UTAH'S STOCK OF LIZARDS AND SNAKES--"TOMMY ATKINS'" NARROW
ESCAPE--AT "THE HERMITAGE" IN OGDEN CANYON.
Utah I found to be full of snakes, lizards and swollen
streams. Mrs. McIlrath, Duxbury and I had personal encounters in
this direction and our escapes were thrilling. It was on our way to
Thistle Junction Gap that Duxbury sprinted ahead, promising to meet us
at the next railroad crossing. How he came to wind up on the side of a
foaming torrent is beyond me to explain. I know only that when we came
to the appointed meeting place, my wife and I stood upon one side of a
miniature river with the hapless "Tommy Atkins" on the other bank. He
was in a bad fix, for he could not swim--bye the bye, a most uncommon
thing among Englishmen. He called for aid and without thinking that the
man would be so rash as to follow my instructions, I told him to wade
across. He thereupon walked into the water and there came very nearly
being some work for the coroner. With his wheel held high above his
head he walked boldly into midstream until he came to a step-off. I
called to him to be cautious and not to move from where he was. With
the warning I walked from the opposite bank ready at any moment to
strike out with swimming strokes, but I ascertained that though the
current was rapid, the water was no deeper than where Duxbury stood
submerged to his shoulders. Lifting the wheel I led the way back to
the bank, where "Tommy" stretched himself in the sun to dry. Had the
boy not possessed nerve and retained his presence of mind I fear we
should have seen the last of him when he made his unlooked-for descent.
Continuing our journey through Jordan Valley, Mrs. McIlrath rode
some distance ahead of us. We were startled by shrieks, and it was
my first thought that she had ridden over a snake. Duxbury and I
hastened to her and discovered her standing by her wheel with a
number of lizards gliding their way through the grass and sand at
her feet. To show her that the silent crawlers were not poisonous,
I picked one up in my hand, and was making bold with the ugly thing
when a sharp rattle attracted my attention. Looking to one side, but
a few paces away, I saw a five-foot rattler coiled as if to strike,
and moving his fangs threateningly. My 44-caliber revolver settled
Mr. Snake and the encounter also came near settling Mrs. McIlrath. She
was so nervous from the shock that it was with difficulty we proceeded
to Springville. By a mistake of the telegraph operator we missed
the Springville reception committee, and proceeded straight on to
Provo City, where we spent the night. The next day Mayor Holbrook,
James Clave, editor of the Inquirer, Robert Skelton and a dozen of
the Provo City wheelmen called upon us and offered us the keys of the
town. They invited us to spend several days with them, mapping out
a program of lavish entertainment. This we were forced to decline,
as we were impatient to get into Salt Lake City for bicycle repairs
and sundry changes in our much dilapidated toilet. We arrived in Salt
Lake City the morning of June 15, under the guidance of the Social
Wheel Club. Sunday, the club members took us on a "Strawberry Run"
to Farmington, though the acceptance of this invitation necessitated
declining one to attend the run of the Wasatch Wheelmen. In the evening
with Mr. Goode, Mr. Lenne of Chicago, Duxbury and myself went out to
Saltair, the great resort a few miles from the city. On June 19 we
were guests of the Beck Hot Springs Bicycle Club, where we watched the
"crackerjacks" of Salt Lake City and Ogden. This track is one of the
best I have seen upon my travels. "Big Bill" Richel, editor of the
Rocky Mountain Cyclist, a man who has done much good work in building
up interests in wheeling throughout the West, is a prime factor in
the racing meets at Beck Hot Springs, and he has invariably arranged
for a first-class article of sport. Our entertainment in Salt Lake
City was upon so extensive a scale that I had no more than enough
time to prepare my Inter Ocean letters and to send our wheels to the
repair shop.
