“Come ahead, and ’phone at the top,” he said. His voice was most matter-of-fact. From that moment, anticlimax reigned. Roads are never as bad as report makes them, and this besides being far less narrow than many mountain passes we had been through, was beautifully graded on the turns, and in excellent condition. We passed several steep ravines at curves,—one where a car had overturned the week previous,—but none was as bad as we had been led to expect. Thanks to the sane regulation making it a one way road we had nothing to fear from traffic. Valleys, blue and red with a magnificent sweep of flowers, dropped down, down, and new mountains rose from unexpected coverts. We circled the one we were on, pausing at the summit for the view over the emerald slopes far below. We reached the base of our Gibraltar, but saw on nearer approach that we could no more have climbed it then we could climb Washington Monument on the outside. Instead we rounded it, and dipped up and down another hillside, overlooking an eastern valley. Here the road was delightfully planned so that we could look far ahead over our course, and coast or climb without fearing the next turn. Well named is the Park, so surprisingly green after the desert. In an hour and three-quarters we had covered the twenty-six miles to the inn. This, we were told by the stage drivers, was fairly near record time.
We met a man soon after our arrival, to whom we mentioned that we had recently come from the Rainbow Bridge.
“Oh,” said he, “were you in the party where the mule threw the man off into the cactus?”
News travels like that in the West.
Mesa Verde is what is called a three days’ park. One could easily spend three weeks or three months there with profit or delight, camping in its delicious forests and riding over its mountainsides. But in three days all that is to be seen of cliff dwellings and prehistoric ruins can be inspected without hurry, unless of course one is an archaeologist. Here are most elaborate ruins, carefully restored, whose many kivas indicate a prosperous and flourishing community. Long canyons, thickly wooded and enameled with wild-flowers are lined on both sides with these airy villages. A small museum of articles found in excavating, displayed in the main house, greatly aids the mere amateur.
CLIFF-DWELLINGS. MESA VERDE PARK, COLORADO.
Here are most elaborate ruins, carefully restored.
We were fortunate in having a guide who knew his park like a book. Forsaking routine paths and steps, he hoisted us up and down the paths,—mere niches they were,—worn in the solid wall by those agile Indians. It seems certain that at that time no cliff-mothers indulged in the embonpoint affected by so many of their descendants. An inch too much of girdle in the right,—or the wrong,—place, would have sent them hurtling down into the canyon, as they climbed those sheer walls. Being one of the oldest known cliff communities, Mesa Verde is much more carefully restored than those we saw in the Canyon de Chelley and in Segi Canyon. More accessible and compact than other ruins, Mesa Verde combines the historic,—or prehistoric,—interest with the needs of vacation seekers who wish a few luxuries with their cliff dwellings. Although the hotel is of the simplest sort, it is well run. Those who wish to camp may do so by obtaining a permit. Tent houses are provided as a compromise between camping and hotel life for those who want to feel they are roughing it, but prefer a floor and a mattress between them and the insect world.
We entered the Mormon country not long after we left Mesa Verde and turned north again into Utah. Here once more we had desert, villainous prairie roads, utter loneliness, with vista of foothills of the Rockies guarding our route. We drove hard and camped where midnight found us, or, too weary to spread our tent, went still further to the next one of the miserably equipped towns in rural Utah, where we had the benefit of rickety bedsprings and stifling bedrooms. It was cherry time, and each warm day we blessed Brigham Young for his foresight in encouraging the growth of fruit trees. The Mormons were the earliest in the West to understand the use of irrigation. Their villages, slatternly as to buildings, nestle in lanes and avenues of poplar and cottonwood, and their gardens bear all manner of fruit. They are good providers, too, in this rural desert, and at noon sharp, when we stopped doubtfully at some unpainted shack, bearing the sign Café, we were astonished at the abundance of wholesome country food spread on the long table. We sat among a group of overalled men, who ate in silence, except for the sounds of mastication.