I REACH THE PACIFIC COAST
I saw something else on the horizon too. It started as a little black
speck on the road, seeming to swerve now and then from one side to
another. It emitted a strange noise that at first was scarcely to be
heard, but increased until it reverberated indefinitely from the bare
angular mountain ranges.
It was a motor-cycle!
An inexpressible feeling of sympathy and comradeship surged through me,
as I realized that here was another fool starting to do what one fool
had already almost done. I wondered vaguely whether he knew what he was
doing.
We both stopped, dismounted, and looked at each other for a few moments
before either spoke. The sight of another motor-cycle seemed to take
both of us by surprise. The stranger, a young man of twenty-four or so,
had an old twin-cylinder Excelsior that looked very much as if it had
seen better days. I led off the conversation.
"Where do you reckon you're going on that?"
"New York."
"Ever done it before?"
"Nope."
"Insured?"
"Nope."
"Pleasure or business?"
"Both." Here he fumbled around a huge bruise on his forehead.
"Leastways, that was the idea. I'm writing it up for the _Adventure
Magazine_ when I'm through"--and he added guardedly, "That is, if I
don't kill meself with a few more headers like this."
"How'd you get that?"
"Oh, Boy, I came such a crash on a bit of oiled roadway back there by
that salt-lake bed. Don't remember anything of it except being chucked
clean over the grips about fifty. My Gad, it was some crash! I came
round about half an hour after. Say, Boy, you look out for them ruts;
ride plumb in the middle of the road, and you may miss 'em, 'cause
they're filled in and blown over with sand. Jest the right width of
your wheel, they are."
"Sure, I've made their acquaintance already; kind of keep a man fit,
don't they? But, say, you've got many more like that coming between
here and New York. Take my tip, old man. If you've got anyone depending
on you for a living and you don't want to knock the 'X' and yourself to
little pieces, you had better go back home right now and tootle up and
down the Californian coast for a holiday. And if you still want to get
to New York--well, all I can say is, there's a dem fine train service,
and you'll find a depot right there in Ludlow."
"Don't you worry, Boy; I've done a heap of motor-cycling in my days
and I guess I don't get scared at a header or two, and s'long as I can
fix anything that happens along, I guess I'll git to Lil Ole Noo York
before a couple of weeks is gone."
"Young man," said I in a fatherly tone, "you don't know what you're
saying. You're talking blasphemy--sheer heresy. Your crash has turned
your wits a little."
"Thanks, but I've made up my mind to go by road, and go by road I will."
"That's the spirit, but just a few more words of advice. Sell it and
buy a Ford. Then you'll be able to take some one with you."
"I'm taking some one already, Boy. He's back at Ludlow. Shipped him on
from Barstow, the road was so dog-gone bad and he got scared at the
desert."
"What! You're taking him on the carrier?" I cried aghast.
"Sure enough. What's against it?"
I was speechless. His youth and innocence held me spellbound for a
moment. Then I burst forth:
"Man, you're mad! ABSOLUTELY MAD! Here, c'mon, Lizzie, before
it gets too dark and before this lunatic gets unsafe." I kicked her
into a roar. "Cheerio, old man! Give my love to the Angels to-morrow!"
Then his open exhaust burst into a clatter and I saw him no more. I
often thought about him, though, and wondered how, when, and where he
ended up.
Next morning I shook the desert sand from my blanket for the last
time. By hook or by crook I should be sailing through the streets of
Los Angeles before nightfall. I judged I looked pretty fierce on the
whole. I had no looking-glass, having left my suit-case to be shipped
on back at Santa Fé, but I had the best part of a week's growth on my
chin and I had not known the joy of a wash for four days. My hair, my
boots, my clothes, my everything, were saturated with sand and dust. My
tunic, which in its earlier days had been a green tweed, was now white
at the back, bleached almost colourless with the sun and then soaked
with alkali dust. In the front and below the sleeves it maintained
something approaching its original colour. My boots? Well, they had not
been off for four days, and the right sole, which had been threatening
revolution, had so many times nearly tripped me up by doubling
underfoot, that I had removed it near the instep with my pen-knife!
And Lizzie was in no better condition. Externally she was a mass of
string, wire, insulation-tape, mud, oil, and sand. Internally she
was a bundle of rattles and strange noises. Everything was loose and
worn; the sand had invaded her at every point and had multiplied wear
a thousandfold. Latterly the tappet rods had had to be cleaned and
adjusted over a sixteenth of an inch every day until there was no more
adjustment possible. The valve rockers were worn half-way through, some
more than that. One had worn right through until it had broken in the
middle. I began to be afraid that the engine would not hold out even
for the 200 odd miles to come. By handling her carefully and giving her
ample oil, I hoped to "deliver the goods" and get across the remaining
half of the great desert tract that borders on the Sierra Madre Range
running parallel with the coast from north to south. Once across that
range, everything, I told myself, would change abruptly, the roads, the
scenery, and the climate.
