Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is enclosed in _underscores_.
Additional notes will be found near the end of this ebook.
[Illustration:
IT
MIGHT HAVE
BEEN WORSE
KEY
~~~~~~~ ROUTE FOLLOWED BY CAR
- - - - CAR SHIPPED BY BOAT OR TRAIN
--o-- TOWNS VISITED, OR EN ROUTE
☉ OVER NIGHT STOPS
]
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE
IT
MIGHT HAVE BEEN
WORSE
A MOTOR TRIP FROM COAST
TO COAST
BY
BEATRICE LARNED MASSEY
[Illustration]
SAN FRANCISCO
HARR WAGNER PUBLISHING CO.
MCMXX
_Copyright, 1920, By Beatrice Larned Massey_
_Printed by Taylor & Taylor, San Francisco_
TO MY DEAR _MR. NIP_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE START 1
II. NEW YORK TO PITTSBURGH 6
III. OHIO AND DETOURS 20
IV. ON TO CHICAGO 30
V. THROUGH THE DAIRY COUNTRY 39
VI. CLOTHES, LUGGAGE, AND THE CAR 43
VII. THE TWIN CITIES AND TEN THOUSAND LAKES 54
VIII. MILLIONS OF GRASSHOPPERS 62
IX. THE BAD LANDS--“NATURE’S FREAKIEST MOOD” 70
X. THE DUST OF MONTANA 77
XI. A WONDERLAND 87
XII. WESTWARD HO! 103
XIII. NEVADA AND THE DESERT 117
XIV. THE END OF THE ROAD 130
FOREWORD
_May I state, at the start, that this account of our motor trip from
New York City to San Francisco is intended to be not only a road map
and a motor guide for prospective tourists, but also to interest the
would-be or near motorists who take dream trips to the Pacific? It
sounds like a rather large order, to motor across this vast continent,
but in reality it is simple, and the most interesting trip I have ever
taken in our own country or abroad._
_There are so many so-called “highways” to follow, and numerous routes
which, according to the folders, have “good roads and first-class
accommodations all the way” that hundreds of unsuspecting citizens are
touring across every year. I can speak only for ourselves, and will
doubtless call down the criticism of many who have taken any other
route. On the whole, it has been a revelation, and, to my mind, the
only way to get a first-hand knowledge of our country, its people,
the scenery, and last, but not the least, its roads good, bad, and
infinitely worse._
B. L. M.
_San Francisco, January, 1920_
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE
IT
MIGHT HAVE BEEN
WORSE
I
THE START
After reading “By Motor to the Golden Gate,” by Emily Post, published
in 1916, I was fired by a desire to make a similar tour. This desire
grew into a firm determination the more I re-read her charming book.
Then the United States went into the war, and self-respecting citizens
were not spending months amusing themselves; so all thought of the trip
was put aside until the spring of this year (1919). Then the “motor
fever” came on again, and refused to yield to any sedatives of advice
or obstacles. After talking and planning for three years, we actually
decided to go in ten minutes--and in ten days we were off. All the
necessary arrangements were quickly made; leasing our home, storing
our household goods, closing up business matters, getting our equipment
and having the car thoroughly looked over, and all the pleasant but
unnecessary duties occupied the last few days. Why will people write so
many letters and say so many good-bys, when a more or less efficient
mail and telegraph service circles our continent? But it is the custom,
and all your friends expect it--like sending Easter and Christmas cards
by the hundreds. We are victims of a well-prescribed custom.
It is always of interest to me to know the make of car that a friend
(or stranger) is driving; so let me say, without any desire to
advertise the Packard, that we had a new twin-six touring car, of
which I shall speak later on. I believe in giving just tribute to
_any_ car that will come out whole and in excellent condition, without
any engine troubles or having to be repaired, after a trip of 4154
miles over plains and mountains, through ditches, ruts, sand, and mud,
fording streams and two days of desert-going. And let me add that my
husband and I drove every mile of the way. It is needless to say that
the car was not overstrained or abused, and was given every care on
the trip. In each large city the Packard service station greased and
oiled the car, turned down the grease-cups, examined the brakes and
steering-gear, and started us off in “apple-pie” order, with a feeling
on our parts of security and satisfaction.
The subject of car equipment, tires, clothes, and luggage will take a
chapter by itself. But let me say that we profited in all these regards
by the experience and valuable suggestions of Mrs. Post in her book.
When we first spoke to our friends of making this trip, it created as
little surprise or comment as if we had said, “We are going to tour
the Berkshires.” The motor mind has so grown and changed in a few
years. Nearly everyone had some valuable suggestion to make, but one
only which we accepted and profited by. Every last friend and relative
that we had offered to go in some capacity--private secretaries,
chauffeurs, valets, maids, and traveling companions. But our conscience
smote us when we looked at that tonneau, the size of a small boat,
empty, save for our luggage, which, let me add with infinite pride
and satisfaction, was _not_ on the running-boards, nor strapped to
the back. From the exterior appearance of the car we might have been
shopping on Fifth Avenue.
