possibly this chapter is out of place in a book of motor travel on the pacific coast, for it has somewhat to do with journeyings by railway train and shifts the scene of action to the barren hills and green valleys of arizona—the land of mystery and contrast without peer among its sister states. in our goings back and forth to california over the santa fe trail, we had often laid plans to stop at the petrified forests near adamana and to visit phoenix and the great roosevelt dam, which waters the green and fruitful salt river valley. it is hard, however, to wrench oneself from a pullman car before the journey’s end when one has become comfortably located, and so our plans were usually deferred until some indefinite “next time.” had we taken trouble to ascertain how easily and quickly such plans can be realized, we should no doubt have carried them out much sooner.
leaving los angeles in the afternoon in a through sleeper, we awoke the following morning to see the vivid green of the salt river alfalfa278 fields all about us, reaching phoenix in time for a late breakfast. we were not posted on the hotels of the town, but went to the jefferson because it was nearest, finding it a modern, fireproof building with well-appointed, comfortable rooms. there was no meal service, however, and we were directed to a restaurant farther down the street. we also inquired about hiring a car to take us to the roosevelt dam and the clerk replied that he would have a driver connected with the hotel call on us shortly. this party appeared while we were at breakfast and expressed his willingness to serve us.
“of course you mean to spend the night at the dam,” he said, “returning tomorrow.”
we assured him that we didn’t mean anything of the sort—that our time in phoenix was limited to two days and that only one of them could be devoted to the roosevelt dam. “they tell us that it is only seventy-five miles distant,” i asserted. “surely one hundred and fifty miles isn’t much of a drive if we get away by 9:30.”
“you may think differently after you’ve made the trip,” he replied, “but i reckon it can be done if you feel that you can stand it.”
we thought we knew something of bad roads and rough going and felt sure that the trip couldn’t be much worse than many other one-hundred-and-fifty-mile jaunts we had done279 in a day, and, to get down to business, asked, “what kind of a car have you, and what will you charge us for the drive?”
“i’ve a dodge,” he replied, “and the regular price for the trip is forty dollars.”
the lady of the expedition had not said much so far but the latter part of the remark aroused her interest and slightly excited her ire. “forty dollars for one hundred and fifty miles—a six or seven-hour trip!” she exclaimed. “we don’t wish to buy your car, thank you.”
we declined to negotiate farther with a party who was such a palpable would-be robber and on coming out into the street i approached a jovial-looking old fellow in a ford labeled “for hire,” thinking more of getting a little information than of any likelihood of doing business with him.
“yes, i can take you to the dam,” he said. “drive you up to-day and bring you back tomorrow; forty dollars for the round trip.”
“but we want to get back this evening,” we replied, ignoring the unpleasant confirmation of the dodge driver’s “regular fare.”
“waal, couldn’t do it in the ford, but my son has a new buick six and he can make it all right—but he’d have to charge you fifty dollars.”
we had gotten over the first shock given us by auto rates to roosevelt dam and heard this280 with fairly steady nerves—we were bound to make the trip and a few dollars one way or the other were not to deter us. the young man was hunted up and after some dickering he consented to pilot the new buick six, the pride of his heart, on her maiden trip to the dam for the regular price, but declared it would be well after dark before he could get us back.
“do you mean to tell me,” i exclaimed, “that a machine like that will require twelve hours to do one hundred and fifty miles?”
“you’ll know more about it,” he replied, “when you’ve been over the road; besides, we’ll have to stop for lunch and of course you’ll want a little time at the dam.” to all of which we assented—and i may anticipate here enough to say that i do know more about it since i have been over the road and that while forty dollars seems pretty high auto hire for a one-hundred and-fifty-mile trip, i am convinced that it would have taken all of that out of my own car and tires had we made the run in it.
a few preliminaries detained us until nearly ten o’clock, but when we got under way our driver quickly cleared the streets of the town and we were soon skimming merrily along a fine, level road skirting a broad, tree-bordered irrigation canal. this is one of the main arteries carrying the water which gives the valley its green281 prosperity—an unruffled emerald river eighty feet broad and eight feet deep. we crossed a fine bridge over the salt river at tempe, nine miles from phoenix, and about as far beyond this town we entered mesa, the second city of the valley. so far we found the road level and good, some of it having been surfaced and otherwise improved.
