footprints on the Mojave, sojourners always, never inhabitants. The
seven kilns were the most impressive testimony of brief possession that
we saw, more impressive even than the twenty-eight-mile-long trench
that brought the water to Skidoo. We had seen it from there crossing
high ridges; in the great bowl of Wild Rose it was clearly marked,
going from side to side and vanishing up the first ridge which we
had climbed to Baldy. The cost and labor of making it must have been
immense. Mojave was already breaking down the edges preparing to brush
it away, but it will be a long time before she can obliterate those
kilns. They will still be eloquent in that remote fastness long after
Keane Wonder and Ryolite are gone.
Behind the kilns a dim path climbed the mountain-side to a little,
secret spring, an oval rock basin not more than five feet long and so
deftly hidden that we wondered what prospector first had the joy of
finding it. From the elevation of the spring we could look along the
length of Wild Rose Canyon, where the sagebrush smoothed to a blue
and green and purple sea, and through its narrow opening to the white
serenity of Mount Whitney. Thus framed the white peak seemed to float
in the blue sky. Very swiftly Mojave brushes men off, but always with a
fine gesture. From the midst of her most obliterating desolations she
never fails to point at some far-off shining.
Too late we learned that the little spring at the head of the canyon
would have been the place for our camp. Not only would we have had the
delight of its cold, pure water, but the ascent of Mount Baldy looked
shorter and easier from there. Perhaps we each cherished the hope
of moving up next day and trying once more to scale the glittering
ice-wall with the help of our wood-chopper's ax and the rope from the
wagon; but we never discussed the idea for that night the dreaded storm
crept over the mountains. It came stealthily on padded feet, putting
out the stars. At dawn big wet snowflakes gently sifting through the
still air awoke us.
During the day the storm increased. The wind arose and blew in gusts
seemingly from every direction. Fortunately the trees afforded plenty
of big wood, so we were able to keep a roaring fire, though the
heavily-falling, wet snow sometimes threatened to put it out. It snowed
so fast that we were shut in by white walls not more than twenty feet
away. We pitched our tent with the opening toward the fire and tried to
get some shelter in it while the Worrier hunted the horses. The tent
was the only serious mistake in the outfit. It was a light, waterproof
silk tent with a pole up the middle. We had expected to use it as a
shelter from the wind and had tried once before at Emigrant Springs.
On that occasion its light-weight material had flapped and rattled in
the blast until we were glad to creep outside and sleep under the edge
of a rock. Before morning it blew down. The only practical tent for
the desert is a very low one, like a pup-tent, made of heavy canvas,
with extra long pegs that must be driven deep and buried in the sand.
During the eternity of snowstorm in which Charlotte and I waited for
Molly and Bill, we alternated between holding up the pole in the gusts
of wind and rushing out between them to drive in the pegs with the ax.
This, and the necessity of constantly building up the fire, kept us wet
and cold all day, for the snow was not the dry, whirling snow of really
cold climates, but was as wet as a heavy rain. It clung so we could not
shake it off and melted on our clothes. The Worrier did not retrieve
Molly and Bill until four o'clock. It was late to move, but the storm
showed no sign of abatement and we remembered with growing affection
the shack at the entrance to the canyon. Hastily packing in the white
downpour that hissed through the air, we left Camp-in-the-Cedars.
As soon as we had descended a little way into the basin the snow
ceased, but a white cloud continued to hang over the place where our
charming camp had been. During the remainder of the day and throughout
the night heavy clouds veiled all the mountains, occasionally dropping
flurries of snow around us. An icy wind rushed down the canyon. When
we reached the shack it seemed palatial. We cleared out the rubbish
by throwing it down the hill in front of the door, the approved way of
cleaning up on the desert. When there are too many cans you throw them
behind the bushes, and we had learned to do it with great vigor and
accuracy of aim. Much to the Worrier's amusement we scrubbed the table
and tried to wipe off the cracked, rusty stove set up on three empty
gasoline tins. That stove was a marvel in the art of consuming much
fuel without emitting any heat. We took turns huddling close to it. The
walls sheltered us from the wind, but as far as the stove was concerned
we might almost as well have been outdoors.
After supper we had to reckon with the dungeon that was the bedroom.
