When we left Stockton we felt that the great adventure had really begun.
We were now to traverse the Lincoln Highway and were to be guided by the
red, white, and blue marks; sometimes painted on telephone poles,
sometimes put up by way of advertisement over garage doors or swinging
on hotel signboards; sometimes painted on little stakes, like croquet
goals, scattered along over the great spaces of the desert. We learned
to love the red, white, and blue, and the familiar big L which told us
that we were on the right road. Had we taken the Lincoln Highway
literally from ocean to ocean, we should have driven direct from San
Francisco to Stockton. As it was we saw California first, and came in at
Stockton.
It was a bright, sunny day, the thirteenth of June, when we left
Stockton for Sacramento. We drove along an excellent asphalt road,
through grain fields and orchards, the almond orchards being loaded with
their green, velvety fruit. It was late afternoon when we reached our
hostel, the Sacramento Hotel. Sacramento is even to-day more or less a
frontier town. Judging by appearances, there are more saloons in
proportion to the other shops of Sacramento than in any other town in
California, unless it be San Francisco. The town is well shaded. One
sees many wooden buildings of old-fashioned architecture, the old
mansard roof being much in evidence. A most pleasant spot in Sacramento
is the beautifully kept park around the fine State House. Its walks are
shaded by a fine row of palms, another of magnolias which were in full
bloom, and yet another of beautiful old cedars. I liked the "Sacramento
Bee" building which has two interesting bas reliefs of printers of the
Middle Ages working a hand press. Sacramento is very hot in summer, its
stone pavements and asphalt streets radiating heat like an open oven.
[Illustration: 1. Philips Hotel on Lincoln Highway near Lake Tahoe. 2.
View on Lake Tahoe. 3. Looking up Yosemite Valley. 4. Upper Yosemite
Falls.]
Leaving Sacramento, we drove across rolling plains, mostly grain fields,
to Folsom. From Folsom to the busy little town of Placerville we had
more broken country and a decidedly bumpy road. We found the drive from
Folsom to Placerville uninteresting, the forest being scrubby, the road
dry and dusty. As soon as we left Placerville we came into beautiful
country. We had stretches of distant mountain views and magnificent
wooded hills all about us. A mountain stream, the American River, green
and foaming, roared alongside the road. The road was in excellent
condition and ran on through the forest for miles, flanked by sugar
pines, cedars, firs, balsams, and yellow pines. Squirrels darted back
and forth in front of us. The wild white lilac was blooming at the
roadside. Ascending hour by hour, we passed several pleasant-looking
mountain inns and came at last to Phillips', a simple place where they
gave us, outside the main house, a tiny cottage all to ourselves. It had
one room and from its door we looked straight away into the forest. They
gave us some beefsteak, some fried potatoes, some canned corn, carrots,
cake, custard, and tea for our supper.
We left our door open at night, that the fresh mountain air might come
in freely. I awoke early in the morning and saw the first lights on the
hills. Away off in the forest I heard a hermit thrush calling. After
breakfast we drove along through pine forest, the snow on the hills not
very far away, and soon came to the summit of the Pass, 7395 feet. A
party in a Reo car had been over the Pass three weeks earlier, toiling
through the snow, and had posted several signs, painted in flamboyant
red: "First car up May 25, 1914." Below us was the marshy valley
surrounding the southern end of Lake Tahoe. We saw the exquisite green
of these watery meadows and the lovely clumps of pines growing here and
there in the valley. Beyond stretched the great lake surrounded by lofty
mountains--a glorious view. We drove carefully down the steep hill on to
the plain and past Meyers. The road was very sandy, and as we drove
among the pine trees it was in some places so narrow that the hubs of
our machine just cleared the tree trunks. We went first to Tallac, where
there is a very pleasant hotel on the lake. But it was full and we
turned back to Al Tahoe, a hotel in a great open space at the southern
end of the lake, with pine trees scattered here and there, and a little
colony of cottages outside the main building. We established ourselves
in one of these cottages, a one-room house with three wooden sides and a
long curtain across its open side. The fourth side of the building had
been literally lifted up and was supported by wooden props. In this way
it became a roof for the little platform of boards which stretched in
front of the cottage, and a sheltered porch was thus improvised. At
night we drew our calico curtain across the open front of our cottage,
and so slept practically in the open air.
[Illustration: 1. Mountain Stream in California. 2. Fallen Leaf Lake,
near Lake Tahoe. 3. Mountains around Lake Tahoe.]
