IN SOUTHERN COLORADO
There is only one road in the States as bad as that from Walsenburg to
Trinidad. I refer to the road from Trinidad to Walsenburg.
In spite of that it was a good road; I got through. It took endless
patience, perseverance and a morning of time to do those fifty weary
miles. The scenery was strange, almost to the point of weirdness. From
the surrounding flatness would rise sudden plateaus, with dead vertical
sides and perfectly flat tops. Even the hills and mountains where they
occurred (save in the distant Rockies) were modelled on the same plan,
rising abruptly from the plain and ascending in two, three or more
sudden steps. The effect was just as though the land architecture had
been entrusted to some aspiring cubist or futurist instead of to the
well-disciplined laws of Nature.
I do not profess to have attained much learning in the science of
geology, and speak, therefore, as one without authority. But it seemed
to me on many occasions that to study the geology of the Far West, the
English scientist would have to forget all he had ever learnt about
physical geography and start all over again in Southern Colorado.
At first I was puzzled in the extreme to see how the mountains rose
suddenly out of the great plains, without any warning almost, and
without the customary foot-hills and valleys that one would expect to
see clustering around a mountain range of several thousands of feet
in height. Afterwards I became accustomed to this unusual formation,
when I found that mountains always grow that way in the Far West, and
particularly farther on in New Mexico and Arizona. All their ranges
seemed like elongated "Wrekins" set in a plain of gigantic dimensions.
At Aguilar, half-way on the road to Trinidad, I met the first really
Mexican town. It will be remembered that all the south-western States
once belonged to Mexico and one by one they have been ceded or bought
or otherwise appropriated until Mexico now is only a shadow of its
former self. Nevertheless a large proportion of the population is
still Mexican, in spite of the continued influx of American settlers,
and consequently Mexican is spoken almost universally in addition to
English as the national tongue.
Trinidad styles itself "The industrial and commercial centre of S. E.
Colorado." With a population of something in the region of 14,000,
it stands at the base of Fisher's Peak (10,000 feet), and it is an
admirable example of the inextricable mixtures of Old Mexico and New
America in the cities of the West. I took its picture and left its
shining well-paved streets to track down my old friend, the Santa Fé
Trail.
I got one mile away from the town and then struck. The trail climbed
rapidly, skirting the Peak all the time in preparation for the Raton
Pass soon to follow, which cuts right over the Rocky Mountains into
New Mexico. That in itself was nothing. I am always game for a good
hill-climb. But I had thought better of the Santa Fé Trail. After
climbing 1,000 feet in just over a mile, it changed into the most
absurd hotch-potch of ruts and mud-heaps that ever eye witnessed, and
this for as far as one could see. The condition of the road strained
my credulity to breaking point. Getting through the far-off mud-hole
at Hume in Indiana was a child's tea-party compared with this. In half
an hour I did just 100 yards and then, after resolutely determining to
return to Trinidad and take the train, I found that to go back was as
much out of the question as to go forward. It simply couldn't be done
single-handed. To turn Lizzie round would require nothing less than a
sky-hook and pulley-blocks.
I left her standing in a huge rut in the middle of the road and
reconnoitred to see how far this appalling state of affairs continued.
Fortunately a Flivver appeared round a bend in the road ahead,
coming in the opposite direction. It heaved and swayed and bumped
and side-slipped and hiccoughed its way along. I watched it until it
finally reached the spot where Lizzie blocked the way. Then something
had to be done. The car had two occupants, both hefty-looking men, whom
I enlisted to my aid. Together we lifted and pulled and heaved and
pushed until the worst was past, and then I struggled on alone.
Farther into the mountains we travelled; higher and higher we climbed.
In places the trail was hewn out of the rugged mountain sides, and
except in a few places there was hardly room for more than one vehicle
to pass. Occasionally a "washout" would be encountered where a mountain
stream had encroached on the road and washed it away altogether.
Then would come a short detour over a gap in the bank, with the
grassy slope strewn with branches and small tree-trunks to prevent
the unfortunate vehicle sinking in and thus permanently blocking all
progress that way.
The ascent of the Raton Mountains by the Raton Pass is made amongst
some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable. The trail is only
visible a few yards ahead and is lost in sudden twists and turns as
gradually the mountain slopes are devoured. On the right, almost
behind, are still to be seen the famous Spanish Peaks towering like
twins in solitude above the rest of the Sangre de Cristo range, some
forty miles away. Soon we shall be leaving Colorado State behind
us--Colorado the Glorious, the Beautiful, the Great.
It is said that "amongst all the mountain kingdoms, Colorado seems to
stand easily first in physical adornment: not even Switzerland and her
Alps offering more than a fair comparison." Mont Blanc, the highest
peak in the Alps, is 15,784 feet high, while Colorado has many peaks
lacking little of this height. The lowest depths of some of Colorado's
famous parks are higher than the average height of the Alpine Chain.
