is owned by the Brauers who operate a general store and give board
to the few travelers who come to the mines in the neighborhood. They
are mostly silver-mines, whence the name. A few years ago there was
considerable activity when the Avawatz Crown and the big silver mine at
Riggs were in operation. Miners came to "town" in Fords which no doubt
resembled the junk pile we had followed from Joburg, and sometimes
with pack-trains. The pack-train on the desert always consists of a
string of burros. The burro in spite of his Mexican name, is nothing
more than a donkey, the biblical ass. He seems to be native to all
primitive places, the first burden-bearer. The prospector of the early
days with his pick and shovel was a picturesque figure traveling
across the sandy stretches from water-hole to water-hole. It is often
a hard day's-journey between the infrequent springs, sometimes a
several-days'-journey. He dug and broke the rock, and sometimes he
made his "strike." Then the boom on the desert would begin. Settlers
came in, roads were built and towns sprang up. The brutalities of
mining-camps which we read of were probably reflections of the
inhospitality of the land. The very characteristics which make the
desert dramatic and beautiful make it terrible for mankind to overcome.
The expense of mining operations in that hard country proved to be too
great unless the vein were exceptionally rich, and most of the small
mines are now abandoned. Nevertheless you still occasionally meet a
prospector with his burros, and in remote places like Silver Lake the
Ford has not entirely done away with the pack-train.
[Illustration: SOME HALF-WILD BURROS WANDERED AROUND SILVER LAKE]
A number of half wild burros wandered around among the little houses
attracted by the watering-trough though there was hardly anything
for them to eat. The soil is said to be so alkali that nothing will
grow there even under irrigation. A patch of grass six feet by two,
carefully cherished by the Brauers, was the only green thing in town.
We saw the list of electors nailed to the door of the general store.
There were seven names on it.
A lonesome little railroad comes along the edge of the Devil's
Playground from Ludlow on the Santa Fé, past Silver Lake to the mining
camps of Nevada. All the supplies for the neighborhood are hauled
in on it through a country of shifting sand where no wagon-road can
be maintained. Even a railroad, the symbol of civilization, cannot
break the solitude. Great arteries of life like the Santa Fé and the
Southern Pacific become very tiny veins when they cross the desert;
the little Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad hardly seems to exist. You do
not see the track until you stumble over it, the telegraph poles are
lost in the sagebrush. There are two trains a week, up in the morning
and down at night. During breakfast on train-day a long hoot suddenly
cuts the stillness you have grown accustomed to. You jump. Mr. Brauer
chuckles at you and finishes his coffee and his anecdote, and gets up
ponderously and knocks the ashes out of his pipe and says:
"I guess she'll be here pretty soon now."
Presently you see him sauntering over to the station. In about fifteen
minutes an ungainly line of freight-cars with a passenger-coach or two
in the rear comes swaying along. Mrs. Brauer gathers up the dishes
leisurely. She hopes they have brought the meat. The last time she had
boarders they didn't bring any meat for two weeks. If they bring it she
promises to make you a fine German dinner. She never goes out to look
at the train. Nobody does, except you, who stand in the doorway and
wonder at it. Ever so long ago you used to see things that resembled
it. It is a curiosity like the strange, long neck of the giraffe. Like
the giraffe it has a momentary interest. It goes, and the silence
settles down again with a great yawn.
The dry lake on whose shores the town is situated is three miles wide
and eighteen miles long, of a brownish-purple color. The surface is
hard and covered with little ripples like petrified waves. It is the
sink, or outlet of the Mojave River, whose wide, torn bed we had seen
at Barstow spanned by an iron bridge. The river-bed had been as dry as
any part of the desert, and we had supposed it was just an unusually
wide, deep wash. We now learned that in times of heavy rains or much
snow in the northern mountains the Mojave River thunders under the iron
bridge. On a later trip, when we were staying at the Fred Harvey Hotel
in Barstow, we once saw it come to life over-night. In the evening its
bed lay dry and white under the moonlight, in the morning it was full
of hurrying, turbid water. From Barstow the river-bed winds through
the desert to the purple-brown basin at Silver Lake. Were the Mojave
a normal river its water would always flow down there and the hard dry
lake would be blue with little white waves running before the wind, but
it is a desert-river and gets lost in the sand. Occasionally the water
flows past Barstow, but it hardly ever arrives at Silver Lake. It came
once in the memory of the present inhabitants, and covered the dry lake
to a depth of three or four feet. The water gradually evaporated and in
a few weeks was gone. Our kind entertainers showed us pictures which
they had taken of the real lake with boats on it. At that time both
the town and the railroad were in the lake-bed and had to be hastily
removed before the oncoming flood. An amusing incident happened one day
at dinner when an artist from San Francisco, who had stopped off on his
way to paint in Nevada, was boasting of the marvels of his city risen
from the great fire and earthquake.
