lifted, so we were safe in starting. The cars leave at nine and reach
Old Faithful Inn by noon. Here you stay until the next noon. On this
first lap of the tour you pass the wonderful Terraces, filled with
boiling springs, which look like cascades of jewels in the sunlight.
Passing the Devil’s Kitchen, Lookout Point, and the Hoodoos, massive
blocks of travertine, piled up in every conceivable shape, at an
altitude of seven thousand feet, and Golden Gate Canyon, you emerge
into an open, smiling mountain valley with high ranges on every side,
through which runs the Gardiner River. The Frying Pan is a sizzling,
boiling pool that comes from the bowels of the earth. The Norris Geyser
Basin is filled with small geysers, spouting at intervals, and looking
like bursts of steam. Emerald Pool is typical of the name. As you look
down into it, the gorgeous color deepens like a real gem. The most
beautiful example of these pools is the Mammoth Paint Pot, with myriads
of scintillating colors.
We could hardly wait to finish lunch, we were so anxious to see the
famous Old Faithful spout, or “play,” more properly speaking. At
regular intervals of about seventy minutes, the mass of water is thrown
150 feet into the air with a roar of escaping steam that sounds like
the exhaust of an ocean liner. At night an immense searchlight on the
roof of the hotel plays upon it, and everyone goes to the farther
side to view the water with the light showing through--a glorious
sight! I can think of nothing but thousands of gems being tossed up
by a waterspout at sea. The rainbow colors dance and radiate, making
a fairyland scene. The chorus of “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” resembles a crowd
viewing a pyrotechnic display on the 4th of July. We were fortunate in
seeing both the Giant and Castle geysers play.
The Old Faithful Inn is unique, it being built entirely of the park
timber in the rough, hewed from the twisted trees of the forests.
The fossil forests are one of the marvels of the park, not all at
a particular level, but occurring at irregular heights; in fact,
a section cut down through these two thousand feet of beds, would
disclose a succession of fossil forests, covered by volcanic material
through the ages.
The great open fireplaces of boulders in the hotel always gave a
cheery appearance, and in the evenings the attendants pop corn for the
guests. A very good orchestra played until midnight and hundreds of
people danced on the polished floors. The table is excellent in all
the hotels. Our only criticism was that the guests were kept waiting
outside of the dining-room until all tables were cleared and reset,
when we could have just as well been sitting comfortably inside. In
front of the hotel are the bath-houses, with many small pools and one
large one. The prices are moderate. All rates, even for postcards, are
regulated by the Government officials in the park.
Toodles had informed us early in our trip that she would not be happy
unless she met “a real cowboy, of the William S. Hart type, and a real
Indian.” Up to now she had been disappointed. We were sitting out under
the trees by the hotel, waiting for Old Faithful to “shoot,” when the
real article came by on horseback, leading two saddled horses. He was
a tall, fine-looking chap, with all the proverbial trappings of an
old-time cowboy, riding as if he were a part of his horse. As he was
close to us, Toodles called out, “Were you looking for me?” He took no
notice, and she repeated it. He rode on, never even turning his head.
“The brute must be deaf,” a rather piqued voice informed us. We had
been accustomed to such unusual courtesy from Westerners that this
surprised us. In a few moments he returned, rode up in front of us,
and, with a merry twinkle in his eyes and looking straight at Toodles,
said:
“I heard you the first time. Now come and ride with me.”
We all laughed but Toodles. She lost her tone of bravado, and
exclaimed, “If you heard, why didn’t you answer me?”
“Oh, just busy. Had to deliver my horses.” His manner was jolly, and it
looked like a little adventure.
She wanted to go, but she had recourse to the time-honored “I have
nothing to wear.”
“That doesn’t matter; I will fit you out. Ever ride astride?”
“No.”
“Ever ride at all?”
“Of course, all my life!” (indignantly).
“Then come along. I will give you the finest horse in the park to ride,
and show you views that the tourists never see.”
We all urged her to go, one lending a hat, another a coat, until at
last she appeared with a khaki divided skirt, white blouse, blue coat,
and sailor hat, looking very presentable, very pretty, and rather ill
at ease. While Toodles was dressing he told us that he had been in the
park for years and had charge of the saddle-horses and riding parties.
