THE SANTA FÉ TRAIL
On the fifth day after my arrival in Kansas City all was in readiness
for my departure. There was another big bill to meet for Lizzie's
overhaul, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that the bearings had
all been replaced, as well as a few cylinders and pistons and things,
and that there was just a chance of getting to the coast before
something else went wrong. Once again I wrote polite letters to the
factory at Chicago, paid many dozen "green backs" over the counter,
and started off once more, this time with only thirty-five dollars in
pocket. Once again fate and the post office had been unkind. Not a
suggestion of anything was there at either of the post offices at any
of my calls thereon. Amid vague wonderings and oft repeated doubts
I promised myself a big cheque at Santa Fé, next stop. I was just
beginning to know the ins and outs of the postal service.
The Santa Fé Trail is the oldest and most interesting highway in
America. Rather should it be said that the pioneers over what later
became known as the Santa Fé Trail were the first to leave permanent
marks on routes that have since become "highways" between the
Central-Western and the Far-Western States. In the days of the ox
team and prairie-schooner, the plains and mountains were crossed by
trails, usually along the lines of least resistance, keeping as close
as possible to bases of supplies and water. Travel over the Santa Fé
Trail began about 1822, starting from Little Rock, Arkansas (pronounced
Arkansaw), and following the Arkansas River west. A few years later,
this trail was superseded by a more permanent one going west from
Kansas City (then called Westport) to "Great Bend," a base situated,
as its name implies, on a great bend of the Arkansas River, and thence
to Santa Fé by a choice of two routes. An important trade with the
Spanish population of the south-west was early developed, reaching its
zenith in the '60s. This route, the one which I followed, has now been
marked a considerable part of the way by stone monuments erected by the
"Daughters of the American Revolution" and constituted the chief inroad
from the East to the Far West. Santa Fé itself, next to St. Augustine,
Florida, is the most ancient city in America, having been founded in
1605 by Spanish settlers on the site of a "pueblo" or Indian village of
far-distant origin. Naturally, therefore, it was the centre of trade
for years numbered by hundreds, and traders from afar brought their
goods and supplies in boats up the rivers as far as navigable and then
in teams across the dreary plains and over the steep Rockies to this
one destination.
Later, in the gold-rush to California in 1849, emigrants reached San
Francisco, the "Golden Gate," via this same Santa Fé Trail, undergoing
indescribable hardships on the way, and at all times subjected to
frequent onslaughts by the hostile Indians.
The first railroads were built across the plains alongside the old
trails. The first automobile trips (and I take off my hat to them!)
naturally followed the railroads, from the necessity of keeping near
to supplies. But the motor-car of to-day frequently makes either short
cuts or detours--leading perhaps 100 or 200 miles away from the
railroad--in order to visit sections offering unusual attractions, or
places of historical interest, even when located in desert regions.
Thus, with Kansas City behind me, the journey begins to be really
interesting from an historic, if not from a scenic point of view. The
hand of modern civilization at last is seen to relax its grasp. Now,
instead of the prosaic, the conventional and the luxurious, are we to
find the unique, the heterodox and the primitive. After the tainted
breath of huge cities and the seething, crushing, maddening turmoil of
wealth and modernism are to follow the pure unbounded atmosphere of the
giant plains, the mystic call of the great mountains, the vastness, the
fearfulness and the rapture of the scorching deserts. Which shall it be
for me?
Before me lie 500 miles of perfectly flat and uninteresting country
before I leave the State of Kansas and enter Colorado. Then follow
another 200 equally flat, equally drear, to be crossed before the
Rockies loom into sight. Seven hundred miles of endless weary prairie,
stretching always, everywhere, as far as the eye can see, with never
a hill nor a dale nor hardly a tree in sight!--Nothing but boundless,
illimitable corn, wheat and prairie.
That night, after an afternoon's run of 120 miles, I rested in a
cornfield. The road had ended abruptly. An old bridge had been
demolished and a new one was about to be erected. A heap of debris
in the middle attracted my attention, and I was fortunate. Here the
road ended; there was a little chasm some thirty feet across; beyond
was the road again. Nothing for it but to turn back. Turning back is
always objectionable. I deemed that it would be less so in the morning.
That is why I wrapped myself in my mosquito net behind a hedge in a
cornfield and offered up thanksgiving.
