The Cruise of a Schooner Part 5

We make a few inquiries here as to the shortest route to Green River, and these are the directions we receive: "Go up Gra.s.s Valley by Loa to Hanksville, then over Dirty Devil to San Rafael and on to Green River." This didn't sound nearly so far as the way we had planned to go so I asked, "Anything the matter with our going that way?"

Our informant laughed and said, "Well, that is the shortest way, but there isn't much water and there is plenty of sand and not many folks or much trail."

"How much sand?" I asked, and when he replied, "Well, I guess there is thirty miles of it getting over Dirty Devil," I said right then we wouldn't go. He then asked why we didn't try going up through Marysvale, then up Salida Canyon to Castledale, and out that way. He said we might have a chance that way. We certainly would not the shortest way, and as this latter was the way we had in our minds to go, we told him so and he seemed quite relieved.

"It is just sure poison the other way," he said, "unless you go horseback and keep going." We leave our friend still talking about Green River and start on for Marysvale.

I think we must have left the Dixie Country when we came over into the Sevier River Valley from Parowan and Paragonah. Although I am not sure that there is any definite dividing line, we do feel a difference. The people here on the Sevier are newer comers; the houses are built differently, and as we get closer to Marysvale on the railroad there seems to be more talk of new irrigation systems, litigation and general cussedness, which to my mind is a sign of business progress not in evidence below and not needed here.

Another cold dusty day's drive brought us to Marysvale, between mountains with patches of snow, and we tie up and make a raid on the postoffice.

Chapter VII

Along the Rio Grande Western Railroad

We drove into Marysvale on the morning of June 15, but did not see the town until we were directly over it, so to speak. It lays just under a bluff and we were literally on top of it before we could see it. We had expected to find a much larger place, as it is the terminal of the Rio Grande Western Railroad, but it is a rather dilapidated looking town of only three hundred population, set down in a basin. The location is ideal. Swiss mountains with snow caps to the north and east, a swift little river on the edge of the town, and high tablelands to the south protect it from the winds. It could be made a charming place and may be some day, but it held nothing of interest for us except the postoffice, and so after getting our mail and some provisions we started for Salina, which we understand is about seventy-five miles north of here on the railroad.

The trail took us across the river and over the Sevier Range of mountains into Poverty Flat, which we reached at 2 P. M. The pull over the Sevier Range was short, but steep. It was only thirteen miles, but the first eight seemed to be straight up. If the road had not been very good, it would have been impossible for us to have made it even with three horses, but having reached the top we had a magnificent view, and we enjoyed looking down at the town and river and over the mountains, while the horses were getting their lungs into working order again, before dropping down to Poverty Flat.

At a ranch we obtained permission to put our horses in the corral and give them a good feed of alfalfa, and, as they had done a day's work, we decided to stay here until the next day. We got a bit of family history and some local traditions from the man at the ranch. His name I have forgotten, but that is immaterial. He did not belong to the Race Suicide Club. He had ten children; two were married. He and his family live in the town of Monroe near here in the winter, and the children go to school. They come out here and farm in the summer. We understood Monroe was called "Monkeytown," and it seems that both the town and the mesa were nicknamed by an Irishman years ago, who probably was quite a wit, and the names still stick. Two or three different parties had tried to make a living on the mesa and had been starved out, so he called it "Poverty Flat." He evidently was a man who had ideas of his own, and, believing most of the folks in town to be only imitators, he conceived a great dislike for them, and when he went away from home, which he did quite frequently, if any one asked where he was from he would say, "From Monkeytown." So, while it is "Monroe" on the map, it is still "Monkeytown" to the surrounding country.

The next morning we drove past Elsenor and on to Monroe, which we found to be quite a good-sized town with telephone and electric light, and it seemed quite up to date for a town away from the railroad. From Monroe we went on ten miles farther to Richfield, a town of two thousand population, on the railroad, where we mailed some letters, leaving at 3:30 P. M. for Salina. We made twenty-five miles this day and pa.s.sed through three Mormon towns, all seeming prosperous, and the country well irrigated. Just north of Richfield we saw a new irrigation ditch which, when completed, will take care of about a thousand acres. The Sevier Valley here reminded us of Southern California, but the orange trees were lacking. The day was fine, but the snow still lay in patches on the mountains and the air had a chill in it.

We camped at night on the desert side of the valley, and just as we were about to turn in the wind came up, the sky was overcast, and it began to rain. So we put down our wagon cover and made the bed inside, but just as we got inside, much to our disgust, the moon came out and it was all over. We were inside, so we stayed, but did not sleep as well as usual.

Friday morning, the seventeenth, we drove the twelve miles into Salina, over a very dusty road. That short sentence seems an easy way over twelve miles of horrible road, but it could not be helped. It was the only road, and we had begun to find that in this country the roads were all dusty that were travelled much, and those that were not travelled much were practically impa.s.sable, because they were not roads at all--just trails. This seemed to be the dryest year in the history of this country and the farther along we went the more complaints we heard. We had not seen any rain since starting and, except for the false alarm of the night before, we were to travel a good many miles more before getting rained on.