From Al Tahoe one can make many excursions on foot or by boat. As there
was still snow on the road we did not undertake the motor drive from Al
Tahoe to Tahoe Tavern and Donner Lake. We did drive the nine or ten
miles of mountain road to Fallen Leaf Lake, which is a most exquisite
mountain lake right under the shadow of Mt. Tallac. The trails from the
hotel at Fallen Leaf Lake are very numerous and attract many
enthusiastic mountain climbers. The first rain that we had experienced
in all our long journey we had at Al Tahoe. When we left our hotel early
in the morning to drive to Carson City the rain was still falling, but
it cleared within an hour after our start, and we had no more rain until
we reached Ohio. Lake Tahoe on our left was wonderfully beautiful in the
morning light. The rich manzanita and other bushes were shining with
moisture, the tall pines were reflected in the clear depths of the lake,
the shores were wild and lonely. The road rose high above the lake, and
in one or two places ran along the edge of a precipitous cliff. After
leaving the lake we came into a rather desolate mountain region where
the whole character of the country changed. The road was a narrow shelf
along a barren, rocky mountain side. There were but few trees. The color
of the rock and of patches of brilliant yellow flowers, growing along
the roadside, gave variety to the landscape. Otherwise it was somewhat
dreary and forbidding after the rich forest foliage that we had just
left along the lake.
As we rounded mountain shoulder after shoulder we began to look off into
green cultivated farming valleys. Next we were coming down a steep hill
and into Nevada's little capital town of Carson City. The Capitol
building stands at the foot of this long hill road, and as one
approaches from the top of the hill it looks as if one must drive
straight through the Capitol. But the road turns sharply to the left as
one reaches the Capitol street. This one long street with its hotel, its
pleasant shops, and its Capitol is about all there is of the town. We
drove through the town straight on to Reno.
[Illustration: Lincoln Highway near Donner Lake. Donner Lake in
distance.]
Reno is a pleasant town, nobly situated on a high plateau with lofty
mountains towering near. The Truckee River flows straight down from the
heart of the snows through the center of the town and is spanned by a
handsome bridge. The substantial Riverside Hotel stands on the bank of
the river near the bridge. Somehow my impressions of Reno all seem to
cluster around the swift river and the bridge. The library, the hotel,
the Y. M. C. A., and other public buildings are close to the river. If
you walk up the river you come to a little island in the center of the
rushing stream which is a tiny Coney Island for the Reno residents
during the summer. Bridges are flung from bank to island on both sides
of the river. High above the river rise the houses of the well-to-do
people of the town, some of them handsome structures. At the little
hairdresser's where I had a shampoo in the delicious soft snow water of
the river they pointed out to me the home of "our millionaire." So I
crossed the river and went over and up to the higher side of the town,
where was a very beautiful stucco mansion surrounded by wide lawns,
with a view over the river on one side and off to the mountains on the
other. It was a charming situation, and its charm was enhanced for me by
the fact that just a short distance away, outside the town, began the
grey-green desert with its sage brush whose pungent, aromatic odor was
to be in my nostrils for so many days to come. I asked my hairdresser
whether Reno had many people in residence waiting for their divorces.
She said that the new law, by virtue of which they must have a year's
residence in Nevada, instead of the old period of six months, had cut
down, so to speak, the business of divorces. She assured me that the
Reno people deplored this as formerly the town was full of boarders and
lodgers "doing time." I confess I was somewhat shocked by such a sordid
point of view. I found myself looking quietly around the Riverside
dining room to see whether I could pick out in the well filled room any
candidates for divorce, and then I reflected that they were probably
looking at me with the same query in their minds.
[Illustration: 1. Crossing Mississippi at Clinton, Iowa. 2. Bridge near
Reno.]
At Reno we followed our rule of visiting university buildings. We had
seen the famous State University and the equally famous Stanford
University in California, and wished to continue our study of college
buildings and of the general atmosphere of Western institutions.
Unfortunately it was holiday time, but we were shown about most
courteously by a young instructor. The Nevada State University buildings
are modest and comparatively few in number, but in good taste. They have
a fine situation on a high plateau, wind-swept and mountain-surrounded,
at the edge of the town. Westerners call these lofty terraces, which
drop down one below another in step fashion at the foot of the great
mountains, benches.