beyond mesa we came quickly out of the cultivated part of the valley, pursuing a good dirt road leading through a sandy stretch of desert, toward the rugged hill range which rears its serrated crests against the silvery horizon. seen from phoenix, the mountains that encircle the verdant valley are shrouded in the intensest blue—far away hills of mystery that suggest some fairyland beyond—but as we drew nearer to them the blue shadows vanished and the bald, harsh outlines of mighty wall and towering crag seemingly barred our way. the prevailing colors were dull browns and reds and the slopes were almost devoid of vegetation. great boulder-like hills are tumbled about as though some giant had flung them in wild confusion to bar the ingress of human trespassers. the road, however, finds a crevice by which to enter the mighty barrier and about midway between phoenix and the dam it begins its conquest of these forbidding hills. somewhere we had read that282 the government had built a “boulevard” through these mountains to the dam and our preconceived notions were of a fair mountain road. we had, therefore, no mental preparation to assist us in enduring one of the crookedest, roughest, rockiest trails we ever bumped over in all our experience. the route we followed was known as the “apache trail” in pioneer days and frequently afforded a secure retreat for these troublesome savages when pursued by the u. s. troopers. in converting it into a thoroughfare for vehicles, it would seem that little has been done except to widen the old trail—a real highway to roosevelt dam is yet to be built.
the climb begins at the foot of superstition mountain, leaving the river some miles to the left. much of the road is natural granite rock, almost untouched by the hand of man; again it is blasted in the edge of a cliff, though little has been done to finish the surface to any degree of smoothness. we scrambled through the devil’s kitchen—a wild array of fantastic, multi-colored rocks—pink, yellow green—withal a beautiful spot spoiled by a senseless name.
we followed the edge of sheer cliffs or skirted sloping hillsides overlooking charming little valleys. from one point we had a far-away glimpse of the vexed river—we crossed the inevitable “hogback” and the grandest panorama283 of the whole trip burst suddenly upon our astonished vision. it is a vast, oval basin more than a thousand feet in depth, surrounded by parti-colored hills—though golden yellow seems the predominating color—on every side save for the narrow chasm by which the stream makes its escape from the canyon. but from our point of view the creek seemed a silver thread and the pines on the valley floor shrunk to mere shrubs. our driver pointed out the ranch house where we were to have lunch, though we located it with difficulty, for it seemed no larger than an ordinary dry-goods box. the road here—the only especially creditable piece of engineering on the route—descends the mighty hillside in long, swinging loops and with only moderate grades. it offers many wonderful panoramas of giant crags and towering pinnacles; at times great cliffs rise far above it and again sheer precipices fall away at its side. this wonderful vale of beauty and grandeur goes by the very unpoetical title of fish creek canyon, which again reminds us how unfortunate the pioneers often were in their nomenclature. what a pity that the sense of fitness which clung to the old indian or spanish names in the southwest or the romantic propriety that gave the oriental titles to the palaces of the grand canyon was not more common.
284 at fish creek station, we paused at a plain, rustic roadhouse, where a substantial dinner was served after considerable delay, for the landlady and her daughter appeared to be sole attendants upon ourselves and a dozen or more people who came by the stage. while awaiting the dinner call, we amused ourselves in watching the antics of a pair of young mountain lions confined in a wire cage. they were graceful, playful beasts, somewhat larger than a big cat, and about six months old, our driver said. they were caught in the vicinity, which is noted for big game, and the very rare mountain sheep can be seen on the surrounding cliffs at almost any time. the rocks assume many fantastic shapes against the skyline around the valley and by exercising a little imagination we finally could see the “lion” and the “cross” on the distant heights. leaving the station, the road follows the boisterous creek for some distance, winding among trees and boulders which skirt its banks. then we again climbed rugged granite hills almost devoid of vegetation, save many queer cacti, often gorgeous with blooms, and finally approached the river, which we followed at no great distance for the rest of the run. we saw it from the heights, whence it appeared like a green, fluttering ribbon, as it dashed over its stony bed. as we proceeded the road dipped down in the valley and finally285 came to the very banks of the stream, which it closely followed for several miles. it is a broad, beautifully clear river, plunging over the stones in foaming rapids or lying still and deep in emerald green pools. the road had been washed out for some distance by a spring flood and the new work was excruciatingly rough and strewn with razor-edged stones which wrought havoc on the smooth new tires. the scene at this point, however, is one of wild and entrancing beauty. far above us rose the rocky walls, splashed with reds and yellows; below us the river banks were lined with cottonwoods, aspens, and willows beneath which were green meadows, with prosperous-looking cattle grazing upon them.
the road swings away from the river for some distance and we again entered the hills; we crawled up narrow, steep grades and around the corners of stupendous cliffs. ere long a deep-voiced roar announced that the object of our pilgrimage was near at hand. as we came out upon a promontory, we got a full view of the mighty arc of stone that shuts the vast wall of water in the heart of the blue hill range before us. torrents were pouring from the spillways and a rainbow arched the clouds of mist and foam that rose at the base of the three-hundred-foot fall. we paused in wonder and admiration to286 contemplate the scene—for once the works of man rival the phenomena of nature in beauty and grandeur, though we must confess that the natural background is a very helpful accessory to the wonderful view. back of the dam the shining blue lake, twenty-five square miles in area, stretches away between the granite hills, which show little traces of vegetation save scattered scrub pines and cedars. near at hand the reddish-brown volcanic rocks stand out in bold, bare outlines, but gradually softened by the blue mists of the distance, they take on the semblance of fairy towers and domes. substantial iron bridges two hundred feet long span the spillways on either side of the dam and afford access to a sixteen-foot roadway along the top of the mighty structure.