Reaching Salina, where we expected to leave the railroad and go east to Green River, we made a few purchases in the provision line and then inquired as to the trail over into Castle Valley. We were surprised when told we couldn't get up Salina Canyon into the valley, and that if we were going to Green River we would have to go north about a hundred miles, and that while it probably was one hundred and fifty miles farther that way, we could make it easily enough, but with our outfit we couldn't possibly make the canyon trail because it was washed out. As this was not the first time we had been told we would have to depart from our straight line and go around, we decided not to be easily discouraged, and so began to look about for some one who knew absolutely the condition of the trail.

We were not long in finding a young fellow who had come over a few days before, and he walked out and took a look at our outfit. He looked quite a while at the wide tires and the wagon top and finally said, "I believe I could make it with my team, but I would advise you fellows not to try it."

I said, "Do you mean that your team could take that wagon over, or do you mean they could take your wagon?"

"I mean I could drive them over with that wagon, but they are used to the mountains and rocks, and I don't think that team can do it."

"All right," I said, "over we go. I think this team is as good as yours, and if you can do it, I can."

So we started, but I had occasion several times to think he was right before we got there, as you will see, but I had begun to believe in those horses and in my ability to drive them anywhere with that big wagon, except up a tree.

Chapter VIII

Salina Canyon

Leaving town we drove about three miles to the mouth of Salina Canyon, and put in about two and a half hours at noon so that the horses might be in good shape for the climb. It was sixty miles, we were told, to the town of Emery in Castle Valley, thirty miles of which was up grade and very rocky. We had a sack of oats and a bale of hay, and expected to make it in two days and a half.

There had been twenty miles of railroad built up this canyon, but it had been all washed out and hung up among the scenery, before ever a train was run over it; and that seemed to be the condition of the trail also as we got higher up. All the afternoon we drove three horses, and the trail kept getting worse. Finally we found a piece of railroad grade we could drive on, and later drove through a railroad tunnel. The water in places had washed trees and boulders weighing a ton up on to the tracks, where it had not washed the grade away entirely. I can laugh now, but I evidently did not laugh then as I read the following extract from my diary:

"This is the most dangerous canyon yet, and driving a spike team on the edge of perdition, with a road full of boulders as big as a bushel basket, is not restful."

We made only about six miles this first afternoon in the canyon, when darkness overtook us, and after getting through the tunnel we found a level spot and camped.

The next morning, June 18, was perfect, and our camp at the mouth of the tunnel, in a circular basin, was so interesting we did not get started until seven-thirty. Right at the start we had a long climb that taxed the strength and patience of the horses, as well as our own. In some places we could not drive spike, so Kate and Bess had to do their best alone. The trail twisted and doubled, went straight up and straight down, and so near the edge of the canyon there wasn't six inches between the outside wheels and nothing. It was in such places that it was dangerous to drive three horses and awfully hard getting up with two. Between watching the road and the horses it was a sleight-of-hand performance not to have smashed the water barrel on the inside next the rocks, but I b.u.mped the rocks only once, and then did no damage.

About ten o'clock we worked down into the bed of the stream, and driving up through the water and over the rocks we met two teams. The drivers apparently didn't know whether they would be able to go any farther or not and were off on foot looking over the country, leaving the teams in the care of the women, right in midstream. We drove alongside and asked how the trail was above, and one woman said it was impa.s.sable, but that they had gotten that far and it seemed to be getting worse. We told them if it was impa.s.sable above they could get down very easily, and as people do not seem to want to talk much when they think they may be doing something foolish, I avoided smiling and drove on up stream, just as a colt of theirs jumped off the bank about ten feet high, and fell into the creek behind us. Fortunately its legs were not broken. It seemed under the impression that our outfit was the one it belonged to, so it floundered up stream after us, but, soon discovering its mistake, turned back.

When we stopped for lunch a lone horseman pulled up and inquired if we had seen the Johnson outfit. We concluded that was as good an excuse as any for his stopping and we let him have some tobacco, which was evidently what he was looking for instead of the Johnson outfit. He was a sheep herder, so we let him pa.s.s without much notice, as we still had some of the cowpunchers' antipathy for any one who herds sheep, although many years had pa.s.sed since we had "punched."

Starting on again after lunch, the first three miles were worse than any we had been over. Doc went ahead with Dixie and would wait for me at an extra hard pull and put her on. Bob went ahead and mended the road. Often I nearly fell out of the wagon at the bottom of a chuck hole on a down grade, and by 4 P. M. we had done everything but break the wagon to bits. At this time, however, we were encouraged by finding that the canyon had widened out somewhat, which indicated we were getting to the top. The trail got better in spots and then worse.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SALINA CANYON]

Reaching an open spot with some gra.s.s, we camped, not knowing how far we had come or how much farther it was to the top. We made a guess it was twelve miles and that about three more would take us to the top.