Upward we climb, amid thickly-wooded mountain tops, round thrilling
bends and tortuous precipices and over the rockiest of roads. The end
is in sight. A depression in the sky-line ahead shows where the Raton
Pass (7,620 feet to be exact) reaches its highest point and gazes
forwards into the heart of New Mexico and behind into the vastnesses of
Colorado.
A gradual bend, a sudden swerve, and then--the summit is reached.
Colorado is passed. Before us lies a great and thickly-wooded valley,
broad and deep and beautiful. Beyond lie the great plains of New
Mexico, plains so vast that in their utter defiance of limit and
dimension they beggar description. The eye could not follow the
great expanse. So immense were the distances that the earth merged
indefinitely into the sky at the horizon. Dotted and strewn here and
there were hills and mountain ranges that seemed to have sprung up so
suddenly out of the plateau to have really no connection with them.
Here I stood at the gate of another world. Before me lay a land of
mystery and romance, a land of health for body and soul; a land of
desert and sage-bush, of cactus and strange vegetation; a land of
antiquity unparalleled by any other in the world. Here at my feet lay
New Mexico and beyond, Arizona, the two States that at the same time
are the oldest and the youngest in America. Although only admitted to
the Union in 1912, their history dates from remote ages when they were
peopled by a race unknown to-day but nevertheless well advanced on the
road to civilization, a race that built cities while Babylon was as yet
unknown, and laid down irrigation systems that puzzle the engineers of
the present day.
Arizona and New Mexico, you are the pearls of great price that no human
being has ever yet valued at your true worth. When the day shall come
that man can say of you, "I have seen you in all your moods and have
discovered all your secrets," then this old earth will be a lifeless,
soulless, aimless globe, its purpose fulfilled, its course completed.
A five mile descent through the scented pine-trees brought me to
Raton, another half-Mexican, half-American town, small but modern
and well-arranged. "No more 'rooming-houses' for me," I resolved and
turned my gaze to the far-distant plains where the darkness was slowly
gathering.
Even in New Mexico, one need never go without a meal. The way to
an Englishman's heart is through his stomach (this applies also to
Americans and most human beings in general!). My heart was greatly
touched by Raton in this manner, and shortly before dusk I was speeding
on my way southwards towards Santa Fé.
Ten miles out the trail crossed a river. It must have been the Canadian
River, a tributary of the Arkansas, which it joins several hundred
miles to the east. The surrounding country was desolation and solitude
itself. Half prairie, half waste, almost desert, it was a country of
new sensations. Just to the west, from horizon to horizon, stretched
the gaunt and rugged Sangre de Cristo range, dark and threatening
always in their aspect. Not a living thing was in sight, not even a
suggestion of life. I ran Lizzie off the road to the brink of the river
and laid down my bed in the silver rays of the rising moon.
At 6.30 in the morning the sky was ruddy and the air pure with the
fresh breezes of the dawn. From minute to minute the myriad colours of
the mountains changed their tints as the sun rose higher in the Mexican
sky. I continued on my way.
The road was broad and good, but a surprise was in store. After a few
miles there appeared a dilapidated signpost where a bedraggled pathway
joined the broad highway through a gap in the fence which now ran
alongside. It bore the legend "To Santa Fé" and pointed through the
fence to the left. My first impression was that some small boy had been
playing pranks. It was inconceivable that these two ruts but a few
inches wide in the coarse green grass should lead to Santa Fé while
there, straight on, was a good broad highroad that led nowhere. It ran
clear ahead and was lost over the brow of a hill. I never found where
that road went. I have never seen it on any map and have made many
inquiries since. Some travellers, like myself, had seen that road and
wavered, but not one had gone that way and could enlighten me.
New Mexico is not a nice country in which to lose oneself. Towns
are very few, and often one can go a hundred miles without seeing a
village or meeting a soul. So in spite of the temptation I swerved
to the left and entered the field that was without corn or pasture,
following those two ruts that cut deep into the prairie soil and were
not visible more than 50 or 100 yards ahead at the most. In places the
two ruts had become too deep for further use and another pair had been
started at the side, running parallel with the original ones. When
these had worn too far another pair had sprung up, and in many places
I counted eight distinct pairs of ruts running side by side across the
prairie, each representing a distinct phase in the evolution of the
Santa Fé Trail. At any point, if one looks far and long enough, one
can find the original tracks that centuries ago were formed by the old
prairie-schooners as they journeyed westward across the plains to Santa
Fé.
The next town lay far across the plains beyond the horizon. I should
have to hurry if I were to get any breakfast, but the riding was rough.
