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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..30eae5e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60078 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60078) diff --git a/old/60078-8.txt b/old/60078-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 395bd6e..0000000 --- a/old/60078-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4451 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The White Heart of Mojave, by Edna Brush Perkins - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The White Heart of Mojave - An Adventure with the Outdoors of the Desert - -Author: Edna Brush Perkins - -Release Date: August 9, 2019 [EBook #60078] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE HEART OF MOJAVE *** - - - - -Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -The White Heart of Mojave - -[Illustration: Logo] - - -[Illustration: A DESERT ROAD] - - - - -THE WHITE HEART OF MOJAVE - -AN ADVENTURE WITH THE OUTDOORS OF THE DESERT - -EDNA BRUSH PERKINS - -BONI AND LIVERIGHT -PUBLISHERS NEW YORK - - - - -_Copyright, 1922, by_ -BONI AND LIVERIGHT, INC. - -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -To -my friend - -CHARLOTTE HANNAHS JORDAN - -who shared this adventure -in the wind and sun -of big spaces - - - - -CONTENTS - -CHAPTER PAGE - I. THE FEEL OF THE OUTDOORS 9 - - II. HOW WE FOUND MOJAVE 20 - - III. THE WHITE HEART 51 - - IV. THE OUTFIT 71 - - V. ENTERING DEATH VALLEY 87 - - VI. THE STRANGEST FARM IN THE WORLD 112 - - VII. THE BURNING SANDS 128 - -VIII. THE DRY CAMP 141 - - IX. THE MOUNTAIN SPRING 155 - - X. THE HIGH WHITE PEAKS 180 - - XI. SNOWSTORM AND SANDSTORM 195 - - XII. THE END OF THE ADVENTURE 219 - - APPENDIX 225 - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -A Desert Road _Frontispiece_ - - FACING PAGE -Some Half-wild Burros Around Silver Lake 54 - -Beatty, at the Base of a Big Red Mountain 80 - -The Outfit 90 - -The Camp Behind the Barn 102 - -The Alkali Bottom of Death Valley 130 - -The Desert 150 - -A Pack-Train Crossing a Dry Lake 166 - - - - -I - -_The Feel of the Outdoors_ - - -Beyond the walls and solid roofs of houses is the outdoors. It -is always on the doorstep. The sky, serene, or piled with white, -slow-moving clouds, or full of wind and purple storm, is always -overhead. But walls have an engrossing quality. If there are many of -them they assert themselves and domineer. They insist on the unique -importance of the contents of walls and would have you believe that -the spaces above them, the slow procession of the seasons and the -alternations of sunshine and rain, are accessories, pleasant or -unpleasant, of walls,--indeed that they were made, and a bungling job, -too, and to be disregarded as a bungling job should be, solely that -walls might exist. - -Perhaps your lawyer or your dentist has his office on the nineteenth -floor of a modern skyscraper. While you wait for his ministrations you -look out of his big window. Below you the roofs of the city spread for -miles to blue hills or the bright sea. The smoke of tall chimneys rolls -into the sky that fills all the space between you and the horizon and -the sun; the smoke of hustling prosperity fans out, and floats, and -mixes with the clouds, and becomes at last part of a majestic movement -of something other than either smoke or clouds. Suddenly the roofs that -covered only tables and chairs and power machines cover romance, a -million romances rise and mingle like the smoke of the tall chimneys. -They mix with the romance of the clouds and the hills. You are happy. -Nothing is changed around you, but you are happy. You only know that -the sun did it, and those far-off hills. When the man you are waiting -for comes in you congratulate him on his fine view. Then the jealous -walls assert themselves again; they want you to forget as soon as -possible. - -But you never quite forget. You visit the woods or the mountains or the -sea in your vacation. You loaf along trout streams, or in red autumn -woods with a gun in your hands for an excuse, or chase golf balls over -green hills, or sail on the bay and get becalmed and do not care. For -the pleasure of living outdoors you are willing to have your eyes smart -from the smoke of the camp fire, and to be wet and cold, and to fight -mosquitoes and flies. You like the feel of it, and you wait for that -sudden sense of romance everywhere which is the touch of something -big and simple and beautiful. It is always beyond the walls, that -something, but most of us have been bullied by them so much that we -have to go far away to find it; then we can bring it home and remember. - -Charlotte and I knew the outdoors a little. Though we were middle-aged, -mothers of families and deeply involved in the historic struggle for -the vote, we sometimes looked at the sky. In our remote youth we had -had a few brief experiences of the mountains and the woods; I had some -not altogether contemptible peaks to my credit and she had canoed in -the Canadian wilds, so when we decided that a vacation was due us -we chose the outdoors. Our labors had been arduous, divided as they -were between the clamorings of the young and our militant mission -to free the world; we were thoroughly habituated to walls and set -a high value on their contents. It was our habit to tell large and -assorted audiences that freedom consists in casting a ballot at regular -intervals and taking your rightful place in a great democracy; nor -did it seem anomalous, as perhaps it should have, that our chiefest -desire was to escape from every manifestation of democracy in the -solitariness of some wild and lonely place far from city halls, -smokestacks, national organizations, and streets of little houses all -alike. For some time the desire had been cutting through our work -with an edge of restlessness. We called it "Need for a Vacation," not -knowing that every desire to withdraw from the crowd is a personal -assertion and a protest against the struggle and worry, the bluff and -banality and everlasting tail-chasing which goes on inside the walls of -the stateliest statehouse and the two-room suite with bath. Our real -craving was not for a play hour, but for the wild and lonely place and -a different kind of freedom from that about which we had been preaching. - -Our choice of the wild and lonely place was circumscribed by the fact -that we had been offered the use of an automobile from Los Angeles. -The automobile was a much appreciated gift, but we regretted that Los -Angeles had to be the starting point because southern California is -the blissful goal of the tired east and the tired east was what we -needed to escape from. We left home without plans--too many plans in -vacation are millstones hung around your neck--sure only that such -places as Santa Barbara, Redlands, Riverside, and San Diego would be -for us nothing more than points on the way to somewhere else. An atlas -showed a great empty space just east of the Sierra Nevada Range and -the San Bernadino Mountains vaguely designated as the Mojave Desert. -It was surprising to find the greater part of southern California, -the much-advertised home of the biggest fruit and flowers in the -world, included in it. A few criss-cross lines indicated mountains; -north of the Santa Fé Railroad, which crosses the Mojave on the -way to the coast, the words Death Valley were printed between two -groups of them; in the south a big white space similarly surrounded -was the Imperial Valley; the names of a few towns sprangled out -from the railroad--nothing else. Was the desert just a white space -like that? The word had a mixed connotation, it suggested monotony, -sterility, death--and also big open spaces, gold and blue sunsets, and -fascination. We recollected that some author had written about the -"terrible fascination" of the desert. The white blank on the map looked -very wild and lonely. We went to Los Angeles on the Santa Fé in order -to see what it might contain. - -We looked at it. After leaving the high plateau of northern Arizona -the railroad crosses the Colorado River and enters the lowlands of the -Mojave Desert. That is the first glimpse the tourist has of California, -but he hardly realizes that it is California, for it is so different -from the pictures on the time-tables and hotel folders. At Needles -he usually pulls down the window shades against the too-hot sun and -forgets the dust and heat in the pages of the last best seller, or -else he goes out on the California Limited which spares its passengers -the dusty horrors of the desert by crossing the Mojave at night. His -California, and ours when we left Chicago, consists of the charming -bungalows with date palms in their dooryards and yellow roses climbing -their porches, the square orange groves all brushed and combed for -dress parade, the picturesque missions, and the white towns with -streets shaded by feathery pepper trees west of the backbone of the -Sierras, not the hundreds of miles of desolation east of them. Hour -after hour we pounded through it in a hot monotony of yellow dust. -Hour after hour great sweeps of blue-green brush led off to mountains -blue and red against the sky. We passed black lava beds, and strange -shining flats of baked clay, and clifflike rocks. It was very vast. The -railroad seemed a tiny thread of life through an endless solitude. The -train stopped at forlorn stations consisting of a few buildings stark -on the coarse, gravelly sand. Sometimes a gang of swarthy Mexicans -stopped work on the track to watch us go by, sometimes a house stood -alone in the brush, sometimes a lonely automobile crawled along the -highway beside the railroad. It was empty and vast, and over it all the -sun poured a white flood. - -In spite of the dust and glare a fascinated curiosity kept us looking -out of the dirty windows all day. Occasionally dim wagon tracks led -toward the mountains, some of which were high and set on wide, solid -foundations. They were immovable, old, old mountains. Shadows cut -sharply into the smooth brightness of their sides. Their colors changed -and the sand ran between them like beckoning roads. "Come," it seemed -to say, "and find what is hidden here." Once we saw a man with three -burros loaded with cooking utensils and bedding. He was traveling -across country through the sagebrush. Where could he be going? - -Unconsciously I asked the question aloud and Charlotte answered: - -"He is a prospector looking for a gold mine. Don't you see his pick on -the second mule?" - -"Please say burro," I pleaded. "It gives a better atmosphere. Besides -it is not a mule, it's an ass." - -"Those are the Old Dad Mountains over there, those big rosy ones. -That's where he is going, up the long path of sand. He will camp there. -Perhaps he is not a prospector, he may have a mine already." - -"Of course he has one," I assented. "All the prospectors are dead. They -died of thirst in Death Valley." - -"My prospector did not. He is going to his mine. He tries to work it -himself but it does not pay very well because he can't get enough out, -and he can't sell it because too many booms have failed, and nobody -will invest. So he goes up and down in the sun and has a good time." - -Perhaps you could have a good time going up and down in the sun through -those empty spaces that stretched so endlessly on either side of the -track. I wondered if we might not go to the Imperial Valley and see -that strange thing, the new Salton Sea, a lake in the desert; but -Charlotte objected because that part of the white blank was partially -under irrigation, too near the coast, and would be too civilized and -full of ranches. I doubted much if the tired east went there for I -thought that it was the desert like this, only hotter, worse. She -declared that the tired east went everywhere that it could get to. -Evidently it could not reach Mojave, for certainly it was not rushing -around in automobiles trying to be happy, nor pouring the savings -for its short holiday into the money bags of conscienceless hotel -companies. Mojave was indeed a blank, a wild and lonely place. - -"I think," Charlotte remarked after a time, "that we will go to Death -Valley." - -"Why?" - -"Because I am tired of looking at the Twenty Mule Team Borax boxes and -wondering what kind of place they came from that could have a name like -that." - -I thought it was not a sufficient reason for me to risk my life. - -"I think," she said, "that it is the wildest and loneliest place of -all. Nobody goes there except your prospectors, and you say they are -all dead. Think of the gold and jewels they did not find lying around -everywhere. Think of the hotness and brightness. It must be an awful, -lonesome, sparkling place." - -It must be! Those reasons appealed to me, but the idea was a bit -upsetting considering that we had started for a happy-go-lucky -vacation, a little like playing with a kitten and having it turn into -a tiger. Mojave was like a tiger, terrible and fascinating. From -the windows of the Santa Fé train it was a savage, ruthless-looking -country, naked in the sun. It repelled us and held us, we could not -keep our eyes off it. They ached from straining to pierce the distances -where the beckoning roads were lost in brightness. Mountains and -valleys full of outdoors, nothing but outdoors! What was the feel of -being alone in the sagebrush? How free the sweep of the wind must be, -how hot the sun, how immense the deep night sky! - -Thus the wild and lonely place was selected. A strange outdoors for a -holiday truly, and we had an adventure with it. - - - - -II - -_How We Found Mojave_ - - -When the automobile was delivered into our hands at Los Angeles we -wanted to turn around immediately and drive back through the Cajon Pass -into the Mojave Desert, but our inquiries about directions met with -discouragement on every side. It seemed to be unheard of for two women -to attempt such a thing; the distances between the towns where we could -get accommodations were too great and the roads were apt to have long -stretches of sand where we would get stuck. Our friends drew a dismal -picture of us sitting out in the sagebrush beside a disabled car and -slowly starving to death. - -"You could not fix it," they said, "and what would you do?" - -We suggested that we might wait until somebody came along. - -They assured us that nobody ever came along. - -We went to the Automobile Club; they received us with enthusiasm and -told us about all the places California is proud of and how to get to -them, but California seems not to be proud of the desert, for when we -mentioned it our advisers became gloomy. They seemed to have no very -definite information and were sure we would not like it. In the face -of so much discouragement we hardly dared to ask about Death Valley -and when we did, hesitatingly, the question was ignored. We simply -could not get there, nobody ever went. The Imperial Valley seemed to be -almost as bad. One of the maps they gave us showed a main highway from -San Diego over into it, but they said that it was only a gravel road, -mountainous and steep, and that we had better stick to the main routes. -Evidently they had no faith in our skill as drivers, nor belief in our -purpose, so we soon gathered up the maps and innumerable folders about -resort hotels, thanked them, and went our way. - -The collection contained no map of the Mojave. She had called us, -but not loudly enough as yet, and now that we no longer saw her we -remembered her terribleness more than her fascination. We would content -ourselves with the Imperial Valley, at least for a beginning; but -we said nothing more about it and started down the coast with every -appearance of having a ladylike programme. In our then mood we hated -the coast and were guilty of speeding along the fine macadam between -Los Angeles and San Diego in our eagerness to leave it. We turned -due east from the green little city on the shores of its beautiful -harbor and headed for the desert. Our unsatisfactory interview at -the Automobile Club had led us to believe that the Imperial Valley, -irrigated or not, was a wild and lonely place, the desert itself, for -it seemed to be surrounded by difficulties. - -The road from San Diego proved to be good, presenting no hindrances -not easily surmounted, and as we drove along it we told each other -what we thought about the Automobile Club. Gradually the character of -the country changed. A little of the prickly, spiky desert vegetation -with which we were to become so familiar appeared. The round hills -gave way to piles of bare, colored rock, the soil became a gravelly -sand on which scrub oak and manzanita grew. The houses became fewer. In -one place we had to detour and found deep, soft sand, nothing to the -sand of a real desert road, but we did not know that then. The change -was subtle, yet we felt it. The country took on the harshness that had -repelled us from the train-windows. Being alone in it was at first a -little dreadful. - -After a day or so of leisurely driving we came suddenly to the edge -of the valley. The ground fell before us, cut into rough canyons and -foothills, two thousand feet to a blue depth. It was like a great hole -full of blue mist, surrounded by red and chocolate-colored mountains. -Nothing was clear down there though the mountains were sharply defined -and had indigo shadows on them. The valley was a pure, light blue, -of the quality of the sky, as though the sky reached down into it. -We lingered a long time eating our lunch on a jagged rock, trying to -pierce the blue veils and see the Salton Sea, a big salt lake which we -knew was there with the tracks of the Southern Pacific beside it, the -sand dunes we had heard of, and the town of El Centro where we were -to spend the night. We could see nothing of them, only a phantasy of -changing color, an unreality. - -We found the whole desert full of drama, but the Imperial Valley is -perhaps the most dramatic spot of all, except Death Valley, that other -deep hole below sea-level which is so much more remote and so utterly -lonely. The great basin of the Imperial Valley was once a part of the -ocean until the gradual silting up of its narrow opening separated it -from the Gulf of California. The bottom of the valley then became an -inland sea which slowly evaporated under the hot sun, leaving as it -receded a thick deposit of salt on the sand. At last the valley was -dry, a deep glistening bowl between chocolate-colored mountains, a -white desolation undisturbed by man or beast, covered with silence. For -ages it lay thus while morning and evening painted the hills. - -Then the railroad came with its thread of life, connecting Yuma with -San Bernadino and Los Angeles. Soon a salt-works was built in what had -once been the bottom of the ocean, and later an irrigation-system for -the southern end of the valley from the Colorado River which flows just -east of the Chocolate Mountains. The white desolation was made to bloom -and, in spite of the intense heat of summer, has become one of the -richest farming districts of California. But the drama is still going -on. A few years ago the untamed Colorado River that had fought its way -through the Grand Canyon and come two hundred miles across the desert -turned wild and flooded into the Imperial Valley. It was shut out -again, but it left the new Salton Sea in the old ocean bed. Its yellow -waves now break near the irrigated area; it drowned the salt works. -The Salton Sea is slowly vanishing as its predecessor did; in a little -while the valley will again be dry and white and glistening. - -The road descended before us in jigjags to the blue depth. It was a -good road but narrow in places, dropping sheer at the edge, and steep. -Very carefully we drove down, emerging at last through a narrow, rough -canyon onto the sandy floor of the valley. A macadam road led like -a shining band through the sagebrush. This evidence of civilization -was strange in the surrounding wilderness, for as yet we could see no -sign of life in the valley. The sand came up to the edge of the road -and was blown into dunes between us and the new sea. There was nothing -but sunshine and sagebrush and flowers. The flowers amazed us, for -why should they grow there? There was a yellow kind that outshone our -perennial garden coreopsis, and numberless little flowers pressed close -to the sand with spread-out velvet, or shining, or crinkled blue or -frosted leaves. We had to get out of the car to see them, and whenever -we got out we felt the heat blaze around us. We were below sea-level -and even in February it was very hot. The light was almost blinding, -and a silver heat-shimmer swam between us and the mountain-walls. The -mountains seemed to be of many colors which changed as the afternoon -advanced. The sun set in a more vivid purple and gold than we had ever -seen. - -We lingered so long looking at the strange plants and flowers that -twilight found us still alone with the desert. Only the white macadam -band promised any end to it. Realizing that night was coming and we had -an unknown number of miles before us we stepped on the accelerator with -more energy than wisdom. The result was a loud explosion of one of the -brand-new rear tires. We found the tire so hot that we had to wait for -it to cool before we could change it, and the road hot to touch though -the sun had been down for some time. We called ourselves all manner of -names for being such fools as to try to drive fast on that sizzling -surface. It was the first practical lesson about getting along on the -desert. - -Soon after that we came to an irrigation-ditch. Instantly everything -was changed and we were in a farming country. El Centro is a hustling -town with a modern four-story hotel. We wished it were not four stories -when we learned that part of it had recently been shaken down by an -earthquake, and especially when we experienced three small shocks -during that night. The earthquakes themselves did not seem surprising, -they were a fitting part of the weird experiences of the day. We felt -as though we had been very near to the elemental forces of nature; we -had been with the bare earth and volcanic rocks and strange plants that -flourish in dryness, and felt the unmitigated beat of the sun. It was -like seeing the great drama of nature unveiled, fierce and beautiful. - -We stayed several days in the Imperial Valley, visiting the Salton -Sea, figuring out the beach lines of that other more ancient sea, and -walking among the sand dunes. We found that we always went away from -the farms into the desert. She was calling us loudly enough now. We -heard her and were determined to find more of her. When we tried to -go on, however, we met with the same universal discouragement. In El -Centro they said that the road out through Yuma to the desert east -of the Chocolate Mountains was very bad, and the road up the Valley -through Palm Springs and Banning no road at all. Besides, there was -no water anywhere. Later we found out that none of these things were -exactly true, but it probably seemed the best advice to give two lone -women with no experience of desert roads. Our appearance must have been -against us. Certainly it was no lack of persistence, for we interviewed -everybody, hotel-managers, ranchers, druggists and garage-men. They all -looked us over and gave the same advice. As far as we could learn, the -Mojave Desert which we tried to go to in the first place was where we -should be. We suspect now that they wanted to get rid of us. - -We returned to Los Angeles and attacked the Automobile Club again. -As before we had to listen to arguments about the roads and the sand -and the distances and the accommodations, but this time we listened -unmoved. With a defiant feeling very reminiscent of youth we purchased -a shovel and two big canteens to fasten on the running-board because -we had observed that all the cars in the Imperial Valley were thus -equipped. These implements gave us a feeling of preparedness. We also -bought some blankets and food lest we should break down on a lonely -road. We knew what we wanted now and the Automobile Club found a map. -It was an inspiring map covered with a network of black roads and -many towns in bold type. We studied it and found that we could never -get more than thirty miles from somewhere, and we thought we could -walk that if we had to. For some reason no one told us to beware of -abandoned towns and abandoned roads, perhaps they did not know about -them. One of the black lines led straight toward Death Valley. Once -more we said nothing about our destination, and started. - -A good road led through the Cajon Pass to Victorville and thence over -sand dotted with groves of Joshua palms to Barstow. A Joshua palm is -a grotesque tree-yucca which appears wherever the mesas of the Mojave -rise to an elevation of a few thousand feet. It becomes twenty feet -high in some places and its ungainly arms stick up into the sky. It has -long, dark green, pointed leaves ending in sharp thorns like the yucca. -It attains to great age and the dead branches, split off from the trunk -or lying on the ground, look as though they were covered with matted -gray hair. Charlotte and I never liked them much, they seemed like -monsters masquerading as trees; but in that first encounter, when we -drove through them mile after mile in a desolation broken only by the -narrow ribbon of the gravel road, they were distinctly unpleasant and -we were glad when we left them behind at Barstow. - -There seemed to be a choice of routes from that town so we had an -ice cream soda and interviewed the druggist, having discovered that -druggists are among the most helpful of citizens. He proved to be an -enthusiast about the desert, the first we had met, and we warmed to -him. He brought out an album full of kodak-pictures of the Devil's -Playground where the sand-dunes roll along before the wind. He grew -almost poetic about them, but when we spread out the map and showed -him the proposed route to Death Valley he grew grave. He said the road -was so seldom traveled that in places it was obliterated. We would -surely get lost. Silver Lake, the next town on it, was eighty-seven -miles away. There was one ranch on the road but he was not sure any one -was living there. He was not even sure we could get accommodations -at Silver Lake. Yes, it was a wonderful country; you went over five -mountain ridges. He forgot himself and began to describe it glowingly -when a tall man who was looking at the magazines interposed with: -"Surely, you would not send the ladies that way!" - -The two words "get lost" were what deterred us. We felt we could cope -with most calamities, but already, coming through the Joshua palms, we -had sensed the size and emptiness of Mojave. At least until we were a -little better acquainted with the strange land where even the plants -seemed weird, we needed the reassurance of a very definite ribbon of -road ahead. We decided to go to Randsburg, then to Ballarat and try to -get into Death Valley from there. The druggist doubted if we could get -into the valley at all. We began to suspect that it might be difficult. - -Randsburg, Atolia and Johannesburg are mining towns close together -about forty miles north of Barstow. The road there was no such highway -as we had been traveling upon; often it was only two ruts among the -sagebrush, but it was well enough marked to follow easily. Great -sloping mesas spread for miles on either side of the track, rising -to rocky crowns. All the big, open, gradually ascending sweeps are -called mesas on the Mojave, though they are in no sense table-lands -like the true mesas of New Mexico and Arizona. The groves of Joshua -palms had disappeared; we were lower down now where only greasewood and -sagebrush grew. The unscientific like us, who accept the word "mesa," -lump together all the varieties of low prickly brush as sagebrush. -The little bushes grew several feet apart on the white, gravelly -ground, each little bush by itself. They smoothed out in the distance -like a carpet woven of all shades of blue and green. The occasional -greasewood, a graceful shrub covered with small dark green leaves, -waved in the wind. Unobstructed by trees the mesa seemed endless. We -stopped the car to feel the silence that enveloped it. The place was -vast and empty as the stretches we had seen from the railroad, and now -we found how still they all had been. The strong, fresh wind pressed -steadily against us like a wind at sea. - -Atolia was the first town, golden in the setting sun, on the shoulder -of a stern, red mountain. Before it a wide valley fell away in whose -bottom gleamed the white floor of a dry lake. All the mountain tops -were