The four horses trundle the light Beach wagon along most of the way at a trot. The driver tells you that after a little while the horses must be brought down to a walk. The grade is not steep, but "in the light air a fast gait would be a little hard on the stock."
Eight and a half miles we have come in a little less than two hours. "A pretty good road," that allows the making of such time to an elevation of over three thousand feet, at a guess. We are half way and are still in the timber. "The horses are changed to mules here"—an extraordinary metamorphosis, certainly—that is the way the driver put it, but there was no mystery in his language, except to a Boston lady, who was anxious to witness the process. Verily one must speak by the card in such a presence, or "equivocation will undo us." The four mules seemed to consider their load a trifle and they moved as jauntily as if out for a holiday.
To beguile the tediousness of the way we were assured that on returning we should "come in a whirl." The motive that prompted the information was commendable, and the driver to be excused—he travelled the road every day and his early pleasure had simply turned into an attractive matter of business. We told him not to hurry on our account, as it was our desire to miss no part of the scenery. He said he should come back in two hours and a half. I had ridden behind mules before—I mean in period of time—and was doubtful touching the prospective gloriousness of the journey, but he assured me that it was perfectly safe. He spoke of a "switch-back," and there was an intimation of occult peril in his manner. When we reached the vicinity of the timber line he pointed out the mystery. From our point of vision the zigzag scratches away up on the steep mountain side reminded me of old times. I was having a longitudinal view of a few sections of worm fence running up a hill at an angle of seventy degrees; at least a man under the influence of spirits would say it was a longitudinal view. Considered as a fence, from an economical basis, the angles were unnecessarily acute; it might fairly have represented five miles of fence and half a mile of ground in a straight line, or it looked as if unknown powers at each end were trying to jam the thing together and make it double up on itself.
I was very much interested in it. As a line for an irrigating ditch it might be pronounced a success. As nothing goes down a ditch except water, and very little of that in a dry season, nobody is put in jeopardy.
"And you come down there at the rate of eight or nine miles an hour?" I asked.
"Yes, oh, yes, easy enough."
"I should think it would be easy, especially if you went off one of those corners."
"You wouldn't know the difference."
"No, I suppose not. It must be a glorious ride, coming down at the rate of eight or nine miles an hour, I think you said?"
"Yes, eight or nine, mebbe less, dependin'."