It might have been worse

by Beatrice Larned Massey

When we first spoke to our friends of making this trip, it created as little surprise or comment as if we had said, “We are going to tour the Berkshires.” The motor mind has so grown and changed in a few years. Nearly everyone had some valuable suggestion to make, but one only which we accepted and profited by. Every last friend and relative that we had offered to go in some capacity—private secretaries, chauffeurs, valets, maids, and traveling companions. But our conscience smote us when we looked at that tonneau, the size of a small boat, empty, save for our luggage, which, let me add with infinite pride and satisfaction, was not on the running-boards, nor strapped to the back. From the exterior appearance of the car we might have been shopping on Fifth Avenue.

We extended an invitation to two friends to accompany us, which was accepted by return mail, with the remark, “Go!—of course, we will go! Never give such an invitation to this family unless you are in earnest.” And so our genial friends joined us, and we picked them up at the Seymour Hotel in New York City, at three o’clock, Saturday, July 19th, and started for the Forty-second-Street ferry in a pouring rain, as jolly and happy a quartette as the weather would permit. Our guests were a retired physician, whom we shall speak of as the Doctor, and his charming, somewhat younger wife, who, although possessing the perfectly good name of Helen, was promptly dubbed “Toodles” for no reason in the world. These dear people were of the much-traveled type, who took everything in perfect good-nature and were never at all fussy nor disturbed by late hours, delays, bad weather, nor any of the usual fate of motorists, and they both added to the pleasure of the trip as far as they accompanied us.

It had rained steadily for three days before we started and it poured torrents for three days after; but that was to be expected, and the New Jersey and Pennsylvania roads were none the worse, and the freedom from dust was a boon. We chose for the slogan of our trip, “It might have been worse.” The Doctor had an endless fund of good stories, of two classes, “table and stable stories,” and I regret to say that this apt slogan was taken from one of his choicest stable stories, and quite unfit for publication. However, it did fit our party in its optimism and cheery atmosphere.

With a last look at the wonderful sky-line of the city, and the hum and whirl of the great throbbing metropolis, lessening in the swirl of the Hudson River, we really were started; with our faces turned to the setting sun, and the vast, wonderful West before us.

II
NEW YORK TO PITTSBURGH

One of the all-absorbing pleasures in contemplating a long trip is to map out your route. You hear how all your friends have gone, or their friends, then you load up with maps and folders, especially those published by all the auto firms and tire companies, you pore over the Blue Book of the current year, and generally end by going the way you want to go, through the cities where you have friends or special interests. This is exactly what we did. As the trip was to be taken in mid-summer, we concluded to take a northern route from Chicago, via Milwaukee, St. Paul, Fargo, Billings, Yellowstone Park, Salt Lake City, Ogden, Reno, Sacramento, to San Francisco (see map), and, strange to relate, we followed out the tour as we had planned it. With the exception of a few hot days in the larger cities and on the plains, and, of course, in the desert, we justified our decision.

As I have stated, we drove 4154 miles, through sixteen states and the Yellowstone Park, in thirty-three running days, and the trip took just seven weeks to the day, including seventeen days spent in various cities, where we rested and enjoyed the sights. As time was of no special object, and we were not attempting to break any records, we felt free to start and stop when we felt inclined to do so; on only two mornings did we start before nine-thirty, and seldom drove later than seven in the evening. In so doing, we made a pleasure of the trip and not a duty, and avoided any unusual fatigue.

The first evening we reached Easton, Pennsylvania. We were glad to get into the comfortable Huntington Hotel out of the wet, and enjoyed a good dinner and a night’s rest. We followed the Lincoln Highway to Pittsburgh, and have only praise to offer for the condition of the road and the beauty of the small towns through which we went. Of all the states that we crossed, Pennsylvania stands out par excellence in good roads, clean, attractive towns, beautiful farming country and fruit belts, and well-built, up-to-date farm buildings. In other states we found many such farms, but in Pennsylvania it was exceptional to find a poor, tumble-down farmhouse or barn. The whole state had an air of thrift and prosperity, and every little home was surrounded by fine trees, flowers, and a well-kept vegetable garden.

The worst bugbear of the motorist are the detours. Just why the road commissioners choose the height of the motoring season to tear up the main highways and work the roads has always been a mystery to me, and I have never heard any logical solution of it. We were often told that no work to speak of had been done on the state roads through the country during the war, and in many places the heavy army trucks had cut up the good roads until the ruts left turtle-backed ridges in the center, not at all pleasant to bob along on. But, in view of what we encountered later in our trip, I look back on the Pennsylvania roads as one of the high spots and pleasures, never to be undervalued.

From Easton we drove in the rain to Harrisburg. The scenery was beautiful. The Blue Ridge and the Alleghany Mountains loomed up in the haze like great cathedrals; but as long as the road was wide and comparatively smooth we enjoyed the ups and downs. Our engine told us that we were gradually ascending; the mist would be wafted off by a mountain breeze, and then a gorgeous panorama stretched before us as far as the eye could see.