The next morning we had breakfast at Brown's Hotel. The landlord called
my attention to a robin who was building her nest in a tree in front of
the hotel; the only tree that I recall seeing on the bare, bald, yellow
village street.
In our long ride of the day before, we had come through Edwards Creek
Valley, the Smith Creek Valley, the Reese River Valley, the Antelope
Valley, the Monitor Valley, and other great valleys of whose names I was
not sure. We had seen the Clan Alpine Mountains from Alpine ranch, the
Toyabee National Range, and other ranges whose names were too many and
too local for me to be sure of them. And I had read of 275,000 acres
that had been placed on the market in Elko County alone. I had read in
the Elko paper that "For years, there was a popular prejudice in the
East that Nevada was one grand glorious desert, the land worthless, and
that nothing could be grown out here. But in later years the public back
East has been shown that such is not the case, but on the contrary, we
have the richest land in Elko County to be found anywhere in the United
States, and that the crops here are the best and almost anything can be
grown in Elko County."
Having seen the rich land of our brave homesteader in Monitor Valley, I
was ready to believe this outburst of local pride.
It was the 23rd of June when the landlord of Brown's Hotel waved his
farewell to us and we drove on. All day we were among the hills, not
seeing them on far distant horizons, but continually climbing and
descending among them. Twenty-three miles from Eureka we saw a wooded
mountain, quite different from the bald grey hills we had seen the day
before. Short, scrubby green trees, somewhat like our New Jersey
junipers, grew on the mountain sides and gave this appearance of foliage
and greenness. We saw many of them in our day's ride. When we reached
Six Mile House, having passed Fourteen Mile House, we asked the
ranchman's wife to give us some luncheon. She said that she could not
accommodate us, having but few supplies on hand. She advised us to go on
to Hamilton and said that she would telephone to the Hamilton House that
we were coming. In accordance with her directions we took a turn to the
right shortly after leaving Six Mile House and climbed up through a
narrow, rocky canyon road. Finally, within a mile or so of Hamilton,
when we had one more hill to climb, we came upon a morass made by the
bursting of a water pipe. We could not go around it and we dared not
attempt to go through it, no friendly settler with a powerful horse
being in sight. So we turned carefully about, went down the rocky road
to the fork where we had turned off, and took the other branch of the
fork. Then we climbed up another mountain road until we reached the
summit of the pass, 8115 feet. From here we had a grand view of the
mountains and we also met the high ridge road from Hamilton. We pressed
on down the hill past a deserted ranch house to Moorman's Ranch, a
hospitable looking house by the roadside. At Moorman's Ranch we found an
unforgettable hospitality. Our host and hostess were Missourians, and
to our question as to whether they could give us any luncheon at 2
o'clock, they gave us a most satisfactory answer. Mrs. Moorman soon had
a laden table ready for us, and we sat down to fried bacon and eggs,
potatoes, lettuce, radishes, preserved cherries, stewed prunes, milk,
tea, and pie. How refreshing it all was! And how pleasant was the soft
Southern accent of our hostess which she had not lost in the years on
the plains.
Moorman's Ranch is a large ranch with grazing rights in the hills near
by. The adjoining ranch with its recently deserted ranch house is now a
part of Moorman's Ranch, and there is a large acreage for the cattle. We
learned that the wretched coyotes come down from the hills and steal the
young calves at every opportunity. Only a few days before, a cow had
gone to drink leaving her new born calf for a few minutes. When she came
back, the little animal had been struck down by a waiting coyote. We
learned too that the mountain lions come down from the hills and
sometimes attack the young colts and kill them.
It was with sincere regret that we bade goodbye to Captain and Mrs.
Moorman. May their ranch flourish from year to year!
Shortly after leaving the ranch and in crossing another wide valley, we
saw a herd of several hundred wild horses feeding on the great plain--a
beautiful sight. They were grazing in a rich part of the plain where the
grass looked thick and lush.
I must own to having an impression that the trail across Nevada could be
marked by whiskey bottles if by no other signs. All along our road
across the great State we saw the bottles where they had been thrown in
the sand and dust by passers-by.
