we got under way our driver quickly cleared the streets of the town
and we were soon skimming merrily along a fine, level road skirting a
broad, tree-bordered irrigation canal. This is one of the main arteries
carrying the water which gives the valley its green prosperity--an
unruffled emerald river eighty feet broad and eight feet deep. We
crossed a fine bridge over the Salt River at Tempe, nine miles from
Phoenix, and about as far beyond this town we entered Mesa, the second
city of the valley. So far we found the road level and good, some of it
having been surfaced and otherwise improved.
Beyond Mesa we came quickly out of the cultivated part of the valley,
pursuing a good dirt road leading through a sandy stretch of desert,
toward the rugged hill range which rears its serrated crests against
the silvery horizon. Seen from Phoenix, the mountains that encircle
the verdant valley are shrouded in the intensest blue--far away hills
of mystery that suggest some fairyland beyond--but as we drew nearer
to them the blue shadows vanished and the bald, harsh outlines of
mighty wall and towering crag seemingly barred our way. The prevailing
colors were dull browns and reds and the slopes were almost devoid of
vegetation. Great boulder-like hills are tumbled about as though some
giant had flung them in wild confusion to bar the ingress of human
trespassers. The road, however, finds a crevice by which to enter the
mighty barrier and about midway between Phoenix and the dam it begins
its conquest of these forbidding hills. Somewhere we had read that
the government had built a “boulevard” through these mountains to the
dam and our preconceived notions were of a fair mountain road. We
had, therefore, no mental preparation to assist us in enduring one of
the crookedest, roughest, rockiest trails we ever bumped over in all
our experience. The route we followed was known as the “Apache Trail”
in pioneer days and frequently afforded a secure retreat for these
troublesome savages when pursued by the U. S. troopers. In converting
it into a thoroughfare for vehicles, it would seem that little has been
done except to widen the old trail--a real highway to Roosevelt Dam is
yet to be built.
The climb begins at the foot of Superstition Mountain, leaving the
river some miles to the left. Much of the road is natural granite rock,
almost untouched by the hand of man; again it is blasted in the edge
of a cliff, though little has been done to finish the surface to any
degree of smoothness. We scrambled through the Devil’s Kitchen--a wild
array of fantastic, multi-colored rocks--pink, yellow green--withal a
beautiful spot spoiled by a senseless name.
We followed the edge of sheer cliffs or skirted sloping hillsides
overlooking charming little valleys. From one point we had a far-away
glimpse of the vexed river--we crossed the inevitable “hogback” and
the grandest panorama of the whole trip burst suddenly upon our
astonished vision. It is a vast, oval basin more than a thousand feet
in depth, surrounded by parti-colored hills--though golden yellow seems
the predominating color--on every side save for the narrow chasm by
which the stream makes its escape from the canyon. But from our point
of view the creek seemed a silver thread and the pines on the valley
floor shrunk to mere shrubs. Our driver pointed out the ranch house
where we were to have lunch, though we located it with difficulty, for
it seemed no larger than an ordinary dry-goods box. The road here--the
only especially creditable piece of engineering on the route--descends
the mighty hillside in long, swinging loops and with only moderate
grades. It offers many wonderful panoramas of giant crags and towering
pinnacles; at times great cliffs rise far above it and again sheer
precipices fall away at its side. This wonderful vale of beauty and
grandeur goes by the very unpoetical title of Fish Creek Canyon, which
again reminds us how unfortunate the pioneers often were in their
nomenclature. What a pity that the sense of fitness which clung to the
old Indian or Spanish names in the Southwest or the romantic propriety
that gave the oriental titles to the palaces of the Grand Canyon was
not more common.