We had seen the very noble School of Mines at the University of
California, erected by Mrs. Hearst to her husband's memory. We were
equally interested in the smaller but very pretty building erected by
Mr. Clarence Mackay for the University of Nevada School of Mines. A
striking statue of Mr. Mackay in his miner's dress and with his miner's
pick, stands in front of the building and looks down the green lengths
of the open campus.
Our guide told us that the attendance at the School of Mines varies
annually with the fluctuations of mining fortunes. In good years when
the mines are doing well, the University has between fifty and sixty
students of mining engineering. In poor mining years the attendance
drops off. He told us some interesting tales of the "good old days" when
miners wore two shirts sewed together at the bottom, thus making a sort
of bag, and helped themselves liberally to gold while in the diggings.
He said that a miner had been known to pay a mine foreman a thousand
dollars for the privilege of working in a rich corner of the mine, with
the result that he would be able to make up the price of his privilege
within two or three days. He explained that there was a general rule to
the effect that a miner should not be stripped for examination except to
his shirt; with possible exceptions if he were under very strong
suspicion.
I was sorry to come away from Reno. I liked the little town, with the
sound of the rushing river coming in at my hotel window, and the feeling
of space and freedom that the high situation gave. Reno is 4500 feet
above sea level.
From Reno we drove on to Fallon, a little town where we spent the night.
I took my last look at the high Sierras as we drove across the grassy
plains in leaving Reno. There they were, still snowy, towering above the
town. We came along by the river, but left it later for a more or less
hilly road across rather barren country. We stopped at a little roadside
place where there was a small grocery next to a tiny dwelling, to ask
for some luncheon. The groceryman was very dubious and non-committal and
referred us to his wife. I had noticed that at our approach she fled to
some improvised chicken coops back of the little dwelling. So I tracked
her to her lair and found the poor little thing really standing at bay.
She was a small woman, overshadowed by an immense Mexican straw hat. She
said to me somewhat defiantly and almost tearfully that she couldn't
possibly do another drop of work. She explained that she had the
railroad men to care for when they came in from the road, and that she
had two hundred chickens to look after. "I carry all the water for them
myself," she said tearfully. I looked around at the hot, dusty little
settlement, with no spear of grass, and felt sorry for her. I told her
that we wouldn't for the world inconvenience her, whereat she softened
and told me that if we would drive on to the next settlement we could
get some luncheon. Which we did, and a very indifferent luncheon it was.
However, it was spiced by an ardent conversation between T. and a
railroad man on the foreign policy of the present Administration. A
woman looks on at these encounters, into which men plunge without a
moment's introduction or hesitation, and into which they throw
themselves so earnestly, with admiration tinged with awe.
[Illustration: 1. Smelter near Ely, Nevada. 2. Lahontan Dam, Nevada.]
As we drove along the dusty road a short, rather thick snake, its back
marked by shining black diamonds, wriggled hurriedly across the road in
front of us, escaping to the sage brush. I asked later what this snake
was, for I felt certain that it was poisonous. Sure enough, it was a
diamond-backed rattle snake. We came soon to another little town where
there was a good hotel. Hanging on the wall of the hotel was a painting
of the proposed Lahontan Dam and the country which its life-giving
streams would touch. We decided, instead of going direct to Fallon, to
drive across country to the Dam, making a slight detour. We were very
glad that we did so, for we found the young superintendent of the Dam
construction, a Brown University man, very courteous indeed. We went to
look at the enormous pile of sand and clay which has been banked up day
after day and week after week until the Lahontan Dam is the largest
earth dam in the world. We saw cement spillways, one on each side of the
earth dam proper, their tall steps planned to break the fall of the
water at any time of great flood and pressure. We saw the lake itself
with its measuring tower and gate already sixty feet under the rising
water. Mr. Tillinghast told us that the lake stretches back into the
hills and the canyon for twenty miles. We heard of the millions of
fertile acres which this water, already beginning to be released in a
rushing stream, was to make possible. Some miles back we had seen
irrigated country, green and fertile, cut, so to speak, right out of the
desert. Alfalfa was growing luxuriantly and was being cured in high
green stacks under the sun. Settlers' little cottages were a visible
promise of the future, just as they had been in California. We
congratulated Mr. Tillinghast on his work, and told him that in days to
come he should bring his grandchildren to see the Lahontan Dam, a
splendid monument to his work and the work of the men with him.
We saw where he and his assistant engineer lived with their families.
