THE RIO GRANDE VALLEY
My stay in Santa Fé was a pleasant one. At the Post Office I found
a few letters and some money, the former forwarded from Cincinnati,
and the latter from Washington (it had been cabled there two months
before). On the morning of the fourth day my weary frame was
sufficiently rested to warrant my continuing once more. I bought a
two-gallon water-bag in preparation for the 700-mile desert journey
ahead, and once more set out westward. A crowd of interested citizens
witnessed my preparations outside the hotel, plied me with questions
as to how far I was going, how long it would take, and how old I was,
and finally bade me farewell as Lizzie burst into a roar, and we moved
sadly, if noisily, away.
The next town was Albuquerque, some sixty or seventy miles ahead. The
road in between lay over a barren wilderness of sand and prairie. The
blazing sun poured down upon it fierce and unrelenting; nowhere was
there a sign of any living thing. Hardly a hill or a swelling relieved
the monotonous flatness of the trail. In the distance, on my right,
rose rugged mountain ranges suddenly out of the trackless plains.
After twenty miles appeared La Bajada Hill, crossing the trail at
right angles. There was not much climbing to be done, but going down
the other side was a different matter. It seemed that a great "fault"
or outcrop had appeared in the plain, making it much lower on the
one side than the other. No less than thirty-two acute hairpin bends
conducted the trail down the precipitous slope. The gradient in places
was terrific. At the bottom was a cemetery!
Here and there we crossed the sandy wash of a one-time river, leaping
over bumps and boulders and picking the road as well as possible.
Occasionally a wooden shack was passed, with a few dirty-looking
Indians hanging around: Indians dressed not in native garb but in
pseudo-modern style. The only things that betrayed them were their
faces and lank dark hair. He that goes to the West and expects to see
the landscape decorated with Indians dressed in multicoloured garbs of
picturesque pattern, is doomed to disappointment. The first impression
of a modernized native is disheartening if one has lingering thoughts
in one's mind left from childhood's days when one read with ceaseless
delight of stalwart Indians with huge muscles and painted bodies
galloping along, bow and arrow in hand, on a fiery white mustang in
pursuit of an unfortunate "pale-face."
Ah, no!--_Nous avons changé tout cela!_ The Indian as a rule is
not stalwart, and decidedly not picturesque. Having had the gentle
arts of civilization thrust upon him, and being naturally of a lazy
disposition, he is content to loaf around chewing shag and disfiguring
the landscape generally with his presence.
As Albuquerque was approached, things looked more flourishing. The land
was cultivated where possible, and in places corn and wheat appeared.
It is very strange to find a prospering city in the midst of such
desolate surroundings as Albuquerque has. It came as a pleasant
surprise to me to see the electric trams, the wide streets and the
clean modern buildings. I was puzzled to know just what it was that
kept the place going. Albuquerque, however, although the largest town
in the State, has only 10,000 or so inhabitants, and is the nucleus
of a very extensive ranching district which undoubtedly largely
constitutes its _raison d'être_. I left it rather sadly, because, with
the exception of Flagstaff some 500 miles away, I should not meet
another town of anywhere near its size until I reached the Pacific
Coast.
Shortly after leaving Albuquerque the trail crossed a very wide shallow
muddy river--the famous Rio Grande. It was spanned by a low wooden
bridge which creaked and rattled in its planks as we rumbled across
it. We saw quite a lot of the Rio Grande and got to look upon it as
a friendly sort of river. That is not to be wondered at, because in
a wilderness that is next to being called a desert one can become
attached to anything that has life or movement, even if it be a muddy
stream! Probably in consideration of the feelings of weary travellers,
but for no other apparent purpose, the trail from time to time crossed
and re-crossed the same old river with the same old friendly wooden
bridges until finally, eighty miles farther on, it was left to wander
southward unmolested through the plains and deserts of New Mexico and
Texas into the Gulf of Mexico.
