OVER THE DESERTS OF NEVADA.
Gradually I leave the pine-clad slopes of the Sierras behind, and every
revolution of my wheel reveals scenes that constantly remind me that I
am in the great "Sage-brush State." How appropriate indeed is the name.
Sage-brush is the first thing seen on entering Nevada, almost the only
vegetation seen while passing through it, and the last thing seen on
leaving it. Clear down to the edge of the rippling waters of the Truckee,
on the otherwise barren plain, covering the elevated table-lands, up the
hills, even to the mountain-tops-everywhere, everywhere, nothing but
sagebrush. In plain view to the right, as I roll on toward Reno, are the
mountains on which the world-renowned Comstock lode is situated, and
Reno was formerly the point from which this celebrated mining-camp was
reached.
Before reaching Reno I meet a lone Washoe Indian; he is riding a diminutive,
scraggy-looking mustang. One of his legs is muffled up in a red blanket,
and in one hand he carries a rudely-invented crutch. "How will you trade
horses?" I banteringly ask as we meet in the road; and I dismount for
an interview, to find out what kind of Indians these Washoes are. To my
friendly chaff he vouchsafes no reply, but simply sits motionless on his
pony, and fixes a regular "Injun stare" on the bicycle. "What's the
matter with your leg?" I persist, pointing at the blanket-be-muffled
member.
"Heap sick foot" is the reply, given with the characteristic brevity
of the savage; and, now that the ice of his aboriginal reserve is broken,
he manages to find words enough to ask me for tobacco. I have no tobacco,
but the ride through the crisp morning air has been productive of a
surplus amount of animal spirits, and I feel like doing something funny;
so I volunteer to cure his " sick foot" by sundry dark and mysterious
manoeuvres, that I unbiushingly intimate are "heap good medicine." With
owlish solemnity my small monkey-wrench is taken from the tool-bag and
waved around the " sick foot" a few times, and the operation is completed
by squirting a few drops from my oil-can through a hole in the blanket.
Before going I give him to understand that, in order to have the "good
medicine " operate to his advantage, he will have to soak his copper-colored
hide in a bath every morning for a week, flattering myself that, while
my mystic manoauvres will do him no harm, the latter prescription will
certainly do him good if he acts on it, which, however, is extremely
doubtful. Boiling into Reno at 10.30 A.M. the characteristic whiskey-
straight hospitality of the Far West at once asserts itself, and one
individual with sporting proclivities invites me to stop over a day or
two and assist him to "paint Reno red " at his expense. Leaving Reno,
my route leads through the famous Truckee meadows - a strip of very good
agricultural land, where plenty of money used to be made by raising
produce for the Virginia City market." But there's nothing in it any
more, since the Comstock's played out," glumly remarks a ranchman, at
whose place I get dinner. "I'll take less for my ranch now than I was
offered ten years ago," he continues.
The " meadows" gradually contract, and soon after dinner I find myself
again following the Truckee down a narrow space between mountains, whose
volcanic-looking rocks are destitute of all vegetation save stunted sage-
brush. All down here the road is ridable in patches; but many dismounts
have to be made, and the walking to be done aggregates at least one-third
of the whole distance travelled during the day. Sneakish coyotes prowl
about these mountains, from whence they pay neighborly visits to the
chicken-roosts of the ranchers in the Truckee meadows near by. Toward
night a pair of these animals are observed following behind at the
respectful distance of five hundred yards. One need not be apprehensive
of danger from these contemptible animals, however; they are simply
following behind in a frame of mind similar to that of a hungry school-boy's
when gazing longingly into a confectioner's window. Still, night is
gathering around, and it begins to look as though I will have to pillow
my head on the soft side of a bowlder, and take lodgings on the footsteps
of a bald mountain to-night; and it will scarcely invite sleep to know
that two pairs of sharp, wolfish eyes are peering wistfully through the
darkness at one's prostrate form, and two red tongues are licking about
in hungry anticipation of one's blood. Moreover, these animals have an
unpleasant habit of congregating after night to pay their compliments
to the pale moon, and to hold concerts that would put to shame a whole
regiment of Kilkenny cats; though there is but little comparison between
the two, save that one howls and the other yowls, and either is equally
effective in driving away the drowsy Goddess. I try to draw these two
animals within range of my revolver by hiding behind rocks; but they are
too chary of their precious carcasses to take any risks, and the moment
I disappear from their sight behind a rock they are on the alert, and
looking " forty ways at the same time," to make sure that I am not
creeping up on them from some other direction. Fate, however, has decreed
that I am not to sleep out to-night - not quite out. A lone shanty looms
up through the gathering darkness, and I immediately turn my footsteps
thitherwise. I find it occupied. I am all right now for the night. Hold
on, though! not so fast. "There is many a slip," etc. The little shanty,
with a few acres of rather rocky ground, on the bank of the Truckee, is
presided over by a lonely bachelor of German extraction, who eyes me
with evident suspicion, as, leaning on my bicycle in front of his rude
cabin door I ask to be accommodated for the night. Were it a man on
horseback, or a man with a team, this hermit-like rancher could satisfy
himself to some extent as to the character of his visitor, for he sees
men on horseback or men in wagons, on an average, perhaps, once a week
during the summer, and can see plenty of them any day by going to Reno.
