A second trip to California after forty years; My home in
Marion; Begins the trip; The dry dock; Not another berth; The
Sunset Limited; The Great Salt Mine; Beaumont; San Antonio; The
Alamo; He expects it of me; Out on the boundless prairies; Nears
the Del Rio; The Seminole Cave Canon; Breakfast at El Paso; The
Rio Grande; Consumptives' paradise; At Lordsburg; At San Simons;
Tucson; People go to Europe.
OFF ON SECOND TRIP TO CALIFORNIA AFTER FORTY YEARS.
Dear Bro. Barnett:
WHEN I promised weeks ago to write something of my trip for the
Alabama Baptist, I thought it an easy task but I discover my
mistake. "Trip Notes" in Alabama, which I have been writing for
twenty years, are not hard to prepare. If it is not convenient to
write them on the spot, one can carry in his mind the points worthy
of mention and write them at leisure; but not so with a trip like
this. There is so much to see during the day you do not want to be
writing, lest you miss something of interest; if you put off the
writing, you are sure to leave out much which would interest the
reader. So here I am far out on the sandy plains of New Mexico,
where the scenery seems to be unchanged for many miles. I am trying
to put together the points I have scored down for my friends in
Alabama. We have just passed the 1,200th mile post, just about half
the way from New Orleans to San Francisco.
It was very kind of the brethren of the State Board of Missions to
give me this month off. Probably, ten years ago, I was given my
first vacation of one month. It was a new experience to me. Brethren
who had been used to such things volunteered to advise me where
to spend it. "Go to Monteagle," said one, "Go to the coast," said
another; but I went to
MY HOME IN MARION,
the best spot on earth for me to rest. I thought. Every day my
mail was sent me and after a rest of one day, I went to writing
letters and in a little while, I found myself planning campaigns
and arranging my plans of work for months ahead. The month was soon
gone and I returned to the office but little benefitted. I have
determined that shall not occur again. I hope I will not receive
a business letter for a month. Don't get it into your mind, kind
reader, that I am sick or broken down. I am all right--never felt
better than I do this morning of January 15th; but I am sure I will
be better and stronger after this month's rest.
BUT LET ME BEGIN WITH MY TRIP.
George Ely, of Montgomery, the Traveling Passenger Agent of the
Southern Pacific, is one of the cleverest railroad men in all the
South. I have been telling him of this trip for years: "All right,
when you get ready, let me know, and I will load you up," said he,
after every talk. Sure enough he did. "Through Story Land to Sunset
Skies," is the striking name of a book he gave me. A couple of old
travelers who are supposed to have passed this way years ago before
there was any thought of a railroad, takes a girl and her papa into
their party and start for San Francisco on the Limited. First one
and then the other talks. In those far-off days, they must have
camped for months at every point, for they know the history of every
section and places of interest.
Their "Limited" seems to have been an unlimited, as to time, for the
narrative takes you leisurely from point to point. It is invaluable
to the party who takes the trip and I am the only one who seems to
possess one in the car.
"Where are we?" "Wonder what there is here?" "I declare it is the
driest dullest trip I ever took." These are some of the expressions
I have heard. I haven't time to tell them about things. I wish I
had, for it is such a pity for people to take the long trip and get
so little out of it. One old sister, I fear, will worry herself
sick.
The great
DRY DOCK
lately built by the government and brought by sea from New York to
New Orleans, was all the talk. "What sort of a looking thing is a
dry dock?" I asked one of my friends. "We'll go out tomorrow and see
it," was the reply. It's wonderful to think of a machine like that
with power to lift the man-of-war, "Illinois," the biggest vessel
in the navy, clear out of the water. "The biggest dry dock in the
world," said my friend. It is wonderful how many "biggest things in
the world" one meets in traveling. I have passed near "the biggest
salt mines," "the biggest hunting and fishing ground," "the biggest
bridge in the world," "the biggest sugar refinery." I don't know how
many "biggest things in the world" there are ahead of me, but that
dry dock and the battleship Illinois, are big things, for sure.
