It might have been worse

by Beatrice Larned Massey

We went over the Dunraven Pass, one of the most daring drives, getting a fine view of Tower Falls, 132 feet high. In fact, that last day was one long thrill. We reached the hotel for dinner feeling a bit limp and exhausted, we had been at such high tension for three days. We sat by the roaring log fire that evening, living it all over again. “Will you ever forget that view of the canyon?”—“How truly wonderful the trip has been!” It was truly wonderful! I have not given you even an approximate idea of the scenery or the wonders. I can only say, “Go and see it for yourself.” For those who enjoy camping, every comfort and facility are provided. If you wish to camp de luxe, the Yellowstone Park Camping Company maintains five permanent camps or “tent cities” in the park. All tents have floors, electric lights, and are heated by wood-burning stoves. The beds are full-sized and comfortable. There are large dining-halls, recreation pavilions, and “campfires.” The campers in the park were legion this season.

The next morning we bade good-by to Mrs. H., who left us for Gardiner, and the “bird-man” and his lady chauffeur proceeded together.

XII
WESTWARD HO!

Everyone had the same disconsolate story to tell of the route through Idaho and Nevada to the Coast. (I often have wondered why the expression “The Coast” means but one place, the Pacific Coast. We have a few thousand miles of sea-coast on the Atlantic, but no one ever speaks of going East “to the Coast.”) All the motor parties we met that came that way to the park advised us to go north from Gardiner, over the Yellowstone Trail to Spokane and Seattle, and then down the coast to San Francisco. One man said, “I wouldn’t take five thousand dollars to go back over those roads!” We had practically decided to go the northern route, but the forest fires were still raging in that section, and many cars were turned back. It was Hobson’s choice; we had no alternative.

Our car had been left in the garage at Mammoth. On leaving we found there was no charge for the four days’ storage. It seemed like home to be back in our own car again. We followed the same route that we took to Old Faithful until we reached Gibbon Falls, then turned west along the Madison River to the western gate at Yellowstone, and so out of the park into Idaho.

If there are worse roads anywhere on earth than in Idaho, I hope we may never see them! It had grown hot, and every mile of the way was hotter. Sand, dust, ruts three feet deep, and chuck-holes at every turn! In contrast to the roads in the park, that state is a nightmare! By the time we had reached Ashton (123 miles), we wished we had never seen Idaho. The Kirkbride Hotel was wretched, with only one bathroom for the establishment, no café, and dirty beyond expression. The town has but one street, a typical cowboy town, as primitive as possible. The hotel manager asked if we carried our own bedding! “Do we look as if we did?” No reply. We probably did—and worse. It seems that the camping parties from the park often brought things beside bedding with them! At ten that night we found some food, in a wretched Chinese restaurant.

The next day was hot and dusty, and there were more bad roads; but we knew that we should find a good hotel at Pocatello, with private bath and decent food. We went through Idaho Falls and the Blackfoot Reservation.

An incident occurred here that would have made Toodles green with envy. We were taking advantage of our first stretch of good road in two days, and going at a lively speed. Away ahead, in the middle of the road, stood a solitary figure. We sounded our horn. The figure did not budge. Then we blew a blast that would have raised Rameses II and came to a stop a few feet from a man. He proved to be a “real honest-to-gosh,” as they say out here, Indian chief. His frame was massive and his face square-jawed, of a copper-bronze hue. A crimson kerchief, earrings, and beads, with ordinary trousers and shirt, completed his costume. He stood there like a dethroned emperor. With a dignified majesty, he waved his arm and said, “Take me home.” I turned to look at him as he sat, with folded arms, alone in the tonneau, with an air that plainly said, “I owned all this once; it is all mine.” He told us that he was chief of the Shoshone tribe, and owned 250 acres; that he rented two of his ranches and lived on the one “where the trees were, a mile up the road.” The land was under high cultivation, with fine buildings. When we let him out he just waved us on, saying, “Me good American.” I wondered if at heart he really were, or if he knew that he had to be. We often saw Indian women on the roadside selling garden truck—always with a stolid expression, and seldom a smile. If you spoke to them, their invariable rejoinder was “You bet” (pronounced “U-bit”). This seems to be the prevailing expression in the West.

The Yellowstone Hotel in Pocatello is very good, and crowded, like all of the Western hotels.

The heat was intense, even at nine in the morning, and Ogden, Utah, 165 miles south. “Are the roads good?” we asked the clerk. Smiling, he replied, “I am from New York.” At Dayton, we crossed the border into Utah. Before us lay a cement road as white as snow. We could hardly believe our eyes. “Woman, bow down and worship!” the bird-man exclaimed. Regardless of speed laws, we flew over that road for miles, through beautiful towns and avenues of Lombardy poplars. We remarked that every little bungalow was surrounded by these tall trees. “The Mormons must have planted one for each wife and child.” The farms were fertile and well cultivated, and for miles the peach orchards lined the sides of the road, the trees laden with fruit. At each station wagons were unloading hundreds of crates ready for shipment. Tomatoes and melons, also, are raised in abundance. Brigham is a clean, attractive city, with peach-trees growing in every garden and on the roadside. They celebrate an annual “Peach day” in September. “Every visitor will receive a peach,” the posters read. I bought a basket, of a dozen or more, for ten cents. Here we became acquainted with the red grasshopper. We thought we had left all of these little pests in Fargo; but here they were as lively as ever and as red as strawberries. And that reminds me—we have had delicious strawberries for weeks (in August).