The Worrier recommended it highly, but we viewed it with a certain
awful apprehension. We had a devil's choice between that and the frigid
outdoors that kept beating on the shack with gusts of wind. We made
the mistake of choosing the dungeon. When the candle was blown out
fear crouched in the blackness. All the tales we had ever read of
prisoners in damp cellars assailed us--horrors, tortures, black holes.
The terrors of these man-made fears in this shut-in, man-made place
were far worse than the wild outdoors. Presently little scratchings
and gnawings apprised us that we were not alone. Unbearable then was
the walled darkness. We gathered up the bed and went outside, stepping
carefully over the Worrier who, forever faithful, was sleeping across
the door.
The clean outdoors! Let it snow, let it hail, let the water run down
the mountain and seep through the bed, let the wind tear at the
ponchos! It was nothing compared to being shut up in a dark place.
About midnight we were suddenly struck awake by a terrific din. After
the first tense moment we recognized it as coyotes howling in the
canyon. That was nothing either compared to vague little scratchings
and gnawings in an eight-by-ten shack.
Next day the storm continued, with clear intervals during which we
rushed out to spread our clothes and blankets in the sun that thirstily
drank up the snow at the bases of the mountains. "Scotty" beguiled
the hours and the weird tales of Lord Dunsany, read aloud beside the
cracked stove, never had a more appropriate setting. All around the
mountains were white except where some insistently black rock heaved
out. Clouds hurried across the sky like Indians galloping on the
war-path, the wind screaming around the rocks was their war-whoop. In
the moments of peace between their raids huge giants of cloud shook
their fists at us over the walls. The silence of Mojave was torn to
tatters. Yet, somehow, we still felt it. Just as the wild tales we read
intimated a stillness behind, so the tumult was a ripple on indomitable
peace. You have seen a little whirlwind plow a furrow through the
water of some glassy lake, making quite a bit of a tumult, but leaving
undisturbed the tranquillity of the surface beyond its narrow path.
Though between the walls of the canyon where we camped we could not see
the still surfaces, we sensed them. The storm was an incident. Mojave
took it and made a strong song.
Wild Rose Canyon was the furthest point of our journey; from the old
shack the going home began. The sun rose brilliantly on the following
morning and deceived us into starting back to Emigrant Springs. As soon
as we had left the narrow canyon and could once more see the expanse of
the sky, we knew that the storm was by no means over. We even debated
returning to our palace, cracked stove, black hole, and all; but when
you have broken camp, found the horses, packed up, and started, a
two-hour-long process, you will risk almost anything rather than turn
back. There were compensations, too, even for the wind which shortly
came to life again and thrust its knife to our hearts. The sky was a
magnificent spectacle. It was not gray, nor overcast, nor brooding, but
full of torn-up, piled-up, tumultuous clouds, a fitting canopy for the
country beneath it. The top of Emigrant Pass is a big mesa surrounded
by all kinds of mountains from the broken, battered buttresses and
steep snow-peaks of the Panamints to smooth, bare, rounded hills
folded over each other and dimpled like upholstered sofas. In bursts
of sunshine the shadows of the clouds raced over them all, snatching
at each other and getting mixed up in the canyons. Sometimes a cloud
spilled out its contents and for a while obliterated one of them.
Toward noon the clouds made a concerted attack on the sun, calling up
new cohorts until at last they succeeded in covering him entirely and
keeping him covered. Then a great change fell upon Mojave. She became
forlorn, her bright colors faded into gray. The brush shivered in the
wind and made a cold, crackling sound. A few immense Joshua palms
scattered over the mesa waved their grotesque arms like monsters in
pain. The wind whistled through their stiff, spiky leaves. They were
in bloom with a heavy mass of waxy white flowers on the end of each
branch. The sun had polished the flowers, tipping every branch with
a silver ball; now they stuck up into the lead-colored sky, dull,
lead-colored things.
