The Dixie Country of Utah
Leaving Las Vegas at 3 P. M., with a hot wind at our back, we drove
through the Stewart Ranch, which, with its cottonwood trees, patches
of alfalfa, and running water, looked awfully good to us. Leaving the
ranch we nearly drove over a bobcat, but we were too hot to take much
interest in any game at that time. Immediately after we had reached
the long valley running north from Las Vegas, it began to get cooler,
and that night we slept under blankets again.
We got an early start the next morning and by 8:30 A. M. had driven
the twelve miles to the top of the divide, and by noon reached a
railroad water well at Dry Lake. The accompanying picture shows the
spot. There is nothing here; in fact, if we had not had explicit
directions from a railroad man we wouldn’t have found the well. We
lunched, and then at 4 P. M., having found some bunch grass, we camped
and turned the horses loose.
We are glad we did not stay at Las Vegas any longer. It may be cooler
there now, but we know it is here, and we are happy. Dixie still holds
out, so have not tried Kate in harness yet. We are in a bare
mountainous country of the same desert variety which we have been
traveling through for so long, but in spots the trail is good and in
others it is bad. It seems strange not to meet a soul driving through
the country. Still, as there does not seem to be any people in the
country, I assume there is no one to travel.
We were computing to-day how much weight we have in our wagon,
including water barrels, half full, hay and grain and two people, and
set it down as fifteen hundred pounds, which, with the wagon, springs
and cover added, makes a good load for two ordinary horses, but we are
beginning to think that our horses are more than that.
[Illustration: OUR FIRST CAMP EAST OF LAS VEGAS]
The next morning we were off for Moapa. We had another divide to cross
and then down into California Wash for eight miles to the Big Muddy.
This California Wash was a terror. I can’t forget its heat and its
sand and rocks, and while we started in cheerfully enough, before we
got out the boys were both walking and I was driving the team fifty
yards only to a stop. We came out suddenly on to the banks of a clear
little stream running out of Meadow Valley, and forgot about our
troubles, or those other people had had at the time of the Meadow
Valley massacre, and turned everything loose.
We had a fine camp here, the first stream of water since leaving
Daggett on the Mojave three weeks ago. We boys washed up, including
our clothes, and shortly after lunch, while the wash was on the line,
I rode Kate up to Moapa, two miles, and got a sack of feed, as we
found we could save four miles by not going into Moapa.
We hit the stage road near our camp that evening and started east for
Bunkerville. Tuck never had so much fun as he seemed to have in that
little stream, and on his account, as well as our own, we hated to
leave, but at 5 P. M. we moved on to a ranch house at the foot of a
range of mountains we had to go over, and camped there for the night,
so as to be ready to make the climb in the morning before it should
get too hot. These mountains, I think, were the south end of a small
range called the Mormon Mountains, although everything in this country
seems to be either hills or mountains, but they haven’t been
discovered yet or else the folks who made up the maps were out of
names. They seem to be long on country and short on names.
At this ranch house, which was occupied by a new man, or tenderfoot,
we found an old man lying on a bed by the window and a young man
fanning him to keep away the flies. On inquiring as to whether he was
sick, we were informed he had been hurt in a runaway the night before,
so while Bob and I were unpacking, Doc took his bag and went up to see
what he could do for him, and we were left to speculate on the case
and get supper while he was gone. Doc has a way of making friends
whether they are sick or well, and we usually send him out for a
parley in any emergency. This, however, was his first case of personal
injury on the trip, so I knew he would not be back very soon.
It was late, as I expected, when he returned and we got the whole
story while eating supper. It seems the old fellow lived about eight
miles down the Muddy River, had been to Moapa with a load of stuff and
had stayed too long, so that he was a little the worse for whiskey. It
was dark when he started for home and he had a mean team, which, when
his brake guard came off and he fell on them, promptly kicked him into
insensibility and ran off, leaving him to come to during the night,
unable to see or tell where he was. He had wandered about until he
came to the ranch fence and was found about daylight by one of the
boys of this ranch, who took him in, and when they found out who he
was they sent for his son-in-law, the man we saw fanning him, and the
doctor who lived at Logan. They had come up and taken him in charge,
but the doctor evidently had come unprepared or else, as Doc said,
never was prepared, and he had done poorly by him and left, promising
to be back as soon as he could get some necessary medicine and
bandages. Doc said if we hadn’t just happened along the man would have
died of blood poisoning, sure. Doc had cleaned him up, dressed his
wounds, and left him asleep.