Mile after mile of rock and sand went by with the sweating hours.
Often little patches of oiled road appeared, stayed awhile, and then
miraculously disappeared below the white, loose surface. Nearly always
there were two ruts, beautifully sharp and well cut, sunk three or four
inches below the rest of the surface, caused by the fierce rays of
the midday sun converting the oiled surface into a plastic condition
easily moulded by passing cars which, once given the lead, follow
blindly in the others' "footsteps." Many a bad swerve and an occasional
spill did I have when my front wheel found such as this. But the major
portion of the road was just the bare, loose sand and gravel of the
desert.
I had by now become so used to my own company that the sense of
loneliness almost disappeared, and I felt as perfectly at ease here as
anywhere else. I felt that the great wastes had a charm, nay, even a
lure, that eclipsed all past sensations and gave a mental satisfaction
that no other phase of Nature could ever reveal. I cannot describe
the ineffable something which made me love the great solitude and the
mighty spaces, but it is there nevertheless, and, like the greatest
of passions, it gives extremes. After one has lived but a few days in
the desert, either he loves it passionately or he loathes it. There is
nothing in between.
On the right there lies the great "Death Valley" that stretches a
hundred miles to the north between the Armagosa and the Paramint
Mountains. Its name is suggestive of the many people who have miserably
perished of thirst in its clutches. It is the remains of a long-since
dried-up inland lake and parts of it are 150 feet below the level of
the sea. There is nothing in it save bare rock and shifting alkali
sand, with here and there a cactus or a little sage. The heat is
tremendous and the thermometer sometimes rises to 140°. In all, not a
pleasant place either to live in or to die. But there are those who in
the search for gold live here for months at a stretch.
Confound it! There goes No. 1 cylinder again. Why doesn't she fire? Am
I to start overhauling the engine in this terrible place? I stop to
change a plug.... Nothing doing.... Try another.... Still no result.
For ten minutes I tinker with red-hot tools. Gee! the blessed machine
will be melting soon if we don't move quick. In disgust I go on again
with only three cylinders working. Past memories crowd into my mind,
but the eternal battle with the loose sand suffices to keep them out.
It was too bad, to start playing pranks like this within a few hours of
the coast. The sand of the road absorbed most of the power I now had
left and often I had to change down to bottom gear to get along at all.
It was wonderful what a difference just that one cylinder made, and it
was most annoying that it should happen just here, where the earth was
nothing more than a confused mass of rocks and sand, and the sun stood
vertically above in the sky. "Thank Heaven, I've some water left, if
anything happens," thought I.
"What in the world is that thing?" I asked myself. Closer acquaintance
proved it to be a motor lorry, dressed up as a caravan and minus a back
axle--a most remarkable sight in most remarkable surroundings. From the
numerous loop-tracks that swerved around it, it had evidently stood
there many days. Its owner was lying underneath on his back.
"Pretty place to change a back axle, old man," I remarked intelligently.
"Yep. Not the kind o' thing a feller does for the fun of it, either,"
he retorted, scrambling out from his resting-place in the sand.
"Well, is there anything I can do for you, anyway? I don't quite
like to see a chap stranded in a blankety-blank country like this on
blankety-blank roads like these." I forget just the adjectives I used,
but I know they were hardly of the drawing-room variety. Imagine my
surprise when a feminine voice from inside chirped out:
"Yes, that's just about got 'em sized up! I've never heard such a
mighty cute description of 'em."
Five days they had been there. The back axle had broken under the huge
strain of dragging the load through the deep, loose sand. A passing car
had taken it to San Bernardino to be repaired, and other passing cars
had kept them well supplied with water. They expected to have the axle
back the next day and then had nothing to fear. As I could do nothing
for them, I propped Lizzie up against the side of the lorry and tried
once more to persuade No. 1 cylinder to join hands with the rest.
After half an hour of useless toil, I bade farewell to the caravan and
its occupants.
"Quite sure I can't do anything?"
"Plumb sure, thanks. Mebbe we shall be there before you, y'know,"--with
a wicked twinkle in his eye.
Then followed hours and hours of ceaseless toil. We climbed hills and
crossed great lake-beds that glistened white with a dazzling glare.
In some of these there was nothing to be seen in the vast stretch of
alkali deposit where once, thousands of years ago, rested the briny
waters of lakes and inland seas--nothing, not even a plucky bush of
sage-brush, clinging valiantly to its life-hold.
