NEW MEXICO
I set out from Wagonmound with a light heart and a heavy stomach.
The road ran parallel with the rail for a mile, then crossed over by a
level crossing and continued parallel on the other side. I did not get
far. No doubt there had been unusual rain; great fields were now lakes
with the grass bottom not always visible; little streams, normally no
more than the size of a small spring, were now swollen rivers. These
crossed the road in places. The road was fenced in. And thereby hangs a
tale.
After precisely half an hour I found myself just three miles advanced,
and in the midst of a hopeless chaos of sun-dried emaciated mud. I
had "explored every avenue" of the road, but found none possible
of negotiation. Bit by bit I dragged Lizzie back and returned to
the level-crossing. Come what may I would try the track. Even if
the sleepers shook my very bones to powder it would be better than
eternally forging through the mud of New Mexico.
On each side of the road where it crossed the rails the track was
guarded by a satanic device in the form of spikes and knife-edges
skilfully arranged and extending to a distance of several yards. The
function of these was evidently to prevent cattle and other animals
straying on the line. Traversing these was no easy task. If one did
not ride on top of the spikes, one's tyres wedged in between the
knives. Once past, the rest seemed easy. But things are not what they
seem, especially on railroad tracks. The sleepers were not ballasted
and were anything but level. There was no room outside the track, for
it was steeply banked, and the sleepers projected beyond the rails into
space. At every few hundred yards the track ran over a brick bridge
spanning a bog or a stream. The bridge was just the width of the rails
apart. But when it came to riding--ugh! As every sleeper was passed,
the wheels fell momentarily into the intervening space between it and
the next, and a series of sudden, sharp shocks was hammered through
Lizzie's poor frame as each sleeper in turn was struck by the front
wheel. The faster I went the quicker and smaller were the shocks, and
above a certain speed it was quite tolerable running.
I was just getting up a comfortable speed when I imagined I heard the
whistle of a locomotive behind. This was discouraging and certainly
unexpected. I stopped quickly and looked back. Sure enough there was
a train coming, but it was easily half a mile away. To go forward in
the hope of out-pacing it would be useless. There was not even room to
get off the track, for once I got down the steep bank, I knew it would
be next to impossible to get back again, or to get anywhere, for that
matter.
Neither was there room to turn round and go back.
More than ever before did it appear to me that discretion was better
than valour.
So I commenced to push Lizzie backwards to the level crossing, prepared
to roll sideways over the bank if I found the train got there first.
I was just beginning to feel sure about winning the race, and judged
that I should get there with a good hundred yards to spare. I reached
the crossing, but as naturally as one would expect, the back wheel
wedged tight between the knives of the cow-guard.
Would she budge? No.
As I struggled and heaved (I could not look on and see Lizzie go west
in such an absurd fashion), the "California Limited" bore down upon me.
Fortunately American trains do not always go so fast as they might; at
any rate, not so fast as one thinks they should when one is travelling
in them.
With a final desperate lunge, Lizzie yielded to my efforts and came
unstuck. No time was lost in getting out of the way. Fifteen seconds
afterwards the train rolled by at a modest thirty. She had evidently
not got properly under way since her stop at Wagonmound.
I returned to the mud-hole like a smacked puppy with its tail between
its legs, and reflected on what might have been.
But it was no use. I stuck again.
This time I was well armed with refreshments. I had bought six bottles
of a ginger-pop concoction from the last village. I carried one in each
pocket and the other two as reserves, only to be used in case of great
emergency, enveloped in the blanket strapped on the carrier.
I drank one bottle at the close of every engagement with the road. But
after an hour I was still no farther ahead. I reclined on the bank and
waited for something to turn up.
Fact revealed itself stranger than fiction once more. Something turned
up very speedily. It came in the form of a "Marmon" touring car,
bearing a Californian number-plate. I had taken the precaution, of
course, to leave Lizzie in the right spot, so that no disinclined
passer-by could get through if he wanted to. After all, one musn't
RELY on everyone playing the Good Samaritan.
The two occupants of the car were courtesy itself. They not only
assisted me in lifting Lizzie over the _pièce de résistance_, but also
showed considerable interest in me. Out here, where friendship between
motorists is much more marked (almost as a matter of necessity), there
is seldom any need for anxiety, and it is remarkable how potent a
thing is this roadside courtesy. Practically every town I stopped at
afterwards had heard of the strange traveller who was coming along on a
10 h.p. motor-cycle, and awaited my arrival with interest.