They had small but comfortable quarters made of houses built of tar
paper. Some chicken yards were near, and an improvised tennis court was
in front of the little row of houses. Near by was a little schoolhouse
for the children of the settlement. Here New England women, city born
and bred, were living happily with their children while their husbands
built the great Dam. One lady told us that her relatives in Providence
commiserated her lot. "But," said she, "the boys are so well and live
such a free and happy life in this glorious air that we really dread
being moved to another piece of work when the Dam is finished." From
Lahontan we picked our way across the desert with its sage brush and its
spaces, to Fallon.
When we left Fallon we had before us a very trying drive. The country
east of Fallon, past Salt Wells Ranch and as far as Sand Springs, was in
bad condition because of recent heavy rains. We met heavy wagons drawn
by ten, twelve, fourteen, and sometimes sixteen horses and mules,
struggling madly and almost hopelessly through the sticky mud. The
drivers were cracking their whips, yelling and swearing, and the poor
animals' flanks and bellies were thick with mud. The heavy wagons were
piled high with bales and boxes. In some instances the horses of one
team were being unharnessed to be added to another team where the wagon
stuck hopelessly in the mud. A country woman told me later that she had
seen the horses of these trucking teams come in at night, their flanks
covered with the dried blood which had streamed down from the wounds
made by a pitchfork in the hands of a desperate and angry teamster
determined to get his team started out of a mud hole.
We had an advantage because of the broad tires of our machine, and got
on very well by picking our way across the plain and keeping well to the
left of a long stretch filled with salt water holes and with a fairly
large salt lake. A new road had been made by travelers, far away from
the regular road, which ran close to this small inland sea and which was
a hopeless quagmire. The land about us was dreary and desolate and yet
had its own charm. Off to the left were immense sand hills blown up by
the wind, and barren, rocky hills, the Wind Mountains. We came at last
to the little station known as Sand Springs, which is simply a lodging
place for the teamsters and their horses for the night. We could look
down from the plateau on which the little house and the barns stood,
upon the white and clay-colored, desolate spaces of the salty valley
below. The landlady welcomed us cordially and gave us a plain but
hearty lunch. She was a Californian and told me that she and her husband
missed the green hills and fields of their own State. She said that they
had wonderful salt for curing and packing their winter meats from the
lake down in the valley. She said that the salt could be raked up in
great heaps, white and coarse but with great strength and savor. She was
mourning the loss of her cows, which had disappeared. They had been gone
a month and she feared that in wandering away on the mountain ranges
they had been driven off by "cattle rustlers."
From Sand Springs we drove on through a more hilly country, the road
winding along through an open canyon. We passed Frenchman's Flat, where
there was a little restaurant and where a Frenchman came out to pass the
time of day. He greeted us very pleasantly and would doubtless have
given us a good meal if we had not already had one. We then crossed
another great level and passed three ranches known as West Gate, Little
Gate, and East Gate. We were coming into a much more fertile country, a
high valley with mountains rising on either side. Ahead of us, marked by
its tall cottonwood trees, was Alpine Ranch, a part of the big Williams
estate and our destination for the night. It was very cheering to drive
through the paddock, cross a bubbling little stream, and come up
alongside the long, low, pleasant ranch house.
[Illustration: 1. On the Lincoln Highway. 2. Ranch House at East Gate,
Nov. 3. Road Scene near Rawlins, Wyoming.]
We had had as traveling companion from Fallon, across the Salt Flats and
through the hills, a young commercial man from San Francisco driving his
Ford car through to Utah. We were both glad to make the journey across
the desert in company, hoping to be of mutual assistance in case of any
accident to our cars. Mr. N. now proposed to take supper at Alpine Ranch
and to travel by night in order to gain time. We warned him that he
might get into trouble, but he assured us that he often traveled at
night and enjoyed the stillness and the freedom to speed along. We found
Mr. and Mrs. Dudley of the ranch hospitable and willing to give us bed
and board. It is very pleasant for those who are willing to forego
luxuries to stop at farm houses and ranch houses, to take the fare and
sleep upon the beds given them, and to enjoy the talk of the people and
the contact with real ranch life.
