Green River to Grand Junction
Sunday, June 26, we stayed in camp; that is, the horses did, but we
explored Green River and the surrounding country, took a bath in the
river, did our laundry work, and tried to catch some fish, but didn’t
get a bite.
On one of our rambles we crossed the river and went about a mile south
to a ranch house which we found deserted; the fruit trees were all
dead and the alfalfa had been overflowed and killed out in places. It
was an ideal place for a house here on the river bank with big
cottonwood trees all around, giving plenty of shade. The house was
made of cottonwood logs; in fact, almost all the ranch houses in this
country are made of logs; near the river they are of cottonwood, and
near the mountains of cedar or pine logs. We noticed a great number of
dead orchards which were being cut out.
At noon we went uptown to a restaurant for our dinner. It is not much
of a town, and most of it is new. They seem to be trying to raise
fruit here, but apparently with poor success. The successful people
evidently are the ones who can sell the land. The roads are very dusty
and the land seems burned up. They have had no rain here in months,
and we go back to our wagon feeling that it is the dryest looking
country we have ever seen, and that there must be something wrong with
the people. With a river flowing right by the town there should be
better use made of it, but probably they do not know how. The people
are not Mormons; they are newcomers and hence what might be called
“tenderfeet.” They will learn, and some day Green River will be a
beautiful little city, but to-day it lies bare and dusty and new,
baking in the sun.
Monday, Doc and I went on an exploring trip down the river and Bob
stayed about the camp. We climbed up on top of a bare, ragged mountain
to see what we could of the country and the river, but with not much
success. The river runs through a canyon and can not be seen, and the
country is much the same south of us,--hard, ragged desert buttes.
This is evidently the beginning of the formation which later, at the
Grand Canyon, is so wonderful a sight. Just below here is where the
Green and the Grand Rivers come together, forming the Colorado, and
from there on, I imagine, the canyon grows in depth and desolation,
until near Williams it is twelve miles wide and over a mile deep.
Returning from this trip on foot we look over the horses very
carefully to see what improvement they have made in the two days they
have had to rest. We find they have had all they could eat and drink,
and Bess seems to be in her usual good condition. Doc says she is the
most wonderful horse to work and keep it up without wearing out he
ever saw. She has so far been in harness every working day, against
Kate and Dixie in turn, and does not seem to be as tired or sore as
either of them. Dixie’s neck is still in bad shape and Kate, while
apparently looking good, is really “dead on her feet,” to use a slang
phrase. She has never had a chance to recuperate from that setback she
had in the Mojave Desert when she went blind and bled at the nose, and
so in looking them over Doc says, “Well, Kate will never get to Grand
Junction.” He had said before that she would not get to Green River,
but she was here, and apparently in pretty good shape, so I could
afford to laugh and tell Doc that Kate would go as far as either of
the others.
It is a hundred and twenty miles from here to Grand Junction and this
is the twenty-seventh of June. When I left home I made arrangements to
have Mr. Bradley and his son Norman, of Rockford, Illinois, and my
son, Norman, join us at Grand Junction, Colorado, on July fourth, and
go with us through Colorado. It had seemed a little foolish, sitting
comfortably at home in Chicago, to say, “I will meet you at Grand
Junction on July fourth.” There had been a good many times since when
I had thought it better to send word to them that we could not reach
Grand Junction at the time I had promised, but as we seemed somehow,
in spite of the many difficulties, to keep up to schedule, I had
refrained from changing the date. Now that we were within one hundred
and twenty miles of there, with six days in which to make it, I felt
so confident that we would have no trouble in getting through a day or
two ahead of time, that I sent them a telegram that we would be at
Grand Junction and ready to leave July fourth. When we returned to our
wagon after sending the telegram it looked like rain; in fact, we were
so sure it would rain that we put down the wagon sheet and slept in
the wagon. That night was the second time we had slept in the wagon
since starting, six weeks before, from Los Angeles.
