a desire to see as much as possible of said round-up. Mr. Campbell
assured us that we still had time before dinner to visit the scene
of the round-up and that our driver could take the Ford anywhere a
mustang could go. So we struck out across the broad, sandy wash of
the Rio Puerco in face of stinging gusts of sand, for the wind had
been steadily rising all morning. We pursued our way across the desert
toward the scene of activity, jumping over hummocks, plunging in and
out of little ravines, and crawling through the sagebrush, but making
progress all the time at an astonishing rate.
Our driver in the meanwhile was regaling us with blood-curdling tales
of his experiences as a cowpuncher--stories of thrilling fights with
Indians, of how he was lost for days in a blizzard to be rescued in
last extremity, and similar harrowing adventures. He was interrupted
by a cowboy who rode up to us, touching his sombrero to the ladies.
“Hello, Gulliver,” he cried, “How’s the Ford for rounding ’em up?” Our
pilot now had little to say, but the newcomer was very courteous in
answering our queries and explaining the maneuvers of the round-up.
They were now coming in from every side, bringing about a thousand
cattle in all--the object being to separate--“cut out”--the cows with
young calves for branding and the merchantable steers for shipment to
the east. The herd was assembled in a level plain near a corral and the
cowboys, some three or four dozen in number, dashed furiously about,
dexterously singling out the proper animals and turning them into the
corrals. Sometimes a calf, bawling wildly, would bolt for the hills,
followed by his terrified mama. It was astonishing how fast and how far
the little beast’s spindling legs could carry him, but his pursuer soon
had him lassoed and dragged him, in spite of his stiff legs, to the
corral. Poor fellow, if he could have realized the fate awaiting him,
he would probably have increased his desperate struggles for freedom;
a little later he was thrown to the ground and his owner’s brand
imprinted on his smooth hide with a red-hot iron.
One of the ladies of our party had a kodak and, being anxious to have a
few snaps at closer range, asked one of the cowboys to take the camera
and ride nearer the herd.
“I’m afraid I don’t know how to work the machine. Say, Gulliver, you
take my horse and try it,” which Gulliver did with sublime assurance.
In the meanwhile perhaps a dozen girls from the hotel and vicinity
came cantering to the scene and were the recipients of most respectful
attention on part of the cowboys. A couple of heavy covered wagons came
lumbering on the scene a little later and paused beside a pond filled
by windmills on the opposite side of the herd.
“Them’s the grub wagons,” said Gulliver, “Shall we drive round and see
them get dinner?” To which proposal we readily assented. The two cooks
had some difficulty in getting a fire started on account of the wind,
which had increased to a veritable gale, driving the sand in stinging
gusts. One of the cooks dipped a bucket of water from the pool and
poured a quantity of the murky liquid into a dishpan of flour which
he vigorously stirred with his hands. He soon had some biscuits which
looked quite good and his compeer was busy frying steak in huge pans.
Canned vegetables and fruits were produced from the wagons and a very
passable meal was soon ready for serving on wooden picnic plates. True,
everything was liberally sprinkled with the sand which constantly
filled the air, but it was clear from the husky boys flocking in to the
repast that Arizona sand isn’t deleterious to the constitution. We were
invited to join in the repast, but the ladies decided it was time to
return to the hotel and we departed with profuse thanks to our would-be
hosts.
We did not fare any too well at the hotel--the help had gone almost
en masse to the round-up, leaving most of the work to be done by the
proprietor and his wife.
“A round-up means a holiday to almost everyone in Adamana,” explained
Mr. Campbell. “It’s no easy matter to keep help at the very best, and
when anything occurs to break the monotony of our life, we have to let
our people make the most of it.”
We agreed that a chance to see the round-up ourselves more than
compensated for any inconvenience we experienced on account of it, and
everybody took it good-naturedly.