At Isleta there was a surprise in store. Isleta is a charming Indian
pueblo, built wholly of "adobe" mud and populated entirely by native
Indians. So unique, so bewitchingly attractive are these pueblos, that
I must digress awhile to describe their nature and origin.
The history of the American Indians since the advent of the White Man
is an unsatisfactory one from all points of view. Different authorities
on the subject have widely different opinions as to the eventual
outcome of the American domination, which from generation to generation
has vacillated in its policy and, sometimes with bloodshed, sometimes
with bribery, has gradually reduced the red man to subjection, occupied
his country and enforced an unwilling civilization upon him. But
all are agreed that the Indian of to-day is in a far lower stage of
civilization than when the early settlers first drove him from his
rightful property.
There are, however, a few tribes which advanced much farther along
the road to civilization than the others. Moreover theirs was a
civilization quite their own, not acquired through contact with the
whites. Chief among them are the Pueblo (pueblo-building) Indians, and
the Moqui Indians, the town-building natives of New Mexico and Arizona.
The "Pueblo" Indians include several different tribes, each speaking
a different language. Each tribe, with only one exception, comprises
a number of separate "pueblos" or villages, generally built on the
"community dwelling" basis, that is, the houses are in a large and
solid mass, several stories in height, each one receding from the one
below and approached by ladders. In these houses, which look like great
pyramids, live a number of families. In some pueblos most of the houses
are on this plan and as many as 1,600 people have been known to live
in one house. The houses are built of adobe, and sometimes of stones
cemented together with adobe.
[Illustration: PUEBLO OF TAOS.
_By permission of Dr. F. Rolt-Wheeler._]
Several of these Indian villages are clustered together in the vicinity
of Santa Fé, often on the banks of the Rio Grande. Each has its own
customs and makes its own laws. All are centres of interest. Artists
flock to them from all parts of the Continent to paint and sketch
them. Travellers tramp for miles to see the Indians in their native
costumes and conditions. Some make jewels; some make vases, ornaments,
idols, and all manner of earthenware goods; some work in silver, while
others make blankets and rugs. With hardly an exception they all make
an excellent living out of the things they make and sell.
Each of the pueblos has its own feast-days, or "fiestas," when, for a
time varying from a day to over a week, the whole population devotes
its time to feasting, dancing and games. The religious rites that are
performed and the strange customs that prevail at these feasts and
dances form in themselves a vast and interesting study.
At Isleta the road again crossed the Rio Grande. This done, it found
itself in a dry sandy wilderness, with the Manzano Range running from
north to south in the distance. In patches the ground was white with
sandhills, and the trail became two straggling white lines, where
the wheels of passing vehicles had left their imprint in the soft
white sand. These two white ruts were my only guides. All around was
desolation. Nothing was to be seen anywhere, save those two thin
white lines straggling aimlessly ahead, the sun-scorched desert with
its ragged stones and evil, scanty, tenacious vegetation, and on
the horizon that fiery stretch of mountain range, whose peaks rose
rugged and defiant and glistened with red as if roused to anger by
the eternally raging sun. I had never before realized the great depth
of feeling that a mountain range is capable of evoking. The Alps are
majestic beyond description. They awe the observer to a sense of his
own utter insignificance as he gazes upon that glistening majestic
sky-line, and feels the overwhelming influence of those mighty
mountains upon him. But if it is an overwhelming influence, it is
a friendly one--at least I have found it so. Although there is an
instinct in me, as in most people, impelling me to guard and protect
myself against anything that is tremendous--a relic, I suppose, of
prehistoric days--I feel towards the Alps always like a little boy
feels towards his "big brother." The same feeling is seen reflected in
the "Sierra Madre" (Mother Mountains) of California.