"Had a fella in here on his way to California told us about you," said
one garage hand, in the heart of Arizona. "Said you'd be here sooner or
later."
"Oh yes? And how long ago was that?" I queried.
"Um--guess well over a couple of weeks ago." (The word "fortnight" is
unknown in America.)
Such little incidents happened many times, and these, coupled with the
amazing reports that had been circulated by the Western Press about
me since that inflammatory article on "Roads," etc., in the _Kansas
City Star_, had generally managed to achieve for me quite a notorious
reputation in most towns long before I ever rattled into their midst.
It was now nearly fifty miles to the next town. I pushed ahead as fast
as I could to reach it before dark. Progress, however, was slow. In
places where the road was not fenced, I rode upon the rocky prairie.
It was, for the most part, a considerable improvement, and one could
ride around the bogs and mud-holes instead of crossing them.
Never had I been in such wild and barren country. It was quite beyond
hope of cultivation in most places, being strewn with rough stones,
rocks, and boulders, and only sparsely covered with meagre-looking
grass which, in its efforts to keep alive at all, had to arrange itself
in small tufts dotted here and there in order to derive the maximum
nutriment from the scanty, unfruitful soil. The country itself changed
from flat to hilly as the Sangre de Cristo range once more drew nearer.
When it became hilly, great rocks projected through the surface of the
trail, which seldom or never swerved to avoid them.
The trail itself resolved itself later on into no more than a mere
medley of ruts and grass-bare strips of all widths, running and
crossing each other at all angles and in all directions. There was
no time to look around and enjoy the wild scenery or study the
ever-changing sky-line; it was "eyes on the road" all the time. It
was quite impossible to dodge more than a fraction of the rocks and
boulders, and one was always abruptly brought back to stern reality,
if for an instant one's thoughts diverged to other things, by a sudden
shock from one's front wheel, or a sickening crash on the bottom or
side of the crank-case.
It was a slow job, and travelling was more in the line of a mountain
goat than a motor-cycle. I was ultimately satisfied if I could average
eight or ten miles an hour.
After thirty miles of this, I was surprised to discern ahead something
which looked like a caravan. There were two vehicles, apparently
joined together, but with no visible means of locomotion. Nevertheless
they moved slowly. I judged that some enthusiast of the "See America
first" order had converted a Ford into a travelling home, or maybe
a wandering tribe of gipsies had become sufficiently modernized to
appreciate the benefits of auto _v._ horse transport.
I caught them up and stopped to have a chat. Both sides seemed curious
at the other's means of locomotion, and wanted to know the why and the
wherefore.
The team, I found, consisted as I had surmised of a Ford chassis, on
which had been skilfully built a caravan body. Behind was a trailer,
on two wheels, and of construction similar to, but smaller than, the
other. Evidently one was the parlour, kitchen, and store-room, and the
other the bedroom.
The driver stopped his engine and jumped down.
"Good day, sir; how do?" I inquired.
"Very fit, thanks; you the same? How in Heavens'n earth d'you manage to
get along on THAT?"
"Mostly by plenty of bad language and good driving," I returned.
"And what in the world are you doing in this benighted place with
THAT?"
"Oh, I'm goin' west...."
"Shouldn't be at all surprised at that!"
"I'm bound for somewhere in Arizona. Come from Chicago. Fed up with
the life there, so I'm out for a change. Looking for a likely spot to
settle down where there's plenty of fresh air."
"What! You've come all the way from Chicago on THAT?" I
inquired incredulously.
"Sure enough."
"How long has it taken you?" (I was already becoming sufficiently
Americanized, the reader will observe.)
"Best part of three months."
"How many with you?"
"Wife and two children. Here they are."
"Well, I wish you luck, brother; but it doesn't strike me that the
roads are ideal from a furniture-removing point of view, so to speak."
"Roads?" (Here he waxed furious: I had touched a sore spot.) "Don't
talk to me about roads. The gor-dem Government oughta a' bin shot that
provided roads like this. Just think that across a civilized country
like America there isn't a dem road fit to drive a cow on to!"
"Ah, I've thought that way myself; but there's a fallacy in the
observation, old man."