"Well," remarked our host with the same subterranean chuckle that he
lavished upon us, "Silver Lake ain't so bad. We pulled her up out of
the water once already."
We tried to imagine the great expanse of living water, how it would
ripple and shine at its edges, and the purple mountain-tops would be
mirrored in it. Once the mirage had come true.
Every day we watched the dream water increase and diminish at the base
of the black mountain with the tongue of silver sand running up it. The
illusion was always best in the morning, but never quite vanished while
the sun shone. It was so perfect that incredulity at last compelled us
to drive down the eighteen miles of the lake-bed and explore it.
Brauer's eyes twinkled as he filled our gasoline tank. "You think the
lake ain't dried up yet, hey?" We kept our thoughts to ourselves.
The first surprise was when we reached the end of the lake and had not
reached the mountain. It looked just the same except that the water
had vanished--hidden maybe by the brush that covered the sand. Our
host had said something about a road, but we had been so sure that the
mountain was at the edge of the lake that we had not listened carefully
enough and failed to find it, so we left the car and walked through
the brush. The bushes were very small and starved, growing several
yards apart on ground that was hard and covered with little bright
stones like packed-down gravel. The most flourishing shrub was the
desert-holly with gray, frosted leaves shaped exactly like the leaves
of Christmas holly, and small lavender berries. The following Christmas
Mrs. Brauer sent us great wreaths made of it and tied with red ribbons
to decorate our homes, a happy present that brought the hot brightness
of the desert into the gloom of an eastern winter. As we walked among
the little bushes the sun was very hot and the mountain seemed to
travel away as fast as we approached it. The second surprise was when
it also vanished entirely and three black hills stood in its place.
They were ugly and looked like heaps of coal. The beautiful peak which
we had seen was some ten miles further back on the main range which
shut off the Devil's Playground. It had composed with the three black
hills to form the symmetrical mass. There was no water either, and no
trees.
The desolation was stark and sad; sand and sand with hardly any
brush reached to the distant range. The palace of dreams was gone.
Disillusioned, we climbed upon the nearest coal-pile, then suddenly
we saw the miracle again, in the north this time, whence we had come.
The town of Silver Lake was mirrored in blue water as shining and as
heavenly as the vision which was lost. The houses had weathered a deep
orange and burned in the sun. The white tank set upon stilts above
the well was dazzling to look at. Trees grew beside the glistening
dream-water. It was brighter than any town or lake could possibly be;
it was magical.
Thus the desert keeps beckoning to you. Either the unknown goal, or the
known starting-point, or perhaps both at the same time, are magical;
only "here" is ever dreary. While we sat on the coal-pile Mojave
related a parable:
"Once three brothers slung their canteens over their shoulders and
came to me. They traveled many days toward my shining. They were often
thirsty and very tired. Presently they came to a spring, and when they
had rested a dispute arose. The eldest brother wished to hasten on,
but the second said that my shining appeared no nearer than at the
beginning. Nay, he did not believe in it, he would stay where he was.
The youngest, however, agreed to accompany his eldest brother and the
two set out once more. They crossed high mountain-ranges and deep
valleys, but my shining was always before or after. In the seventh
valley the youngest brother also began to doubt me and refused to go
any further.
"'I will stay here,' he said, 'these bushes have little cool shadows
beside them, and the ground is bright with little colored stones and
there are flowers. Stay also and let us be happy.'
"But the eldest brother would not stay.