"NOT ANOTHER BERTH
on the Limited Monday," was the unpleasant news I got at the
ticket office two days before I was ready to go. It was a great
disappointment. The Limited is made up entirely of Pullman sleepers
with a dining car attached. "Seventy-three hours from New Orleans to
San Francisco," are the words which I have thought about for three
months. Here is a description which charmed me: "Sunset Limited
traverses the New Coast Line between Los Angeles and San Francisco,
the grandest trip in the United States."
EQUIPMENT OF "SUNSET LIMITED." COMPOSITE CAR, "EL INDIA."
"A place where men smoke, read and rest. The first car of the train:
It contains buffet, baths, barber shop, desk, bookcases, books
and stationery. Here one may view the peculiar scenery through
wide plate-glass windows, tell yarns and enjoy full comfort of an
up-to-date equipment. A conveyance worthy of any man's admiration."
Then it goes on to describe in the same style each car: The ladies'
parlor car, the sleeping car, the dining car. But I missed it by not
engaging a place beforehand. Never mind, next time I'll know better.
I lose a day thereby and pay double for a sleeper. Poor comfort, but
the best at hand, "an upper berth only to Los Angeles on the regular
train is all that is left--nothing to San Francisco," and I jumped
at it.
An hour later and I would have had to go in the day coach and _nod_
it out. It looks like everybody has taken a notion to travel at the
same time; but I learn it is always this way on this road in winter.
Through the low lands and swamps and magnificent sugar plantations,
the train speeds on its western course. The Teche country through
which we go is called the "Sugar Bowl of Louisiana." I wonder that
it wasn't put down as the "biggest thing of its kind in the world."
Before we leave Louisiana, it will be interesting to some I am sure,
to hear something of the
GREAT SALT MINE
which for several years furnished the most of the salt used in the
Confederacy, in our civil war. The mine is on "Avery's Island," on
the Gulf coast. Many years ago a boy returning from a successful
hunt, threw the deer he had killed into the fork of a tree while he
sought to slake his thirst at a beautiful spring. The water was so
salty he could not drink it. On telling his mother about it, she had
water brought from the spring and boiled and secured a good deposit
of salt. Gradually the spring came to be used. After a while,
farming interests absorbed the attention of the owner of the island,
who by the way was a Yankee from New Jersey, who fled South with
his negro slaves, when it became inevitable that the negroes North
were going to be freed. How the South has been cursed about slavery:
The facts of history show that Northern people are responsible.
Not Southerners, but Northerners, stole the negroes from Africa
and introduced slavery in the United States. When they found the
institution didn't pay, they brought the slaves South and sold them
to our fathers. Later they drenched the nation in blood to free the
slaves their daddies had sold to us. Some few did as Col. Avery did:
moved South with their negro slaves. (But to return to the Salt
Industry.)
Gradually the salt springs were abandoned until our civil war, when
salt began to bring $11.00 a barrel in New Orleans. The son of the
planter asked his father for permission to run a kettle in boiling,
to this was added other kettles, and so the mine developed. When
the springs would not supply the water fast enough, a well was
dug. Sixteen feet from the surface, what seemed to be the stump
of an old tree was struck, covering the bottom of the well. Close
examination proved it to be solid rock salt. The owner, Col. Avery,
leased a part of the mine to the Confederate Government. It is said
at the close of the war, he found himself the fortunate possessor
of $3,000,000 of worthless Confederate money; besides this, he lost
2,000 bales of cotton, which the government had paid him for, worth
in the market after the surrender from twenty-five to fifty cents
per pound. The mines were captured by the Federals in 1863, but work
was resumed after they left.