We extended an invitation to two friends to accompany us, which was
accepted by return mail, with the remark, “Go!--of course, we will
go! Never give such an invitation to this family unless you are in
earnest.” And so our genial friends joined us, and we picked them up at
the Seymour Hotel in New York City, at three o’clock, Saturday, July
19th, and started for the Forty-second-Street ferry in a pouring rain,
as jolly and happy a quartette as the weather would permit. Our guests
were a retired physician, whom we shall speak of as the Doctor, and his
charming, somewhat younger wife, who, although possessing the perfectly
good name of Helen, was promptly dubbed “Toodles” for no reason in
the world. These dear people were of the much-traveled type, who took
everything in perfect good-nature and were never at all fussy nor
disturbed by late hours, delays, bad weather, nor any of the usual fate
of motorists, and they both added to the pleasure of the trip as far as
they accompanied us.
It had rained steadily for three days before we started and it poured
torrents for three days after; but that was to be expected, and the
New Jersey and Pennsylvania roads were none the worse, and the freedom
from dust was a boon. We chose for the slogan of our trip, “It might
have been worse.” The Doctor had an endless fund of good stories, of
two classes, “table and stable stories,” and I regret to say that this
apt slogan was taken from one of his choicest stable stories, and quite
unfit for publication. However, it did fit our party in its optimism
and cheery atmosphere.
With a last look at the wonderful sky-line of the city, and the hum
and whirl of the great throbbing metropolis, lessening in the swirl of
the Hudson River, we really were started; with our faces turned to the
setting sun, and the vast, wonderful West before us.
II
NEW YORK TO PITTSBURGH
One of the all-absorbing pleasures in contemplating a long trip is to
map out your route. You hear how all your friends have gone, or their
friends, then you load up with maps and folders, especially those
published by all the auto firms and tire companies, you pore over the
Blue Book of the current year, and generally end by going the way
you want to go, through the cities where you have friends or special
interests. This is exactly what we did. As the trip was to be taken
in mid-summer, we concluded to take a northern route from Chicago,
via Milwaukee, St. Paul, Fargo, Billings, Yellowstone Park, Salt Lake
City, Ogden, Reno, Sacramento, to San Francisco (see map), and, strange
to relate, we followed out the tour as we had planned it. With the
exception of a few hot days in the larger cities and on the plains,
and, of course, in the desert, we justified our decision.
As I have stated, we drove 4154 miles, through sixteen states and the
Yellowstone Park, in thirty-three running days, and the trip took
just seven weeks to the day, including seventeen days spent in various
cities, where we rested and enjoyed the sights. As time was of no
special object, and we were not attempting to break any records, we
felt free to start and stop when we felt inclined to do so; on only two
mornings did we start before nine-thirty, and seldom drove later than
seven in the evening. In so doing, we made a pleasure of the trip and
not a duty, and avoided any unusual fatigue.
The first evening we reached Easton, Pennsylvania. We were glad to
get into the comfortable Huntington Hotel out of the wet, and enjoyed
a good dinner and a night’s rest. We followed the Lincoln Highway to
Pittsburgh, and have only praise to offer for the condition of the
road and the beauty of the small towns through which we went. Of all
the states that we crossed, Pennsylvania stands out _par excellence_
in good roads, clean, attractive towns, beautiful farming country and
fruit belts, and well-built, up-to-date farm buildings. In other states
we found many such farms, but in Pennsylvania it was exceptional to
find a poor, tumble-down farmhouse or barn. The whole state had an air
of thrift and prosperity, and every little home was surrounded by fine
trees, flowers, and a well-kept _vegetable garden_.
The worst bugbear of the motorist are the detours. Just why the road
commissioners choose the height of the motoring season to tear up the
main highways and work the roads has always been a mystery to me, and I
have never heard any logical solution of it. We were often told that no
work to speak of had been done on the state roads through the country
during the war, and in many places the heavy army trucks had cut up the
good roads until the ruts left turtle-backed ridges in the center, not
at all pleasant to bob along on. But, in view of what we encountered
later in our trip, I look back on the Pennsylvania roads as one of the
high spots and pleasures, never to be undervalued.
From Easton we drove in the rain to Harrisburg. The scenery was
beautiful. The Blue Ridge and the Alleghany Mountains loomed up in
the haze like great cathedrals; but as long as the road was wide and
comparatively smooth we enjoyed the ups and downs. Our engine told us
that we were gradually ascending; the mist would be wafted off by a
mountain breeze, and then a gorgeous panorama stretched before us as
far as the eye could see.
We found Harrisburg a busy, thriving city, with well-paved streets,
attractive homes, and many fine buildings. The leading hotel, the Penn
Harris, was turning away guests; so we were made very comfortable at
the Senate. Here the café was miserable, but we went to the restaurant
of the Penn Harris and had an excellent dinner at moderate prices. We
have found that at the largest, best hotels the food was better cooked
and much cheaper than at the smaller ones. Usually we had excellent
club breakfasts from forty cents up, and club lunches, with an ample
selection of good things to eat, for fifty or sixty cents. You may
pay more for your room and bath, but you get more for your money,
with better service. We made it a rule to go to the newest, largest
hotels, and indulge in every comfort that was afforded. Why? Not to be
extravagant, nor to say that we had stopped at such or such hotels.
After you have driven day after day, and come in stiff and tired, there
is no bed too soft and no bathroom too luxurious to overrest your mind
and body. Economize in other ways if you must, but not on good food and
comfortable lodgings.