"He traveled all the years of his life toward my shining. The second
brother turned the spring into a lake and built himself a house with
orange-groves around it. The third brother rested in the cool shadows
and rejoiced in the little bright stones."
We listened intently, but there was no moral.
* * * * *
In spite of our host's "Mein Gott!" we still persisted in our idea
of going to Death Valley. It was now only thirty miles away where a
shining such as had led the brothers on beckoned beyond the Avawatz.
We learned that this route was impossible for a car, and so dry that
even pack-animals could hardly enter the valley that way. However, we
could make a detour of nearly two hundred miles, striking the Tonopah
and Tidewater Railroad again at Zabrisky or Death Valley Junction,
and possibly get in that way. During the debate the sheriff of Silver
Lake, a silent person decorated with pistols, volunteered to go with
us beyond the Avawatz as far as Saratoga Springs, and as much further
as we could drive the car. He would promise nothing as he had not been
there for some time and was a cautious man, but he thought we might
find it worth while. Any one of those bright paths was worth while to
us, and we eagerly agreed.
That day's excursion proved even more memorable than the drive from
Joburg. It was like a continuation of it, becoming ever wilder and
stranger. We had already heard a few of Mojave's songs, bits of her
color-songs, and her peace-songs, and underneath like a rumbling bass
her terror-song--but we were as yet only acquaintances on the way to
intimacy. Ever since leaving Barstow we had felt that we were advancing
through progressive suggestion toward some kind of a climax. Mojave was
leading us on to something. Her heart still lay beyond.
A good enough track led north along the railroad for a few miles and
then swung around the base of the Avawatz. We drove up an interminable
mesa where the alleged road grew always rougher and less well-marked,
and the engine had an annoying tendency to boil. The wind was from
behind and the heat of the sun radiating up from the white ground made
it impossible to keep the engine cool. We crossed a ridge among red
and purple hills of jumbled rock and began to descend into an oblong,
sandy basin. The road became so unspeakable that the Sheriff advised
leaving it for the white, unbroken sand of a wash. For miles we made
our own track, winding around stones and islands of brush. We were in
a sort of outpost-valley south of Death Valley itself, and separated
from it by what looked like a low ridge of gravel, but we no longer
believed in the reality of what we thought we saw. As a matter of fact
the ridge was succeeded by others, and the only way to get into the
main valley was through an opening with the startling name of Suicide
Pass. The valley we were in is usually considered to be a part of Death
Valley; on many maps the low basins stretching north from the Avawatz
for nearly a hundred miles are included under that name.
On both sides of the outpost-valley stood mountains of every hue.
They were maroon, violet, or black at the base shading into lighter
reds and clear yellows. One yellow mountain had a scarlet spot on its
summit like a wound that bled. The dark bases of the mountains had a
texture like velvet, black and purple and olive-green velvet, folded
around their feet. As we descended the wash toward sea-level the heat
and brightness of the sun steadily increased. Each color shown in its
intensity. The bottom of the valley was streaked with deposits of white
alkali that glistened blindingly. The whole world was an ecstasy of
light.
Saratoga Springs is a blue pool with green rushes growing around it, in
the angle of a dark red mountain. The water bubbled up from the bottom
of the little pool. A marsh full of green grass and coarse, white
flowers led back from the pool, spreading out into a sheet of clear
water which reflected the bare mountains and the vividly green rushes.
Though this real lake in the desert was a pure and lovely blue, and
dazzlingly bright, it had none of the magicalness of the dream-water by
the three black hills. Somehow it just missed enchantment. Henceforth
we would be able to distinguish mirage by this indescribable quality.