on fire. The three towns were very close together, separated by -the shoulder of the red mountain. Randsburg was the largest, whose one -street was a steep hill. It had a score of buildings and two or three -stores. Johannesburg, just over the crest, had six buildings, among -them an adobe hotel and a large garage. All three towns ornamented -the map with big black letters. We thought we were approaching cities -and found instead little wooden houses set on the sand with the great -simplicity of the desert at their doors. - -According to that map Death Valley was now not more than sixty -miles away. We thoroughly startled the inhabitants of Johannesburg, -familiarly known as Joburg, by the announcement that we were going -there. We did not yet know how startling an announcement it was; but -these real dwellers on the desert, intimately acquainted with her -difficulties, met our ignorance in a more helpful spirit than any of -our other advisers had, even the agreeable druggist. Hardly any one -ever goes to places like Joburg just for the pleasure of going, and -they seemed pleased that we had come. They described the Panamint -Mountains which shut off the valley from that side with a barrier -nearly 12,000 feet high. There are only two passes, the Wingate Pass -through which the borax used to be hauled and which is now blocked -with fallen rocks, and a pass up by Ballarat. They had not heard of -any cars going in for some time. Unhappily Ballarat had been abandoned -for several years and we could not stay there unless we could find the -Indians, and no one knew where they were. None of the Joburgians whom -we first interviewed had ever been to Death Valley. - -It was discouraging, but we persevered until we found a real old-timer. -He was known as Shady Myrick. We never discovered his Christian name -though he was a famous desert character. Wherever we went afterward -everyone knew Shady. Evidently the name was not descriptive for all -agreed on his honesty and goodness. He was an old man, rather deaf, -with clear, very straightforward-gazing eyes. Most of his life had -been spent on the Mojave as a prospector and miner, and much of it -in Death Valley itself. The desert held him for her own as she does -all old-timers. He was under the "terrible fascination." As soon as -we explained that we had come for no other purpose than to visit his -beloved land he was eagerly interested and described the wonders of -Death Valley, its beautiful high mountains, its shining white floor, -its hot brightness, its stillness, and the flowers that sometimes deck -it in the spring. - -"If you go there," he said, "you will see something that you'll never -see anywhere else in the world." - -He had gem mines in the Panamints and was in the habit of going off -with his mule-team for months at a time. He even said that he would -take us to the valley himself were he a younger man. We assured him -that we would go with him gladly. We urged him--you had only to look -into his eyes to trust him--promising to do all the work if he would -furnish the wagon and be the guide, innocently unaware of the absurdity -of such a proposal in the burning heat of Death Valley; but he only -smiled gently, and said that he was too old. - -Silver Lake turned out to be the place for us to go after all. He -described how we could drive straight on from Joburg, a hundred and -sixteen miles. There was a sort of a road all the way. He drew a map on -the sand and said that we could not possibly miss it for a truck had -come over six weeks before and we could follow its tracks. - -"It ain't blowed much, or rained since," he remarked. - -"But suppose we should get lost, what would we do?" - -"Why should you get lost? Anyway, you could turn around and come back." - -We looked at each other doubtfully. In the far-spreading silence around -Joburg the idea of getting lost was more dreadful than it had been at -Barstow. There was not even a ranch in the whole hundred and sixteen -miles. We hesitated. - -"You are well and strong, ain't you?" he asked. "You can take care of -yourselves as well as anybody. Why can't you go?" - -"You have lived in this country so long, Mr. Myrick," I tried to -explain, "you do not understand how strange it is to a newcomer. How -would we recognize those mountains you speak of when we do not even -know how the desert-mountains look? How could we find the spring where -you say we might camp when we have never seen one like it?" - -"You can do it," he insisted, "that's how you learn." - -"And there is the silence, Mr. Myrick," I went on, hating to have him -scorn us for cowards, "and the big emptiness." - -He understood that and his face grew kind. - -"You get used to it," he said gently. - -It was refreshing to meet a man who looked into your feminine eyes and -said: "You can do it." It made us feel that we had to do it. We spent a -whole day on a hilltop near Joburg looking longingly over the sinister, -beautiful mountains and trying to get up our courage. Happily we -were spared the decision. Two young miners at Atolia sent word that -they were going over to Silver Lake in a few days and would be glad -to have us follow them. Perhaps it was Shady's doing. We accepted the -invitation with gratitude. - -We loafed around Joburg during the intervening days. The stern, red -mountains were full of mine-holes, but most of the mines were not -being worked and the three towns were dead. Everywhere on the Mojave -Desert mining activity had fallen off markedly after the beginning of -the war. The population of the three towns had dwindled away and the -few people who remained did so because they still had faith in the red -mountain and hoped that the place might boom again. The big hotel at -Joburg, which was attractively built around a court and which could -accommodate twenty to thirty guests, was empty save for us. We looked -at and admired innumerable specimens of ore. They were everywhere, in -the hotel-office, in the general store, in the windows of the houses. -Everyone had some shining bit of the earth which he treasured. We -bought some of Shady Myrick's cut stones and received presents of gold -ore and fine pieces of bloodstone and jasper in the rough. - -We enlisted the services of the garage to get our car in the best -possible condition for the journey across the uncharted desert. The -general opinion held that it was too heavy for such traveling; the next -time we should bring a Ford. When the two young men appeared early on -the appointed morning with a light Ford truck dismantled of everything -except the essential machinery they also looked over our big, red car -questioningly. They feared we would get stuck in the sand and jammed on -rocks; but generously admitted themselves in the wrong when, later in -the day, they stuck and we did not. Of course they had the advantage, -for we would probably have remained where we stopped, while the four -of us were able to lift and push the little truck out of its troubles. -It was the most disreputable-looking car we had ever encountered even -among Fords, a moving junk-pile loaded with miscellaneous shabby -baggage, tools, and half-worn-out extra tires. Our new friends matched -it in appearance. They looked as tough as the Wild West story-tellers -would have us believe that most miners are. We have found out that -most miners are not, though we hate to shatter that dear myth of the -movies. If you were to meet on any civilized road the outfit which we -followed that day from seven o'clock in the morning until dark you -would instantly take to the ditch and give it the right of way. - -The drive was wild and fearful and wonderful. The bandits led us over -and around mountains, down washes and across the beds of dry lakes. -Often there was no sign of a road, at least no sign that was apparent -to us. On the desert you must travel one of two ways, either along the -water-courses or across them. It is strange to find a country dying of -thirst cut into a rough chaos by water-channels. Rain on the Mojave is -a cloud-burst. The water rushes down from the rocky heights across the -long, sloping mesas, digging innumerable trenches, until it reaches a -main stream-bed leading to the lowest point in the valley. When you go -in the same direction as the water you usually follow up or down the -dry stream-beds, or washes, but when you cross the watershed you must -crawl as best you can over the parallel trenches which are sometimes -small and close together like chuck-holes in a bad country road, and -sometimes wide and deep. One of the uses of a shovel, which we found -out on that day, is to cut down the banks of washes that are too high -and steep for a car to cross. - -Most of the mountains of the Mojave are separate masses rather than -continuous ranges. Between them the mesas curve, sometimes falling -into deep valleys. Instead of foothills, long gradual slopes always -lead up to the rock battlements, the result of the wearing down of -countless ages, the wide foundations that give the ancient mountains an -appearance of great repose. They are solid and everlasting. The valleys -are like great bowls curving up gently to sudden, perpendicular sides. -The mesas always look smooth, beautiful sweeps that completely satisfy -the eye. It rests itself upon them. - -When the valleys are deep they usually contain a dry lake, baked mud -of a white, yellow, or brownish-purple color. Crossing dry lakes is a -curious experience. They never look very wide, but are often several -miles across. You need a whole new adjustment of ideas of distance on -the desert for the air is so clear that distant objects look stark and -near. What you judge to be half a mile usually turns out to be five, -and four miles is certainly eighteen. We were always deceived about -distances until we trained ourselves a little by picking out some point -ahead, guessing how far it was, and measuring it with the cyclometer. -Dry lakes are not only deceitful about their size, but also about their -nature. Along the edges is a strange glistening effect as though water -were standing under the shore. Often the rocks and bushes are reflected -in it upside down, and if the lake is large enough the illusion of -water is perfect. You drive across with a queer effect of standing -still, for there is not so much as a stone to mark your progress. It is -like being in a boat on an actual lake. The sunlight is very dazzling -on the white and yellow expanses and the heat-shimmer makes the ground -seem to heave. Sometimes you have the illusion of going steeply up-hill. - -Nothing grows in the lake-beds, but the mesas are covered with the -usual desert-growths, sagebrush, greasewood and many varieties of -cacti. A view from one of the ridges is a look into a magical country. -Only enchantment could produce the pale, lovely colors that lie -along the mountains and the endless variety of blues and pinks and -sage-greens which flow over the wide, sagebrush-covered mesas. The dry -lake far down in the bottom of the valley shines. The illusion of water -at its further edges is a glistening brightness. It is hard to tell -where the baked mud ends and the sand begins. It is hard to tell what -are the real colors and shapes of things. If you can linger a while -they change. The valley never loses its immense repose, but it changes -its colors as though they were garments, and it changes the relations -of things to each other. That violet crag looks very big and important -while you are toiling up the mesa, but just as you are crossing the -ridge and look back for the last time you see that the wine-red hill -beside it is really much larger. - -For a short distance we followed the old trail over which the -borax used to be hauled from Death Valley. The familiar name, -"Twenty-Mule-Team Borax," was touched with romance. Out of the bottom -of that baffling, inaccessible valley, through a pass by the high -Panamint Mountains where it is sixty miles between the water-holes, -and over this weird country unlike any country we had dreamed existed -in the world, this prosaic commodity was hauled by strings of laboring -mules. They tugged through the sand day after day and their drivers -made camp-fires under the stars. We can never see that name now on a -package of kitchen-borax, humbly standing on the shelf, without going -again in imagination over those two old, lonely ruts. - -We lunched at a spring under a cottonwood tree--Two Springs is its -name, the only water on the route. Some one once tried to graze cattle -there, and the water came through a wooden trough into a cement basin. -During lunch the bandits entertained us with tales of the desert. It -has its own ethics. You are justified in killing a man who robs your -camp or steals your burros. Out there at Two Springs we realized that -it was right. If you lose your food or your pack-animal you may well -lose your life. Many a prospector has never returned. The elder of the -bandits remarked thoughtfully that he was glad he had never had to kill -a man. He knew a fellow who had and who was hounded to death by the -memory. He was justified by desert-ethics, but he had no peace in his -sleep. - -Toward sunset we went down an endless slope among mountains, some of -which were red, some yellow, some a sulphurous green, and some black. -A black mountain is a sinister object. There is a kind of fear which -does not concern itself with real things that might happen, but is a -primitive fear of nature herself. Even the bandits admitted feeling -it sometimes. It is a fear of something impending in the bare spaces, -as though the mountains threatened. A little creeping chill that had -nothing to do with the cool of evening kept us close behind the Ford. -At the bottom of the rough slope lay a somber basin full of shadow, -beyond which rose an abrupt, high ridge of sand. In spite of us the -Ford gained there and we saw it far ahead crawling up the ridge like a -black bug. It seemed to stop and jerk and stop and jerk again. Then it -disappeared over the top. For a few fearful moments we were alone with -Mojave. How could rocks and sand and silence make us afraid and yet be -so wonderful? For they were wonderful. The ridge was orange against a -luminous-orange sky, the sand in the shadowy basin reached right and -left, mysteriously shining, to mountains with rosy tops. The darkness -around us was indigo, the two crooked ruts of the Ford were full of -blue. - -Apprehensively, jerking and stopping, stopping and jerking, as the -Ford had done, the engine clanking as though it would smash itself to -pieces, the radiator boiling frantically, we bucked our way to the -summit of the ridge. It looked down on an immense dry lake in a valley -so big that the mountains beyond were dim in the twilight. At the far -side of the lake stood a group of eight or ten portable houses, bright -orange beside the purple darkness of the baked-mud lake. It was the -town which we had made that incredible journey to reach. Below us we -could see the little truck struggling through the sand. Presently it -reached the hard edge of the lake and merged with its dark smoothness. -We followed down the ridge in its ruts and drove for three miles -straight across the hard lake-bed toward the town, where now a few -lights gleamed. The orange faded from the houses and the whole valley -became a rich plum-color. It was dark when we came out onto the sand -again and drove into the lonely hamlet. - -A kindly German couple received us. They were as amazed to see two -women arrive in a big car as we were at arriving. Once two men had come -in a Cadillac just to see the desert, but they could remember no other -visitors with such an unusual object. Mrs. Brauer doubted if we would -find much to look at in Silver Lake. We assured her that we found much -already and hoped to find much more. - -"And where did you think you vas going?" her husband asked, chuckling -vastly in the background. - -"To Death Valley." - -"Mein Gott!" - -They conducted us to a one-room shack beside the tin can dump and -bade us be at home. Strangely enough we felt at home. The door of the -shack faced the open desert, the threshold only three inches above the -sand. It stretched away white and still, radiating pale light. The -craving which had made us seek a wild and lonely place responded to -it. The night was a deep-blue, warm and luminous. A hard young moon, -sharp as a curved knife blade, hung over the hills. We went out into -the vague brightness among the ghostly bushes, and at last onto the -darkness of the lake-bed. Beyond it the sand gleamed on the ridge -we had come over. On either side the mountains we had feared were -strong, beautiful silhouettes. In the northwest stood the mass of the -Avawatz, a pure and noble skyline glowing with pale rose. The Avawatz -had been the most fearful mountain of all in the sultry afternoon, a -red conglomeration of volcanic hills. We walked on and on, full of a -strange, terrible happiness. The trackless, unbroken expanse of the -lake seemed boundless, the mountains were never any nearer. We kept -looking back for the reassuring gleam of the lamp we had set in the -window; presently it was lost. Nothing indicated the whereabouts of -the town, we left no footprint-trail on the hard mud, every link with -mankind was gone. Before starting we had located the little houses in -relation to a certain peak and we felt like navigators in an uncharted -sea. - -"We must learn to steer by the stars," Charlotte said. "We must always -remember that." - -We stood still listening to the silence. It was immense and all -enveloping. No murmur of leaves, nor drip of water, nor buzz of insects -broke it. It brooded around us like a live thing. - -"Do you hear the universe moving on?" Charlotte whispered. - -"It is your own heart beating," I told her, but I did not believe it. - -We had found Mojave. - - - - -III - -_The White Heart_ - - -We had indeed found her. The morning sun came up over the immense -valley ringed with beautiful, reposeful mountains. The big, empty -mesas swept up to them, streaked with purple and green like the -sea. Sometimes shining sand led between them to indistinguishable -rose and blue. Such a palace of dreams beckoned toward Death Valley -behind Avawatz, the sultry, red mountain that had been so magical in -the night; and another called southward to the white desolation of -the Devil's Playground beyond the far end of the lake where stood -a symmetrical, black, mountain-mass with a tongue of bright sand -running up it. The black mountain and the shining tongue of sand were -reflected in an expanse of radiant blue water. This was astonishing -and we hastened to inquire the name of the river or lake that lit the -distance with such heavenly brightness. The old German chuckled so -much that he seemed about to blow up with access of mirth. Finally he -was able to explain that it was only a mirage. We watched it all day -and saw it change to a thin streak at noon and widen again at evening. -The reflections of the bushes at its edge were so magnified that they -looked like trees. To Brauer's endless entertainment we insisted that -trees grew there. - -Ever since leaving Barstow we had been penetrating further and further -into the Mojave. With every mile she had become more terrible and more -beautiful. The colors which had delighted us at Joburg were pale beside -the colors around Silver Lake, the mountains were hills compared to -these beautiful, sinister masses. The sun had been brighter there than -any eastern sun, here it was a hot, white blaze. All the way Mojave had -asserted herself more and more. In the Imperial Valley, at Joburg and -Barstow, we had felt men upon the desert, the drama was partly their -drama; now, though they might still make roads and build houses, they -seemed insignificant. We had but to walk two or three hundred yards -from Silver Lake to forget it and be wrapped in the endless stillness. -There was something awful in the silence, the awfulness which our -savage ancestors felt and bequeathed to us in our intangible fear of -the dark and of the wilderness, and the fear of being alone which many -people have; but there was greatness in it too, the greatness which is -always to be found in the outdoors. Balzac remarks that "the desert -is God without humanity." Truly the earth lives, and the sun and the -stars, a rhythm beats in them and unites them. They are the drama and -the human story is only a scene. - -The town of Silver Lake, such a little oasis of life in the solitude, -is owned by the Brauers who operate a general store and give board -to the few travelers who come to the mines in the neighborhood. They -are mostly silver-mines, whence the name. A few years ago there was -considerable activity when the Avawatz Crown and the big silver mine at -Riggs were in operation. Miners came to "town" in Fords which no doubt -resembled the junk pile we had followed from Joburg, and sometimes -with pack-trains. The pack-train on the desert always consists of a -string of burros. The burro in spite of his Mexican name, is nothing -more than a donkey, the biblical ass. He seems to be native to all -primitive places, the first burden-bearer. The prospector of the early -days with his pick and shovel was a picturesque figure traveling -across the sandy stretches from water-hole to water-hole. It is often -a hard day's-journey between the infrequent springs, sometimes a -several-days'-journey. He dug and broke the rock, and sometimes he -made his "strike." Then the boom on the desert would begin. Settlers -came in, roads were built and towns sprang up. The brutalities of -mining-camps which we read of were probably reflections of the -inhospitality of the land. The very characteristics which make the -desert dramatic and beautiful make it terrible for mankind to overcome. -The expense of mining operations in that hard country proved to be too -great unless the vein were exceptionally rich, and most of the small -mines are now abandoned. Nevertheless you still occasionally meet a -prospector with his burros, and in remote places like Silver Lake the -Ford has not entirely done away with the pack-train. - -[Illustration: SOME HALF-WILD BURROS WANDERED AROUND SILVER LAKE] - -A number of half wild burros wandered around among the little houses -attracted by the watering-trough though there was hardly anything -for them to eat. The soil is said to be so alkali that nothing will -grow there even under irrigation. A patch of grass six feet by two, -carefully cherished by the Brauers, was the only green thing in town. -We saw the list of electors nailed to the door of the general store. -There were seven names on it. - -A lonesome little railroad comes along the edge of the Devil's -Playground from Ludlow on the Santa Fé, past Silver Lake to the mining -camps of Nevada. All the supplies for the neighborhood are hauled -in on it through a country of shifting sand where no wagon-road can -be maintained. Even a railroad, the symbol of civilization, cannot -break the solitude. Great arteries of life like the Santa Fé and the -Southern Pacific become very tiny veins when they cross the desert; -the little Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad hardly seems to exist. You do -not see the track until you stumble over it, the telegraph poles are -lost in the sagebrush. There are two trains a week, up in the morning -and down at night. During breakfast on train-day a long hoot suddenly -cuts the stillness you have grown accustomed to. You jump. Mr. Brauer -chuckles at you and finishes his coffee and his anecdote, and gets up -ponderously and knocks the ashes out of his pipe and says: - -"I guess she'll be here pretty soon now." - -Presently you see him sauntering over to the station. In about fifteen -minutes an ungainly line of freight-cars with a passenger-coach or two -in the rear comes swaying along. Mrs. Brauer gathers up the dishes -leisurely. She hopes they have brought the meat. The last time she had -boarders they didn't bring any meat for two weeks. If they bring it she -promises to make you a fine German dinner. She never goes out to look -at the train. Nobody does, except you, who stand in the doorway and -wonder at it. Ever so long ago you used to see things that resembled -it. It is a curiosity like the strange, long neck of the giraffe. Like -the giraffe it has a momentary interest. It goes, and the silence -settles down again with a great yawn. - -The dry lake on whose shores the town is situated is three miles wide -and eighteen miles long, of a brownish-purple color. The surface is -hard and covered with little ripples like petrified waves. It is the -sink, or outlet of the Mojave River, whose wide, torn bed we had seen -at Barstow spanned by an iron bridge. The river-bed had been as dry as -any part of the desert, and we had supposed it was just an unusually -wide, deep wash. We now learned that in times of heavy rains or much -snow in the northern mountains the Mojave River thunders under the iron -bridge. On a later trip, when we were staying at the Fred Harvey Hotel -in Barstow, we once saw it come to life over-night. In the evening its -bed lay dry and white under the moonlight, in the morning it was full -of hurrying, turbid water. From Barstow the river-bed winds through -the desert to the purple-brown basin at Silver Lake. Were the Mojave -a normal river its water would always flow down there and the hard dry -lake would be blue with little white waves running before the wind, but -it is a desert-river and gets lost in the sand. Occasionally the water -flows past Barstow, but it hardly ever arrives at Silver Lake. It came -once in the memory of the present inhabitants, and covered the dry lake -to a depth of three or four feet. The water gradually evaporated and in -a few weeks was gone. Our kind entertainers showed us pictures which -they had taken of the real lake with boats on it. At that time both -the town and the railroad were in the lake-bed and had to be hastily -removed before the oncoming flood. An amusing incident happened one day -at dinner when an artist from San Francisco, who had stopped off on his -way to paint in Nevada, was boasting of the marvels of his city risen -from the great fire and earthquake. - -"Well," remarked our host with the same subterranean chuckle that he -lavished upon us, "Silver Lake ain't so bad. We pulled her up out of -the water once already." - -We tried to imagine the great expanse of living water, how it would -ripple and shine at its edges, and the purple mountain-tops would be -mirrored in it. Once the mirage had come true. - -Every day we watched the dream water increase and diminish at the base -of the black mountain with the tongue of silver sand running up it. The -illusion was always best in the morning, but never quite vanished while -the sun shone. It was so perfect that incredulity at last compelled us -to drive down the eighteen miles of the lake-bed and explore it. - -Brauer's eyes twinkled as he filled our gasoline tank. "You think the -lake ain't dried up yet, hey?" We kept our thoughts to ourselves. - -The first surprise was when we reached the end of the lake and had not -reached the mountain. It looked just the same except that the water -had vanished--hidden maybe by the brush that covered the sand. Our -host had said something about a road, but we had been so sure that the -mountain was at the edge of the lake that we had not listened carefully -enough and failed to find it, so we left the car and walked through -the brush. The bushes were very small and starved, growing several -yards apart on ground that was hard and covered with little bright -stones like packed-down gravel. The most flourishing shrub was the -desert-holly with gray, frosted leaves shaped exactly like the leaves -of Christmas holly, and small lavender berries. The following Christmas -Mrs. Brauer sent us great wreaths made of it and tied with red ribbons -to decorate our homes, a happy present that brought the hot brightness -of the desert into the gloom of an eastern winter. As we walked among -the little bushes the sun was very hot and the mountain seemed to -travel away as fast as we approached it. The second surprise was when -it also vanished entirely and three black hills stood in its place. -They were ugly and looked like heaps of coal. The beautiful peak which -we had seen was some ten miles further back on the main range which -shut off the Devil's Playground. It had composed with the three black -hills to form the symmetrical mass. There was no water either, and no -trees. - -The desolation was stark and sad; sand and sand with hardly any -brush reached to the distant range. The palace of dreams was gone. -Disillusioned, we climbed upon the nearest coal-pile, then suddenly -we saw the miracle again, in the north this time, whence we had come. -The town of Silver Lake was mirrored in blue water as shining and as -heavenly as the vision which was lost. The houses had weathered a deep -orange and burned in the sun. The white tank set upon stilts above -the well was dazzling to look at. Trees grew beside the glistening -dream-water. It was brighter than any town or lake could possibly be; -it was magical. - -Thus the desert keeps beckoning to you. Either the unknown goal, or the -known starting-point, or perhaps both at the same time, are magical; -only "here" is ever dreary. While we sat on the coal-pile Mojave -related a parable: - -"Once three brothers slung their canteens over their shoulders and -came to me. They traveled many days toward my shining. They were often -thirsty and very tired. Presently they came to a spring, and when they -had rested a dispute arose. The eldest brother wished to hasten on, -but the second said that my shining appeared no nearer than at the -beginning. Nay, he did not believe in it, he would stay where he was. -The youngest, however, agreed to accompany his eldest brother and the -two set out once more. They crossed high mountain-ranges and deep -valleys, but my shining was always before or after. In the seventh -valley the youngest brother also began to doubt me and refused to go -any further. - -"'I will stay here,' he said, 'these bushes have little cool shadows -beside them, and the ground is bright with little colored stones and -there are flowers. Stay also and let us be happy.' - -"But the eldest brother would not stay. - -"He traveled all the years of his life toward my shining. The second -brother turned the spring into a lake and built himself a house with -orange-groves around it. The third brother rested in the cool shadows -and rejoiced in the little bright stones." - -We listened intently, but there was no moral. - - * * * * * - -In spite of our host's "Mein Gott!" we still persisted in our idea -of going to Death Valley. It was now only thirty miles away where a -shining such as had led the brothers on beckoned beyond the Avawatz. -We learned that this route was impossible for a car, and so dry that -even pack-animals could hardly enter the valley that way. However, we -could make a detour of nearly two hundred miles, striking the Tonopah -and Tidewater Railroad again at Zabrisky or Death Valley Junction, -and possibly get in that way. During the debate the sheriff of Silver -Lake, a silent person decorated with pistols, volunteered to go with -us beyond the Avawatz as far as Saratoga Springs, and as much further -as we could drive the car. He would promise nothing as he had not been -there for some time and was a cautious man, but he thought we might -find it worth while. Any one of those bright paths was worth while to -us, and we eagerly agreed. - -That day's excursion proved even more memorable than the drive from -Joburg. It was like a continuation of it, becoming ever wilder and -stranger. We had already heard a few of Mojave's songs, bits of her -color-songs, and her peace-songs, and underneath like a rumbling bass -her terror-song--but we were as yet only acquaintances on the way to -intimacy. Ever since leaving Barstow we had felt that we were advancing -through progressive suggestion toward some kind of a climax. Mojave was -leading us on to something. Her heart still lay beyond. - -A good enough track led north along the railroad for a few miles and -then swung around the base of the Avawatz. We drove up an interminable -mesa where the alleged road grew always rougher and less well-marked, -and the engine had an annoying tendency to boil. The wind was from -behind and the heat of the sun radiating up from the white ground made -it impossible to keep the engine cool. We crossed a ridge among red -and purple hills of jumbled rock and began to descend into an oblong, -sandy basin. The road became so unspeakable that the Sheriff advised -leaving it for the white, unbroken sand of a wash. For miles we made -our own track, winding around stones and islands of brush. We were in -a sort of outpost-valley south of Death Valley itself, and separated -from it by what looked like a low ridge of gravel, but we no longer -believed in the reality of what we thought we saw. As a matter of fact -the ridge was succeeded by others, and the only way to get into the -main valley was through an opening with the startling name of Suicide -Pass. The valley we were in is usually considered to be a part of Death -Valley; on many maps the low basins stretching north from the Avawatz -for nearly a hundred miles are included under that name. - -On both sides of the outpost-valley stood mountains of every hue. -They were maroon, violet, or black at the base shading into lighter -reds and clear yellows. One yellow mountain had a scarlet spot on its -summit like a wound that bled. The dark bases of the mountains had a -texture like velvet, black and purple and olive-green velvet, folded -around their feet. As we descended the wash toward sea-level the heat -and brightness of the sun steadily increased. Each color shown in its -intensity. The bottom of the valley was streaked with deposits of white -alkali that glistened blindingly. The whole world was an ecstasy of -light. - -Saratoga Springs is a blue pool with green rushes growing around it, in -the angle of a dark red mountain. The water bubbled up from the bottom -of the little pool. A marsh full of green grass and coarse, white -flowers led back from the pool, spreading out into a sheet of clear -water which reflected the bare mountains and the vividly green rushes. -Though this real lake in the desert was a pure and lovely blue, and -dazzlingly bright, it had none of the magicalness of the dream-water by -the three black hills. Somehow it just missed enchantment. Henceforth -we would be able to distinguish mirage by this indescribable quality. - -Saratoga is the last appearance of the Armagosa, or Bitter River, -before it loses itself in Death Valley. Like the Mojave River the -Armagosa gets lost. It flows southward through the desert, sometimes -roaring down a rocky gorge, sometimes vanishing completely for miles -in a sandy stretch, then reappearing unaccountably to form oases -like the one at Saratoga. Opposite the southern end of Death Valley -it suddenly changes its mind and turns north on itself to enter -the valley where it makes a great bog encrusted with white, alkali -deposits. The Armagosa flows through an alkali desert carrying along -minerals in solution, which give its water the taste that has gained -for it the name of Bitter River. The water of Saratoga Springs is -flat and unpleasant, though it is fit to drink. There are stories of -poison-water in Death Valley, but most of the springs are merely so -full of alkali and salt that they are repulsive and do not quench -thirst. At Silver Lake the water is strongly alkali. Everybody uses -it, but when a supply of clear spring-water can be hauled in from the -mountains they all rejoice. The Sheriff's partner, Charley, had a -barrel full which he shared with us while we were there. The pool at -Saratoga was full of little darting fish, strange to see in the silent, -lifeless waste. The Sheriff saved some of his lunch for them and sat -a long time on the edge throwing in crumbs. Once, he told us, he had -camped there alone for three months prospecting the hills, and they had -been his friends. - -We attempted to drive beyond Saratoga Springs. There was supposed to -be a road, but neither Charlotte nor I could discern it. We bumped -along over ground so cut by shallow water-channels that after about -seven miles we dared not proceed, for a wrecked car in that shining -desolation would stay forever where it smashed. We tried to walk to -the top of the gravel-ridge that seemed to shut off the main valley. -It looked near and innocent enough, but when we tried to reach it over -the dazzling ground under the blazing sun we found, to our surprise, -that we could not. The temperature was about 95 degrees, and the -air very dry. The heat alone would have been quite bearable had it -not been augmented by the white glare. Suddenly we realized that -the little ridge was inaccessible; all the little yellow hills and -ridges, and the rocky crests that shone like burnished metal, were -likewise inaccessible. The realization brought a terrifying sense of -helplessness. Here was a country you could not travel over: though -your goal were in sight you might never reach it. The strength and -resourcefulness you relied on for emergencies were of no avail; an -empty canteen, a lost burro, a smashed car, and your history might be -finished. We began to understand why this place, so gay with color, so -flooded with light, so clean, so bright, was called Death Valley. - -Before us was the opening in the mountains where the terrible valley -itself lay. It was magnificent in the biggest sense of that big, -ill-used word. On the east side rose the precipitous Panamints with a -thin line of snow on their summits; opposite them the dark buttresses -of the Funeral Mountains faded back into dimness. Between the ranges -hung a blue haze of the quality of the sky, like the haze that had -obscured the hot Imperial Valley. The mountains were majestic, -immovable, their summits dwelt in the living silence. The haze had -the magicalness of mirage. We longed to go on while the sun went down -and the silence turned blue, for now we were certain that under that -haze, between those imposing walls, lay the climax to which Mojave had -been leading us, her White Heart. She could never be more desolate, or -stiller or grander. It was the logical journey's end, and what had been -at first merely a casual choice of destination became a fixed goal to -be reached through any hazards. - -"If you go there," the old prospector had said, "you will see something -you won't see anywhere else on earth." - - - - -IV - -_The Outfit_ - - -Death Valley was the goal, but after the day at Saratoga Springs -one thing was certain: no matter if we could get there in an -automobile--and various expedients were suggested to make it possible, -even safe--not thus would we enter the White Heart, not with the -throbbing of an engine, not dependent on gasoline, not limited in -time, not thwarted by roads. When we went it would be slowly, quietly, -camping by the springs, making fires of the brush, sleeping under the -open sky, listening, watching. We had found the outdoors on the desert -a wonderful thing and we wanted to live with it a while. If the White -Heart was the climax of Mojave we felt that it must be a climax of the -feel of the outdoors, one of its supreme expressions. We were going on -a pilgrimage to that. - -Such a pilgrimage meant an outfit, either a wagon or a pack-train, and -a guide. We needed a man accustomed to living on the desert, who knew -the valley thoroughly, who could work in its heat and brightness, and -who had the courage to take two ignorant enthusiasts there. We had lost -the easy assurance with which we had talked at Joburg about going to -Death Valley. No wonder the inhabitants of that town had been stunned -when we said that we were on the way there! The unspeakable road beyond -Saratoga Springs and the little gravel-ridge which we could not climb -were sufficient warning of the nature of the undertaking. Mojave is not -easily to be known as we would know her. She keeps herself to herself. -The season added a further complication. Soon it would be April and the -heat in the valley would be too great for us to endure. The pilgrimage -must start no later than January. That meant going home and coming -back. As usual the way to the valley bristled with difficulties. - -We talked to the Sheriff about it. Julius Meyer was nearing fifty, a -lean, strong-looking man. He had a fine face, very somber in repose as -though he had met with some lasting disappointment, but wonderfully lit -by his occasional smile. His eyes had the hard clearness which living -on the desert seems to produce. They looked straight at you. He said -little, the kind of man who announces his decisions briefly and carries -them out. Mrs. Brauer said of him: "Julius is good." Beyond her praise -and the impression which he made we knew nothing of him except the -incident of the little fishes and that he had lived twenty years on the -desert and had once traveled the length of Death Valley with burros; -but we had no hesitation in asking him to be our guide. He said it was -a mad idea. Nobody ever went to Death Valley unless they expected to -get something out of it, and then they took a Ford if they could find -one and hurried. - -"We are just like the rest of them," we told him. "We expect to get -something out of it, but we can't get it in a Ford." - -He finally agreed to go if we would take a wagon. He refused to -consider a pack-train, saying that we would never be able to pack -burros, and walk beside them and ride them in the heat of the valley. -He did not take the discussion very seriously, for he evidently did not -expect us to return. He thought the glamor of Mojave would wear off. - -Nevertheless it was a promise, and we were certain that when such a man -promised we would see the White Heart. During the following summer and -autumn we kept hearing snatches of Mojave's songs. A bit of pure cobalt -in the depths of the woods, the flash of the sun on the tops of waves, -the clear lovely blue of ruts in a sandy road echoed her. Thinking of -her the eastern sun seemed a trifle pale, the gay brightness of summer -a little dim. We loved the familiar, dear New England landscape, but we -were under the "terrible fascination." Only the sea was like Mojave. -Often Charlotte and I would take our blankets to a lonely part of the -beach and spend the night there. Never before had we slept outdoors, on -the ground under the stars. Knowing Mojave even a little had made us -feel that it might be worth while. We found that it was. - -"We have to get used to it," we told our astonished friends. "When we -go to Death Valley with the wagon we will have to sleep on the ground." - -We did get used to it and in December wrote the Sheriff. This telegram -came: - -"O. K. Julius Meyer." - -When we appeared for the second time at Silver Lake in the big -automobile we were greeted with even greater amazement than before. We -had driven over from Barstow and traveling on the desert for pleasure -is so novel an idea that everybody thought us insane. There were a few -more people in town than we had found on our former visit, a commercial -traveler and three or four miners, among them a brigand known as French -Pete, with his head tied up in a red handkerchief. They all took a -lively interest in the proposed expedition and gave advice. They were -courteous, but amusement contended with wonder behind their friendly -eyes. They tried to be kind and searched their minds for something good -to say of the frightful valley. Each one separately told us what was -its real, true attraction. - -"You see the highest and the lowest spots in the United States at the -same time. Mount Whitney, you know, and the bottom of the Valley." - -Since we had never been able to see Mount Whitney in any of our travels -on the Mojave, we wondered how we should be able to see it from the -deep pit of the valley with the Panamints between, but receptivity -was our rôle. The highest and lowest became a sort of slogan. Sooner -or later everybody we met at Silver Lake or on our way to the valley -said it. We waited for them to say it and recorded it in our diaries: -"Explained about H. and L." - -The Sheriff had procured a wagon drawn by a horse and a mule to start -from Beatty, a hundred miles further up the Tonopah and Tidewater -Railroad, and much credit is due him for the gravity with which he -embarked on the folly. After the O. K. telegram he never expressed the -slightest doubt of the feasibleness, the sanity, and even the usualness -of the proceeding. What we needed more than anything else was a real -reason for going, seeing the desert and having an adventure with the -outdoors being no reasons at all. He furnished even that. Charlotte had -brought her sketching-box; he saw it among the camping-paraphernalia, -asked what it was, and instantly spread the report that we were artists -in search of scenery. We had the presence of mind never to deny this -and by refraining from exhibitions were able to be both notorious and -respectable. - -We abandoned the automobile and traveled up to Beatty on the railroad, -a seven hours'-journey. On the morning of train-day our bed-rolls and -duffle-bags on the station-platform, and ourselves getting into the -coach in knickerbockers and tough, high shoes created more excitement -than Silver Lake had known for some time. Even Mrs. Brauer came out, -and Mr. Brauer stood with his hands in his pockets, beaming on the -crazy line of freight cars and the heads stuck out of the windows of -the coaches, chuckling and chuckling. There was a Pullman from Los -Angeles hitched to the tail of the train, very grand, with all the -window-shades still pulled down so early in the morning. Our guide, -who felt his responsibilities, was chagrined because he could not -get us places in it; but we were more than content, especially when -the conductor, who had a black mustache worthy of one of Stevenson's -pirates and wore no uniform, assured us that the coach was not supposed -to be a smoking-car so our presence would interfere with no one's -happiness. It was full of old-timers who were all remarkable for the -clearness of their eyes. They were friendly and courteous, men past -middle age, dressed in overalls and flannel shirts, who got off at -Zabrisky and such places, where it is hard to see that a town exists. -The younger men, and the more prosperous looking in business-suits were -mostly bound for Tonopah, one of the most active mining-centers left in -the country. During the day many of our fellow-passengers talked to us, -stopping as they went up and down the aisle to sit on the arm of the -opposite seat. The talk was of mining prospects, the booms of Goldfield -and Tonopah, speculation in mining-shares, the slump after the war -began, the abandoned towns, the river of money that has flowed into the -desert and been drunk up by the sand. They all agreed that Death Valley -was a desperate place, there had never been any mining there to amount -to anything. To encourage us they never failed to mention H. and L., -but they thought we would find more to interest us in the mining towns -of Nevada. They made them picturesque with pioneering stories. - -The railroad runs along the east side of Death Valley, separated from -it by a range of mountains. It follows the course of the Armagosa River -as it flows south through the desert. In some places the river-bed was -full of water, in others it was a dry wash. Where the water is certain -large mesquites and cottonwood trees grow and the mining stations, -consisting of a store and one or two houses, are nearby. The mountains -along the route are scarred with mines and prospect holes. At Death -Valley Junction a branch road goes to the large borax-mine at Ryan on -the edge of the valley. - -The country is very desolate. Soon after leaving Silver Lake we -passed a group of big sand-dunes with summits blown by the wind into -beautiful, sharp edges. From that viewpoint they seemed to guard the -shining illusion that always beckoned behind the Avawatz. We had seen -them on the way to Saratoga, but so far off that they had looked like -little mounds. They are a miniature of the Devil's Playground, that -utter desolation of shifting sand south of Silver Lake where no roads -are. Now we passed near enough to see their impressive size and how the -wind makes their beautiful outlines. When the sand is deep and fine -the wind is forever at work upon it, blowing it into dunes, changing -their shapes, piling them up and tearing them down. It gradually moves -them along in its prevailing direction by rolling their tops down the -lee side and pushing up the windward side for a new summit. The dunes -literally roll over. The artist who had boasted of his city at Silver -Lake called them the "marching sands." North of the marching sands we -traveled through gray-green mesas much broken by rugged, mountainous -masses, a forbidding and stern land. - -[Illustration: BEATTY, AT THE BASE OF A BIG RED MOUNTAIN] - -Beatty has a magnificent location at the base of a big, red mountain -in front of a greater, indigo mass. It was once a prosperous mining -town, but was at that time partly deserted and many of the small wooden -houses stood empty. Every effort had been made to give the appearance -of streets by fencing off yards around the houses, but it was hard to -get the scheme of Beatty. The first impression was of houses set down -promiscuously on the sand. Some of the yards had gardens where, by -means of constant watering, fruit-trees and roses were made to grow. -Beatty is at a considerable altitude so that while the noonday sun -was hot the nights were cold, sometimes below freezing. The air was -marvelously clear. On the brightest days in the east flowers and shrubs -look as though they were floating in a pure, colorless liquid, and the -vistas are softly veiled. The air seems to have substance. Among the -mountains of the desert it is a flawless plate glass through which you -look directly at the face of the world. Distant outlines stand out -boldly, and every little shining rock and bush is set firmly down. - -Prohibition had hit Beatty hard. Most of the ground-floor of the hotel -consisted of a big poolroom and bar over which hung an air of sadness. -We had an impression of moving-day in that forlorn hour when everything -is dismantled and the van has not come. The landlady apologized for the -accommodations which, however, were excellent. - -"We used to keep it up real nice before mining slumped," she said, "but -now there is prohibition, too, and we are clean discouraged." - -She was an ingenious person. In her front yard, one of the prettiest in -Beatty, the walks and flower-beds were edged with empty bottles driven -in neck down. They made a fine border, durable, with a glassy glitter -in the sun. - -At Beatty we first encountered Molly and Bill. Molly was a white mule -and Bill a big, thin, red horse. They were hitched to an ordinary -grocery wagon. Our guide seemed pleased with them, but we were -doubtful. He had rented them from an Indian and said that they were -absolutely desert-proof, they could live on nothing at all and drink -soda-water forever. Bill looked as though he had always lived on -nothing at all, and Molly laid back her long, white ears in a manner -unpleasantly suggestive. Moreover, it did not seem possible that the -frail-looking wagon could carry the supplies and the camping equipment. -We had purchased food for a month. It was both heavy and bulky; bacon, -ham, potatoes, flour, canned milk and vegetables, four pounds of butter -and six dozen eggs. It was the Sheriff's selection; Charlotte and I had -not expected to travel de luxe like that. Indeed we had brought some -dried potatoes and vegetables and had not dreamed of things like milk -or butter or eggs. He made quite a stand for the real potatoes, so they -had to go along. In spite of their bulk the canned milk and vegetables -are almost necessities on the desert, where the water is scarce and -bad, for things that have to be soaked a long time and cooked in the -alkali water are hardly edible. He had a weakness for green California -chilies and horehound candy, so they also were included. Charlotte -insisted on dried fruit, especially prunes. The grub alone made a -formidable pile on the porch of the general store. In addition there -was a bale of hay and a bag of grain. It looked like very little for -the dejected Molly and Bill, but the Sheriff said that we could buy -more at Furnace Creek Ranch in the bottom of the valley, and that -we need only feed them while we were actually in the valley, for as -soon as we went up a little way on either side they could forage. We -looked anxiously out over the environs of Beatty, which is fairly -high-up. They were precisely like the environs of Silver Lake, where -the half-wild burros can scarcely find a living. We began to worry in -earnest. By the time the food for man and beast was on the wagon worry -turned to despair. It was full, and the three beds, the duffle-bags, -the sketch-box which we clung to as the only proof of sanity, and the -three five-gallon gasoline cans for carrying water were still on the -ground. - -"It can't be done," we told the Sheriff. "You will have to make some -other arrangement." - -"Now look here," he replied. "You stop worrying. Nobody in this outfit -is to worry except me. That's my job. It's what I'm for." - -His hard blue eyes looked into ours with determination, then he grinned -and from that moment became the Official Worrier. - -Slowly and patiently he built up a monumental structure and cinched it -with rope and baling wire. Everything found a place. As we expected -to make a spring that night it was not necessary to fill the gasoline -cans. They were hung on the back of the load with more baling-wire. -Remembering the day when it had been 95 degrees at Saratoga Springs -we tried to leave our heavy driving-coats behind, but were forcibly -forbidden to do so. They were added to the topmost peak. - -For two days all Beatty, from the leading citizen who sold us our -supplies to the Mexican cook in the railroad restaurant who told us -that it was so hot in Death Valley the lizards had to turn over on -their backs and wave their feet in the air to cool them, had been -much cheered by our presence. Nobody expected us to be gone very long -and they watched the loading up of the month's supplies with amused -interest. When we were ready we had to pose beside the wagon in the -middle of the street to have our picture taken. Then somebody cried -"Good luck!" and at last we started. - -As soon as a turn in the road hid Beatty the silence closed around -us. The crisp, clear air made our blood tingle. We walked the first -few miles while the Worrier drove. The sun, the wind, and the scarred -old mountains became the only important things in the world. We were -committed to sunrise and sunset, rocks and brush were to be our -companions, lonely springs were to keep us alive, the roots of the -greasewood were to warm us, all our possessions were contained in one -frail wagon. In half an hour the desert claimed us. The sun that loves -the desert clothed it in colored garments. - - - - -V - -_Entering Death Valley_ - - -The way to Death Valley from Beatty is across a shallower valley and -through Daylight Pass at an elevation of 4,317 feet. First the road -winds down around small, rough hills, at whose base the deserted -town of Ryolite is situated. Ryolite is what remains of a mining -boom. It is pushed into a cove of a rose-colored mountain--but desert -mountains change their hues so often that it may not always be rose. -Ryolite is a typical American ruin. Its boom was very brief. The town -sprang up over-night. Money was poured in. Water was brought for -miles in a pipe-line, a railroad from Beatty begun, and permanent -buildings erected--it had the pride of a "thirty thousand dollar -hotel," and a bank to match. Immense energy and enthusiasm of youth, -middle-aged greed, too, with its eye on the immediate main chance, -went into its making. No doubt some people profited by the building -of Ryolite. It was a tumult of "American initiative"--then it did -not pay. It is easy to picture the promoters, their important hurry, -their "up-to-date methods," their big talk. It is easy to picture the -investors too. Nearly everybody who has money to invest buys stock in -a gold mine once. Great hopes converged on the desert here from many a -board-sidewalked town and prairie-farm; futures were built on it. There -is a throb in the throat for Ryolite, fading into the mountain, its -corrugated-iron roofs rusting red like the hills. The desert is licking -the wound with her sandy tongue until not even a scar will remain. -Sooner or later she heals all the little scratches men make on her -surface. - -The dead town faced a wide valley stretching like a green meadow to the -opposite mountains. The thick sagebrush melted together into a smooth -sward over which cloud-shadows floated. The sun evoked lovely, changing -color-tones from it, like a musician playing upon his instrument, -making harmonics of violet and brown and sage-green flow beneath a -melody of pure blue. A perfectly straight road cut a white line through -the meadow. The distance was ten miles, but no one unaccustomed