But me and the bicycle he cannot "size up" so readily. He never saw
the like of us before, and we are beyond his Teutonic frontier-like
comprehension. He gives us up; he fails to solve the puzzle; he knows
not how to unravel the mystery; and, with characteristic Teutonic
bluntness, he advises us to push on through fifteen miles of rocks, sand,
and darkness, to Wadsworth. The prospect of worrying my way, hungry and
weary, through fifteen miles of rough, unknown country, after dark, looms
up as rather a formidable task. So summoning my reserve stock of persuasive
eloquence, backed up by sundry significant movements, such as setting
the bicycle up against his cabin-wall, and sitting down on a block of
wood under the window, I finally prevail upon him to accommodate me with
a blanket on the floor of the shanty. He has just finished supper, and
the remnants of the frugal repast are still on the table; but he says
nothing about any supper for me: he scarcely feels satisfied with himself
yet: he feels that I have, in some mysterious manner, gained an unfair
advantage over him, and obtained a foothold in his shanty against his
own wish-jumped his claim, so to speak. Not that I think the man really
inhospitable at heart; but he has been so habitually alone, away from
his fellowmen so much, that the presence of a stranger in his cabin makes
him feel uneasy; and when that stranger is accompanied by a queer-looking
piece of machinery that cannot stand alone, but which he nevertheless
says he rides on, our lonely rancher is perhaps not so much to be wondered
at, after all, for his absent-mindedness in regard to my supper. His
mind is occupied with other thoughts. "You couldn't accommodate a fellow
with a bite to eat, could you." I timidly venture, after devouring what
eatables are in sight, over and over again, with my eyes. "I have plenty
of money to pay for any accommodation I get," I think it policy to add,
by way of cornering him up and giving him as little chance to refuse as
possible, for I am decidedly hungry, and if money or diplomacy, or both,
will produce supper, I don't propose to go to bed supperless. I am not
much surprised to see him bear out my faith in his innate hospitality
by apologizing for not thinking of my supper before, and insisting,
against my expressed wishes, on lighting the fire and getting me a warm
meal of fried ham and coffee, for which I beg leave to withdraw any
unfavorable impressions in regard to him which my previous remarks may
possibly have made on the reader's mind.
After supper he thaws out a little, and I wheedle out of him a part of
his history. He settled on this spot of semi-cultivable land during the
flush times on the Comstock, and used to prosper very well by raising
vegetables, with the aid of Truckee-River water, and hauling them to the
mining-camps; but the palmy days of the Comstock have departed and with
them our lonely rancher's prosperity. Mine host has barely blankets
enough for his own narrow bunk, and it is really an act of generosity
on his part when he takes a blanket off his bed and invites me to extract
what comfort I can get out of it for the night. Snowy mountains are round
about, and curled up on the floor of the shanty, like a kitten under a
stove in mid-winter, I shiver the long hours away, and endeavor to feel
thankful that it is no worse.
For a short distance, next morning, the road is ridable, but nearing
Wadsworth it gets sandy, and " sandy," in Nevada means deep, loose sand,
in which one sinks almost to his ankles at every step, and where the
possession of a bicycle fails to awaken that degree of enthusiasm that
it does on a smooth, hard road. At Wadsworth I have to bid farewell to
the Truckee River, and start across the Forty-mile Desert, which lies
between the Truckee and Humboldt Rivers. Standing on a sand-hill and
looking eastward across the dreary, desolate waste of sand, rocks, and
alkali, it is with positive regret that I think of leaving the cool,
sparkling stream that has been my almost constant companion for nearly
a hundred miles. It has always been at hand to quench my thirst or furnish
a refreshing bath. More than once have I beguiled the tedium of some
uninteresting part of the journey by racing with some trifling object
hurried along on its rippling surface. I shall miss the murmuring music
of its dancing waters as one would miss the conversation of a companion.
This Forty-mile Desert is the place that was so much dreaded by the
emigrants en route to the gold-fields of California, there being not a
blade of grass nor drop of water for the whole forty miles; nothing but
a dreary waste of sand and rocks that reflects the heat of the sun, and
renders the desert a veritable furnace in midsummer; and the stock of
the emigrants, worn out by the long journey from the States, would succumb
by the score in crossing. Though much of the trail is totally unfit for
cycling, there are occasional alkali flats that are smooth and hard
enough to play croquet on; and this afternoon, while riding with careless
ease across one of these places, I am struck with the novelty of the
situation. I am in the midst of the dreariest, deadest-looking country
imaginable. Whirlwinds of sand, looking at a distance like huge columns
of smoke, are wandering erratically over the plains in all directions.
The blazing sun casts, with startling vividness on the smooth white
alkali, that awful scraggy, straggling shadow that, like a vengeful fate,
always accompanies the cycler on a sunny day, and which is the bane of
a sensitive wheelman's life. The only representative of animated nature
hereabouts is a species of small gray lizard that scuttles over the bare
ground with astonishing rapidity. Not even a bird is seen in the air.