"What d'ya mean?"
"Just this--who told you America was a civilized country?"
Long pause.
"Aye, you've said it," and he relapsed into a stony silence.
I bade him farewell, and left him scrambling slowly over the rocks and
mounds, while the caravan rocked from side to side and jerked its weary
way along. I reflected also that, after all, THAT was the way
to see the country.
At dark I was but a few miles from Las Vegas. Once again heavy clouds
rolled over the sky. Rain began to fall. My spirits did likewise. I
wondered whether it was a habit. But what cared I for rain or mud? By
now surely I was proof against them. I struggled on. And ultimately I
got there.
Las Vegas is a fair-sized town. In order of merit it is the second
largest in New Mexico. The first is Albuquerque and the third is the
capital, Santa Fé. There are no more towns of any size in New Mexico.
Including native Indian villages there are, in addition, in the whole
of New Mexico, some seventy or eighty small towns and very small
villages, making the total population of the whole State about 50,000.
When it is understood that New Mexico is about four times the area of
England, the reader will be able to form an idea of the sparsity of its
people.
Now most people would have predicted that immediately on my arrival in
Las Vegas I would have sought out the best hotel and consumed a big
square meal. I did no such thing. I went to the movies instead.
Then I returned and went to bed, half wondering whether to standardize
the one-meal-per-day experiment for future requirements.
In the morning it was not raining, but all the time until midday it
showed signs of just commencing.
At midday I became impatient and started out for Santa Fé. I had just
left the outskirts of the town when it did finally and irrevocably
decide to rain after all. I continued for five miles, when a Ford car
hove in sight. "Here goes for a chat and some straight dope on the
subject of roads to come," said I to myself and stopped. The Ford
stopped also. It had two occupants, a man and his wife. They both
looked bored, so we made a merry party.
"What's the road like back there?" I inquired.
"Mighty rough--mighty rough. They get better the further east we come."
"Do you think I shall be able to get through to the coast?"
"Well, it's mighty hard riding, but I guess you ought to be able to get
through. Oh, but stay a minute, there's a big wash-out before you get
to Santa Fé--big stone bridge washed clean away with the floods, not a
trace of it left. I don't know much about motor-cycles, but I guess you
could get across the river all right. You'll want to be careful though.
There was a whole cartload of people washed down the river last week,
so they say; all of 'em went west, horse and cart and all!"
"Ah well, that'll add a bit of excitement to the trip. I'm good at
crossing rivers."
"Ugh! Guess you'll not be looking out for any excitement time you've
gotten to Santa Fé!"
I was particularly interested in these people's domestic arrangements.
Without a doubt I have never seen an ordinary touring car, much less a
Ford, equipped and arranged in such excellent style. They carried with
them a portable stove on which could be cooked any dish they required.
They carried ample supplies of vegetables, fruits, eggs, butter, bacon,
bread and tinned goods, and even tanks of fresh water for culinary and
drinking purposes. This is certainly a wise precaution, because it is
never safe to drink water from even the most tempting of rivers in the
West. Furthermore, they had two collapsible beds, which could be laid
upon the top of the seats from back to front, and which were fully
equipped with feather mattresses and blankets! One would think that
all this paraphernalia would have taken up an enormous amount of room.
Not so. Apart from the fact that the back part of the car was neatly
covered in, there was not the slightest sign that the car was anything
but an ordinary Ford with a lot of luggage in the back.
I bade them farewell only on the strict condition that if the rain
continued I should return and share their supper. They would not be far
away, they told me. The _plat du jour_ was salmon and Mayonnaise sauce,
above all things!
Still, it is a habit of mine never to go back, however tempting the
circumstances. At intervals I passed a few Mexicans driving teams of
horses, and once more I was alone with Lizzie. As a compensation for
the drizzling rain, the scenery was perfect. The trail had now swerved
into rugged, mountainous scenery, thickly wooded, wild and picturesque
in the extreme. It was almost ridiculous to watch how the narrow
trail dodged in and out of the trees, cutting across small forests of
cedar, aspen, and pine, curving to right and left round some awkward
prominence, now dipping down suddenly into a little valley, and then
darting up over hilly slopes all strewn with loose rocks and broken
with jutting crags.