to the -clear air of the desert would guess it to be more than three. The road -appeared level with a slight rise under the western mountains which -had strong, dark outlines on the sky. They looked purple and their -lower masses kept emerging from the main range and fading again as the -shadows circled. - -It took Molly and Bill a long time to travel the straight, white line. -By turn we drove and walked, as the three of us could not ride in the -wagon at once. Already the superiority of this mode of travel over -Fords was being demonstrated. We felt the simple bigness of the desert, -and were intimate with the indigo shadow under each little bush, and -the bright-colored stones; we had time to make digressions to some -new cactus or strange-looking rock while Molly and Bill plodded on. -For hours we crossed the valley, hardly seeming to progress. The same -landscape was always before us, yet we were in the midst of a changing -pageant. Soon Ryolite was lost in a mass of pale rose and blue that -seemed like a gate to another world. The knowledge that the mountains -were made of dull-red, crumbling rock, and that only Beatty lay behind -them could not destroy the illusion. It grew fairer as we left it. The -dark mountains in front became formidable silhouettes as the afternoon -sun inclined toward them. We could never quite see the canyon by which -we were to reach the pass; several times we thought we saw it, only to -lose it again in the subtleties of shifting shadows. - -[Illustration: THE OUTFIT] - -Soon after crossing the middle of the valley the road began a long, -brutal ascent. Mile after mile it steadily climbed until the sweat made -furrows in the shaggy coats of Molly and Bill; but to us, walking ahead -of the wagon, the valley looked level as before, and only our greater -exertion convinced us of the rise. Here was one of the characteristic -mesas of the Mojave; nothing is quite flat there except the narrow -bottoms of the valleys. Suddenly the road reached the outposts of the -mountain and became much steeper through the sandy wash of a canyon. -The walls on either side gradually grew higher and the sand deeper. The -ungainly load proved almost too much for the desert-proof steeds. At -times we all three had to push, and we often had to stop to rest. Night -came while we were still toiling upward. It was cold, and a bitter wind -blew between the walls. During one of the halts the Worrier gathered up -some bits of wood by the roadside, the remains of a ruined shack, and -thrust them under the cinch-ropes. - -"We'll need them," he said, buttoning his inadequate coat to the chin. -"We're in luck." - -"You'll find we're always in luck," we told him through chattering -teeth. - -At last Molly and Bill succeeded in reaching the top of the pass. The -spring was still half a mile away in the side of a mountain. We did -not attempt to take the wagon there, but the Worrier took the tired -animals and brought back the water while Charlotte and I found a place -fairly sheltered from the wind in the bottom of a wash, lugged down -the bits of firewood and the "kitchen," and began to cook our first -meal on the desert. Soon we heard the Worrier shouting unintelligible -things. Much alarmed we scrambled hastily up out of the wash to find -him returning, followed by a troop of wild burros. They were not in -the least discouraged by his violent remarks, but came all the way -and stood in a half-circle around the wagon, twitching their furry -ears. He was noisily vehement. He said that they would steal and -eat anything from our blankets to his precious chilies sealed up in -tin cans; that they had no conscience, they were the pirates of the -desert. During dinner he kept making excursions to the top of the wash -to throw stones at them. He guarded the wagon all night by sleeping -under it, a practice which he continued throughout the trip, greatly -tranquilizing our minds. Burros and coyotes were the only marauders, -and we knew that they would have a hard time of it. Charlotte and I -dragged our bed-rolls a little way down the wash. It was a wild night. -The stars had an icy glitter and the wind made dismal noises among the -fearsome-looking mountain-tops; before morning it snowed a little, but -we were too tired to care. - -The rising sun awoke us. It leapt up over the mountains; soon every -trace of the light snow was gone, the ground dry, and the air warm. -From Daylight Springs a fairly good track led down eight miles to -the northern rim of Death Valley. Near the end of the descending -canyon Corkscrew Mountain appeared, a symmetrical mass, striking -both on account of its red color like crumbling bricks and for the -perpendicular cliff which spirals around it like a corkscrew. Through -the field-glass the cliff was a dark violet and might be a hundred -or more feet high. Corkscrew Mountain stands out boldly from its -fellows, nor while we were in the valley did we ever lose sight of its -sun-bright bulk. It became our landmark in the north. - -Opposite Corkscrew Mountain the road turned abruptly around a point of -rock. Charlotte and I were walking ahead of the wagon, we went gayly to -the end of the promontory and were brought to a sudden stop by what we -saw. There, without any warning of its nearness, like an unexpected -crash of orchestral music, lay the terrible valley, the beautiful, the -overwhelming valley. - -The Official Worrier stopped the wagon. Though he thought us insane, -though he declared he could see none of the colors and enchantments we -had been pointing out to him, he was moved. From the look that came -into his eyes we knew that, whether he admitted it or not, like Shady -Myrick he was under the terrible fascination of Mojave. That, after -all, was why he had been willing to come with us to the White Heart. - -"Well," he said brusquely, "that's her!" - -We all stood silent then. We were about three thousand feet above -the bottom of the valley looking down from the north over its whole -length, an immense oblong, glistening with white, alkali deposits, -deep between high mountain walls. We knew that men had died down there -in the shimmering heat of that white floor, we knew that the valley -was sterile and dead, and yet we saw it covered with a mantle of such -strange beauty that we felt it was the noblest thing we had ever -imagined. Only a poet could hope to express the emotion of beauty -stronger than fear and death which held us silent moment after moment -by the point of rock. Perhaps some day a supreme singer will come -around that point and adequately interpret that thrilling repose, that -patience, that terror and beauty as part of the impassive, splendid -life that always compasses our turbulent littleness around. Before -terror and beauty like that, something inside you, your own very self, -stands still; for a while you rest in the companionship of greatness. - -The natural features which combined to produce this tremendous effect -came slowly to our understanding. They were so unlike anything in our -experience, even of the wonders of the outdoors, that they bewildered -us. The strange can only be made comprehensible by comparison to the -familiar, and perhaps the best comparison is to a frozen mountain-lake. -The smooth, white bottom of the valley looks more like a frozen lake -than like anything else, and yet it looks so little like a lake that -the simile does not come easily to the mind. Death Valley is level like -a lake, it is bare like a lake, cloud-shadows drift over it as over -a lake, the precipitous mountains seem to jut into it as mountains -jut into a lake, but there the comparison ends and its own unfamiliar -beauties begin. - -Evanescent streaks and patches of color float over the shining floor -between the changing hills. It reflects them. Sometimes a path made -of rose tourmalines crosses it, or a blue patch lies near one edge -as though a piece of the sky had fallen down. Lines of pure cobalt, -pools of smoky blue, or pale yellow, or pink lavender are there, all -quiveringly alive. At times the white crust shines like polished -silver, at others it turns sullenly opaque. Now a blue river flows down -the center--now it moves over under the western wall--now it gathers -itself into a pond around which green rushes grow. - -High above the middle of the valley tower the Panamint Mountains. That -winter their summits were covered with snow as white as the white -floor, and as shining. Without apparent break into foothills they -rise nearly 12,000 feet. Seldom, even in the highest ranges, can you -see so great a sheer rise, for most mountains are approached from -a considerable elevation. In Death Valley the eye begins its upward -journey below sea-level. Down there the white floor shimmered and -seemed to move while above it the two peaks of Telescope and Mount -Baldy, joined by a long curving ridge of snow, were a remote, still -whiteness. - -The eastern wall of the valley is not so high, but is hardly less -impressive. The Funeral Mountains are steel-blue with layers of white -rock near their summits. Both the mountains and the valley were named -because of tragedies down on that white floor during pioneering and -prospecting days. It is impossible to get the details of the stories -from the old-timers, each has a different version and no one is very -clear even about his own. One story is of a party of emigrants, men, -women, and children, on the way to the gold-fields with all their -household goods, who entered the valley by mistake and could not find a -way out; another is of a party who were attacked by Indians and fought -in a circle they made of their wagons until the last man was killed. -The remains of the wagons are said to be buried in the sand near a -place called Stovepipe Wells. We never could learn the exact location, -though on a later trip we met a man who said that he had once actually -found them, and that he had seen Indians around there wearing jewelry -and using utensils which they could only have obtained from the white -man sometime in the fifties. There are also stories of individual -prospectors who perished on the burning sands. It does not matter which -particular tragedy fastened such names on this region of celestial day, -they commemorate all whose last sight of the earth was that lonely -splendor. - -The Funeral Range is separated by a deep canyon from the Black -Mountains which continue the eastern wall of the valley. This wall is -from five to six thousand feet high, jutting into the basin in great -promontories as mountains jut into a rock-ringed lake. The range across -the southern end is not so high and was half hidden by an opalescent -haze. All the time we were in the valley that haze persisted. Only -rarely and for short periods could we see any detail in the depths -of the hot basin, though the foreground sparkled in the stark, clear -air. The Imperial Valley and Death Valley are always hung with misty -curtains. - -A long, long slope leads from the rock promontory from which we first -saw the valley down to that shimmering pit. It is very rocky, cut by -washes and sparsely covered with sagebrush and greasewood. Occasional -little yellow or blue hills rise like islands from blue-green waves. -The ground is covered with little stones of every conceivable color, -which flash back the sunlight from their polished surfaces. Unfamiliar -green and purple stones lie around, and bright red stones, and a stone -of a strange orange-color like flame. A mass of this is what we must -have seen at Saratoga Springs on the mountain that bled. The impulse -to pick up specimens was irresistible. This proved to be the curse of -walking over the bright mosaics. Each little stone was of a color or -texture more alluring than the last until our pockets became unbearably -heavy. Every resting-time was spent in trying to decide which ones to -throw away, but as we could not possibly throw one away on the same -day that we picked it up, this was a fruitless occupation. - -About noon we lunched in the shade of one of the little hill-islands. -During the descent the heat had steadily increased and the sun shone -with white, blinding intensity. The Official Worrier grew expansive -and happy. He described himself as a "desert rat," and said that the -hot brilliance suited him entirely. He called it a pleasant, warm day. -Charlotte and I were continually looking at the little blue spots of -shade behind a bush or projecting rock to rest our eyes. We could no -longer look away over the valley, objects merged and vanished there. -One of my recurring dreams since childhood is of trying to walk or run -in a light so dazzling that I could not keep my eyes open for more -than a few seconds at a time. That day my dream strikingly came true. -Everywhere bright heat-waves ran over the ground. The surface of stones -and the tips of leaves glittered dazzlingly. It was probably no hotter -than it had been at Saratoga, but the reflection of light from the -immense white bottom of the valley was an almost unbearable brightness. - -Our destination was an abandoned gold-mine on the side of the Funeral -Range. From the lunch-place the Keane Wonder Mine looked on a level -with us and quite near, but we traveled two hours and made a stiff -climb to reach it. This was the hardest bit of marching that we did, -for we were too ignorant of the effects of such a combination of heat -and blinding light to know how to conduct ourselves. We thought we were -sick or overtired, and being much too proud to let the Worrier suspect -such a thing, pressed on without stopping often enough to rest. We had -not yet learned that the wagon was always accompanied by a blessed bit -of shade that we could sit down in any time. Later we appreciated fully -this happy attribute of wagons. More than once we were grateful to the -Worrier for refusing to come with a pack-train. - -The mine was a large plant which had paid well. A mess of buildings, -some half-blown-down, pieces of machinery and the big red mill huddled -at the mouth of the canyon where the mountain rises steeply from the -mesa. The mine itself was higher up the canyon down which the ore was -swung in huge buckets that ran on iron cables. Water had been piped -from a spring a mile away, but the pipe was broken. The ground was far -too rough to allow us to take the wagon to the spring, so once more -the Worrier led off Molly and Bill and brought back water in a pail. -Earlier in the day we had lamented the necessity of camping among -wreckage, but when we reached the first building, which once had been a -barn, its oblong, indigo shadow was Heaven. We lay prone on the ground -behind it until the sun went down, not attempting to unload the wagon -or do any useful thing. The Worrier found us thus on his return and -gravely opined that we had better stay a while at Keane Wonder and try -to get acclimated. - -[Illustration: THE CAMP BEHIND THE BARN] - -During the three days that we camped behind the barn we were living -about a thousand feet above the bottom of that amazing valley, looking -down into it and up at the still, white peaks of the Panamints above -it. Opposite Keane Wonder what looked like a low, sandy ridge -separates the main sink of Death Valley from a similar though smaller -and less striking basin called the Mesquite Valley. The high Panamints -end in a stern red mass near the sand-ridge, beyond which a long slope -like the one we had come down leads to more distant mountains which, -however, are a continuation of the range. Emigrant Pass through the -mountains over to Ballarat starts from the slope and winds around -behind the stern, red mass. That may well have been the way out which -the party of emigrants who perished sought and did not find. Most of -the time the steadily pressing wind of the desert blew through the -great, bright space. Often we saw it pick up the sand far down at the -edge of the valley and whirl it along in tall wraiths that looked like -ghosts walking over the white floor. - -On the second evening a bell sounded in the dusk. When you travel with -burros on the desert it is the custom to put a bell on one of them -at night so you can find them in the morning, and often the bell is -left on during the day's journey. That sound meant that someone was -coming to our camp-fire. Soon a frail old man with two loaded burros -and a little dog appeared. It was "Old Johnnie," an habitué of Death -Valley, coming home. He had an unworked gold-mine near Keane Wonder and -he spent his life looking after his property. Apparently he was also -the official caretaker of Keane Wonder itself. He performed his duties -by looking over our camp and guarding every bit of wire and every old -rusty nail as though they were gold itself. He hovered around us, -especially at departure, so we only succeeded in stealing one iron bar -for our fireplace, and we needed two. We cast longing eyes at a certain -chipped, granite kettle, but finally had to borrow that, promising -solemnly to return it at Beatty on our way back. Perhaps he was unduly -suspicious because the Worrier had taken a bit of some very ancient and -hopeless-looking hay, which we found in the barn, to cheer up Molly and -Bill. - -"How could I know he lived here?" he apologized to us. "Anyways, there -wasn't but two mouthfuls." - -But "Old Johnnie" was hospitable, as all old-timers are. He urged -Charlotte and me to move into the superintendent's house. It had been -a good house once, but in its present condition we preferred the open -sand, nor could we bear even for a night to have a roof between us and -the blue deeps of that star-filled sky. He was a garrulous talker and -very friendly. He claimed that his mine was richer than Keane Wonder -ever dreamed of being. Once some one had offered him $300,000, but his -partner would not look at it. His tone implied that it was a paltry -sum anyway. He was an inventor, too, and had sold a patent for an -automobile-part which he described in great detail. We asked him if he -still hoped to sell the mine. He seemed not to know what he intended -to do. Plainly he was another victim of the "terrible fascination." He -related how he had lately been to Tonopah and got sick and almost died -from lack of air in the clutter of things. The Worrier said that he had -money put away somewhere, but money or no money, whether he ever sold -the mine or not, he would hang around Death Valley the rest of his -life. - -"Old Johnnie" rose to fine heights as a story-teller when we invited -him to dinner next day. We had brought some fresh meat which had to -be used up early on the trip, and the Worrier achieved a magnificent -meal. Usually I was the cook, but that dinner was far beyond me. He -invaded the ruined boarding-house, wrestled successfully with the rusty -stove, and produced a roast surrounded by potatoes and onions to be -long remembered. We ate it at the board table in the dining-room. "Old -Johnnie" changed his coat for the festivity; he beamed upon us and -talked. He had the good story-teller's gift of suggestion and in the -midst of that blazing emptiness steeped in a silence broken only by -the wind clanging rusted cables and rattling the loosened iron roof, -he peopled the dining-room again. We saw the faces of the men crowding -in for their supper and heard their voices. Once more the camp-cook in -white apron and cap, for "Old Johnnie" described it as a fine camp "run -right," leaned over the table to pour soup into granite bowls. Keane -Wonder came to life while the obliterating desolation crept in at the -door. - -He told stories of other mining camps and of the struggle of individual -prospectors with the valley. You outwit its wickedness or you are -outwitted by it. It was alive, a sort of fascinating enemy. His words -took us with him and his burros down its white length. The enemy had -uncanny powers. She played strange tricks on you. If she could not get -you one way she tried another. - -"You find fellers dead down there," he said. "And they don't die of -thirst, either. Sometimes there's water in the canteens. They just go -crazy. She gets 'em." - -He leaned closer across the table and his voice became lower. - -"And you hear 'em in the night," he whispered. - -"Hear who?" - -"Them. I call it the Lonesome Bell." - -"What is the Lonesome Bell?" We found ourselves whispering too. - -"You hear it. It's a bell. It rings regular, far off. Sometimes you -hear it all night. It sounds like the bell on a burro. But it ain't -nothing. Once I had a young feller for a partner, and when he heard it -he got up and made coffee for the outfit that was coming. He wouldn't -believe me when I told him it wasn't nothing but the Lonesome Bell. He -waited and waited and nobody came. And the next morning he packed up -and beat it." - -Old Johnnie's eyes glittered with unnatural brightness. He was telling -his own secret. Very vividly he made us see a man alone in the blue -night, dim sand spreading away, dark-blue mountains on blueness. Not a -sound, not even the breath of the night stirring the sagebrush. Through -white, empty days and blue, empty nights he is always alone. He listens -to his own heart beating. Then, far off, the faint sound of a bell. -Then again. He listens intently because it is the only sound for such a -long time. It comes again. It grows louder. He strains to hear. A bell -belongs on a burro--he hears the tramp of burros' feet. - -With awe we looked at those bright, intent eyes and that thin body bent -tensely forward. Some night the Lonesome Bell will be true, but "Old -Johnnie" will not hear it. A belated traveler with his pack-train will -find a dead camp-fire and an old man asleep forever beside it. "Old -Johnnie" has outwitted the valley so long that he thinks he can always -do it, but she will get him in the end. - -After dinner "Old Johnnie" unlocked the mill and showed us the costly -machinery inside, explaining in careful detail the processes of -milling gold. The canyon behind Keane Wonder is narrow and precipitous -as though it had been gouged out by a giant's trowel. High up on -the mountain-side the dumps of iridescent rock around the mine-pits -shimmered. We sat with him on a beam of the ruined mill while he -pointed things out in the valley. He showed us where Furnace Creek -Ranch lies on the sand by the opening of the canyon between the -Funeral Range and the Black Mountains, but we could not see it because -of the heat-shimmer and the misty veil. He said that the stern, red -mass opposite was called Tucki Mountain, an Indian word for sheep, -because the Panamint Indians used to hunt wild mountain-sheep in its -fastnesses. The smooth, bare slope beyond the Mesquite Valley, he said, -was really very rough, cut by deep water-channels and covered with -brush; and rose in that gradual way nearly 3,000 feet before it reached -the mountains. The curious streak in the bottom of the Mesquite Valley -was the swamp of Salt Creek, where the water was so bad you could not -drink it. It joined the morass in the bottom of Death Valley. There -were quicksands there, that you could not get out of if you got in. Men -and burros had been lost that way. He pointed out little, white heaps -down by Salt Creek and said they were sand-dunes a hundred feet high. - -While we sat there a storm swept down the big slope and around on -the face of the high Panamints above Death Valley. First the wind -lifted the sand in the tall whirling wraiths that fled before the -pursuing host of the rain. It came on like an army of giants in bright -armor, dust-clouds swirling before their horses' galloping feet, the -sun gleaming on their million spears that reached higher than the -mountain-tops. In the midst of blazing sunshine the shadow of their -passing was dark on the valley; for a few moments they obliterated the -mountains. - -"Surely," Charlotte said, "it is pouring rain over there, yet they told -us it never rains in Death Valley." - -"That's some rain," he admitted, "but maybe it ain't wetting the sand. -I've been in storms like that when the water all evaporated before it -got down." - -"But it must rain sometimes and the water get down," I objected to both -of them, "for Shady Myrick said that he had seen the valley full of -flowers." - -"I've seen 'em," he assented, with a sudden eager lighting of his -face--"yes!" - -They did not happen to bloom while we were there but we believe in -them. Anything might happen, anything could be true in that terrible, -bright place. - - - - -VI - -_The Strangest Farm in the World_ - - -On the fourth day we bade "Old Johnnie" farewell, and descended into -the quivering white basin. The next camp was to be at Furnace Creek -Ranch, the irrigated farm in the bottom of the valley established long -ago in connection with the original borax-works of the Twenty-Mule-Team -brand. The water for irrigation is brought down in a ditch from Furnace -Creek in the canyon between the Funeral Mountains and the Black -Mountains and the ranch is a large, green patch on the sand. In any -ordinary place, or in any ordinary light it would be a conspicuous -feature of the landscape; but, though "Old Johnnie" had pointed it -out so carefully, we could never distinguish it nor could we see it -during our approach that day until we were within half a mile of it. -Throughout the journey the valley-floor presented the same unbroken, -white expanse. - -For several miles our way continued down the mesa. Here was no road, -only a lurching and grinding down a rocky wash, crawling over the -edge in the hope of something better and returning again to the ills -we knew. It seemed as though the slender-spoked wheels must collapse -under the strain. Our tower of baggage swayed dangerously. The Official -Worrier was a skillful driver and he needed to be, not only on this -day but on several subsequent ones which surpassed it. About noon we -reached the road that leads from Salt Creek at the southern end of -Mesquite Valley across the northern end of Death Valley and along -its eastern side to the ranch. This road was an improvement on the -uncharted wash. There were no rocks in it; but it soon became sandy, -two deep ruts meandering off toward the white floor. - -Presently we came to its edge and skirted the swamp of the Armagosa -River, the morass of mud and quicksands which fills the whole bottom of -the valley, an immense expanse covered with large white crystals and -a powdery substance that looks like coarse salt. The valley probably -was once the bed of a salt-lake whose slow evaporation left the thick -alkali crust. The ruts were very deep and the ground soft to walk on, -spongy and hummocky. The Worrier said that if the wagon were to get -out of the ruts it easily might be mired. "Old Johnnie" told us that -in some places in the middle of the bog a team or a man walking could -be sucked down out of sight and one of his tales was of finding a dead -man's face looking up at him out of the ground. - -"He was a Swede with yellow hair," he said, "and he stared at the sun. -He sank standing up." - -The road which crosses the valley below the ranch near the Old Eagle -Borax Works is said to be almost the only way to get over the swamp. -The Panamint Indians are supposed to have known this route and to have -crossed the valley to escape from their enemies, who dared not follow -them. - -A Government bench-mark by the roadside indicated 258 feet below -sea level. The heat was oppressive, and the white ground reflected a -blinding light. At one place, rounding the base of a hill which shut -off the view of the nearby mountains, we found ourselves in the midst -of miles of the shining whiteness. It spread in every direction, -reaching to the distant Panamints across the valley and to the hazy -outline of the low range at the southern end. The hill which we were -passing rose into the sky, white as the plain except for a few streaks -of ugly, greenish-yellow-like sulphur. No living green thing appeared. -The white expanse was unbroken by a bush or even by an outjutting rock. -The desolation was complete. An intense silence lay over it. If we -dropped far enough behind the wagon not to hear the creaking of its -wheels, we felt utterly alone, the only survivors in a dead universe. -That day the sky was a hot purplish-blue; no cloud shadows drifting -over the valley relieved its blinding monotony. The rose and silver -which we had seen from above were gone, not even the illusion of water -far off remained. The sun stared steadily down. It was the far-spread, -motionless silence of the last days when the whole earth will be dying. - -Winding around the hill we came to the ruins of a borax-works. This had -been the first plant in the valley, then the Eagle Borax Works south of -the ranch was operated, but now the borax comes from the mines