from the road one gets the most adequate idea of the gigantic dimensions and great solidity of the dam; a few figures illustrating these may be admissable here. the height from lowest foundation is 284 feet; thickness at base, 168 feet; at crest, 20 feet; total length, including spillways, 1080 feet. the cost of the entire work was nine million dollars, of which three and a half millions were spent on the dam alone. five and one-half years were required to complete the job and formal dedication occurred on the eighteenth of march, 1911, with the redoubtable teddy himself287 as master of ceremonies. it was not until nearly four years later that the reservoir was entirely filled. there is enough water in reserve to supply all lands now under the system with sufficient moisture for three years, putting any chance of crop failure from shortage out of the question. about three and a half feet of water annually is required to produce crops in the salt river valley and this, with the warm sunshine and fertile soil, brings forth a yield that is amazing to farmers in rain-watered sections. a valuable by-product of the system is the water power available at the dam and at various points on the river. the aggregate will exceed twenty-five thousand horse power, which will ultimately pay for the maintenance of the system, giving the land-owner his water service free.
crossing the dam, we followed the road for a mile or two to webb lodge, a comfortable-looking rustic inn built on a point of land extending well into the lake. a good many phoenix people come here to spend the week-end and enjoy the excellent fishing. a number of stage tourists also stop at the lodge for the night, completing the trip to globe, forty-five miles farther, on the following day. we may confess that the thought of a pause for the night here appealed mightily to us, but our plans did not admit of such a stop, and after a half hour’s rest288 in the big chairs on the lodge veranda we signified our readiness for the return trip.
the prospect of immediately retracing our way over the cruel road which we had just covered was not at all alluring and we would recommend to would-be visitors to make arrangements for a through trip to globe by auto-stage, resuming the railroad there. our return trip was not entirely without its reward, for we saw many weirdly beautiful effects as the sun went down over the giant hills and the blue shadows veiled the mysterious deeps of the savage ravines. besides, the viewpoints were so vastly different that it was often hard to believe we were pursuing the road which we followed in coming. the sky was perfectly clear and the western horizon was a vast, burning expanse as the sun disappeared, though there was but little afterglow.
but we were hardly in form to appreciate the weird gradations of light and color and the almost terrifying beauty of the twilight mountains about us. the terrible road had worn the lady of the party to the limit of endurance and our anxiety to get out of the fearful hills constantly increased. it seemed an age before we rounded the black bulk of superstition mountains and saw the moonlit mesa glimmering before us. even the motor seemed to give a sigh289 of relief as the car reached the level plain and settled down to a swift, steady pace after the strenuous work in the hills. mesa and tempe were quickly passed and we reached the well-lighted streets of phoenix a little after nine o’clock. the lady was so thoroughly fagged out that she declared there was no possible hope that she would be able to leave the hotel the next day. a night’s rest in a comfortable bed, however, worked wonders and, though there was considerable complaint about sore joints and muscles in the morning, she declared herself ready, after a late breakfast, to carry out our plan to explore the vicinity of phoenix during the day.
we soon struck a bargain with the old man whose son had piloted us to the dam, to show us, with the assistance of his trusty ford, what he considered worth while in and about the city. he proved an excellent guide, for he apparently knew every foot of the country by heart, though perhaps he was a little too much of a “booster” to impart unprejudiced information about phoenix. we found it quite impossible to disabuse him of the idea that we were seeking investments in the valley—he evidently couldn’t conceive of any other reason for the interest we were evincing in the country. he first descanted upon the climate—the practice of every loyal westerner—and290 we had learned the futility of disputing the asseverations made in such cases.
“i lived in missouri several years ago and my wife suffered so terribly from rheumatism and other ills that we decided on a change of climate. we moved to los angeles and lived there for three years, but there wasn’t much improvement and on the advice of a friend we came to phoenix a few years ago. my wife is perfectly well now and i feel that i’ve added years to my life. it’s the warm, dry climate that does the business; california is too wet in the winter months. pretty hot in summer?—well, yes, but we don’t feel it like you do back east. i stay here the year round and enjoy the weather all the time. the records prove that the sun shines eighty-four per cent of the possible time and there is an average of only thirty-seven rainy days in the year. yes, it’s good enough for me, and you’ll like it, too, if you decide to come here.”