Climbing up the side of the canyon to a big rock, and looking down over our camp and horses, we overlooked all their shortcomings and gave them credit for keeping their heads and feet under the most trying circ.u.mstances, and were quite enthusiastic over their ability as mountain climbers, and their willingness to attempt any task we put them at. We sat here until the moon came up and gazed long at the valley and mountains without much, if any, conversation, and then climbed slowly down and turned in.

The next morning, Sunday, the nineteenth, we started late and took things easy. We stopped to watch some sheep men separating a bunch of sheep. It was an interesting performance and quite a riddle to us for a few minutes until we learned what they were doing; then it was easy enough to follow the performance. It seems that the man who owned the sheep had sold a certain number of yearling ewes to one man, who was there to take and pay for them, and a certain number of two-year-old wethers to another man. Now the manner of separating and counting was as ingenious as it was exact, as the reader will readily see from the following explanation and diagram:

A few hundred yards of fence crossing at right angles, with the flock of sheep in corner "A," is how the game started. They were all driven through "B," a chute just wide enough for the sheep to pa.s.s in single file. Two men worked the chute, and when a yearling ewe entered, one man would drop a gate behind her and the other man would open a gate (1) in front of her, and she would walk into "D." Then the gateman closed the gate and made a pencil mark on it; the tally man tallied one ewe on his sheet, and the chute was open for the balance of the flock of rams, ewes, and lambs. But when a two-year-old wether got in the chute, down would come the gate behind him, gate 2 would open, and he would walk out into "E," and the gateman would make a pencil mark on this gate and the tally man would tally one two-year-old wether on his sheet. So the performance went on until the required number of yearling ewes were in corner "D," the two-year-old wethers in corner "E," and what was left of the flock was over in "C." The tally sheet checked up with the pencil score on each gate, and settlement having been made, the man with his yearling ewes went up the trail; the man with the two-year-old wethers went down to the railroad, and the flock went back up into the mountains, and all that was left was a few hundred yards of wire mesh fence and a chute with closed gates, which had helped to accomplish in an hour what would have been impossible otherwise.

We were told by the sheepmen that it was about five miles to the top, which we finally reached about 11:30 A. M. In the thirty miles from Salina to the top we have not seen a sign of any habitation, which accounts for the condition of the trail. If any one lived up here who had to drive in and haul out provisions, he would have to make a road.

We have been just two days making this thirty-mile ascent and as it is said to be thirty miles from here to Emery, our plan to make Emery in two and a half days from Salina is knocked into bits, but we feel very well satisfied to have got up whole, and are actually hilarious as we apply the brakes on a fairly good trail and start to slide down into Castle Valley.

Chapter IX

Castle Valley

Our first camp in this strange valley was made Sunday noon, June 19, just as we had started to Emery from the top of the Divide. We found a beautiful little grove of trees, mostly cottonwood, willows, and quaking asp, which was filled with wild roses. The roses were everywhere and we called it Rosedale Camp. We spent three hours here and then drove about ten miles farther down into the valley, following a small alkali stream, and camped some fifteen or seventeen miles from Emery.

We met no one on the road, but just as we made camp a man came along from Emery with a team and buggy, looking for a ranch house he said was on a branch trail somewhere back of us. While he was evidently lost he said he had lunch and horse feed, and if he didn't find it in the morning he would back track to Emery. I asked him why he started alone, and he said he had been there once before and thought he could find it, but that evidently it was farther than he had thought it was.

I guess he was a wool man and was buying from the sheepmen, although he did not say so and we did not ask. It is surprising how much you guess in this country and how few questions you ask. In making camp we found we had only enough water in our barrels for camp use, so I took the horses over to the alkali stream to drink.

We had by this time got down into the valley proper, which was really a mesa surrounded by mountains, and about as weird-looking a place as could be imagined. The mountains were sheer cliffs on the valley side, and in the sunset their shapes and colors were fantastic. As I rode over to the stream I began to think of fairy tales about hobgoblins and giants, but was rudely brought out of my dreams by arriving unexpectedly at the arroyo, where it was about two hundred yards wide, with walls as perpendicular as those of a house, and about fifty to seventy-five feet deep. The stream--well, it appeared along the middle of the sandy bottom in spots and I despaired of getting a horse down there or of getting enough water for three horses, even if I could find a place to get down, as from where I stood the stream looked about the size of a lead pencil and the little spots of water held about a panful each.

It is surprising, however, what you really can do if you have to, and I knew instinctively that I was going to find a way to get those horses down that perpendicular wall, and water them somehow. I dismounted and started along the edge looking for a way down, and found it, over the roots of an old cottonwood tree and into a wash, where I slid Kate down, and then scooped out a hole in the miniature stream from which, when it filled, she drank. Then I got her to climb up and slid another down after much persuasion, and so later the third, but was careful not to let them drink too much, as the water was pretty strong.