We filled our water barrels just half full that night and the next
morning were off up the mountain, driving spike team for Bunkerville,
thirty miles away, and twenty-seven miles to water. Before leaving Doc
made a call on his patient; refused any compensation for his services,
as usual, and tried to satisfy the son-in-law by telling him it was
against the rules of the profession for a doctor to collect from
another doctor’s patient. He would collect from the doctor himself. I
couldn’t hear exactly what the man said in reply and did not ask Doc,
but thought he said something like this: “Well, you fellows are a
queer bunch, but I sure am thankful and wish you luck.”
It was Saturday morning, June fourth, when we left the ranch camp on
the Muddy River, and we had a three-mile pull nearly straight up
before reaching the mesa. From here we had a grand view, which
reminded me somewhat of the view at the Grand Canyon in miniature. The
valley of the Muddy lay beneath us and had widened out in green spots
here and there, where the ranchers were raising alfalfa, but the spots
were so far below they didn’t look bigger than flower beds. Behind us
stretched the dry, hard mesa, over which our road led to Bunkerville,
a Mormon settlement on the Virgin River.
There was nothing of interest in going over this stretch of about
twenty-five miles except the stage which we met, carrying the mail to
Moapa. We could see the dust raised by the horses a long way off and
finally hailed the driver as he passed. Not that we had anything to
say to him, but as the Irishman would say, “just for conversation.” He
drove two horses and led one; had a two-seated, canopy-topped wagon,
no merchandise or passengers, just a mail bag and a bundle of alfalfa
hay. He said he came over one day and went back the next. Told us to
make the ford before dark and to make it quick, and then he drove on.
This was quite an event for us as it was the first vehicle we had met
on the desert highway, so I made a note of it.
After that nothing happened until we came to the edge of the mesa and
started down again. This took some careful driving to get down safely
with so heavy a wagon, but our brake, of which up to date we had had
little use, worked admirably, although I concluded I could adjust it a
little better, and did so later on.
We had sighted Bunkerville from the mesa, and Virgin Valley lay before
us, but it was green only in spots, very small spots, and it was
nearly dark when we reached the river. Here I remembered the stage
driver’s advice to get across quick, so we put Dixie on ahead and
started. Much to my surprise Dixie seemed to get frightened and
refused to pull and backed into the team, and we came very near
getting “set” right there; but between a few stones thrown at her by
Doc and a cussing from me she started up quickly enough and we got
across. This was her first real river-crossing and not being near
where I could reach her with the whip, she came near making a mess of
it, but after that first time she never refused to take a ford again.
We did not drive any farther that day, but camped on a grassy spot and
after feeding the horses grain turned them loose.
The next morning we drove through Bunkerville, a Mormon town, or
settlement, they would call it, of sixty families. We bought feed of
one man and groceries at the store. Miss Bunker waited on us, and when
Doc found out her grandmother was sick he went right over and paid a
professional call, and cheered the old lady up.
The houses are built mostly of adobe or clay bricks. The people raise
alfalfa and vegetables, small grains by irrigation, and some stock.
The store is a community affair and the houses are built fairly close
together, the real farming being done outside in small tracts, under
ditches taken from the Virgin River higher up. We stayed about an hour
and a half in this place and then moved on, our next objective point
being St. George, Utah.
We are still in Nevada. To-night we will be in the northwest corner of
Arizona and the next day in Utah. That sounds as if we are moving
fast.
Driving up the river we have some fine views, but very hard going, up
steep and rocky hills, fording the river half a dozen times, through
quicksand and long stretches of sand. We are appreciating our horses
more than ever; they are game to the core and never refuse to pull.
Dixie especially is a tough little beast, Bess a steady plodder, and
Kate a good wheel horse and saddler, but she hates to leave the other
horses.
Shortly after leaving Bunkerville we passed Mesquite, a small town on
the north side of the river, where the cowboys started from who passed
us near Moapa on their way to Los Angeles with the bunch of horses. At
five-thirty we reached the top of a mesa overlooking Littlefield, a
quaint Mormon settlement of five houses.
Here we drove down to the river again, through the town and under the
pomegranate and fig trees, and alongside of the alfalfa and grain
fields. We took note that they had some very good horses here and
everybody looked happy and prosperous. By this I mean they had just
what they needed and no more. This, I take to be prosperity; anything
more would be affluence, which makes trouble.
