Nine Thousand Miles on a Pullman Train / An Account of a Tour of Railroad Conductors from Philadelphia to the Pacific Coast and Return

by Milton M. Shaw

TUESDAY, MAY 18th.

Got up this morning about the usual time and found that we had passed Tucson in the early part of the morning and had changed engines at that point. We have now S. P. engine No. 9030, Engineer J. W. Bunce and Fireman J. Weir, who run us to Yuma, a distance of 251 miles. It cannot always be day, nor we cannot always be awake, so when night comes and we sleep we miss much that is novel and interesting. “You have missed much since entering Arizona that is well worth seeing,” I hear Mr. Steere remark to several of the party with whom he is conversing as I enter the smoker. “During the night we have passed through the most wonderful cactus country in the world, many of the plants rising to the height of thirty and forty feet; but you will see similar plants should you pass through the Antelope Valley, Cal., in daytime after leaving Los Angeles. You also missed seeing the town of Benson, which is one of the important places on this line, where we connect with the New Mexico and Arizona and the Arizona and Southwestern Railroads; and it is really too bad that you did not get at least a passing look at Tucson, for there is only one Tucson in the world. It is one of the oldest and queerest places in the United States, and a place with a history. The population is estimated to be about 8000, and nearly all of the residences are of adobe construction. Claims are made that it was first settled by the Spanish in 1560.” A call to breakfast interrupted Mr. Steere’s interesting talk as we all make a break for the dining car.

All the morning we have been descending the Gila River Valley, and the picturesque, complex scenery of mountain, plain, and valley has been much enjoyed by all. As we approach Yuma, situated on the Colorado River, in the extreme southwestern corner of Arizona, we can scarcely realize that in the 251 miles we have come since leaving Tucson we have dropped from an altitude of 2390 feet to that of 140 feet, the elevation of Yuma, but such is the case, according to the figures given on the time table of the Southern Pacific Railroad which I hold in my hand, and which Captain Purcell and Mr. Steere both declare is correct beyond a shadow of doubt, adding “that the Southern Pacific Railroad Company was never known to publish a falsehood or make a mistake.”

We arrive at Yuma 12.30 P. M. Eastern (9.30 A. M. Pacific), and make a stop of fifteen minutes. The station is a low-built, commodious building, surrounded on three sides by extensive grounds in which flowers are blooming in profusion. A number of bouquets were gathered by the ladies. Several native Indians are about the station having for sale trinkets and toys of their own manufacture. It is a strange and novel sight to behold these old remnants of an almost extinct race and tribe dressed in the scant and grotesque garb of their nativity, with their faces and the exposed

parts of their limbs and bodies painted and tattooed with bright and varied colors, increasing tenfold their natural ugliness, which showing to its best advantage, unassisted by art, is far above par. Yuma Bill, the biggest, oldest, and ugliest of the lot, seems to claim the most attention, and as I see him coming down the station platform and entering the waiting-room door, bareheaded and barefooted, with a bright-striped blanket about him, I think of Mark Twain’s story of his visit to the camp of Sitting Bull. “The old chief saw me coming,” says Mark, “and he came to meet me. I had pictured him in my mind as an old warrior covered with glory; I found him clothed with the nobility of his race, assisted by an old horse blanket, one corner of which hid his approach and the other corner covered his retreat.” Similar characters are Yuma Bill and his pals, and if ever “Mark” encounters them he will be strongly reminded of his notable interview with the famous Sitting Bull.

We all buy trinkets of Bill, for we never expect to see him again and we don’t want to forget him. We are told that he is a good old Indian, but was not always so. Years ago, when there were battles to be won, Bill made a record as a fighter. He will fight no more; there are only a few of him left; and Uncle Sam has given him and his comrades a refuge in a little reservation across the river where they hope to live and die in quietness and peace.

A short distance back of the station can be seen the territorial prison or penitentiary, on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River. We thought it was a fort until told that it was a prison. Our train is about to start, and we find a large car or tank of water attached on the front end next the engine and a freight caboose on the rear. We find that a freight crew has charge of us, that the tank of water will be needed to supply the engine, as there is a run of 120 miles through a country devoid of water, and that the crew will need the caboose when they leave us, for they expect to take back from Indio a train of freight. We have S. P. engine No. 1609, with Engineer W. Hayes at the throttle, fired by George McIntyre, Conductor H. J. Williams, Brakemen H. J. Schulte and R. M. Armour. As our train moves slowly off across the bridge that spans the Colorado we take a last look at Yuma and its picturesque surroundings, and in two minutes we are in California and crossing the Colorado Desert.