All the familiar places that had been drenched with sunshine,
brilliant with color, almost as magical sometimes as the burning sands
themselves, now appeared in this sad, gray mood. After leaving the top
of the pass we crossed a large, high plateau known as the Harrisburg
Flat. On the way over to Wild Rose it had been still and hot, the
openings between the mountains had hinted at the illusions of Death
Valley behind them; now a cloud full of wind and snow rolled up out
of the narrow opening of Emigrant Canyon. Storms were all around us,
but until that moment we had hoped that we might escape. There was no
escape. The Harrisburg Flat became a white, whirling fury. The wind
that smote us was like a solid, moving wall. The cloud was not made of
snow, but of ice, a fine hail that cut our faces. It was so dense that
we could not see ten feet in front of the wagon. We had some difficulty
in making Molly and Bill face it, but it was necessary to go on. All
day the icy wind had been pressing upon us, now it was so cold that we
felt we could not withstand it long. Fortunately the sheltering walls
of the canyon were not far, but the half hour during which we struggled
toward them seemed an eternity. The Worrier shouted at the laboring
horses and for the first time when he knew that we could hear him, he
cursed.
By the time we reached the canyon the hail had stopped but the terrible
wind continued. It seemed as though it would rip the bushes out of the
ground. In place of the ice, fine particles of sand assailed us--had
the wash not been thoroughly wet we would have had more of it. It must
have rained violently in the canyon, or else in the dusk we missed the
particular route among the rocks by which we had come up, for the way
was so washed out that the Worrier could hardly pilot the load.
Every bit of energy we had was centered on reaching the ruined shack
at Emigrant Springs. When we were able to say anything at all we
speculated about how dirty it might be and whether or not there was a
stove in it. The dirt was a certainty, but nobody could remember about
the stove, as we had avoided the shack when we were there before. After
a freezing eternity we came around the last bend of the canyon. Home
was in sight, and our hope perished for smoke was coming out of the
chimney! Not only was there a stove, but there was a man snugly camping
beside it, an unknown man, a usurper, a robber! We were full of angry,
helpless indignation.
"If it's Tom Adams," the Worrier snapped, "we'll throw him out."
But it was not Tom Adams. It was another old-timer, an old man, who
wandered ceaselessly to and fro over the desert. He was a gentle soul,
but we were in no mood to appreciate that then. Of course he offered
to move out of the shack when he saw "ladies" coming on such a bitter
night, and equally of course we could not allow it. If Charlotte and
I chose to invade the wilderness we must take the chances of the
wilderness as other people did. Our pride was involved, but we had to
refuse very summarily, even rudely, before the old man would accept our
objection. Then he retired into the shack with hurt dignity, while we
pulled down some more of the corral fence to make a blazing fire. We
solaced ourselves with the belief that the outdoors was better than the
shack anyway, as it had been better than the black hole. In the course
of time we were warm again and managed to keep warm through the night.
In the morning the innocent usurper sent us, via the Worrier, a pan of
hot biscuits, a most welcome and delicious gift. Charlotte and I called
on him later to thank him and make amends if we could. He entertained
us for two hours with the story of his travels, but he would not accept
our invitation to dinner, saying that he wasn't used to "dining with
ladies." We sincerely hope it was not a sarcasm. The question which the
possession of the shack raised is rather a difficult one. Was our pride
worth more than the true chivalry of a kindly soul? To us it was, to
him it was not.
The wind continued to blow with violence for several days, though we
had no more rain nor snow. It is easy to see how the desert has been
torn to its rough harshness. That steady-blowing wind alone could wear
the mountains to their jagged outlines, crumbling the softer rock down
to fill the valleys. It picks up the sand and uses it to grind the
mountains smooth. It piles it against the cliffs to make new foothills
and hollows it out to make new canyons. It drives the rain against the
mountains to rush down, rolling rocks along the gorges and digging
the deep trenches across the mesas. Where no network of roots holds a
surface soil wind and rain work rapidly. On the homeward journey from
Wild Rose we understood the cut-up mesas and the gouged-out canyons
better.