The mining goes on now on an extensive scale and great tunnels run
through it many feet below the surface. The supply is practically
inexhaustible. It has been explored by boring 1,200 feet down and
the bottom of the salt bed is still below. How is that for a salty
story! We passed
BEAUMONT
at night, much to my regret, but I learned the oil fields, which I
hoped to catch a sight of, were five miles away. However, I felt the
breeze, as every passenger who got aboard for a hundred miles in
either direction was talking oil. I imagined I could almost smell
and taste kerosene. You may be sure I heard of the "biggest" oil
well. A little later I struck a cow-man. I don't know whether he was
a "Cattle King" or not, but he could talk cows. I was glad to have
him in the same section with me for he knew the country and could
answer all my questions. Houston was passed in the night.
We breakfasted at
SAN ANTONIO
and found the town rejoicing over the breaking of a five month's
drought by the rain which was then falling. One of the natives said:
"You can't tell anything about rains here. They may stop in fifteen
minutes or they may pour down for a week." We found it so, for in a
few minutes after leaving San Antonio, the clouds began to break and
soon the bright sun appeared, but the rain had extended far to the
west which was fortunate for the travelers. I was so impressed with
what I read of the battle of the Alamo which took place near San
Antonio. I will quote it. Some have read it before, but the most of
your readers have not:
THE ALAMO
"If deeds of daring sanctify the soil that witnessed them, that
should be to every American, one of the sacred places of the land.
We soon alighted in front of the old church and entered its broad
portal. A hundred and seventy-five years have elapsed since its
foundations were begun. Its early history would be filled with the
interest of tradition were it not for the fact that one glorious
deed of sacrifice dwarfs all that went before. Here on March 6,
1836, one hundred and eighty-one citizen soldiers, untrained to war,
fought more than twenty times their number and scorning retreat
deliberately chose to die. The fight began February 23rd, when
the Mexican army under Santa Anna began the assault. The attack
was continued day and night, and each time the Mexican column
was hurled back with frightful loss. Each day witnessed supreme
examples of heroism on the part of the beleaguered men. One of the
most inspiring of them was the sacrifice of James Butler Bonham,
a native of South Carolina, and the friend of Col. Travis, who
commanded the Alamo forces. He had been sent to Fannin with appeals
for aid, which were unavailing. On March 2nd, he reached, on his
return, a hill overlooking the scene of the seige, accompanied by
two companions. Realizing the situation, these associates saw no
necessity for further progress and demanded of Bonham that they
retire. The reply of Bonham immortalized him. He said: "I will
report the result of my mission to Colonel Travis.
HE EXPECTS IT OF ME.
I have to tell him there is no prospect of reinforcements, that he
has but to die in defending his cause and that I came to die with
him." Then bidding farewell to his companions, mounted on a cream
colored horse, through the lines of the enemy and amid showers of
bullets, this gallant son of South Carolina rode to his death.
The gates of the fortress opened to receive him and he presented
himself to his chief. This is the noblest incident in history of
stern adherence to solemn duty without regard to personal danger.
On the morning of March 6th, a general assault took place. Slowly
the noble Texans were driven back until inside the church they made
their last stand. No quarter was asked, none granted. Each Texan
died desperately in hand-to-hand conflict with overpowering numbers.
Col. Jas. Bowie, sick and unable to rise, was bayoneted in bed.
Col. David Crocket died amid a circle of slaughtered foes. Travis
fell upon the wall when he was giving inspiration to his men. When
the last Texan died, the floor was nearly ankle deep in blood and
ghastly corpses were heaped everywhere. By order of Santa Anna, the
bodies were piled in heaps and burned. On the monument to these
immortal dead, Texas writes an inscription so great it makes the
heart stand still: "_Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat--the
Alamo had none._"
"I am sorry for you for
THE NEXT TWO DAYS. "IT IS THE DRIEST, DULLEST RIDE I EVER TOOK."
A lady, with whom I became acquainted said that to me on quitting
the train at San Antonio. Folks are so unlike. What was to her
dull and uninteresting, I found to be of the greatest interest to
me. True there were not many people to be seen, but the boundless
prairies with here and there herds of cattle or horses grazing and
occasionally a Greaser village with mountains now and then appearing
in the distance, had a charm about it for me which I have never
experienced before.
