“Waal, couldn’t do it in the Ford, but my son has a new Buick six and he can make it all right—but he’d have to charge you fifty dollars.”
We had gotten over the first shock given us by auto rates to Roosevelt Dam and heard this with fairly steady nerves—we were bound to make the trip and a few dollars one way or the other were not to deter us. The young man was hunted up and after some dickering he consented to pilot the new Buick six, the pride of his heart, on her maiden trip to the dam for the regular price, but declared it would be well after dark before he could get us back.
“Do you mean to tell me,” I exclaimed, “that a machine like that will require twelve hours to do one hundred and fifty miles?”
“You’ll know more about it,” he replied, “when you’ve been over the road; besides, we’ll have to stop for lunch and of course you’ll want a little time at the dam.” To all of which we assented—and I may anticipate here enough to say that I do know more about it since I have been over the road and that while forty dollars seems pretty high auto hire for a one-hundred and-fifty-mile trip, I am convinced that it would have taken all of that out of my own car and tires had we made the run in it.
A few preliminaries detained us until nearly ten o’clock, but when we got under way our driver quickly cleared the streets of the town and we were soon skimming merrily along a fine, level road skirting a broad, tree-bordered irrigation canal. This is one of the main arteries carrying the water which gives the valley its green prosperity—an unruffled emerald river eighty feet broad and eight feet deep. We crossed a fine bridge over the Salt River at Tempe, nine miles from Phoenix, and about as far beyond this town we entered Mesa, the second city of the valley. So far we found the road level and good, some of it having been surfaced and otherwise improved.
Beyond Mesa we came quickly out of the cultivated part of the valley, pursuing a good dirt road leading through a sandy stretch of desert, toward the rugged hill range which rears its serrated crests against the silvery horizon. Seen from Phoenix, the mountains that encircle the verdant valley are shrouded in the intensest blue—far away hills of mystery that suggest some fairyland beyond—but as we drew nearer to them the blue shadows vanished and the bald, harsh outlines of mighty wall and towering crag seemingly barred our way. The prevailing colors were dull browns and reds and the slopes were almost devoid of vegetation. Great boulder-like hills are tumbled about as though some giant had flung them in wild confusion to bar the ingress of human trespassers. The road, however, finds a crevice by which to enter the mighty barrier and about midway between Phoenix and the dam it begins its conquest of these forbidding hills. Somewhere we had read that the government had built a “boulevard” through these mountains to the dam and our preconceived notions were of a fair mountain road. We had, therefore, no mental preparation to assist us in enduring one of the crookedest, roughest, rockiest trails we ever bumped over in all our experience. The route we followed was known as the “Apache Trail” in pioneer days and frequently afforded a secure retreat for these troublesome savages when pursued by the U. S. troopers. In converting it into a thoroughfare for vehicles, it would seem that little has been done except to widen the old trail—a real highway to Roosevelt Dam is yet to be built.
The climb begins at the foot of Superstition Mountain, leaving the river some miles to the left. Much of the road is natural granite rock, almost untouched by the hand of man; again it is blasted in the edge of a cliff, though little has been done to finish the surface to any degree of smoothness. We scrambled through the Devil’s Kitchen—a wild array of fantastic, multi-colored rocks—pink, yellow green—withal a beautiful spot spoiled by a senseless name.
We followed the edge of sheer cliffs or skirted sloping hillsides overlooking charming little valleys. From one point we had a far-away glimpse of the vexed river—we crossed the inevitable “hogback” and the grandest panorama of the whole trip burst suddenly upon our astonished vision. It is a vast, oval basin more than a thousand feet in depth, surrounded by parti-colored hills—though golden yellow seems the predominating color—on every side save for the narrow chasm by which the stream makes its escape from the canyon. But from our point of view the creek seemed a silver thread and the pines on the valley floor shrunk to mere shrubs. Our driver pointed out the ranch house where we were to have lunch, though we located it with difficulty, for it seemed no larger than an ordinary dry-goods box. The road here—the only especially creditable piece of engineering on the route—descends the mighty hillside in long, swinging loops and with only moderate grades. It offers many wonderful panoramas of giant crags and towering pinnacles; at times great cliffs rise far above it and again sheer precipices fall away at its side. This wonderful vale of beauty and grandeur goes by the very unpoetical title of Fish Creek Canyon, which again reminds us how unfortunate the pioneers often were in their nomenclature. What a pity that the sense of fitness which clung to the old Indian or Spanish names in the Southwest or the romantic propriety that gave the oriental titles to the palaces of the Grand Canyon was not more common.
At Fish Creek Station, we paused at a plain, rustic roadhouse, where a substantial dinner was served after considerable delay, for the landlady and her daughter appeared to be sole attendants upon ourselves and a dozen or more people who came by the stage. While awaiting the dinner call, we amused ourselves in watching the antics of a pair of young mountain lions confined in a wire cage. They were graceful, playful beasts, somewhat larger than a big cat, and about six months old, our driver said. They were caught in the vicinity, which is noted for big game, and the very rare mountain sheep can be seen on the surrounding cliffs at almost any time. The rocks assume many fantastic shapes against the skyline around the valley and by exercising a little imagination we finally could see the “Lion” and the “Cross” on the distant heights. Leaving the station, the road follows the boisterous creek for some distance, winding among trees and boulders which skirt its banks. Then we again climbed rugged granite hills almost devoid of vegetation, save many queer cacti, often gorgeous with blooms, and finally approached the river, which we followed at no great distance for the rest of the run. We saw it from the heights, whence it appeared like a green, fluttering ribbon, as it dashed over its stony bed. As we proceeded the road dipped down in the valley and finally came to the very banks of the stream, which it closely followed for several miles. It is a broad, beautifully clear river, plunging over the stones in foaming rapids or lying still and deep in emerald green pools. The road had been washed out for some distance by a spring flood and the new work was excruciatingly rough and strewn with razor-edged stones which wrought havoc on the smooth new tires. The scene at this point, however, is one of wild and entrancing beauty. Far above us rose the rocky walls, splashed with reds and yellows; below us the river banks were lined with cottonwoods, aspens, and willows beneath which were green meadows, with prosperous-looking cattle grazing upon them.
The road swings away from the river for some distance and we again entered the hills; we crawled up narrow, steep grades and around the corners of stupendous cliffs. Ere long a deep-voiced roar announced that the object of our pilgrimage was near at hand. As we came out upon a promontory, we got a full view of the mighty arc of stone that shuts the vast wall of water in the heart of the blue hill range before us. Torrents were pouring from the spillways and a rainbow arched the clouds of mist and foam that rose at the base of the three-hundred-foot fall. We paused in wonder and admiration to contemplate the scene—for once the works of man rival the phenomena of nature in beauty and grandeur, though we must confess that the natural background is a very helpful accessory to the wonderful view. Back of the dam the shining blue lake, twenty-five square miles in area, stretches away between the granite hills, which show little traces of vegetation save scattered scrub pines and cedars. Near at hand the reddish-brown volcanic rocks stand out in bold, bare outlines, but gradually softened by the blue mists of the distance, they take on the semblance of fairy towers and domes. Substantial iron bridges two hundred feet long span the spillways on either side of the dam and afford access to a sixteen-foot roadway along the top of the mighty structure.