Tufts of coarse grass and sharp stones covered the prairie and held
back the speed; here and there were the holes of prairie-dogs, who
respect no one in their choice of a site. If it pleases them to build
their front-door entrance where your favourite inter-rut strip happens
to be, well, they build it there. Their holes are generally about six
inches in diameter, the mouth being funnel-shaped. Passing vehicles
smash them in until the opening is sometimes two or three feet across.
Our friend the prairie-dog doesn't mind in the least. He continues to
live there in spite of the traffic and never a curse escapes his lips.
He is a dear little animal. One cannot help loving him. In stature
these animals have the characteristic of both a squirrel and a rabbit,
and are about a foot in length. They sit on their fat little haunches
like a squirrel, but have only a little bobbed tail like a rabbit. I
believe they are the most friendly rodents in existence, and have the
reputation of dwelling in friendship even with rattlesnakes, who never
harm them! If you surprise one when he is away from home, he watches
you, motionless, to see if he has been seen, if only a few feet from
the intruder. And when he sees that you have seen, away he runs with
his head well down and his little tail well up until he reaches his
burrow in the flat prairie. This done, he considers himself safe, turns
round, sits on his haunches and stares inquiringly at you. But if you
dare come too close he disappears in a second and is seen no more.
One cannot help laughing at the antics of these amusing little animals
as they scamper off like month-old puppy dogs. Ofttimes I have chased
one to his hole in the road and watched the anxious look on his face as
for a brief moment he turns his head before flashing into the ground
below your front wheel. No true traveller could harm one of these
innocent little beasts; they are often his only companions for hundreds
of miles.
Ten, twenty, thirty miles I travelled over the almost trackless
prairie. Occasional mud-pools barred the way, but when the trail was
unfenced, these were easily avoided. Later on fences appeared, limiting
the road from some neighbouring ranch. I judged I was getting near to
Springer.
An old shack of a two-seater car hove in sight, coming in the opposite
direction; I had an opportunity of studying it in detail as it came
close up. Naturally we both stopped. All travellers are friends in the
Far West, where distances are great and people are few.
"Guess you'd better follow us if you want to get to Springer this
week," essayed the driver.
"Why, is there any mud about?"
"Mud? There's a hole down there outside the town that we've been trying
to get either in or out of these two-and-a-half hours. Had to get some
hosses to pull us backwards out of it in the end. Gosh, I've never
seen a mud-hole like it in all my days. We kin get around another way
though, I'm told. Where you headin' for, stranger?"
"Santa Fé."
"Oh, we was expectin' to get to Santa Fé this mornin'. We're bound for
El Paso, and must get there by to-morrow."
I reflected that El Paso was in Texas on the Mexican border, some 500
miles to the south! "Well, if you don't mind, I'll come along to Santa
Fé with you, so then we can each help dig each other out of any holes
that happen along."
"Righto, glad to have your company, but we're not speed merchants like
I guess you are with that 'oss there."
"Don't make any mistake, brother. I passed the speed craze a thousand
miles back. It doesn't pay."
So we retraced our tracks, the car leading. It was shorn entirely
of mudwings and footboards to save the wheels becoming clogged or
the running boards fouling the road. On the back was strapped a
large trunk. This I found is the usual way of travel by "auto" in
the West. Seldom does one see wings on a car that is driven for any
distance from home. Running boards, if present, are generally of an
improvised variety made by planks suspended and fastened in place by
ropes around the body work. Thus the road clearance is increased and
the necessity for constant cleaning removed. By far the most popular
"machine" is the Ford. You can buy one cheap and sell it as scrap when
the journey, if a long one, is finished. Owners of large expensive
touring cars very often have a Ford as well for emergencies and for
long distance travelling. In New Mexico and Arizona I have seen scores
of huge touring cars stuck helplessly in the road and often abandoned
altogether until the seasons permit of their removal.
I followed my friends from Texas along little pathways and rough
tracks strewn with boulders, through gaps in fences, across fields and
back gardens, all, to my mind, at an alarming pace. It was only with
difficulty that I kept up with them at all, owing to the many ruts and
rocks and other obstructions that are far more hindering to two wheels
than four.
Arrived eventually in Springer, I resolved to postpone the promised
meal until later in the day.
We passed many ranches and crossed many mud-holes, some of alarming
width across. In most I managed to fall off at least once and wallowed
in the mud. Sometimes the car got so far ahead as to be lost
altogether, but after each encounter with a mud-lake I managed to make
up the lost time.
Thus passed nearly thirty miles in which I realized the utter absurdity
of two wheels compared with four. At one place I lost so much time that
I began to give up as hopeless the attempt to keep up with the car
ahead. After all, what was the use? Once out of the mire, however, the
trail became better and turned into loose sand for many miles.
Over this sand I made good progress. It was now nearly midday, and I
had visions of a meal in Wagonmound, a small village some twenty miles
away. The appetite was there all right, and as I trimmed off mile after
mile at good speed I forgot all about mud-holes and the like.