As it was all a lark, and we thought she might not want her name known
to him, we told him that her name was “Toodles.” “All right,” with a
grin; “I’m on.” When starting he whistled to his dog and called, “Come
on, Toodles,” and she nearly fell off her horse (he made her ride
astride).
“What’s the matter? I am just calling my dog.”
“Oh, is _that_ your dog’s name?” Toodles replied faintly. “How funny!”
Off they rode up the mountains, and did not return until six o’clock.
That evening “Charlie” appeared at the dance in ordinary citizen’s
clothes, but the picturesque cowboy was gone. He had written a book of
“all the fool questions people have asked me in twenty years.” He kept
us gasping at the tales of Western adventure until nearly midnight. In
the morning he was on hand to see us off.
The next day was clear and beautiful. Our road took us east over the
Continental Divide and along the shores of Yellowstone Lake, past the
mud geysers, to the Grand Canyon Hotel. On the divide is lily-covered
Isa Lake, whose waters in springtime hesitate whether to flow out one
end, into the Pacific, or out the other, into Atlantic waters, and
usually compromise by going in both directions. We passed over very
steep grades commanding a superb view of Mt. Washburne (ten thousand
feet high) through the knotted woods and dense pine forests, past the
upper and lower falls, stopping at Artist’s Point to get our first
view of the Grand Canyon. It is twenty miles long--the most glorious
kaleidoscope of color you will ever see in nature! You look down a
thousand feet or more at the foaming Yellowstone River. A little south
of this point a waterfall twice as high as Niagara, seemingly out
of the dense pine heights above, roars and tumbles into the depths
below. “Rocky needles rise perpendicularly for hundreds of feet, like
groups of Gothic spires.” Again, “the rocks, carved and fretted by the
frost and the erosion of the ages.” And the coloring--this is almost
impossible to describe. From the deepest orange to pale yellow, from
Indian red to exquisite shell-pink, in all shades of soft green touched
by Autumn’s hand. With the greenish cascade of water foaming beneath
us and the blue dome of the heavens above, we stood there awed by its
fearful majesty and unequaled beauty. As if to make the picture more
perfect, an eagle soared through the canyon, lighting on a pinnacle of
jagged rocks, where his nest clung as if by magic. As we watched him
in silence, the words of Tennyson, to which McDowell has written his
exquisite composition, “The Eagle,” came to us:
“He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunder-bolt he falls.”
Another wonderful, and, if it were possible, a more beautiful view, is
from Inspiration Point, on the other side of the canyon. It is like
the most exquisite cameo. Before you a gigantic mass of rocks, with
turrets and towers, known as “Castle Ruins,” seems to fill the vista.
But, as I said before, it simply beggars description. You stand there
in the presence of the marvelous works of God, the evidences of great
convulsions of nature through the ages. You feel such an atom in the
vastness, the unending space of the Infinite, and you recall the words
of Victor Hugo in his “Intellectual Autobiography”:
“Beyond the visible, the invisible; beyond the invisible, the
Unknown. Everywhere, everywhere, in the zenith, at the nadir, in
front, behind, above, below, in the heights, in the depths, looms
the formidable darkness of the Infinite.”
The Grand Canyon Hotel is in every respect a modern, beautifully
furnished, palatial establishment, worthy of any city. This is the
most popular hotel, and is always crowded. The governors of twenty-one
states and their parties were touring the park. They expressed their
appreciation of the Government’s activities in behalf of the comforts
and conveniences for the people--also, of its shortcomings, in the
failure to provide the necessary funds for further improvements.
We found the roads in most places worthy of the name “highways”; but
on the steepest grades, where the outside of the road shelves off into
space, with a drop of hundreds of feet, there are no walls or fences,
not even railings, to prevent accidents. In the main, the roads are
sufficiently wide to allow two cars to pass; in some places, however,
the smaller car must back down to a siding to allow the Government
cars, which have the right of way on the _inside_ of the road, to pass.