Our third day was still a drizzle; we would no sooner have the top down
than we would have to put it up again, and often the side curtains as
well. Our objective point was the charmingly quaint town of Bedford,
and the Bedford Arms. This part of Pennsylvania was more beautiful
than what we had been through, and every mile of the day’s run was a
pleasure.
I have not spoken of our lunches, a most important item by one o’clock.
We had brought a small English hamper, fitted with the usual porcelain
dishes, cutlery, tin boxes, etc., for four people, and unless we were
positive that a good place to eat was midway on the road, we prepared
a lunch, or had the hotel put one up for us. This latter plan proved
both expensive and unsatisfactory. Usually Toodles was sent foraging
to the delicatessen shops for fresh rolls, cold meats and sandwiches,
eggs, fruit, tomatoes, and bakery dainties, and the hotel filled our
thermos-bottles with hot coffee. We carried salt and pepper, mustard,
sweet and sour pickles, or a relish, orange marmalade, or a fruit
jam, in the hamper, and beyond that we took no staple supplies on
the whole trip. We met so many people who carried with them a whole
grocery-store, even to sacks of flour, that you would imagine there was
not a place to get food from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Often later
on we would meet these same people and find that they had thrown or
given away most of their larder. Of course, the camping parties, which
are legion, are houses on wheels! Aside from the tents, poles, bedding,
and cooking utensils, we have seen stoves, sewing-machines, crates of
tinned foods, trunks full of every conceivable incumbrance they could
buy, strapped to the back and sides and even on the top of the car, and
usually the personal luggage jammed in between the mud-guards and hood
of the engine. A traveling circus is an orderly, compact miniature in
comparison. And the people!--sitting on top of a mountain of baggage,
or under it, the picture of woe and discomfort. That may be fun, but I
fear I have not developed a capacity for such pleasure. Have you ever
seen a party of this description unpack and strike camp after a hot,
broiling, dusty day of hard travel? You will do as we did--drive right
ahead until you come to a clean hotel and a bath.
We have been told so often that one has to develop an “open-air” spirit
to really enjoy a long motor trip! Quite true! I can’t imagine what
the fun can be of touring in a closed limousine, and yet we have met
_that_ particularly exclusive party more than once. On the whole, an
absence of flies, ants, mosquitoes, and sand and dust in one’s bed and
food does not detract from the pleasure of the trip. It may be all
right to endure such annoyances for a few days in the woods, to fish or
hunt--but weeks and more weeks of it! We admit our “lack,” whatever it
may be termed, and enjoy clean linen, hot tubs, and tables that have
legs not belonging to ants and spiders.
In Wisconsin we met a most unique and charming couple, both past fifty,
who had lived all over the world, even in South America, a Mr. X and
wife, from Washington, D. C. They were going on the same route as we
were, and back to Washington, via southern California, the Yosemite,
New Mexico, New Orleans, and then north. So their trip would be twice
as long as ours. They loved the open, with that two-ton-equipment
enthusiasm excelling all others we had met. From an over-stocked
medicine chest, so carefully stowed away that they bought what they
wanted en route rather than unload everything to try to find it, to a
complete wardrobe for every occasion, which was never unpacked, they
had every conceivable utensil that a well-furnished apartment could
boast of. They even bought a small puppy, as a protection at night when
camping; the poor little beast caught cold and crawled under the pile
and died. They solved the lunch problem in a unique way. If they passed
a good corn-field, they “procured” a few ears and stopped at the next
farmhouse and calmly asked the loan of the kitchen for a short time,
and cooked their corn and bought bread and milk, etc. Mrs. X remarked:
“It is all so simple! We have all these things in case we should need
them, but they are so well packed in the car it is really too bad to
disturb them; so I live in one gown, and we buy what we need, and it is
_most_ satisfactory.” Later we learned that they had camped out just
three nights in several weeks.
But I have digressed, and left you at the Bedford Arms, one of the most
artistic, attractive inns that we found. The little touches showed a
woman’s hand. Flowers everywhere, dainty cretonnes, willow furniture,
and pretty, fine china; in appearance, courtesy, and efficiency, the
maids in the dining-room might have come from a private dwelling. Will
someone tell me why there are not more such charming places to stop
at on our much-traveled main highways. Why _must_ hotel men buy all
the heavy, hideous furniture, the everlasting red or green carpets and
impossible wall-paper, to make night hideous for their guests--to say
nothing of the pictures on their walls? It is a wonder one can sleep.
There is much of interest to see in Bedford--really old, artistic
houses, not spoiled by modern gewgaws, set in lovely gardens of
old-fashioned flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and red brick walks.
There were few early Victorian eyesores to mar the general beauty of
the town. As we were walking down the main street about sunset, we
heard a great chattering and chirping, as if a thousand birds were
holding a jubilee. Looking up, we found, on a projecting balcony
running along the front of all the buildings for two blocks, hundreds
of martins discussing the League of Nations and Peace Treaty quite as
vigorously as were their senatorial friends in Washington. They were
fluttering about and making a very pretty picture. It sounded like the
bird market in Paris on a Sunday morning, which, in passing, is an
interesting sight that few tourists ever see.
