
hard lesson, that henceforth they must behave themselves.
Fort Mojave, some four miles or so below Hardyville, on the east
bank of the Colorado, was a rude post, most uncomfortable every way.
It had been established originally in 1860, abandoned in 1861, but
re-occupied in 1864, and maintained since then. We found it hot, and
dusty, and miserable, even in April; and could well imagine what it
must be in July and August. At Prescott, we were some six thousand
feet above the sea; but here we had got down to only about eleven
hundred, and the change was most perceptible. Here were a handful
of troops, and two or three officers, all praying for the day when
they might be ordered elsewhere, assured that fortune could send
them to no worse post, outside of Alaska. One officer had his wife
along, a lady delicately bred, from Pittsburg, Pa., and this was her
first experience of Army life. When we first arrived, she tried to
talk cheerily, and bore up bravely for awhile; but before we left,
she broke down in tears, and confessed to her utter loneliness and
misery. No wonder, when she was the only white woman there, no other
within a hundred miles or more; and no newspaper or mail even, except
once a month or fortnight, as things happened to be.
Hardyville itself was then more of a name than place, consisting
chiefly of a warehouse and quartz-mill, with a few adobe shanties.
Near Hardyville, some ten or twenty miles away in the outlying
mountains, there were several mines--gold, silver, and copper--of
more or less richness, and the mill was located here to take
advantage of the two great essentials, wood and water. The mill,
however, was standing idle, like most enterprises in Arizona, and
but little was doing in the mines. Mr. Hardy himself, a hard-working
energetic man, and the Ben Holliday or Gen. Banning of that region,
controlling all its business, including Government contracts, from
the Colorado to Prescott and beyond, was getting out some ore, and
specimens we saw at his store were certainly very handsome. He
said there were "leads" in the neighboring mountains of exceeding
richness, and indeed here and at other similar points along the
Colorado, as at La Paz, Aubrey City, El Dorado Cañon, etc., there
seemed the best chances for mining of anywhere in Arizona. Here were
wood (drift-wood, in which the Colorado abounds) and water, the two
great needs, usually wanting elsewhere in Arizona; and the Colorado
itself, it would seem, ought to afford reasonably cheap and quick
transportation, if the steamboats on it were constructed and run with
proper enterprise and efficiency.
The great drawback to Arizona then, overshadowing perhaps all others,
not excepting the Apaches, was the perfectly _frightful and ruinous
cost of transportation_. To reach any mining-district there from
California, except those along the Colorado, you had to travel from
three to five hundred miles through what are practically deserts;
and for every ton of freight carried into or out of the Territory,
you were called on to pay from three to five cents per pound, per
hundred miles, in coin. Golconda, itself, could not flourish under
such circumstances, much less Arizona--which is scarcely a Golconda.
The patent and palpable remedy for all this, was either a railroad or
the speedy and regular navigation of the Colorado. It seemed nonsense
to say that the Colorado could not be navigated, and that too at rates
reasonably cheap. It looked no worse than the Ohio and the Missouri,
and like western rivers ordinarily; and there appeared but small hope
for Arizona very speedily, until she availed herself to the full of its
actual advantages. With the alleged mines along the Colorado, from Ft.
Yuma to El Dorado, in good operation, her population, as it increased,
would naturally overflow to other districts; and, in the end, arid
Arizona would become reasonably prosperous. But, like all other
commonwealths, she must have a base to stand on and work from. That
base seemed naturally and necessarily the Colorado River, indifferent
as it was. And all attempts to develop herself, except from that, in
the absence of a railroad, seemed likely to end like the efforts of
the man, who tried to build a pyramid with the apex downward. History
declares it was _not_ a "success."
Bidding good-bye to our friends at Fort Mojave, we crossed the
Colorado on a rude flat-boat, on the evening of April 18th, and
proceeded three miles to Beaver Lake where we camped for the night,
in order to get a good start next day. We dismissed our escort at
Fort Mojave, as no longer necessary; and, Gov. McCormick and wife
having left us at Prescott, our little party was now reduced to
two and our drivers. Col. Carter, Secretary of the Territory, had
accompanied us from Prescott to Mojave; but here he left us for
a trip up the Colorado, intending to push into the Big Cañon, if
possible. Subsequently, I learned, he failed in doing this; but the
fault was not his, and, for the present, we bade him speedy success
and a safe return.
From Fort Mojave, on the Colorado, to Los Angelos was still about
three hundred miles, and this we accomplished in eight days. The
valley or great basin of the Colorado extends most of the distance,
and of the intervening country, as a whole, the most that can be said
of it is, that it is an absolute desert of extinct volcanoes and
outstretched sand-plains, fit only for tarantulas and centipedes,
rattlesnakes and Indians. As far as could be seen, I think this a
fair and truthful statement of pretty much all that region to Cajon
Pass, and don't see how it can well be objected to, by any honest
mind. Its changes of elevation are, indeed, something very curious.