Many times we hung on by our eyebrows, apparently, and felt as if our
“tummies” had sunk into our boots. We found it more comfortable to look
up than down into the depths.
Today we met our small boys again. I had forgotten them. After leaving
Minneapolis, many times we had overtaken two boys, who were making a
hike to the park, a distance of over nine hundred miles. They were
about sixteen years of age, as sturdy, polite little chaps as you could
meet. Many times we had given them a lift of fifty miles or more into
the next town. They told us that they had earned the money for the
trip and carried their camping outfits on their backs. They camped
near a haystack at night, bought food (or had it given to them) on the
road, and were having the time of their lives. When I thought of the
Dakota prairies and Bad Lands, and of the hot, dusty Montana plains, I
realized more than ever the sturdy stuff that Westerners are made of. I
would like to know what the future holds for those two lads.
The last day of our trip was back to the starting-point, Mammoth Hot
Springs Hotel. That morning Toodles left us, taking the trip out to the
eastern entrance at Cody. This charming little lady had been with us
six weeks, and we were sorry to see her go.
We were told that the scenery was even finer on the Cody road, but we
could not conceive of it.
After going a few miles from the hotel, through a bit of woods, our
driver jammed on his brakes, with the news, “Here are the bears!”--two
good-sized cubs and the mother bear holding us up! They were in the
middle of the road; so we had to stop. Everyone wants to see the bears
in the park. Well, _we did_! The old one, a big cinnamon bear, walked
around to the side of the car, stood on her hind legs, with her front
paws on the door of the car and her muzzle in my lap! I never was so
scared in my life! “She wants the candy,” the others exclaimed. I had a
box of chocolates in my lap, and, with my hands shaking like aspens, I
began to peel off the silver foil from one piece. “Don’t stop for that;
give her the candy, or she will be in the car!” yelled the driver. And
you better believe I did, in short order! Handing her the box, she
gobbled every piece, foil and all. Everyone was standing on the seats
with a camera trying to snap the picture. After she sniffed about to
see if I had any more, she went to all the cars lined up back of us,
where they fed her and the cubs everything they carried. They had to,
for she foraged for herself. I assure you that the sensation of having
a huge bear eat out of your hand is a thriller! There are black and
grizzly (or silver-tip) bears in the park. A few venture out of the
woods to the camps and garbage-dumps near the hotels. Of course, the
forests are full of large and small game. There are two buffalo herds.
The tame herd has increased from twenty animals, in 1902, to 385, in
October, 1918. We saw mountain-sheep and many deer.
We went over the Dunraven Pass, one of the most daring drives, getting
a fine view of Tower Falls, 132 feet high. In fact, that last day was
one long thrill. We reached the hotel for dinner feeling a bit limp
and exhausted, we had been at such high tension for three days. We sat
by the roaring log fire that evening, living it all over again. “Will
you ever forget that view of the canyon?”--“How truly wonderful the
trip has been!” It was truly wonderful! I have not given you even an
approximate idea of the scenery or the wonders. I can only say, “Go and
see it for yourself.” For those who enjoy camping, every comfort and
facility are provided. If you wish to camp _de luxe_, the Yellowstone
Park Camping Company maintains five permanent camps or “tent cities”
in the park. All tents have floors, electric lights, and are heated by
wood-burning stoves. The beds are full-sized and comfortable. There are
large dining-halls, recreation pavilions, and “campfires.” The campers
in the park were legion this season.
The next morning we bade good-by to Mrs. H., who left us for Gardiner,
and the “bird-man” and his lady chauffeur proceeded together.
XII
WESTWARD HO!
Everyone had the same disconsolate story to tell of the route through
Idaho and Nevada to the Coast. (I often have wondered why the
expression “The Coast” means but one place, the Pacific Coast. We have
a few thousand miles of sea-coast on the Atlantic, but no one ever
speaks of going East “to the Coast.”) All the motor parties we met
that came that way to the park advised us to go north from Gardiner,
over the Yellowstone Trail to Spokane and Seattle, and then down the
coast to San Francisco. One man said, “I wouldn’t take five thousand
dollars to go back over those roads!” We had practically decided to
go the northern route, but the forest fires were still raging in that
section, and many cars were turned back. It was Hobson’s choice; we had
no alternative.