Many times I thought of the "Forty-niners," as we saw the sign,
"Overland Trail." In coming along the Lincoln Highway, we are simply
traversing the old overland road along which the prairie schooners of
the pioneers passed. How much heart-ache, heart-break, and hope deferred
this old trail has seen! I think of it as we bowl along so comfortably
over the somewhat rough but yet very passable road. I can appreciate now
the touching story in a San Francisco paper of an old lady who came to
the rear platform of a fine overland train after passing a certain
village station, and threw out some flowers upon the plain. Near here,
she told her friends, her little baby had been buried in the desert
forty years before, as she and her husband toiled with their little
caravan along the trail. The years had passed and they were prosperous
and old in California. And now as she went East on the swift and
beautiful train she threw out her tribute to the little grave somewhere
in the great desert.
As we drew near Ely, the famous copper city, we passed the huge mountain
of earth which forms the wealth of the Ely mines. The Lincoln Highway
signs take one to the right on a short detour in order that one may see
this mountain of ore, which is being cut away by immense steam shovels,
tier above tier. Returning to the main road, we drove on through a
canyon and so came into the bright little town of Ely which has many
evidences of prosperity. We found the Northern Hotel, European in plan,
most comfortable. Next door was an excellent cafe where we had a supper
of which a New York restaurant need not have been ashamed. Leaving Ely
on the morning of June 24th, we drove through Steptoe Valley for some
forty miles. Where we turned off from the valley it still stretched on
for another forty miles. It looked as if it might go on to the world's
end. Just out of Ely we passed through McGill and visited the immense
smelting works. There we saw the "concentrators," interesting machines
to shake down the heavy grains of copper from the lighter grains of sand
and earth. These big, slanting boards keep up a continual shake, shake,
shake while a thin stream of water pours over them. They are a little
less slanting than the board of a woman's washtub would be, and yet they
lie somewhat like a washboard. The shaking of the board and the action
of the water combine to roll down the heavy grains of copper. It seems a
simple process, and yet the regulation of the board's motion and the
angle of its slant are calculated to a nicety. There were hundreds of
these "concentrators" at work separating the copper from its native
earth. We saw also the great smelting furnaces and realized how it must
have been possible for the men who prepared the furnace for the burning
of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to be burned to death themselves.
What a fearful heat rolled out as one of the furnace doors was opened
and a molten stream of white-hot slag was raked into the gutter below!
And how the copper glowed as we saw it in its enormous melting caldron!
For the first time I saw a traveling crane at work. A characteristic
sign was near it in both English and Greek. It read, "Keep away from
crane. Keep clear and stand from under."
[Illustration: 1. Ely, Nevada. 2. Homesteader's Ranch near Lahontan Dam.
3. Copper Mine at Ely. 4. Ely, Nev.]
As we left Steptoe Valley and came down a long slope into Spring Valley,
we crossed Shellbourne Pass under the shadow of the Shellbourne range.
We passed some young people from Detroit, the gentleman driving his car.
We also passed some men with their laden burros taking supplies to the
sheepmen in the mountain ranges. These sheepmen live their lives apart
from the world for months at a time, seeing only the man who brings
their supplies at intervals.
[Illustration: 1. American Baptist Home Mission Touring Wagon. 2.
Fish Springs Ranch, Utah.]
We had luncheon at Anderson's ranch, where they treated us very
hospitably. I judged that this was a Mormon's household, as Mormon
marriage certificates hung upon the wall and as the Deseret Weekly was
evidently its newspaper connection with the outside world. Here our
friend Mr. N. took on board a young man from the ranch who wished to get
back to Salt Lake City. This young fellow was delighted to have such a
ride and Mr. N. was glad to have a traveling companion. Later in the day
we passed Tippett's ranch and learned that its owner travels thirty-six
miles for his mail and supplies. Toward evening we crossed the Utah
border and immediately came upon bad roads. We had a rough stretch until
we reached our station for the night, Ibapah. Ibapah consists of a very
pleasant ranch house and of a general supply grocery, both house and
grocery owned by Mr. Sheridan. We had a comfortable night at the ranch
house and purchased some beautiful baskets made by the Indians and
brought by them to Mr. Sheridan for sale. The air was so fine and the
evening so delightful that we reluctantly retired. Never can I forget
the crystal silences of those still nights on the high plains of the
West. The next day, June 25th, we had a drive of one hundred and twenty
miles across rough and lonely country. From Ibapah we went on through
the valley in which the ranch lay, coming to an extremely rough canyon
road, practically nothing but the bed of a stream. Then came Kearney's
Ranch, where they warned us of some mud holes in the road ahead. We
drove around a rocky point, picking our way carefully, some hot springs
and a sulphur lake smoking off in the distance on our left. The
mountains rose to the right above our route, bare and bald. We came to
Fish Springs Ranch in the midst of this lonely country and stopped for
luncheon. Our host was a tall and powerfully built elderly ranchman in a
blue jumper. A younger man lived with him and the two did their cooking
and eating in a little log and stone house, near the main ranch house.