At Fish Creek Station, we paused at a plain, rustic roadhouse, where
a substantial dinner was served after considerable delay, for the
landlady and her daughter appeared to be sole attendants upon ourselves
and a dozen or more people who came by the stage. While awaiting the
dinner call, we amused ourselves in watching the antics of a pair of
young mountain lions confined in a wire cage. They were graceful,
playful beasts, somewhat larger than a big cat, and about six months
old, our driver said. They were caught in the vicinity, which is noted
for big game, and the very rare mountain sheep can be seen on the
surrounding cliffs at almost any time. The rocks assume many fantastic
shapes against the skyline around the valley and by exercising a little
imagination we finally could see the “Lion” and the “Cross” on the
distant heights. Leaving the station, the road follows the boisterous
creek for some distance, winding among trees and boulders which skirt
its banks. Then we again climbed rugged granite hills almost devoid
of vegetation, save many queer cacti, often gorgeous with blooms, and
finally approached the river, which we followed at no great distance
for the rest of the run. We saw it from the heights, whence it appeared
like a green, fluttering ribbon, as it dashed over its stony bed. As
we proceeded the road dipped down in the valley and finally came to
the very banks of the stream, which it closely followed for several
miles. It is a broad, beautifully clear river, plunging over the stones
in foaming rapids or lying still and deep in emerald green pools. The
road had been washed out for some distance by a spring flood and the
new work was excruciatingly rough and strewn with razor-edged stones
which wrought havoc on the smooth new tires. The scene at this point,
however, is one of wild and entrancing beauty. Far above us rose the
rocky walls, splashed with reds and yellows; below us the river banks
were lined with cottonwoods, aspens, and willows beneath which were
green meadows, with prosperous-looking cattle grazing upon them.
The road swings away from the river for some distance and we again
entered the hills; we crawled up narrow, steep grades and around the
corners of stupendous cliffs. Ere long a deep-voiced roar announced
that the object of our pilgrimage was near at hand. As we came out
upon a promontory, we got a full view of the mighty arc of stone that
shuts the vast wall of water in the heart of the blue hill range before
us. Torrents were pouring from the spillways and a rainbow arched the
clouds of mist and foam that rose at the base of the three-hundred-foot
fall. We paused in wonder and admiration to contemplate the scene--for
once the works of man rival the phenomena of nature in beauty and
grandeur, though we must confess that the natural background is a very
helpful accessory to the wonderful view. Back of the dam the shining
blue lake, twenty-five square miles in area, stretches away between the
granite hills, which show little traces of vegetation save scattered
scrub pines and cedars. Near at hand the reddish-brown volcanic rocks
stand out in bold, bare outlines, but gradually softened by the blue
mists of the distance, they take on the semblance of fairy towers
and domes. Substantial iron bridges two hundred feet long span the
spillways on either side of the dam and afford access to a sixteen-foot
roadway along the top of the mighty structure.
From the road one gets the most adequate idea of the gigantic
dimensions and great solidity of the dam; a few figures illustrating
these may be admissable here. The height from lowest foundation is 284
feet; thickness at base, 168 feet; at crest, 20 feet; total length,
including spillways, 1080 feet. The cost of the entire work was nine
million dollars, of which three and a half millions were spent on the
dam alone. Five and one-half years were required to complete the job
and formal dedication occurred on the eighteenth of March, 1911, with
the redoubtable Teddy himself as master of ceremonies. It was not
until nearly four years later that the reservoir was entirely filled.
There is enough water in reserve to supply all lands now under the
system with sufficient moisture for three years, putting any chance of
crop failure from shortage out of the question. About three and a half
feet of water annually is required to produce crops in the Salt River
Valley and this, with the warm sunshine and fertile soil, brings forth
a yield that is amazing to farmers in rain-watered sections. A valuable
by-product of the system is the water power available at the dam and
at various points on the river. The aggregate will exceed twenty-five
thousand horse power, which will ultimately pay for the maintenance of
the system, giving the land-owner his water service free.
Crossing the dam, we followed the road for a mile or two to Webb Lodge,
a comfortable-looking rustic inn built on a point of land extending
well into the lake. A good many Phoenix people come here to spend the
week-end and enjoy the excellent fishing. A number of stage tourists
also stop at the Lodge for the night, completing the trip to Globe,
forty-five miles farther, on the following day. We may confess that the
thought of a pause for the night here appealed mightily to us, but our
plans did not admit of such a stop, and after a half hour’s rest in
the big chairs on the Lodge veranda we signified our readiness for the
return trip.