We left Salt Lake City on June 23, an escort of thirty accompanying
us West as far as the Grant Homestead, where a stop was made for
dinner. We arrived in Ogden the following day, expecting to leave in
the evening, as we had a full moon to ride by at night. The paralysis
of the hands and arms, from which both Mrs. McIlrath and myself had
been acute sufferers, came over me again at Ogden, and caused a week's
stop instead of a day. I consulted a physician, who imperatively
ordered that I take a course of treatment at Utah Hot Springs,
situated ten miles out of Ogden. Before we entered into our week's
seclusion, a number of the representative wheelmen of Ogden were
determined that we should visit the greatest of all Utah resorts,
"The Hermitage," in Ogden Canyon. On Tuesday, June 25, a party
comprising Mr. and Mrs. W. Beardsley, Mr. and Mrs. F. Sherwood,
F. C. Scramm, Editor Thomas of the Press, J. W. Warner and the
Inter Ocean tourists rode slowly up the steep grades into the rocky
boundaries of the Canyon. "The Hermitage" is a sequestered little
house, five miles up the gorge, ensconced in a natural cleft in the
mountain side, and facing upon the rushing, foaming Ogden River. We
rode to "The Hermitage" without a stop. Standing in the doorway in
his shirt sleeves, arms akimbo, was the famous "Billy" Wilson. In all
Ogden there is not a character so well known as "Billy" Wilson. He
is a brawny Scot, with a sun-burned face, clear blue eyes and a
luxuriant growth of sandy hair and whiskers, and he possesses the
most charming dialect that was ever imported from the unconquered
land of the thistle. I did not at all mind my week as an invalid,
for I had eight hours a day aside from my treatment by a physician
to devote to sight-seeing. There was but one disagreeable feature
in connection with the sojourn at Utah Hot Springs, and that was,
the loss of "Tommy Atkins." For his own reasons, which he explained
to me, Tommy decided to go it alone, and he left on June 26 to pedal
his way alone to the Golden Gate.
The Inter Ocean cyclists left Ogden on July 2, putting in to Corinne
for the night. Corinne is distinctive in Utah as strictly a Gentile
town, the sight of a mormon at any time being rare. The morning of the
great and glorious Fourth, Mrs. McIlrath and I started from Corinne
to celebrate the day with a long run over the sandy plains. As we
crossed the tracks in front of the hotel and turned into the smooth
road leading to Blue Creek a freight train started from the depot a few
rods back of us. The morning was cool, and calling to my wife to keep
my rear wheel in sight, I set out to hold that freight train level
as long as possible. I had been informed that a chain of foothills
that loomed up like a bank of blue fog in the distance, was seven
miles away, and as the grade was up, I was determined to lead the
engineer a merry dance ere we tipped over the hill and gravity helped
the iron horse in his race against my steel-tubed speeder. Over the
road we flew, the chug-chug of the engine growing fainter, until
we lost it altogether. I knew this was only the start, and bending
over my handle-bars I sent my wheel along with a whir. Mrs. McIlrath
held on nobly, and when three and a half miles had been covered,
the engine was still beyond our hearing. We kept on "jumping on the
pedals" and when we tipped over the hills, seven miles from Corinne,
the sound of the locomotive's exhaust was barely audible. With the
grade in our favor we fairly made things hum. My cyclometer ticked
with a continuous rattle like an old-fashioned watchman's signal. And
now the engineer of the train seemed to enter into the spirit of the
race. He tooted short blasts at us as he gained ground and his train
caught the impetus afforded by the grade. The crew also took part in
the fun, and from the top of the cars and caboose, they gave us the
"come-on" signals when the little red coach tripped around the curve
like the last flame of a shooting star. And then we were alone on
the desert of Western Utah.
Seven miles further on, we came to the end of the main ditch of the
Bear River Canal Company. There we met a gang of men who reported
having met "Tommy Atkins" nine days ahead. This was the first tidings
we had received of the merry Englishman, and it was most welcome
news. The exciting ride of the day caused us to forget that it was the
Nation's birthday, until we passed Bradley's Ranch and gazed upon the
Stars and Stripes gayly floating from a tall staff in front of his
house. Bradley saluted us, and in reply to our question if we might
send any news of him to friends in the East, he proudly answered:
"Tell them that Old Glory waves over Bradley's Ranch the same as it
does over the postoffice in Chicago on the Fourth of July." I had
calculated upon spending the night at Kelton. We arrived there for
supper and found the one hotel of the town in undisputed possession of
a gang of cowboys, who were celebrating the Fourth in approved Western
style. Whisky was tapped by the barrel, and there were indications of a
beer famine soon to come. The men were good-natured for the most part,
but so noisy with their fun that Mrs. McIlrath concluded Kelton was
no place for her, and we moved on in the direction of a ranch where
we had been told we might be accommodated with lodging. I was three
hours cruising around the plains trying to find this ranch, and had
almost come to the opinion that no such place existed. The moon had