It was with regret that we left the next morning for Pittsburgh. The
day was clear and cool and the best part of the Lincoln Highway was
before us; in fact, the first real thrill so far, and one of the high
spots of the trip. This was a stretch of seven and a half miles of
tarvia road on the top ridge of the Alleghany Mountains, as smooth as
marble, as straight as the bee flies, looking like a strip of satin
ribbon as far as the eye could see. On both sides were deep ravines,
well wooded, and valleys green with abundant crops, and still higher
mountains rising in a haze of blue and purple coloring, making a
picture that would never be forgotten. The top was down and we stopped
the car again and again, to drink it in, and, as one of us remarked,
“We may see more grand and rugged scenery later on, but we shall not
see anything more beautiful than this”--and it proved true.
We had come 442 miles, from New York to Pittsburgh, over fine roads
and through beautiful country. Approaching Pittsburgh, we came in on
a boulevard overlooking the river and “valley of smoke.” Great stacks
were belching out soot and smoke, obliterating the city and even the
sky and sun. They may have a smoke ordinance, but no one has ever
heard of it. We arrived at the William Penn Hotel, in the heart of the
business center of the city, a first-class, fine hotel in every regard.
We found the prices reasonable for the excellent service afforded,
which was equal to that of any New York hotel. The dining-room, on the
top of the house, was filled with well-dressed people, and we were glad
that we had unpacked our dinner clothes, and appeared less like the
usual tourist, in suits and blouses. It was frightfully hot during our
two days’ stay. You go out to drive feeling clean and immaculate, and
come in with smuts and soot on your face and clothes, looking like a
foundry hand. The office buildings are magnificent, and out a bit in
the parks and boulevards the homes are attractive, and many are very
handsome, especially in Sewickley. But aside from the dirty atmosphere
one is impressed mostly by the evidences of the outlay of immense
wealth. An enthusiastic brother living there took us through a number
of the business blocks, and told us of the millions each cost and the
almost unbelievable amount of business carried on. I can only describe
Pittsburgh as the proudest city we visited. Not so much of the actual
wealth represented, but of what the billions had accomplished in great
industries. We went out in the evening and stood on one of the bridges
to look over the river lined with monster furnaces. The air was filled
with sparks, jets of flame bursting through the smoke. All you could
think of was Dante’s Inferno visualized. And what of the men who spend
their lives in that lurid atmosphere, never knowing if the sun shone,
nor what clean, pure air was like in their working hours? I shall never
look at a steel structure again without giving more credit to the men
who spend their waking hours in those hells of heat and smoke than to
the men whose millions have made it possible.
The second day, nothing daunted by the heat, we went out to the St.
Clair Country Club for lunch and golf, about a twenty-mile run through
the suburbs. This is a comparatively small and new club, but our host
told us that they were soon to have a fine club-house and improve the
links. The location is attractive, and the luncheon was delicious. We
had brought our golf bags, tennis racquets, and bathing suits with
us, much to the amusement of our friends. After sitting in the car
day in and day out, I know of no better way to stretch your legs and
arms and to exercise your stiff muscles than to put in a few hours at
either game. My husband described this course thus: “You have to hold
on to a tree with one hand and drive with the other, the bally course
is so steep.” There are many more pretentious country clubs and golf
links about Pittsburgh, but this small one had charm and a homelike
atmosphere. Our last evening we were taken to the “New China,” the
last word in Chinese restaurants--beautiful, clean, and artistic! You
have your choice of American or Chinese dishes. As we were looking
for sensations, we ordered some marvelous dishes with impossible
names. One portion was sufficient for three hungry people. The other
two portions were untouched. I do not know what we ate, but it was
delicious. Truth compels me to state that we were all ill for three
days, and decided to patronize home cooking in the future.
We did not get away until noon the next day, as our auto top had been
torn in the garage, and the manager kept out of sight until noon, and
then, after considerable pressure had been brought to bear, he made a
cash settlement of fifteen dollars, wishing us all the bad luck his
“Mutt and Jeff” mind could conjure.
III
OHIO AND DETOURS
We were assured that we should find good roads through Ohio to
Cleveland, where we were to take the D. & C. steamer to Detroit. If we
were to take this part of the trip again, we should certainly go to
Chicago, via Toledo and South Bend, Indiana. As we had relatives in
Detroit waiting in the heat to see us, and to depart for cooler climes,
we took the most direct route through Youngstown, Ohio, to Cleveland.
The roads were poor and the many detours were almost impassable--over
high hills, on narrow sandy roads, winding like a letter S through the
woods. One long stretch was so narrow that two cars could not pass; so
they had two roads, one going each way. The Doctor remarked, “I wonder
what would happen if a car broke down on this detour.” Prophetic soul!
He no sooner had said it than we rounded a curve, and presto! there
were six cars, puffing and snorting, lined up back of an Overland car,
which was disabled and stuck fast in the sand. In half an hour there
were ten cars back of ours--and the sun setting over the hills, and
fifty miles to Youngstown! The owner of the car knew nothing of his
engine. Heaven save us from such motorists! But Heaven did not save us,
for we met dozens of men, headed for the wilds of somewhere, who were
as blissfully ignorant of what made the wheels go round as their wives
were.
It may have been a coincidence, but is nevertheless a fact, that nearly
every car we saw disabled, ditched, stuck in the mud or sand, or being
towed in, on the entire trip, was an Overland car. It really became a
joke. When we saw a wreck ahead of us, some one exclaimed, “Dollars to
doughnuts it is an Overland!”--and it generally was. It used to be a
common expression, “If you wished to really know people, travel with
them.” I would change it to “Motor, and grow wise.” There were as many
varieties of dispositions in that belated crowd as there were people.
