Our last taste of Michigan roads was worse than the first. We went by the way of Benton Harbor, with sandy detours and uninteresting country, until we struck the strip of Indiana before coming into South Chicago. Our troubles were over for a long time. A breeze had come up from the lake, and we slept under blankets that night for the first time in two weeks. We were all familiar with Chicago, and we wished to stop out on the Lake Shore, if possible. We drove through the city, out on the North Shore Boulevard to the Edgewater Hotel, of which we had heard charming reports. A block below the hotel cars were parked by the dozens. It is built directly on the shore, with the most remarkable dining-room at the water’s edge, like the deck of an ocean liner, filled with palms, flowers, and smartly dressed people, many in evening clothes. The tables were all reserved, and so were the rooms, two weeks in advance—this was the pleasant news that awaited us! Could they take us in the next day? “No, possibly not for a week or more.” No “sob-story” to help us here! But the clerks were obliging and advised our going about ten miles farther out, to the North Shore Hotel in Evanston, which we found delightful in every way—very near the lake, quiet, furnished in exquisite taste, and good food at reasonable prices. But even here we found the eight-hour law in force; we could not get a bite after eight o’clock. We went to half a dozen restaurants—all closed! In desperation we went into what looked to be a candy store, and found they were closing up the café! They could serve nothing but ice cream and sodas. We asked to see the manager and told him our plight. He was an Eastern man, a long-lost brother. He said, “As you placed your order just before eight o’clock, of course we shall serve you.” It was quite nine by this time. He kept his face straight, and we tried to do the same. That dinner certainly did touch the spot! It was the “Martha Washington Café,” and certainly immortalized the gracious lady for all time for us. Later we went back to the Edgewater Hotel for our mail and to dine, and we were more charmed with it than before.
We had come 1028 miles from New York. Our car had to be thoroughly cleaned, oiled, and looked over; so we were without it for two days. The street-car strike was on in full force, not a surface car moving in the city. Consequently, we walked, rested, and saw but little of the city. It was quite ten years since any of us had been there; in that time Chicago had grown and been so improved that we hardly knew it. If Pittsburgh people are proud of their city, Chicagoans are the original “boosters.” Nature has done so much for its location. Its system of parks and boulevards is not equaled by any city. There is a natural, outspoken pride evinced by the people of the best class—not ashamed of a humble beginning, but glorying in the vast importance of the commercial and financial life. To quote from the folder of the Yellowstone Trail, which we picked up here and followed without any trouble to St. Paul, Minnesota, “Nothing need be said about Chicago. Chicago is the heart of America and speaks for herself.” Other cities may challenge this, but there is every evidence of its truth. In time, Chicago will give New York a good race; in fact, she is doing it now.
Our genial Doctor left us here, much to our regret. We went on, a select party of three.
V
THROUGH THE DAIRY COUNTRY
“A good road from Plymouth Rock to Puget Sound.” Thus reads the Yellowstone Trail folder. If you really believe a thing, you may be excused for stating it as a truth. The trusting soul who wrote that alluring statement has never been over the entire trail, or I am greatly mistaken. Credit must be given for the system of marking the trail. At every turn, right or left, the yellow disk is in plain sight.
On leaving Chicago, we went through Lincoln Park and up the Sheridan Road to Milwaukee. The road is a wonderful boulevard, with beautiful homes and estates and glimpses of Lake Michigan, past the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, now the largest in the United States. We had heard much of Zion City. Driving down its main street was like a funeral. The houses were closed, the buildings seemed deserted, and the only evidences of life were two men, a horse and wagon, and a stray dog! We found a good macadam road to Oshkosh from Milwaukee and many such stretches through Wisconsin. At times the road followed closely the shore of Lake Winnebago, and then would wind through fertile dairy country. Trainloads of butter and cheese are shipped from here each year, and high-bred dairy cattle are raised for the market. Was it not strange that we did not have Wisconsin cheese on the menu at any hotel in that state? Several times we asked for it, but no cheese was forthcoming.
The first night we put up at Fond du Lac, at Irvine Hotel. It was fairly good, but a palace compared with what we found the next night at Stevens Point—the Jacobs Hotel. This was our first uncomfortable experience—a third-rate house, with no private bath, hard beds in little tucked-up rooms, a bowl and pitcher with cold water and two small towels the size of napkins, and the most primitive table you could imagine. The weather had kept cool and clear, but the sandy roads with deep ruts were awful! As it had rained in the night, the clerk assured us next morning that four cars were stuck in the road west of the town, and we had better not start. We asked him if there was a good hotel at Marshfield. “Good hotel! Well, you folks just wait till you see it! They actually have Brussels carpet on the floor of the dining-room! Good hotel, eh? Nothin’ better this side of Chicago!” The cars were lined up in the street waiting to start. The clouds looked heavy and threatening, and not a ray of blue sky. Everyone was talking to someone. The formalities are discarded on such occasions. We fell into conversation with a charming man, Mr. H., from Fargo, North Dakota. Later we found that he was the ex-governor, and his name was sufficient to get anything you wanted in the Northwest. He and his family were touring to New York; so we exchanged maps and experiences, and he gave us a list of towns and hotels that proved invaluable, with the kindly remark, “If you will show the hotel clerks this list with my name, I am sure you will be well taken care of.” We certainly were—and more!—from there to Yellowstone Park.
We found the Blodgett Hotel at Marshfield—with a really, truly carpet in the dining-room—a good hotel, clean and comfortable. The next day we had two hundred miles to go to St. Paul, and were promised good roads. Colby, Eau Claire, and Chippewa Falls are all attractive towns. Wisconsin boasts of six thousand lakes. It certainly is a paradise for the huntsman and the angler—“The land with charm for every mile.” The method of numbering the state highways is the best we have found. You simply can’t lose your way. We, unfortunately, had several long detours and did not reach St. Paul until one A. M., a very sleepy trio, in a disreputable-looking car.
VI
CLOTHES, LUGGAGE, AND THE CAR
We decided to take as little luggage as possible. In the end, we found that we had more than ten people would need. Each of us had a large dress-suit case, a small handbag with toilet articles, an extra bag for soiled linen (which proved useful), two golf-bags, with umbrellas and rubbers (which were never used), a case of tennis-rackets and balls, a shawl-strap with a heavy rug, rain-coats and top-coats for cold weather, the lunch-hamper, and a silk bag for hats. The tonneau was comfortably filled, with still room for two, and even three, people. The thermos-bottles were stowed away in the side-pockets, easy of access. All the maps were in the right-hand front pocket by the person sitting with the driver. We had an old rug which was so disreputable that no one would steal it; we had been on the point of throwing it away a dozen times, but after it came from the cleaners we hadn’t the heart to leave it behind. That old relic proved to be the joy of the trip. We sat on it when lunching on the roadside, used it to protect the car from the bags and golf-clubs, and when we had a puncture down it went under the car to avoid collecting all the dust of the road on my husband’s clothes. We still have it, and consider the old veteran deserves a pension for life. My advice—take an old rug!