He explained to us that he kept the little house because it was once a
station on the Wells Fargo stage route. "Horace Greeley ate at this
table when he came on his historic Western trip, and so I keep the place
standing," he said. His young helper cooked our meal in the back room
and our host served it in the front one. We had fried eggs, potatoes,
pickles, cheese, bread, butter, and tea, and an appetizing cup cake cut
in square pieces. I noticed a White House Cook Book lying on a little
table near by. Our host was very hospitable. "Have some of them sweet
pickles, folks." "Do we raise cattle here? You bet we do. I have had
this ranch over thirty years." As we left him he warned us that we were
now entering the "Great American Desert" and that we would have sixty
miles of dry plain with very little undergrowth and with no water. He
told us that if we got into trouble we should start a fire and "make a
smoke." "I'll see you with my glasses" he said, "and drive to your
rescue with gasoline and water." I had seen near the ranch house a
clear, bubbling spring which doubtless gave its name to the ranch.
We assured him that we were well stocked with gasoline and that we had
on our running board a standard oil can filled with water. When we were
twenty miles away I could still see the ranch house, a tiny speck upon
the horizon. At last we came to a well by the roadside which was marked
"County well." The road, though somewhat bumpy, was in many places
smooth and excellent, a sort of clay highway. Midway across the desert
we met another car and exchanged greetings.
Late in the afternoon as we were climbing up a slight pass, a dust storm
overtook us. The sky was overcast, the mountains and plain were blotted
out, and we could only drive along slowly and endure the choking clouds
of dust until the storm had swept by. It was blessed to come again into
clear sunshine and to see the outlines of the mountains appearing once
more. Once over the pass, we came into a great ranch valley and saw that
we had left the bare plains behind us. We reached the Kanaka Ranch in
time for supper and were assured that we could have lodging for the
night. The Kanaka Ranch of eight thousand acres is the property of the
Mormon church. It is under the charge of a young manager who looks after
the Hawaiians (Kanaka meaning a South Sea Islander) who have been
converted to the Mormon faith, and who have been brought to the ranch to
work upon its acres and to make their homes there under the friendly
shadow of the church's authority. The manager was a dignified young man
with a pleasant wife and four dear little children. They gave us a most
appetizing supper and breakfast. "The difference between your belief and
ours," said our host to T., "is that you believe in a completed
revelation. We believe in a continuous revelation."
I heard him talking very fluently in the Hawaiian tongue to some of his
disciples who had come in for farm directions.
The next morning was wonderfully fresh and clear, a rain having fallen
during the night. We had just a taste of what a rainy trip would be
across country, as we slipped about on the greasy mud of the highway.
One reason why our long journey was so ideal was because of the dry
season. Day after day we came on over perfectly dry roads and under
perfectly clear skies. Another advantage of our journey was that we
were traveling East. Every afternoon the sun was behind us, to our great
comfort; and the beautiful light fell on the plains and mountains ahead
of us. No wonder that we loved to travel late in the afternoon and that
we had to make a stern rule for ourselves to follow, to the effect that
no matter how tempted we were, we would not travel after sunset.
By dint of creeping slowly along we passed the slippery stretches of
road and enjoyed the fine open country with the mountains to the right
and the farms to the left. After passing Grantsville we came by some
large concentrators and smelters in the shadow of the mountain. Turning
left we came around the shoulder of the mountain, and there to our left
was Great Salt Lake, sparkling and blue-green in the morning light, a
mountainous island in the middle of it. We could see the Casino at the
end of the long pier at Saltair, a favorite resort for Salt Lake City
people. We passed the miners' homes at Magna and Garfield, someone
having written facetiously the sign "Mosquito Park" over the entrance to
a swampy district with its little settlement of cottages. Now we came
into a beautiful upland country with fine farms and every appearance of
prosperity. Cottonwoods and tall poplars were seen everywhere on the
landscape. They are very characteristic of this part of the country.
They grow rapidly and the cottonwood sends its roots long distances in
search of water. As we approached Salt Lake City, it appeared to us to
be a green, wooded city extending down a long slope on the mountain
side. The new State House towered high at the upper end of the slope
against the background of lofty mountains, still snowy, which guard the
city.