Our car had been left in the garage at Mammoth. On leaving we found
there was no charge for the four days’ storage. It seemed like home to
be back in our own car again. We followed the same route that we took
to Old Faithful until we reached Gibbon Falls, then turned west along
the Madison River to the western gate at Yellowstone, and so out of the
park into Idaho.
If there are worse roads anywhere on earth than in Idaho, I hope we may
never see them! It had grown hot, and every mile of the way was hotter.
Sand, dust, ruts three feet deep, and chuck-holes at every turn! In
contrast to the roads in the park, that state is a nightmare! By the
time we had reached Ashton (123 miles), we wished we had never seen
Idaho. The Kirkbride Hotel was wretched, with only one bathroom for the
establishment, no café, and dirty beyond expression. The town has but
one street, a typical cowboy town, as primitive as possible. The hotel
manager asked if we carried our own bedding! “Do we look as if we did?”
No reply. We probably did--and worse. It seems that the camping parties
from the park often brought _things_ beside bedding with them! At ten
that night we found some food, in a wretched Chinese restaurant.
The next day was hot and dusty, and there were more bad roads; but
we knew that we should find a good hotel at Pocatello, with private
bath and decent food. We went through Idaho Falls and the Blackfoot
Reservation.
An incident occurred here that would have made Toodles green with envy.
We were taking advantage of our first stretch of good road in two days,
and going at a lively speed. Away ahead, in the middle of the road,
stood a solitary figure. We sounded our horn. The figure did not budge.
Then we blew a blast that would have raised Rameses II and came to a
stop a few feet from a man. He proved to be a “real honest-to-gosh,”
as they say out here, Indian chief. His frame was massive and his face
square-jawed, of a copper-bronze hue. A crimson kerchief, earrings,
and beads, with ordinary trousers and shirt, completed his costume.
He stood there like a dethroned emperor. With a dignified majesty, he
waved his arm and said, “Take me home.” I turned to look at him as he
sat, with folded arms, alone in the tonneau, with an air that plainly
said, “I owned all this once; it is all _mine_.” He told us that he was
chief of the Shoshone tribe, and owned 250 acres; that he rented two
of his ranches and lived on the one “where the trees were, a mile up
the road.” The land was under high cultivation, with fine buildings.
When we let him out he just waved us on, saying, “Me good American.” I
wondered if at heart he really were, or if he knew that he _had_ to be.
We often saw Indian women on the roadside selling garden truck--always
with a stolid expression, and seldom a smile. If you spoke to them,
their invariable rejoinder was “You bet” (pronounced “U-bit”). This
seems to be the prevailing expression in the West.
The Yellowstone Hotel in Pocatello is very good, and crowded, like all
of the Western hotels.
The heat was intense, even at nine in the morning, and Ogden, Utah,
165 miles south. “Are the roads good?” we asked the clerk. Smiling,
he replied, “I am from New York.” At Dayton, we crossed the border
into Utah. Before us lay a cement road as white as snow. We could
hardly believe our eyes. “Woman, bow down and worship!” the bird-man
exclaimed. Regardless of speed laws, we flew over that road for miles,
through beautiful towns and avenues of Lombardy poplars. We remarked
that every little bungalow was surrounded by these tall trees. “The
Mormons must have planted one for each wife and child.” The farms
were fertile and well cultivated, and for miles the peach orchards
lined the sides of the road, the trees laden with fruit. At each
station wagons were unloading hundreds of crates ready for shipment.
Tomatoes and melons, also, are raised in abundance. Brigham is a clean,
attractive city, with peach-trees growing in every garden and on the
roadside. They celebrate an annual “Peach day” in September. “Every
visitor will receive a peach,” the posters read. I bought a basket,
of a dozen or more, for ten cents. Here we became acquainted with the
red grasshopper. We thought we had left all of these little pests in
Fargo; but here they were as lively as ever and as red as strawberries.