When we awoke the next morning we found it had rained some during the
night and was still cold and cloudy. We were quite elated and as we
had not had any experience with rain since leaving Los Angeles, we
started off very joyously, thinking the dust would be laid and water
would be plenty, but we were hardly under way before we discovered our
mistake. The roads were sticky, the country was nothing but bare clay
hills, and it was hard on the horses. As they were in better condition
on account of their rest, we made twenty-five miles and thought we had
done wonders, although we did not get into camp until late because,
just before we reached the place we had picked out to camp, we stuck
in the bottom of a wash and had to unload most of our stuff, including
our water barrels. This was the first time I had been stalled and I
was quite chagrined to think I had got into a place I could not pull
out of. Doc said there had to be a first time, and that we couldn’t
expect to go through without getting stuck a few times, but I got some
experience here and never did it again. The boys thought I was too
much “sot up” over my driving and, I think, enjoyed seeing me stuck,
even if it did make us all do some hard work for a short time and
delayed us half an hour in getting into camp. This is the way it
happened:
We had come to a wash, down which the water was rushing over the
rocks, and the trail dropped nearly straight into it. Bob rode Dixie
down and then rode up stream looking for a way out on the other side.
A hundred yards above and around a bend the trail led up and out, and
without thinking to walk up on my side and take a look at it myself,
as soon as I saw Bob’s head coming up around the bend, I dropped right
down into the stream and drove up over the boulders and, when too
late, found I didn’t dare to stop on account of the sand, and brought
the team around at a hard angle to climb almost straight up a slippery
bank. They were winded and, with wet hoofs, had just managed to pull
the wagon up out of the sand and water when they both lost their feet,
but hung on until I put on the brake and let them get up and recover
their breath.
I knew they could not start the wagon again alone on that grade so I
told Bob I thought if we put Dixie on ahead, the three of them could
do it, but they didn’t. Dixie with her sore neck refused to pull after
she had tried it once, and so, admitting I was stuck and needed help,
we all went at it and lightened up the load. We carried it up the
hill, and then with Doc and Bob pushing, we got the wagon up and were
soon in camp at a water-tank.
The place was called Crescent; at least, a sign board on the railroad
near the tank had “Crescent” on it, but the sign and tank were all
there was to the place. We had a good place to camp here, getting a
supply of good water from the tank, and a couple of trees near by gave
us a place to tie the horses, as there was no grazing near and we did
not want them to stray off. We had some hay so we thought they were
better off tied up with that to eat.
It still looked like rain so we slept in the wagon again. When we woke
up it was raining hard. “At last we are being rained on proper,” Bob
said, and when I looked out I could hardly believe my eyes--everything
was soaked. The horses were standing up to their knees in a miniature
lake; the harness under the wagon was wet; and the rain was coming in
the end of the wagon on the Doctor’s head.
I put on my boots and rubber coat and got out and rescued the horses
from their predicament, moved the wagon around so the rain would not
beat into the front, and we stayed inside all the morning. We had a
cold breakfast, except for our oatmeal, which came hot out of the
fireless cooker, but at noon we got dinner in the wagon over our
kerosene stove, the heat from which dried us out, and at 2 P. M., the
rain having stopped, we started on.
The roads were very heavy and slippery and the little gullies we had
to cross were washed out, and we had great times getting over them.
One place we had to build a bridge, which we were able to do out of
railroad ties that had floated down from the track in a gully near at
hand. A mile or two farther on we came to a wash we could not cross
except by cutting down the bank, but we had nothing save an axe to do
it with.
We had needed a shovel badly all the afternoon, but here we must have
one. We could see the station of Thompson about two miles beyond and,
concluding there must be a shovel there, I crossed the wash on Dixie,
and made a run for it to Thompson so as to get there and back before
dark. Fortunately there was a shovel to be had. There were two in town
and I got back with one in time for us to get across the wash and into
Thompson by 7 P. M. Here we bought hay, bacon, and the shovel I had
borrowed, and drove on to the top of a hill where we camped and
prepared our supper by lantern light.