We went up the river as far as Beaver Creek, where we turned off and
camped. This was eighteen miles from our morning camp and it had been
a very interesting day indeed for us, although hard on the horses. The
Virgin River water is poor, but this Beaver Creek water is fine, so we
fill our barrels to-night, as we are told by the rancher here that it
is forty miles over the mountains to St. George and twenty-five miles
to water.
As each man drinks a gallon and a half of water, and each horse from
seven to eight pails a day, and besides that there are our needs for
cooking, we get to thinking nothing else but water, and carry it
sometimes unnecessarily; but we never take a chance and whenever we
come to any good water we fill up.
We made a good start at five-thirty the next morning for St. George,
which lay over on the other side of Beaver Dam Mountains, down on
Clara Creek. We had a stiff pull to get up on the mesa and then a
continual climb up over the rim. It grew cooler as we climbed, and
after about fourteen miles we stopped for noon. From here we had a
splendid view of the basin, saw where the Virgin River breaks through
the mountains and where the Beaver Dam and Virgin wash come together.
Then we drove on up and at 3 P. M. topped the crest and started down
into Clara Creek Valley. Our brake worked well and the horses were
glad of a chance to let out without pulling, and we made the first
three miles in fifteen minutes, probably. Then we ran into a wash and
slowed up, but soon got a good road again, although it was red clay.
While getting some beautiful views we dropped so fast that at
5:30 P. M. we reached the bottom, literally covered with red dust and
filled with excitement. We came to the creek at Shem, an Indian
settlement, eight miles from Clara and thirteen miles from St. George.
We saw quite a few Tepee Indians; we were not sure what tribe they
belonged to, but concluded they must be Utes as this is Utah. Night
before last we camped on the Virgin River, Nevada, and last night on
Beaver Dam Creek, Arizona, and to-night on Clara Creek, Utah. “I guess
that is going some,” as the little boy said.
Coming down the canyon this afternoon we saw painted on a rock “Isaac
Sprague 1908.” We were sorry he did not put down his address so we
could have looked him up, but assumed he was a Mormon and not a
Yankee.
We made about twenty-seven miles to-day, eighteen up and nine down
hill, which was quite a day’s work for the horses, as it was pretty
much up all day, and the down was pretty much down. We will hope for
an easier trail to-morrow.
[Illustration: A SAMPLE OF MORMON ARCHITECTURE]
We camped here on Clara Creek, which is the beginning of what is
called the “Dixie Country.” Most folks go “’way down South” to Dixie,
but we have come up from the bottom, so to speak, climbed over the
lower range of mountains, and are coming up north into Dixie. Why this
southern Utah country containing a few Mormon settlements is called
the “Dixie Country,” I never asked, but I simply assumed that it was
the Mormon’s “’way down South.”
The next morning, being in Dixie land, we get the habit immediately,
start late (eight-thirty), meet some prospectors going up to Bull
Creek, and stop to interview them. They tell us all sorts of stories
of ore and want us to help them to get some of it out, but we decline
to work and have no money to invest, so move leisurely on. We cross
the creek a dozen times. Tuck and the horses enjoy this and the
scenery is worth while stopping to admire.
Reaching Clara we take a few pictures of Mormon houses. It reminded me
of Switzerland, the way these people get little patches of green out
of the desert, much as the Swiss get a green patch on the mountains
where all else is rock. This country seems pretty much mountain and
also abounds in distances, but what it sadly lacks is the snow.
We went on to St. George, which we reached in time for dinner at the
hotel, quite a diversion. Here we met a young lady canvassing for a
magazine. I won’t mention her name or her paper, or her story, but she
took a subscription from everybody in the hotel, I guess, except
myself. The cowmen must have subscribed for all their uncles and aunts
by the number of subscriptions she said she had. I think we sized each
other up at the start and so could laugh at each other and forget the
magazine story. I never checked up to see, but, if I am not mistaken,
others did, but she had the money.
St. George is quite a city for these parts, probably eighteen hundred
people, a telephone system, several stores, and a big Mormon church
and school. We did some trading here and got some pointers regarding
the trail. We met one old fellow who had come to California in 1850.