Gulliver, however, expressed contempt for the round-up; it was
hopelessly tame and civilized compared with those of old days, in which
he had participated, when every man wore a big gun and cartridge belt
and shootings were delightfully common. He was ready after lunch with
his Ford to pilot us to the forests lying south of Adamana. Had not
our time been limited, we should have demurred; the wind had risen to
a perfect gale, clouds of sand obstructed our view, and gave a faint
yellow tinge to the sky. Crossing the river wash, the Ford stalled in
a fresh sand drift and Gulliver requested us to dismount and “give her
a lift.” A little sagebrush thrown under the wheels, an energetic push
by the passengers, some vigorous growling, and more or less snorting
and scrambling on part of the car brought it out of the drift and we
went on our way rejoicing. A wide waste of sand-blown desert stretched
before us; not a tree was visible save a few small cottonwoods along
the Rio Puerco, which, being interpreted, means “river of mud”--though
sand would be more appropriate just now. In the rainy season it often
becomes a raging torrent, cutting off access for the time to the
southern forests, but Mr. Campbell hoped to have a bridge before long.
For six miles we followed the desert trail, often nearly obliterated by
the drifting sand. No human habitations were in sight, only rocks and
sagebrush-studded sand with fragments of a pre-historic Indian village
or two.
The first forest is not of great extent, but is interesting for
its famous natural log bridge, sixty feet long, spanning a deep,
tree-fringed chasm. The great trunk is four or five feet in diameter
and despite earnest protests from the female contingent I walked across
it in face of the gale, which was, of course, the only element of
danger.
The second forest is larger, comprising about two thousand acres.
It has many huge trunks almost intact, including the “Twin Sisters,”
the most distinguishing feature of this forest. Gulliver assured us,
however, that the third forest, six or seven miles farther, was the one
most deserving of our attention and if, when we had done this, we still
hankered for petrified forests, we could stop again at the first two on
our return. He took occasion to regale us with additional chapters from
his personal experiences--some of which might indeed have fitted very
appropriately in the career of his namesake. I suggested that he ought
to wear goggles to protect his eyes from the sand--one of them was
badly blood-shot.
“The sand hain’t got nothing to do with that eye,” he said. “One time
when I was on the range I got into a little dispute with another
cow-puncher and he shoved his gun in my face. I knocked it to one side
but the bullet grazed my cheek, and I got a bad powder burn in the eye.”
“Well, I suppose you didn’t do a thing to that fellow,” I ventured.
“Just took his gun away from him and told him to be more keerful next
time--but here’s the third forest. We’ll just leave the Ford and take a
little round on foot.”
And, indeed, we soon agreed that one who wishes to see the real wonder
and beauty of the petrified forests may well devote most of his time to
the third, or Rainbow Forest, as it is known locally. Here are hundreds
of huge stone trunks, many five or six feet in diameter, and over
two hundred feet long, lying as they fell, but broken by some mighty
convulsion into sections a few feet in length. Every detail of the bark
is preserved, in some cases in apparently its original colors, so that
except for the fractures one might imagine before him a great redwood
log of comparatively recent date. But the great marvel of color is seen
in fractures--every tint of the prism, with blood-red and golden yellow
predominating, combine to astonish and delight the beholder. The grain
and annual rings of growth are plainly marked on many of the gigantic
blocks, enabling scientists to judge pretty accurately of the age of
the trees when destruction overtook them--and some of them had surely
attained their millennium. Everywhere on the sands were scattered
millions of jewel-like fragments, glittering in the sun and exciting
our cupidity to possess specimens of these curious prismatic gems. We
picked up what seemed the most beautiful specimens only to discard them
for others that happened to strike our fancy more forcibly, and in the
end we had stowed away several pounds of the wonderful stone-wood in
Gulliver’s Ford. Of course we knew that only the smallest fraction--a
few glistening chips--could be taken with us, but Sinbad the Sailor in
the valley of diamonds must have experienced much the same feelings as
ourselves amidst these exhaustless jewels. For there is no danger of
the tourists depleting the supply. Millions of tons, covering square
miles in area, are scattered about on the surface and perhaps as much
more is buried just beneath it. Commercial exploitation of the wood was
prohibited since December 1906, when the forests were made a national
monument and the preservation of these wonderful deposits is thus
assured for all time to come.
Many solutions have been offered to the question, How did natural
forces operate to produce this almost incredible spectacle which our
eyes behold? “The wise guys say that these trees grew hundreds of miles
from the place,” said Gulliver, “and some big flood washed them here
and buried them under a half mile of sand. There they laid a million
years or so, changing into stone, and then along comes another flood
and washes the sand off from ’em.”