in the -mountains at Ryan. Nothing was left of the old borax-works except a few -roofless stone buildings and the ruins of the works which looked like a -row of immense vats embedded in the side of a low ridge. The vats and -the ridge had the same sulphurous color, and melted together. Around -the buildings the ground was covered with tin cans and broken bottles, -but the square of dark-blue shade beside each house was a blessed -relief from the burning sun. - -Beyond the old borax-works the road wound through sand covered with -large mesquites and greasewoods. Though the mesquite is called a tree -it looks more like an overgrown, thorny shrub. It grows near swamps and -dry lakes and is supposed to be a sure indication of water, but its -roots go down very deep and it appears in desolations of sand where -it would be unwise for the wayfarer to dig. Those mesquites in Death -Valley looked very hopeless indeed, sprangling, thorny, leafless things -with a hillock of sand blown around the roots of each. - -As we descended into the valley and came along the edge of the morass -a feeling of deep lassitude and inertia gradually crept over Charlotte -and me. It had been very hard to leave the dark squares of shade at the -borax-works, and now as we crawled along among the mesquites we felt -that the white monotony would go on forever. It pressed upon us like a -weight that never, never could be lifted. We stared down at the sand -with unseeing eyes and went on because we were in the habit of going -on. The ranch was only an imagining, born of vain hope. - -And then the strange-looking, tufted tops of some tall palms appeared -against the sky. They were very striking and we thought they must still -be far off or we would have seen them all day, but not a quarter of an -hour later we reached the fence which separated the desert from the -emerald-green fields. The sudden springing up of the ranch was as -unreal as any imagining. The fence was a sharp line of demarcation. On -one side the sand drifted up to it, on the other were meadows and big -willow trees. It was evening when we arrived, so we camped at once by -the irrigation-ditch which made a narrow green ribbon across the sand -with grass and trees growing along its banks. We built our fire between -an encampment of Indians and the white adobe ranch-buildings beyond the -fence. The water rushed down the ditch, clear and cool. How marvelous -this running water seemed! How marvelous to dip out all we wanted to -wash ourselves and our clothes and our dishes! - -Our felicity, however, was short-lived. The Panamint Indians, in -common probably with all Indians, do not count cleanliness among their -virtues. The rising of the fierce, hot sun brought millions of flies -which converted our dishes and camp equipment into black masses that -crawled. Between the Indians and the large herd of cattle at the ranch, -camping by the irrigation-ditch was impossible. We spent most of the -forenoon moving a mile or two away among the mesquites. We were on -the gradually sloping ground which leads up from the valley-floor to -the rock-walls of the Funeral Mountains. Here in the valley we found -that our impression from the Keane Wonder Mine of mountains rising -precipitously from the flat white floor had been an illusion. The -characteristic mesa of the Mojave curves up on both sides, sandy, -covered with stones, but often entirely bare of vegetation. Death -Valley is always full of such illusions. Even afterwards, when we knew -better, we could never look down into the valley from a height without -feeling that the mountains rose precipitously out of it. That camp -among the mesquites blazed. The yellow sand seemed to smite our eyes. -Across the valley under the edge of the Panamints the mesa looked a -beautiful dark-blue, but around us was an even greater ecstasy of light -than we had known at Keane Wonder. Everything blazed, the sand, the -slow waves of the heat shimmer, the little rounded stony hills between -us and the Funeral Mountains, and the steel-blue battlements of the -mountains themselves. - -The Indians at the ranch are employed as laborers, when they will -work. The superintendent, a vigorous, silent Scotchman, was extremely -pessimistic about them. While we were there they had "the flu" and all -we ever saw them do was sit around the corral waiting for supplies -to be handed out. The women and girls, with heavy melancholy faces, -gathered and stared at us. They stared with the stolid curiosity of -cattle, not like burros who twitch their ears saucily, though they -have the burro's reputation for thievishness. The superintendent kept -everything under lock and key. The only Indian who showed a sign of -life was an old fellow who prowled around with a gun after the birds -and wild ducks that make the ranch a resting-place in their flights -across the desert. We were told that there was only one gun in the -whole encampment and that the younger men hunted with bows and arrows. -Most of them looked stunted and their faces were wrinkled like the -skins of shrunken, dried-up apples, as though the valley were taking -toll of the generations of their race. - -The valley takes its toll. Most white men cannot live there long. The -vigorous Scotchman had been at the ranch eight years and thought he -could remain, but no one else had ever stayed such a length of time, -and he had difficulty in finding anybody to keep him company for more -than a few months. He told us that no white woman can stand it at all -in summer. As Charlotte and I were almost prostrated even in early -March, we are willing to accept the statement. Nothing that anyone -can tell us of the evil effects of living in the valley is beyond our -imaginations. At times the thermometer goes up to 130 degrees, but -there is something worse than the heat. The Worrier claimed that 130 -degrees was not uncommon in Silver Lake, and that he spent his summers -there without suffering as people do in the valley. The mercury never -rose above 98 degrees while we were at the ranch, a temperature by -no means unknown in eastern summers, yet our feeling of lassitude -increased daily, combined with a faintness and giddiness that we could -hardly combat. The blazing light had much to do with it, and we were -below sea-level. A learned, scientific man has since told us that so -small a drop in elevation could not be noticeable. Those old-timers -who went insane on the hot sands knew that it was noticeable. You feel -that if you were to go out into that blazing silence you could easily -go insane, or succumb to the deadly inertia which paralyzed Charlotte -and me. Too easily you could lie down in the thin, delusive shade of -some little bush and forget. Even beneath the willow trees beside the -flowing water we could scarcely move, our minds were dazed so we could -neither read nor think. We understood "Old Johnnie's" feeling about the -valley. Something hostile lives there. - -The ghastly, shining swamp and the pools of poisonous water are -horrible to the imagination because of their unnaturalness in the midst -of such choking thirst. Only the perverted brain of a demon could have -invented such a monstrosity. Water is in your thoughts all the time. -From morning until night you are thirsty in the dry heat, and you look -out over the shimmering miles and know that, though there is water here -and there, if you leave the irrigation-ditch you cannot quench your -thirst. You cling to the narrow green line where the mountain-water -flows down. The feeling grows on you that you are visiting some -sinister world which can be no part of your beloved earth. - -And then night comes. A miracle happens and you know this is the same -outdoors you love, only its trappings are put off, it is stripped -of obscuring verdure, naked, and you find it more terrible than you -thought it could be and more beautiful than you thought it could be. -The rising and the setting of that cruel sun are great splendors, that -dark night sky is bigger and deeper than in kinder countries. The stars -are very near, floating in a sea so deep it reaches to infinity; they -are twice as big as ordinary stars, they look like silver balls. The -sky is a deep, dark blue. The whole valley is blue in the night and -luminous like a sapphire. The going-down of the sun is a pageant; its -uprising is a triumph. You feel as though you ought to clash cymbals, -you feel as though you ought to dance and sing when the sun looks over -the mountains. You have been remiss in worship all your life because -you have not learned to dance and sing in honor of the rising sun. The -sun-god was worshiped on the desert for there the sun is a cruel, great -god. His glory consumes the earth, but he is so absorbed in rejoicing -in his glory that he does not know it. - -One night we camped a little way up the canyon behind the ranch in the -vain hope of finding a cooler spot. The canyon entered the mountain -beside a precipitous, jagged cliff made of crumbling yellow rock, so -steep that we could scarcely climb its sides. We attempted it late in -the afternoon in the hope of getting a view of the whole valley at -sunset, but its knife-edge ridges were so sharp and crumbling and our -endurance so slight after the burning day that we could not reach a -satisfactory summit. Being shut up in a canyon was no part of our plan -and we made the Worrier help us lug our beds quite a way from camp to -the top of a little hill overlooking at least part of the valley. - -"Why don't you take them to the top of that there peak?" he inquired -sarcastically, pointing at one of the steel-blue crests of the Funeral -Range. We could not help it if he scoffed, we had to see the drama -of the coming of night. Panting from these exertions added to our -fruitless effort to climb the cliff, we brought up a canteen and the -few things we needed and bade him go back and sleep happily under the -wagon. - -We ourselves had very little sleep on the hilltop for the drama was too -stupendous. Slowly the mountains turned blue, and then bluer. Their -beautiful skyline was drawn with a pencil that left a golden, luminous -mark. Pale blue crept into the valley, indigo lay in pools among the -foothills. The whole night was a succession of studies in blue like -the blue nights some artists paint, but every shade of blue that an -artist could mix on his palette was there. Layers of different blues -lay one above another, and changed, and mingled. The enormous stars -came out and hung in the sky like great lamps. The sapphire valley -glistened beneath them. The lamps swung slowly toward the west and then -were gradually extinguished. The sapphire turned into a moonstone, -palely glimmering, and then into an opal full of flashing fires. The -cruel, great god was coming. He came, and we were two tongue-tied fools -longing to celebrate him and only standing mute and bewildered. - -We always felt that longing and that bewilderment during the evenings -and nights and mornings in the White Heart. They overwhelmed us and -hurt us. We were like prisoners shut in by the walls of ourselves, -unable to break through and be one with such beauty. We could not rest -in it as we had rested for long minutes by the red promontory where we -first saw the valley; there was too much beauty. We clutched at each -changing, evanescent moment, spectators watching through tiny loopholes -in the walls a pageant which passed too quickly and was too big for our -understanding. - -The White Heart exceeds the imagination every way. It is too terrible -and too splendid. It asserts itself tremendously; the green patch of -the ranch lying on the baked sand beside the shining swamp seems more -ephemeral and unimportant than any of man's efforts to tame the desert; -it is an unreality, a dream, and the dwellers on it are shadows in -a dream. The majesty of the valley completely overshadows the row of -tall palms against the background of the snowy Panamints, and the -little oasis of alfalfa-fields, willow-trees, and white ranch-buildings -blessed with shade. They might vanish like a mirage and never be -missed. The magnificent procession of the nights and days passes over -the white terror, more magnificent than other nights and days precisely -because of the glowing of that terrible sand and those terrible -mountains, perfect for its own sake, and utterly indifferent whether or -not eyes and hearts can endure it. - - - - -VII - -_The Burning Sands_ - - -Every day that we stayed in Death Valley seemed more awful than the -last. From ten o'clock in the morning until four in the afternoon we -existed in a blind torpor. Eyes and brain and pumping heart could not -bear it. At noon we always planned to leave immediately, we panted -to escape; then the enchantment would begin and we would forget all -the plans. Soon, however, it became evident that we must get up into -the coolness of the mountains on one side or the other of the burning -basin, for there was no such thing as becoming acclimated. In the -stupor in which we lived the plans we made were extremely incoherent. -We only knew that the mantle of snow on the peaks of the Panamints, so -serene above the quivering heat of the valley, was the most desirable -thing on earth. To reach it with the wagon we had to circle the -northern end of the morass, cross the low ridge into the Mesquite -Valley and go up the great mesa leading to Emigrant Pass behind the -mountains. There we would bury ourselves in the cold, wet snow, and rub -it on our faces and fling it about, strong again and able to laugh at -midday. The Worrier pooh-poohed this plan when it finally emerged, for -snow has no allurement for a "desert rat." He suggested that we go on -up the canyon in which we were camped and thus quickly escape, but we -refused to consider that. We had come for the purpose of knowing the -feel of the valley and we must travel over the burning sands. - -The Worrier was amenable; he always was, but he liked to be persuaded. -We went back to Furnace Creek Ranch from the camp in the canyon and -stocked ourselves with hay and drinking-water, as we would find no more -good water until we reached Emigrant Springs some fifty miles away. -The journey over that difficult country would take the better part of -four days. Two of the camps would be by so-called "bad water," which, -however, animals can drink--the first at Cow Creek not far from the -ranch, and the second at Salt Creek in the southern end of Mesquite -Valley. The third would be a "dry camp," somewhere on the big mesa we -had seen from the Keane Wonder Mine. - -Leaving the ranch rather late on the same day we passed the old -borax-works again, wound round the white and sulphur-colored hill -through the spongy, borax-encrusted ground and along the edge of the -sandy mesa where it begins to rise from the level bottom of the valley. -Cow Creek is a little green spot at the base of the Funeral Mountains -about two miles from the road. Though it is near the ranch we stopped -there in order to break the long pull from Furnace Creek to Salt Creek. -In Death Valley every blazing mile is to be reckoned with and it is -worth while to shorten a day's journey from twenty miles to sixteen. No -track led to Cow Creek from the road, and the mesa, which looked quite -level, turned out to be as steep as usual. It was broken by little -washes and thinly covered with brush. Bumping over it under the hot -sun we felt again as though we were in the midst of an interminable -monotony. The mountain seemed unattainable. Charlotte and I, suffering -from the usual lassitude and complete lack of ambition, wanted to stop -and camp on the sand beside a large mesquite, the only thing anywhere -that cast a big enough shadow to sit down in, and we had a sharp -argument with the Worrier. - -[Illustration: THE ALKALI BOTTOM OF DEATH VALLEY] - -"You can't do that," he said. "It don't matter so much to-day, the -water ain't far, but to-morrow you got to go on and you better do it -now. When we start you've got to get there, or we don't start." - -That was unanswerable and we dragged ourselves on until we reached a -large rock near the spring with a square of blue darkness beside it. -He was satisfied with our endeavor and let us make camp there while -he took the horses to the spring. Cow Creek is chiefly memorable for -another argument, a long, warm debate as to whether or not Molly and -Bill could haul the outfit up the four-thousand-foot rise to Emigrant -Springs. Charlotte maintained that they could not. She based her -argument entirely on the appearance of Molly and Bill and she had -a good one; but I, inspired by the band of snow on the tops of the -Panamints and the mountain-climber's zeal, met it with spirit. I said -that Molly and Bill could do it because they were "desert-proof Indian -horses." The Worrier lay at full length on the sand, apparently lost -to the world. I demanded what he thought about it. He replied sleepily -that you "never can tell 'til you try." All the time we were in the -valley we argued, and it is to the credit of all three of us that the -arguments never degenerated into quarrels. Our nerves were very near -the surface. Everything was difficult to do, packing and unpacking, -cooking, shaking the sand out of the blankets, hitching-up, getting -anywhere, gathering brush for our poor little fires. We all did the -minimum of work, and the desert demands very little of the camper-out, -but under the weight that seemed to be always pressing down on us that -little was hard even for the Worrier. - -Next morning we arose with the dawn and hastened to get underway -during the cool hours. The road lay over miles and miles of sand, -dotted in some places with sad-looking brush and streaked sometimes -with the white borax deposit. As always, the morning was radiant. -The valley was beautiful, wrapped in its lonely silence, and for the -first few hours Charlotte and I forgot our discomforts in the circle -of high mountains, blue and red in the sunshine, and the clean sweep -of the sand; but by noon we could not see anything and had to ride -ignominiously in the wagon with our eyes on the very tiny oblong shadow -that traveled beside it. Charlotte had dark glasses, but she seemed -to suffer as much as I, who lived again through the nightmare of my -childhood's dream. A hot haze lay over all the distances, though the -air was clear, and the nearby little stones and bushes blazed. The -wagon crawled on, the sand falling in bright showers from the slowly -turning wheels, until Molly and Bill stopped. We shook the reins with -what energy we had left, and the Worrier came up and shouted and threw -stones, but they only looked around at us pathetically. - -"We might as well eat lunch here and let 'em rest," he said. - -There was no shade except the bit beside the wagon. We sat in that and -leaned against the wheels. They would not move for Molly and Bill hung -down their heads and the sweat streamed off them. The sand glittered -with little particles of mica, which added to the glaring brightness. -Toward the south the illusion of water appeared once more, not blue -but a glassy gray with several strange-looking shrubs reflected in it -upside down. There was nothing between us and the ranch to look so -large, unless it were magnified like the stunted little bushes in the -mirage at Silver Lake. The Worrier decided that these appearances could -only be the palm trees, though they did not look in the least like palm -trees nor could we see a sign of the green patch of the ranch. It is -curious that we never saw Furnace Creek Ranch from any of the places -where we had views of the valley, either before we had been there or -afterwards, or while we were approaching or leaving it. It sprang from -the earth by magic for our bewilderment and vanished the instant we -went away. - -That lunch-place was in the middle of Death Valley at the northern -edge of the morass. Ever since coming down from the Keane Wonder Mine -we had been below sea-level. Tradition has it that the lowest part -of the valley is south of the Ranch, near the old Eagle Borax Works, -but the bench-marks of the government's survey indicate that the part -opposite the white and sulphur-colored hill by the borax-works which we -had passed is the lowest. Two iron posts driven into the ground along -the road had read respectively 253 and 257 feet below sea-level. The -lowest point, 280 feet, was in the morass at our end of the valley not -very far away. Whether being below sea-level has an effect or not we -all suffered that day. The Worrier guessed the temperature at about 105 -degrees, but said that it felt like 120 degrees at Silver Lake. The sun -seemed to stand still in a hard sky. The heat rose solidly from the -endless white sand, the vast glistening swamp and the metallic-looking -mountains. We were in the midst of an immense movelessness, in a -silence never to be broken. - -After an hour's halt we started on again, Charlotte and I in the wagon, -though we could hardly bear to be dragged through the heavy sand by -that unhappy horse and mule. Even in the wagon our heads swam, the -ground would not stay still under us, the sun seemed to drink every -bit of moisture from our bodies so we burned in the heat instead of -perspiring. The skin of our faces and hands felt dried up and as though -it might chip off. We were blind and parched with thirst. The water -in the canteens was hot and did not help us much. Molly and Bill kept -trying to stop, and little stones the Worrier threw as he walked behind -whizzed past our heads and thudded on their tired flanks. We had to -fight the hope that they would stop for good and let us creep under the -wagon and shut our eyes; but we never suggested doing it. "When you -start you got to get there." - -The Worrier himself suggested stopping two hours after lunch in the -shade of a little grove of mesquites, though they were not much good -as shade-trees. They were about ten feet high, each one with a little -hummock of sand blown around its roots, and branches armed with long -sharp thorns spreading close to the sand. We could not get under them, -but for some reason they were more comforting than sitting beside the -wagon. - -"We'll stay until the sun gets above Tucki Mountain," he said. "We're -getting along fine, if Molly and Bill don't lay down." - -"Suppose they should lie down?" - -"You'd stay by the wagon and I'd go back for help." He spoke cheerfully -as though the idea of walking back over the burning sands was perfectly -commonplace. - -"I suppose you could walk out of the valley from anywhere?" - -"Sure. Got to. I walked thirty miles once without no water. Blazing hot -as this and not a bush big enough to get more than my head under. I -laid down by a greasewood most all day. But I made it." - -Walking through the valley at that season was nothing to an old-timer. -They often cross it in June, July and August. Death is lurking behind -the bushes then, waiting for them. Along the way from Furnace Creek we -had passed two of the sun-bleached boards set upright in the sand which -mark graves on the desert. - -As the day cooled we wandered a little way from the road among the -mesquite and suddenly came upon another one. Near it lay the skeletons -of two burros tied to a bush and a little further off a coffee pot -beside the stones that had been a fireplace. Someone had written with a -pencil on the board: "John Lemoign, Died Aug. 1919." - -The Worrier had known John Lemoign. He described him as a regular -old-timer who owned a mine somewhere in Tucki Mountain. Our friend -seemed sorry, but his final comment was: - -"He ought to have known better. But they never learn. They always think -they will make it this time." - -Everywhere that attitude toward accidents on the desert was typical. -"Old Johnnie" told his most gruesome tales as though the victims were -to blame. The valley was an enemy to be out-generaled; if you were -a fool, of course she would get you. It was a pity when she did, -inevitable and not very important. They were not callous, for they -included themselves in the "inevitable and not very important." When -we had first talked to them they seemed to us singularly care-free and -their faith in their own sagacity and prowess pathetically blind, but -we found that we shared somewhat in their attitude as we crossed the -burning sands. We felt able to take care of ourselves--could there -be a more pathetic and blind faith?--and if by some remote mischance -we should not be able, it would be only another painful but trifling -accident. The sun-bleached boards made us sorry, but they did not seem -especially tragic. - -The point of view is born of the desert herself. When you are there, -face to face with the earth and the stars and time day after day, you -cannot help feeling that your rôle, however gallant and precious, is -a very small one. This conviction, instead of driving you to despair -as it usually does when you have it inside the walls of houses, -releases you very unexpectedly from all manner of anxieties. You are -frightfully glad to have a rôle at all in so vast and splendid a drama -and want to defend it as well as you can, but you do not trouble much -over the outcome because the desert mixes up your ideas about what -you call living and dying. You see the dreadful, dead country living -in beauty, and feel that the silence pressing around it is alive. The -Worrier said one night: - -"My, ain't it awful! Them stars and everything. Makes you feel kind of -small." - -"Do you like to look at them?" - -"Yes, I do." - -"Why do you?" - -"I dunno." - - - - -VIII - -_The Dry Camp_ - - -When the sun stood over Tucki and the mesquites began to have real -shadows beside them we resumed our journey. The little ridge which -separates Death Valley from Salt Creek had looked very insignificant -from the Keane Wonder Mine, but we climbed for more than an hour to -cross it. It was entirely bare and covered with small flat stones of -pale colors, lavender, light-blue, gray and buff, pressed down into a -hard mosaic. Instead of being polished smooth the delicately-colored -little stones were marked with intricate patterns which looked like -the impressions of leaves and sections of plants, as though a vanished -vegetation had left its record upon them. We were not scientific enough -to know whether they were really fossils or whether the markings were -due to the action of water or some other cause. So lovely were they -that in spite of the heat which still beat up from the bright ground -Charlotte and I walked behind the wagon in order to examine them. -There, on that hard ridge, where not even one sickly sagebrush grew, we -saw the fronds of ferns and the stems and cups of flowers finely etched. - -From the top of the ridge the dim wagon-track which we had been -following pitched down an almost impossible hill to Salt Creek, a marsh -formed by a stream that keeps itself mostly underground. Coarse grass -grew in it, looking very green in the surrounding waste, alternating -with streaks of white alkali. The marsh winds down from the Mesquite -Valley and cuts through the ridge into Death Valley. The surrounding -country is utterly barren. A little way off up the bog we could see -the beginning of the sand-dunes which "Old Johnnie" had pointed out, -opposite us rose the immense mesa leading up past Tucki Mountain to -Emigrant Pass through the Panamints, at the left just beyond the swamp -stood the harsh, red mass of Tucki, first a smooth-looking bare -slope, then towering buttresses and crags of rock. Our side of Salt -Creek was a jumble of little stony hills. Save for the grass and a few -dead-looking mesquites in the swamp we could not see a growing thing in -the whole waste. - -You have to dig a well to get the water from Salt Creek. Several -shallow holes had been dug where the road began to cross the marsh, -and, as one was clean enough for our use, the Worrier was spared the -exertion of making another. Stove Pipe Wells, near which the ring of -wagons is said to be buried, is a little further up Salt Creek where -some prospector once drove down a length of Stove Pipe to preserve -his water-hole. All the water in Salt Creek is bitter and salty, -intolerable to drink. We had thought that we might at least use it for -cooking, but one taste killed that hope. We feared we could not eat -potatoes boiled in it, and knew that tea would be impossible, so once -more we drew upon the fifteen gallons which we had brought from Furnace -Creek Ranch. - -Poor Molly and Bill had no choice in the matter. They had to drink the -loathsome stuff which the Worrier drew up for them from the uninviting -hole. However, they seemed much pleased with the coarse, green -grass, the first forage they had had since leaving Daylight