I was charmed with Salt Lake City. It has a beautiful situation, high
and picturesque. Its streets are very wide and this gives a certain
stateliness and air of hospitality to the town. It is laid out on a
generous scale. Many of the residence streets have green stretches of
flower-adorned park running through the center. The open lawns of the
homelike homes, the broad streets, the residences of stone and brick,
the masses of pink rambler roses climbing over them, all make a charming
impression upon one. Then there are delightful excursions into the
canyons of the great mountains near the city. We took such an excursion
by electric car line, fourteen miles up into Immigration Canyon. This
is the old trail along which the Mormons came in 1847. At the end of the
line is a delightful hotel, the Pinecrest Inn. Had there been time we
could have taken many more canyon trips.
"The Utah" is a beautiful hotel with every modern equipment. A great bee
hive, the Mormon emblem, glows with light at night on top of the
building. Of course we saw the Mormon tabernacle and walked about its
splendid grounds. I was particularly interested in the "sea gull
monument," designed by Brigham Young's grandson, and erected in memory
of the sea gulls that saved the crops the first year of Mormon
settlement by coming in flocks and eating the locusts that threatened to
destroy everything green. We enjoyed the fine view from the State
University buildings on the "bench" high above the town.
In Salt Lake City I purchased some "canyon shoes" of a famous
manufacture, and later I found them admirable for heavy walking trips.
We left Salt Lake City by driving through Parley's Canyon, a deep gash
in the mountains parallel to Immigration Canyon. It is a favorite local
drive to go out through Parley's Canyon and return to Salt Lake City
through Immigration Canyon. The roadway is very narrow, as it shares the
canyon floor with a railroad track and with a rushing stream, so one
must drive carefully and keep a sharp lookout for trains. We met an
itinerant Baptist missionary driving in his big caravan wagon into the
country for a preaching trip. After leaving Parley's Canyon we came into
open rolling country, and passed the substantial stone buildings of
Stevens Ranch and Kimball Ranch. Then came Silver Creek Canyon, more
open than Parley's Canyon and with a fair road. We had luncheon at the
Coalville Hotel. I was attracted to the little town of Coalville because
there were so many yards where old fashioned yellow rosebushes were
laden with bloom. We drove on through Echo Canyon, whose red sandstone
rocks, chiseled in many forms by wind and weather, have very fine
coloring. At Castle Rock the whole formation is like that of a massive
fortification. Six miles before we reached the town of Evanston, we
crossed the State line and were in Wyoming. It is a pity that these
State boundaries are indicated in many places by such shabby,
indifferent wooden signs, looking as if they had been put up over night.
Doubtless as the Lincoln Highway is improved there will be dignified
boundary stones erected to mark the State lines.
Evanston is a pleasant little town 6300 feet high. Near Evanston is the
Chapman Ranch, where many thousands of sheep are handled. We stopped in
Evanston only a few minutes and then drove on through delightful desert
country, open and rolling, grey-green and blue in its coloring. The
Wyoming desert has a sharper and more vivid coloring than that of
Nevada. The tableland is more rolling and the mountains are farther
away. It is a wonderful sheep country, but the flocks are at present in
the mountain ranges. Later, as the autumn comes on and cold falls upon
their mountain pastures, the herders will bring them down to these
plains over which we are passing.
Mr. Dudley of Alpine Ranch told us that should we visit the ranch in
autumn we would find the whole valley covered with sheep. We heard much
"sheep talk" in Nevada and Wyoming. We learned about the "shad scale"
which the sheep eat, and about certain kinds of sage brush that are very
nutritious. Mr. Dudley had pointed out to us a low-growing white plant,
somewhat like the "dusty miller" of our childhood, that is extremely
nutritious for cattle.
[Illustration: 1. Prairie Schooners, Westward Bound. 2. Lincoln Highway
Sign in the Desert. 3. Sheep in the Wyoming Desert.]
Here and there on the desert we see fine bunches of beef cattle, feeding
in little oases; green, damp stretches of country in the midst of an
ocean of sage brush.
Now and then we pass a cattleman or a sheepman riding with that easy
give of the body which is so graceful and so characteristic of Western
horsemen. I know nothing like it, save the easy posture of those
immortal youths who ride forever in the procession of the Elgin marbles
in the British Museum. They have the same graceful easing of the body to
the motion of the horse, and give the same impression of the harmony of
horse and rider. Often we pass white, closely plastered log houses, just
such as we saw in Nevada. We see white canopied wagons in the barnyards
of almost every ranch house, just as in eastern Nevada. These people
think nothing of traveling long distances in their prairie schooners
with their supplies for roadside camping at night. They travel in their
wagons to pay visits, to transact business and to buy supplies, and make
long journeys in the summer months.