Saratoga is the last appearance of the Armagosa, or Bitter River,
before it loses itself in Death Valley. Like the Mojave River the
Armagosa gets lost. It flows southward through the desert, sometimes
roaring down a rocky gorge, sometimes vanishing completely for miles
in a sandy stretch, then reappearing unaccountably to form oases
like the one at Saratoga. Opposite the southern end of Death Valley
it suddenly changes its mind and turns north on itself to enter
the valley where it makes a great bog encrusted with white, alkali
deposits. The Armagosa flows through an alkali desert carrying along
minerals in solution, which give its water the taste that has gained
for it the name of Bitter River. The water of Saratoga Springs is
flat and unpleasant, though it is fit to drink. There are stories of
poison-water in Death Valley, but most of the springs are merely so
full of alkali and salt that they are repulsive and do not quench
thirst. At Silver Lake the water is strongly alkali. Everybody uses
it, but when a supply of clear spring-water can be hauled in from the
mountains they all rejoice. The Sheriff's partner, Charley, had a
barrel full which he shared with us while we were there. The pool at
Saratoga was full of little darting fish, strange to see in the silent,
lifeless waste. The Sheriff saved some of his lunch for them and sat
a long time on the edge throwing in crumbs. Once, he told us, he had
camped there alone for three months prospecting the hills, and they had
been his friends.
We attempted to drive beyond Saratoga Springs. There was supposed to
be a road, but neither Charlotte nor I could discern it. We bumped
along over ground so cut by shallow water-channels that after about
seven miles we dared not proceed, for a wrecked car in that shining
desolation would stay forever where it smashed. We tried to walk to
the top of the gravel-ridge that seemed to shut off the main valley.
It looked near and innocent enough, but when we tried to reach it over
the dazzling ground under the blazing sun we found, to our surprise,
that we could not. The temperature was about 95 degrees, and the
air very dry. The heat alone would have been quite bearable had it
not been augmented by the white glare. Suddenly we realized that
the little ridge was inaccessible; all the little yellow hills and
ridges, and the rocky crests that shone like burnished metal, were
likewise inaccessible. The realization brought a terrifying sense of
helplessness. Here was a country you could not travel over: though
your goal were in sight you might never reach it. The strength and
resourcefulness you relied on for emergencies were of no avail; an
empty canteen, a lost burro, a smashed car, and your history might be
finished. We began to understand why this place, so gay with color, so
flooded with light, so clean, so bright, was called Death Valley.
Before us was the opening in the mountains where the terrible valley
itself lay. It was magnificent in the biggest sense of that big,
ill-used word. On the east side rose the precipitous Panamints with a
thin line of snow on their summits; opposite them the dark buttresses
of the Funeral Mountains faded back into dimness. Between the ranges
hung a blue haze of the quality of the sky, like the haze that had
obscured the hot Imperial Valley. The mountains were majestic,
immovable, their summits dwelt in the living silence. The haze had
the magicalness of mirage. We longed to go on while the sun went down
and the silence turned blue, for now we were certain that under that
haze, between those imposing walls, lay the climax to which Mojave had
been leading us, her White Heart. She could never be more desolate, or
stiller or grander. It was the logical journey's end, and what had been
at first merely a casual choice of destination became a fixed goal to
be reached through any hazards.
"If you go there," the old prospector had said, "you will see something
you won't see anywhere else on earth."
IV
_The Outfit_
Death Valley was the goal, but after the day at Saratoga Springs
one thing was certain: no matter if we could get there in an
automobile--and various expedients were suggested to make it possible,
even safe--not thus would we enter the White Heart, not with the
throbbing of an engine, not dependent on gasoline, not limited in
time, not thwarted by roads. When we went it would be slowly, quietly,
camping by the springs, making fires of the brush, sleeping under the
open sky, listening, watching. We had found the outdoors on the desert
a wonderful thing and we wanted to live with it a while. If the White
Heart was the climax of Mojave we felt that it must be a climax of the
feel of the outdoors, one of its supreme expressions. We were going on
a pilgrimage to that.
Such a pilgrimage meant an outfit, either a wagon or a pack-train, and
a guide. We needed a man accustomed to living on the desert, who knew
the valley thoroughly, who could work in its heat and brightness, and
who had the courage to take two ignorant enthusiasts there. We had lost
the easy assurance with which we had talked at Joburg about going to
Death Valley. No wonder the inhabitants of that town had been stunned
when we said that we were on the way there! The unspeakable road beyond
Saratoga Springs and the little gravel-ridge which we could not climb
were sufficient warning of the nature of the undertaking. Mojave is not
easily to be known as we would know her. She keeps herself to herself.