The mosquito net--I have not mentioned it before! I purchased three
yards of it in a little store back in Missouri while waiting for the
road to dry up. I also bought a cap. Having worn no headgear since
leaving New York, I soon discarded the cap and later gave it away to a
little urchin who looked as though he needed one more than I. But the
mosquito net remained for a longer spell. Nightly was it unfolded and
wrapped around my unworthy self, and daily was it folded carefully up
again and packed into the bag once more.
I shall never forget that mosquito net. It was white. Leastways it
was when I bought it. I tried countless ways of enveloping myself in
its folds, but never with any great measure of success. The _tout
ensemble_ when struggles had subsided, with self in pyjamas surrounded
by wrappings of white chiffon on a black background (my waterproof
groundsheet) must have presented an extraordinary spectacle to the poor
birds above. No doubt they mistook me for some miscreant angel served
with an ejectment order without notice from the star-lit sky! At first
all went well. I breathed the calm midnight air unmolested. "It can't
be true," I told myself, "there is a catch in it somewhere." There
was. I discovered that whereas it was comparatively difficult for a
mosquito to get inside the net, once he did get inside it was an utter
impossibility to get him out again. One mosquito inside a mosquito net
is worth much more than two outside. He is worth at least forty!
Then I tried various stunts because, when I did get properly wrapped
up, I invariably rolled out of it in my sleep. I rigged up poles and
sticks and cut little pegs from twigs to hold the net down like a
tent. I had it stitched up the sides like a bag and wriggled into it
nightly, only to find it wrapped around my feet in the morning and my
face and arms a mass of bites. Finally, in the heart of the Rockies I
think it was, I gave it up as a bad job and resorted to the Citronella
method once again. For aught I know that old mosquito-net is still
hanging to the fence of a cow-ranch at the foot of Pike's Peak, Colo.!
Up at dawn in the morning and away. I found another road some three
miles back and continued on my way westward rejoicing. Sixty miles were
covered before breakfast. The towns and villages became very few and
far between, and Council Grove, where I enjoyed my morning repast, was
practically the first town to be encountered. I had set my mind on a
good day's run and prayed for good roads. On my map, which was said to
be the only road-map of the United States published, and was hopelessly
inaccurate and inadequate, there was a huge river, the Arkansas, a
couple of hundred miles ahead. I judged it to be about half a mile
wide. Verily, thought I, the Arkansas River shall be my resting place
to-night, and Great Bend my destination.
After a long day's ride I toiled into Great Bend at sunset. The journey
had been monotonous and the road fatiguing. I longed to stretch
my weary bones on the banks of yon mighty river and bathe in its
refreshing waters. While I was devouring my evening meal, on a little
high stool in the one and only café of Great Bend, I was consoling
myself with this prospect.
Outside, a little group of men were sitting on the pavement eyeing
Lizzie propped up against the kerb. It is the general thing to sit on
pavements in the Far West. They are much higher than those we are
accustomed to and afford adequate and comfortable accommodation for the
weary population. Often one can see a row of men sitting on the kerb
for the whole length of a "block" when the sun is in such a direction
that the sitters are sheltered by the buildings behind them. I made a
mental note: "Another good idea for importation to England." I pictured
tired Londoners sitting down in rows on the pavements of the Strand or
clustered leisurely around Piccadilly Circus chewing "shag"!
My pockets bulged with bottles of "Buckeye," an imitation root beer
sold extensively in the States (since prohibition) and alleged to have
a "kick" in it. A suspicious swelling elsewhere on my person indicated
a tin of pineapple chunks (a delight of my youth).
"Goin' far?" inquired one of my scrutineers.
"Down to the river to-night. This the right road?"
"Right slick in front of your nose half a mile away."
I came to a long wooden bridge arrangement, but could find no river.
After going two or three miles and finding no Arkansas, I returned to
Great Bend to try another road. This time I inquired at the café.
"Straight ahead, you can't miss the bridge."
"Oh, is there a river there? I didn't see one."
Back again to the bridge, but no signs of a river. Instead there was a
great stretch of white sand like a sea-beach, but with little trees and
shrubs and tufts of grass dotted here and there.
"Well, this is no Arkansas River," said I to myself, "but I'm through.
This sand looks pretty comfortable, so here goes."
In amongst the sand dunes I made my bed and never did traveller camp
in more delightful surroundings or rest in more peaceful conditions.