OUT IN THE BOUNDLESS PRAIRIE.
Mesquite bushes cover thinly the land and remind one constantly of
an old neglected orchard where the sprouts have been allowed to grow
up from the roots of the trees. The railroad has a four-wire fence
on each side of the track, which gives the land the appearance of
being fenced and you are all the time on the lookout for the farm
house, just beyond the _orchard_, but it never appears. Occasionally
right in the midst of the Mesquite you see a forty or eighty acre
tract broken in a square, showing the soil as black as one's hat.
Occasionally is seen a cotton field, but the crop failed because of
the drought. All the laborers on the railroad seem to be Mexicans
and I learn they give general satisfaction, but my! what shabby
hovels they live in! Sometimes only straw or brush covered with
straw, but more frequently built of "doby," sun dried brick. As we
near the Texas border, the soil becomes thinner and more rocky. We
pass towns with no sign of gardens or orchards.
We have passed the dry beds of immense streams, some of them called
rivers, I presume.
AS WE NEAR THE DEL RIO,
some running streams are seen and signs of irrigation. Here is the
Rio Grande which for thirteen miles of its length forms the boundary
between the United States and Mexico. The railroad skirts along
the river bank at the base of a great cliff to the right and on the
other side of the river the bare Mexican mountains frown down upon
us. Devil's river is crossed, a beautiful stream which refuses for
miles, to mix its clear waters with the muddy Rio Grande.
THE SEMINOLE CAVE CANON--
pronounced "kanyon," as the gorges between the mountains are called,
is so grand one regrets that the railroad does not go through it.
Only a glimpse is had of its mouth as it opens on Devil's river.
Up, up the rocky steeps we go until the open plains are reached.
The Spanish dagger, some scrubby bushes, and a species of grass,
resembling bear grass is all there is in the way of vegetation.
The Pecos river is crossed by the "highest bridge in the world,"
the boy said who tried to sell the pictures: "No it ain't," said a
gentleman, "the one across Kentucky river near Lexington, is the
highest," and the man by my side said he knew of two that were
higher than either one. Anyway, as I looked down into the river,
320 feet below, I thought it was high enough. They say that the
atmosphere is so clear here that your eyes deceive you. At one
point, the Santa Rosa mountains in Mexico, seventy miles away, can
be clearly seen, but they look to be only five miles off. Much of
the finest scenery we missed at night. Paisaino Pass, summit of the
Sunset Route, we did not see. Its altitude is 5,082 feet.
WE BREAKFASTED AT EL PASO
--two full days from New Orleans. What horrible tales are told of
Mexican and Indian cruelties in the days of long ago, but my Texas
friend tells me that everything like ruffianism in all this section
is passed; that hunters can, with perfect safety, camp miles away
on these plains without fear of molestation. But looking at some of
the specimens of men hereabouts, I'd rather do my hunting further
East, if sport was what I was after. In spite of the dry climate
some people are farming about El Paso. Of course it is done by
irrigation, the Rio Grande furnishing the water. Here is where
we change time. By our watches it was 8:30 only a little after
daylight. They said the only thing perplexing about El Paso is the
time. It has four brands of time and the citizen takes his choice.
"They used to have four or five other varieties, but so many people
became insane in the attempt to keep their watches right and meet
appointments, that now they have only four." Between New Orleans and
El Paso, Central time is adhered to, Pacific time from there West.
The difference is two hours; so if you arrive at El Paso at 11:15
a.m. and wait there an hour and three quarters, you still get away
at 11 a.m., and experience no delay. Then there is local or sun time
and Mexican time besides. "Wonder if all the boys who read these
lines understand about the change from sun time to railroad time?"