There are other explanations in the books, but perhaps this is as
good as any; it all must have happened before the advent of the human
race upon earth and before the surface of the earth had assumed the
definite shape which now confronts us. Some declare that a great inland
sea overwhelmed this prehistoric forest and the petrification took
place beneath its waters, which deposited deep layers of rock and sand
over the trees. But however it occurred, the great marvel is before
our eyes, acres and acres, profusely covered with chalcedony, agate,
onyx, cornelian, and amethyst, for all of these are here in color if
not in actual composition. Though no habitation now greets the eye--the
only structure being a covered platform on a little eminence affording
a view of a wide area of this strange prostrate forest--human beings
once lived among these weirdly-colored stone trees. Skeletons and
rare old potteries are often unearthed and ruins of Aztec villages
are found in this vicinity. How these primitive men subsisted here is
hard to conjecture, for it would be difficult to imagine a land more
inhospitable for the support of animal life.
When we were preparing to return, I asked Gulliver if it were not
possible to visit the Blue Forest, to complete our round of the wonders.
“The Blue Forest,” he snorted in disgust, “that’s one of John Muir’s
fakes. Nothing there worth seeing and would take you another day; have
to make the trip with a team.”
The latter assertion was sufficient to quench our desire to visit the
Blue Forest and the question whether it was one of John Muir’s fakes or
not became a matter of indifference.
“There’ll still be time for you to visit the hieroglyphics after you
get back if you want to,” said Gulliver, “but that’s another trip that
even a Ford can’t make; it’s only a four-mile round, though, and the
team can do it in an hour. No, I don’t drive the team myself; I just
officiate as chauffeur. Alkali Ike will do it about right, though, and
he knows more about them hieroglyphics than the fellers that scratched
them on the rocks. They’re mighty curious, and you’ll miss it if you
don’t see them.”
We didn’t propose to miss it and a small charabanc was ordered
forthwith on our return to the hotel, as several others proposed to
join our party. The wind was raging stronger than ever and the whole
river wash was hidden in clouds of driven sand. Through this we had
to pass at a snail’s pace, for it was heavy going. We could scarcely
see a foot ahead and the stinging sand filled our eyes and hair and
when anyone tried to speak he got a mouthful of it. The driver bowed
his head and let the horses wallow along at their own pace until they
finally scrambled up the opposite bank.
A few rods beyond the river the driver asked us to dismount and led us
among the huge sandstone ledges which overlook the valley. He first
conducted us to the prehistoric ruins of an Aztec community house,
where walls of rough stone about a foot in height laid in mortar mark
the outlines of numerous dwellings which fronted a plaza one hundred
and thirty feet wide by two hundred and ten feet long. Near the center
of this court has been found a small “kiva” or underground ceremonial
chamber similar to those of the pueblos to-day, and the flagstone
pavement is still in good preservation.
Near this ruin the hieroglyphics may be seen; they are cut in the
stones of the cliffs along the river for the distance of more than a
mile. The “cutting,” however, of the smooth sandstone has been done
with some hard substance, probably bits of petrified wood, rather than
any metal instrument. Some of the carvings are probably symbolical, and
the meaning is not easy to decipher. Others, however, tell their story
plainly enough. The most ambitious effort is supposed to represent
a royal wedding. The figures indicate dancing and rejoicing and the
priest may be distinguished by the symbolic “bird of wisdom” which he
holds in his hand. There are also representations of flocks and herds
and many individual birds and animals, some quite cleverly done. There
is a long-legged stork, and what he holds in his bill is evidently
intended for a frog, though it might pass for a baby by a stretch of
the imagination. Altogether, these strange carvings are as interesting
as they are mysterious. Their age can only be guessed at, but few
authorities put it at less than a thousand years. No history exists of
the people whose lives are represented here; even tradition is silent.