The stars shone out with unusual brilliancy in the heavens, and the
moon rose at the setting of the sun, enveloping all in a magic sheen
of silver. A soft cool breeze played gently over the plain and little
birds of unknown song and uncounted variety slowly sang themselves to
rest. This indeed was no night for sleep; more was it a time for quiet
contemplation of all the things that make life good and noble and
worthy of the living. How terrible, how awful it would be when I should
in the end return to the narrow beaten track of city life, and once
again be fettered to "the trivial round, the common task" that knows no
magic spell and thrills with no mystic breath. Could it ever be that
the duties that bind and numb, the needs that hamper and clog, the
tasks that chill and estrange, should once again enshroud me in their
toils? Such I suppose are the meditations of everyone who breaks away
from home to enjoy for a spell the bounties of nature and whose canopy
is the sky.
In the morning I awoke as fresh as the merry sandpipers and
waterwagtails that ran and hopped about in dozens. There was no trace
of fatigue, no thought but of the glorious day that was opening, no
regret but that every day had not brought and would not bring this
rapturous dawn.
I learned in the village that I had indeed slept in the middle of the
Arkansas River! The summer had been excessively dry and that part of
the river which, several hundred miles away, had risen boisterously in
the heart of the Rockies and had not been dried up with the heat, had
drained through the sandy bed, never to emerge again. This though was
one of many rivers that I was to meet with no water in them. Sometimes
even, I was to see fences and railways erected across would-be rivers
to prevent the cattle straying!
The farther westward I travelled the fewer became the towns.
Nevertheless, albeit they were sometimes thirty and forty miles apart,
they were all prosperous, new and inviting. Of gasoline there was
always an abundant supply at 22 cents (11_d._) per gallon. Of garages
there were enough and to spare. Indeed, it was surprising what palatial
garages were to be found everywhere. Outside each was the familiar
"Bowser" pump communicating with a 1,000-gallon tank below the pavement
from which anything from half a gallon to six gallons at a time could
be pumped up by the garage hand at one turn of the handle. A flexible
pipe with a cock at the end leads from the pump, and one's tank can be
filled in a few seconds without a drop being spilt. Not once in all my
travel through the States have I seen a petrol tin. I do not believe
they are used at all because nowhere in the States is it necessary to
travel by road with spare petrol on board, provided, of course, that
one is careful to fill up regularly at the different towns or stations
on the way. Even in the heart of New Mexico and Arizona, even in the
terrible "Death Valley" and Mohave Desert of California, stations are
found where "gas" and oil can be bought in plenty to carry one well
beyond the next to be reached.
At Larned I made a hearty breakfast from canteloupe, coffee and "pie."
Now "pie" is one hundred per cent. symbolical of America. In the States
they have attained the absolute limit of perfection in the manufacture
of pies; indeed I think it must be a "key" industry. Not only can pies
of every conceivable kind of fruit (and many inconceivable ones) be
obtained, but the cooking thereof is perfection itself.
On the road again, ever westward, ever looking forward to the day when
from the dreadful monotony of the plains the Rocky Mountains would loom
high and faint upon the horizon.
I passed a few small towns at long intervals, towns with picturesque
names such as "Cimarron," "Garden City," "Lamar," and "Las Animas." In
every case an approaching town was heralded by an unspeakable stretch
of road. With the passage of traffic of all kinds the road was ground
up into powder. Every inch of it was loose sand, sometimes a couple or
three feet deep, sand that would be impassable to any but horse-drawn
traffic. As a saving grace it was generally less deep at the edges of
the road than in the middle, and locomotion was just within the range
of possibility with frequent assistance by way of "leg-work" and with
occasional spills and crashes. The only use I had for these towns
lay in the unlimited scope for ice-cream consumption which they all
afforded. As time went on, Lizzie showed signs of further disrupture.
Gradually little noises and rattles developed and slowly her power fell
off by almost imperceptible degrees. Of course I had ample power even
at that to cover the country, which, with few exceptions, was level,
and the road, where dry, was good. I averaged no more than twenty-five,
and as there was hardly any stop to make or traffic to slow down
for, this did not mean travelling more than thirty at any time. A
good conscientious motorist, I told myself, would stop and examine
everything. I had got far beyond that stage. "Let the old crock go on
till she busts," I muttered inwardly and opened up to avoid an oncoming
thunderstorm.