Springs. -Henceforth they would have to get their own living with occasional -small feeds of grain, as we could not carry enough hay to last for -more than another two days. By that time we should be well up in the -mountains; still, remembering Beatty and the thin pickings at Daylight -Springs, and looking out now over the discouraging bareness, their -prospects seemed far from cheerful. - -When we had located our camp as far as possible from the tin cans and -ancient rubbish of other camps, the Worrier took his shot gun from -under the wagon seat and went off to hunt ducks. Ducks! How could the -desolation of Salt Creek, after that journey over the burning sands, -yield ducks? At every green place like Furnace Creek Ranch and Saratoga -Springs, we saw birds. They flashed in the sun and their twitterings -broke the silence. While we unloaded the wagon that evening we saw -small yellow birds like wild canaries light on the mesquites in the -swamp, and many tiny blue birds; but it was hard to believe in wild -ducks, even harder there than it had been at the ranch where the old -Indian snooped around with his gun. - -The Worrier's assurance was so surprising that we put off getting -dinner and dragged ourselves to the top of one of the stony hills -overlooking the winding of Salt Creek toward Death Valley to watch -him. From that viewpoint the swamp coiled between high, perpendicular, -sulphur-colored bluffs like a poisonous snake glistening with green -and white spots. One small blue pool far off was its eye. The Worrier -was working his way toward that from grass-tussock to grass-tussock. -Presently he reached it and vanished in a bunch of rushes at its edge. - -While we sat and waited the enchantment of sunset began. The sky -became orange and green, the terrible valley that we loved and hated -began to put on its sapphire robe, the sulphurous walls that prisoned -the snake turned pink, the poisonous blue eye, too blue, too bright, -softened--the enchanter almost had us by the throats again, ready to -choke us until tears came in our eyes, when two shots spilt the spell. -We sprang up, startled; we had forgotten that a man was hunting ducks -in a swamp. A scramble then, back to the fireplace, a hasty match, the -red fire kindled and leaping up, the smoke-blacked pot balanced on the -iron bar stolen from "Old Johnnie," the soft clash of tin dishes, and -soon a proud hunter coming home through the sapphire night. - -Early next morning we were underway, floundering across the swamp. The -Worrier fulfilled his function by doing a little worrying there, for -he remarked afterwards that he might have lost Molly and Bill. Salt -Creek marsh is a little sample of the giant bog that makes the bottom -of Death Valley fearful. The road usually traveled to Emigrant Pass -leads along the edge of the marsh and through the sand-dunes before it -begins to ascend the big mesa, but "Old Johnnie" had instructed us to -avoid the heavy sand by keeping to the base of Tucki Mountain. There -was a sort of track in some places, but mostly we ground among rocks -and made detours to avoid gullies too deep to cross. The base of the -mountain had looked smooth, instead it was cut by wide, deep washes -full of rolled-down boulders. For nine miles we skirted Tucki before -we began the ascent of the mesa itself. Not till then did we pass a -bench-mark indicating that at last we were as high as sea-level. Except -that the road around the mountain was rocky instead of sandy there was -very little difference between the morning's journey and the one across -Death Valley. The light and heat were intense and we suffered from the -same feeling of depression. Even when we began to ascend the mesa we -were hardly conscious of any relief. Though we climbed two thousand -feet that day we were still on the burning sands under the pitiless -sun. Everything burned, rocks were hot to the touch, the endless stony -ground was a hot floor. Tucki Mountain showed a dull red as though it -smoldered, and the hot blaze on the mountains beyond the great mesa was -smoke rising out of furnaces. - -After passing the bench-mark we were in the midst of an immense space -far away from any mountains, toiling for miles up a stony barrenness -where only scattered sagebrush grew. The road was so washed out that -often no trace of it showed and the Worrier steered by intuition. The -wagon groaned and swayed, and Molly and Bill stumbled and sweated. -In the roughest places we led them. We all walked most of the day to -lighten their load. A long spur of Tucki Mountain reached up the mesa -several miles to the left, ending in a red promontory which we must go -around, and that point became our goal. We toiled and toiled, but it -was never any nearer. A quarter of an hour, a day, a year of putting -one foot heavily in front of the other, and we would look up expecting -some reward for so much labor, and the red promontory would be exactly -where it was before. - -In the afternoon we saw a cloud of dust moving. We hoped it might be -wind coming to cool us, but it turned out to be a cattle outfit cutting -across the mesa to our road. The dust cloud looked near, yet it was -fully two hours before we met the cattlemen. The sight of the big herd -of cattle on the desert was stranger than the yellow and blue birds -or the fabulous wild ducks had been. They were being driven over this -awful country to a spring feeding-ground in Wild Rose Canyon, and they -were white with dust, limping on sore, cut feet. Two men and a boy in -big hats and with pistols at their belts rode small shaggy horses, -galloping through the brush and shouting when the tired cattle tried -to stop or scatter at meeting us. Wild Rose Canyon was cold at this -season, the men said, and there was plenty of fine water in it. "A -river runs down the middle," the boy volunteered. We looked out over -the shimmering mesa stretching hopelessly in all directions. A canyon -called Wild Rose where a river flowed between the mountains! - -We inquired further into the fairy tale. The Canyon was about forty -miles away by the route which we would have to take with the wagon. -It led up into the high Panamints. There was a spring by some old -charcoal-kilns right under Mt. Baldy. The cattlemen knew nothing of -Telescope Peak. They had never heard of any one climbing the mountains. -They supposed it was easy enough when the snow was gone. No doubt -prospectors had been up, but there was nothing there, it was no good. -We saw them eying the Worrier curiously, evidently wondering what -manner of creatures he had managed to pick up. - -After a mile or two they left us, turning off by an ancient signboard -pointing vaguely toward the long, red spur of Tucki Mountain with the -legend: "Water Eight Miles," and in the opposite direction across the -trackless, torn-up waste: "Water Fifteen Miles." What are eight miles -or fifteen miles to the modern man accustomed to leap over distance? -To the primitive traveler with horses and mules, and until now all -travelers throughout the ages have been thus primitive, a mile is a -formidable reality. Mojave teaches the truth about it. At the end of -those two days, that "Water Eight Miles" was as inaccessible to us as -though it had been fifty. Even if we had been full of vigor we probably -could not have reached it with the wagon over that rough ground. The -cattlemen, however, on their tough little horses, went to it. We did -not attempt to leave the two dim streaks that occasionally marked our -road, but at dusk stopped and made camp beside them. - -[Illustration: THE DESERT] - -That was our first genuine dry camp, though it was the third time -we had depended on the water carried from Furnace Creek. Water is -the commonest of all commodities, so common that we fail to realize -its meaning until we are without it. All the camps thus far had been -resting-places, homes. We had come to feel that any spot where we built -our fire could be home, for the essentials of home are very simple; a -little water, something to eat, a bit of fire, and good friends. In the -mess at Keane Wonder, in the forbidding inhospitality of Salt Creek, -we had had them all and been at home; but that night, when the Worrier -began to unload the wagon in the stark middle of the solitary waste, we -were not at home. Nor could we make it home, however brightly we urged -up the fire or cheerfully we talked. One of the essentials was missing -and the gasoline cans could not take its place. No water, not even bad -water, not a drop! That mesa was not a human resting-place; we were -aliens in it, transients, one-night-standers. The Worrier laughed at -our restless forlornness. On subsequent travels we have learned to make -dry camps almost as nonchalantly as he does, but they are never home. - -In the hot miles between Furnace Creek Ranch and the mountain-spring -we learned the meaning for our little lives of the commonest of -commodities. We had never been so thirsty, no amount of water could -satisfy us, and the supply was limited. We had enough for all our -needs, yet we never could forget that there was an end to it. When the -jolting of the wagon slopped some out around one of the corks we could -have wept. Using any for cooking or washing dishes, and pouring out ten -gallons for Molly and Bill at the dry camp seemed terrible. Until then -we had thoughtlessly turned on a faucet, or drawn a bucket from a well, -or dipped water out of a stream. Now there was no water. The miles were -not only hot, they were dry miles. The diminishing supply of warm, -unattractive liquid in the dented gasoline-cans was our most precious -possession. We would have parted with everything we had, rather than -lose it. - -From the camping place the red promontory looked as far away as it had -been at noon; we seemed to have made no impression on our goal. Below -us the Mesquite Valley spread out, immense and still, with the green -thread of Salt Creek crossing it. On the far side rose the Grapevine -Range, of which Corkscrew Mountain is the southern end. The evening air -was so clear that we could see the spiral cliff and the opening of the -canyon that leads to Daylight Pass. It looked very near, yet how many -days'-journeys we had come from there! Heat and thirst and weariness -lay between. The grimness of Death Valley, cool now in the shadow of -the Panamints, was hidden by the buttresses of Tucki. The long line of -sultry red rock that had smoldered and smoked all day slowly turned -blue in the twilight. It seemed as though you might saunter over there -and lay your hands upon it, yet the signboard pointing to the water at -its base had read eight miles. We had long lost sight of the cattlemen. -Suddenly, in the dusky blueness under the mountain, their camp fire -bloomed like a crimson cactus flower. - -Evening smoothed the whole mesa into a blue and yellow floor rounding -gently the mountains. It was impossible to believe that it was -everywhere cut into hills and canyons by washes fifteen or twenty feet -deep as it was around our camp. In the bottoms of the declivities large -greasewoods and cacti grew, and occasional tufts of dried grass; but -the wind-swept ridges were bare and every particle of sand was blown -away from among the stones. On one of the beaten-down mosaics near -our camp something gleamed dimly. We went to it and found large white -stones laid in the form of a cross pointing toward the east. Another -traveler, then, had stopped here. Perhaps he had looked at the red -promontory and the spiral cliff and lost hope; perhaps he had prayed -for water; or perhaps he had made it as a thank-offering for the -blessed coming of cool night. - - - - -IX - -_The Mountain Spring_ - - -The next day's climb was easier, for by the time the sun had asserted -its full vigor we were at an altitude where the air was cool, -tinglingly crisp, and so clear that it seemed not to exist at all. The -earth sparkled with laughter and shouted her joy in the glory of light. - -For several hours the red promontory continued to recede, then suddenly -we were rounding it, and soon afterwards entered a gorge whose sides -steadily became higher and higher. The bottom of the gorge was a wide, -sandy wash much cut up by rains, full of boulders and grown over with -brush. The vegetation became ever greener and more luxuriant. The wash -looked like a wind-tossed green river between crumbly, precipitous -mountains of many colors. Some were a dull red, some sage-green, some -buff, some dark yellow, while an occasional purple crag gave the canyon -a savage appearance. These mountains had the velvet texture which we -had seen at Saratoga Springs, especially the sage-green ones. The -colors were not an atmospheric illusion for the mountains were actually -made of different colored rock. We investigated them with great -interest. Though the velvet-textured hills had often been all around -us, they were always too far away or the sun was too fiercely hot for -us to get near enough to touch them. Now we walked along the edge of -the wash picking up the colored rocks while the Worrier led Molly and -Bill up the middle. It was so steep that he often had to rest them. - -About three o'clock we came unexpectedly upon a little spring. It -was in a green cleft between a red and a yellow hill where the water -trickled over the rock into a charming basin. Eagerly we dipped in -our cups. It was true! Here at last was a real mountain spring, very -cold, tasteless, a miraculous gift from Heaven. We drank and drank. The -Worrier unhitched Molly and Bill and they broke away from him to rush -at the water. They did not stop drinking until the last drop was gone. - -This bit of Paradise was a complete surprise. The map did not show the -little spring, nor did the Worrier know of its existence. It was so -tiny that doubtless it is often dry. Emigrant Springs itself, with a -much more plentiful flow of water, was about a mile further on. There -the canyon narrowed with steep, high sides broken into some beautifully -shaped summits. The spring is only a few miles from a big abandoned -mining camp called Skidoo and used to be an important one for desert -travelers. Someone once built a shack, and nearby was a cave with a -fireplace inside, also a corral, part of whose fence had since been -used for firewood. Like all desert watering places the surroundings -were littered with tin cans, old shoes and rusty iron. We know now -what becomes of all the old shoes in the world; they are spirited -away to the desert. An ancient government pamphlet that we had found -blowing about in one of the shacks at Keane Wonder and carefully -preserved describes very scientifically how to locate water, then -throws science to the winds and says that the tin can is the best of -all methods. When you find a pile of tin cans stop and search. It -is surprising how quickly you cease to see the litter, provided it -is sufficiently ancient not to be actively dirty. The desert has no -foreground; you soon stop looking much for things near at hand and get -the horizon-gazing habit. If a flower or a shining stone is at your -feet you see it joyfully, but if it is a tin can it does not exist. -There are too many far-off, enchanting things to look at. You are never -unaware of the sky, nor the beautiful curves of the mountains; no -forests nor roofs conceal them from you, and your eyes pass untroubled -over small uglinesses. - -We made our camp in the shelter of an immense rock that stood alone -in the middle of the wash, and settled down for a long resting space. -The desert was exhibiting her variety in monotony. Between the burning -sands and this mountain coolness what a difference, and yet what an -essential sameness! Here is the same glittering sand, the same colorful -rocks, the same plants, the same bare, crumbling hills. The sun blazes -with the same brightness, turning every projecting edge of rock and -little leaf into a spot of light. The all-enveloping silence is the -same. The distances shine with the same illusion. - -All around Emigrant Springs are mountains from five to seven thousand -feet high. One day was devoted to a stiff climb up to the abandoned -mines at Skidoo, at an elevation of about 6,000 feet. A trail started -up from Emigrant Springs, but it looked very steep, so we went a longer -way around intending to come down it. Part of the route lay over high -ridges from which we saw the splendid mass of the snowy Panamints, -now close at hand. We passed little patches of snow in the shadows of -the rocks. The sky was a deep blue all day and the air cold with the -mountain sting in it. - -The town of Skidoo lay in a high valley shut off from a view by the -surrounding hills. They were barren and made of crumbly yellow rock. -The long narrow basin itself was covered with sagebrush like a blue -carpet. The town had consisted of one wide street along which several -buildings were still standing. An incredible number of stoves, broken -chairs and cooking utensils were strewn about. The most imposing -building had been the saloon, behind which a neatly piled wall of -bottles, five feet high and several feet wide, testified to past good -cheer. The Worrier said that four thousand people once had lived here. -They had brought water twenty-eight miles in a pipe-line from a spring -near Telescope Peak. During the war the pipe was taken out and sold -to the government, but we could see the trench plainly, perfectly -straight, leading off toward Mt. Baldy across high ridges. With the -taking out of the water Skidoo died. - -The place was littered with paper-covered books and old magazines. In -one house we found a pile of copies of a work entitled "Mysterious -Scotty, or the Monte Cristo of Death Valley." Needless to say we stole -one, which became a treasure to be brought out in idle hours by the -camp-fire. "Scotty" was a boon to the Worrier who did not hold much -with the sort of literature that we carried around. Early in the -expedition he had glanced over our library and preferred meditation. We -had a few slim volumes of verse, "Leaves of Grass," some wild tales of -Lord Dunsany's and a learned treatise on how to paint. This last helped -us to keep up the fiction of artistic greatness. - -From Skidoo we traversed the top of a long ridge from the precipitous -end of which we had a superb view over Death Valley. We owed this -to "Old Johnnie" who had told us to go there, for among the tumbled -peaks of the Panamint Range around Skidoo you could wander a long time -without getting a commanding view of the valley. The point from which -we saw it that day was opposite Furnace Creek Ranch, but even with -the glass we could not distinguish the green patch of the ranch, nor -could we see the Eagle Borax Works lower down. The bottom looked like -a white plain with brown streaks around and across it. Death Valley is -always different. That afternoon there was no play of color, no magical -mirage. From there, looking straight down seven thousand feet, it was -ghastly, utterly unlike anything on the earth as most of us know her. -It was like the valleys on the dead, bright moon when you look at them -through a powerful telescope. - -We stayed too long watching the shadow of the Panamints, as sharp and -stark as a shadow on the moon, encroach on the white floor. Twilight -had begun by the time we reached Skidoo again to hunt the trail down -to Emigrant Springs. We tramped around the rough hills searching for -it until darkness made it impossible to distinguish it even if we had -found it. There below lay our camp. Could we have gone down a ridge or -a canyon to it we would have defied the trail, but it was necessary to -go crosswise over several of the ridges that buttress the mountain, and -up and down their steep dividing canyons. Even the Worrier hesitated -to attempt this in the dark. Getting lost is one of the easiest things -you can do in desert mountains for they are very broken, flung down -seemingly without plan, cut by deep, often precipitous gorges. The same -old, tattered pamphlet that gives advice about tin cans also advises -about getting lost. It says that persons not blessed with a good sense -of locality had better find some other place than the desert for the -"exercise of their talents." Standing on top of a mountain you think -you know very well where to go, but when you get into those clefts -among those hills that look all alike you find you do not know. Any -moment you may meet a barrier to be climbed over with great labor or -gone around at the risk of getting involved in little canyons leading -off in the wrong direction. - -There was nothing to do but skirt around the mountain and try to get -back onto the path by which we had come. During the quest we had our -reward and were glad. Just as night was closing in a shadow rose like a -curtain beyond the mountain-tops that shut Death Valley from us. It was -a blue shadow and a rose-colored shadow. It was both those colors and -yet they were not merged to a purple. It seemed to rise straight up, a -live thing, as though the spirit of the valley were greeting the stars. -The beautiful apparition remained less than a minute; always after that -we looked toward deep valleys at evening hoping to see it again, but we -never saw it, though night made wonderful shadows and blue pools of -darkness in them. Death Valley is a thing apart. It is a white terror -whose soul is a miracle of rose and blue. - -About an hour later we came upon the cabin of "Old Tom Adams," another -old-timer guarding his own mine and Skidoo. He came out and made a -great fuss about finding "ladies." He had heard of us before. He -offered to make coffee, but a deep craving for more substantial food -forbade any delay. He talked incessantly and would hardly let us go; no -doubt we were the most exciting event for a long time. He described a -way to get down the mountain by following the tracks of his burros. He -swore we could not miss it, you just "fell down" right into Emigrant -Springs. He went a little way with us to be sure we started down the -right ridge; after that we "fell down" in about two hours and a half. -It was the worst, the rockiest, the steepest series of hills and -gullies we ever encountered. Presently the deceitful moon turned the -bushes into white ghosts and fooled us about the angle of ledges. -From time to time we saw burro tracks in the sand, but we suspect that -a herd of wild burros pastures around there. The Worrier's opinion of -"the old fool" was unmentionable, nor did it soothe him to suggest that -the old man had tried to do his best. - -Next day Old Tom appeared at Emigrant Springs wanting to know if we had -seen a white burro and a black burro. We had that very morning. - -"They're mine," he said, "but I can't keep 'em home." - -Hunting burros seemed to be his life work. Two weeks later we heard of -him twenty miles away still hunting his burros. The Worrier opined that -he had no burros, but our guide was prejudiced. - -We learned to appreciate what it meant to hunt burros, for though our -burros were horses, the Worrier spent most of the days in camp looking -for them. It was amazing how far they could travel with hobbles on. -They were clever at hiding, too, but we were assured that they were -dull compared to burros. Everybody on the desert seems to have burros -somewhere that he expects to use some day. They are all delightfully -casual about them: - -"Did you happen to see a bunch of burros in the gulch youse come -through?" - -"No. Have you lost yours?" - -"Yes. Gone about a week. I thought maybe they was over there." - -The hope seems to be that they will come back for water. Generally they -do, but sometimes they go to some other water hole and leave you to -guess which one. At Silver Lake the brigand called French Pete had come -from thirty miles off looking for his burros. - -"You ought to put a bell on them," our hostess had told him. - -"I did, but it's no use. You can't find 'em, anyway. They're too smart." - -"Do they hide?" - -"Hide! The one with the bell gets behind a rock and holds his neck -perfectly still while the others bring him food!" - -[Illustration: A PACK-TRAIN CROSSING A DRY LAKE] - -Another day at Emigrant Springs was spent in climbing Pinto Peak, 7,450 -feet high. We chose it because it was the highest point anywhere -around, and we hoped for a good look at Mt. Baldy and Telescope Peak -in order to lay out a route by which to climb them. Pinto Peak is on -the west side of Emigrant Pass, overlooking the Panamint Valley and all -the region to the foot of Mt. Whitney in the Sierra Nevada. The peak -is not visible from the spring and we had to guess at a possible way -up. We began by ascending a steep ridge leading in the right direction, -over and among several little summits. The ridge brought us to a large, -high plateau set round with little peaks and cut at the sides by deep -canyons. The top of the ridge and the plateau were dotted over with -cedar trees, for on the desert, where everything is different, you do -not climb above the timber, you climb up to it. Between six and seven -thousand feet the trees begin, and sometimes in sheltered corners -become twenty or thirty feet high. They are not large nor numerous -on Pinto, but there are enough of them to give the ridge a speckled -appearance from below. The plateau sloped gradually up toward the -west and we selected the furthest little rounded rise as probably -Pinto Peak. For two miles we walked toward it over comparatively -level ground. From that side Pinto is not especially interesting as -a mountain, being only a higher point in a big table-land, but its -western side is a precipice falling two thousand feet into a terribly -rocky and desolate canyon. Not until we reached the extreme edge of the -plateau did the view open. It appeared suddenly, black mass after black -mass of harsh mountains leading over to Mt. Whitney, serene and white -on the wall of the Sierras. The Sierra Nevada are the barriers of the -desert. Beyond that glistening wall lie the lovely and fertile valleys -of California. Over there at that season the fruit trees were beginning -to bloom, on this side was only bareness, black rocks, and deep pits of -sand. - -Mt. Whitney is toward the southern end of the high peaks of the -Sierras. That day they bit into the sky like jagged white teeth. -Southward the range is lower, rising again in Southern California to -the peaks of San Bernadino and San Jacinto. We could vaguely see San -Bernadino Mountain, mistily white, mixed up with the clouds. Below us -lay the Panamint Valley under the western wall of the steep Panamints -which separate it from Death Valley. This basin is neither so low nor -so large as the famous one east of it, but is of the same character. -At its edge, pressed against the mountain, we could make out with the -glass the once prosperous mining town of Ballarat, the Ballarat that we -had so gayly started to drive to from Johannesburg. With the Worrier's -help we traced the route we would have come over. He pointed out the -red mountain on which the three mining towns are perched, then came -a line of low hills, then an immense dry lake where the Trona Borax -Works are located, then a range of ugly-looking black mountains, then -a long mesa which he said is almost as rough and difficult as the one -we had recently come over, then the Panamint Valley, shimmering hot, -glistening white, first cousin to Death Valley itself. It would have -been a magnificent drive, but suppose we had undertaken it in the -sublime innocence that was ours at the time! We had never crossed a -dry lake, never wrestled with a mesa, never in our wildest imaginings -pictured such a place as the Panamint Valley,--and at the end we would -have found the town deserted! - -"You wouldn't have made it," the Worrier teased us, "you would have -turned back before you got to Trona." - -"We would not!" But in our hearts we knew how we would have been weak -from pure fear of the ugly-looking black mountains. The terrifying -approach to Silver Lake was nothing compared to them, nor would we have -had a friendly little Ford chugging along ahead. - -As we had hoped, the top of Pinto commands a fine view of Telescope -Peak and Mt. Baldy joined by the beautiful, long ridge which reposes so -splendidly above Death Valley. From this side they looked higher and -snowier. We studied them carefully with the glass. The great mass of -snow was discouraging, but it seemed to be blown off the sharp ridges -which showed black. We planned to move the outfit as far as possible up -Wild Rose Canyon which branches off from Emigrant Canyon about twenty -miles above Emigrant Springs and leads up to the far, high peaks. From -there we thought we could climb the rounded summit of Mt. Baldy and -walk