After inspecting the ruins and the hieroglyphics in the immediate
vicinity, we were driven for a mile or so beneath the mighty cliffs
along the river. At intervals additional carvings were to be seen,
often high up on the rocks. Returning, we passed near the scene of
the round-up, where a few cowboys were still engaged in branding the
calves--a scene which none of the ladies of the party wished to linger
over. It was nearly dark when we recrossed the river--if we may use
the name for the wide strip of sand where the Puerco rages at rare
intervals. The wind had slightly subsided, though the sand was still
disagreeable enough.
We were quite ready for a substantial dinner, but things were still
badly disarranged at the hotel. A dance always follows a round-up and
of course none of the hotel girls were willing to miss such an event.
Even the cook had disappeared and the guests had to be satisfied with
the efforts of Mr. Campbell and wife, who rose to the occasion in a
very creditable manner.
After dinner the guests lounged about the comfortable lobby of the
hotel; there was little to attract one to the rooms until he was
ready to go to bed. I don’t know whether it was a representative
petrified-forest crowd or not, but it was certainly cosmopolitan. There
was a Dutch doctor and his wife from Java--exceedingly non-committal on
the subject of the European War; a middle-aged English lady, professing
to be an invalid but doing the hardest “stunts” everywhere--she
even ate the cowboy dinner at the round-up--accompanied by a very
intelligent Danish lady as a companion and manager; and several plain
American citizens like ourselves from widely scattered sections of
the country. The conversation, as may be imagined, was varied and
generally interesting. The proprietor, who joined us later, told many
entertaining anecdotes of his experiences in the Indian country to
which he made frequent visits to purchase blankets for his store. He
said that he made it a rule never to decline the hospitality of the
Indians or traders, no matter how filthy they might be, since they were
sure to resent any squeamishness on part of a visitor.
“I was invited to eat in one shack,” he said, “where conditions
beggared description (I fancy the principal dish was dog); and where
the table was simply black with flies, but I joined in as if it had
been a repast at the Waldorf-Astoria. That’s the only way to get the
confidence and the genuine friendship of these people. Of course, I
was situated differently from the ordinary tourist, for I have regular
dealings with both the Indians and the traders.”
The guests generally joined in expressing the hope that circumstances
might not arise to put their good manners to such a test.
Mr. Campbell has occasionally outfitted and conducted parties to the
various Indian reservations and particularly to the Moki Snake Dance.
On his last excursion to Moki-land he conducted a party of some thirty
people at a round rate of two hundred and fifty dollars per head, and
the general impression prevailed among them that he was coining money
a la Rockefeller. The fact was, he assured us, that so great were the
difficulties in securing supplies and especially forage for the horses,
that his profits on the trip were negligible.
The round trip to the Navajo country can be made via Ford in two days
and Gulliver had orders to be ready to take the “invalid” English lady
and her companion on this excursion the following day, but it was
deferred on account of the wind storm which raged in even greater fury
than the day before.
Campbell is an expert on Navajo blankets, of which he has a very large
collection in the little store which he runs in connection with his
hotel. There are blankets of all degrees, ranging up to three hundred
dollars in price. During the holidays he does a considerable mail-order
business in all parts of the country by means of a magazine advertising
campaign.
At breakfast we found the serving girls again on the job, looking a
little blase after the dissipation of the round-up and dance. They
declared the latter a disappointment; it was too tame and uneventful.
“Why, there wasn’t even a fight,” said a blonde-haired German damsel
who brought our coffee and hot cakes. To elucidate her remark, Mr.
Campbell explained that while “gun toting” in Arizona is entirely
obsolete and bloodshed quite as uncommon and unpopular as in any
part of the country, few dances in Adamana end without a fist-fight
between some of the cowboys. Naturally, the men greatly outnumber
the maidens and contests for favors are almost sure to result in
warlike demonstrations. The ladies have doubtless come to consider
these collisions between rivals as in some degree a tribute to the
popularity of the female sex and when a dance passes off too peaceably
they feel as if their charms have not been adequately appreciated.
We boarded the California Limited about noon to resume our eastward
journey. We agreed that the Petrified Forests are well worth while; we
are sure that if the traveling public was generally aware how easily
these strange stone trees can be reached and how well visitors are
taken care of by Mr. Campbell and his helpers--not forgetting the
efficient and entertaining Gulliver--a far greater number of passengers
would “drop off” for a day or two at Adamana.