All living things seem instinctively to avoid this dread spot save the
lizard. A desert forty miles wide is not a particularly large one; but
when one is in the middle of it, it might as well be as extensive as
Sahara itself, for anything he can see to the contrary, and away off to
the right I behold as perfect a mirage as one could wish to see. A person
can scarce help believing his own eyes, and did one not have some knowledge
of these strange and wondrous phenomena, one's orbs of vision would
indeed open with astonishment; for seemingly but a few miles away is a
beautiful lake, whose shores are fringed with wavy foliage, and whose
cool waters seem to lave the burning desert sands at its edge.
A short distance to the right of Hot Springs Station broken clouds of
steam are seen rising from the ground, as though huge caldrons of water
were being heated there. Going to the spot I find, indeed, " caldrons
of boiling water;" but the caldrons are in the depths. At irregular
openings in the rocky ground the bubbling water wells to the surface,
and the fires-ah! where are the fires. On another part of this desert
are curious springs that look demure and innocuous enough most of the
time, but occasionally they emit columns of spray and steam. It is related
of these springs that once a party of emigrants passed by, and one of
the men knelt down to take a drink of the clear, nice-looking water. At
the instant he leaned over, the spring spurted a quantity of steam and
spray all over him, scaring him nearly out of his wits. The man sprang
up, and ran as if for his life, frantically beckoning the wagons to move
on, at the same time shouting, at the top of his voice, "Drive on! drive
on! hell's no great distance from here!"
>From the Forty-mile Desert my road leads up the valley of the Humboldt
River. On the shores of Humboldt Lake are camped a dozen Piute lodges,
and I make a half-hour halt to pay them a visit. I shall never know
whether I am a welcome visitor or not; they show no signs of pleasure
or displeasure as I trundle the bicycle through the sage-brush toward
them. Leaning it familiarly up against one of their teepes, I wander
among them and pry into their domestic affairs like a health-officer in
a New York tenement. I know I have no right to do this without saying,
"By your leave," but item-hunters the world over do likewise, so I feel
little squeamishness about it. Moreover, when I come back I find the
Indians are playing " tit-for-tat" against me. Not only are they curiously
examining the bicycle as a whole, but they have opened the toolbag and
are examining the tools, handing them around among themselves. I don't
think these Piutes are smart or bold enough to steal nowadays; their
intercourse with the whites along the railroad has, in a measure, relieved
them of those aboriginal traits of character that would incite them to
steal a brass button off their pale-faced brother's coat, or screw a nut
off his bicycle; but they have learned to beg; the noble Piute of to-day
is an incorrigible mendicant. Gathering up my tools from among them, the
monkey-wrench seems to have found favor in the eyes of a wrinkled-faced
brave, who, it seems, is a chief. He hands the wrench over with a smile
that is meant to be captivating, and points at it as I am putting it
back into the bag, and grunts, " Ugh. Piute likum. Piute likum!" As I
hold it up, and ask him if this is what he means, he again points and
repeats, " Piute likum;" and this time two others standing by point at
him and also smile and say, " Him big chief; big Piute chief, him;"
thinking, no doubt, this latter would be a clincher, and that I would
at once recognize in " big Piute chief, him " a vastly superior being
and hand him over the wrench. In this, however, they are mistaken, for
the wrench I cannot spare; neither can I see any lingering trace of
royalty about him, no kingliness of mien, or extra cleanliness; nor is
there anything winning about his smile - nor any of their smiles for that
matter. The Piute smile seems to me to be simply a cold, passionless
expansion of the vast horizontal slit that reaches almost from one ear
to the other, and separates the upper and lower sections of their
expressionless faces. Even the smiles of the squaws are of the same
unlovely pattern, though they seem to be perfectly oblivious of any
ugliness whatever, and whenever a pale-faced visitor appears near their
teepe they straightway present him with one of those repulsive, unwinning
smiles. Sunday, May 4th, finds me anchored for the day at the village
of Lovelocks, on the Humboldt River, where I spend quite a remarkable
day. Never before did such a strangely assorted crowd gather to see the
first bicycle ride they ever saw, as the crowd that gathers behind the
station at Lovelocks to-day to see me. There are perhaps one hundred and
fifty people, of whom a hundred are Piute and Shoshone Indians, and the
remainder a mingled company of whites and Chinese railroaders; and among
them all it is difficult to say who are the most taken with the novelty
of the exhibition - the red, the yellow, or the white. Later in the evening
I accept the invitation of a Piute brave to come out to their camp,
behind the village, and witness rival teams of Shoshone and Piute squaws
play a match-game of " Fi-re-fla," the national game of both the Shoshone
and Piute tribes. The principle of the game is similar to polo. The
squaws are armed with long sticks, with which they endeavor to carry a
shorter one to the goal. It is a picturesque and novel sight to see the
squaws, dressed in costumes in which the garb of savagery and civilization
is strangely mingled and the many colors of the rainbow are promiscuously
blended, flitting about the field with the agility of a team of professional
polo-players; while the bucks and old squaws, with their pappooses, sit
around and watch the game with unmistakable enthusiasm. The Shoshone
team wins and looks pleased. Here, at Lovelocks, I fall in with one of
those strange and seemingly incongruous characters that are occasionally
met with in the West. He is conversing with a small gathering of Piutes
in their own tongue, and I introduce myself by asking him the probable
age of one of the Indians, whose wrinkled and leathery countenance would
indicate unusual longevity. He tells me the Indian is probably ninety
years old; but the Indians themselves never know their age, as they count
everything by the changes of the moon and the seasons, having no knowledge
whatever of the calendar year. While talking on this subject, imagine
my surprise to hear my informant - who looks as if the Scriptures are the
last thing in the world for him to speak of - volunteer the information
that our venerable and venerated ancestors, the antediluvians, used to
count time in the same way as the Indians, and that instead of Methuselah
being nine hundred and sixty-nine years of age, it ought to be revised
so as to read " nine hundred and sixty-nine moons," which would bring
that ancient and long-lived person-the oldest man that ever lived-down
to the venerable but by no means extraordinary age of eighty years and
nine months. This is the first time I have heard this theory, and my
astonishment at hearing it from the lips of a rough-looking habitue of
the Nevada plains, seated in the midst of a group of illiterate Indians,
can easily be imagined. On, up the Humboldt valley I continue, now riding
over a smooth, alkali flat, and again slavishly trundling through deep
sand, a dozen snowy mountain peaks round about, the Humboldt sluggishly
winding its way through the alkali plain; on past Eye Patch, to the right
of which are more hot springs, and farther on mines of pure sulphur-all
these things, especially the latter, unpleasantly suggestive of a certain
place where the climate is popularly supposed to be uncomfortably warm;
on, past Humboldt
Station, near which place I wantonly shoot a poor harmless badger, who
peers inquisitively out of his hole as I ride past. There is something
peculiarly pathetic about the actions of a dying badger, and no sooner
has the thoughtless shot sped on its mission of death than I am sorry
for doing it.
