SATURDAY, MAY 29th.
Was awakened this morning between two and three o’clock by a jar that almost tumbled me out of bed; thought at first our train had left the track and had run into the side of a mountain; I lay quiet a moment, expecting another crash. It didn’t come, and I realized our train was standing still. “Guess I was dreaming,” I said to myself, as I reach over, raise the window blind, and look out. A freight train is moving past and our train is motionless. Mrs. S. is awake, and my movement informs her that I am in the same condition. “What was that?” she quietly asks, referring to the shock that awakened us. “I don’t know, my dear, but I’m sure it was something,” I reply, satisfied now that it wasn’t a dream. We believe the danger is over; that there is nothing to worry about, and are soon asleep again.
Arose this morning about the usual time and find we have just left Pocatello, Idaho, 262 miles from Butte City. We have come through much interesting country while asleep, and have missed seeing the beautiful Idaho Falls. The shaking up we received last night was caused by Engineer Oram coupling engine No. 760 to our train at Lima. Oram miscalculated the distance and banged into our train with more force than he intended. At Pocatello engine No. 760 is exchanged for O. S. L. engine No. 735, with Engineer J. Andrews and Fireman Standrod in the cab, Conductor G. W. Surman and Brakeman H. Hewett, who run us to Ogden, 134 miles.
Pocatello is located in Fort Hall, Indian Reservation, and while passing through this district we see a number of the natives. Much of the country is level and covered with sage brush and bunch grass, constituting immense cattle ranges, with here and there a plot of land under cultivation, watered by irrigation, while at a distance on either side can be seen great ranges of snow-capped mountains. We are reminded of Chester County and home as we see the familiar name of “Oxford” above a little station door as we fly past, midway between Dayton and Cannon. We cross the State Line and enter Utah. Coming to Cache Junction, we are in view of Bear River, that feeds the great irrigating canal constructed by the Bay State Canal and Irrigating Company at a cost of $2,000,000. This canal is about 80 miles long, the waters from which irrigate many thousand acres of land; it is converting this dry and barren desert country into a land of fertility, fruits, and flowers.
As we approach Ogden this great improvement is very noticeable in the beautiful, productive farms and homesteads that are seen on every hand. The most of the settlers through this locality, we are told, are Mormons, but the aspect of their condition and surroundings show them to be a thrifty, industrious, enterprising people. We arrive in Ogden at 11.20 A. M., where a stop of only twenty minutes is allowed. We are met by Conductor E. S. Croker, C. C. of Wasatch Division No. 124, and J. H. McCoy, of same division, who is yardmaster for the Union Pacific Railroad at this point. Much as we desire to make a tour of this interesting city, our limited time will not allow it, but we can see that it is a thriving business place. It is situated on the western slope of the Wasatch Range, at an elevation of 4301 feet above sea level, on a triangle formed by the Weber and Ogden Rivers, which, uniting a short distance west of the city, flow across the famous historic valley and empty into the Great Salt Lake.
At Ogden, going west, the Union Pacific Railroad time changes from Mountain to Pacific time. At 1.40 P. M. Eastern (11.40 A. M. Mountain) time we start on our way again with R. G. W. engine No. 41, in charge of Engineer J. Stewart, Conductor George King, and Brakeman J. Crompton. From Ogden to Salt Lake City we are in continual view of the Great Salt Lake, and pass a number of evaporating dams, where a large amount of salt is procured through the process of evaporation. We arrive in Salt Lake City at 12.30 P. M. Mountain time, and leaving the train we are again hustled into wagons and driven over the city, the places of interest being pointed out and explained by the drivers. Time and space will not permit me to note and describe all the interesting features of this historic and truly wonderful city. We passed through the famous Eagle Gateway and halted on a lofty promontory overlooking
Temple Square, where we had a grand view of the magnificent $10,000,000 Mormon Temple. Near the Temple is the Tabernacle, an immense, singular-looking affair, with a roof like the shell of a huge tortoise. We are shown the Lion House and Beehive House, former residences of Brigham Young and his large family, and pass the grave where the remains of the great leader lie. It is a plain, ordinary-looking mound, inclosed with a common iron fence. The great monument erected to the imperishable fame of Brigham Young is this beautiful, remarkable city that he founded fifty years ago. For thirty years he was the temporal and religious leader of his people here, and Salt Lake City was almost strictly Mormon. It is exclusive no longer, for of its present population of 65,000 about one-half, we are told, are Gentiles or Christians. “The Christian Science faith is making rapid advances,” says our driver, “and many Mormons are being converted to that creed.” Brigham Young was the father of fifty-six children; when he died he left seventeen widows, sixteen sons, and twenty-eight daughters to mourn his loss, many of whom are living yet.
We are driven through Liberty Park, where is still standing the first flour mill built in Utah. Returning to the train we get dinner, after which our people scatter through the city to see the sights and gather more souvenirs. We are all impressed with the beauty and regularity of the streets, which all cross at right angles, are 132 feet wide, including the sidewalks, which are 20 feet in width, bordered with beautiful Lombardy poplar and locust trees. Along each side of the street flows a clear, cold stream of water, which, with the beauty of the trees and the sweet fragrance of the locust blossoms, gives to the city an all-pervading air of coolness, comfort, and repose which is exceedingly inviting to a warm and weary tourist. The hour grows late and the time arrives to return to our train, which is sidetracked for occupancy at the Rio Grande Western depot. Several of our party gather at the corner of Main and Second South Street to await the coming of a trolley car that will convey us to the depot, about two miles away. According to the schedule of the line a car should pass every ten minutes, but to-night must be an exception, for it is forty-five minutes before our car arrives, and several of the party have started to walk. It is near midnight when we reach our train and turn in for the night.