He used to own part of the old Stewart Ranch at Las Vegas, but now
lives about eighteen miles from here at Leeds. Here we heard a funny
railroad story. It was so far from a railroad that nobody could see
the point, but any one accustomed to seeing Mexicans working on the
railroad,--who slowly get out of the way of a train when the fireman
rings the bell,--may appreciate it. This is the story the foreman
tells:
[Illustration: MORMON HOUSE AND IRRIGATION DITCH]
He said that he found one of his men standing at a switch close to a
rattlesnake that was just coiling up to strike him. He called to him
hurriedly, “Get off the track there, you damned fool! Quick, don’t you
see that rattler?” The Mexican moved very reluctantly and the foreman,
thinking the man didn’t sense the snake, said, “Don’t you know enough
to jump off the track when you see a rattler?” The Mexican only
shrugged his shoulders and said, “He no ringa da bell!”
Well, we thought often we had heard the “bell” of the rattler, but
never did see one, and the bell we heard we put down to a species of
locust.
About 4 P. M. we moved on, planning to go to Cedar City before resting
the team, and from there to Marysvale. We drove through Washington,
the roads here being fairly well travelled, and on to a water hole,
where we camped for the night. This water hole was down in a small
canyon and we had hard work getting at it and digging a basin from
which we could dip up a pail of water at a time, but finally we got
what we needed.
The next morning, Wednesday, June 8, Bob woke us up and said, “Tuck is
sick.” I was up immediately and wanted to know where he was. “He has
gone,” said Bob, “just wandered off sick.”
“But a sick dog does not wander off,” I said. “Tell us if you know
anything; he surely isn’t here.”
Then he told us that he had wakened up early and not seeing Tuck
curled up at my feet as usual, had thought something was wrong with
the camp, and jumped up and dressed. It was just getting light, and
looking around he saw all the horses and no sign of trouble, but no
dog. Then he thought the dog might have gone for a drink and so now
that he was up he would go and see. Looking down into the draw he saw
Tuck lying by the pool of water covered with mud which had dried in
his hair, and apparently asleep. He managed to coax him out and up to
him, but said the dog didn’t seem to know him, acted afraid, and
looked sick. He coaxed him along over to the wagon and then it
occurred to him that the dog might have had a fight with some animal
at the water hole, and so he went back and climbed down and looked the
ground over, but found no sign of anything except the dog. When he
came back to the wagon, the dog had disappeared. He found his tracks
where he had wandered off down the trail, but could not overtake him
or catch sight of him, and so he came back and awoke us. “He is scared
and sick, and hardly knew me,” he repeated, “and now he has wandered
off. He must be crazy.”
The doctor said “rabies,” and I threw the saddle on Kate, put my gun
in my belt and started down the trail. I soon found Tuck and as he
didn’t know me and looked so miserable, I pulled out my gun and left
him there. No one asked any questions when I returned, and we ate
breakfast in silence. Starting on, Bob went ahead, and the next time I
saw him I envied him his tears. I knew I should have felt better if I
could have cried. We were quite a solemn party for several days.
We had a very hard road to-day; it was hilly, rocky, and sandy, and we
made only fourteen miles. We drove through Leeds and camped about four
miles south of Belleville, in a gravel wash by the side of Ash Creek.
We met a couple of fellows who lived at Torqueville, going by our camp
on their way to Cedar City, about four miles from where we were
camped. They had a horse and mule hitched together and were leading a
black bronco colt which, when it saw me, promptly broke the rope, but
on a second look allowed me to catch him. They expected to go to
Belleville before dark.
Doc and I then concluded we would try Ash Creek for a bath, but the
water and night were so cold we made short work of it. Later it got
colder and the wind blew quite hard, and we needed all our bedding to
keep warm, and a few hitches to keep it from blowing away.
The next day the road grew worse,--it really was the poorest excuse
for a public road I ever saw, and I have seen some. The four miles to
Belleville was all up grade and full of rocks that had to be literally
climbed over.
Before reaching town we met a young man freighting. He had a fine big
team, and thirty-eight hundred pounds, he said, on the wagon. His off
mare had pounded her leg up so on the pole that he had changed her to
the nigh side. We fixed up her leg as best we could for him, while he
used all the words in the English language to describe the road and
what he thought of it. This helped us some and we started on, feeling
we were probably justified in some of the remarks we had been making.
We went through Belleville (you could scarcely notice it), and on up
to Kanarville, five thousand feet elevation. We had Kate in harness
this morning, but put Dixie back again this afternoon, as we don’t
want to give Kate too much work too soon. The day has been very cool.