We were tired out, but had only six miles to show for the day, half of
which had been spent in the wagon during the rain, and the balance
mostly in digging and in building a bridge. It had been cloudy and
cold, and to-night we got out our overcoats to keep ourselves warm.
Two days of the six were gone and only thirty-one of the one hundred
and twenty miles were covered. It didn’t look as though we would have
much time to spare, but we expected better conditions from here on,
now the rain was over, and felt we could easily reach Grand Junction
some time on the third of July.
The next morning, June thirtieth, we were late in starting, having
been up late, for us, the night before, and it was eight-thirty before
we broke camp. The same clay ridges and washes were in store for us,
however. The trail was bad enough at best, running at right angles to
the clay ridges, but the rain had done the rest and, as no team had
been over the trail since then, we were in for a hard day’s work with
axe and shovel. That shovel was worth everything to us to-day.
By way of variety we saw several coyotes and had our first breakdown.
Again Doc tried to console me by asking, “You didn’t expect to get
through without a breakdown, did you?” But while I expected it some
time, it surprised me when it came, and also made me mad at myself, as
it was simply carelessness. I had been dropping down into washouts all
the morning and pulling out again without any trouble, after the boys
with the axe and shovel had made it possible. In fact, I was so used
to making the hard ones that I slid carelessly down into a little one,
let the brake loose just a fraction of a second too quick, hit the
opposite bank, and the front wheels rolled out from under the wagon,
and I walked out behind the horses and left Doc sitting on the seat
alone. The reach or coupling pole had snapped about eighteen inches
behind the front axle. An investigation showed we had pole enough left
and if we had a brace, and a three-quarter-inch bit, we could soon
make repairs. While our tool box contained almost everything else we
had needed heretofore, from horseshoe nails up, we did not have a
brace and bit, and we sat looking at the wreck and trying to devise
ways of getting the proper-sized holes made in the reach. Doc
suggested making a fire and heating a bolt and burning a hole, but
there was no wood and our kerosene stove would not answer for that
sort of a job.
We could see in the distance a section house on the railroad and Bob
thought the section men would surely have a brace and bit, and so, to
save time, the boys volunteered to unload the wagon, pull out the
reach, and have lunch ready by the time I had ridden over there and
back. We could return the tools as we drove by.
I had a good long horseback ride in a very short time, but I didn’t
get what I went after. Two Japs were all I found at the section house
and they had a few crowbars and shovels, but nothing else. I asked how
far it was to the next place where I could get a brace and bit and was
told it was twenty miles to Cisco, but the foreman would bring one
next week. I knew we could make those holes easier than by riding
twenty miles and back, and quicker than by having the foreman bring us
a brace and bit next week, so I thanked them for a drink and hurried
back.
I found dinner ready, the wagon unloaded, and the reach ready to be
repaired, and better yet, Bob had found a gimlet which we had
overlooked before. It was a delicate tool to use in hardwood, but
after lunch we managed to get the reach ready for use and were loaded
up and off again at 3 P. M. We soon found we had our front stanchions
on wrong and had to raise up the wagon and turn them, so that by the
time we had this done, and had stopped at the section house for water,
it was 4:20 P. M., and we were only ten miles from our morning camp.
This was discouraging enough, but from here on the washes were not so
frequent and, in between, the roads were good, so we made ten miles
more before we camped.
We had made fifty-one miles in three days and there remained only
three days in which to make sixty-nine miles, and we began to worry
about the kind of roads we would find from here on, but we had met no
one who could tell us. We camped near a section house called
Whitehouse, but the man there didn’t know anything about wagon roads
except that we were the first wagon outfit he had seen in some time,
so we just hoped for better things and turned in.
“It never rains, but it pours,” some one has said, and that evidently
was what happened between Whitehouse and Cisco, for we were until 11
A. M. getting there, only six miles. We filled washes, mended a
bridge, and were tired enough when we pulled into town. A store and
postoffice, the railroad station and corral, was every building there,
but it looked large to us and we were able to buy some provisions of
the canned order, get a bale of alfalfa, and the storekeeper gave me
one-half his supply of oats, which was just a pailful.