we first drove about the town and noted the handsome public and private buildings, the wide, well-paved streets, and the many comfortable residences with their pretty grounds. not many of these could be classed as pretentious, though there are several fine homes on the broad avenue leading to the government indian school. the state capitol, a small but handsome building of classic design, surrounded by ample291 grounds, is situated in the center of the town. tucson has given up the claim which it once pressed for the capitol, and no doubt a more adequate structure will be built before many years. there are several imposing public school buildings, classic lines prevailing in the architecture of nearly all of them. a beautiful y. m. c. a. building with the mission motif predominating, fronts a pretty little park. i have already mentioned the hotels, which of course greatly outclass anything one would be likely to find in an eastern town two or three times as large as phoenix. near the city is the ingleside country club, with a handsome club house where winter visitors are made welcome. nor did our guide permit us to overlook the insane asylum adjoining the city and assured us that the big addition then building was made necessary by prohibition, recently adopted in arizona—leaving us to draw any conclusions we might see fit.
leaving the town we pursued the broad avenue leading to the indian school—a splendid road running straight away to the blue mountains, sixty miles distant. it seems to me that i never saw elsewhere mountains so intensely blue as those which surround this arcadian valley. perhaps the universal greenness accentuates all colors. surely it was an earthly paradise on the day of which i am writing—a bright, fresh day292 with a light breeze laden with the odors of orange blossoms and new-mown alfalfa. the indian school is small and the buildings old, but the surroundings seem ideal for teaching the rising generation of red men the ways of civilization.
from the indian school we drove to some orange groves not far distant and made no attempt to dispute our guide’s emphatic claim that they were quite the equal of the best groves about riverside or azusa.
“they can grow any fruit here that can be grown in california,” he declared, “and some that can’t be matured there—dates, for instance. we have frosts sometimes, but i’ve seen worse ones about los angeles. our main crops never fail, though; we can always count on a full yield of grain, alfalfa, sugar beets, or a dozen other staples. and i want to ask you if you ever saw finer cattle than those right before your eyes.”
we followed a road along one of the canals which spread like a network over the valley and furnish unlimited water for the 182,000 acres now under irrigation. about 30,000 additional acres can be reclaimed by pumping water to a slightly higher level and this will comprise about all the available land in the valley. none of it remains in possession of the government and prices of improved land now range from $100 to $500 per acre—very low, our enthusiastic informant asserted,293 when you consider that a single year’s crop will often pay twenty-five to fifty per cent of the original cost of the land. and this did not seem unreasonable when we saw the enormous crops of wheat and alfalfa which are being harvested—and the latter yields two to six cuttings per year. of course, there may be another side to the story of salt river valley’s prosperity—as there is to nearly everything on this mundane sphere—but our interest was too casual to spur us to any careful investigation.
we were back to our hotel in the early afternoon, after having covered a large part of the roads, good, bad, and indifferent, in the immediate vicinity of the town. if we had time to go farther afield, we were assured that there is much of interest within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles about phoenix. tucson, one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, has the state university and one of the oldest and most picturesque of spanish missions in the southwest—that of san xavier del bac, still in charge of the franciscan monks. granite reef diversion dam is thirty miles to the northeast and just beyond that are the ruins of old fort mcdowell, established in the days of the apache wars. about it is an indian reservation where the sons and daughters of these fierce red warriors now pursue the arts of peace—they are famous basket-makers294 and some of them are prosperous farmers and cattle raisers. the gila indian reservation is seventeen miles to the southwest and is remarkable for its excellent buildings, which were erected by the indians themselves. one tribe, the pimas, is noted for its pottery, and its proudest boast is that it has never been at war with the whites.
all of these points may be reached by motor over roads ranging from fair to bad—but whatever their condition, constantly improving, for arizona, despite her limited population as compared with her vast areas, is making every effort to improve her highways. our old driver left us at the hotel with the earnest plea that we give the merits of phoenix as a place to live our careful consideration and we assured him that if we did not become citizens of the town it would not be his fault.
our plans were already made for a stop at the petrified forests of arizona—for these are in arizona, though it takes a night’s run on the santa fe to reach them in this land of magnificent distances. we were met at the little goods-box station of adamana by a short, swarthy individual who seized our grips and piloted us to the bungalow-like inn across the track, where the proprietor, mr. chester b. campbell, welcomed us and assured us that in response to our295 telegram he had reserved “the best in the house for us.” we found the best to be had in the campbell hotel quite primitive enough to suit the taste of the most ardent advocate of the simple life; bath-rooms and running water were taboo and telephone and call bells minus in rooms. but things were clean and one is hardly entitled to waldorf-astoria accommodations for two-fifty per day—“american plan.”
we barely paused to deposit our baggage in the room assigned to us before signifying to mr. campbell our desire to visit the wonders which had brought us to adamana and we were assured that nearly everything worth while could be done in a day—since fords had superseded horses and spring wagons. and i suppose it was fortunate for me that this shift in transportation methods had been made; otherwise what excuse could i have found for including the story of our experiences in a chronicle of the motor car? and there was no time lost in “hitching up.” almost immediately we heard the familiar growl of the ford engine and were told that our car was ready. we found the swart, stocky individual who met us at the station in charge of the steering wheel and he proved an encyclopaedia of information, useful and otherwise, as well as an artist in piloting the little machine over the sandy wastes.