The prospect of immediately retracing our way over the cruel road which
we had just covered was not at all alluring and we would recommend to
would-be visitors to make arrangements for a through trip to Globe
by auto-stage, resuming the railroad there. Our return trip was not
entirely without its reward, for we saw many weirdly beautiful effects
as the sun went down over the giant hills and the blue shadows veiled
the mysterious deeps of the savage ravines. Besides, the viewpoints
were so vastly different that it was often hard to believe we were
pursuing the road which we followed in coming. The sky was perfectly
clear and the western horizon was a vast, burning expanse as the sun
disappeared, though there was but little afterglow.
But we were hardly in form to appreciate the weird gradations of light
and color and the almost terrifying beauty of the twilight mountains
about us. The terrible road had worn the lady of the party to the
limit of endurance and our anxiety to get out of the fearful hills
constantly increased. It seemed an age before we rounded the black
bulk of Superstition Mountains and saw the moonlit Mesa glimmering
before us. Even the motor seemed to give a sigh of relief as the car
reached the level plain and settled down to a swift, steady pace after
the strenuous work in the hills. Mesa and Tempe were quickly passed
and we reached the well-lighted streets of Phoenix a little after nine
o’clock. The lady was so thoroughly fagged out that she declared there
was no possible hope that she would be able to leave the hotel the next
day. A night’s rest in a comfortable bed, however, worked wonders and,
though there was considerable complaint about sore joints and muscles
in the morning, she declared herself ready, after a late breakfast, to
carry out our plan to explore the vicinity of Phoenix during the day.
We soon struck a bargain with the old man whose son had piloted us to
the dam, to show us, with the assistance of his trusty Ford, what he
considered worth while in and about the city. He proved an excellent
guide, for he apparently knew every foot of the country by heart,
though perhaps he was a little too much of a “booster” to impart
unprejudiced information about Phoenix. We found it quite impossible
to disabuse him of the idea that we were seeking investments in the
valley--he evidently couldn’t conceive of any other reason for the
interest we were evincing in the country. He first descanted upon the
climate--the practice of every loyal westerner--and we had learned the
futility of disputing the asseverations made in such cases.
“I lived in Missouri several years ago and my wife suffered so terribly
from rheumatism and other ills that we decided on a change of climate.
We moved to Los Angeles and lived there for three years, but there
wasn’t much improvement and on the advice of a friend we came to
Phoenix a few years ago. My wife is perfectly well now and I feel that
I’ve added years to my life. It’s the warm, dry climate that does the
business; California is too wet in the winter months. Pretty hot in
summer?--Well, yes, but we don’t feel it like you do back east. I stay
here the year round and enjoy the weather all the time. The records
prove that the sun shines eighty-four per cent of the possible time and
there is an average of only thirty-seven rainy days in the year. Yes,
it’s good enough for me, and you’ll like it, too, if you decide to come
here.”
We first drove about the town and noted the handsome public and private
buildings, the wide, well-paved streets, and the many comfortable
residences with their pretty grounds. Not many of these could be
classed as pretentious, though there are several fine homes on the
broad avenue leading to the Government Indian School. The State
Capitol, a small but handsome building of classic design, surrounded by
ample grounds, is situated in the center of the town. Tucson has given
up the claim which it once pressed for the capitol, and no doubt a more
adequate structure will be built before many years. There are several
imposing public school buildings, classic lines prevailing in the
architecture of nearly all of them. A beautiful Y. M. C. A. building
with the mission motif predominating, fronts a pretty little park. I
have already mentioned the hotels, which of course greatly outclass
anything one would be likely to find in an eastern town two or three
times as large as Phoenix. Near the city is the Ingleside Country Club,
with a handsome club house where winter visitors are made welcome.
Nor did our guide permit us to overlook the Insane Asylum adjoining
the city and assured us that the big addition then building was made
necessary by prohibition, recently adopted in Arizona--leaving us to
draw any conclusions we might see fit.