Going out of Mill City next morning I lose the way, and find myself up
near a small mining camp among the mountains south of the railroad.
Thinking to regain the road quickly by going across country through the
sage-brush, I get into a place where that enterprising shrub is go thick
and high that I have to hold the bicycle up overhead to get through.
At three o'clock in the afternoon I come to a railroad section-house.
At the Chinese bunk-house I find a lone Celestial who, for some reason,
is staying at home. Having had nothing to eat or drink since six o'clock
this morning, I present the Chinaman with a smile that is intended to
win his heathen heart over to any gastronomic scheme I may propose; but
smiles are thrown away on John Chinaman.
" John, can you fix me up something to eat. " " No; Chinaman no savvy
whi' man eatee; bossee ow on thlack. Chinaman eatee nothing bu' licee
[rice]; no licee cookee." This sounds pretty conclusive; nevertheless I
don't intend to be thus put off so easily. There is nothing particularly
beautiful about a silver half-dollar, but in the almond-shaped eyes of
the Chinaman scenes of paradisiacal loveliness are nothing compared to
the dull surface of a twenty-year-old fifty-cent piece; and the jingle
of the silver coins contains more melody for Chin Chin's unromantic ear
than a whole musical festival.
" John, I'll give you a couple of two-bit pieces if you'll get me a bite
of something," I persist. John's small, black eyes twinkle at the
suggestion of two-bit pieces, and his expressive countenance assumes a
commerical air as, with a ludicrous change of front, he replies:
" Wha'. You gib me flore bittee, me gib you bitee eatee. " "That's what
I said, John; and please be as lively as possible about it."
" All li; you gib me flore bittee me fly you Melican plan-cae." " Yes,
pancakes will do. Go ahead!"
Visions of pancakes and molasses flit before my hunger-distorted vision
as I sit outside until he gets them ready. In ten minutes John calls me
in. On a tin plate, that looks as if it has just been rescued from a
barrel of soap-grease, reposes a shapeless mass of substance resembling
putty-it is the " Melican plan-cae; " and the Celestial triumphantly
sets an empty box in front of it for me to sit on and extends his greasy
palm for the stipulated price. May the reader never be ravenously hungry
and have to choose between a " Melican plan-cae " and nothing. It is
simply a chunk of tenacious dough, made of flour and water only, and
soaked for a few minutes in warm grease. I call for molasses; he doesn't
know what it is. I inquire for syrup, thinking he may recognize my want
by that name. He brings a jar of thin Chinese catsup, that tastes something
like Limburger cheese smells. I immediately beg of him to take it where
its presumably benign influence will fail to reach me. He produces some
excellent cold tea, however, by the aid of which I manage to "bolt" a
portion of the "plan-cae." One doesn't look for a very elegant spread
for fifty cents in the Sage-brush State; but this "Melican plan-cae" is
the worst fifty-cent meal I ever heard of.
To-night I stay in Winnemucca, the county seat of Humboldt County, and
quite a lively little town of 1,200 inhabitants. "What'll yer have."
is the first word on entering the hotel, and "Won't yer take a bottle
of whiskey along." is the last word on leaving it next morning. There
are Piutes and Piutes camped at Winnemucca, and in the morning I meet a
young brave on horseback a short distance out of town and let him try
his hand with the bicycle. I wheel him along a few yards and let him
dismount; and then I show him how to mount and invite him to try it
himself. He gallantly makes the attempt, but springs forward with too
much energy, and over he topples, with the bicycle cavorting around on
top of him. This satisfies his aboriginal curiosity, and he smiles and
shakes his head when I offer to swap the bicycle for his mustang. The
road is heavy with sand all along by Winnemucca, and but little riding
is to be done. The river runs through green meadows of rich bottom-land
hereabouts; but the meadows soon disappear as I travel eastward. Twenty
miles east of Winnemucca the river arid railroad pass through the ca¤on
in a low range of mountains, while my route lies over the summit. It is
a steep trundle up the fountains, but from the summit a broad view of
the surrounding country is obtained. The Humboldt River is not a beautiful
stream, and for the greater part of its length it meanders through
alternate stretches of dreary sage-brush plain and low sand-hills, at
long intervals passing through a ca¤on in some barren mountain chain.