We are disappointed. We thought California a land of beauty, fertility, and flowers—a desert waste is all we see, bald mountains and barren plains on every side. Our course is upward for about 25 miles, until an elevation of 400 feet is reached, and then we begin to descend, and when we pass the little station of Flowing Well, 60 miles west of Yuma, we are only five feet above the level of the sea. Ten miles farther we stop at Volcano Springs and are 225 feet below the sea level. After leaving Flowing Well our attention was called by Mr. Steere to what was apparently a large lake of clear, sparkling water ahead, and to the left of our train, about half a mile away. We were running toward it but got no closer to it. It remained there, the same distance from us, a bright, sparkling, rippling body of water; not one on the train but what would have said, “It is water.” Mr. Steere says, “No; it is not water;

it is a delusion, a mirage caused by the glare of the sun on the shining salt crust of this alkali desert. There is not much doubt,” continued Mr. Steere, “but what ages upon ages ago all this immense basin was the bottom of a great sea. You can see upon the sides of these barren bluffs and upon those walls of rock the mark of the water line that for thousands of years perhaps have withstood the ravages and test of time. This little station is called Volcano Springs because of the number of springs in this locality that are apparently of volcanic origin. They are not in operation at the present time, but certain seasons of the year they are very active and spout up mud and water to a height of from 10 to 25 feet.”

A thermometer hanging in the doorway of the station, in the shade, registers 101 degrees, and it is not unusual, we are told, for it to reach 125. It is actually too hot in the sun to stand still; it almost takes one’s breath away. We feel relieved when our train starts and we are in motion once more. We create a breeze, a sea breeze, as it were, wafted to us o’er the mummified saliniferous remains of an ancient sea 3000 years a corpse. But the “mirage” still is there, a wonderful delusion, a monstrous deception, a gigantic “Will o’ the wisp,” whose alluring promises have led hundreds of men and animals a fruitless chase that ended in horrid death.

Sixty-five miles ahead of us we can plainly see San Jacinto Mountain, towering 11,500 feet in the air, with its summit covered with ice and snow that glistens in the noonday sun. Twenty-four miles from Volcano Springs we pass Salton, noted for its great salt industry. This is the lowest point on the line of the Southern Pacific Railroad, being 263 feet below sea level. About three miles to the left of the railroad we see the great white salt marsh or lake, containing such a vast deposit of this useful substance that the supply is thought to be inexhaustible. Steam plows are used for gathering the salt, and the works erected here have a capacity of nearly 1000 tons per day.

Twenty-five miles from Salton we reach Indio, where a short stop is made to change engines. Indio is a veritable oasis in the desert. After miles and miles of desert dust and glaring sand, it is very refreshing to see again trees and grass and flowers. We are still 20 feet below the level of the sea, but good water has been found here, and plenty of it applied to the soil has worked wonders. Whatever is planted grows with rapidity and in profusion, and with an abundance of water Indio can look forward to fast increasing beauty and prosperity. It has been discovered that the climate here is very beneficial to consumptives, and Indio has already become noted as a resort for those afflicted with pulmonary trouble, and it is claimed some very remarkable cures have been effected.

We leave Indio at 4.15 P. M. Eastern (1.15 P. M. Pacific), with S. P. engine No. 1397. Engineer Ward Heins, Fireman J. A. Shanehan; Conductor Williams and his brakemen will continue on to Los Angeles with us, 130 miles further.

Soon after leaving Indio we ascend a grade of 120 feet to the mile and pass along the base of San Jacinto Mountain, with its summit frowning down upon us from a height of 11,500 feet. The snow can now be plainly seen upon its highest peaks, and rivulets and cataracts can be seen in places dashing and leaping down its seamed and rugged sides.

At Rimlon we get Engineer Eli Steavens and Fireman M. Anderson with engine No. 1963 to assist us up a steep grade to Beaumont, a distance of 35 miles.

At Palm Springs a short stop was made to take aboard some guests who came to meet us from Los Angeles. They were Mr. G. L. Mead, Mr. H. Kearney, and Mr. J. E. White. Mr. Mead is a merchant of Los Angeles who heard of our coming and came to meet us to bid us welcome to the “Paradise of America,” and to emphasize his expressions of good feelings, presented the tourists with a case of very fine California wine. Mr. Mead could have done nothing more in accord with the feelings of the party. No wine ever tasted better, no wine ever did more good; it is a medicine our systems crave after 150 miles of the scorching, glaring, waterless Colorado Desert; a right thing in the right place; it is appreciated far more than Mr. Mead will ever know. Mr. Kearney is a promoter of stage lines and is about to establish a route between Palm Springs and Virginia Dale, a distance of 71 miles. He is an interesting gentleman to converse with, being perfectly familiar with all the surrounding country. Mr. White is a transfer agent doing business in Los Angeles, and is on hand to render aid to any of the party who may need his services.