We came to Barstow, a growing settlement, a railway centre and with
great alkali factories. Here, after nearly 100 miles' running, I had a
substantial breakfast-lunch-dinner meal and filled my water-bag for the
last time. We were nearing the end of the Mohave Desert.
Here the trail turns sharply to the south to "San Berdoo," the
colloquial abbreviation of San Bernardino. At one time the trail had
crossed the desert by a different route altogether, in places almost
100 miles from the railway line. So many souls had perished with the
heat and lack of water--perchance through some breakdown or through
losing their way--that later a new road was "constructed" following
closely the track of the railway so that travellers by road need never
be in difficulties for long. It is an unwritten law in any of the
American deserts that anyone can hold up a train anywhere if he needs
water or supplies or other help. It is willingly given, whether it be a
freight train or the "California Limited" express from New York to San
Francisco!
The San Gabriel Mountains now rose high on the horizon. They had but to
be crossed, and then all our troubles would be over.
So I thought.
At Victorville, a growing town at the north base of the range, the
desert had almost disappeared. Eucalyptus trees became strangely
intermixed with cactus trees, and the aroma of their long, grey-green
leaves filled the air with a new sensation. It was the approach of
civilization once again.
And then followed the long, winding climb up to the Cajon Pass. In the
thick sand and with only three cylinders, it was hard work and slow
work. I thought we should never get to the top. Looking back, I beheld
a wonderful panorama of desert plain, and a glistening sea of sand;
looking forward, I saw just a gap in the great black wall and a rocky
pathway winding through it.
Are we NEVER going to reach the summit? We must have climbed
nearly a mile high already, I argued with myself, when, of a sudden,
the twisting, rocky trail ceased to exist. It vanished like magic, and
instead there was before us a magnificent, broad highway of smooth,
flat concrete that made me yell with delight. It was wonderful. I
laughed and sang with childish glee to think that after 4,000 miles
of mud and sand and soil and rock and rut and unspeakable goat-track,
I was at last on a concrete road once again, with a surface like a
billiard table. I swerved madly from side to side to make sure those
two haunting ruts had really disappeared, and laughed again when I
found I was not thrown off. It was just glorious.
One more turn, and a great valley lay at my feet. It was green with
grass and the mountain sides were clothed in pine trees. Pine trees!
How beautiful they looked! It was surely a dream, a vision, a trick
of the imagination. There was a long, winding gradient down into the
valley. I shut the engine off and we coasted down the smooth concrete
without even a whisper or a jar of any kind. It was like a sudden entry
into heaven--and almost as silent.
There were now seventy miles of concrete leading between avenues of
eucalyptus and groves of orange trees into Los Angeles. Further, the
road was almost perfectly flat, although bordered by the San Gabriel
range, and, with a few right-angle bends here and there, cut straight
across from east to west, with hardly a swerve from the straight line.
Truly it was like a new world, this fruit garden of California. For
miles unbroken save by little avenues, one passed row upon row of
orange trees laid out in perfect symmetry and exactitude in the rich
flat soil. A narrow ditch, dug parallel with each row and having small
branches to each individual tree, communicated with larger ditches
along which flowed a constant stream of fresh water led from the
mountain sides.
Interspersed would be groves of prunes, peaches, and apples, then a
plantation of water-melons and cantaloupes of all shapes and sizes.
And then, as if to snatch away the enjoyment of all these pleasant
things, a great clatter arose from the engine. Something had broken at
last, and it seemed that the whole was a revolving mass of loose pieces
all knocking up against each other. Then, before I had been able to
slow down--it all happened in a few seconds--there was a metallic thud,
the back wheel locked dead, and the machine dry-skidded itself to rest.
Once again Fate had decreed against me, angry that I should have got so
far in spite of all her efforts.
Well, well! There was plenty of time to spare now; no need to hurry.
I sat down on the grass at the roadside in the shade of an orange
tree, ate two oranges--from the tool-box--and smoked a pipe. Feeling
refreshed in every sense, I then proceeded to take the engine to pieces.
No. 1 piston had broken in fragments and a large piece had jammed
between the big end of one of the connecting rods and the crank-case.
It was strange that it had not punched a hole through it.
It was far too long a job to take off the sump at the roadside--it
would have meant taking the whole engine out of the frame--nearly a
day's work--so I removed as many of the pieces of piston as I could get
at through the inspection window. The piston-head was floating loose
like a flat disc above the small end. This I removed and packed the two
halves of the broken gudgeon pin apart, so as to guide the small end
up and down in the cylinder. It was impossible to remove the connecting
rod entirely, even with the cylinder off, without removing the whole
engine from the frame and taking off the sump.