All at once the engine burst into a wild roar and Lizzie began to slow
down. What new trouble was this? A broken chain, or something worse? I
stopped as quickly as I could and proceeded to an examination of the
transmission. The chain was all right, but the engine sprocket had
almost come right off the driving shaft. The key and nut, where were
they?
For an hour I searched up and down in the sand and in the grass at
the roadside for the missing parts, but without success. The sun was
almost vertically above and its rays poured down unmercifully from a
cloudless sky. There was not a sign of water or of any living thing in
any direction.
I returned to another examination to discover whether I could remove a
nut from any other part of the machine to replace the defaulter. Not a
nut was there anywhere that at all approached either the size or the
thread required. I searched once more, wondering in how many days'
time another vehicle would pass that way, and half resolved to walk the
next twenty miles.
What! Leave Lizzie and walk! NEVER!
Another hour elapsed. I had explored all the ruts and searched every
inch of the road for half a mile back. I stopped, and wondered where
I could find water to drink. Water would be even more acceptable than
the nut and key now. I scanned the sun-baked prairie in all directions.
From horizon to horizon there was nothing but the solitary distant
mountains, and here and there a lonely parched-up hill. Truly a nice
outlook! Henceforth I would carry a water-bag with me.
I decided to return to Lizzie, push her off the road and try walking.
But just to think of coming 3,000 miles in her constant company, and
then having to forsake her! "Poor old Lizzie, she's a dear old crock,"
I murmured to myself.
What was that? I stooped down to see, and there hidden in a crack
in the hard mud was the missing key. That put a different aspect on
matters altogether. The nut would in all probability not be far away.
I set out to explore every stone and every rut and every crack. Sure
enough I found it not very far away.
In a few minutes the midsummer air was whistling past my ears once
again.
In ten minutes I found myself surveying the biggest thing in mud-lakes
that it has ever been my misfortune to negotiate. The road was fenced
in, naturally. There was a ranch on either side of it. The lake of mud
extended sideways to the very borders of the road, ninety feet wide.
The distance across was about fifty yards. I estimated that the mud and
water were waist-deep in the middle. Ridges and furrows of harder mud,
where passing cars had churned it up, in a desperate attempt to get
through, led into the sickly mass and then were lost.
"This requires a scientist, not a motor-cyclist, to cross," I averred,
and, propping Lizzie upon her stand, went to reconnoitre.
I then created a precedent in the art of crossing mud-holes by which
I benefited on all future occasions. I was wearing water-tight field
boots which came up to my knees. The _modus operandi_ was this: I would
select a likely-looking rut and walk along it as far as I could without
the water coming over the top of my boots. If it came over I went back
and tried another one. This process was repeated until I had a good
idea how the land lay. If I could possibly get through without the mud
reaching my knees, I knew I could get Lizzie through all right. This
manner of prospecting in advance I found indispensable and at the same
time perfectly successful.
I got through somehow, but prayed that I should never meet another like
THAT.
I rolled into Wagonmound about three in the afternoon a very weary
and mud-stained traveller. When I got there, it started to rain; it
naturally would.
There is but one restaurant in Wagonmound, which enjoys a population
of 200 or so Mexican-Americans. Here I learnt that there had been a
"cloud-burst" near Santa Fé but a few days back; also that the oldest
inhabitants of New Mexico had never known so much rain to fall as this
summer; also that the roads ahead were almost impassable; also that
at one place on the other side of Santa Fé and at a distance of fifty
miles between two towns there were one hundred cars stranded in the
mud and abandoned! I was proof against it all, however. I considered
that by now I could get through anywhere. I was not to be daunted
by fancy yarns and sceptical reports. Time was when I cursed the
Americans for being optimistic about their roads. That stage had long
since been passed. Now I was proof against even their pessimisms and
discouragements.
The rain stopped and I proceeded once more, determined to make a big
effort to reach Santa Fé that night, though still ninety miles away.
At Wagonmound there was a station of the Santa Fé Railway, which for a
good distance ran close to the trail. I inquired at the "Depot" what
were the chances of travelling on the track. I did not want to try
conclusions with any trans-continental trains if avoidable.
"What! Ride in the track!" ejaculated the line-master. "You can't do
that!"
"Oh, I guess I can if I'm careful," was my response.
"Waal, I jest guess you _can't_, my friend," was his rejoinder. "I'll
have you arrested if you try to work that stunt."
Argument was useless. "D'ye think I want to damage your bloomin' old
track?" I asked him heatedly after much discussion. We settled the
matter finally by my tendering the information that I would ride up
and down his track all day long if I wanted to (not much fear of such
a desire developing!) and if he liked he could "write to _John Bull_
about it"!
The humour of the situation was lost upon him.
"You'll get shot," was his reply, whereat we parted.