Leaving the town we pursued the broad avenue leading to the Indian
school--a splendid road running straight away to the blue mountains,
sixty miles distant. It seems to me that I never saw elsewhere
mountains so intensely blue as those which surround this Arcadian
valley. Perhaps the universal greenness accentuates all colors. Surely
it was an earthly Paradise on the day of which I am writing--a bright,
fresh day with a light breeze laden with the odors of orange blossoms
and new-mown alfalfa. The Indian school is small and the buildings old,
but the surroundings seem ideal for teaching the rising generation of
red men the ways of civilization.
From the Indian school we drove to some orange groves not far distant
and made no attempt to dispute our guide’s emphatic claim that they
were quite the equal of the best groves about Riverside or Azusa.
“They can grow any fruit here that can be grown in California,” he
declared, “and some that can’t be matured there--dates, for instance.
We have frosts sometimes, but I’ve seen worse ones about Los Angeles.
Our main crops never fail, though; we can always count on a full yield
of grain, alfalfa, sugar beets, or a dozen other staples. And I want to
ask you if you ever saw finer cattle than those right before your eyes.”
We followed a road along one of the canals which spread like a network
over the valley and furnish unlimited water for the 182,000 acres now
under irrigation. About 30,000 additional acres can be reclaimed by
pumping water to a slightly higher level and this will comprise about
all the available land in the valley. None of it remains in possession
of the government and prices of improved land now range from $100 to
$500 per acre--very low, our enthusiastic informant asserted, when
you consider that a single year’s crop will often pay twenty-five to
fifty per cent of the original cost of the land. And this did not seem
unreasonable when we saw the enormous crops of wheat and alfalfa which
are being harvested--and the latter yields two to six cuttings per
year. Of course, there may be another side to the story of Salt River
Valley’s prosperity--as there is to nearly everything on this mundane
sphere--but our interest was too casual to spur us to any careful
investigation.
We were back to our hotel in the early afternoon, after having covered
a large part of the roads, good, bad, and indifferent, in the immediate
vicinity of the town. If we had time to go farther afield, we were
assured that there is much of interest within a radius of one hundred
and fifty miles about Phoenix. Tucson, one hundred and twenty miles
to the southeast, has the State University and one of the oldest and
most picturesque of Spanish missions in the Southwest--that of San
Xavier Del Bac, still in charge of the Franciscan monks. Granite Reef
Diversion Dam is thirty miles to the northeast and just beyond that are
the ruins of old Fort McDowell, established in the days of the Apache
wars. About it is an Indian reservation where the sons and daughters
of these fierce red warriors now pursue the arts of peace--they are
famous basket-makers and some of them are prosperous farmers and
cattle raisers. The Gila Indian Reservation is seventeen miles to the
southwest and is remarkable for its excellent buildings, which were
erected by the Indians themselves. One tribe, the Pimas, is noted for
its pottery, and its proudest boast is that it has never been at war
with the whites.
All of these points may be reached by motor over roads ranging from
fair to bad--but whatever their condition, constantly improving, for
Arizona, despite her limited population as compared with her vast
areas, is making every effort to improve her highways. Our old driver
left us at the hotel with the earnest plea that we give the merits of
Phoenix as a place to live our careful consideration and we assured
him that if we did not become citizens of the town it would not be his
fault.
Our plans were already made for a stop at the Petrified Forests of
Arizona--for these are in Arizona, though it takes a night’s run on
the Santa Fe to reach them in this land of magnificent distances. We
were met at the little goods-box station of Adamana by a short, swarthy
individual who seized our grips and piloted us to the bungalow-like
inn across the track, where the proprietor, Mr. Chester B. Campbell,
welcomed us and assured us that in response to our telegram he had
reserved “the best in the house for us.” We found the best to be had
in the Campbell Hotel quite primitive enough to suit the taste of the
most ardent advocate of the simple life; bath-rooms and running water
were taboo and telephone and call bells minus in rooms. But things were
clean and one is hardly entitled to Waldorf-Astoria accommodations for
two-fifty per day--“American plan.”