But "distance lends enchantment to the view," and from the summit of
the mountain pass even the Humboldt looks beautiful. The sun shines on
its waters, giving it a sheen, and for many a mile its glistening surface
can be seen - winding its serpentine course through the broad, gray-looking
sage and grease-wood plains, while at occasional intervals narrow patches
of green, in striking contrast to the surrounding gray, show where the
hardy mountain grasses venturously endeavor to invade the domains of the
autocratic sagebrush. What is that queer-looking little reptile, half
lizard, half frog, that scuttles about among the rocks. It is different
from anything I have yet seen. Around the back of its neck and along its
sides, and, in a less prominent degree, all over its yellowishgray body,
are small, horn-like protuberances that give the little fellow a very
peculiar appearance. Ah, I know who he is. I have heard of him, and have
seen his picture in books. I am happy to make his acquaintance. He is
"Prickey," the famed horned toad of Nevada. On this mountain spur, between
the Golconda miningcamp and Iron Point, is the only place I have seen
him on the tour. He is a very interesting little creature, more lizard
than frog, perfectly harmless; and his little bead-like eyes are bright
and fascinating as the eyes of a rattlesnake.
Alkali flats abound, and some splendid riding is to be obtained east of
Iron Point. Just before darkness closes down over the surrounding area
of plain and mountain I reach Stone-House section-house.
" Yes, I guess we can get you a bite of something; but it will be cold,"
is the answer vouchsafed in reply to my query about supper. Being more
concerned these days about the quantity of provisions I can command than
the quality, the prospect of a cold supper arouses no ungrateful emotions.
I would rather have a four-pound loaf and a shoulder of mutton for supper
now than a smaller quantity of extra choice viands; and I manage to
satisfy the cravings of my inner man before leaving the table. But what
about a place to sleep. For some inexplicable reason these people refuse
to grant me even the shelter of their roof for the night. They are not
keeping hotel, they say, which is quite true; they have a right to refuse,
even if it is twenty miles to the next place; and they do refuse. "There's
the empty Chinese bunk-house over there. You can crawl in there,
if you arn't afeerd of ghosts," is the parting remark, as the door closes
and leaves me standing, like an outcast, on the dark, barren plain.
A week ago this bunk-house was occupied by a gang of Chinese railroaders,
who got to quarrelling among themselves, and the quarrel wound up in
quite a tragic poisoning affair, that resulted in the death of two, and
nearly killed a third. The Chinese are nothing, if not superstitious,
and since this affair no Chinaman would sleep in the bunk-house or work
on this section; consequently the building remains empty. The "spooks"
of murdered Chinese are everything but agreeable company; nevertheless
they are preferable to inhospitable whites, and I walk over to the house
and stretch my weary frame in - for aught I know - the same bunk in which,
but a few days ago, reposed the ghastly corpses of the poisoned Celestials.
Despite the unsavory memories clinging around the place, and my pillowless
and blanketless couch, I am soon in the land of dreams. It is scarcely
presumable that one would be blessed with rosy-hued visions of pleasure
under such conditions, however, and near midnight I awake in a cold
shiver. The snowy mountains rear their white heads up in the silent
night, grim and ghostly all around, and make the midnight air chilly,
even in midsummer. I lie there, trying in vain to doze off again, for
it grows perceptibly cooler. At two o'clock I can stand it no longer,
and so get up and strike out for Battle Mountain, twenty miles ahead.
The moon has risen; it is two-thirds full, and a more beautiful sight
than the one that now greets my exit from the bunk-house it is scarcely
possible to conceive. Only those who have been in this inter-mountain
country can have any idea of a glorious moonlight night in the clear
atmosphere of this dry, elevated region. It is almost as light as day,
and one can see to ride quite well wherever the road is ridable. The
pale moon seems to fill the whole broad valley with a flood of soft,
silvery light; the peaks of many snowy mountains loom up white and
spectral; the stilly air is broken by the excited yelping of a pack of
coyotes noisily baying the pale-yellow author of all this loveliness,
and the wild, unearthly scream of an unknown bird or animal coming from
some mysterious, undefinable quarter completes an ideal Western picture,
a poem, a dream, that fully compensates for the discomforts of the
preceding hour. The inspiration of this beautiful scene awakes the
slumbering poesy within, and I am inspired to compose a poem-"Moonlight
in the Rockies"-that I expect some day to see the world go into raptures
over!
A few miles from the Chinese shanty I pass a party of Indians camped by
the side of my road. They are squatting around the smouldering embers
of a sage-brush fire, sleeping and dozing. I am riding slowly and carefully
along the road that happens to be ridable just here, and am fairly past
them before being seen. As I gradually vanish in the moonlit air I wonder
what they think it was - that strange-looking object that so silently and
mysteriously glided past. It is safe to warrant they think me anything
but flesh and blood, as they rouse each other and peer at my shadowy
form disappearing in the dim distance.