We had a delightful evening with the Dudleys. We ate our supper at a
long table filled with ranchmen, and took part in an animated
conversation on the merits of the present Administration. We ate from a
red tablecloth, but that did not trouble us. After supper, in the soft
evening air, we had a talk with the family as to the advantages of the
government ownership of railways. A woman from a nearby town took an
earnest share in the conversation and showed herself well acquainted
with the arguments for and against such ownership. The master of the
ranch told us something of his difficulty in keeping men steadily at
work on the ranch. He said that they came and went constantly in spite
of good pay, steady work, and kindly treatment. He said that it was very
difficult to get a man to stay more than two years. He would bring his
roll of bedding, as is Western custom, take his place in the bunk house
and at the table and in the fields for a time, but he could not be
persuaded to stay long. The wandering habit had too strong a grip upon
him.
We went out into the ample paddock to see the mules and horses roving
comfortably about. Two of the wild horses of the plains had recently
been captured and brought in. Both were going through a course of
discipline which the ranchman assured us would have to be made more
severe later on. One was a beautiful young mare with her colt following
her closely. She had a heavy yoke bar hanging by a sort of collar from
her neck, and so arranged as to clog and trip her if she attempted to
run. She was peacefully wandering about, but snorted with fear as we
came near her. Her master assured us that she could easily be tamed, and
that she was not to be driven or saddled, but was to be used as a bell
mare. That is, she was to be the leader of the herd let out on the
plains. The ranchman explained that a company of horses will not leave a
mare with a young colt, consequently she is used to keep them from
straying away long distances. The other horse was a fine animal but much
less docile of spirit. "I feel sorry for him," said his master; "he has
got a lot to go through with, but he must learn; there is no other way
for him." The animal had both his fore legs and hind legs "hand" cuffed,
only a short chain being used on the shackles. He was in this way so
hobbled that he had to move by little leaps forward, first his fore
feet, then his hind feet. By this clumsy hopping he managed to get
about. "He must first learn to accept this and then we will go on with
his education," said his master. He looked very wild and untamed of
spirit, poor fellow, and made frantic efforts to rush away as we came
near him. But he had already found out that his cruel chains were
inexorable.
We walked out into the lovely valley and toward the purple hills that
rose above it. One can never tire of the evenings and the mornings of
the great Western plains and table lands. Nowhere else have I seen such
wonderful sunsets; glorious in crimsons, purples, violets, rose
lavenders, ashes of roses, and finally soft greys. Nowhere have I seen
lovelier dawns, the air so crystal clear, the morning light so full of
rose and lavender mysteries, the whole day so full of wide and happy
promise.
Mr. N. had insisted on going on after supper at the ranch. We had seen
him disappear down the valley, his machine finally hidden in acres of
grey-green sage brush.
The next morning we drove on, passing at the end of the valley through a
short but rough canyon, with rocky walls to the left and right. There we
saw a board sign marking "Water 100 feet down." Doubtless this was a
boon to travelers in the old days. Once through the canyon, we came out
into another wide valley, lonely and spacious. As we drove along, we
saw ahead of us what seemed to be a small motor car by the roadside.
"I believe that's N's car!" said T. As we came up to it we saw that the
two left wheels were hopelessly down in a deep rut. Mr. N. had stuck his
card in the windshield of the car, and had written on it, "Gone for some
boards; wait until I come back." Soon we saw him coming across the
desert with some loose boards in his arms. We found that the poor fellow
had been there from ten o'clock the night before until ten o'clock in
the morning, the hour of our passing. He had been bowling along
comfortably and somewhat sleepily the previous night, when suddenly his
car bumped into a muddy rut from which he found it impossible to
extricate the machine. He told us that he had worked frantically and
futilely until about midnight. Then he put out his lights, wrapped
himself up as best he could, and slept until seven. He said that utter
stillness and darkness were about him. "Not even a jack rabbit passed."
At seven he again began to struggle with his car. He had the sure hope
that we would come along sooner or later. He had calculated that we
would arrive about eleven. When we found him he had just gone to a
deserted, falling ranch house to find a few boards to be used as
levers. He and T., taking our machine, now drove to the ranch house and
brought back a goodly supply of boards and some heavier pieces of timber
which they had torn from the dropping fences. The boards they put in the
rut in front of the wheels in order that they might get a grip when once
they started. The heavier timbers they used as levers. And so by dint of
hard work and by the help of two young men who passed in their motor
half an hour after our arrival, the front wheel was pried out of the
sticky mud, and the car was once more gotten on firm ground. It was past
one o'clock when we climbed up the bare road to the high town of Austin
and went to the International Hotel for our luncheon. What with lack of
sleep and his long fast Mr. N. was quite worn out. A good luncheon
prepared by a Japanese cook and served by a natty and very debonair
Japanese waiter put us all in better trim.