The smell of the sage brush, pungent and aromatic, is in my nostrils
from day to day. I love it in its cleanness and spiciness, and shall be
sorry when we have left the desert behind us. We have to be watchful for
chuck holes made by the indefatigable gophers or prairie dogs. They
often burrow in the ruts of the road. Our local guide leaflets,
furnished us by garages along the route, are full of warnings about
"chucks." Once we come upon a badger, beautifully marked, who has thrown
up a large mound of dirt in burrowing his tunnel just in the middle of
the road. He sees us coming and scuttles into his hole. We stop the car
as we get near the hole and sit motionless. We wait patiently until
finally his beautifully marked brown and white head is thrust cautiously
out of his shelter. He is very curious to see what this huge black thing
is, standing silent near his dwelling. Twice his head appears and his
bright eyes peer out curiously. Then the click of the camera frightens
him and he disappears to be seen no more.
Occasionally we pass motionless bodies of gophers and rabbits that have
been struck by the flying wheel of some passing motor as they madly
scrambled for safety.
Late in the day we passed Fort Bridger with its few old stone houses,
probably barracks in the old days. Shortly before coming into Fort
Bridger we came upon two draught horses feeding peacefully by the
roadside. As they saw us, they immediately came into the road and began
to trot just ahead of our machine. First we drove gently, hoping that
after their first fright they would turn aside into the great plain
which stretched for miles, unbroken by fences, on each side of the road.
But no, they trotted steadily on. Then we drove faster, hoping to wear
them down and by the rush of our approach to force them off the road.
Once they were at the side of the road we could quickly pass them and
their fright would be over. To our disappointment they broke into a wild
gallop and showed no sign of leaving the road. They were heavy horses,
and we were sorry to have them thundering so distressfully ahead of us.
Then we dropped into a slow walk and so did they. But as soon as we
traveled faster, they broke into a gallop. For ten miles they kept this
up. We were quite in despair of ever dropping them, when suddenly we
came to a fork in the road. To our joy they ran along the left fork. Our
route was along the right fork and we went on to Fort Bridger glad to
be rid of the poor frightened beasts.
A breeze sprang up toward sunset and we came in the twilight to the
little town of Lyman where the only hostel was The Marshal, half home
and half hotel, kept by Mrs. Marshall. As we came into the town the
high, snowy Wahsatch range was on our right. We had first seen its
distant peaks about twenty-four miles out of Evanston.
Mrs. Marshall gave us an abundant supper and we slept dreamlessly in a
little upper room with one window. Upon what a glory of sunrise did that
little upper window look out that morning of the first of July! The vast
landscape was bathed in lavender light, the Wahsatch range and the
mountains of our Eastern pathway catching the first glory of the coming
sun, while the plains were in deeper lavender.
The village street looked like a pathway of lavender. The little wooden,
painted houses, the barns, some red, some grey and unpainted, all glowed
with transforming light and color. Robins and meadow larks were singing.
Far, far to the northeast was a purple horizon line. The air was like
wine. I stayed at the window until I was half frozen in the cool morning
air, entranced by it all.
[Illustration: 1. Wyoming Cattle. 2. The Marshall Hotel, Lyman, Wyoming.
3. Before Shearing, Medicine Bow, Wyoming. 4. After Shearing, Medicine
Bow, Wyoming.]
It was at Lyman that we heard talk of the ever smouldering feud between
cattlemen and sheepmen. Not far from Lyman is the "dead line" over which
sheepmen are not allowed to take their sheep. On the other side of this
stern boundary are the cattlemen, and they have issued a warning to the
sheepmen which they have more than once carried out. A few years ago a
sheepman either purposely or carelessly got over the dead line with his
sheep. He was mysteriously shot and two hundred of his sheep were killed
in one night. No one knows who the murderer was. Back in the shadows
looms the threat of the cattlemen, grim and real.
We had been told in Wyoming of the buying of a big ranch by adjacent
ranch people in order that no sheepman might come in to share the water
and the ranges with the cattleman.
Cattle will not feed, they tell us, where sheep have fed, as the sheep
tear up the earth and also graze very closely. It is impossible for
sheep and cattle to graze comfortably on the same ranges.