>From Battle Mountain my route leads across a low alkali bottom, through
which dozens of small streams are flowing to the Humboldt. Many of them
are narrow enough to be jumped, but not with a bicycle on one's shoulder,
for under such conditions there is always a disagreeable uncertainty
that one may disastrously alight before he gets ready. But I am getting
tired of partially undressing to ford streams that are little more than
ditches, every little way, and so I hit upon the novel plan of using the
machine for a vaulting-pole. Beaching it out into the centre of the
stream, I place one hand on the head and the other on the saddle, and
vault over, retaining my hold as I alight on the opposite shore. Pulling
the bicycle out after me, the thing is done. There is no telling to what
uses this two-wheeled "creature" could be put in case of necessity.
Certainly the inventor never expected it to be used for a vaulting-pole
in leaping across streams. Twenty-five miles east of Battle Mountain the
valley of the Humboldt widens into a plain of some size, through which
the river meanders with many a horseshoe curve, and maps out the pot-hooks
and hangers of our childhood days in mazy profusion. Amid these innumerable
curves and counter-curves, clumps of willows and tall blue-joint reeds
grow thickly, and afford shelter to thousands of pelicans, that here
make their homes far from the disturbing presence of man. All unconscious
of impending difficulties, I follow the wagon trail leading through this
valley until I find myself standing on the edge of the river, ruefully
looking around for some avenue by which I can proceed on my way. I am
in the bend of a horseshoe curve, and the only way to get out is to
retrace my footsteps for several miles, which disagreeable performance
I naturally feel somewhat opposed to doing. Casting about me I discover
a couple of old fence-posts that have floated down from the Be-o-wa-we
settlement above and lodged against the bank. I determine to try and
utilize them in getting the machine across the river, which is not over
thirty yards wide at this point. Swimming across with my clothes first,
I tie the bicycle to the fence-posts, which barely keep it from sinking,
and manage to navigate it successfully across. The village of Be-o-wa-we
is full of cowboys, who are preparing for the annual spring round-up.
Whites, Indians, and Mexicans compose the motley crowd. They look a
wild lot, with their bear-skin chaparejos and semi-civilized trappings,
galloping to and fro in and about the village. "I can't spare the time,
or I would," is my slightly un-truthful answer to an invitation to stop
over for the day and have some fun. Briefly told, this latter, with the
cowboy, consists in getting hilariously drunk, and then turning his "pop"
loose at anything that happens to strike his whiskey-bedevilled fancy
as presenting a fitting target. Now a bicycle, above all things, would
intrude itself upon the notice of a cowboy on a " tear" as a peculiar
and conspicuous object, especially if it had a man on it; so after taking
a "smile" with them for good-fellowship, and showing them the modus
operandi of riding the wheel, I consider it wise to push on up the valley.
Three miles from Be-o-wa-we is seen the celebrated "Maiden's Grave," on
a low hill or bluff by the road-side; and "thereby hangs a tale." In
early days, a party of emigrants were camped near by at Gravelly Ford,
waiting for the waters to subside, so that they could cross the liver,
when a young woman of the party sickened and died. A rudely carved head-
board was set up to mark the spot where she was buried. Years afterward,
when the railroad was being built through here, the men discovered this
rude head-board all alone on the bleak hill-top, and were moved by worthy
sentiment to build a rough stone wall around it to keep off the ghoulish
coyotes; and, later on, the superintendent of the division erected a
large white cross, which now stands in plain view of the railroad. On
one side of the cross is written the simple inscription, "Maiden's
Grave;" on the other, her name, "Lucinda Duncan" Leaving the bicycle
by the road-side, I climb the steep bluff and examine the spot with some
curiosity. There are now twelve other graves beside the original
"Maiden's Grave," for the people of Be-o-wa-we and the surrounding country
have selected this romantic spot on which to inter the remains of their
departed friends. This afternoon I follow the river through Humboldt
Ca¤on in preference to taking a long circuitous route over the mountains.