The roads were bad and dusty, but we made twenty miles and camped not
far from Cedar City in Rush Lake Valley.
The next morning we were up a bit late; it was cold and we were
chilly, and on the mountain side were patches of snow, and we realized
we had gotten into a new climate. We rode with our coats on until the
sun was an hour high. We met two boys taking a bunch of cattle from
around Belleville to the Cedar Mountain Range for the summer. I
understand the cattle from all over this desert country are pastured
here in the summer, and this bunch was only one of many that are
driven up in the spring and down in the fall.
The roads were better to-day and at 9:30 A. M., on the morning of June
10, we reached Cedar City, as nearly as we could tell by our way of
figuring, 561 miles from Los Angeles. The first thing we did was to go
to the wagon shop and have a hub to one of our wheels filled. It had
dried out and our boxing was loose. Next we went over and put up at
the hotel, where we found a good place for the team.
We decided to stay here for a day or two, and, having our horses cared
for and nothing to do, we started out to see the town. We met two
Indians in the yard and after some small talk I asked one of them,
“You Piute?” He said, “Yes.” “Are the Indians on Clara Creek Piutes?”
He said, “No, they Mud Indians.” I intended to inquire the difference
between the Piutes and Mud Indians, but didn’t get any further. I
concluded they must be the “poor white trash” of the Ute tribe, living
as they did in the “Dixie country.”
Across the street from the hotel is the Co-Operative Store, founded in
1859; the cemetery lies across the creek, surrounded by a brown stone
wall. We did not go in, but noticed several tombstones of people who
had died in the years from 1854 to 1860. This surely must have been a
frontier town in 1854. It seemed hardly possible that in those days
people would come away out here in the desert to settle, but the town
is really the best we have seen since leaving San Bernardino, although
they have no railroad. In 1850 to 1860 lots of other good places were
not on a railroad.
They raise stock of all kinds; all the hay, grain, potatoes,
vegetables, etc., they need. They buy standard groceries, harness, and
clothes. It is thirty miles from here over the desert to Lund on the
Salt Lake Railroad. This town has probably twenty-five hundred people.
They seem a quiet lot of folks and hospitable. In such towns, as a
rule, the younger generation is going out into civilization, leaving
the older folks to the quiet of these desert places. Soon the old
folks will be gone and what will become of these Mormon settlements in
the wilderness?
The next morning we found a hose and pipe, which enabled us to wash
the wagon. This helped some as it was getting quite dry. We also put
all our little matters into shape and then looked the town over again.
We saw an English sparrow to-day, the first since leaving California.
Our most common birds have been the Western Jay, or Camp Robber. We
bought some groceries and then settled with our landlady and pulled
out. We had slept one night in a bed and had had four meals at a
hotel, and felt quite spruced up.
It is 3 P. M. as we start north on our way to Marysvale, which is
about one hundred miles from here. Marysvale is on the railroad and we
expect to get some mail there; our last was received at Las Vegas.
We make about fourteen miles before camping and pass quite a few
ranches, which seems a novelty after so much desert. We saw quite a
few robins also; the first we have seen. Bird life has been scarce in
the desert and only in the mountains have we seen any.
The next day we continue up the valley five miles to Parowan and four
miles farther to Paragonah, then, being close under the mountains, we
finally turn east again through Red Creek Canyon toward Bear Valley.
We climb up a few miles and camp for noon.
Bob and Doc are off their feed to-day. Doc says it was the water at
Cedar City and Bob says it was the cooking at the hotel, and I think
it was just sleeping in a bed. Anyway, they were all right the next
morning.
We followed the creek up this canyon to Bear Valley, seventy-five
hundred feet elevation. Here we found about three hundred head of
cattle and thousands of sheep. We drove down through this valley and
camped at the east end, where the trail goes out, and down into the
Sevier River Valley. There were several ranch houses in the valley,
but all deserted, and we did not see a soul. We sighted quite a few
sage hens about, but they all had young ones, so we did not shoot any.
Our camp site was at an elevation of at least seven thousand feet, and
that night the water in our canteen and in our wash basin froze. We
slept warm, however, as we know how cold it can get at night in these
mountains, and so put on all the blankets. We also know how hot and
dry and dusty it can get about noontime.
