[Illustration: SUNSET ON THE MOJAVE DESERT]
THE CRUISE OF A SCHOONER
By
Albert W. Harris
With Illustrations from Photographs
Privately Printed
Copyright, 1911,
By
Albert W. Harris
Arranged and Printed by
Charles Daniel Frey
Chicago
To My Friend
Dr. H. W. Lancaster
PREFACE
Years ago, no matter how many, my head was filled with queer notions.
Probably there are still a few queer thoughts and notions left there.
I refer to them as queer from the point of view from which the reader
will look at them. Personally, I have considered them very sane and
serious, and quite worth working out.
To begin with, when a boy, I had a great yearning for a pony. I had
all sorts of notions about ponies, but when I didn’t get one as a boy,
I planned to have more ponies when I grew up, and better ones, than
any one ever had before. In fact, I built a “pony” castle in the air.
I had another notion that I wanted to be a farmer, and have a big
ranch with horses and cattle, but when I could not, as a boy, see any
chance to work this out at once, I proceeded in my mind to make it
come true, and pictured and planned it all out, and built such a fine
castle of a farm that I could see it almost as plainly in my mind’s
eye as though it were a reality.
The nearest I ever got to my castle for many years was when riding
over the plains on a cow pony, the cattle and the pony belonging to
some one else; the fun, however, was all mine. I still worked on my
castles and added another. I pictured myself some time riding or
driving overland to California, crossing the plains and mountains with
a party of congenial spirits, and following the old Santa Fe trail to
the Pacific Ocean.
When I talked seriously of these things to ordinary mortals, they
smiled, and said, “You think you will do these things some day, but
you never will; they are all air castles.” Similar expressions greeted
any reference to ponies, farms, or overland trips, as the years went
by, till they began to take some such place in my own mind, and I
found myself saying, “Air Castles, nothing but Air Castles.” Still, as
these castles began to crumble and grow mossy with years, I resolved
to repair them, and in so doing awoke to the fact that two of my
castles had materialized. They had come to earth, so to speak, and I
found myself actually possessed of the farm and the ponies; the
identical ponies, it seemed to me, I had seen in my mind’s eye when a
boy. It took me some time to actually realize that the farm and the
ponies were really mine, but, when I finally came to accept them as
realities, I knew my other castle could not be far off, and I began
again planning to take the overland trip.
I had planned this trip in my mind so many times and in so many ways
that the only new sensation was that now it would surely come true,
but I kept on planning it annually for five years before I actually
started on the trip itself, and then I started from the Pacific Ocean
and drove east.
The following account of this trip may be of sufficient interest to
make it worth reading, at least, and if any one who reads it feels
more hopeful of finishing the building of the castles he is now
engaged upon, it will have answered its purpose.
CONTENTS
I. Getting Started
II. We get a Taste of the Desert
III. The Real Thing in Deserts
IV. Kelso, California
V. Off Again
VI. The Dixie Country of Utah
VII. Along the Rio Grande Western Railroad
VIII. Salina Canyon
IX. Castle Valley
X. Green River to Grand Junction
XI. Grand Junction, Colorado
XII. The Mountains
XIII. The Plains of Colorado
XIV. Our Party Grows Smaller
XV. Alone in a Prairie Schooner
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Sunset on the Mojave Desert
Cacti Forest
Provisioned for the Desert
Entering the Mojave Canyon
Emerging into the Desert
A Desert Camp
The Business Section of Kelso, California
Joshua Palm, or Giant Cactus
We Stop for Water
Our First Camp East of Las Vegas
A Sample of Mormon Architecture
Mormon House and Irrigation Ditch
A Ranch in Bear Valley
Salina Canyon
A Glimpse of Castle Valley
The Clay Buttes near Green River
We Abandon our Water Barrels
A Camp on Black Mesa
The Two Normans
The Black Canyon of the Gunnison
A Camp Site on the Gunnison
Continental Divide
Camp Below the Divide
A Log Cabin on Bailey’s Mountain
Nearing Civilization
The Outfit Coming into Denver
The Cook
The Hostler
Norman Bradley and Kate
Norman Harris and Dixie
Our Horses on the Open Range East of Denver
A Mid-day Camp
We Arrive at Kemah
The Last Anchorage of the Prairie Schooner
We turn Kate Out to Pasture
Bess also is Turned Out: “Good Old Bess”
[Illustration]
THE CRUISE OF A SCHOONER
Chapter I
Getting Started
In planning an extended trip in this country, or Europe, the first
thing one usually does is to consult, if convenient, friends who have
been there before. After deciding when you will start, you look up
time-tables or the departure of boats, reserve accommodations for your
party, pack your grips or trunks, and you are ready to start. In
driving overland it is different; you may find some one to consult
with who has made the trip before you,--but the chances are that all
those who have done so are dead. You will have no time-tables to
consult and, if you go as we did, no reservations to make.