Everyone got out of his car and went ahead to the wreck, offering
advice, growling, complaining, and cursing Ohio detours. A few sat on
the roadside and laughed, chatted, or read the papers. As it was hot
and dusty, we looked like an emigrant train. My husband is an engineer
with a knowledge of cars. He suggested some simple remedy which enabled
the man to get his car to the next siding, and we all started with a
whoop of joy on the wretched road, leaving the Overland owner to spend
the night at a farmhouse near by.
Our troubles were not over. With a steep grade before us, I was
driving, going up steadily on second speed, when a real wreck loomed up
three-quarters of the way to the top of the hill. Two drunken niggers
had upset a rickety old truck loaded with furniture in the center
of the road, and their car had zigzagged across the road, narrowly
escaping a plunge down the steep embankment. You could not pass on
either side; so, with my heart in my mouth, I reversed, backing our
car into the farther side of the road, with two wheels in a deep stony
ditch, but safe from sliding down-hill on top of the cars coming up
back of us. It looked as if we were to share the fate of our Overland
friend and stay there indefinitely. We all jumped out and tried to
clear the house and lot out of our way. Those miserable niggers just
sat on top of the débris and refused to work. After tugging at spring
beds and filthy bedding, we succeeded in getting it pushed to one side.
I had had enough driving for one day, so gave the wheel to my husband,
and he started the engine. We did not budge! The next half-hour was
spent in filling up the ditch with stones and making a bridge by
covering the stones with boards. Eventually the car started, pulling
itself out of the slough of despair, and narrowly escaped turning
turtle. The Doctor, Toodles, and I all called wildly, “Keep going!
don’t stop!”--and on he climbed to the top, while we trudged up through
the dust, a quarter of a mile. All that night I dreamt I was backing
off the Alps into space.
Oh, what a tired, dirty party it was that drove up to the Ohio Hotel
in Youngstown that night! Someone had told us that there was a good
hotel in Youngstown, but we soon came to form our own conclusions about
hotels. This was a delightful surprise. Not only good, but wonderful,
for a city of the size of Youngstown. After we were scrubbed and
sitting down to a delicious dinner in the big cool café, a broad smile
spread over the table, and the Doctor suggested, “You know, it really
might have been worse!”
The next day we had more detours; but, in the main, the state highways,
_when_ they could be traversed, were good. The rural scenery through
Ohio was pleasing, but we had left the Lincoln Highway and the
beautiful farms of Pennsylvania.
We reached Cleveland by four, driving directly to the D. & C. wharves.
The “Eastern States” was being loaded, and the monster “City of Detroit
III,” a floating palace, was starting out for Buffalo, I believe.
Although the week-end travel is always heavy, and this was Friday, we
were most fortunate in getting staterooms, with brass beds (not bunks),
running water, and a bathroom. It may be of interest to state that the
cost of shipping the car to Detroit, a night’s run, was only $14.50.
As we did not sail until nine o’clock, and we could not go aboard nor
leave the car, we drove out the Lake Shore drive overlooking Lake Erie,
through beautiful suburbs, with attractive homes and gardens, and then
something told us it must be time to investigate the hotels. As we had
all sampled the excellent cooking at the Statler, we dined at the fine
Cleveland Hotel--modern in all its appointments, in good taste, and
unexcelled service. We remarked the appearance of the people. There
was not a smartly gowned woman in the dining-room, and the waiters
had a monopoly of the dress suits. Being hot, and in midsummer, and
a more or less transient gathering, might have been the reason. In
many large cities, in first-class hotels, we found the tired business
men in business suits and the women in skirts and blouses. Never did
anything taste more delicious than the broiled fresh whitefish, just
out of the lake, green corn on the cob, melons, and peaches. As long
as we remained in the Great Lakes region, we reveled in the whitefish,
broiled, sauté, or baked. It is the king of fresh-water fish.
I am beginning to realize that I am exhausting my descriptive
adjectives when it comes to hotels. Time was, not so very far distant,
when a hotel like the Cleveland was not to be found, except in possibly
half a dozen cities in this country. Now it is the rule. On all our
long trip, with the exception of three nights, we had perfectly
comfortable, clean double rooms, usually with twin beds, and private
baths with modern sanitary plumbing and an abundance of hot, not
tepid, water. We have been assured by the proprietors that the change
has been wrought by motorists who demanded better lodgings. I think the
farmer is the only member of society who still holds a grudge against
us as a class; but when he is the proud possessor of a “Little Henry”
he slides over to our side unconsciously. A book could be written on
“Motoring as an art, a profession, a pastime, a luxury or a necessity,
a money maker or a spender, a joy or a nuisance”--and then much more!
Before leaving Cleveland I must speak of its fine municipal buildings,
its many industries, and its far-famed Euclid Avenue, once the finest
of streets, lined on both sides with massive, splendid residences,
many with grounds a block square; alas! long since turned into
boarding-houses, clubs, and places of business--the inevitable
transition from a small to a great city.
