ON THE PACIFIC RAILWAY: A SCENE IN THE SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS.
A newspaper is published regularly on the overland trains of the Pacific Railway. There are telegraph stations everywhere on the route, and the latest news is handed “aboard” to the editor, leader-writer, compositor, and pressman—represented by, or condensed into, one and the same individual—as soon as the train arrives, and is immediately “set up” and printed. Thus “specials,” “extra specials,” and “special extra specials” follow one another in rapid succession, and keep the train alive with excitement.
A term which has come into vogue here originated on the Pacific Railway during the writer’s stay in California. A terrible accident occurred near Oakland, in which one [pg 21]train of the long cars usual in the United States met and literally “telescoped” another. The expression was used in a rather curious way in San Francisco for some time afterwards. If a business man in a hurry ran into another person—say, for example, coming round a corner—the latter would ejaculate, “Hi! are you trying to telescope a fellow?”
The writer will not soon forget his ride from Laramie to Sherman, a station on one of the ridges of the Rocky Mountains, which the Pacific Railway crosses at an altitude of over 8,000 feet. Armed with a pass from the company, the courteous station-master at the former place made no objection to his accompanying a locomotive with a snow-plough attached in front, then starting ahead of the regular train. The plough was a rough specimen of its kind, in form not greatly unlike the ram of an ironclad, and was constructed of sheet-iron, covering a strong wooden frame. But it did its work efficiently, scattering the soft snow on either side in waves and spray, reminding one of the passage of some great ocean steamship through the billows. The snow had drifted in places till it was five or six feet deep on the road, but this proved child’s play to the plough, and the services of the navvies, who, seated on the coal, were swinging their legs over the side of the tender, were not required. The greatest danger on the line, now so amply protected by great snow sheds—literally wooden tunnels—and snow fences, arises from snow which has thawed, frozen, re-thawed, and re-frozen until it is literally packed ice. The wheels of a locomotive, arrived at such a point, either revolve helplessly, without progressing, or run clean off the metals.
The mention of the effect of ice on the rails recalls a story told by Colonel Bulkley, when the latter was chief of the Russo-American Telegraph Expedition. The colonel during the civil war in the States was at the head of a constructing party, who built temporary lines of telegraph to follow the advancing northern army. The driver of a train which passed through the district in which they were engaged had been ordered to stop nightly and pick the party up, but one night neglected to do so, and the weary constructors had to tramp a dozen miles in the dark to the nearest village. The men naturally determined that this should not occur again, and so next morning armed themselves with several boxes of bar soap. What for? To soap the rails! Colonel Bulkley tells gleefully how they rubbed it on for about a quarter of a mile, how the train arrived at the place, and after gliding on a certain distance, from the momentum it had acquired, came nearly to a standstill, and how the men jumped on and told the joke to everybody. The engineer next day did not forget to remember them.
“Some writers strongly advise the traveller to make a halt at Sherman station,” says Mr. Rae. “The inducements held out to him are mountain scenery, invigorating air, fishing and hunting. A sojourn among the peaks of the Rocky Mountains has the attraction of novelty to recommend it. Life there must be, in every sense of the word, a new sensation. But some sensations are undesirable, notwithstanding their undoubted freshness. That splendid trout swarm in the streams near Sherman admits of no dispute. Yet the disciple of Isaak Walton should not be tempted to indulge rashly in his harmless and charming sport. It is delightful to hook large fish; but it is less agreeable to be pierced through by arrows. Now, the latter contingency is among the probabilities which must be taken into consideration. A few weeks prior to my journey, one of the conductors of the train by which I travelled, learned, by practical experience, that fishing among the [pg 22]Rocky Mountains has palpable and painful drawbacks. Having taken a few days’ holiday, he went forth, fishing-rod in hand, to amuse himself. While whipping the stream in the innocence of his heart, he was startled to find himself made the target for arrows shot by wild Indians. He sought safety in flight, and recovered from his wounds, to the surprise as much as to the gratification of his friends. His story did not render me desirous of sharing his fate.”