It all looked so easy, while I was only thinking about it, that it
seemed simplicity itself. Just get a team of horses and a wagon, and
start. Incidentally, I would have plenty of company,--so many folks
had said they would like to go. We would have a tent, cots, cook,
guide, and all the necessary outfit.
As a matter of fact, this is what really happened. When approached on
the subject, my friends, who had talked about going with me, were one
by one unexpectedly prevented from making the trip. They either had to
go to Europe or had such pressing business duties that they could not
possibly get away; every one of them, however, said something that
sounded as if they were very sorry they could not go, but which really
meant that they had drummed up this excuse on purpose.
As a result, I found I had only myself to consult, and so I set a date
on which I was sure I could start. It was only after this date was set
that I was sure I was going to get away. May 1, 1910, was the time
decided upon, but, as the roads in and around Chicago are not very
good at that season, I concluded that this would be the best time of
the year to cross the desert. After some planning I decided to tackle
the worst part of the trip first, while my enthusiasm lasted, and so,
I concluded, I would go to California, get my outfit together, and
start from there.
I had another reason besides the time of the year and the condition of
the roads for starting from California, which was that I would get
away where my friends could not talk me out of starting by telling me
how hard the trip was, how foolish I was, how tired I would be of it
all before I finished, and that I would sell the outfit and come back
before I had been gone a month. In view of the above practical as well
as precautionary reasons, I left Chicago for Los Angeles. All I took
with me was a few old clothes and my Chesapeake dog Tuck, planning to
outfit in full at Los Angeles, and start from there as soon as I could
possibly get ready. At the last moment I received word from my old
hunting partner, Dr. Lancaster, of Nevada, Missouri, that he and his
brother Robert would make the trip with me and would meet me at Los
Angeles on May the fifth. This was especially gratifying news, as I
had been rather afraid I might have to make the trip all alone.
Arriving at Los Angeles, May fifth, I met the Doctor and Bob, who had
come down from San Francisco, and we at once proceeded to get together
a suitable outfit for the trip. It took us ten days to do this, as we
had a wagon to buy and fit up with bows and overjets, together with a
platform for the water barrels; besides horses and provisions, a wagon
sheet, tarpaulin, stove, tent, and a lot of other things we thought we
needed.
While assembling the outfit we spent considerable time looking over a
line I had drawn on the map before leaving Chicago, and which we aimed
to follow as closely as possible in going east to Chicago.
This line was drawn without regard to roads, mountains, or desert, and
represented as short a line as I thought the lay of the land would
permit. It was so straight and looked so easy on the map that we
wondered why the Forty-niners went so far south, and the Mormons so
far north. We planned how many miles we could make in a day, and made
a schedule of where we would be on certain dates, so that our families
might communicate with us if necessary.
Although our maps showed towns here and there in the desert, we began
to consider our undertaking quite seriously when the old-timers, who
were familiar with the desert, began to ask concerning our route. On
looking at the line on our map they began to make predictions, such
as, “You will never get across the Mojave so late in the season
without mules,” “No wagon can follow the route you have mapped out,”
“If you get through to Las Vegas without leaving your outfit strung
along the trail, you will be lucky.” Such remarks set us to thinking a
little hard, but as the Doctor and I were not exactly “tenderfeet,”
having camped and hunted together under all sorts of conditions and in
nearly all parts of the United States, we resolved to stick to our
plans and go over the route as laid out, even if no one else had ever
gone that way. We would demonstrate that it could be done, but we
would prepare for any emergency and go as light as possible.