We were approaching the Pecos, the haunts of the bear and
mountain-lion, and the headquarters of numerous tourists and campers
attracted thither by the fine fishing, shooting, riding, and
mountain-climbing.
Occasionally, as one took a sudden swerve around the face of a
projecting hill, one would see, away there in the valley beyond,
a Mexican village set back from the road, and would marvel at the
strange sight of the square mud buildings, congregated together in such
unique and regular formation. The brick-red hue of the houses was so
near to that of the surrounding country as almost to hide the village
altogether from view, even though it was right "under one's nose."
My first impression of a Mexican village was one of amazement. To think
that several hundred people can live together in those single-storied
mud huts in peace and comfort, with ne'er a sheet of glass in the
windows and seldom a door within the door-posts--well, it was absurd!
But my second impression absorbed the first entirely, and was one
of appreciation for the primitive beauty of these native dwellings.
It is a beauty that lingers in one's memory, a beauty that lies in
natural flowing forms, defying the unrelenting sharp corners of modern
architecture. And I have seen many "adobe" houses in New Mexico that
would be far more comfortable to live in than many that have sheltered
my bones in Europe!
I was meditating thus when the sound of rushing waters reached my ears.
Sure enough, the road ended abruptly, like a cliff, and continued in
like fashion on the opposite side. Between, and several feet below,
swirled the River Pecos. It was still swollen with rain from the
mountains, although it had evidently been much higher recently.
Not a soul was about. There was a solitary Mexican house on a hill
to one side. I contemplated the river in silence, save for the sound
of its waters as they swirled over the rocky bed and now and then
dislodged a weighty boulder.
To the right two rickety planks had been erected, supported partly
by ropes and partly by vertical props from rocks in the river, for
pedestrians to cross. I wondered what pedestrian would find himself in
these parts!
To the left, a detour had somehow been dug at an angle of about 20
degrees to the water's edge. In the opposite bank a similar detour
had been dug, but at an angle of about 30 degrees. Evidently several
cars had already passed through the river that way. But a car is not
a motor-cycle. I meditated. A car on four wheels could not only hold
its own better in the middle of the torrent, but could also get up
the opposite bank easier. One thing was quite certain--even if I got
through the river all right, it would require a superhuman effort to
push the machine up the steep, greasy incline on the opposite side.
I reconnoitred up and down the river bank in the hope of finding a
better place to cross, but the quest was in vain. The banks grew
steeper and higher and the river-bed wider and rougher than ever. I
returned to Lizzie and said a prayer for her. Then I took off my tunic
and removed the bag and blanket from the carrier.
I judged that it would be expedient to rely upon momentum as far as
possible, as the engine would certainly not run for long under water,
so, starting the engine once more, I put in the bottom gear and charged
down the greasy slope into the river.
There was a tremendous hiss, and a cloud of steam went heavenwards.
The engine stopped long before I reached the middle, and the smooth
nature of the loose rocks that formed the river-bed was treacherous
for two wheels. There was nothing for it when the engine stopped but
to dismount quickly and push. When I reached the middle, the water was
up to my waist, and it took most of my strength to keep the machine
upright and hold it against the force of the river, which swirled
around the cylinders and washed up against the tank. I managed to avoid
being washed away, however, thanks to the great weight of the machine,
and got her to the opposite bank.
It was a relief to be out of the water, but the task still remained
of climbing up the bank. I exerted all my strength, but the slope was
so greasy that neither my feet nor the wheels would grip on anything.
Twice or thrice I got it half-way up, only to slither down to the river
again _tout ensemble_. Then I tried the expedient of wedging a huge
stone under the back wheel and pushing an inch or two at a time. But it
was no use. The grease was impossible. I laboured with it for a quarter
of an hour.
I was just on the point of giving it up after we had all slid down to
the bottom once again, when a huge Mexican appeared on the scene. He
was evidently the owner of the house on the opposite bank, and looked
hefty enough to lift a tram.
We pushed with our united effort. We slipped and slithered and wallowed
about, but we got to the top. I breathed a sigh of relief, rewarded the
Mexican liberally, and walked across the plank to bring my tunic and
luggage.
Lizzie had never been so clean since the day she came out of the
crate. Every speck of mud and dirt had been washed clean away, and her
pristine beauty was revealed once again. It was an hour's task to dry
the carburettor and the magneto and get the engine running. It was
getting dark when I got going again. The rain had stopped, but the mud
was terrible. Every half-mile I had to stop and poke it out of the
mud-guards with a screwdriver.