296 “we’ll take in the north sigillaria first,” he declared, “and there’ll be plenty of time after dinner to do the others.”
it was the last of may—a clear, fresh day with a rather stiff breeze, and the desert sand along our route was starred with many beautiful blooms which elicited exclamations of admiration from the ladies of the party. they must needs pause to gather a few of the flowers and inquired as they climbed back into the car,
“are there any rattlesnakes in this country?”
“plenty of ’em,” responded our pilot. “i just shipped a big fellow east yesterday.”
“do you make a business of catching snakes?” i asked.
“not much—but a young lady who was here said she’d like to have one and i promised to send it,” he replied with the air of a man whose promise is always equal to performance, and went on to regale us with other weird stories of adventure with deadly reptiles.
“any mountain lions in this section?” i asked, thinking to afford him subject-matter for further stories of his experiences.
“never heard of any,” he promptly answered.
“roosevelt in his new book tells about hunting297 them near the grand canyon,” i began, but he interrupted me with a snort of disgust.
“roosevelt is the biggest —— faker in the whole country. you can bet your life he never hunted mountain lions in arizona.”
“but i read it yesterday in his new book,” i insisted.
“mebbe you did—he may write about it, all right, but i’ll gamble this ford agin a copper cent that he never did it.”
i saw there was no use trying to defend the veracity of our strenuous ex-president to a man with such a righteous horror of a faker and therefore desisted.
in the meanwhile the ford had scrambled up a short incline to the verge of a gigantic chasm and paused. from the gorgeous colorings—the vivid dashes of red, yellow, purple, orange, and all the gamut of the mingling of these—we might have fancied before us a section of the grand canyon in miniature, save that the floor of the great depression was comparatively level. looking westward down this weird prismatic valley, our view was unobstructed for twenty-five miles or more and the vivid color belts gradually melted into a lavender haze which formed the horizon.
“that’s a corner of the painted desert,” said our guide, “and those black stumps and298 blocks you see down yonder, a mile or so, are pieces of the petrified trees. there’s a trail so you can walk down if you want to.” nobody exhibited any keen anxiety to hit the trail and the driver confirmed the general disinclination by saying that the trip was hardly worth while; we should see the other forests, far larger and more interesting, at close range. so, after due contemplation of the scene—for this stretch of the painted desert is far more worth while than the forest at this point—we gave word for the return.
on the way the driver pointed out the line of the original santa fe trail which we crossed and i made some remark about the improvement in roads and transportation methods which enabled a transcontinental driver only a week before to complete the ocean-to-ocean trip in a little over seven days. our driver had not heard of this feat and as the purport of my remark percolated to his brain he burst out,
“don’t believe it; clean impossible for a single driver to do it. he’d have to average five hundred miles a day.”
i assured him, however, that it had been done; that the los angeles papers were full of it when we left that city.
“don’t care if they were; there’s a fake of some sort about it,” and he expressed his disapproval299 of fakes in general by urging the ford at a vicious rate over the sandy trail.
as we came near the hotel we saw signs of great activity in the stable yard—the girls mounting saddle horses and cowboys dashing hither and thither in the valley beyond.
“big cattle round-up to-day,” said our driver, and we were seized with a desire to see as much as possible of said round-up. mr. campbell assured us that we still had time before dinner to visit the scene of the round-up and that our driver could take the ford anywhere a mustang could go. so we struck out across the broad, sandy wash of the rio puerco in face of stinging gusts of sand, for the wind had been steadily rising all morning. we pursued our way across the desert toward the scene of activity, jumping over hummocks, plunging in and out of little ravines, and crawling through the sagebrush, but making progress all the time at an astonishing rate.
our driver in the meanwhile was regaling us with blood-curdling tales of his experiences as a cowpuncher—stories of thrilling fights with indians, of how he was lost for days in a blizzard to be rescued in last extremity, and similar harrowing adventures. he was interrupted by a cowboy who rode up to us, touching his sombrero to the ladies. “hello, gulliver,” he cried, “how’s the ford for rounding ’em up?”300 our pilot now had little to say, but the newcomer was very courteous in answering our queries and explaining the maneuvers of the round-up.
they were now coming in from every side, bringing about a thousand cattle in all—the object being to separate—“cut out”—the cows with young calves for branding and the merchantable steers for shipment to the east. the herd was assembled in a level plain near a corral and the cowboys, some three or four dozen in number, dashed furiously about, dexterously singling out the proper animals and turning them into the corrals. sometimes a calf, bawling wildly, would bolt for the hills, followed by his terrified mama. it was astonishing how fast and how far the little beast’s spindling legs could carry him, but his pursuer soon had him lassoed and dragged him, in spite of his stiff legs, to the corral. poor fellow, if he could have realized the fate awaiting him, he would probably have increased his desperate struggles for freedom; a little later he was thrown to the ground and his owner’s brand imprinted on his smooth hide with a red-hot iron.
one of the ladies of our party had a kodak and, being anxious to have a few snaps at closer range, asked one of the cowboys to take the camera and ride nearer the herd.
