"A spell is laid on sod and stone,
Night and day are tampered with.
Every quality and pith
Surcharged and sultry with a power
That works its will on age and hour."
Emerson
A June day in the Petrified Forests of Arizona is an experience that can never fade from memory. Every excursion into this strange, uncanny realm of Arizona, which is an empire in its area; every journey one takes, every trail he follows, leads into strange and fascinating locality; and Adamana, the gateway to the Petrified Forests, has its own spellbinding power for the tourist. Adamana consists of a water tank, the station, and two bungalows, in one of which very comfortable entertainment is offered, and in the other of which dwells a character whom all travellers meet,—Adam Hanna, a distant relative of the late Mark Hanna, the original settler of this region. For a long time the place was known as Adam Hanna's, and when with advancing civilization this designation became too colloquial for an up-to-date twentieth-century world, the elision of two or three letters gave the present attractive name,—Adamana.
To leave the comfortable ease of a Pullman sleeper at the witching hour of five in the morning to stop over at Adamana and visit the Petrified Forest requires a degree of fortitude beyond that usually calculated. Left to one's self, one would emulate the example of the man who journeyed to the north pole to see a sunrise that occurred only three days in the year. On the first two mornings he refused to rise on the plea of the further extension of his opportunities; on the third, when his servant reminded him that it was the "last call," he turned over and philosophically remarked that he would come again next year. But the dusky porter allows the tourist no such margin for reflection, and one finds himself standing in some wonderful place spellbound by the witchery of the desert, and the long train vanishing in the distance, almost before he knows whether he has exchanged the land of dreams for the land of day and daylight realities,—for this weird and mystic panorama of the infinite desert, with the bluest of turquoise skies already lighted by the blazing splendor of the June sunrise, and the grotesque, uncanny buttes scattered at intervals all over that vast plain. The intense silence was unbroken save by the voice and footstep of the man representing the little bungalow termed the Forest Hotel. Contrary to one's preconceived ideas of an Arizona desert, the morning was cold, and the blazing fire and hot coffee were most grateful. But where was the "Petrified Forest"? one marvelled. Away on the horizon gleamed an evanescent, palpitating region of shimmering color. Yet this was not the "quarry of jewels," but the "Bad Lands," which have at least one redeeming virtue, whatever their vices,—that of producing the most aërial and fairy-like color effects imaginable.
It is astonishing how swiftly one relinquishes preconceived ideas of living and learns to get on without electric bells, long-distance telephones, and elaborate conveniences in general, even to the "prepared air," strained through thin layers of cloth, as the latest superfine condition added to a great New York hotel, and adapts one's self to a mode of life in which a simple but very clean room, primitive food, wonderful air, good, kind people, and a petrified forest to amuse him, take the place of the complex and elaborate life of the great Eastern cities. At Adamana one finds himself seventy-five miles from Gallup, New Mexico, the nearest town of any importance, from which all household supplies must be ordered. When the coffee gives out, for instance, seventy-five miles from a lemon; and when a Sunday and a holiday have almost followed each other, thus delaying all orders, one has then the most delightful and spacious opportunities for experimenting on the simple life. The desert offers other things; and while these do not include the menu of Sherry's, for instance, they do include certain allurements for which the country might be searched in vain, as they only exist on the Colorado desert. The quality of the air, the color of the sky, the marvel of color vistas,—all make up a new world in which one finds himself fairly questioning regarding his own identity. Nor has he any apparent test by which to determine—
"If I am I, as I do hope I be."