The first noticeable things about this ca¤on are the peculiar water-marks
plainly visible on the walls, high up above where the water could possibly
rise while its present channels of escape exist unobstructed. It is
thought that the country east of the spur of the Red Range, which stretches
clear across the valley at Be-o-wa-we, and through which the Humboldt
seems to have cut its way, was formerly a lake, and that the water
gradually wore a passage-way for itself through the massive barrier,
leaving only the high-water marks on the mountain sides to tell of the
mighty change. In this ca¤on the rocky walls tower like gigantic
battlements, grim and gloomy on either side, and the seething, boiling
waters of the Humboldt - that for once awakens from its characteristic
lethargy, and madly plunges and splutters over a bed of jagged rocks
which seem to have been tossed into its channel by some Herculean hand -
fill this mighty "rift" in the mountains with a never-ending roar. It has
been threatening rain for the last two hours, and now the first peal of
thunder I have heard on the whole journey awakens the echoing voices of
the ca¤on and rolls and rumbles along the great jagged fissure like an
angry monster muttering his mighty wrath. Peal after peal follow each
other in quick succession, the vigorous, newborn echoes of one peal
seeming angrily to chase the receding voices of its predecessor from
cliff to cliff, and from recess to projection, along its rocky, erratic
course up the ca¤on. Vivid flashes of forked lightning shoot athwart the
heavy black cloud that seems to rest on either wall, roofing the ca¤on
with a ceiling of awful grandeur. Sheets of electric flame light up the
dark, shadowy recesses of the towering rocks as they play along the
ridges and hover on the mountain-tops; while large drops of rain begin
to patter down, gradually increasing with the growing fury of their
battling allies above, until a heavy, drenching downpour of rain and
hail compels me to take shelter under an overhanging rock. At 4 P.M. I
reach Palisade, a railroad village situated in the most romantic spot
imaginable, under the shadows of the towering palisades that hover above
with a sheltering care, as if their special mission were to protect it
from all harm. Evidently these mountains have been rent in twain by an
earthquake, and this great gloomy chasm left open, for one can plainly
see that the two walls represent two halves of what was once a solid
mountain. Curious caves are observed in the face of the cliffs, and one,
more conspicuous than the rest, has been christened "Maggie's Bower,"
in honor of a beautiful Scottish maiden who with her parents once lingered
in a neighboring creek-bottom for some time, recruiting their stock. But
all is not romance and beauty even in the glorious palisades of the
Humboldt; for great, glaring, patent-medicine advertisements are painted
on the most conspicuously beautiful spots of the palisades. Business
enterprise is of course to be commended and encouraged; but it is really
annoying that one cannot let his esthetic soul - that is constantly
yearning for the sublime and beautiful - rest in gladsome reflection on
some beautiful object without at the same time being reminded of " corns,"
and " biliousness," and all the multifarious evils that flesh is heir
to.
It grows pitchy dark ere I leave the ca¤on on my way to Carlin. Farther
on, the gorge widens, and thick underbrush intervenes between the road
and the river. From out the brush I see peering two little round
phosphorescent balls, like two miniature moons, turned in my direction.
I wonder what kind of an animal it is, as I trundle along through the
darkness, revolver in hand, ready to defend myself, should it make an
attack. I think it is a mountain-lion, as they seem to be plentiful in
this part of Nevada, Late as it is when I reach Carlin, the "boys"
must see how a bicycle is ridden, and, as there is no other place suitable,
I manage to circle around the pool-table in the hotel bar-room a few
times, nearly scalping myself against the bronze chandelier in the
operation. I hasten, however, to explain that these proceedings took
place immediately after my arrival, lest some worldly wise, over-sagacious
person should be led to suspect them to be the riotous undertakings of
one who had "smiled with the boys once too often." Little riding is
possible all through this section of Nevada, and, in order to complete
the forty miles a day that I have rigorously imposed upon myself, I
sometimes get up and pull out at daylight. It is scarce more than sunrise
when, following the railroad through Five-mile Canon - another rift through
one of the many mountain chains that cross this part of Nevada in all
directions under the general name of the Humboldt Mountains-I meet with
a startling adventure. I am trundling through the ca¤on alongside the
river, when, rounding the sharp curve of a projecting mountain, a tawny
mountain lion is perceived trotting leisurely along ahead of me, not
over a hundred yards in advance. He hasn't seen me yet; he is perfectly
oblivious of the fact that he is in "the presence." A person of ordinary
discretion would simply have revealed his presence by a gentlemanly
sneeze, or a slight noise of any kind, when the lion would have immediately
bolted back into the underbrush. Unable to resist the temptation, I fired
at him, and of course missed him, as a person naturally would at a hundred
yards with a bull-dog revolver. The bullet must have singed him a little
though, for, instead of wildly scooting for the brush, as I anticipated,
he turns savagely round and comes bounding rapidly toward me, and at
twenty paces crouches for a spring. Laying his cat-like head almost on
the ground, his round eyes flashing fire, and his tail angrily waving
to and fro, he looks savage and dangerous. Crouching behind the bicycle,
I fire at him again. Nine times out of ten a person will overshoot the
mark with a revolver under such circumstances, and, being anxious to
avoid this, I do the reverse, and fire too low. The ball strikes the
ground just in front of his head, and throws the sand and gravel in his
face, and perhaps in his wicked round eyes; for he shakes his head,
springs up, and makes off into the brush. I shall shed blood of some
sort yet before I leave Nevada. There isn't a day that I don't shoot at
something or other; and all I ask of any animal is to come within two
hundred yards and I will squander a cartridge on him, and I never fail
to hit the ground.
At Elko, where I take dinner, I make the acquaintance of an individual,
rejoicing in the sobriquet of "Alkali Bill," who has the largest and
most comprehensive views of any person I ever met. He has seen a paragraph,
something about me riding round the world, and he considerately takes
upon himself the task of summing up the few trifling obstacles that I
shall encounter on the way round:
"There is only a small rise at Sherman," he rises to explain, " and
another still smaller at the Alleghanies; all the balance is downhill
to the Atlantic. Of course you'll have to 'boat it' across the Frogpond;
then there's Europe - mostly level; so is Asia, except the Himalayas - and
you can soon cross them; then you're all 'hunky,' for there's no mountains
to speak of in China." Evidently Alkali Bill is a person who points the
finger of scorn at small ideas, and leaves the bothersome details of
life to other and smaller-minded folks. In his vast and glorious imagery
he sees a centaur-like cycler skimming like a frigate-bird across states
and continents, scornfully ignoring sandy deserts and bridgeless streams,
halting for nothing but oceans, and only slowing up a little when he
runs up against a peak that bobs up its twenty thousand feet of snowy
grandeur serenely in his path. What a Ceasar is lost to this benighted
world, because in its blindness, it will not search out such men as
Alkali and ask them to lead it onward to deeds of inconceivable greatness.