Down in the Mesquite Valley, where we took the sandy road along the
edge of the marsh instead of the rocky one by which we had come because
Bill had lost a shoe, we saw what the wind can do with sand. In the
afternoon we reached the foot of the mesa that leads from Emigrant
Canyon to the bottom of the valley and were at the beginning of "Old
Johnnie's" sand-dunes. It had been a sparkling day with a clear sky,
but the wind was still blowing. The Mesquite Valley was as hot as we
remembered it, but, after the ice-cloud on the Harrisburg Flat only
two days before, it seemed a delicious hotness. With the assurance of
seasoned travelers able to make a dry camp anywhere, Charlotte and I
insisted on stopping there for the night. Molly and Bill would take
four hours to make the nine miles of deep sand to Salt Creek, and we
always hated to make camp in the dark. The Worrier wanted to go on.
He said he had a hunch that we ought to, but he allowed himself to be
persuaded. We should have heeded that hunch of an old-timer.
Hardly had we unpacked the wagon and made a fireplace before we noticed
that the wind was increasing. Little whirligigs of sand began to
run across the valley. Soon they were charging at us down the mesa.
First they came singly, then merged into a cloud of sand that rattled
against the pots and the wagon. Luckily for us the wind was blowing
from the mountains over the mesa where there was comparatively little
sand to pick up, for had it been coming across the dunes we would have
been buried alive. Of course it was impossible to cook; in a very few
minutes it was impossible to do anything but crouch in the lea of the
sand-heap around the roots of the biggest mesquite. The Worrier seemed
to shrink up and draw in his head like a turtle. He shouted something
at us, of which we could only hear the word "hunch." The air was full
of a rushing, hissing sound.
Charlotte and I covered ourselves with the ponchos, drawing them over
our heads when the sand came hurtling through the top of the Mesquite.
Molly and Bill huddled close together about fifty feet away with their
backs to the blast, and much of the time the sand was so dense that we
could not see them. The Worrier also was lost in the yellow cloud. The
sand was very fine and, in spite of the ponchos, sifted into our hair
and ears and clothes. It gritted in our teeth so we felt as though we
were eating it. We could see it piling up around the next mesquite,
and could imagine it whirling through the valley over the tops of "Old
Johnnie's" dunes.
Often the wind goes down at sunset, but that day the sun sank invisibly
and the fury increased. We felt a queer excitement not unmixed with
fear. Thus, only a hundred times worse, must the sand blow over the
vast Sahara Desert while the Arabs cover their heads, calling on Allah.
When the solid ground itself arises there is no help but Allah.
After sunset the Worrier emerged again from the flying yellow mass.
His shirt was blown tight to him and the loose sleeves whipped in the
wind. He leaned against it bending forward. He shouted that we might
possibly get some shelter by continuing along the road toward Salt
Creek, where it winds further around the side of Sheep Mountain. He
advised us to move, because if the storm continued he could not keep
Molly and Bill.
"Tie them up!" we yelled.
"Can't. Go crazy." Then, as we did not move, his voice rose
peremptorily:
"Come on! If it gets worse we can't go."
We had disregarded his first hunch; now, if he had another, far be
it from us to raise difficulties, though we could hardly see how it
was possible to travel even then. Charlotte and I staggered up from
the mesquite and all three of us packed as speedily as we could. It
was a disorderly packing, as we could scarcely stand before the wind,
and were almost blinded by the sand. Molly and Bill were wild with
excitement. I remember vividly bracing myself against the wall of wind,
holding on to Molly, who objected to backing around to the wagon-pole,
unable to open my eyes and hardly able to breathe.
We all piled into the wagon. The excited horses were willing to travel
with their backs to the wind. There was a track to follow, but its
edges were already rounding full of sand. If the storm should continue
long enough it would be smoothed out.
The Worrier's hope was justified, for at the end of three or four miles
the wind seemed much less furious. We were among the dunes and found
a fairly quiet little gully full of deep sand as fine and soft as the
sand on a beach. Something in the set of the wind through the mountains
left this oasis of peace. We were even able to cook the long-delayed
dinner. We did it by moonlight, slowly and carefully handling things
and keeping them covered as much as possible, like having a picnic on a
windy seashore.
The Worrier suggested that we climb to the top of the dune which
partially sheltered us, if we wanted to see what a sandstorm looked
like. We did so. From that vantage point of comparative calm we saw the
whole Mesquite Valley filled with a dense yellow cloud that completely
shut out the surrounding mountains, rising higher than they, swirling
at the top like smoke ascending into the dark night sky.