We barely paused to deposit our baggage in the room assigned to us
before signifying to Mr. Campbell our desire to visit the wonders which
had brought us to Adamana and we were assured that nearly everything
worth while could be done in a day--since Fords had superseded horses
and spring wagons. And I suppose it was fortunate for me that this
shift in transportation methods had been made; otherwise what excuse
could I have found for including the story of our experiences in a
chronicle of the motor car? And there was no time lost in “hitching
up.” Almost immediately we heard the familiar growl of the Ford engine
and were told that our car was ready. We found the swart, stocky
individual who met us at the station in charge of the steering wheel
and he proved an encyclopaedia of information, useful and otherwise, as
well as an artist in piloting the little machine over the sandy wastes.
“We’ll take in the North Sigillaria first,” he declared, “and there’ll
be plenty of time after dinner to do the others.”
It was the last of May--a clear, fresh day with a rather stiff breeze,
and the desert sand along our route was starred with many beautiful
blooms which elicited exclamations of admiration from the ladies of
the party. They must needs pause to gather a few of the flowers and
inquired as they climbed back into the car,
“Are there any rattlesnakes in this country?”
“Plenty of ’em,” responded our pilot. “I just shipped a big fellow east
yesterday.”
“Do you make a business of catching snakes?” I asked.
“Not much--but a young lady who was here said she’d like to have one
and I promised to send it,” he replied with the air of a man whose
promise is always equal to performance, and went on to regale us with
other weird stories of adventure with deadly reptiles.
“Any mountain lions in this section?” I asked, thinking to afford him
subject-matter for further stories of his experiences.
“Never heard of any,” he promptly answered.
“Roosevelt in his new book tells about hunting them near the Grand
Canyon,” I began, but he interrupted me with a snort of disgust.
“Roosevelt is the biggest ---- faker in the whole country. You can bet
your life he never hunted mountain lions in Arizona.”
“But I read it yesterday in his new book,” I insisted.
“Mebbe you did--he may write about it, all right, but I’ll gamble this
Ford agin a copper cent that he never did it.”
I saw there was no use trying to defend the veracity of our strenuous
ex-president to a man with such a righteous horror of a faker and
therefore desisted.
In the meanwhile the Ford had scrambled up a short incline to the
verge of a gigantic chasm and paused. From the gorgeous colorings--the
vivid dashes of red, yellow, purple, orange, and all the gamut of the
mingling of these--we might have fancied before us a section of the
Grand Canyon in miniature, save that the floor of the great depression
was comparatively level. Looking westward down this weird prismatic
valley, our view was unobstructed for twenty-five miles or more and the
vivid color belts gradually melted into a lavender haze which formed
the horizon.
“That’s a corner of the Painted Desert,” said our guide, “and those
black stumps and blocks you see down yonder, a mile or so, are pieces
of the petrified trees. There’s a trail so you can walk down if you
want to.” Nobody exhibited any keen anxiety to hit the trail and the
driver confirmed the general disinclination by saying that the trip was
hardly worth while; we should see the other forests, far larger and
more interesting, at close range. So, after due contemplation of the
scene--for this stretch of the Painted Desert is far more worth while
than the forest at this point--we gave word for the return.
On the way the driver pointed out the line of the original Santa Fe
Trail which we crossed and I made some remark about the improvement
in roads and transportation methods which enabled a transcontinental
driver only a week before to complete the ocean-to-ocean trip in a
little over seven days. Our driver had not heard of this feat and as
the purport of my remark percolated to his brain he burst out,
“Don’t believe it; clean impossible for a single driver to do it. He’d
have to average five hundred miles a day.”
I assured him, however, that it had been done; that the Los Angeles
papers were full of it when we left that city.
“Don’t care if they were; there’s a fake of some sort about it,” and he
expressed his disapproval of fakes in general by urging the Ford at a
vicious rate over the sandy trail.
As we came near the hotel we saw signs of great activity in the stable
yard--the girls mounting saddle horses and cowboys dashing hither and
thither in the valley beyond.