The next morning we strike the head of the creek and follow it down to
the Sevier River. On the way we pass more grouse, and see deer and cat
tracks, besides lots of prairie dogs and a variety of birds. The first
few miles the road was good, but after we reached the stage road down
in Sevier Valley, it was rough and dusty. We followed the valley down
and stopped for lunch at the mouth of the Sevier River Canyon. The
canyon is ten miles long and, while picturesque, is anything but
pleasant to drive through, with three inches of dust in the road and a
strong wind at your back. We camped for the night, before we got
through the canyon, right on the river’s edge.
We had passed several freighters on the road from Marysvale; some of
them had four horses and were pulling two wagons in regular freighter
style. We have seen nothing of importance in the Sevier Valley so far
but a ranch now and then, raising wild hay and cattle; not very much
of either.
The horses are still doing pretty well. Kate has not quite regained
her old form, but we work her half a day at a time. To-morrow we will
put her in for all day as Dixie’s neck has finally grown so bad it
must be rested.
[Illustration: A RANCH IN BEAR VALLEY]
While in camp here on the river we saw a right neat piece of
“cow-work” by a boy, not over fourteen years old, on an Indian pony.
He came riding up the trail bareback, astride a dark cream colored
pony, without halter or bridle, swinging his rope, and inquired if we
had seen any cows up the canyon. We couldn’t remember, so he went on
up, but presently he came back and, in reply to my inquiry as to
whether he had found them, he said, “Yes, they are on the other side
of the river,” and started down the bank of as swift and rocky a
mountain stream as I have ever seen, although it was not very
wide--probably two hundred feet. The pony slid over the rocks and into
the water, which was about three feet deep. The current nearly threw
her down, but she braced herself and started on, stepped into a hole
and the water came up even with her back. The boy seemed to jump
straight up and stand on her back, and as she clambered out into
shallow water over the rocks on the other side, he just spread out his
legs and dropped down again, and rode up a draw away from the river
and out of sight.
I had begun to wonder what had become of that boy when I heard him
coming back. He had found his cows, about six I suppose, besides three
or four steers and a few calves, fourteen or fifteen head all told,
and was bringing them down to the river. Now they did not want to
cross the cold, rocky river, and I thought they wouldn’t do it, but
the way that pony headed them off and pushed them in was a revelation;
and they swam and tumbled across, some of them getting out quite a
distance down stream; then the boy waded in with his pony and stood on
her back in the deepest places. She stumbled once and nearly threw
him, but he came down on her back instead of in the water, and as she
clambered out on our side again and leaped off with him, I noted again
that the pony had on neither bridle or saddle, and the boy was just
swinging a loose piece of rope.
The next morning we continue on down the river to Circleville. We get
out of the canyon and the valley widens from three to five miles and
we soon reach the town of Circleville, so called on account of the
circular valley. Here we buy oats, also some hay, and try to get
bread, but without success. The houses are not built close together as
usual, but scattered all over the valley.
We make a few inquiries here as to the shortest route to Green River,
and these are the directions we receive: “Go up Grass Valley by Loa to
Hanksville, then over Dirty Devil to San Rafael and on to Green
River.” This didn’t sound nearly so far as the way we had planned to
go so I asked, “Anything the matter with our going that way?”
Our informant laughed and said, “Well, that is the shortest way, but
there isn’t much water and there is plenty of sand and not many folks
or much trail.”
“How much sand?” I asked, and when he replied, “Well, I guess there is
thirty miles of it getting over Dirty Devil,” I said right then we
wouldn’t go. He then asked why we didn’t try going up through
Marysvale, then up Salida Canyon to Castledale, and out that way. He
said we might have a chance that way. We certainly would not the
shortest way, and as this latter was the way we had in our minds to
go, we told him so and he seemed quite relieved.
“It is just sure poison the other way,” he said, “unless you go
horseback and keep going.” We leave our friend still talking about
Green River and start on for Marysvale.
I think we must have left the Dixie Country when we came over into the
Sevier River Valley from Parowan and Paragonah. Although I am not sure
that there is any definite dividing line, we do feel a difference. The
people here on the Sevier are newer comers; the houses are built
differently, and as we get closer to Marysvale on the railroad there
seems to be more talk of new irrigation systems, litigation and
general cussedness, which to my mind is a sign of business progress
not in evidence below and not needed here.
Another cold dusty day’s drive brought us to Marysvale, between
mountains with patches of snow, and we tie up and make a raid on the
postoffice.