Our trip across Lake Erie was quiet and cooling. That is not always
the case, even on such big steamers as the D. & C. line affords. I
have seen that lake lashed into fury by waves that rocked the largest
boat like a cockleshell. Breakfast on the steamer was all that could
be desired. It was some time before we had the car on the dock, ready
to start to our hotel in Detroit. The ride up the river had been
interesting, past old Fort Wayne, the Great Lakes engineering plant
and dry docks, and the grain elevators; even at that early hour (seven
A. M.) the wharves were alive with the bustle of trade.
Here I pause. Detroit was my home city and that of my father and
grandfather in territorial days. My earliest recollections of it were
of broad streets, fine homes, and an atmosphere of dignified culture
and home-loving people. But now! It has outgrown recognition. It has
outgrown every semblance of its former charm. Like Cleveland, the old
homes on the principal avenues are all given over to trade, and the
streets down-town are overcrowded, noisy, and well-nigh impassable.
The Statler is a new and fine hotel. We went to the Pontchartrain,
formerly the old Russell House, which in its palmy days, in the Messrs.
Chittenden régime, was the center of the social life of Detroit. It has
passed through several hands, and is now doubtless torn down. We found
it run down and undesirable in every way. Even then we felt more at
home there and made the best of things. We spent two and a half days,
as hot as I ever experienced. The nights were so hot that sleep was out
of the question. A drive around the Island Park, Belle Isle, cooled us
off a bit. Thousands were taking advantage of the municipal bathhouses
or a swim in the river.
If the city has been spoiled down-town, it has been equally beautified
in the outlying sections. The drive to Grosse Pointe along Lake
St. Clair has ten miles of residences unsurpassed in America. The
magnificent home of Senator Truman Newberry and dozens of others
that could be mentioned, set in acres of highly cultivated grounds,
commanding an unobstructed view of Lake St. Clair, are worthy of a
special trip to Detroit to see.
We lunched at the Country Club, but weakened when it came to trying the
celebrated golf links. It was too boiling hot! There were not more than
a dozen people at the club. Usually the place was crowded. There are
other fine clubs and links about Detroit, and the city seems to have
gone golf mad--a very healthful form of insanity! The Detroit Athletic
Club, in the business center, claims to be the finest private city club
in America. If patronage is any indication of its excellence, this
must be true. My brother, Mr. L., gave us a beautiful dinner there, and
we certainly have not seen anything to surpass it. Our time was all
too quickly spent, and the heat literally drove us out of town. Before
leaving, we paid our respects to the mayor, Mr. C., an old-time friend.
While we were pleasantly chatting with him and he was graciously
offering us the keys of the city, my husband had a summons served on
him and the car locked for leaving it more than an hour at the curb. He
was taken to police headquarters and paid his fine and then returned
for us. As we were praising the efficiency of the mayor, he gave us a
knowing smile, and some days later showed us his summons!
IV
ON TO CHICAGO
I realize that I am giving a most unsatisfactory picture of the Eastern
and Middle-West cities. Our time was limited, and space forbids my
giving anything but a cursory glance, a snapshot view, of their size
and beauty. And, then, most tourists visit these places and the reading
public have an intimate knowledge of them.
We left Detroit, having been told at the Michigan Automobile
Association that we should find excellent roads. As one prominent
broker remarked, “You can drive the length of the state on macadamized
roads.” Where were they? Surely not the way we went, the way described
in the Blue Book. And let me state right here that we have never had
much faith in that publication, and now what little we had is _nihil_!
A few miles out of the city we struck a detour which lasted nearly
to Ann Arbor. We had left at six o’clock, and when we reached the
university city all places to dine were closed. We did not _dine_. We
had pot-luck supper at a Greek restaurant, and started for Jackson to
spend the night. Ann Arbor is a beautiful place, and the university
buildings and fraternity houses are second to none of all we saw in
other states. The road did not improve, and we arrived at Jackson very
late and put up at the Otsego Hotel. It was crowded, and we were given
the “sample rooms,” in which the traveling-men displayed their goods on
long tables. We had comfortable beds and private baths, but you felt as
if you were sleeping in a department store, with the counters covered
with white cloths. Otherwise, the Otsego is a good hotel, and we were
perfectly comfortable. By the time we were through breakfast, we asked
to have a lunch put up, and were kindly but firmly told that it was
nine-thirty, and the chef had gone home and locked up everything. We
pleaded for some hot coffee and _anything_ cooked that was left from
breakfast. But no, not a sandwich nor a roll could we buy! We met
this condition time after time. If we arrived at a hotel after eight
o’clock in the evening, we were met with the same retort--“Chef gone
and everything closed.” A dozen times and more we were obliged to
go out and forage for supper--“due to the eight-hour law,” we were
always told. As it was nearly ten o’clock, we trusted to luck to find
a lunching-place en route. Fortune certainly favored us in the most
unexpected way--not in our roads, which still were poor, but in the
shape of two little girls on the wayside. As we were passing through a
hamlet called Smithfield--before reaching Albion--we were attracted by
two dainty girls with baskets of goodies waiting for us. Their names
were Evelyn and Willetta Avery, and they proved to be fairy godmothers.