along the splendid curve to the slender pyramid of Telescope. No -lover of mountains could look at those pure, smooth lines as long as we -had looked at them and from as many aspects without being filled with -the desire to set his feet upon them. - -It is not the height of a mountain nor its difficulty which makes it -desirable, but something in the mountain's own self. The Panamints are -neither very high nor very difficult, but they are dramatic and alone. -Besides the contrast of their snow with the burning sands beneath, -we wanted the feel of a truly lonely mountain top. The Panamints are -truly lonely. They are not objects of solicitude to any mountain club; -no tourist keen for adventure, nor boy scout outfit, nor earnest-eyed -mountaineer who carves the record of his conquests on his pipe-bowl -or his walking-stick, have left their names up there. No trail leads -up the Panamints, nor are their summits splashed over with paint like -the stately, desecrated summit of Mt. Whitney. We would not be forced -to know in letters a foot high that on August 27th, John Doe made the -ascent. We do not hate John Doe, but we prefer to meet him under roofs. -If he loved the mountain, rather than so disfigure it, he would throw -ink at his most cherished possession; and only lovers of mountains have -the right to invade their loneliness. The Panamints, with their feet in -the burning heat of Death Valley and their heads in the snow, almost -unknown to any save a few prospectors, guarded on all sides by the -solitudes of the desert, seemed utterly desirable to us. - -We sat on a rock studying the map, which was no help at all, and -eating the big, sweet, California prunes of which we always carried -pockets-full as aids to wayfaring. The Worrier acquiesced in our -mountaineering project, though without enthusiasm. He bade us not -forget that it would be cold up there. The sight of the snow had -already set him shivering. We twitted him with being a "desert rat." - -"You may have got along better than we did in Death Valley," we said -to him, "but it's our turn now; that's fair." - -The Worrier scorned prunes and always looked on with dour superiority -during our consumption of them. Soon he left us and went to hunt -the "lost mine." There are many legends of lost mines in the -desert-mountains and we paid no especial attention to this one, being -weary enough to sit still, munching prunes, and looking out over the -fearful, majestic landscape. In an hour he came back with a handful of -rocks. He laid them solemnly before us. They were pieces of gold ore -which he had found in a hole a little way below the summit. - -"The lost mine," he said. - -"You had better come back and work it," we laughed. - -"I'll have them assayed." His manner was serious. - -"Why, you don't think----" - -"I don't know. But anyways, we'll call it the Prune Stone Mine." - -As a matter of fact he did have them assayed and did go back with his -partner; but the Prune Stone Mine, like so many mines in the Death -Valley Country, failed to fulfill its first promise. - -During the week that we camped at Emigrant Springs we saw no wild life -except a few little brown birds that made a happy twittering in the -mornings. Sometimes in the blue night we heard the distant howling of -coyotes, and once an owl mocked us with a cry that sounded ridiculously -like "Hoo, Hoo, Skidoo!" He was a native, no doubt, and old in wisdom. -In the rambles among the mountains we found our first wild flowers. -They were small except one striking crimson-velvet one with a ragged -blossom like garden balsam. It grew in clumps about six inches high -and made vivid spots of color against the rocks. Later, as the spring -advanced, we found a great variety of flowers, but never this one -except at high altitudes. Seeing it was always a joyful heart-beat. The -graceful greasewood was in bloom, covered with small yellow flowers -that looked like little butterflies perched on the slender branches. -The nights were still very cold, often freezing the water in the pail, -but the days were pleasantly warm. The sun shone with such dazzling -brightness that during the middle of the day the shady sides of rocks -were the best resting places. A fresh, steady wind blew nearly always -up or down the canyon, sometimes piling great white masses of clouds -in the sky, always scouring the world incredibly clean. Each night was -a blue wonder. The mountains were delicate, luminous shapes in front -of a sky infinitely far away. The big stars hung low and burned with a -steady, silver shine. - -Every day we climbed one or another of the ridges and smaller mountains -close to the spring. It was good to lie on their summits in the sun. -From any one of them we could look down the canyon and see the whole -length of the Mesquite Valley, always the same, yet, like Death -Valley, always different. You can look day after day at the deep, hot -basins of the desert without ever knowing them. Quickly enough you -can see the obvious features of the Mesquite Valley--the continuation -of the Panamints on the west, the wine-red Grapevine Mountains on -the east, the low blue hills in the north, the level bottom of the -valley streaked with white alkali where Salt Creek crosses it and "Old -Johnnie's" big sand-dunes are glistening little ant hills--but you must -stay all the hours of a long day to find out what she really is, and -then you will not know. Listen: - - - "Behold me! You think that I am an arid valley with a white alkali - streak down the middle of my level-seeming floor. You think that - I am surrounded by red mountains, or perhaps you think they are - blue, or purple--well, not exactly--more rose. - - "Come down to me! I am very deep between the mountains. I am very - white. But if you do not like me so I can be a wide, level plain - covered with velvet for you to lie on. - - "Come down to me! Rest beside this lake. See how it shines, how - blue it is! I am all in white like a young girl with a turquoise - breastpin. You don't believe that? I am a Witch, I can be - anything. My wardrobe is full of bright dresses. I will put them - on for you one by one. - - "See, I know more colors of blue than you ever dreamed of. When - you tire of blue I change to ripe plums. Now I throw gray gauze - over my purple. I look like a nun, but am not. Here is my yellow - gown. You do not like it? See, I have all degrees of red, fire red - and crimson and pink, the color of bride roses. Here is my finest. - It is made of every color, but the tone of it is the gray breast - of a dove. You did not know that the breast of a dove could be - made of all colors, but now I show you. - - "Do you not love me? You remember too well that I am hot as a - bake-oven. You think that if any one were fool enough to come down - to me I would steal behind and grip him by the throat. - - "What of it? Why do you question me so much? You see how old I am, - how many storms have left their scars on me, and you think I am - wise. But I am only fair. Is it not enough to be old and yet fair? - - "Beauty is sitting on my topmost peak making the enchantments that - confirm your dreams. She experiments with many materials; she - makes new combinations forever. - - "Behold all the desolate places how they are hers--the lonely - hills, the lonely plains, the lonely green sea, the lonely - sands--she clothes us in gorgeous raiment, she makes us content - with death. Where she is your heart can pasture even to the - emptiness between the stars." - - -A lifetime is not long enough to listen to the songs of the desolate -places. A whole sunny, timeless day is too short to hear the Mesquite -Valley. The days and nights of the desert merge into each other. They -are like perfectly matched pearls being strung on an endless string. -You delight to run your fingers over their smooth surfaces and detect -no difference. - -"Do we move to-morrow?" Thus the Worrier. - -"Why to-morrow?" - -"We have been here a week." - -That is not possible! How could a week slide into past things so soon? - - - - -X - -_The High White Peaks_ - - -Wild Rose Canyon has a lovely name, justified by a small clump of -bushes that may bear wild roses sometime. The canyon, where it branches -east from Emigrant Pass, is very narrow with precipitous sides. -Emigrant Canyon itself at this point is walled by high cliffs so close -together that the wagon track fills the gorge. A considerable stream, -bordered with feathery trees, flows through the lower end of Wild Rose -Canyon and down Emigrant Pass toward the Panamint Valley and Ballarat, -but dies before it emerges from the cliff-like hills onto the long, -stony slope that leads into the valley. Once more we had been deceived. -From Pinto Peak the rocky cliffs appeared to rise directly out of the -Panamint Valley, but a walk down the western descent of Emigrant Pass -revealed the same long, brush-covered slope that we had learned to -know so well. - -The cattlemen had been there and gone away, leaving the cattle in -Wild Rose for their spring range. The young steers huddled together, -staring with their expression of fierce innocence. They had tramped the -stream-bed into a bog and otherwise made camping at the mouth of the -canyon unpleasant. A stone shack with an iron roof was located near the -spring. It was rather a magnificent shack with two rooms, the inner one -windowless like a cave. For some reason that seems to be the approved -way of building sleeping-rooms on the desert. At Keane Wonder veritable -black holes were the sleeping-quarters near the boarding-house. The -shack had no floor and the uneven ground was littered with rubbish, as -indeed were all the surroundings. The mess around the spring at Wild -Rose bothered us more than the litter anywhere else. Perhaps it was -because we were shut in on all sides by high walls, and there were no -vistas nor even any beautifully shaped summits to look at. For once -the desert was all foreground, little trees along the stream, little -bushes, little stones. A tin can in such a small environment can hardly -be ignored. - -As soon as possible therefore, we pushed on up the canyon which widened -into what looked like a plain surrounded by mountains. In reality it -was level nowhere, but rounded down like a giant oval basin about five -miles wide and seven or eight miles long. The mountains on the east and -south were covered with cedars whose vanguard dotted the edge of the -mesa under Mount Baldy, now become a great white mass, very near, led -up to by a precipitous ridge broken into jagged peaks. Telescope Peak -lay behind Baldy and was not visible. There was more snow than we had -supposed in our survey from Pinto Mountain, it lay all along the jagged -ridge, coming down in some places almost to the mesa. The northern wall -of the canyon was composed of lower mountains. The one furthest east -was a big, pointed, red mass, polka-dotted with little trees near its -summit. Looking back whence we had come the mountains seemed to close -the narrow gorge. - -The cattlemen had told us that Wild Rose Canyon was full of water, but -after we left the spring we found none. The big wash down the middle -was dry--the boy must have seen it on some rare occasion when it had -water in it--and the great bowl far too large and too rough to admit -of much scouting for springs at the bases of the mountains. We had -thought that we would see the deserted charcoal-kilns and thus find -the spring which the cattlemen had described, but there was no sign of -any kilns. We supposed that they were somewhere along the bottom of -the precipitous ridge that led up to Mount Baldy. In that direction -the mesa was so terribly cut up that we could not attempt to take the -wagon there until we had first explored it, so we made a dry camp in -the middle of the basin under the shelter of the eight-foot-high bank -of the wash. - -The wind had blown harder than usual all day with an icy bite from -the snowy heights. During the night a racing cloud deposited snow -on the northern hills which before had been bare. A real storm now -became our fear, for a little more snow would defeat our project. -Moreover Wild Rose Canyon is at an altitude where the cold at that -time of year is intense, and we had to depend on the sun's fires to -warm us sufficiently during the day to make life possible through the -night. The "desert rat" became a bundle of misery. We had not realized -the paralyzing effect cold would have on him. He sat and shivered, -apparently unable to move or to think, so utterly wretched that -Charlotte and I offered to give up the Panamints and "beat it" to a -more salubrious climate. We could not bear to see our friend suffer; -but he flatly refused, angry with us for even making the suggestion, -saying that when he started to do a thing be generally did it. - -The next morning was as cold as ever. Still the Worrier refused to -consider moving out, and when the sun had warmed the great windy bowl -a little, he went back to fetch more water from the spring by the -old shack. We explored the base of the long ridge under Mount Baldy -as well as we could, but failed to find the charcoal-kilns. However, -it was possible to get the wagon over there, so in the afternoon we -moved the whole outfit up to the first cedar trees. There the mesa -became so steep that Molly and Bill could no longer pull the load. The -Worrier had brought ten gallons of water, enough for several days, and -the "desert-proof" horses were turned loose to find their way back to -the spring at the mouth of the canyon. What either they or the cattle -ate at Wild Rose remained a profound mystery to us. The mesa was -covered with low, dry brush, interspersed occasionally with bunches -of yellow grass. We could see the dark backs of the steers like spots -moving through it, but it looked like anything rather than a spring -feeding-ground. - -Camp-in-the-Cedars was charming. A real tree had become a wonderful -object. For once there was plenty of wood and the Worrier kept himself -warm chopping and carrying. After the feeble little fires of roots -and twigs to which we had been accustomed, that blazing, crackling -camp-fire was a rich luxury. Dinner was a banquet. Our bed was laid -under a big piñon tree through whose tufts of fine needles the -enormous stars looked down. We had a glimpse through the far-off mouth -of the canyon of distant peaks, vague in the starlight. The wind rose -and fell softly through the pines and cedars, like the breathing of the -great white mountain beneath whose side we slept. - -The white dawn of a clear day filtered through the blue darkness. -Before the sun had climbed over the ridge we were started on our long -anticipated adventure. It began with a stiff scramble up the first -buttressing ridge, then a long pull to the crest of the barrier that -walls the southern side of Wild Rose Canyon. The steep inclines of -gravelly rock were varied with ledges. Soon we reached the snow, so -hard that steps had to be dug in it with much scuffling of hobnailed -shoes. The green trees growing out of the white snow were very lovely, -and also useful to hold on to. When they were far apart we had some -exciting moments when we zigzagged over the smooth, white crust, which -was as steep as a shingled roof. In about two hours we reached the top -of the ridge. Until then we had faced the white slope, working too hard -to look back very often at the basin that was falling away below us. -Suddenly we stood on top. The world opened beyond into an immense white -amphitheater shut in by snowy peaks with the pyramid of Telescope, -visible once more, at the far side. After the hot, dry sands, how -miraculous seemed this glittering winter! - -We pressed on toward Baldy along the ridge, which proved to be much -steeper than it had looked. It was covered with trees, and great -patches of snow grown soft now in the sun. However, by keeping a little -below the crest on the southern side most of the snow could be avoided. -There the ground fell so precipitously from the ridge to the canyon -below that only an occasional tree grew on it, and we had an unimpeded -view of the two white summits and the magnificent sweep of snow between -them. - -Noon brought us to a little saddle north of Baldy, which connects it -with another rounded summit of the same name. Here were no trees and -the snow was blown off clean. With what eagerness we panted up the -last few yards! The mountain climber has his great reward when he -"looks over." That is his own peculiar joy. He toils for hours with -the ground rising before him to a ridge that seems to cut the sky, -only to find a higher one beyond. He surmounts that, and another and -another, until at last he gains the highest and the mountains yield -their secret. Breathlessly we stood on the little saddle. We looked -down into Death Valley from the still height to which we had looked up -so long. The white floor shimmered through layers of heated air, 10,000 -feet below. Again the valley was different. That day it was full of -sky, as the Imperial Valley had been when we first saw it. Nothing was -distinguishable down there, it was a well of clear blue. The Funeral -Mountains looked like hills. Behind them the jagged ranges of desert -mountains spread back with one tall, snowy peak in their midst, Mount -Charleston, sixty miles away on the border of Nevada. - -Southward on the saddle the mound of Baldy's summit presented its snowy -side. For the most part the snow was hard enough for us to walk over -the crust, but sometimes we floundered in nearly to the waist. That -was hard work. By one o'clock we reached the top where the snow was -blown off, leaving bare black rocks. It was a quiet day for the desert -and especially for the mountains. A slight wind came from the south; -the sky was cloudless, a deep, still blue. Mount Baldy overlooks all -the country in a complete panorama, save where the beautiful pyramid -of Telescope Peak cuts into the view. The horizon was bounded on three -sides by snow mountains, Mount Charleston, the San Bernadinos and -the wonderful Sierra Nevada. Between these white barriers spread the -desert, deep white valleys, yellow dry lakes, ranges of rose and blue -and dark-violet mountains, all shining in the incomparable brightness -of the sun. - -Now, at last, we saw the famous "H. and L." of which we had heard so -much. "You see the highest and the lowest points in the United States -at the same time," everybody had told us. From the top of the Panamints -we could see Mount Whitney towering in the west, while in the east the -mountain sides fall precipitously into Death Valley, 280 feet below sea -level. There must be some more accessible viewpoint which commands -this dramatic spectacle, for it is not likely that our informants -expected us to climb Mount Baldy. - -From the summit of Baldy the long curving arête that had looked so -beautiful from Death Valley on one side and from Pinto Peak on the -other led over to Telescope Peak. It was no disappointment. Sloping -sharply down from Baldy, level for a ways, then rising again toward the -white pyramid, it extended for about three miles, precipitous on both -sides, often not more than ten feet wide on top. The exhilaration of -walking thus in the clear air high above the spread-out world is always -a boundless joy; on this shining wall in the middle of the desert the -joy was almost unbearable. The great plain of the world was clear cut, -no veiling haze softened its distances, it flashed and sparkled, full -of strong, austere lines and strong, satisfying contrasts. Like a -victorious lover, you walk the heights of your conquest; everything to -the great circle of the horizon is yours; by right of patience and love -you possess it. - -If we could only be like the three old cedars that have withstood the -hurricanes on the ridge and gaze with them until sunset, through the -night and the wonder of morning! They are so gnarled and old, and so -calm. Watchers, they stand on the summit of the world, and they might -tell us, if we could stay, why the mountain-tops are joyful. Instead, -we must drag around these aching bodies clamoring to be kept warm and -to be fed, never letting us listen long enough. Already the sun was -descending toward the west, and we had to hasten on if we wanted to -reach Telescope Peak and get back to fire and food before the cold of -night. - -When the arête began to rise it became rapidly very steep. The snow -became harder and harder until it turned to ice. The lovely pyramid, -now directly overhead, shone blindingly in the slanting sun. The -only possible way to its peak was up a sharp knife-edge, from which -both sides fell sheer for thousands of feet. Was it all solid ice? -The conviction that it was had been hinting defeat to each of us -for the last half hour of the climb, but no one cared to speak of -that possibility until we were within four hundred feet of the top, -clinging to trees and slipping badly. The peak rose at a possible, but -terrific angle; the trees for the remainder of the way were much too -far apart to hold on to; the ice was perfectly smooth, and glistened -like a skating rink set on edge. No amount of kicking with hobnailed -shoes could make a foothold on it, and one slip on that knife-edge -either way meant a slide down the ice-sheet to almost sure destruction. -You cannot climb such an ice wall without either an ax or a rope; with -either one we would have tried it. We could have cut steps with an ax, -or we might have been able to lasso the trees above with a long rope, -and pull ourselves up by it. So lately come from the furnace of Death -Valley, how should we suppose that we would need the implements of an -Alpine mountain-climber? Down, down, more than 11,000 feet, lay that -white pit veiled with the smoke of iridescent haze. - -The Worrier, who professed deep scorn of all mountains for their own -sakes, looked longingly at the smooth peak. It fascinated us all like a -hard, glittering jewel. He said he "hated to be beat." So did we all -"hate to be beat," but we would have been ungrateful indeed for the -joy of that day had we not been able to turn back and remain thankful. -There was no sense of defeat in the going-down. - -The descent was easy except for the heartbreaking pull up Mount -Baldy again. His sides were far too straight up and down to admit of -any going around him. On the summit we made a concession to aching -bodies by taking a long rest and eating what was left of the bread -and cheese and the everlasting prunes. The Worrier had long since -dubbed our route "The Prune Stone Trail." We jested light-heartedly -about building cairns along it with a prune stone carved on the top of -each, and insisted that we owned a half interest in the Prune Stone -Mine, as he would never have found it had we not dragged him up Pinto. -Mountain-hater as he was and heat-loving "desert-rat," he genially -admitted that, snow or no snow, the top of Baldy was "fine." As we sat -there Death Valley turned a dark, deep, luminous blue. We could see the -Avawatz Mountains by Silver Lake and the notch in the hills where the -blue pool of Saratoga cherishes its little darting fish. The slanting -sunlight was resplendent on the arête and the west slopes of Telescope -Peak. The Worrier called him an old rascal; but we were glad to leave -him so, with his white robes unsullied by scrambling feet. His image -would remain always to the inward eye in dull days and difficult days, -a reminder of how beauty watches around the world. - -When the sun stood just above the wall of the Sierras we began the long -descent down the rounded, snowy side of Baldy to the little saddle, and -down the long, steep slope and the little, buttress slope where the -cedar trees had been so lovely in the snow. Night came while we were -still going down, and the basin of Wild Rose Canyon was a violet lake. - - - - -XI - -_Snowstorm and Sandstorm_ - - -Breakfast was late next morning like Sunday breakfasts in houses. -Charlotte asked if it was Sunday. No one knew what day it was in the -far-off world, but we proclaimed it Sunday at Wild Rose. It was a true -Sunday, a day of rest after hard exertion, a still day washed clean by -the mighty sun. Immense and still. The great bowl curved tranquilly to -the tranquil hills, the cedars and piñons along its edge glistened like -little bright fingers pointing at the sky. - -During the middle of the day the sun was hot, in the morning and the -evening the big fire blazed. Camp-in-the-Cedars was lovely enough to -stay in forever, but shortly after noon the Worrier announced that -he must find the charcoal-kilns, he could not "be beat" by them. The -little trees were so beguiling, the tranquil brightness of the mesa -so inviting, that we followed him, buoyed up by the cold, clear air. -We wandered along the base of Baldy to where a small, purple mountain -jutted into the great basin. Around that we went, leisurely picking -our way over the rough ground until at the extreme northern end of the -bowl we found an attenuated wraith of a road leading up into a heavily -wooded canyon. A road must once have been the way to somewhere, and -we followed it, climbing steeply for nearly a mile. It brought us -to a small, level spot where, made of rocks like the mountains and -indistinguishable until we were right on them, stood seven immense -charcoal-kilns like a row of giant beehives. They were so big that we -could walk upright through their doorways, that looked like arched -openings in their sides. Old Tom Adams had said that they were used -in the seventies to make fuel of the cedars and piñons, to be hauled -thirty miles to the smelter at a lead mine. They had been deserted so -long that the camp rubbish had disappeared from around them and they -merged into their background, become again a part of Nature herself. - -What strenuous endeavor they denoted! Everywhere men have left their -footprints on the Mojave, sojourners always, never inhabitants. The -seven kilns were the most impressive testimony of brief possession that -we saw, more impressive even than the twenty-eight-mile-long trench -that brought the water to Skidoo. We had seen it from there crossing -high ridges; in the great bowl of Wild Rose it was clearly marked, -going from side to side and vanishing up the first ridge which we -had climbed to Baldy. The cost and labor of making it must have been -immense. Mojave was already breaking down the edges preparing to brush -it away, but it will be a long time before she can obliterate those -kilns. They will still be eloquent in that remote fastness long after -Keane Wonder and Ryolite are gone. - -Behind the kilns a dim path climbed the mountain-side to a little, -secret spring, an oval rock basin not more than five feet long and so -deftly hidden that we wondered what prospector first had the joy of -finding it. From the elevation of the spring we could look along the -length of Wild Rose Canyon, where the sagebrush smoothed to a blue -and green and purple sea, and through its narrow opening to the white -serenity of Mount Whitney. Thus framed the white peak seemed to float -in the blue sky. Very swiftly Mojave brushes men off, but always with a -fine gesture. From the midst of her most obliterating desolations she -never fails to point at some far-off shining. - -Too late we learned that the little spring at the head of the canyon -would have been the place for our camp. Not only would we have had the -delight of its cold, pure water, but the ascent of Mount Baldy looked -shorter and easier from there. Perhaps we each cherished the hope -of moving up next day and trying once more to scale the glittering -ice-wall with the help of our wood-chopper's ax and the rope from the -wagon; but we never discussed the idea for that night the dreaded storm -crept over the mountains. It came stealthily on padded feet, putting -out the stars. At dawn big wet snowflakes gently sifting through the -still air awoke us. - -During the day the storm increased. The wind arose and blew in gusts -seemingly from every direction. Fortunately the trees afforded plenty -of big wood, so we were able to keep a roaring fire, though the -heavily-falling, wet snow sometimes threatened to put it out. It snowed -so fast that we were shut in by white walls not more than twenty feet -away. We pitched our tent with the opening toward the fire and tried to -get some shelter in it while the Worrier hunted the horses. The tent -was the only serious mistake in the outfit. It was a light, waterproof -silk tent with a pole up the middle. We had expected to use it as a -shelter from the wind and had tried once before at Emigrant Springs. -On that occasion its light-weight material had flapped and rattled in -the blast until we were glad to