“i’m afraid i don’t know how to work the301 machine. say, gulliver, you take my horse and try it,” which gulliver did with sublime assurance. in the meanwhile perhaps a dozen girls from the hotel and vicinity came cantering to the scene and were the recipients of most respectful attention on part of the cowboys. a couple of heavy covered wagons came lumbering on the scene a little later and paused beside a pond filled by windmills on the opposite side of the herd.
“them’s the grub wagons,” said gulliver, “shall we drive round and see them get dinner?” to which proposal we readily assented. the two cooks had some difficulty in getting a fire started on account of the wind, which had increased to a veritable gale, driving the sand in stinging gusts. one of the cooks dipped a bucket of water from the pool and poured a quantity of the murky liquid into a dishpan of flour which he vigorously stirred with his hands. he soon had some biscuits which looked quite good and his compeer was busy frying steak in huge pans. canned vegetables and fruits were produced from the wagons and a very passable meal was soon ready for serving on wooden picnic plates. true, everything was liberally sprinkled with the sand which constantly filled the air, but it was clear from the husky boys flocking in to the repast that arizona sand isn’t deleterious to the constitution. we were invited to join in the repast,302 but the ladies decided it was time to return to the hotel and we departed with profuse thanks to our would-be hosts.
we did not fare any too well at the hotel—the help had gone almost en masse to the round-up, leaving most of the work to be done by the proprietor and his wife.
“a round-up means a holiday to almost everyone in adamana,” explained mr. campbell. “it’s no easy matter to keep help at the very best, and when anything occurs to break the monotony of our life, we have to let our people make the most of it.”
we agreed that a chance to see the round-up ourselves more than compensated for any inconvenience we experienced on account of it, and everybody took it good-naturedly.
gulliver, however, expressed contempt for the round-up; it was hopelessly tame and civilized compared with those of old days, in which he had participated, when every man wore a big gun and cartridge belt and shootings were delightfully common. he was ready after lunch with his ford to pilot us to the forests lying south of adamana. had not our time been limited, we should have demurred; the wind had risen to a perfect gale, clouds of sand obstructed our view, and gave a faint yellow tinge to the sky. crossing the river wash, the ford stalled303 in a fresh sand drift and gulliver requested us to dismount and “give her a lift.” a little sagebrush thrown under the wheels, an energetic push by the passengers, some vigorous growling, and more or less snorting and scrambling on part of the car brought it out of the drift and we went on our way rejoicing. a wide waste of sand-blown desert stretched before us; not a tree was visible save a few small cottonwoods along the rio puerco, which, being interpreted, means “river of mud”—though sand would be more appropriate just now. in the rainy season it often becomes a raging torrent, cutting off access for the time to the southern forests, but mr. campbell hoped to have a bridge before long. for six miles we followed the desert trail, often nearly obliterated by the drifting sand. no human habitations were in sight, only rocks and sagebrush-studded sand with fragments of a pre-historic indian village or two.
the first forest is not of great extent, but is interesting for its famous natural log bridge, sixty feet long, spanning a deep, tree-fringed chasm. the great trunk is four or five feet in diameter and despite earnest protests from the female contingent i walked across it in face of the gale, which was, of course, the only element of danger.
the second forest is larger, comprising304 about two thousand acres. it has many huge trunks almost intact, including the “twin sisters,” the most distinguishing feature of this forest. gulliver assured us, however, that the third forest, six or seven miles farther, was the one most deserving of our attention and if, when we had done this, we still hankered for petrified forests, we could stop again at the first two on our return. he took occasion to regale us with additional chapters from his personal experiences—some of which might indeed have fitted very appropriately in the career of his namesake. i suggested that he ought to wear goggles to protect his eyes from the sand—one of them was badly blood-shot.
“the sand hain’t got nothing to do with that eye,” he said. “one time when i was on the range i got into a little dispute with another cow-puncher and he shoved his gun in my face. i knocked it to one side but the bullet grazed my cheek, and i got a bad powder burn in the eye.”
“well, i suppose you didn’t do a thing to that fellow,” i ventured.