At Fort Mojave, on the banks of the Colorado, you are only about
a thousand feet above the sea. Thence, for ten or twelve miles,
you steadily ascend, until you get where the view of the Colorado
Valley proper becomes something really sublime--a barren ocean, a
sea of desolation, with a line of living green meandering through
the centre--and at Pai-Ute Hill, only some thirty miles from the
Colorado, you reach an elevation of some four thousand feet. At
Government Holes, indeed, you get up to 5,204 feet; but at Soda Lake,
about a hundred miles from Fort Mojave, you descend again to 1,075
feet, or seventy-four feet lower than the Colorado itself.[23] From
here you climb back to 1,852 feet at Camp Cady, some forty miles from
Soda Lake; 2,678 feet at Cottonwood Ranch, some eighty miles from
Soda Lake; and gradually get up again to 5,000 feet at Cajon Pass,
about one hundred and twenty miles from Soda Lake. These ascents and
descents usually are not sudden, nor indeed much perceptible; but
gradually you roll up and down over a vast desert region, where the
sun was already (in April) intensely hot by day, and getting to be
fairly warm at night.
In the long drives by day, sometimes forty and fifty miles--to reach
water--the heat and glare from the sand became terrible to the
eyes, and twice we drove all night, lying by in the day, to avoid
this. By day, we usually saw no live thing, except here and there a
stray buzzard, or scampering lizard, or horned toad. By night, we
would hear the rattlesnakes hiss and rattle, as we drove along--our
"outfit" as we rattled by, I suppose, disturbing their quiet siestas,
or moonlight promenades. It was too early in the season, however, to
be troubled much with such interesting acquaintances as rattlesnakes,
tarantulas, centipedes, etc. They were but just beginning to come out
of their holes, and we were glad to escape from the country before
they ventured forth much. We saw, indeed, some centipedes, and killed
several rattlesnakes. One night one of the party woke up, and found
something reposing snugly on the outside of his blankets. Giving it a
kick and sling from underneath, it proved to be a snake, and answered
him back from the place where it landed, with the usual inevitable
hiss and defiant rattle. Another night, at Soda Lake, while sleeping
by the rocks there, a rattlesnake crawled under the bottom blankets,
and in the morning when the owner of them began to yawn and stretch
himself, preparatory to getting up, his snakeship from beneath
hissed, and rattled, and protested, as badly as a northern copperhead
or a southern rebel at the Proclamation of Emancipation, or the
Reconstruction measures of Congress. Of course, we all slept on the
ground every night, _ex necessitate_; but, after this, we usually
retired with all our clothes and tallest boots on!
Pai-Ute hill, so-called (before spoken of), is really a sharp and ugly
little mountain, up which we toiled slowly and wearily. In rounding
an angle of the road, soon after beginning the ascent, one of our
ambulances sliding struck a rock, and soon like the famous "One Hoss
Shay," ended in a "general spill!" There could hardly have been a more
thorough collapse of spokes and felloes--everything seemed to go to
pieces--and it could hardly have occurred in a worse place. It was a
wild and desolate cañon, barren and rocky, miles away from every human
habitation; yet there was nothing for it, but to leave the driver in
charge, and the rest of us proceed on to Camp Rock Springs, whence we
sent an army-wagon back to gather up the remains and bring them on.
Camp Rock Springs itself was a forlorn military post, consisting of
one officer and perhaps a dozen men, guarding the Springs and the road
there. The officer was quartered in a natural cave in the hillside, and
his men had "hutted" themselves out on the sand the best they could.
No glory there, nor much chance for military fame; but true patriots
and heroes were they, to submit to such privations. Too many of our
frontier posts are akin to this, and little do members of Congress
east, who know only "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war,"
imagine what army-life out there really is. It is a poor place for fuss
and feathers, gilt epaulets and brass buttons; and our "Home Guard,"
holiday Militia east, so fond of parading up and down our peaceful
streets, with full rations and hotel quarters, would soon acquire for
soldiering there only a rare and infinite disgust. Yet these are the
nurseries of the Army, and from such hard schools we graduated a Grant
and Sherman, Sheridan and Thomas.