Still sixty-three miles to Grand Junction and we are told the trail
following the railroad is washed out and in the same condition as the
one we have just come over. We are advised to try getting to Grand
Junction over what they call the old narrow gauge route, or old grade.
On the theory that it cannot be any worse that way, we cross over the
railroad tracks and go north. The road is bad, however, and mostly
uphill this afternoon, and by 7 P. M. we figure we have made only
eight miles, or fourteen for the day. The horses are tired and
discouraged. We camp by a mud hole for water and turn the horses loose
to graze. The country is mountainous and of clay formation, and, aside
from a little bunch of grass here and there, is bare.
We began to be worried about getting to Grand Junction by the third
and concluded we wouldn’t try. We had not agreed to be there before
the fourth anyway, we said, and so after deciding not to get there
before the fourth (which decision was especially funny because we knew
we couldn’t possibly get there before and perhaps not then), we turned
in. We were not a very hilarious party and I think the horses had
begun to tire of life as well. They certainly looked dejected.
Saturday, July 2, was much like Friday, only, as some one remarked,
“more so.” Our shovel was continually in demand. We had one very long
hard pull after lunch which finished Kate up entirely, and at 5:30 P.
M. we camped near a patch of grass, after making about fourteen miles,
as near as we could guess, leaving us forty-one miles still to go. We
crossed Cottonwood Creek about nine-thirty this morning and Westwater
Creek at 4 P. M., and are probably about six miles from Bitter Creek.
Cottonwood and Westwater Creeks both had the sandy side up, and we do
not expect any better of Bitter Creek.
Kate is tired out and still I do not want to put Dixie into the collar
yet, as her neck is nearly well, and I want it to get entirely well
before I put her in to take Kate’s place. If Kate can only hold out
until we get to Grand Junction, we can rest her there, and Dixie’s
neck can then probably stand the collar again. Good old Bess, she
never complains, but works every day. Luckily she has not been laid up
at all as yet and apparently is made of iron. She goes on day after
day seemingly just as fresh as when she started.
We have two hours of daylight left, so, as Bob volunteers to make camp
and get supper, Doc and I take the rifle and climb up on a mesa, where
we find small pine trees and big rocks, and from which we get a
beautiful view of Mt. Wagg and Mt. Tomasaki. We have been in sight of
Mt. Wagg ever since we left Green River. We sat there for a full
half-hour and then returned to camp.
Just as we sat down to eat we saw a camp wagon coming up the trail
from the east. The wagon sheet was clean and it was a brand new
outfit; we could see that a mile away. The team was fresh, and a man
and woman sat on the front seat. Behind was a lead horse, and bringing
up the rear a make-believe cowboy and cowgirl. He was carrying a
rifle. While they passed us within a hundred yards, they never saw us
(apparently), and (apparently) we never saw them. We put them down as
a wedding party from Grand Junction--they looked so new and acted so
green.
This was the first camping outfit we have met on our trip since
reaching the desert and we are nearly across to the Rocky Mountains
now, so evidently they are not very numerous, and as to
sociability,--well, up to date we haven’t found any one to be sociable
with. If you mind your business, the other fellow minds his, and no
questions are asked.
We had about forgotten the camp wagon outfit when, in taking a look
about, we noticed their camp fire about two miles west at a water hole
we had watered at as we passed. They were still there when we pulled
out in the morning.