Thunderstorms travel quickly in U.S.A. They get a hustle on and don't
mess about generally. There's never any doubt about it when you
see one coming. It means business; there is none of that burbling,
gurgling, gloomy overture that hangs around for hours in England
and very often comes to nothing at all. No, no. In U.S.A. you see a
thundercloud on the horizon and before you've got "George Washington"
off your lips it's on you with a crack and a bump and a splash and woe
betide any innocent motor-cyclist who is riding in his shirt-sleeves
with his jacket strapped on the back.
But that rain was good! Kansas can be hot when it likes and it's mostly
liking all the time, so that a shower-bath is a gift from the gods.
When it stopped, and fortunately before it had had time to do its foul
work on the surface of the dirt road, I arrived in Syracuse, a small
town with not much of a population to substantiate its artistic name,
and but twenty or thirty miles from the Colorado State Line. Net result
150 odd miles that day and to-morrow with luck I should behold the
Rockies. Oh, those Rockies! How I longed to see them!
The rest of the evening I spent adjusting Lizzie's tappets (they had
all worked loose, hence the noise) and eating pies and ices at every
café in the place. The night was spent in a dirty inhospitable little
inn calling itself, I think, the Broadway Temperance Hotel. Heaven help
Broadway, and the Devil take all temperance hotels! I shivered as I
compared this with the night before.
Westward once more. In an hour I crossed the State Line. Invariably
there is a large sign-board denoting this fact. "THIS IS THE STATE
OF COLORADO, THE MOST PICTURESQUE AND FERTILE STATE IN THE UNION,"
it read on this occasion. This time there was not such a marked change
in the country. It was still flat, still dismally uninteresting.
Everything looked dried up. At times the trail, which hitherto had
followed the Arkansas "River," crossed and re-crossed it by long low
creaky wooden bridges. There was still no water flowing underneath
them. "Water? That was only meant to flow under bridges," says the
confirmed toper. The Arkansas River "puts him wise" on that point!
Flagrant mistakes now appeared on the map. Roads and towns which
in reality lay on one side of the river were alleged to be on the
other. Distances became either grossly exaggerated or hopelessly
underestimated, so much so that I only expected to get to a place when
I found myself already there. If it turned out to be another place than
that I had expected--well, there, that made it all the more exciting.
Later on the trail became very dishevelled and forlorn. Great waves of
sand were piled up in ridges and furrows defying all comers. Sometimes
a benevolent signpost advised all drivers of automobiles not to risk
travelling thereon, but to follow such and such a detour which would
lead back to the road ten or fifteen miles farther on. I saw many
such notices. At first I scorned them, but the sand grew so thick and
deep that it enveloped the frame of the machine and the projecting
footboards brought progress to a standstill. For several hours I pushed
and heaved and skidded and floundered about on highways and detours and
pathways that baffle description. If I averaged ten miles an hour I was
content with that. I got through many places that passing pedestrians
swore were impassable. In short I was beginning to reduce locomotion
over American roads to a science.
At La Junta, the Santa Fé Trail swerves to the south-west towards New
Mexico, but another trail continues westward and northward towards
Pueblo, Colorado Springs, and Denver, the three "cities" of Colorado
State, and Pike's Peak, one of the highest points of the Rockies.
I decided to leave the trail for a day or two and go sightseeing
in famous Colorado. So I continued westward, scanning the horizon
all the time for a vision of a vast and rugged mountain range. The
sight of mountains would be as balm to a sore wound; as welcome as
a spring of water in the desert; or even as the sight of land to a
shipwrecked mariner, so heartily tired was I of the endless plains and
the inexhaustible flatness and monotony of the country for the past
thousand miles.
Instead of mountains came a cloud. Soon the whole horizon was black. I
knew what that meant. It meant "laying up" for a day or two and looking
round for a good place to lay up at "right slick." But I was in the
midst of nowhere. Not a house or a shack could be seen anywhere. Even
as I scanned the country the rain came. The road was not sandy enough
for it to soak through. Instead it absorbed it greedily and changed to
mud. I rode as far as riding was practicable and then I pushed. In a
few miles I came to a little wooden shack at the side of the road near
a large dyke already swollen with rain. The shack looked as though it
had recently been thrown together with matchboarding and liberal use
had been made of tarpaulins as curtains instead of doors. I left Lizzie
in the road and went to explore.