Across America; Or, The Great West and the Pacific Coast

by James Fowler Rusling

Here we bade good-bye to civilization, and at last were fairly off for Arizona. The distance from Wilmington to Yuma is about three hundred miles, and we hoped to make it in ten days at the farthest. We got an early start from Anaheim, and crossing the Santa Anna river through a congeries of quicksands rode all day, with the Coast Range to the right of us, and another serrated ridge ten or twelve miles off to the left, through what was mostly an arid and sterile plain, though here and there it was broken up into ravines and "arroyas," or dry water-courses, abounding in cottonwood and live-oaks. Just at sunset, we crossed a divide, and before us lay a sheet of water, five miles long by two wide, reposing like a sea of silver, skirted by wide plateaus, and these in turn flanked by outlying ranges of mountains. This was Laguna Grande, the pet lake of all that region. Draining a wide extent of country, it always remains a large body of water, though in summer much of it disappears, and the balance becomes brackish from alkali. It continues palatable, however, for horses and cattle, and accordingly here we found a great hacienda, one of the largest, south of Los Angelos. The proprietors were two brothers Machado, who here owned leagues square of land, from the summit of one mountain range to the other, including the Laguna. They lived in a rude adobe hut, with three rooms, that no common laborer East would think of inhabiting; but they numbered their live-stock by the thousand, and esteemed their rude home a second paradise. They raised a little barley and some beans on a few acres, bordering on the lagoon; but devoted the great bulk of their broad acres to stock-raising. Señor Dolores Machado met us at the door, as we drove up; but as he could speak no English, and we no Spanish, there seemed to be a predicament. Before leaving Los Angelos, we had anticipated this, knowing the old Mexican or Spanish-speaking population still prevailed over most of Southern California and Arizona, and had provided ourselves with "Butler's method of learning to speak Spanish quickly," accordingly. We had conned this over several days, selecting the phrases that would apparently be most useful, and now assailed Señor Machado with everything we could summon. Imagine our disgust, when he looked wild at our attempted Spanish, and responded to every phrase, "No sabe, Señors!" Our driver, Worth, at last came to our rescue, with some mongrel Spanish he had picked up, when soldiering formerly down in Arizona; and when Señor M. understood we only wanted entertainment for the night, he smilingly replied, "O, Si! Señors! Si! Si!" "Yes! Yes!" with true Castilian grace, and invited us into his abode. He gave us a rough but substantial meal, of coffee, frejoles, and mutton; and when bedtime came, allowed us the privilege of spreading our blankets on the softest part of the only board floor in the house. He and his wife occupied a rude bed in one corner of the same room, while his brother slept on one in another. There was not, and never had been, a pane of glass in the house, notwithstanding they were such large-landed proprietors. The breeze stole in at the broken shutter, that closed the only window in the room, and all night long we could count the stars through the dilapidated roof.

Thence to Buena Vista, we passed through a succession of small valleys, between the same general mountain ranges before mentioned. Though wanting in water, yet these all had small streams of some sort flowing through them, which if carefully husbanded could be made to irrigate thousands of fertile acres all through here. Cottonwoods occurred frequently, and along many of the bottoms there was a goodly growth of scrubby live-oaks, that looked particularly green and inviting amidst those arid landscapes. Buena Vista valley seemed to be the outlet of several others, all of which might be largely reclaimed, with proper industry and effort. The soil is rich, the water there, and the climate matchless apparently the year round. Warner's Ranch stands in the midst of Buena Vista valley, and consists only of an adobe hut or two, that answer for grocery and road-side inn. We were detained here a day, by a severe rain that set in at nightfall, just after our arrival, and continued for twenty-four hours; but as it gave us and our team a bit of rest, we did not greatly regret it. Thence to Villacito, the valley opened broader and wider, and the grand San Bernardino peak—which day after day had dominated the landscape off to the right—its outlines sharply defined against that exquisite sky—dropped gradually out of sight.

Here we struck the southern California or great Colorado Desert, and thence on to Yuma—one hundred and fifty miles—we might as well have been adrift on the Great Sahara itself. Until we reached this point, the country consisted chiefly of arid plains, it is true; but broken, more or less, into ravines and valleys, with some semblance of life, or at least capacity for supporting life hereafter, should sufficient intelligence and labor ever drift that way. But as we approached the Desert, all this ceased, and the very genius of desolation seemed to brood over the landscape. We descended into it through a narrow rocky cañon, so rough and precipitous, that T. and I both got out and walked down, leaving the driver to navigate the empty ambulance to the foot, the best he could. Jolting and jumping from rock to gully, now half upset, with wheels spinning in the air, and now all right again, he got down safe and whole at last, and we augured well of our wheels and springs, after such a rugged experience.