Soda Lake, already mentioned, is simply a dried-up lake, or sea,
whose salts of soda effloresce and whiten the ground, like snow,
for miles in every direction. The country there is a vast basin,
rimmed around with desolate hills and mountains, and during the rainy
season a considerable body of water, indeed, collects here. Soon,
however, evaporation does its work, and the Lake proper subsides to
little or nothing, worth speaking of. When we were there, it was
said to be twenty miles long, by four or five wide, though of course
everywhere very marshy or shallow. Skirting the borders of it, we
reached a rocky bluff on (I think) the northern shore, and there
found a noble spring of excellent water, welling up of from unknown
depths, within a stone's throw of the soda deposits. Here was the
usual halting-place, and as we had driven all night, we went into
camp on arriving there, soon after sunrise. It was Sunday, April
21st; there was no house or even hut there; no person or living
thing; and what with the heat, and glare, and awful desolation--our
weariness, fatigue, and sense of isolation--I think it was about the
most wretched and miserable day I ever spent anywhere. To crown all,
during the night before, while jogging along, we had descried what we
supposed to be an Indian camp-fire, off to the south of the road some
distance; we had driven quietly but hastily on, getting the utmost
out of our jaded mules; but whether the Red Skins were asleep, or
had discovered and were now dogging us, awaiting their opportunity,
we were blissfully ignorant. We passed the hours away, as best we
could, sleeping and watching in turn; but the next morning, bright
and early, we were up and off for Camp Cady. We would have departed,
indeed, by night; but the route lay largely up the disgusting cañon
of the Mojave, and was impracticable in the dark. This was the only
sign of hostile Indians we saw _en route_ from the Colorado. We could
hardly call it a genuine "scare;" and yet were not greatly grieved,
when we found they had given us a wide berth.
Some fifteen or twenty miles beyond Soda Lake, we struck the Mojave
River, so-called, which there runs for several miles through a narrow
and rocky cañon, much similar to that of the Hassayampa, though its
walls are not so high. The road itself leads up this cañon, for lack
of a better route over and through the mountains there, and on first
view, it promised to be the Hassayampa over again; but, fortunately,
the bottom is chiefly gravel and rock, and therefore has not the same
disagreeable habit of "dropping out," when you venture over it. We
found from one to two feet of water in the Mojave here, and crossed
it, I suppose, at least thirty or forty times between there and Camp
Cady--within say twenty miles. Two days afterward, when we crossed it
for the last time, farther up, at what is called the Upper Crossing
of the Mojave, we found it two feet _deeper_ than it had been a
hundred miles below, and with more than _twice_ the volume of water.
Our famous Pathfinder, in one of his great expeditions, struck it
near here, at freshet height, and it is said reported the Mojave as
"an important tributary of the Colorado, navigable for light-draft
steamboats several months in the year." He would have been partly
right, perhaps, if the Mojave indeed continued on to the Colorado.
But unfortunately, it sinks in the desert, long before it gets there;
and the enthusiastic explorer's "light-draft steamboats" would have
to go paddling across a broad expanse of sand and rock, if they
wanted to voyage from the Mojave to the Colorado, or _vice versa_!
The Mojave, in fact, although draining the snow-capped San Bernardino
Mountains, and a wide stretch of country there, is only another
of the many strange anomalies that one meets with in Southern
California and Arizona. Said a ranchman in that region:
"Dis yer's a quar country, stranger, you bet! All sorts of quar things
out yer. Folks chop wood with a sledge-hammer, and mow grass with a
hoe. Every bush bears a thorn, and every insect has a sting. The trees
is pretty nigh all cactuses. The streams haint no water, except big
freshets. The rivers get littler, the furder they run down. No game but
rabbits, and them's big as jackasses. Some quails, but all top-knotted,
and wild as greased lightning. No frost; no dew. Nobody kums yer,
unless he's runnin' away. Nobody stays, unless he has to. Everybody
'vamoses the ranch,' 'cuts stick,' 'absquatulates,' as soon as he kin
raise nuff 'dust' to 'git up and _git_' with. You _bet_--ye! Sure!"
It is due to truth to say, that our friend had just got up from the
"break-bone" fever, and was still troubled with the "shakes." His mine
had "petered out," and his "outfit" was about "gone up." In fact, he
looked, and I have no doubt felt, slightly dismal--not to put too fine
a point upon it. But I give his opinion, as he gave it to us; and the
reader must take it _cum grano salis_--as much or little as he chooses.
In truth, we have a vast region there, that as a whole is simply barren
and worthless, and that will never be utilized or seriously amount to
much, until the rest of the continent is well occupied and settled up.
We may, of course, regret it; but that is about the truth of things,
and emigrants thither soon discover it.
Beyond Camp Cady, another rude post, much like Rock Springs, we found
a few ranches scattered here and there along the Mojave; but they
were importing grain and hay fifty and a hundred miles, from San
Bernardino and Los Angelos, for sale to passing teams and travellers,
which looked as if their prospects were not very flattering. There
ought, however, to be some good farms there, if the Mojave were
properly utilized; and doubtless this will be done soon, if it has
not been already.