[Illustration: Map Showing Author’s Route in California
Oregon Map on Reverse of Sheet
By Courtesy of
THE OREGON JOURNAL
Portland, Oregon
]
[Illustration]
INDEX
A
Adamana, 294, 314.
Albany, 171.
Albion, 236.
Alturas, 69.
Annie Creek Canyon, 84–85.
Applegate, 31.
Arcata, 207–208.
Astoria, 160.
Auburn, 28–30.
B
Bear Valley, 33.
Bell Springs Mountain, 216–218, 220–228.
Bend, 112–116.
Bly, 74–76.
Bonneville, 144.
C
Celilo, 140.
Chinese Camp, 270–271.
Clear Lake Valley, 21.
Cloverdale, 238–241.
Colfax, 31.
Coloma, 45.
Columbia River Highway, 135–153.
Cow Creek Canyon, 178.
Crater Lake, 17, 81–109.
Crescent, 112.
Crescent City, 195–199.
D
Dalles, The, 125–132.
Del Norte Redwoods, 20, 193–194.
Deschutes River, 112, 115–120.
Donner Lake, 22, 33–34.
Dutch Flat, 32.
Dyerville, 217, 220.
E
Eagle Lake, 65–66.
Emigrant Gap, 32.
Eugene, 173–175.
Eureka, 18, 21, 184, 209–219.
F
Fort Bragg, 233–234.
Fortuna, 219.
Fresno, 248.
G
Glenbrook, 48–51.
Globe, 287–288.
Gold Run, 32.
Goose Lake, 69–72.
Grant, Ulysses S., 213.
Grants Pass, 179–185.
H
Harriman, E. H., 104.
Harris, 223–225.
Harrisburg, 172.
Harte, Bret, 22, 45, 213–215, 270.
Hetch Hetchy Valley, 266–267.
Honey Lake, 63–64.
Hood River, 132–135.
Horse Lake, 67–68.
J
Jacksonville, 270.
K
Klamath Falls, 74–81.
Klamath, Fort, 83.
Klamath, Lake, 81–83.
L
Lakeview, 72–74.
Lancaster, Mr. S. C., 138–139, 145, 150.
Latourelle Falls, 149–150.
Laytonville, 229–232.
Little River, 236.
Lost River, 76.
M
McCrays, 239–241.
Madeline Plains, 68.
Mariposa Grove, 251–253.
Mendocino City, 234–235.
Multnomah Falls, 146.
O
Oregon City, 168.
Orick, 205.
P
Painted Desert, 298.
Pais Creek Canyon, 175.
Patrick’s Creek, 189.
Petrified Forest, 294.
Phoenix, 277–294.
Placerville, 45–46.
Portland, 154–161.
Priest’s, 269.
Putnam, George Palmer, 167.
R
Reno, 57–61.
Requa, 202.
Rogue River, 102–103, 179.
Roosevelt Dam, 277–289.
Roseburg, 175, 177.
S
Sacramento, 23–27, 44.
Salem, 169–170.
Sand Creek Canyon, 110.
Santa Rosa Valley, 21, 241–242.
Sequoia, 268.
Shaniko, 121.
Shepperd’s Dell, 148–149.
Stockton, 272.
Storm Crest Tunnel, 136.
Sunday, Billy, 134.
Susanville, 64–65.
Sutter, Col. John H., 26.
T
Tahoe, Lake, 17, 23, 35–44, 71.
Tallac, 38, 39.
Trinidad, 206.
Truckee, 35, 54.
Tuolumne Grove, 265–267.
Tygh Valley, 122, 123.
V
Vancouver, 159.
W
Waldo, 186.
Wawona, 248, 253.
Wellman, John W., 101.
Westport, 232.
Willamette Valley, 163–167.
Winthrop, Theodore, 131.
Y
Yolo Trestle, 25.
Yosemite Valley, 245–274.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.
The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
references.
The illustration at the beginning of the book is the cover; the first
two illustrations on the Title Page are decorative; the third is the
publisher’s logo.
Page 215: “in his first essay” was misprinted as “in first his essay”;
corrected here.
End of Project Gutenberg's Oregon the Picturesque, by Thomas D. Murphy