We left Lyman in high spirits after a good breakfast, driving along with
the Wahsatch mountains on our right and with detached mountains
continually appearing on the horizon as we moved eastward. We were now
in the region of what they call in the West "buttes," a "butte" being,
so far as I know, a detached, isolated mass of mountain. The Wyoming
buttes are wonderfully carved by wind and sand and weather and many of
them present a mysterious and imposing appearance. Often they are table
lands, rising square and massive against the horizon like immense
fortresses. On the way to Granger these massive table lands with their
square outlines loom up against the grander background of the snowy
Wahsatch range.
The first thirty miles out of Evanston we had an excellent road. There
was a charming desert flower growing in the dusty road and alongside,
white and somewhat like a single petaled water-lily. Its buds were pink,
and it sprang from a whorl of leaves like those of a dandelion. Its
fragrance was most delicate. There was also the lovely blue larkspur,
and there were clusters of a brick-red flower which grew rather tall.
Then there were clumps of something very like a dark scarlet clover. The
fine mountain scenery, the fantastically carved buttes, sometimes like
miniature canyons, the glorious air, all put us in delightful humour
with ourselves and the world. At the little town of Granger on the
railroad line we met two young pedestrians who were walking on a wager
from Kearney, Nebraska, to Seattle. They were to have $500. apiece if
they reached Seattle by the first of August. Their yellow outing shirts
bore the inscription, "Walking from Kearney, Nebraska, to Seattle." They
told us they were able to make forty miles a day. When they reached Salt
Lake City they were to have substantial new walking boots from the
merchants at Kearney, the bargain being that at that point they were to
return their worn boots to be exhibited in the shop windows of Kearney.
They had been halted at Granger because of lack of money, having
miscalculated their needs. They had just had a telegram from home,
sending them money and assuring them of more help if they needed it.
They looked strong and fit and were perfectly confident that they would
win the wager. We also met two young motor-cyclists from Akron, Ohio, en
route for the coast.
There were several eating places at Granger, but it was too early for
luncheon, so we pressed on to Green River, a Union Pacific Railway town.
From Granger to Green River the road was poorer and more bumpy. Fine
masses of rock and carved tableland rose on the horizon as we drove
along. As we approached Green River a splendid red, yellow, and
clay-colored mountain loomed on the horizon, which as we neared the town
resolved itself into long lines of buttes back of the town. Teakettle
Rock, an immense, isolated butte, rose to the left, and Castle Rock was
just back of the town. The butte scenery both approaching and leaving
Green River was very fine. The coloring was extremely rich; soft reds,
yellows, browns, and clay colors. There were long lines of round
buttresses and great concavities of rock, more like the famous Causses
of southern France than anything I have ever seen.
We had luncheon at Green River in the spacious dining room of the Union
Pacific Station, and felt ourselves quite in touch with the East to be
eating in the same dining room with passengers of the long overland
train.
Our drive from Green River to Rock Springs and from Rock Springs to
Point of Rocks was through lonely, desert country. It was nearly six
o'clock when we reached Point of Rocks, but the sun was still high.
Point of Rocks is simply a watering station for the trains and is marked
only by a station house, a grocery, and a few little cottages. The young
groceryman has fitted up the rooms over his grocery for passing
travelers. We established ourselves in the front one, lighted by one
little window. It was very clean, though very simply furnished. The
floor was bare and our furniture consisted of a bed, a chair without a
back, a tin wash basin resting upon the chair, a lamp, a pail of fresh
water with a dipper, and a pail for waste water. We had two fresh towels
and felt ourselves rich in comfort. Next door to the grocery was a
little cottage where a woman cooked for the few railway operatives and
for travelers. Our bacon was somewhat salty and our coffee a little
weak, but our supper and breakfast tasted good for we had the sauce of
hunger. We met there a young railway operative who had come from the
East to this high, dry situation for the climate. He told us that when
he first came, the change to the stillness and space of the plain from
the busy city and from his life as a journalist was so great that he
could not keep still. He said that he walked fifteen miles a day,
driven by some inner restlessness; but that he gradually became used to
the quiet and now he loved it.
We had an evening talk in the grocery with a young commercial man, who
said laughingly that these accommodations were somewhat different from
the gorgeous Hotel St. Francis of San Francisco. We assured him that we
did not mind simplicity and were deeply interested in seeing our country
under all sorts of conditions. He was spending some hours of his time
before the solitary train came through in persuading the groceryman to
commit himself for a large bill of goods. The commercial man said sadly
that never before in his ten years of travel had he seen business so
uncertain.
The water at Point of Rocks comes from a thousand feet below the surface
and has a slight sulphur taste.