The Great Plains, over which the “prairie schooners”[8] toil, and the trains now fly, have a dreary interest of their own. In summer they are hot and dusty, and the contemplation of nearly unlimited sage-brush, and the occasional prairie dog or hen, is not enlivening; while the constant recurrence of skeletons bleaching in the sun—skeletons of overworked mules, horses, and oxen, and sometimes of the human animal—is apt to make one melancholy. But on a winter moonlight evening, when covered with snow, which has thawed in the day, and become glacé at night, they resemble one vast glittering lake, with the brush-covered hillocks standing for islands. The buffaloes, once so common, are rarely or never seen near the railway. In that more fertile portion of the plains nearer the Missouri, in Nebraska and adjoining states, it is also possible that the oft-times grand sight of the prairie on fire may be witnessed from the train. The writer was, one evening in May, 1868, in company with others, in a Pullman car, when huge massive clouds of smoke hanging over the horizon appeared in view. Soon it became evident, as the train approached the spot, that the prairie was on fire for miles, although fortunately at some distance from the line. The flames rose fiercely to the peaceful, starlit sky; the homesteads of settlers, trees, and hillocks stood out black against the line of destroying fire; while over all a canopy of smoke hung heavily, affording a scene not soon to be forgotten.
Westward from the high point where Sherman stands, the railway line makes a rapid descent to the Laramie Plains, the trains going down, not merely by their own weight, but with brakes tightly screwed down. At Dale Creek, on this section of the line, a wonderful bridge is crossed. It is 650 feet long, and in the centre of the deep ravine it bridges is 126 feet high. It is built entirely of wood, was erected in thirty days, and is a perfect puzzle of trestle-work. “More than one passenger,” says Mr. Rae, “who would rather lose a fine sight than risk a broken neck, breathes more freely, and gives audible expression to his satisfaction, when once the cars have passed in safety over this remarkable wooden structure.” Now the train is again proceeding rapidly; in twenty miles, the descent of 1,000 feet is accomplished. Next, Laramie City is reached, round which is a good grazing country. This is succeeded by the plains known as “The Great American Desert,” another barren sage-brush-covered stretch of country. And yet—in addition to the fact that even sage-brush is good for something, a decoction of it being recommended in cases of ague—the desert has been proved to contain its treasures. At Carbon, and other stations on the line, fine deposits of coal have been found, and are worked to advantage. It was at first feared that all the coal for the railway would have to be transported from far distant points.
Among the wonders of the plains are the huge rocks and bluffs known as the “Buttes,” which often rise from comparatively level ground, and in detached spots. Seen in the gloaming, their often grotesque forms appear weird and unearthly, and the effect is increased by the fact that all around is silent and desolate, and their mocking echoes to the snorting iron horse are the only sounds that are heard. Some of these rock-masses are columnar, and others pyramidal, in form; some assume the shape of heads, human or otherwise. Now they rise in huge walls, with as wonderful colouring as have the cliffs at Alum Bay in the Isle of Wight; they are often several hundred feet in height. One, particularly noted by the writer, had almost the exact form of an enormous dog seated on its haunches.
As the train approaches the confines of Mormondom some specially grand scenery is met and passed. The stern and rugged ravine known as Echo Cañon[9] is shut in by abrupt and almost perpendicular sandstone and conglomerate cliffs, with many a crag standing sentinel-like, and rising high towards heaven, over the impetuous, brawling Weber river. Close to the Mormon town of Echo there is a cliff 1,000 feet high, which overhangs its base fifty feet. There is also a rock known as “The Sphinx of the Valley,” from a resemblance to the original. Weber Cañon succeeds the first-named, and in this is to be noted a remarkable and nearly perpendicular cleft in the cliff—well known as “The Devil’s Slide.” Further on, and the train arrives at “The Devil’s Gate,” where the stern rock-walls narrow, and the dark hills approach each other closely. Here the river becomes a boiling and furious rapid, white with foam, hurrying onward with terrible impetuosity, and rolling tons of boulders before its resistless course. Some of the early railway bridges were quite washed away by it, and many difficulties were met in the construction of the line, heavy tunneling almost obviously having been necessary in some places. But all obstacles were successfully overcome. Emerging from the gloomy, rugged cañon, the more or less fertile and cultivated Weber valley is, by contrast, a perfect glimpse of Paradise.