[Illustration: 1. Cattle on Nevada Desert. 2. Deserted Mining Town in
Nevada. 3. Mining town Cemetery in Nevada. 4. In the Nevada Desert.]
Two miles beyond Austin we were 9000 feet above sea level. As we reached
this height we could, looking back, see Austin below us. We also had a
fine view of the desert mountains. Here I began to understand the
conformation of the Nevada country. We were passing from one great
valley into another, hour after hour. When I looked on the map of
Nevada, I found a series of short mountain ranges. I could see what we
were doing in our travel. We were descending into a valley, crossing its
immense width, coming up on to a more or less lofty pass, usually bare,
and descending into another valley. It was very fascinating, this rising
and falling with always the new vista of a new valley just opening
before us.
But now came tribulations. Mr. N. had evidently wrenched his machine in
his struggle to free it the night before. He began to have trouble, and
traveled more and more haltingly a little way behind us. T. felt a
personal responsibility for him and we were continually stopping to wait
for him. Finally we halted at the head of a pass before plunging down
what turned out to be a long descent. We had just climbed up from a wide
valley and could see nothing of our fellow traveler on the slope behind
us. T. left the car and went back; and while I waited, looking off at
the mountains, two women reached my hilltop, the older one driving the
Ford car in which they were traveling. They looked like women of the
plains, perfectly able to take care of themselves and to meet
emergencies. They had food supplies with them, and two dogs as fellow
passengers. The one, a fox terrier, was tied in a box in the tonneau and
looked very unhappy. The other, a spaniel, was running back and forth on
the rear seat and whining with anxiety to get out. His mistress told me
that he was one of the greatest hunters in Nevada, and that he was
anxious to go off in the sage brush on a grand chase. Just here the two
men came up the hill with Mr. N.'s Ford car, weary and exhausted from
going over its machinery and struggling to get it moving. The women
warned us that in the valley at the foot of the hill was a very bad mud
hole which we must inevitably negotiate. They said that a stream from
the mountains had in a recent freshet overflowed the plain and reduced
both the road and the adjoining country to the state of a swamp. They
assured us that we simply must go through the mud hole and that we were
bound to get stuck in it. They cheered us, however, by telling us that a
nearby settler had a sturdy draught horse and that he would in all
probability pull us out for the sum of $2.00 a motor car. We thanked
them for their warning and drove down the long hill into the next
valley.
I had been interested while waiting for Mr. N.'s machine to come up, to
see the beautiful cactus blossoms growing close to the ground on both
sides of the road. They were of a rich yellow and a rich magenta color,
single petaled and really beautiful. I saw them growing all along
through the desert. In some places they made broad patches of color.
Coming on to another wide valley stretching away for eighty miles and
more, we saw the mud hole before us and carefully examined the sides of
the road to see if we could not make a detour. The spongy, muddy soil
assured us that it was hopeless, and that what the women had told us was
only too true. In the meantime the settler, working with his wife and
baby near at hand in his newly cleared field, kept an eye on us. But he
did not come to our rescue until we called him. The Ford, being the
machine of lighter weight, started first through the mud hole. Its
wheels sank immediately and no turning on of power could push it
forward. We then shouted to the settler. He came across the field with
his big horse, and as he drew near we saw that he was a tall, good
looking man with an open and kindly face. I was secretly glad that the
poor fellow who had so recently cast his lot in this lonely and immense
valley had a chance to earn some ready money. After a little pleasant
dickering he agreed to pull the machines out for $1.00 apiece. The
splendid big horse was harnessed to the machine and at the word he threw
his weight against his traces and philosophically pulled away, while Mr.
N. at the same instant turned on his power. The machine easily came out
of the mud and was soon on dry ground. T. drove our machine forward, was
instantly imbedded in the mud and was pulled out in the same way. It was
interesting to see how the big horse threw his weight into the pulling
at just the proper moment and relaxed as he felt the machine settle on
the firm ground. His master told us that the animal had come with their
little caravan from Colorado, seven hundred and twenty miles, without
turning a hair, while the other horse sickened and died.