In the morning we climbed the dune again and looked across over the
others. The blowing sand was less dense and we could see them all. "Old
Johnnie" had been right, they were a hundred feet high. Their shapes
were very beautiful, with knife-edge tops ridged in pure, clean lines
from which fringes of fine sand blew up like the wind-tossed manes of
white horses. The masses and outlines of the dunes suggested Egyptian
architecture; the pyramids and the crouching sphinx were there. Sand
dunes must have been familiar to the Egyptians dwelling beside the
Sahara. What is the huge sphinx, brooding and massive, gazing with
strong eyes across the emptiness, but an interpretation of the desert
carved in stone?
We reached Salt Creek early and spent the rest of the day there. The
wind continued to blow, the sand still swirled off the dunes, and the
yellow dust-cloud still obscured the mountains; but we were in the
shelter of Tucki and the ground was so stony that we were not much
troubled by the migrating sand. Once more Charlotte and I climbed the
ridge from which we had watched the Worrier's remarkable hunting. The
whole big basin of Death Valley between its high walls of rock was
blurred with dust, clouds of sand with wind-frayed edges rose into the
sky, not a gleam of radiance showed through. The green and white snake
of Salt Creek coiled sullenly among the sulphur-colored hills. Only
the blue eye was bright, poisonous, unwinking. The fair water that was
too polluted for human drinking seemed to mock us. We waited for the
enchanter to come at sunset, but as the day merged into evening the
scene became inexpressibly dreadful.
Suddenly Charlotte arose from the rock on which we were sitting.
"Let us go," she whispered, and without further comment we hurried back
to camp and made the Worrier collect enough wood from the swamp for a
truly cheerful fire.
The following day we traveled once more up the long, northern mesa
of Death Valley, but by a different route from that by which we had
descended. This way was shorter, avoiding the long pull across the
valley, though it was rockier, steeper, and cut by more islands of
hills to cross or go around than the other. In many places the road
vanished utterly, and only a "desert-rat" could have piloted a wagon
safely to its destination over that maze of ridges and gullies.
The day was fine. At last the wind had died down and the dust-clouds
were slowly subsiding. Both Death Valley and the Mesquite Valley were
veiled in heavy haze, but the brightness of their changing color now
shimmered through. All day the white blaze of the sun was around
us and the silence, after a week of tumultuous wind, was a mighty
dreaming. It was the living silence which we had first known on the
night when we wandered away from Silver Lake, the silence in which the
earth moves. The mountains dwelt in it majestically. Mojave was again
making her fine gesture, unconscious of the discomforts and terrors of
small living things. Her pointing at the far-off shining is always a
conquest of grimness, as though sorrow were a stepping-stone to beauty.
By the out-jutting cliff of Daylight Pass, from which we had first
beheld Death Valley, we made a long stop. Familiarity had only enhanced
its splendor. With different eyes we saw the shining floor, the sad
Funeral Mountains, the calm, white curves of the high Panamints. What
had been a picture was now a living experience. The rose and silver
shifting over the white valley-floor had new meaning. We knew that
floor, we knew the feel of it, and its ever-changing beauty was a
miracle. We were justified in the pilgrimage, for only by going thus
to the White Heart, making stones and brush and jagged rocks our
companions, depending on the springs to keep us alive and the roots of
the greasewood to warm us, could we have known what a miracle it was.
The words "terror" and "beauty" which we had spoken during the first
look down into the valley and had thought that we understood, had real
content now. We knew that they belonged together and that one covered
the other and changed its meaning.
XII
_The End of the Adventure_
It was April when we returned to Silver Lake. Spring was walking on
the desert. The sand and the stony mesas were decked with flowers.
Great patches of California-poppies bent on hairlike, invisible stems
before the wind, little floating golden cups. Blue lupins, like spires
of larkspur, glistened in the sun. A four-petaled, waxy flower with
a shining, satiny texture spread in masses on the sand. Daisies with
yellow centers and lavender petals clustered beside rocks. A little
plant like the beginnings of a wild rose tossed tiny pink balloons in
the air. The shoots of the purple verbena ran over the ground, sending
up little stems to hold its many-floretted crowns. Even the thorny
cactus bloomed with a crimson, poppy-shaped flower.