[Illustration: WE ABANDON OUR WATER BARRELS]
As I started to hitch up I found Kate was practically “all in,” so we
were put to it to devise some means to reach Grand Junction by
to-morrow, the fourth. We had given up getting there before and we
still had forty-one miles to go, but I was bound to be there to-morrow
if it took a horse, so we decided to lighten the ship, so to speak, by
throwing away everything we did not need. First came the water barrels
and platform. The barrels being empty were of no use to us to-day, and
by making a forced march we could get to Grand Junction without them,
and after that we would not need them. Then we threw overboard samples
of ore, rocks, and all extra bolts and spikes; also a bunch of hay we
had left, and figured we were about a hundred and fifty pounds the
lighter. Then we put Dixie on the pole with Bess, padded up her
collar, put a rope on the pole to take the weight off her neck, and
leaving Kate to take care of herself as best she might, we started
over the last few miles of desert which separated us from Grand
Junction and its orchards on the western slope of the Rockies. First
we took a picture of the barrels and wrote our names on them.
I did so hate to leave Kate, but I hated worse to miss being at Grand
Junction on the fourth, after having only so recently confirmed the
statement that we would be there. Besides, the Doctor had telegraphed
Mrs. Lancaster, who was on her way home from San Francisco, that he
would meet her there and for her to stop off and, as she was quite
sick, he was very anxious to be there to meet her.
We had not gone far, however, before I saw that Kate was following us
and I figured that if she would stay near the trail, some one would
pick her up and care for her, or else she might reach Mack, which we
figured could not be more than twenty miles away. We had a few very
hard places to cross, but as a rule the grade was down hill and the
wagon ran better without the barrels, and we pushed ahead so fast that
we made camp within four miles of Mack by twelve-thirty.
While we were eating our lunch we heard Kate nicker, back up the
trail, and very shortly she came up. We had lost sight of her long
before and when she came up greeted her as a long-lost cousin. We gave
her a feed of oats and then got her some water out of a water hole
near at hand, and concluded that if she wanted to come so bad we would
not discourage her; so when we started up again we thought she would
follow us in to Mack where, if necessary, we could leave her. When we
got nearly to town she was so far behind that Bob volunteered to wait
for her and ride her in, so we left Bob and went on.
Leaving the team in front of the store, we hunted up the man who ran
it and bought some hay and oats of him, also some groceries, as we
were short. When we came out to the wagon there was Kate, but no Bob.
He came shortly afterward, having walked in. He said he sat down by
the side of the trail to wait for Kate and he could hear her nickering
as she came along, just as though she were crying, and as she came
around a bend he got up to catch her, but, although she seemed hardly
able to walk, she must have mistaken him for a “holdup man” for she
ran by him and he never could catch up with her. So he walked in, much
to his disgust and our merriment.
We were now in Colorado, having crossed the State line and left Utah
behind. We found Mack a very neat little place, with about a dozen
houses, and at the end of a wagon road which led straight down along
the railroad track to Grand Junction, with a fence on both sides, and
irrigation ditches and ranches along the way for twenty miles. It
seemed like another country, sure enough. We had travelled so long in
the desert and without a real road that we were surprised when we saw
one, and the fences looked strange. Here were real people along the
road in buggies and wagons and on horseback. We just looked, and said
nothing.
We drove about four miles along this road and then made camp, fifteen
or sixteen miles from Grand Junction, feeling quite sure we could get
into town about noon the next day. We still had Kate with us and I
told Doc we ought to feel pretty good, as we were going to “make it,”
bringing all the horses through and on schedule time. He didn’t say
much, but that night as we lay on the tarpaulin trying to sleep and
dodging a few rain drops from a thunder shower, I asked him what he
was thinking about, and he said, “Nothing at all.” About an hour after
that he suddenly asked me what I was thinking about. I had supposed he
was asleep long ago and was too surprised to answer at first. I had
been thinking how much nicer it was camping out in the desert, and how
shut in I felt between fences, and how disgusted the horses must feel
to be tied to a fence post, and that if I were left to my own
inclinations I would turn around and go out into the desert again. I
did not want to admit this, however, as it seemed so foolish, so I
quickly said, “I asked you the same thing an hour ago; you answer
first.”
What do you suppose he said?
“That desert has got into my system. I don’t feel right; for fifty
cents I’d turn around and go back.”
I laughed a rather sheepish laugh and said, “Doc, you have answered
your own question. Let’s try to forget it and go to sleep.”