Their mother owned the neighboring farm, and these children were
spending their vacation in supplying lunches to passers-by. Everything
was done up in fresh napkins and was real home cooking. This is what we
bought from them: a quart of fresh blueberries (which Toodles, in her
joy, promptly upset in the tonneau, and we walked on blueberries for
days!), fresh cake, pie, honey, hard-boiled eggs, tongue sandwiches,
hot bread and rolls, a pat of sweet butter, and oh! such home-made
pickles, raspberry jam (a pint glass), and a bottle of ice-cold spring
water, an abundance for four hungry grown-ups, and all for $2.10. We
gave them both liberal tips and they smiled and waved us out of sight.
That was a banner luncheon, and the best but one on the trip.
We stopped in the interesting city of Albion. The college was founded
and endowed by General Fisk, of Civil War fame, whose only daughter,
Mrs. P., is one of New York’s most beautiful and prominent women. That
afternoon about four we came to Battle Creek, and as the Doctor’s
eyes were troubling him, from the heat and dust, we drove to the
sanatorium, where he could receive treatment. It is an immense place
and beautifully kept up. We were sitting in the car outside, watching
the crowds of patients with their friends, when a number of wagons,
like popcorn wagons, came into view, pushed about by the white-robed
attendants. The wagon itself and the four uprights were covered with
white cloth and festooned with fresh vines and flowers. In the center,
hidden from view, was an ice-cream freezer, and young girls in white,
carrying flowers, were dispensing ice-cream cones at five cents
each. It was as pretty a sight as I ever saw. The carts were wheeled
through the grounds and everyone, sick or well, indulged. It was our
first introduction to ice-cream cones, but we acquired the habit; and
thereafter our afternoon tea consisted of ice cream, generally bought
at a soda-water fountain in some small town along our road. It may
be fattening, but it is nourishing and refreshing. Even in the tiny
hamlets on the plains of Montana we found good, rich ice cream. It is
certainly an American institution and a very palatable one.
We had come ninety miles over bad roads, and it was 160 miles to
Chicago, so we decided to stop at Paw Paw for the night. We drove
through the town and inquired which was the best hotel--our usual
question--and were told that they had two, but the Dyckman House was
first-class--a typical small country hotel, with little promise of
comfort. We were shown into big, comfortable rooms with one private
bath; but were told that “supper was over.” The manager was a typical
small-town person of importance, but had a kindly eye, and looked
amenable to persuasion. The others had given up hope; not so with
me! Then and there I invented a “sob-story” that would have melted
Plymouth Rock. It became our stock in trade, and many a supperless
night we would have had without it. After praising up the town and his
hotel, and saying that we had heard of its hospitality, and so forth;
that we were strangers, and had come all the way from New York; that
we were tired and hungry, and I _really_ was not very well; and that
the price was no consideration, etc., he walked out to the kitchen
and caught the cook with her hat on ready to depart, gave his orders,
and in twenty minutes we were doing full justice to a perfectly good
supper. After we had finished, I went out into the summer kitchen and
found a good-natured Irish woman, as round as she was pleasing, fanning
herself. I gave her a dollar, thanked her for staying, and made a
friend for life.
Even in Michigan our New York license attracted much attention. When
we came out of a hotel or store, a crowd of people had invariably
gathered about the car and were feeling the tires. The size seemed to
astonish them. The fact that we had come from New York filled them with
awe, and when, in fun, we said we were going to San Francisco, they
were speechless! “Aw, gaw on!” or “By heck!” was all that they could
exclaim.
Our last taste of Michigan roads was worse than the first. We went
by the way of Benton Harbor, with sandy detours and uninteresting
country, until we struck the strip of Indiana before coming into
South Chicago. Our troubles were over for a long time. A breeze had
come up from the lake, and we slept under blankets that night for the
first time in two weeks. We were all familiar with Chicago, and we
wished to stop out on the Lake Shore, if possible. We drove through
the city, out on the North Shore Boulevard to the Edgewater Hotel,
of which we had heard charming reports. A block below the hotel cars
were parked by the dozens. It is built directly on the shore, with the
most remarkable dining-room at the water’s edge, like the deck of an
ocean liner, filled with palms, flowers, and smartly dressed people,
many in evening clothes. The tables were all reserved, and so were the
rooms, two weeks in advance--this was the pleasant news that awaited
us! Could they take us in the next day? “No, possibly not for a week
or more.” No “sob-story” to help us here! But the clerks were obliging
and advised our going about ten miles farther out, to the North
Shore Hotel in Evanston, which we found delightful in every way--very
near the lake, quiet, furnished in exquisite taste, and good food at
reasonable prices. But even here we found the eight-hour law in force;
we could not get a bite after eight o’clock. We went to half a dozen
restaurants--all closed! In desperation we went into what looked to
be a candy store, and found they were closing up the café! They could
serve nothing but ice cream and sodas. We asked to see the manager
and told him our plight. He was an Eastern man, a long-lost brother.
He said, “As you placed your order just before eight o’clock, _of
course_ we shall serve you.” It was quite nine by this time. He kept
his face straight, and we tried to do the same. That dinner certainly
did touch the spot! It was the “Martha Washington Café,” and certainly
immortalized the gracious lady for all time for us. Later we went back
to the Edgewater Hotel for our mail and to dine, and we were more
charmed with it than before.
We had come 1028 miles from New York. Our car had to be thoroughly
cleaned, oiled, and looked over; so we were without it for two days.