First, we decided to do without a guide (a good resolution, seeing
there was none to be had), and next, to do without a cook. This saved
provisions and water, and made it possible to travel with less
baggage. Having advised our families where we would be at various
times, and having collected our outfit at the barns of the Southern
California Edison Company, we were ready to start Saturday morning,
May the fourteenth.
In order that the reader may have in his mind’s eye a picture of the
outfit, including the members of the party, not omitting the dog, I
will try to paint a word-picture of it.
Imagine that you see coming out of a side street into Peco Street, a
team of medium-sized horses wearing a set of heavy tin-bespangled
harness, attached to a regulation wide-tread ranch wagon with canvas
top, with a water barrel on each side. A bale of alfalfa hay is seen
on the carrier behind, and a lantern swings from one of the bows.
Inside are two spring seats, the second being occupied by a large,
brown, yellow-eyed dog, and the front seat by two very
ordinary-looking individuals of uncertain age. Following the wagon is
a tall slim man on a bay mare. There you have a mental picture of our
outfit as seen by the inhabitants of Los Angeles that May morning as
we started on our long journey.
The two men on the front seat were Robert Lancaster and the writer;
the tall man on the bay mare was Doctor Lancaster. We had stored
inside the wagon our provisions, bedding, tools, tent, cots, horse
feed, etc. We also carried an extra single-tree and clevis, together
with a single harness for use in case it should become necessary to
use all three horses.
Our exit was anything but spectacular. We said good-bye to three or
four friends, feeling ourselves somewhat conspicuous on account of our
brand-new appearance, but were soon lost in the crowd of a large city,
and forgot we were on anything but a morning’s drive in a rather slow
coach through a busy town, until we found ourselves well out in the
country, with an appetite for dinner.
We were taking what is called the “Lower Road,” from Los Angeles to
San Bernardino, and had arrived at a grove of eucalyptus, affording
shade and a place to tie and feed the horses, so we pulled out to the
side of the road and made our first stop. Here we found a place to
water the horses, and after eating a cold lunch and giving the horses
plenty of time to eat, we interviewed our neighbors--a man and his
wife and boy--camped near us, who had come from the north by wagon and
were going down into Mexico. They had a team of horses and a saddle
pony. They were just seeing the country, and had camped here near Los
Angeles to rest up their stock and see the town. They seemed to have
done nothing else all their lives but drive about, always looking for
a good place to locate, but never finding one to their satisfaction;
so they only stopped here and there to earn enough money to carry them
to the next place.
Having satisfied our curiosity regarding our neighbors, and picked up
a few bits of valuable advice about camping in the desert country, we
started on, driving to within about nine miles of Pomona, where we
camped alongside of the road--which was also by the side of the
railroad track--having made about twenty-five miles the first day.
The Doctor and Bob had taken turns riding Dixie, and I had done the
driving. This was to be our regular procedure. During this, our first
day out, we had put into working operation our plans for the trip. Bob
was to do the cooking and I was to do the driving and take care of the
horses. We had also begun to get acquainted with the horses. It is a
good deal of a lottery to pick, out of a strange bunch, suitable
horses for such a trip, and as so much of the success of the journey
depended upon our motive power, and so much of my reputation as a
horseman on the horses themselves, I was especially interested in
learning their weak points as early as possible. So far they had
proved to be fearless, and as the night camp alongside of the railroad
track with trains passing under their very noses, so to speak, had
failed to arouse signs of nervousness in any of them, I began to feel
that they could be depended upon not to stampede. Whether they could
be relied upon in a pinch to pull us out of a bad place, and if they
had good tempers or not, we had yet to learn.
At this camp we tried for the first time our coal oil stove, and
pronounced it a decided success. Our bed was made upon the ground by
putting down our tarpaulin beside the wagon. Upon it we rolled
ourselves in our blankets, Tuck, the dog, sleeping at our feet and
watching the camp and horses, giving us notice if anything went wrong.