We arrive at Beaumont and have reached the summit of the grade. In the 50 miles we have come since leaving Indio, we have made an ascent of 5280 feet. Our helper engine No. 1397 has left us; and we commence our descent of the western slope of the San Bernardino Range. Mr. J. Jacobs, a civil engineer in the employ of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, was invited to get aboard at Beaumont and accompany us to Los Angeles. We find him a very agreeable guest, giving us a great deal of entertaining information.

We have passed from desert wastes into a rich agricultural district; farmers are engaged in harvesting hundreds of acres of barley, which in this region is cut while in a green state and cured for hay. We pass many large fruit orchards of different varieties, while away in the distance on every hand the mountains rear their snow-clad peaks to the clouds. It is a grand and wonderful transformation from the scenes through which we have lately passed, and needs to be seen to be appreciated.

“This section of country through which we are now passing,” observed Mr. Jacobs, “is the famous Redlands district, a country that has shown far greater development and been subject to more rapid improvements in the same number of years than any other known section of its size in the world. Ten years ago it was almost barren, and known only as a vast sheep range; to-day, owing to a thorough system of irrigation, there are nearly 30,000 acres of reclaimed land that bloom and blossom and bear fruit with all the fertility, the beauty, and abundance of a tropical garden.”

We have now entered the orange district, and large groves are seen on every hand, golden with the luscious fruit. At Pomona a halt of sufficient length is made to allow several baskets of oranges to be put on the train, which are distributed amongst the party and found to be delicious and refreshing. We are unable to ascertain who are the thoughtful donors, but all the

same they have the most sincere thanks of the entire party for their kindness and generosity.

For 25 miles we pass through a fairyland of blooming loveliness, and at 8.45 P. M. Eastern (5.45 Pacific) our train rolls into the station in Los Angeles, five days, five hours, and forty-five minutes late. On an adjacent track a train is loading, and we learn it is the New York Central excursion about ready to start for home. We exchange greetings and cards with many of them before their train pulls out, bound for its journey through the heat and dust of desert and plain, for they return by the route we came, and we know what is in store for them.

We begin to realize what we have missed by thus coming in at the eleventh hour. We find we were saved from a watery grave in the raging Rio Grande only to discover that we are here just in time to be too late to participate in the “good times” all the other visitors have had. The twenty-sixth session of the Grand Division of the “Order of Railway Conductors” that we had expected to attend is about ready to adjourn; the pleasure trips planned for the entertainment of members of the order to all the surrounding points of interest have been taken, and we weren’t “in it.” ’Tis rather a discouraging outlook, but with the true Yankee spirit of self-reliance we quickly determine to make the best of it, trusting our future to luck and Providence.

Brothers Houston, Haefner, and myself start for Music Hall, No. 234 South Spring Street, where the Convention is in session, and arrive five minutes before its adjournment. We hear Brother Grand Chief Conductor E. E. Clark make his closing speech. As the members of the Convention commence to pour out of the hall into the street the greater part of our folks arrive on the scene, and for more than an hour an impromptu meeting is held on the sidewalk and on the street in front of the building, where old friends are greeted and new friends are made; everybody wants to exchange cards with everybody else; all are good-natured, good-humored, and happy, and “perpetual friendship” seems to be the ruling spirit of the hour. The crowd gradually disperses and becomes scattered over the city, members of our party mingling with the rest, seeing the sights and looking for souvenirs.

Brother Ristein received a telegram that had been lying in the Los Angeles office four days awaiting his arrival, telling him of the serious illness of one of his children far away in his Delmar home, and he is at the office now, anxiously awaiting a reply to a message of inquiry sent as to the present condition of the child. Brother Ristein fears the worst, and we all share his anxiety. Promptly the answer flashes back, “The child is better and thought to be out of danger.” The words make light a heavy heart, and we are all glad for Brother Ristein’s sake.

Our train occupies a track in the Arcade Station train shed for our convenience, and by ten o’clock there are very few but what have turned in. A few of the “boys” are still out, of course, but it is a hopeless task to try and “keep tab” on them. We cannot do it. These nocturnal outings of theirs will have to be noted down as “unwritten history.” How much of it there will be we cannot tell. There has been considerable already, of which we might mention one night at Fort

Worth, testing the efficacy of police protection while attempting to follow a “blind trail”; four or five nights in El Paso chasing the fleeting phantom of merry luck to the musical whirl of the wheel of fortune. They are all right, these “boys” of ours, and they know a good thing when they see it.