Quitting Villacito, we found the road sandy and heavy, the air sultry and hot, and the nearest water eighteen miles off at Carissa Creek. The country was one dreary succession of sand and gravel, barren peaks and rocky ridges, with arroyas now and then, but no signs of humidity anywhere. It was not, however, such a perfect desert, as we had anticipated; for here and there were clumps of chemisal, mescal, and cactus, and these somewhat relieved the general dreariness of the landscape, poor apologies as they are for trees and shrubbery. The chemisal grows in clumps, something like our alder-bushes east, but with rods straighter and slenderer, bearing a pale-green leaf. The mescal seems to be a bastard variety of aloes, much similar to what is popularly known as Eve's Thread, though on a larger scale. The Mexicans and Indians distil a villainous liquor from it, which they also call "Mescal," that is worse in its effects than even fusel-oil or strychnine-whiskey. The cacti appeared to be of several varieties—many the same as we have in conservatories east, but all vastly larger here. The flora, as we proceeded southward, constantly became sparser and thornier; but the fauna continued about the same—the chief species being jack-rabbits and California quails—the latter a very handsome variety, with top-knots, never seen east. The rabbits were numerous, and the quails whirred across our road in coveys quite frequently, until we were well into the Desert, when both mainly disappeared. We reached Carissa Creek, with its welcome though brackish water, about 2 p. m.; but as it was thirty-three miles yet to the next certain water, at Laguna, with only uncertain wells between (dug by the Government), concerning which we could get no definite information, we concluded to halt there till morning.

From there on, the first few miles were about the same as the day before. Then we ascended an abrupt bluff, that looked in the distance like an impassable castellated wall, and suddenly found ourselves on an elevated mesa or table-land, the very embodiment of dreariness and desolation. On all sides, it was a vast, outstretched plain, of coarse sand and gravel, without tree, or shrub, or living thing—even the inevitable mescal and cactus here disappeared. Behind us, to the north and east, there was a weird succession of grand terraces and castellated mountains, reminding one of portions of Wyoming. On our right, to the west, the ever-present Coast Range loomed along the landscape, barren and ghostly. To the south, all was a dead level, panting and quivering beneath the sun, as he neared the zenith, except where here and there a heavy mirage obscured the view, or vast whirlwinds careered over the desert, miles away—their immense spirals circling upward to the very sky. These last, on first sight, we took for columns of smoke, so erect and vast were they. But soon they rose all along the southwestern horizon, one after another, like mighty genii on the march, and our driver bade us look out for a Yuma sand-storm. We had already here and there found the sand drifted into ridges, like snow-banks, where sand-storms had preceded us, and had heard ugly accounts of them before leaving Wilmington; but, fortunately, we escaped this one—the whirlwinds keeping away to the southwest, where they hugged the Coast Range, and in the course of the afternoon obscured the whole landscape there. This was now the Colorado or Yuma Desert in earnest, without bird, or beast, or bush, or sign of life anywhere—nothing, in fact, but barrenness and desolation, as much as any region could well be. A large portion of it is so low, that the overflow of the Colorado often reaches it during spring freshets, and remains for weeks. In travelling over this portion, now baked dry and hard beneath the sun, we had frequent exhibitions of mirage, on a magnificent scale. One day in particular, we had been driving since early morning, over a heavy sandy road, with the sun blazing down upon us like a ball of fire, with no water since starting, our poor mules panting with heat and thirst, when long after noon we observed—apparently a mile or so ahead—what seemed like a great outspread pond or lake, with little islands here and there, their edges fringed with bushes, whose very images appeared reflected in the water. The scene was so perfect, that the driver and T. both insisted it must be water; however, I inclined to believe it mirage, as it afterwards turned out, but the optical illusion was so complete in this and other instances, that when later in the day we really did approach a veritable sheet of water at the Laguna, we all of us mistook this for mirage also. Here, however, we found a body of water a mile long by half a mile wide, surrounded by a rank growth of coarse grass, and covered with water-fowl—a perfect oasis in the desert. This was also a part of the overflow of the Colorado, there being a depression in the Desert just here, which holds the water like a cup. The quantity is so large, that it lasts for two seasons; but after that, is apt to dry up, if the overflow does not come. But as this usually happens every year, this Laguna (Spanish for lagoon or lake) becomes a perfect god-send to the traveller here. On its southern margin, a Mr. Ganow from Illinois had established a ranch, and already was acquiring a comfortable home. His horses and cattle found ample subsistence in the brakes, on the borders of the lagoon, and the passing travel to and from California and Arizona made him considerable patronage in the course of the year.

Thence past Alamo to Pilot Knob, where we rounded the corner of the mountains, and struck the valley proper of the Colorado, the country continued more or less an unbroken desert. The roads were heavy and dusty, the air hot and stifling, the landscape barren and monotonous; and when, at last, we made Pilot Knob and struck the river, eight or ten miles below Fort Yuma, we rejoiced heartily, that the first stage of our tour was so nearly over. The Colorado flowed by our side, red and sluggish, but of goodly volume; the breeze came to us cool and moist across its broad bosom; and as we neared the post, the garrison-flag floating high in air seemed to beckon us onward, and welcome us beneath its folds. Starting long before daylight, and lying by in the middle of the day, we had driven fifty-three miles that day, over a country that equals, if it does not surpass Bitter Creek itself (see p. [150]-[3]); and when at last we drew rein at Fort Yuma, we were thoroughly jaded ourselves, and our poor animals quite fagged out. We had made the distance from Wilmington in nine driving days, instead of ten; but they seemed the longest we had ever driven.