The street-car strike was on in full force, not a surface car moving
in the city. Consequently, we walked, rested, and saw but little of
the city. It was quite ten years since any of us had been there; in
that time Chicago had grown and been so improved that we hardly knew
it. If Pittsburgh people are proud of their city, Chicagoans are the
original “boosters.” Nature has done so much for its location. Its
system of parks and boulevards is not equaled by any city. There is a
natural, outspoken pride evinced by the people of the best class--not
ashamed of a humble beginning, but glorying in the vast importance of
the commercial and financial life. To quote from the folder of the
Yellowstone Trail, which we picked up here and followed without any
trouble to St. Paul, Minnesota, “Nothing need be said about Chicago.
Chicago is the heart of America and speaks for herself.” Other cities
may challenge this, but there is every evidence of its truth. In time,
Chicago will give New York a good race; in fact, she is doing it now.
Our genial Doctor left us here, much to our regret. We went on, a
select party of three.
V
THROUGH THE DAIRY COUNTRY
“A good road from Plymouth Rock to Puget Sound.” Thus reads the
Yellowstone Trail folder. If you really believe a thing, you may be
excused for stating it as a truth. The trusting soul who wrote that
alluring statement has never been over the entire trail, or I am
greatly mistaken. Credit must be given for the system of marking the
trail. At every turn, right or left, the yellow disk is in plain sight.
On leaving Chicago, we went through Lincoln Park and up the Sheridan
Road to Milwaukee. The road is a wonderful boulevard, with beautiful
homes and estates and glimpses of Lake Michigan, past the Great Lakes
Naval Training Station, now the largest in the United States. We had
heard much of Zion City. Driving down its main street was like a
funeral. The houses were closed, the buildings seemed deserted, and the
only evidences of life were two men, a horse and wagon, and a stray
dog! We found a good macadam road to Oshkosh from Milwaukee and many
such stretches through Wisconsin. At times the road followed closely
the shore of Lake Winnebago, and then would wind through fertile dairy
country. Trainloads of butter and cheese are shipped from here each
year, and high-bred dairy cattle are raised for the market. Was it
not strange that we did not have Wisconsin cheese on the menu at any
hotel in that state? Several times we asked for it, but no cheese was
forthcoming.
The first night we put up at Fond du Lac, at Irvine Hotel. It was
fairly good, but a palace compared with what we found the next night
at Stevens Point--the Jacobs Hotel. This was our first uncomfortable
experience--a third-rate house, with no private bath, hard beds in
little tucked-up rooms, a bowl and pitcher with cold water and two
small towels the size of napkins, and the most primitive table you
could imagine. The weather had kept cool and clear, but the sandy roads
with deep ruts were _awful_! As it had rained in the night, the clerk
assured us next morning that four cars were stuck in the road west
of the town, and we had better not start. We asked him if there was
a good hotel at Marshfield. “Good hotel! Well, you folks just wait
till you see it! They actually have Brussels carpet on the floor of
the dining-room! Good hotel, eh? Nothin’ better this side of Chicago!”
The cars were lined up in the street waiting to start. The clouds
looked heavy and threatening, and not a ray of blue sky. Everyone was
talking to someone. The formalities are discarded on such occasions.
We fell into conversation with a charming man, Mr. H., from Fargo,
North Dakota. Later we found that he was the ex-governor, and his name
was sufficient to get anything you wanted in the Northwest. He and his
family were touring to New York; so we exchanged maps and experiences,
and he gave us a list of towns and hotels that proved invaluable, with
the kindly remark, “If you will show the hotel clerks this list with my
name, I am sure you will be well taken care of.” We certainly were--and
more!--from there to Yellowstone Park.
We found the Blodgett Hotel at Marshfield--with a really, truly carpet
in the dining-room--a good hotel, clean and comfortable. The next day
we had two hundred miles to go to St. Paul, and were promised good
roads. Colby, Eau Claire, and Chippewa Falls are all attractive towns.
Wisconsin boasts of six thousand lakes. It certainly is a paradise for
the huntsman and the angler--“The land with charm for every mile.” The
method of numbering the state highways is the best we have found. You
simply can’t lose your way. We, unfortunately, had several long detours
and did not reach St. Paul until one A. M., a very sleepy trio, in a
disreputable-looking car.
VI
CLOTHES, LUGGAGE, AND THE CAR
We decided to take as little luggage as possible. In the end, we found
that we had more than ten people would need. Each of us had a large
dress-suit case, a small handbag with toilet articles, an extra bag for
soiled linen (which proved useful), two golf-bags, with umbrellas and
rubbers (which were never used), a case of tennis-rackets and balls,
a shawl-strap with a heavy rug, rain-coats and top-coats for cold
weather, the lunch-hamper, and a silk bag for hats. The tonneau was
comfortably filled, with still room for two, and even three, people.
The thermos-bottles were stowed away in the side-pockets, easy of
access. All the maps were in the right-hand front pocket by the person
sitting with the driver. We had an old rug which was so disreputable
that no one would steal it; we had been on the point of throwing it
away a dozen times, but after it came from the cleaners we hadn’t the
heart to leave it behind. That old relic proved to be the joy of the
trip. We sat on it when lunching on the roadside, used it to protect
the car from the bags and golf-clubs, and when we had a puncture down
it went under the car to avoid collecting all the dust of the road on
my husband’s clothes. We still have it, and consider the old veteran
deserves a pension for life. My advice--take an _old_ rug!