“just took his gun away from him and told him to be more keerful next time—but here’s the third forest. we’ll just leave the ford and take a little round on foot.”
and, indeed, we soon agreed that one who305 wishes to see the real wonder and beauty of the petrified forests may well devote most of his time to the third, or rainbow forest, as it is known locally. here are hundreds of huge stone trunks, many five or six feet in diameter, and over two hundred feet long, lying as they fell, but broken by some mighty convulsion into sections a few feet in length. every detail of the bark is preserved, in some cases in apparently its original colors, so that except for the fractures one might imagine before him a great redwood log of comparatively recent date. but the great marvel of color is seen in fractures—every tint of the prism, with blood-red and golden yellow predominating, combine to astonish and delight the beholder. the grain and annual rings of growth are plainly marked on many of the gigantic blocks, enabling scientists to judge pretty accurately of the age of the trees when destruction overtook them—and some of them had surely attained their millennium. everywhere on the sands were scattered millions of jewel-like fragments, glittering in the sun and exciting our cupidity to possess specimens of these curious prismatic gems. we picked up what seemed the most beautiful specimens only to discard them for others that happened to strike our fancy more forcibly, and in the end we had stowed away several pounds of the306 wonderful stone-wood in gulliver’s ford. of course we knew that only the smallest fraction—a few glistening chips—could be taken with us, but sinbad the sailor in the valley of diamonds must have experienced much the same feelings as ourselves amidst these exhaustless jewels. for there is no danger of the tourists depleting the supply. millions of tons, covering square miles in area, are scattered about on the surface and perhaps as much more is buried just beneath it. commercial exploitation of the wood was prohibited since december 1906, when the forests were made a national monument and the preservation of these wonderful deposits is thus assured for all time to come.
many solutions have been offered to the question, how did natural forces operate to produce this almost incredible spectacle which our eyes behold? “the wise guys say that these trees grew hundreds of miles from the place,” said gulliver, “and some big flood washed them here and buried them under a half mile of sand. there they laid a million years or so, changing into stone, and then along comes another flood and washes the sand off from ’em.”
there are other explanations in the books, but perhaps this is as good as any; it all must have happened before the advent of the human race upon earth and before the surface of the307 earth had assumed the definite shape which now confronts us. some declare that a great inland sea overwhelmed this prehistoric forest and the petrification took place beneath its waters, which deposited deep layers of rock and sand over the trees. but however it occurred, the great marvel is before our eyes, acres and acres, profusely covered with chalcedony, agate, onyx, cornelian, and amethyst, for all of these are here in color if not in actual composition. though no habitation now greets the eye—the only structure being a covered platform on a little eminence affording a view of a wide area of this strange prostrate forest—human beings once lived among these weirdly-colored stone trees. skeletons and rare old potteries are often unearthed and ruins of aztec villages are found in this vicinity. how these primitive men subsisted here is hard to conjecture, for it would be difficult to imagine a land more inhospitable for the support of animal life.
when we were preparing to return, i asked gulliver if it were not possible to visit the blue forest, to complete our round of the wonders.
“the blue forest,” he snorted in disgust, “that’s one of john muir’s fakes. nothing there worth seeing and would take you another day; have to make the trip with a team.”
the latter assertion was sufficient to quench308 our desire to visit the blue forest and the question whether it was one of john muir’s fakes or not became a matter of indifference.
“there’ll still be time for you to visit the hieroglyphics after you get back if you want to,” said gulliver, “but that’s another trip that even a ford can’t make; it’s only a four-mile round, though, and the team can do it in an hour. no, i don’t drive the team myself; i just officiate as chauffeur. alkali ike will do it about right, though, and he knows more about them hieroglyphics than the fellers that scratched them on the rocks. they’re mighty curious, and you’ll miss it if you don’t see them.”
we didn’t propose to miss it and a small charabanc was ordered forthwith on our return to the hotel, as several others proposed to join our party. the wind was raging stronger than ever and the whole river wash was hidden in clouds of driven sand. through this we had to pass at a snail’s pace, for it was heavy going. we could scarcely see a foot ahead and the stinging sand filled our eyes and hair and when anyone tried to speak he got a mouthful of it. the driver bowed his head and let the horses wallow along at their own pace until they finally scrambled up the opposite bank.
a few rods beyond the river the driver asked us to dismount and led us among the huge sandstone309 ledges which overlook the valley. he first conducted us to the prehistoric ruins of an aztec community house, where walls of rough stone about a foot in height laid in mortar mark the outlines of numerous dwellings which fronted a plaza one hundred and thirty feet wide by two hundred and ten feet long. near the center of this court has been found a small “kiva” or underground ceremonial chamber similar to those of the pueblos to-day, and the flagstone pavement is still in good preservation.