But in New Mexico I have seen huge ranges that one could truthfully
call nothing else but "wicked." They seem to gaze and glower with a
cruel, terrifying gleam upon the wanderer who defies their hateful
solitude. The hours of travel that followed were hours of weary
monotony. A brief lapse every thirty miles or so when a tiny Mexican
village on the Rio Grande was passed, and once more the two white ruts
came into view, the stones and cactus, and again the evil mountains.
Later, the sand turned to rocks. The trail began to climb the
mountains, and the sun sank low in the sky. If ever there was a place
to starve to death, thought I, it is here. I reflected upon what the
consequences would be if I ran out of petrol or had a bad smash.
I didn't run out of petrol and I didn't have a smash. Instead of that,
after about eighty miles from Isleta, the trail descended the mountain
pass, re-crossed the Rio Grande for the last time, and swerved at
right angles, to continue its course westward. Shortly before sunset
I arrived at a little Mexican town called Socorro, where both man and
machine were rested, while the man that kept the "C'fay" in the _plaza_
got busy with some "eats" for weary me.
After dinner away once again we go. The sun is setting. We must find a
resting-place before dark sets in, for in these countries where the
air is clear and mountain ranges hem in every horizon the darkness
comes quickly and the sinking of the sun below the sky-line means
almost the final close of day.
There is another range to climb: it lies right ahead of us. As we
approach, it looms its massive bulk like a wall before us. The trail
bends and turns as if hesitating before it tackles this difficult feat;
up there in front is a great gap. The road cuts through it, and is seen
no more. Beyond are much greater heights to climb. Shall we attempt it
now or leave it till the morrow?
The smell of petrol, which the last few minutes was a suggestion,
became a reality. I look down in the fading light and find the precious
fluid spurting out from the carburettor union. Evidently the pipe has
broken away with the vibration. So I swerve off the road (almost easier
done than said) and stop at the flattest patch of earth that I reach.
Oh, the joys of the open life once again! Never shall I forget that
night in the desert past Socorro. The sun as it set behind the range
that I had commenced to climb plunged everything around into gloomy
blackness. Across the valley, from north to south, stretched the
Manzano Range that I had already crossed. It shone like fire throughout
the whole of its length. Gradually the rugged shadow of the range
behind me crept farther and farther away, crossing the river and
mounting up the opposite side of the valley. Slowly, slowly it mounted
up, higher and higher as if a great black cloak were being drawn
by an unseen hand over that fiery ridge that glistened in its evil
splendour. In five short minutes there were but a few of the highest
peaks remaining above the inky shadow. They enjoyed their splendour for
a few brief moments and then were gone, as though wiped suddenly out
of existence. All was blackness: silent, heavy blackness. The stars
appeared, one by one.
I prepared my bed for the night.
What was that? A faint tinkle reached my ears. It sounded like the
noise of a cow-bell, such as one hears in the Swiss valleys. Yes, there
it was again. It must be a cow! But what was a cow to live on here? No
doubt there was a well near by. I felt then that nothing in the world
would taste better than a drink of pure fresh milk. The heat of the day
had been intense, and one can always drink in New Mexico.
I slipped into my field-boots, took a collapsible cup from my bag and
set out in search of the cow. I was quite determined to milk that cow,
come what may.
I stumbled over the rough stones, picked my way between the cactus
plants and sage-brush. I arrived at a fence. The tinkle, tinkle seemed
to come from just the other side. Cup in hand, I climbed over, very
gingerly so as not to tear my pyjamas. Pyjamas in a desert, think of it!
"Now, where are you?" Ahead I saw dimly a large black form.
"Come along, girlie, come and be milked," quoth I in my most bewitching
manner. She moved not. I advanced slowly, trying to discern which was
the business end. Meanwhile I pictured the cow asking herself, "Wot's
the big idea milking me in py's at this time o' night?"
I drew closer and looked....
It was a bull!
I returned hurriedly to my bed, and cursed when a prickly pear caught
me on the left shin!
[Illustration: THE RIO GRANDE, NEW MEXICO.
_By permission of Dr. F. Rolt-Wheeler._]