gone down and it was difficult riding in the dark. I ran into what
I considered an embankment, and was thrown from my wheel, then the
embankment gave a loud snort and a scream from Mrs. McIlrath behind
let me know that she had also been in a collision. We had struck
in the blackness a herd of cows, all lying down and peacefully
chewing their cuds. This I took as evidence that the ranch was
a reality, and again I began the search for the house, this time
riding squarely into a barb-wire fence. Following the line of the
wire I came to the dwelling, a prosperous-looking abode, painted and
adorned with a veranda and curtains in the window. All knocks and
calls were unanswered, which led me to believe that the family could
be not far away, probably attending a Fourth of July celebration in
the vicinity. Mrs. McIlrath and I sat down on a log to await their
return. After an hour's silent vigil, my watch told me that it was
long after midnight. The air had grown raw and the wind chilling. I
built a fire in the front yard and made a place for Mrs. McIlrath
to lie down. To those of my readers who have tried to sleep before a
camp fire without blanket Mrs. McIlrath's discomfort will be readily
understood. I curled up behind her, doing as best I could to keep off
the wind, and thus she was enabled to derive several hours' slumber,
but as for myself, I was almost frozen when I waked at five the next
morning, and learned that the family had been absent over night. By
this time I was desperate, and with one of my small pistols I bowled
over two fat chickens that were cackling around the yard. I was ready,
had I been surprised by the owner, to pay liberally for the pullets,
and consequently I felt no sting of conscience for my tramp-like
behavior. The fire was replenished, and while Mrs. McIlrath dressed
the chickens in a crude fashion, picking them in hot water boiled
in a tin can which I had found on the back porch, I skirmished the
premises in hopes of digging up some old utensil of the kitchen with
which to cook them. I could find nothing, but my inventive mind,
the same which prompted me to patch a tire with a buckskin glove,
came to the rescue when my eyes alighted on a piece of stovepipe. It
was old and rusted and had been thrown away evidently months before. I
smashed its circular shape flat, scraped off the rust, and that served
as our frying pan. For breakfast that morning, we had fried chicken,
not cooked Maryland style, to be sure, but nevertheless sufficient to
stave off hunger until noon. The family had still not yet returned,
as we prepared to leave, and telling Mrs. McIlrath that we would be
far away when their anger exploded and that we, ourselves, would never
be suspected, the blame for the depredation doubtless being placed
upon the shoulders of some unfortunate hobo, we mounted our wheels
and steered away in the direction of the Nevada State Line. I was
unable to learn the name of the people at whose ranch we had stopped
and whose chickens I had appropriated, but if they should ever come
across this book, I should like them to know that our intentions were
honest at least, and that we should have paid for our breakfast could
we have met anybody to take the money.
By looking at our cyclometers we ascertained that eighty-four miles
had been covered on the Fourth of July. We had hard riding the next
day, arriving at Lucin at 11 o'clock at night. For once in the life
of somebody, a little intemperance served a good purpose. The section
boss at Lucin lived alone in a neat cottage, with his Italian and
Chinese laborers in quarters a couple of hundred yards away. The
section boss, whose name is of no consequence here, had celebrated the
Fourth too vigorously. The depression which followed and the loneliness
of his surroundings had thrown him into a state of nervousness that
made him jump like a man shot if one but snapped his fingers behind
him. The sight of company was the best medicine he could have had,
and before we had an opportunity to ask him for shelter, he had
overwhelmed us with an invitation to come in and stay--stay a week
if we only would. We came to Nevada on July 6, with a register of
2,283 miles to our credit, made since leaving the office of the Inter
Ocean. This represented a daily average of 57-1/2 miles. At Tecoma,
our first stopping place in the state, we found an inquisitive crowd
awaiting us. As the crowd was in Tecoma, so it proved to be throughout
Nevada. Everywhere the people understood fully who we were, where
we were from and the auspices under which we journeyed, but we had
difficulty in convincing them that we were not dead-broke and that
we were not touring the globe for a wager. There have been so many
queer trips recently made by men who start out penniless to receive
thousands of dollars upon the culmination of their journey that the
public, I noted, had grown to expect all sorts of hard luck stories
from tourists whose mode of travel was any other than the railroad. But
for all their suspicions of us, they were indulgent and good-natured,
and never once were we mistreated or insulted. Nevada also gave us
the hardest work in moving through the United States. The sands and
head-winds were fifty per cent more exhausting than the distances,
and the 132 miles we made the day we entered Denver did not tire us
one-half as much as the 61 miles we covered on July 7, the day we
rode into Halleck.