And that reminds me--we have had delicious strawberries for weeks (in
August).
The roads were so wonderful that we forgot our aching backbones and
enjoyed every mile of the way into Ogden, to the Reed Hotel. We spent
two days here, as there was much of interest to see and do. The
hotel is old, but well kept up. We had a room large enough to hold a
convention in, with a smaller bedroom and bath adjoining, and eight
large windows altogether. Again the hotel was crowded. The railroad
strike was on in California, and people were marooned in every city;
only local trains were running.
The next day we drove to Salt Lake City, a distance of about
thirty-five miles. Of all the Western cities, we were most anxious to
see the capital of Utah. And now a joke at my expense! I asked the
clerk in the hotel where we could get the steamer for Salt Lake City.
“What steamer?” he asked in surprise.
“Can’t you go there by boat?”
“Say, lady, I guess you come from the East.”
I admitted the truth of that.
“Ever been West before?”
This time a negative.
“Don’t you know that the boat has never been built that will float on
Salt Lake?”
I thought of “Cowboy Charlie” and his book of “fool questions.”
Salt Lake is a wonderful city. Whatever you may think of the Mormons,
you have to admit that they are a far-sighted, industrious, and
executive people. Your chief interest centers about the Temple Block,
a ten-acre square surrounded by a stone and adobe wall twelve feet
high. The grounds are a beautiful park. The Bureau of Information is a
fine large building, where literature is distributed to three hundred
thousand visitors yearly. As many as thirty-nine states and seven
foreign countries had been represented on the registry in one day. “No
fees charged, and no donations received,” was the watchword on these
grounds. We wondered how the place was supported, and were told that
there were no pew-rentals in any of their churches, and no collections
made, nor were there any contribution-boxes found there.
“The Mormons observe the ancient law of tithing, as it was given to the
Children of Israel, by which a member pays one-tenth of his income, as
a free-will offering, for the support of the Church.”
In the Temple Block is the Assembly Hall, a semi-Gothic structure of
gray granite, with a seating capacity of two thousand, often used for
public lectures and concerts by any denomination. The Tabernacle is a
world-famed auditorium, seating eight thousand people, noted for its
remarkable construction and acoustic properties. The wooden roof,
self-supporting, rests upon buttresses of red sandstone, twelve feet
apart, the whole circumference of the building. These pillars support
wooden arches ten feet in thickness and spanning 150 feet. The arches,
of a lattice-truss construction, are put together with wooden pins,
there being no nails or iron of any kind used in the framework. The
building was erected between 1863 and 1870, and was nearly completed
before the railroads reached Utah. All the imported material had to be
hauled with ox-teams from the Missouri River. The original cost was
three hundred thousand dollars, exclusive of the cost of the organ. Our
guide, a lady, told us that their pioneer leader, Brigham Young, had
planned and supervised the erection of the building. “He was a glazier
and cabinet-maker by trade, but had been schooled chiefly by hardship
and experience. He not only designed this and the Temple, but he built
an equally wonderful commonwealth; one which is unique among the Middle
and Western states for law and order, religious devotion and loyalty.”
She told us that their church had established headquarters successively
in New York, Ohio, Missouri, and Illinois, and, after the martyrdom
of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, in 1846, it was obliged to seek refuge in
the Rocky Mountains. They have no professional or paid preachers; any
member of the congregation may be called upon to address them. We
were interested to hear of their women. “They are the freest, most
intensely individualistic women on earth, having three organizations of
their own. The Relief Society has thirty thousand members, publishes
a monthly periodical, has up-to-date offices, owns many ward-houses,
and spends thousands of dollars yearly for charity and education. The
Young Ladies’ Mutual Improvement Association was organized in 1869 by
Brigham Young, chiefly among his own daughters.” (_Some_ family party!)
This association now numbers over thirty thousand girls. It also
edits and controls a magazine. Besides these activities, there is the
Primary Association, with many thousands of children marshaled under
its banner. We remembered that the women have full suffrage in Utah,
and were not surprised to hear of their ward conferences and public
speakers. This did not sound much like the “down-trodden slaves” that
many consider the Mormon women to be.