The 12 o'clock mark, when I was a boy, was what we blew the dinner
horn by and we got along first-rate; but now the railroads have
taken us in hand and changed all that. Here at El Paso, they seem
to have done their worst on old time--cheating him out of two hours
when going West, or maybe they only borrow the two hours and pay it
back on the trip East.
THE RIO GRANDE
The water is very low and muddy. We are now in New Mexico running
across its southwestern border for two hundred and fifty miles.
There was a white frost on this morning, a rare thing here. The poor
Mexicans were huddled on the sunny-side of their dugouts and dobys,
wrapped in their blankets. I can't see where they get wood to burn,
the country is so barren. My friend told me yesterday that these are
typical Mexican homes. A poor little pony, a long-nosed pig or two,
a mangy cur, and a few chickens are all they possess in the way of
live stock, with these they seem perfectly contented. Some one said
El Paso was the
CONSUMPTIVE'S PARADISE
but from stories I heard about other places, I am sure it has
rivals. One man asserted that one winter he heard there were 37,000
consumptives in and around San Antonio and El Paso. Of course it was
not so; but that yarn is spun by the great family of "They Say."
On our train there were several poor fellows on their way West for
their health. How they did cough! It was distressing. One said,
"I have bronchitis which bothers me some. My lungs are not at all
affected." How strange the hopeful tone of all consumptives! May be
it is well that they are so. "When you get into Arizona, it will be
so dusty you can hardly see out of the windows," said the porter.
That is the case here in New Mexico and if the wind was blowing it
would be blinding. A vast sandy plain in every direction with bare
mountains, sometimes sand, sometimes rock, in the far distance, is
all we see. As we near Deming, we begin to see wind mills, which
indicates the presence of water at not a great depth. Here is a nice
town, some large stores, a court house and public school building,
all of brick; but what on earth keeps up the town? Possibly there
may be grazing land in the region and maybe some mining; but to a
stranger all is desert.
AT LORDSBURG
we pass into Arizona. Drummers are everywhere present. They crowd on
with their grips and sample cases at every station. The saloon is
everywhere present also. At one place, besides the depot building,
I saw no business house except a combined saloon and barber shop.
The "Tennessee Saloon" was in one place; "This here is a saloon,"
was the sign on another. After we left San Antonio, the tramps
disappear. Up to that point, I could see them looking wistfully
at the flying train in day time and at night I could see their
camp fires beside the track; but the stations are too far apart
and the picking too poor beyond San Antonio for these enterprising
travelers. Though the country seems so dry and barren, there are
evidences that sometimes they have fearful rain falls. I noticed at
several points in Arizona vast areas, covering probably thousands
of acres, where at times there are lakes or inland seas. Now the
surface is dry and cracked, with not the least sign of water except
at one spot where the depression is deepest and there is congregated
a great herd of poverty-stricken cattle. The wire fence on either
side of the road keeps me company. It makes one think the land is
fenced to keep the cattle in and you are expecting to see a great
herd every minute; but the fence belongs to the railroad and is
intended to keep cattle off the track. Think of a double line of
wire fence three thousand miles long; yes, longer than that, for the
Southern Pacific goes right on to Portland, Oregon, nearly eight
hundred miles north and to Ogden, nearly a thousand miles east of
San Francisco and the fences go with it.