This man had only his few supplies and the little tent in which they
were living, together with a bit of the rich land already cleared and
planted to a crop. He said that he had never seen richer land than this
from which the sage brush had been pulled up and burned off. A thin
muddy stream trickled across the road from the hills and was used both
for irrigation and for drinking purposes. "But when you come back next
year, I shall have a well down," said the brave homesteader. "And, by
George, if the County Commissioners won't put in a bridge across this
mud hole, I'll put one across myself! Just come back and see a year from
now!" We waved him goodbye and went on our way across the lone valley
and up another divide. The valley was Monitor Valley, he told us. I can
see him standing there in the lovely light of the late afternoon sun, he
and his wife and their baby boy waving us farewell. I should like to
pass that way again and to see whether he has replaced his tent by a
little house and whether his virgin fields are green with a crop.
Some day, I suppose, those wide, far-stretching acres will be dotted
with houses and barns and stacks of alfalfa. It is difficult to convey
the impression that these vast valleys with the hills in the distance,
and with the rich coloring of the sunrise and the sunset, make upon one.
They are lonely and yet they are not lonely. They are full of life. We
saw hundreds of prairie dogs. Day after day they scuttled across our
pathway, often narrowly escaping. Sometimes they sat on their hind legs
by their burrows, waiting as long as they dared until the noise of the
machine frightened them into their holes. Sometimes a whole village of
them would watch us until we drew near, and then frantically disappear.
Sometimes we saw a coyote, usually in the early morning or the late
afternoon. We once saw one whose curiosity was so great that he halted
perhaps fifty yards away, and looked at us from this safe distance as we
passed. Once we saw a rabbit breathing his last near the roadside, his
soft eyes filled with a look of far away consciousness and pain. And
once we saw a beautiful antelope leaping and bounding over the sage
brush so lightly that he looked in the distance like a phantom animal
made of thistle down.
I can completely understand how the desert casts its spell over
cattlemen and sheepmen so that they love it and its freedom and are
continually drawn back to it. The mystery and glory of the desert plains
have their devotees just as really as the mystery and glory of the great
city have their worshippers who never wish to be far from its lights.
The many stops of the day had made us very late and it was in darkness
that we came through the canyon which makes a long gateway to the town
of Eureka. There was something fearsome about those dark rocks, whose
mysteries we had never seen by daylight, rising on each side of us, and
about the deep chasm that lay in shadow down at the left of the road. We
were glad indeed when the lights of our lamps flashed on the stakes with
their familiar red, white, and blue markings, the friendly signs of our
beloved Lincoln Highway. It was nearly nine o'clock when we came into
Eureka, and drew up at the dim lights of Brown's Hotel. Brown's Hotel
seemed to be mostly a bar room and lounging place; at least that was the
impression made upon me by the glimpse I caught of the lighted room
downstairs as I stood on the wooden porch. But we were shown upstairs to
a very comfortable, old fashioned, high ceilinged room with heavy walnut
furniture of the style of forty years ago. An aged ingrain carpet was on
the floor, and a wreath of wax flowers such as our grandmothers rejoiced
in, hung, set in a deep frame, on the wall. I thought to myself that
these were relics of departed glories and of a day when there was money
to furnish the old hostel in the taste then in vogue. A dim oil lamp
assisted our toilet and we went downstairs and out into the town to a
restaurant kept by an Italian and his wife. It was the only place where
we could get food at that time of night. Eureka is a most forlorn little
town, perched high and dry, just as if the waves of traffic and of
commercial life had ebbed away and left it far up on the beach forever.
They told us that it was once a big and prosperous town. But like
Mariposa in California, the mining interests have been transferred to
other localities and the town is left lonely. As we walked along its
silent and dimly lighted main street, we saw the quaint wooden porches
in front of the shops and houses, some high, some low, making an uneven
sidewalk. Practically all of the shops were closed, only the saloons
being open.
The Italian had named his restaurant The Venezia in honor of his native
city. It was a bright, comfortable little room, the kitchen at the back
of it lightly screened from the dining room. It adjoined his hotel,
quite a large building, where he proudly told us he had twenty-two beds.
His wife, a stout, bright-eyed woman, cheerfully took our order. "I am
poor," she said smilingly, "so I cook when other people ask me. If I
rich I cook when I feel like it." A savory smell arose from her frying
pan, and we were soon eating excellent and generous slices of ham,
drinking very respectable tea, and enjoying some good bread and butter.
It was a most refreshing supper after a long and somewhat trying day. We
expressed our appreciation to our Italian friends and paid the very
modest reckoning.