In a couple of hours I was going again, but very very gingerly, lest
another piece of piston should be caught up and cause another jamb.
The noise of the rattle too was terrific, and I could hear the warning
of passing cars (of which there were now several) only when they were
right behind me. Sometimes it would get suddenly worse and a further
disrupture would appear imminent, and then it would go suddenly back
again to its normal. Thus we toiled for thirty miles, at an average
speed of twelve miles an hour.
At Ontario--the towns were as numerous as they were prosperous--I
feared another and final episode. A Ford car that was passing slowed
down to offer me assistance, and putting Lizzie in "free engine" I
hung on to his hoodstays with my right arm as a tow-rope. This lasted
for ten miles, but I could stand it no longer; my arms were stiff and
aching with the uneven strain. I thanked my benefactor and let go.
The remaining twenty miles into Los Angeles were endured and
accomplished under our own power at about eight miles an hour. The
attention I attracted was considerable. Hundreds upon hundreds of cars,
buses, and motor-cycles passed, hurrying here and there, their tyres
making a continuous low hum on the concrete road. Luxury, wealth, and
happiness abounded on every hand. No greater antithesis to the aching
void of the desert back behind the mountains could be imagined.
Every house was a picture, a model of cleanliness and homeliness. The
art of building bungalows is reduced in California to the irreducible.
It is amazing to see the variety of design and the characteristic
beauty of them all. They made the modern English bungalows of my memory
seem like enlarged dog-kennels by comparison.
At five o'clock in the afternoon we rattled into Los Angeles, the New
York of the Far West. Lizzie's clatter rose above the noise of the
trolley cars that thronged the busy streets. Here at last was the
long-sought-for goal--the goal that for nearly three months had urged
me westward! And my steed? Poor Lizzie, she cried aloud for a respite
from the long, weary journey!
Had I known where the Henderson Agency was I could not have found my
way there quicker. It seemed as if Lizzie's instincts had taken her
there just as a lost cat, transported hundreds of miles from home,
slowly, painfully and perseveringly drags its tired body back again.
A quarter of an hour later I was sailing in a side-car towards the
"Clark Hotel." That was where my hotel at Santa Fé had recommended me
to go and had forwarded my baggage.
We drew up at the door of a palatial establishment--the "posh" hotel
of Los Angeles. Once again, after many a long day, my knees began
to quake. Brushing by the magnificent door-porter, I swung into the
luxurious lounge. Afternoon tea was just finishing. I strolled across
to the reception desk, trying hard to maintain an air of complete
innocence as regards my personal appearance. I endeavoured to assume an
attitude of perfect congruity with my surroundings.
To say the least, I was lamentably unsuccessful! Little groups of
people chatting together stopped and gazed at the dishevelled
intruder. Imperfectly disguised smirks were evident on all sides.
Pages, bell-boys, and porters quickly brought their grinning faces to
attention as I glowered upon them in turn. At last I reached the desk.
"You've got some baggage for me, I believe--a couple of grips--sent
from the 'Montezuma' at Santa Fé. Shepherd is my name."
Meanwhile the manager appeared on the scene. Resting himself with both
hands on the desk as if to steady himself against any possible shock
that he might receive from the contemplation of so strange a spectacle,
he gazed at me in silence. Then, below his breath, he found words to
convey his astonishment:
"My Gad!" he said, and paused deliberately. Then he continued
explosively, "I've seen some sunburnt faces in my time, but never,
NEVER, NEVER have I seen a man anywhere with a face
like yours!"
"It's nice of you to say so," I retorted.
"Heavens, man!" he continued, ignoring the interruption, "your hair's
nearly white and your chest is nearly black. Where in hell have you
been?"
"Oh, I didn't stay there long," I replied, "no longer than was
necessary to get here from New York."
"New York!" (I was quite expecting him to say "Whar's that?" but
evidently its existence was known in well-informed circles in Los
Angeles). "Have you walked it or swum it or what?"
"Only motor-cycled it, Old Bean!"
"Well, now, if that's not.... Here; I'll give you your key. Go and have
a good bath RIGHT NOW."
I thanked him. A porter had got my bags and stood waiting. His face was
the essence of staid immobility when I looked at him. Together we went
in the elevator to the _n_th floor. Eager to see what I really did
look like, my first indulgence was to look at myself in the glass, a
thing I had not done for many a day.
It certainly was a shock. I could barely recognize myself. I really
was the most remarkable creature I had ever seen. I could not refrain
from bursting into uncontrollable laughter. The hitherto straight-faced
porter did likewise, and we both felt the better for it.
A hot bath! Wonder of wonders! I tumbled into it and the past was
forgotten in the inexpressible ecstasy of the present.