AT SAN SIMONS,
in Arizona, they say there is fine grazing for cattle, one company
alone owning 75,000 head. I was on the lookout for the face of the
Apache chief, called "Cochise's Head." It is far to the southwest
on the mountain top. I fancied I saw it time and again, but when
it came in sight, there was no mistaking it. The outline of the
face with its great Roman nose looking towards the heavens, is very
distinct; for three hours it was in full view of the train. The
Apache Indians, who once roamed these plains, called that mountain
after the name of their greatest chieftain
TUCSON,
pronounced "Tuson," said to be one of the quaintest towns in all the
West and next to the oldest place in the United States, I saw only
by its electric lights. Phoenix, the capital, is thirty-four miles
from our route on a branch road. I was so charmed with descriptions
of the country thereabouts, I copy for your readers some interesting
matter:
"All this country was settled by an earlier race than any of the
present Indians. The cliffs all through these Arizona mountains
are covered with hieroglyphics and pictographs. The Salt and Gila
(Hela) river valleys are full of old ruins of early occupancy. There
are artificial mounds, hundreds of feet long, extensive canals for
irrigating purposes, and vast debris--all, a class of work the
present races are unfamiliar with. The most wonderful, or at least
the best known of all these ruins--lies three hours of stage north
of the station of Casa Grande. Father Niza, who, in 1539, visited
the country, heard of these ruins which were then regarded with awe
and veneration by the native tribes. Coronado's people visited them
in 1540, and since then many explorers have come and gone, and left
descriptions to tell us what they were and are. As they exist today,
they still show the towering adobe walls that are believed to have
been seven stories in height.
"Some of the rooms were thirty and forty feet long. Archaeologists
and ethnologists have puzzled over these ruins for ages. Today,
with their remains of great irrigating ditches all about them, they
present a hard nut for scientists to crack. However, we must stand
amazed at the extent of these ruins. One of the great canals tapped
the Salt river on the south side near the mouth of the Verde. For
three and a half miles it passes through an artificial gorge in
the Superstition mountains, cut out of solid rock to a depth of a
hundred feet. After passing the mountains, it divides into four
branches whose aggregate length is 120 miles independent of the
distributing ditches. This system of canals irrigated 1,600 square
miles of country. The engineering is perfect. There is not even a
tradition to be found of these people. We only know that at a period
fixed by scientists as 2,000 years ago, the Bradshaw mountains were
active volcanoes, and the lava, making its way through Black Canon
flowed into these canals. Still later, a great deluge flowed over
McDowell Mountains, segregating their granite sides and depositing
their wash over the upper valley and the canals to a depth of from
three to five feet. This gives us testimony as to the age of these
vast works, and tells us nothing of the millions of people who must
once have lived here in a high state of civilization.
PEOPLE GO TO EUROPE
to find ancient civilizations, when they can get them right here
at home. There isn't anything in history more fascinating than the
story of the conquest of this very region we are traveling through.
There is a dramatic recital of Spanish occupancy reaching back 280
years beyond the Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty of '46. The gold and
silver hungry Madrid government was pretty nearly pushed out by the
Indian outbreak of 1802, the Mexican revolution twenty years later,
and the Apache uprising of 1827. The country became a wilderness
almost until from 1845 to 1860, hardy settlers forced their way
into the rich valleys, established homes and began developing again
the resources of the country. Then our war came on, protection was
withdrawn, the Apaches swooped down, and it took ten years to undo
their work and begin again the building of a commonwealth. Now,
here's an empire as large as the six New England States with New
York thrown in. Its climate and scenery are so varied that they
appeal to every interest. All the semi-tropical plants grow in the
southern valleys, while the peaks of its northern mountains are
clad in perpetual snow. Here is the awe-inspiring canon of the
Colorado, the greatest and most marvelous cleft in the mountains
of the world. You can see a petrified forest here, with the trees
congealed into stone, rearing their rugged trunks fifty and seventy
feet in the air. What else does man want than that which he can find
in Arizona? It is rich in mines, in timber, grazing land, soil for
fruit culture, the best climate to be found anywhere. The wealth of
the territory is worth more than a hundred million dollars, and is
increasing with wonderful rapidity as people are coming to know its
limitless resources.
"It used to be that the consumptive had Phoenix all to himself. He
went there and the climate gave him life and health, but of late
years the agriculturist, the fruit raiser and bee keeper have
crowded him pretty closely, so that now you find the thrifty modern
city set down among groves of oranges, lemon, plum, apricot and
peach trees that make a paradise out of all that beautiful valley,
so that men find there not only health, but wealth. It is the center
of some of the greatest irrigation schemes that have been undertaken
in our age."