Our bill of fare was to consist principally, when we could get them,
of bacon and eggs, and bread and butter. Our staples were canned
beans, prunes, apricots, oatmeal, rice, and crackers, in addition to
which we carried, of course, salt, pepper, sugar, and condensed
cream--and honey also, when we could get it. We did not take any
coffee and confined ourselves to tea for a beverage, except when we
made lemonade. This first camp was rather impromptu, so to speak, as
we had not yet become accustomed to our outfit and had not arranged
our belongings so as to get at things quickly, but before many days we
had a place for everything and could find what we wanted in the dark.
Sunday morning, May fifteenth, our first morning in camp, was without
any special interest. It seemed better to go on than to stay in such a
bare spot beside the railroad track on the public highway, so we
packed up and moved on, driving through Pomona and Ontario, then going
north to what is called the “Upper Road,” through Highlands and
Cuycamonga, and about 6 P. M. camped among some pepper trees, opposite
a winery. The roads up to this point were good, but as we were going
up grade all the time we did not drive very fast; in fact, with the
load we had, the horses walked most of the time. We made about
twenty-five miles this day. Our stop was again near a camp wagon, but
this time we did not feel enough interest in our neighbors to visit
them, and after an early supper and seeing that the horses were
securely fastened for the night, we turned in, planning to get an
early start in the morning.
Monday morning, the sixteenth, found us up early, as planned. We
expected to drive to San Bernardino, which we figured was about twelve
miles, and buy a few provisions and then start north for Cajon Pass,
expecting to make our noon camp somewhere near the mountains. Usually
we were able to make our camps about as planned, but this morning we
were delayed.
Our start was made auspiciously, a beautiful morning with everybody,
including the dog, in good spirits. Our first four miles were through
vineyards just coming into full leaf, and we had been wondering how
grapes could be raised in sand, and how few years it had been since
this particular piece of ground was a veritable sandy desert, when a
puff of wind nearly capsized the wagon, and it seemed to be getting
foggy over the valley. Next I realized that the air was full of sand,
and to keep the wagon from blowing over we had to take the sheet off.
Before we had time to turn around and drive back to the protection of
the trees on the highland, which we had just left, a sand storm was
upon us, or what they call in that country a “Santa Anna.” The horses
insisted on turning their backs to the wind and Bob, who was only
fifty feet ahead on Dixie, could not be seen. He rode back alongside
the wagon and after a parley lasting about thirty seconds we decided
to push on, and, if possible, to reach the higher ground and the
protection of the trees on the other side rather than go back.
Having spent some time in this vicinity a few years before, I knew
there was no probability of the storm abating for hours, and that we
would have to drive only about four miles to get out of its path, for
it was coming out of the mouth of a canyon to the north of us. So we
pushed on, blinded and choked with sand, forcing the horses to keep
the road, and finally, after what seemed like hours, we drove up and
out of the storm, and could catch our breath and look around.
Not having a mirror handy we could not tell how sandy we looked, but
we knew how sandy we felt, and laughed at each other’s appearance
until we cried the sand out of our eyes, and then decided to stop at
the first convenient place and clean up before going into town. This
cleaning-up process took so long that it was noontime before we
reached San Bernardino, and we pitched camp that night about where we
had expected to stop for lunch. “If we are to encounter a sand storm
on the desert worse than this one,” we said, “we shall feel sorry for
ourselves.”
The country we have come through thus far, from Los Angeles to San
Bernardino, about sixty-two or sixty-three miles, is doubtless the
most thickly settled valley of California, and probably has the most
valuable improvements. Outside the towns and villages, the land is
completely taken up by orange, lemon, and walnut groves, besides
vineyards, interspersed with fields of alfalfa. Nearly every one has
electric light and telephone, and ample transportation is furnished by
three steam roads and many street railway and interurban lines.
From where we camped to-night we could look down over this valley,
from which, as it grew dark, the lights came out like so many stars,
and we realize that it will be many days before we will again be in
sight of green fields and civilization, for to-morrow we are to leave
all this behind and cross the San Bernardino range of mountains on our
way to Daggett in the Mojave Desert.