Alkali Bill can whittle more chips in an hour than some men could in a
week. Much of the Humboldt Valley, through which my road now runs, is
at present flooded from the vast quantities of water that are pouring
into it from the Ruby Range of mountains now visible to the southeast,
and which have the appearance of being the snowiest of any since leaving
the Sierras. Only yesterday I threatened to shed blood before I left
Nevada, and sure enough my prophecy is destined to speedy fulfilment.
Just east of the Osino Ca¤on, and where the North Fork of the Humboldt
comes down from the north and joins the main stream, is a stretch of
swampy ground on which swarms of wild ducks and geese are paddling about.
I blaze away at them, and a poor inoffensive gosling is no more. While
writing my notes this evening, in a room adjoining the "bar" at Halleck,
near the United States fort of the same name, I overhear a boozy soldier
modestly informing his comrades that forty-five miles an hour is no
unusual speed to travel with a bicycle. Gradually I am nearing the source
of the Humboldt, and at the town of Wells I bid it farewell for good.
Wells is named from a group of curious springs near the town. They are
supposed to be extinct volcanoes, now filled with water; and report says
that no sounding-line has yet been found long enough to fathom the bottom.
Some day when some poor, unsuspecting tenderfoot is peering inquisitively
down one of these well-like springs, the volcano may suddenly come into
play again and convert the water into steam that will shoot him clear
up into the moon. These volcanoes may have been soaking in water for
millions of years; but they are not to be trusted on that account; they
can be depended upon to fill some citizen full of lively surprise one
of these days. Everything here is surprising. You look across the desert
and see flowing water and waving trees; but when you get there, with
your tongue hanging out and your fate wellnigh sealed, you are surprised
to find nothing but sand and rocks. You climb a mountain expecting to
find trees and birds' eggs, and you are surprised to find high-water
marks and sea-shells. Finally, you look in the looking-glass and are
surprised to find that the wind and exposure have transformed your nice
blonde complexion to a semi-sable hue that would prevent your own mother
from recognizing you.
The next day, when nearing the entrance to Moutella Pass, over the Goose
Creek Range, I happen to look across the mingled sagebrush and juniper-spruce
brush to the right, and a sight greets my eyes that causes me to
instinctively look around for a tall tree, though well knowing that there
is nothing of the kind for miles; neither is there any ridable road near,
or I might try my hand at breaking the record for a few miles. Standing
bolt upright on their hind legs, by the side of a clump of juniper-spruce
bushes and intently watching my movements, are a pair of full-grown
cinnamon bears. When a bear sees a man before the man happens to descry
him, and fails to betake himself off immediately, it signifies that he
is either spoiling for a fight or doesn't care a continental password
whether war is declared or not. Moreover, animals recognize the peculiar
advantages of two to one in a fight equally with their human infer! - superiors;
and those two over there are apparently in no particular hurry to move
on. They don't seem awed at my presence. On the contrary, they look
suspiciously like being undecided and hesitative about whether to let
me proceed peacefully on my way or not. Their behavior is outrageous;
they stare and stare and stare, and look quite ready for a fight. I don't
intend one to come off, though, if I can avoid it. I prefer to have it
settled by arbitration. I haven't lost these bears; they aren't mine,
and I don't want anything that doesn't belong to me. I am not covetous;
so, lest I should be tempted to shoot at them if I come within the
regulation two hundred yards, I "edge off" a few hundred yards in the
other direction, and soon have the intense satisfaction of seeing them
stroll off toward the mountains. I wonder if I don't owe my escape on
this occasion to my bicycle. Do the bright spokes glistening in the
sunlight as they revolve make an impression on their bearish intellects
that influences their decision in favor of a retreat. It is perhaps
needless to add that, all through this mountain-pass, I keep a loose eye
busily employed looking out for bears.
But nothing more of a bearish nature occurs, and the early gloaming finds
me at Tacoma, a village near the Utah boundary line. There is an awful
calamity of some sort hovering over this village. One can feel it in the
air. The habitues of the hotel barroom sit around, listless and glum.
When they speak at all it is to predict all sorts of difficulties for
me in my progress through Utah and Wyoming Territories. "The black gnats
of the Salt Lake mud flat'll eat you clean up," snarls one. "Bear River's
flooding the hull kintry up Weber Ca¤on way," growls another. "The
slickest thing you kin do, stranger, is to board the keers and git out
of this," says a third, in a tone of voice and with an emphasis that
plainly indicates his great disgust at "this." By " this" he means the
village of Tacoma; and he is disgusted with it. They are all disgusted
with it and with the whole world this evening, because Tacoma is "out
of whiskey." Yes, the village is destitute of whiskey; it should have
arrived yesterday, and hasn't shown up yet; and the effect on the society
of the bar-room is so depressing that I soon retire to my couch, to dream
of Utah's strange intermingling of forbidding deserts and beautiful
orchards through which my route now leads me.