At Cajon Pass, through the lofty Coast Range, you quickly run down
from five thousand feet above the sea, to about one thousand feet
at San Bernardino, or even less. The descent is through a wild and
picturesque cañon, that almost equals in grandeur and sublimity the
far-famed Echo Cañon of Utah. We camped all night near the foot of
the Pass, sleeping so soundly that several mounted deserters[24]
from Fort Mojave passed us unheeded, and the next morning, bright
and early, we rolled into San Bernardino. Here was a well-laid out
and tolerably built town, of a thousand or so inhabitants, with a
newspaper, telegraph, and most modern improvements. It reminds one
of Salt Lake City, and was, indeed, patterned after that gem of the
mountains, being settled originally by the Mormons many years ago,
when they planned a route through here to the Pacific at San Diego.
We remained here but a few hours, and, as the weather was already
becoming warm, started the same evening for Los Angelos, some sixty
miles north, where we arrived late next morning.
The country just now (April 26th), between Cajon Pass and Los
Angelos, was beautiful and glorious beyond description. I scarcely
know how to speak of it in fitting terms, but I remember well how
it impressed us at the time. The Los Angelos Plains, seventy miles
long by thirty wide, were one wild sea of green and yellow, pink and
violet--herbage and flowers everywhere. Thousands of lusty cattle
and contented sheep roamed over them at will; but not one herd or
flock, where there ought to be a score or hundred. The vineyards
were all putting forth their leafy branches, and preparing for their
purple clusters. The fields were heavy with barley and wheat. The
olive and walnut orchards were clad in foliage of densest green. The
orange groves were everywhere filling the air with their delicate
and delicious fragrance, so exquisitely sweet and ethereal it seemed
as if distilled from heaven. Ten thousand "beautiful birds of song"
flitted and twittered, from bush to tree, as we drove along. On the
west rolled the blue Pacific; on the east rose the noble Coast Range;
and over all, like a celestial benediction, hung the California
sky--a superb sapphire we never see East. The setting sun lit up the
distant hills, as we gazed, and now clothed with crimson and gold--an
ineffable glory of splendors--the snow-clad peaks, that towered to
the north and east. Up there was the frozen zone, most of the year
round; but down on the Plains, the balmy zephyrs of the tropics, and
nature literally one wild scene of beauty and of glory.
The transition from the Mojave Desert, and Arizona generally, to this
delightful region, was like coming into Eden--seemed like "Paradise
Regained," in very truth. As we emerged from the mountains at Cajon
Pass, and drove down into it, we could scarcely refrain from shouting
for joy. Our animals whinnied, pricked up their ears, and, jaded
as they were, trotted along with a new-found speed. Poor beasts,
faithful donkeys, we had driven some of them fully fifteen hundred
miles, "outside" and "inside," forth and back. Just to think of
it once, plenty of good water, fresh green grass, and a moist and
fragrant atmosphere once more! No more blazing sun; no more glaring
sand; no more alkali streams; no more thorny mesquite and prickly
cactus; no more Apaches and Hualapais, Pai-Utes and Chemehuevis; no
more scanning every bush and rock by day, and listening intently
to every sound by night; no more riding with rifles in our hands,
no more sleeping on our arms; no more bottomless quicksands; no
more fear of rattlesnakes and centipedes; no more freshets, and
no more sand-storms. No! The long drag of fifteen hundred miles
was over, and once more we struck hands with civilization and
school-houses--touched steam-ships and telegraphs.
Verily, we had a right to sing "Out of the Wilderness," and "Home
again," with infinite gusto; and it is not surprising, that with
these and other jolly airs we did, indeed, make the welkin ring.
Once more we had the newspapers--we hadn't seen one in a month
before--that is, less than a month old--and to fair and hospitable
Los Angelos, ever and truly the City of the Angels, we were welcomed
as ones from the desert, if not from the dead. We had, indeed, been
reported several times, as waylaid and captured by the Indians; but
here we were _in propriis personis_, brown and hearty, though dusty
and fatigued. Our good friend Banning and Don Benito Wilson were
among the first to congratulate us; and their kindness and courtesy
during the next three days, and until we left by steamer for San
Francisco (April 30th), when shall we forget?
FOOTNOTES:
[23] Hence the recent proposition to turn the Colorado thither and
convert all this district, including the Yuma or Colorado Desert,
into a great lake or inland sea. It seems hardly feasible in this
generation; but, possibly, may happen in the future.
[24] They were our escort from Prescott, whom we had dismissed at
Mojave, with orders to return as soon as rested. But, it seems, the
poor fellows were tired of Arizona, and as they were so far on their
way "inside," concluded to continue thither!