Of the intervening country as a whole, especially from Villacito, it may justly be said, not only is it practically a desert, but even what streams it has seem to be slowly but surely disappearing. There were evidences frequently, that the country had formerly been much better watered than now, and the population—sparse as it was—appeared to be diminishing. After leaving Anaheim, there was only a scattered ranch here and there, every ten or twelve miles apart, of the rudest character—sometimes not even these—where coarse groceries, canned fruits and vegetables, and whiskey and mescal, were kept for sale to Indians and passing travellers. These had mostly been stage-stations on the great Butterfield Overland Route before the war, and when this broke that up, these ranchmen still remained, hoping something would "turn up." The station at Carissa Creek was a good representative of this, and likewise of many others. "Carissa Creek" itself is one of southern California's "blind" streams, like so many in Arizona, beginning and ending nowhere in particular—without either source or mouth apparently. Issuing from a sand-heap, it terminates in another a few miles away; but just here at the station is a shallow creek—a few yards wide, by six inches deep—tainted, of course with alkali. The station itself is the adobe remains of an old stage-station, whose roof was all gone, and as a substitute the enterprising proprietor had thrown some poles across, and covered them with willows and coarse grass. This turned the sun somewhat, and the easy-going proprietor said, "'Twer'nt no use, no how, to roof agin rain; 'cause, you bet, stranger, no rain ever gits yer!" His forlorn structure, part of which was used for a chicken-roost, also served its owner as bar-room, grocery, kitchen, parlor, bed-room, etc., and yet contained only one rude apartment, altogether.

"Mine host" here was a Texan, who somehow had strayed away out here, and dropped down at Carissa Creek—he hardly knew how. He "didn't think it much of a place, that's a fact; no how, stranger! But then, you see, I'm yer; and it's a heap of trouble to move elsewhar! Besides, yer know, I couldn't recommend nobody else to buy me out, no how! Somebody has got to live at Carissa Creek, anyhow; and why not me?" His philosophy, under the circumstances, seemed delicious, worthy of Mr. Mark Tapley himself, and, of course, we had not the heart to disturb it.

For meals and lodgings en route, we did indeed have to "rough it" pretty generally, nearly everywhere—especially after passing Villacito. Salt pork fried, saleratus biscuit hot, and coffee plain, came again into vogue, as in the famous Bitter Creek region; but we supplemented them this time with some excellent canned fruits and vegetables, that we had the foresight to bring along. Our evenings usually ended in long "yarns," after which, spreading our blankets in the hay-corral, or on a sand-heap, we went cosily to sleep beneath the stars. We always slept with our revolvers under our heads, and our rifles by our sides; and though a bit nervous sometimes when we reflected how much we were at the mercy of the rough customers we met en route, yet we slept well, and went through safely.

At Porte de la Cruz, before reaching the Desert, we passed an Indian village; but they all seemed quiet and peaceable. They belonged to the Dieganos, a tribe extending from the Coast Range to the Colorado, and wandering over much of the country we had passed through. A score or more of them lay basking in the sun, as we drove by, and they seemed to be about as helpless and idiotic a people, as human nature could well furnish. They are said to subsist chiefly on snakes, lizards, grasshoppers, mescal, etc., and appeared to be worse off than any Red Skins we had encountered yet. At Laguna, in the midst of the Desert, we chanced upon another party of them. As we drove up to Mr. Ganow's, the station-keeper there, we observed quite a crowd of them running around the corner of the lagoon, and making for the station. We supposed, at first, that our arrival was the sensation that attracted them; but as they drew nearer, we saw they were angry and excited, and Mr. Ganow presently explained, that one of them had been robbed of a knife and a silver dollar by a white man at Indian Wells—some four miles farther on—and, when afterwards he remonstrated, the white man had tied him up and flogged him. The poor wretch, still bruised and bleeding, now came with twenty or thirty of his comrades, from their camp beyond the Laguna, to Mr. Ganow—to report the outrage and seek redress. Ganow said the white man referred to was a mean fellow, bad enough for anything, who made a living chiefly by gambling with the Indians, and selling them mescal and needle-gun whiskey, and that he kept the countryside in a constant turmoil. He advised his copper-colored friends to return to the Wells, and demand their property again, and say a U. S. officer was at his ranch, and would be along next day and look after him, if he did not give it up. This seemed to satisfy them, and they all started off on a long trot, kicking a ball before them as they ran, and were soon out of sight. One of them, rejoicing in the name of Charley, was dressed in cast-off army-clothing, and spoke broken-English pretty well. We gave him a handful of cigarritos and matches, in return for his broken talk, and he went trotting off with the rest.