near this ruin the hieroglyphics may be seen; they are cut in the stones of the cliffs along the river for the distance of more than a mile. the “cutting,” however, of the smooth sandstone has been done with some hard substance, probably bits of petrified wood, rather than any metal instrument. some of the carvings are probably symbolical, and the meaning is not easy to decipher. others, however, tell their story plainly enough. the most ambitious effort is supposed to represent a royal wedding. the figures indicate dancing and rejoicing and the priest may be distinguished by the symbolic “bird of wisdom” which he holds in his hand. there are also representations of flocks and herds and many individual birds and animals, some quite cleverly done. there is a long-legged stork, and what he holds in his bill is evidently310 intended for a frog, though it might pass for a baby by a stretch of the imagination. altogether, these strange carvings are as interesting as they are mysterious. their age can only be guessed at, but few authorities put it at less than a thousand years. no history exists of the people whose lives are represented here; even tradition is silent.
after inspecting the ruins and the hieroglyphics in the immediate vicinity, we were driven for a mile or so beneath the mighty cliffs along the river. at intervals additional carvings were to be seen, often high up on the rocks. returning, we passed near the scene of the round-up, where a few cowboys were still engaged in branding the calves—a scene which none of the ladies of the party wished to linger over. it was nearly dark when we recrossed the river—if we may use the name for the wide strip of sand where the puerco rages at rare intervals. the wind had slightly subsided, though the sand was still disagreeable enough.
we were quite ready for a substantial dinner, but things were still badly disarranged at the hotel. a dance always follows a round-up and of course none of the hotel girls were willing to miss such an event. even the cook had disappeared and the guests had to be satisfied with311 the efforts of mr. campbell and wife, who rose to the occasion in a very creditable manner.
after dinner the guests lounged about the comfortable lobby of the hotel; there was little to attract one to the rooms until he was ready to go to bed. i don’t know whether it was a representative petrified-forest crowd or not, but it was certainly cosmopolitan. there was a dutch doctor and his wife from java—exceedingly non-committal on the subject of the european war; a middle-aged english lady, professing to be an invalid but doing the hardest “stunts” everywhere—she even ate the cowboy dinner at the round-up—accompanied by a very intelligent danish lady as a companion and manager; and several plain american citizens like ourselves from widely scattered sections of the country. the conversation, as may be imagined, was varied and generally interesting. the proprietor, who joined us later, told many entertaining anecdotes of his experiences in the indian country to which he made frequent visits to purchase blankets for his store. he said that he made it a rule never to decline the hospitality of the indians or traders, no matter how filthy they might be, since they were sure to resent any squeamishness on part of a visitor.
“i was invited to eat in one shack,” he said, “where conditions beggared description (i fancy312 the principal dish was dog); and where the table was simply black with flies, but i joined in as if it had been a repast at the waldorf-astoria. that’s the only way to get the confidence and the genuine friendship of these people. of course, i was situated differently from the ordinary tourist, for i have regular dealings with both the indians and the traders.”
the guests generally joined in expressing the hope that circumstances might not arise to put their good manners to such a test.
mr. campbell has occasionally outfitted and conducted parties to the various indian reservations and particularly to the moki snake dance. on his last excursion to moki-land he conducted a party of some thirty people at a round rate of two hundred and fifty dollars per head, and the general impression prevailed among them that he was coining money a la rockefeller. the fact was, he assured us, that so great were the difficulties in securing supplies and especially forage for the horses, that his profits on the trip were negligible.
the round trip to the navajo country can be made via ford in two days and gulliver had orders to be ready to take the “invalid” english lady and her companion on this excursion the following day, but it was deferred on account of313 the wind storm which raged in even greater fury than the day before.
campbell is an expert on navajo blankets, of which he has a very large collection in the little store which he runs in connection with his hotel. there are blankets of all degrees, ranging up to three hundred dollars in price. during the holidays he does a considerable mail-order business in all parts of the country by means of a magazine advertising campaign.
at breakfast we found the serving girls again on the job, looking a little blase after the dissipation of the round-up and dance. they declared the latter a disappointment; it was too tame and uneventful. “why, there wasn’t even a fight,” said a blonde-haired german damsel who brought our coffee and hot cakes. to elucidate her remark, mr. campbell explained that while “gun toting” in arizona is entirely obsolete and bloodshed quite as uncommon and unpopular as in any part of the country, few dances in adamana end without a fist-fight between some of the cowboys. naturally, the men greatly outnumber the maidens and contests for favors are almost sure to result in warlike demonstrations. the ladies have doubtless come to consider these collisions between rivals as in some314 degree a tribute to the popularity of the female sex and when a dance passes off too peaceably they feel as if their charms have not been adequately appreciated.
we boarded the california limited about noon to resume our eastward journey. we agreed that the petrified forests are well worth while; we are sure that if the traveling public was generally aware how easily these strange stone trees can be reached and how well visitors are taken care of by mr. campbell and his helpers—not forgetting the efficient and entertaining gulliver—a far greater number of passengers would “drop off” for a day or two at adamana.