The season added a further complication. Soon it would be April and the
heat in the valley would be too great for us to endure. The pilgrimage
must start no later than January. That meant going home and coming
back. As usual the way to the valley bristled with difficulties.
We talked to the Sheriff about it. Julius Meyer was nearing fifty, a
lean, strong-looking man. He had a fine face, very somber in repose as
though he had met with some lasting disappointment, but wonderfully lit
by his occasional smile. His eyes had the hard clearness which living
on the desert seems to produce. They looked straight at you. He said
little, the kind of man who announces his decisions briefly and carries
them out. Mrs. Brauer said of him: "Julius is good." Beyond her praise
and the impression which he made we knew nothing of him except the
incident of the little fishes and that he had lived twenty years on the
desert and had once traveled the length of Death Valley with burros;
but we had no hesitation in asking him to be our guide. He said it was
a mad idea. Nobody ever went to Death Valley unless they expected to
get something out of it, and then they took a Ford if they could find
one and hurried.
"We are just like the rest of them," we told him. "We expect to get
something out of it, but we can't get it in a Ford."
He finally agreed to go if we would take a wagon. He refused to
consider a pack-train, saying that we would never be able to pack
burros, and walk beside them and ride them in the heat of the valley.
He did not take the discussion very seriously, for he evidently did not
expect us to return. He thought the glamor of Mojave would wear off.
Nevertheless it was a promise, and we were certain that when such a man
promised we would see the White Heart. During the following summer and
autumn we kept hearing snatches of Mojave's songs. A bit of pure cobalt
in the depths of the woods, the flash of the sun on the tops of waves,
the clear lovely blue of ruts in a sandy road echoed her. Thinking of
her the eastern sun seemed a trifle pale, the gay brightness of summer
a little dim. We loved the familiar, dear New England landscape, but we
were under the "terrible fascination." Only the sea was like Mojave.
Often Charlotte and I would take our blankets to a lonely part of the
beach and spend the night there. Never before had we slept outdoors, on
the ground under the stars. Knowing Mojave even a little had made us
feel that it might be worth while. We found that it was.
"We have to get used to it," we told our astonished friends. "When we
go to Death Valley with the wagon we will have to sleep on the ground."
We did get used to it and in December wrote the Sheriff. This telegram
came:
"O. K. Julius Meyer."
When we appeared for the second time at Silver Lake in the big
automobile we were greeted with even greater amazement than before. We
had driven over from Barstow and traveling on the desert for pleasure
is so novel an idea that everybody thought us insane. There were a few
more people in town than we had found on our former visit, a commercial
traveler and three or four miners, among them a brigand known as French
Pete, with his head tied up in a red handkerchief. They all took a
lively interest in the proposed expedition and gave advice. They were
courteous, but amusement contended with wonder behind their friendly
eyes. They tried to be kind and searched their minds for something good
to say of the frightful valley. Each one separately told us what was
its real, true attraction.
"You see the highest and the lowest spots in the United States at the
same time. Mount Whitney, you know, and the bottom of the Valley."
Since we had never been able to see Mount Whitney in any of our travels
on the Mojave, we wondered how we should be able to see it from the
deep pit of the valley with the Panamints between, but receptivity
was our rôle. The highest and lowest became a sort of slogan. Sooner
or later everybody we met at Silver Lake or on our way to the valley
said it. We waited for them to say it and recorded it in our diaries:
"Explained about H. and L."
The Sheriff had procured a wagon drawn by a horse and a mule to start
from Beatty, a hundred miles further up the Tonopah and Tidewater
Railroad, and much credit is due him for the gravity with which he
embarked on the folly. After the O. K. telegram he never expressed the
slightest doubt of the feasibleness, the sanity, and even the usualness
of the proceeding. What we needed more than anything else was a real
reason for going, seeing the desert and having an adventure with the
outdoors being no reasons at all. He furnished even that. Charlotte had
brought her sketching-box; he saw it among the camping-paraphernalia,
asked what it was, and instantly spread the report that we were artists
in search of scenery. We had the presence of mind never to deny this
and by refraining from exhibitions were able to be both notorious and
respectable.