Eventually, just before dark, I reached the tiny Mexican village of
Pecos, called after the river in the locality. It consisted mainly
of a general store and "rooming-house" for the benefit of stranded
travellers. A rooming-house, by the way, is a kind of boarding-house
but with no accommodation for meals.
At Pecos I was surprised to see an Indian motor-cycle and side-car
"parked" on a strip of green, which in generations to come would be
the _plaza_ or square. Examination revealed it to be a most remarkable
machine. It was equipped with tool-boxes galore at every available
place and, strange to remark, there was a small emery wheel mounted
skilfully on the top tube and driven by a round belt from a pulley
on the engine shaft. There was also a small hand-vice clipped to the
frame, and numerous other small tools and fitments, which, to say the
least, were not usually found in the equipment of a motor-cycle.
"Well," I said to myself, "if all this paraphernalia is required to get
a motor-cycle across to the coast, I'm in for a rough time."
But I was relieved to find that it was the property of a tinsmith
who, out for a holiday, combined business with pleasure, and repaired
people's tanks and pots and pans wherever he went! In this way he not
only defrayed his travelling expenses, but made a far better income
than he used to get in his home-town in Ohio.
He was a tall, burly-looking chap, and greeted me with effusion. In
like manner did I welcome him. The sight of another motor-cyclist
removed my worst apprehensions.
"Strike me pink!" quoth I, "I thought I was the only madman in this
part of the world!"
He glanced at my number-plate.
"Gee, brother, put it right there. I wuz beginnin' to think I'd never
see another motorsickle agin; you goin' to the coast?"
"That's where I'm heading for, but of late I'm not so sure about
getting there as I was when I left New York."
"Oh, boy, yew'll git there all right if yew've come this far--I said
it; but say, there's some smart bits o' travellin' to do ahead on yer!"
"What? Is it worse than what I've passed?"
"Waal, I've bin there an' got back--travellin' with the missus
here--an' I tell you, the road gets better the further east I come.
And what's more'n that, brother, yew've got some mighty warm times
ahead before you see California--like goin' through Hell, it is. Wait
till you find yourself in the middle o' the Mohave Desert with the
sun beatin' down at 130 in the shade, and no shade--no nothin' except
prickly pears and funny-lookin' cactuses and a bit of sage-bush here
and there. Say, boy, wait till you see piles o' bones and carcasses
by the score lyin' at the side o' the road, an' yew'll begin to think
it's warm, all right. Whatever you do, boy, take water with yer. Yew'll
drink GALLONS of it!"
"How long have you been here, then?" I asked.
"Nigh on a couple o' weeks, brother. We've bin waitin' fer the rain to
clear off."
Truly a bright prospect.
I slept well that night, in spite of the fact that my day's mileage was
only thirty, and awoke to find the sky clear and promising.
I spent the morning in tuning Lizzie and making minor adjustments
and preparation. I commissioned my tinsmith friend to make me a new
accumulator box, my own having become entirely disintegrated with
the vibration. For 1,000 miles it had been held together with straps
fastened tightly round it to the frame.
The distance to Santa Fé was only twenty-five miles, so I judged I
should be able to reach it that day.
Those twenty-five miles took four hours. I will not attempt to
describe those four hours. They were filled to the brim with mud,
rain, wash-outs, and bridgeless rivers. In many places there were
great "washes" of sand brought down from the hill-sides that nearly
completely obliterated the trail as it struggled across the mountains.
It was a very weary motor-cyclist indeed who rattled into Santa Fé at
5.30 that afternoon. And that motor-cyclist had quite made up his mind
to have a few days' rest before anything else happened his way.
With a deep sigh of relief I leant Lizzie up against the pavement
opposite the "Montezuma Hotel." With heavy, aching limbs and sodden,
mud-stained clothes, I walked towards the door.
It opened ahead of me.
"Ah! how do you do, Captain Shepherd? We've been expecting you for over
a week. Come right in. We know ALL about you. Here, James,
take Captain Shepherd up to his room at once. No, don't bother to say
anything. Just go and have a good hot bath."
It was the voice of an angel that spoke!