creep outside and sleep under the edge -of a rock. Before morning it blew down. The only practical tent for -the desert is a very low one, like a pup-tent, made of heavy canvas, -with extra long pegs that must be driven deep and buried in the sand. -During the eternity of snowstorm in which Charlotte and I waited for -Molly and Bill, we alternated between holding up the pole in the gusts -of wind and rushing out between them to drive in the pegs with the ax. -This, and the necessity of constantly building up the fire, kept us wet -and cold all day, for the snow was not the dry, whirling snow of really -cold climates, but was as wet as a heavy rain. It clung so we could not -shake it off and melted on our clothes. The Worrier did not retrieve -Molly and Bill until four o'clock. It was late to move, but the storm -showed no sign of abatement and we remembered with growing affection -the shack at the entrance to the canyon. Hastily packing in the white -downpour that hissed through the air, we left Camp-in-the-Cedars. - -As soon as we had descended a little way into the basin the snow -ceased, but a white cloud continued to hang over the place where our -charming camp had been. During the remainder of the day and throughout -the night heavy clouds veiled all the mountains, occasionally dropping -flurries of snow around us. An icy wind rushed down the canyon. When -we reached the shack it seemed palatial. We cleared out the rubbish -by throwing it down the hill in front of the door, the approved way of -cleaning up on the desert. When there are too many cans you throw them -behind the bushes, and we had learned to do it with great vigor and -accuracy of aim. Much to the Worrier's amusement we scrubbed the table -and tried to wipe off the cracked, rusty stove set up on three empty -gasoline tins. That stove was a marvel in the art of consuming much -fuel without emitting any heat. We took turns huddling close to it. The -walls sheltered us from the wind, but as far as the stove was concerned -we might almost as well have been outdoors. - -After supper we had to reckon with the dungeon that was the bedroom. -The Worrier recommended it highly, but we viewed it with a certain -awful apprehension. We had a devil's choice between that and the frigid -outdoors that kept beating on the shack with gusts of wind. We made -the mistake of choosing the dungeon. When the candle was blown out -fear crouched in the blackness. All the tales we had ever read of -prisoners in damp cellars assailed us--horrors, tortures, black holes. -The terrors of these man-made fears in this shut-in, man-made place -were far worse than the wild outdoors. Presently little scratchings -and gnawings apprised us that we were not alone. Unbearable then was -the walled darkness. We gathered up the bed and went outside, stepping -carefully over the Worrier who, forever faithful, was sleeping across -the door. - -The clean outdoors! Let it snow, let it hail, let the water run down -the mountain and seep through the bed, let the wind tear at the -ponchos! It was nothing compared to being shut up in a dark place. -About midnight we were suddenly struck awake by a terrific din. After -the first tense moment we recognized it as coyotes howling in the -canyon. That was nothing either compared to vague little scratchings -and gnawings in an eight-by-ten shack. - -Next day the storm continued, with clear intervals during which we -rushed out to spread our clothes and blankets in the sun that thirstily -drank up the snow at the bases of the mountains. "Scotty" beguiled -the hours and the weird tales of Lord Dunsany, read aloud beside the -cracked stove, never had a more appropriate setting. All around the -mountains were white except where some insistently black rock heaved -out. Clouds hurried across the sky like Indians galloping on the -war-path, the wind screaming around the rocks was their war-whoop. In -the moments of peace between their raids huge giants of cloud shook -their fists at us over the walls. The silence of Mojave was torn to -tatters. Yet, somehow, we still felt it. Just as the wild tales we read -intimated a stillness behind, so the tumult was a ripple on indomitable -peace. You have seen a little whirlwind plow a furrow through the -water of some glassy lake, making quite a bit of a tumult, but leaving -undisturbed the tranquillity of the surface beyond its narrow path. -Though between the walls of the canyon where we camped we could not see -the still surfaces, we sensed them. The storm was an incident. Mojave -took it and made a strong song. - -Wild Rose Canyon was the furthest point of our journey; from the old -shack the going home began. The sun rose brilliantly on the following -morning and deceived us into starting back to Emigrant Springs. As soon -as we had left the narrow canyon and could once more see the expanse of -the sky, we knew that the storm was by no means over. We even debated -returning to our palace, cracked stove, black hole, and all; but when -you have broken camp, found the horses, packed up, and started, a -two-hour-long process, you will risk almost anything rather than turn -back. There were compensations, too, even for the wind which shortly -came to life again and thrust its knife to our hearts. The sky was a -magnificent spectacle. It was not gray, nor overcast, nor brooding, but -full of torn-up, piled-up, tumultuous clouds, a fitting canopy for the -country beneath it. The top of Emigrant Pass is a big mesa surrounded -by all kinds of mountains from the broken, battered buttresses and -steep snow-peaks of the Panamints to smooth, bare, rounded hills -folded over each other and dimpled like upholstered sofas. In bursts -of sunshine the shadows of the clouds raced over them all, snatching -at each other and getting mixed up in the canyons. Sometimes a cloud -spilled out its contents and for a while obliterated one of them. -Toward noon the clouds made a concerted attack on the sun, calling up -new cohorts until at last they succeeded in covering him entirely and -keeping him covered. Then a great change fell upon Mojave. She became -forlorn, her bright colors faded into gray. The brush shivered in the -wind and made a cold, crackling sound. A few immense Joshua palms -scattered over the mesa waved their grotesque arms like monsters in -pain. The wind whistled through their stiff, spiky leaves. They were -in bloom with a heavy mass of waxy white flowers on the end of each -branch. The sun had polished the flowers, tipping every branch with -a silver ball; now they stuck up into the lead-colored sky, dull, -lead-colored things. - -All the familiar places that had been drenched with sunshine, -brilliant with color, almost as magical sometimes as the burning sands -themselves, now appeared in this sad, gray mood. After leaving the top -of the pass we crossed a large, high plateau known as the Harrisburg -Flat. On the way over to Wild Rose it had been still and hot, the -openings between the mountains had hinted at the illusions of Death -Valley behind them; now a cloud full of wind and snow rolled up out -of the narrow opening of Emigrant Canyon. Storms were all around us, -but until that moment we had hoped that we might escape. There was no -escape. The Harrisburg Flat became a white, whirling fury. The wind -that smote us was like a solid, moving wall. The cloud was not made of -snow, but of ice, a fine hail that cut our faces. It was so dense that -we could not see ten feet in front of the wagon. We had some difficulty -in making Molly and Bill face it, but it was necessary to go on. All -day the icy wind had been pressing upon us, now it was so cold that we -felt we could not withstand it long. Fortunately the sheltering walls -of the canyon were not far, but the half hour during which we struggled -toward them seemed an eternity. The Worrier shouted at the laboring -horses and for the first time when he knew that we could hear him, he -cursed. - -By the time we reached the canyon the hail had stopped but the terrible -wind continued. It seemed as though it would rip the bushes out of the -ground. In place of the ice, fine particles of sand assailed us--had -the wash not been thoroughly wet we would have had more of it. It must -have rained violently in the canyon, or else in the dusk we missed the -particular route among the rocks by which we had come up, for the way -was so washed out that the Worrier could hardly pilot the load. - -Every bit of energy we had was centered on reaching the ruined shack -at Emigrant Springs. When we were able to say anything at all we -speculated about how dirty it might be and whether or not there was a -stove in it. The dirt was a certainty, but nobody could remember about -the stove, as we had avoided the shack when we were there before. After -a freezing eternity we came around the last bend of the canyon. Home -was in sight, and our hope perished for smoke was coming out of the -chimney! Not only was there a stove, but there was a man snugly camping -beside it, an unknown man, a usurper, a robber! We were full of angry, -helpless indignation. - -"If it's Tom Adams," the Worrier snapped, "we'll throw him out." - -But it was not Tom Adams. It was another old-timer, an old man, who -wandered ceaselessly to and fro over the desert. He was a gentle soul, -but we were in no mood to appreciate that then. Of course he offered -to move out of the shack when he saw "ladies" coming on such a bitter -night, and equally of course we could not allow it. If Charlotte and -I chose to invade the wilderness we must take the chances of the -wilderness as other people did. Our pride was involved, but we had to -refuse very summarily, even rudely, before the old man would accept our -objection. Then he retired into the shack with hurt dignity, while we -pulled down some more of the corral fence to make a blazing fire. We -solaced ourselves with the belief that the outdoors was better than the -shack anyway, as it had been better than the black hole. In the course -of time we were warm again and managed to keep warm through the night. - -In the morning the innocent usurper sent us, via the Worrier, a pan of -hot biscuits, a most welcome and delicious gift. Charlotte and I called -on him later to thank him and make amends if we could. He entertained -us for two hours with the story of his travels, but he would not accept -our invitation to dinner, saying that he wasn't used to "dining with -ladies." We sincerely hope it was not a sarcasm. The question which the -possession of the shack raised is rather a difficult one. Was our pride -worth more than the true chivalry of a kindly soul? To us it was, to -him it was not. - -The wind continued to blow with violence for several days, though we -had no more rain nor snow. It is easy to see how the desert has been -torn to its rough harshness. That steady-blowing wind alone could wear -the mountains to their jagged outlines, crumbling the softer rock down -to fill the valleys. It picks up the sand and uses it to grind the -mountains smooth. It piles it against the cliffs to make new foothills -and hollows it out to make new canyons. It drives the rain against the -mountains to rush down, rolling rocks along the gorges and digging -the deep trenches across the mesas. Where no network of roots holds a -surface soil wind and rain work rapidly. On the homeward journey from -Wild Rose we understood the cut-up mesas and the gouged-out canyons -better. - -Down in the Mesquite Valley, where we took the sandy road along the -edge of the marsh instead of the rocky one by which we had come because -Bill had lost a shoe, we saw what the wind can do with sand. In the -afternoon we reached the foot of the mesa that leads from Emigrant -Canyon to the bottom of the valley and were at the beginning of "Old -Johnnie's" sand-dunes. It had been a sparkling day with a clear sky, -but the wind was still blowing. The Mesquite Valley was as hot as we -remembered it, but, after the ice-cloud on the Harrisburg Flat only -two days before, it seemed a delicious hotness. With the assurance of -seasoned travelers able to make a dry camp anywhere, Charlotte and I -insisted on stopping there for the night. Molly and Bill would take -four hours to make the nine miles of deep sand to Salt Creek, and we -always hated to make camp in the dark. The Worrier wanted to go on. -He said he had a hunch that we ought to, but he allowed himself to be -persuaded. We should have heeded that hunch of an old-timer. - -Hardly had we unpacked the wagon and made a fireplace before we noticed -that the wind was increasing. Little whirligigs of sand began to -run across the valley. Soon they were charging at us down the mesa. -First they came singly, then merged into a cloud of sand that rattled -against the pots and the wagon. Luckily for us the wind was blowing -from the mountains over the mesa where there was comparatively little -sand to pick up, for had it been coming across the dunes we would have -been buried alive. Of course it was impossible to cook; in a very few -minutes it was impossible to do anything but crouch in the lea of the -sand-heap around the roots of the biggest mesquite. The Worrier seemed -to shrink up and draw in his head like a turtle. He shouted something -at us, of which we could only hear the word "hunch." The air was full -of a rushing, hissing sound. - -Charlotte and I covered ourselves with the ponchos, drawing them over -our heads when the sand came hurtling through the top of the Mesquite. -Molly and Bill huddled close together about fifty feet away with their -backs to the blast, and much of the time the sand was so dense that we -could not see them. The Worrier also was lost in the yellow cloud. The -sand was very fine and, in spite of the ponchos, sifted into our hair -and ears and clothes. It gritted in our teeth so we felt as though we -were eating it. We could see it piling up around the next mesquite, -and could imagine it whirling through the valley over the tops of "Old -Johnnie's" dunes. - -Often the wind goes down at sunset, but that day the sun sank invisibly -and the fury increased. We felt a queer excitement not unmixed with -fear. Thus, only a hundred times worse, must the sand blow over the -vast Sahara Desert while the Arabs cover their heads, calling on Allah. -When the solid ground itself arises there is no help but Allah. - -After sunset the Worrier emerged again from the flying yellow mass. -His shirt was blown tight to him and the loose sleeves whipped in the -wind. He leaned against it bending forward. He shouted that we might -possibly get some shelter by continuing along the road toward Salt -Creek, where it winds further around the side of Sheep Mountain. He -advised us to move, because if the storm continued he could not keep -Molly and Bill. - -"Tie them up!" we yelled. - -"Can't. Go crazy." Then, as we did not move, his voice rose -peremptorily: - -"Come on! If it gets worse we can't go." - -We had disregarded his first hunch; now, if he had another, far be -it from us to raise difficulties, though we could hardly see how it -was possible to travel even then. Charlotte and I staggered up from -the mesquite and all three of us packed as speedily as we could. It -was a disorderly packing, as we could scarcely stand before the wind, -and were almost blinded by the sand. Molly and Bill were wild with -excitement. I remember vividly bracing myself against the wall of wind, -holding on to Molly, who objected to backing around to the wagon-pole, -unable to open my eyes and hardly able to breathe. - -We all piled into the wagon. The excited horses were willing to travel -with their backs to the wind. There was a track to follow, but its -edges were already rounding full of sand. If the storm should continue -long enough it would be smoothed out. - -The Worrier's hope was justified, for at the end of three or four miles -the wind seemed much less furious. We were among the dunes and found -a fairly quiet little gully full of deep sand as fine and soft as the -sand on a beach. Something in the set of the wind through the mountains -left this oasis of peace. We were even able to cook the long-delayed -dinner. We did it by moonlight, slowly and carefully handling things -and keeping them covered as much as possible, like having a picnic on a -windy seashore. - -The Worrier suggested that we climb to the top of the dune which -partially sheltered us, if we wanted to see what a sandstorm looked -like. We did so. From that vantage point of comparative calm we saw the -whole Mesquite Valley filled with a dense yellow cloud that completely -shut out the surrounding mountains, rising higher than they, swirling -at the top like smoke ascending into the dark night sky. - -In the morning we climbed the dune again and looked across over the -others. The blowing sand was less dense and we could see them all. "Old -Johnnie" had been right, they were a hundred feet high. Their shapes -were very beautiful, with knife-edge tops ridged in pure, clean lines -from which fringes of fine sand blew up like the wind-tossed manes of -white horses. The masses and outlines of the dunes suggested Egyptian -architecture; the pyramids and the crouching sphinx were there. Sand -dunes must have been familiar to the Egyptians dwelling beside the -Sahara. What is the huge sphinx, brooding and massive, gazing with -strong eyes across the emptiness, but an interpretation of the desert -carved in stone? - -We reached Salt Creek early and spent the rest of the day there. The -wind continued to blow, the sand still swirled off the dunes, and the -yellow dust-cloud still obscured the mountains; but we were in the -shelter of Tucki and the ground was so stony that we were not much -troubled by the migrating sand. Once more Charlotte and I climbed the -ridge from which we had watched the Worrier's remarkable hunting. The -whole big basin of Death Valley between its high walls of rock was -blurred with dust, clouds of sand with wind-frayed edges rose into the -sky, not a gleam of radiance showed through. The green and white snake -of Salt Creek coiled sullenly among the sulphur-colored hills. Only -the blue eye was bright, poisonous, unwinking. The fair water that was -too polluted for human drinking seemed to mock us. We waited for the -enchanter to come at sunset, but as the day merged into evening the -scene became inexpressibly dreadful. - -Suddenly Charlotte arose from the rock on which we were sitting. - -"Let us go," she whispered, and without further comment we hurried back -to camp and made the Worrier collect enough wood from the swamp for a -truly cheerful fire. - -The following day we traveled once more up the long, northern mesa -of Death Valley, but by a different route from that by which we had -descended. This way was shorter, avoiding the long pull across the -valley, though it was rockier, steeper, and cut by more islands of -hills to cross or go around than the other. In many places the road -vanished utterly, and only a "desert-rat" could have piloted a wagon -safely to its destination over that maze of ridges and gullies. - -The day was fine. At last the wind had died down and the dust-clouds -were slowly subsiding. Both Death Valley and the Mesquite Valley were -veiled in heavy haze, but the brightness of their changing color now -shimmered through. All day the white blaze of the sun was around -us and the silence, after a week of tumultuous wind, was a mighty -dreaming. It was the living silence which we had first known on the -night when we wandered away from Silver Lake, the silence in which the -earth moves. The mountains dwelt in it majestically. Mojave was again -making her fine gesture, unconscious of the discomforts and terrors of -small living things. Her pointing at the far-off shining is always a -conquest of grimness, as though sorrow were a stepping-stone to beauty. - -By the out-jutting cliff of Daylight Pass, from which we had first -beheld Death Valley, we made a long stop. Familiarity had only enhanced -its splendor. With different eyes we saw the shining floor, the sad -Funeral Mountains, the calm, white curves of the high Panamints. What -had been a picture was now a living experience. The rose and silver -shifting over the white valley-floor had new meaning. We knew that -floor, we knew the feel of it, and its ever-changing beauty was a -miracle. We were justified in the pilgrimage, for only by going thus -to the White Heart, making stones and brush and jagged rocks our -companions, depending on the springs to keep us alive and the roots of -the greasewood to warm us, could we have known what a miracle it was. -The words "terror" and "beauty" which we had spoken during the first -look down into the valley and had thought that we understood, had real -content now. We knew that they belonged together and that one covered -the other and changed its meaning. - - - - -XII - -_The End of the Adventure_ - - -It was April when we returned to Silver Lake. Spring was walking on -the desert. The sand and the stony mesas were decked with flowers. -Great patches of California-poppies bent on hairlike, invisible stems -before the wind, little floating golden cups. Blue lupins, like spires -of larkspur, glistened in the sun. A four-petaled, waxy flower with -a shining, satiny texture spread in masses on the sand. Daisies with -yellow centers and lavender petals clustered beside rocks. A little -plant like the beginnings of a wild rose tossed tiny pink balloons in -the air. The shoots of the purple verbena ran over the ground, sending -up little stems to hold its many-floretted crowns. Even the thorny -cactus bloomed with a crimson, poppy-shaped flower. - -When we went on excursions to the mountains the bayonet-leaves of the -yucca guarded tall spikes which bore aloft white, shining blossoms, -and the grotesque branches of the Joshua palms were tipped with -brightness like lighted candles. Everywhere high clumps of yellow -coreopsis rivaled the sun. Beyond the dry lake at the base of the -sand-ridge which had been so terrifying on our first drive through the -desert stood stately Easter lilies hung with great white bells. Easter -morning we went over there and gathered armfuls for our kind German -hosts. Their house and ours were abloom during our stay, for we could -no more resist gathering these amazing flowers than we could resist -picking up the many-colored stones. Every dish and bowl was full and -tin cans rescued from the dump were promoted to be vases. - -The gallant little flowers in such a stern environment! They were -touchingly lovely, blooming wherever they had the smallest chance and -looking trustingly at the sun. It was as though we had never seen -flowers before, never really seen them. - -Indeed, until we went on pilgrimage to the White Heart, we had never -seen the outdoors, never really seen it. How could we not see it when -the outdoors is always on the doorstep? We had thought we saw it, we -had talked about it, a place for pleasant dalliance when work inside -the walls was done, or a sort of glorified gymnasium to make the -blood race and the heart beat faster. The outdoors is the awe-full, -magnificent universe moving along, inexpressibly fearful and beautiful! - -And we might have seen it anywhere! The drama is always going on with -its terror and beauty. The gentlest countryside is a part of it. -Everywhere the grim touches hands with the fair, storm alternates with -calm, flowers grow out of death, and the fairness, the calm and the -flowers are the stronger. Poets and artists know this when they step -across their thresholds in the morning--whence their unreasonable joy -at being alive--but most of us have to be shaken awake before we can -see what is in front of our eyes. - -The desert shook us awake. We had come looking for mysteries and -"terrible fascinations" and found only the mystery of the old outdoors -and the terrible fascination of the old outdoors. Beauty pressing -around sorrow--the desert is simply a very forceful statement about -that. - -For the adventure with the outdoors is the adventure with beauty. And -when you have that adventure the jealous walls, however engrossing -their contents, and they may be very interesting and amusing and -serious and exciting, can never bully you again. They have doors and -windows in them and beauty is around them like a garment. You and I, -unaccountably split off from the vast drama and blessedly able to be -aware of it for a little while, shall we let the din and bother inside -the walls, the frantic lunging at the still face of time, raise such a -dust in our eyes that we cannot see? - - - "Beauty is truth, truth beauty--that is all - Ye know on earth and all ye need to know." - - -Every day while we rested at Silver Lake we looked the length of the -barren lake bed to the bright mirage at the base of the black mountain -that was no mountain at all, and northward over sandy emptiness to the -enchanted pathway leading behind the Avawatz. Fourteen of the still, -bright days of the desert were strung on the endless string before we -had to say good-by to our hosts and to the Worrier. - -Never can we forget any of the people whom we met during our adventure -with the outdoors, neither the few whom we have mentioned in this -inadequate telling of it, nor the many whom we have not. They were all -unfailingly kind. It was very hard to part from our guide, and nothing -reconciled us to it except his cheerful promise to act as Official -Worrier again. Our hostess invited us to come any time and stay as long -as we liked, an invitation of which we have gladly availed ourselves. - -We piled our baggage into the automobile, abandoned so long at Silver -Lake, and through a whole sunny day drove away from the White Heart. -The dim road led past sinister little craters that long ago spilled -ugly, black lava over the hills, through acres and acres of blue lupins -blown to waves like a sea, across two ranges of enchanted mountains and -down into and over the white Ivanpah Valley where the heavy sand made -the engine boil. Several times we left the car to walk on the savage, -torn-up hills made gentle by flowers. When the noise of the engine was -hushed the silence was full of the singing of birds. - -In the rose and orange of evening we reached Needles on the bank of the -red Colorado River, and came out of the wild and lonely place onto the -great highway that joins the Atlantic and the Pacific. The sand and -rock trail follows the steel road of the Santa Fé. Transcontinental -trains roar past and pennants flutter on automobiles from Maine and -Florida, Michigan and Texas, Oregon and California. Dust clouds roll -over the edge of Mojave as America goes by. Some travelers look at -her curiously, some look longingly, some shudder, some pass with the -window shades pulled down. All the time she is singing on her rosy -mountain-tops and in her deep, hot valleys where the blaze of the sun -is white. - - - - -APPENDIX - - -" ... That part of California which lies to the south and east of the -southern inosculation of the Coast Range and the Sierra comprises an -area of fully 50,000 sq.m. For the most part it is excessively dry -and barren. The Mohave Desert--embracing Kern, Los Angeles and San -Bernardino, as also a large part of San Diego, Imperial and Riverside -counties--belong to the 'Great Basin.' ... The Mohave Desert is about -2,000 ft. above the sea in general altitude. The southern part of -the Great Basin region is vaguely designated the Colorado desert. -In San Diego, Imperial and Riverside counties a number of creeks or -so called rivers, with beds that are normally dry, flow centrally -toward the desert of Salton Sink or 'Sea'; this is the lowest part of -a large area that is depressed below the level of the sea, at Salton -263 ft., and 287 ft. at the lowest point. In 1900 the Colorado River -(q.v.) was tapped south of the Mexican boundary for water wherewith -to irrigate land in the Imperial Valley along the Southern Pacific -Railway, adjoining Salton Sea. The river enlarged the Canal, and -finding a steeper gradient than that to its mouth, was diverted into -the Colorado Desert, flooding Salton Sea, and when the break in this -river was closed for the second time in February, 1907, though much of -its water still escaped through minor channels and by seepage, a lake -more than 400 sq.m. in area was left. A permanent 60 ft. masonry dam -was completed in July, 1907. - -" ... Death Valley surpasses for combined heat and aridity any -meteorological stations on earth where regular observations are taken, -although for extremes of heat it is exceeded by places in the Colorado -desert. The minimum daily temperature in summer is rarely below 70° -F. and often above 96° F. (in the shade), while the maximum may for -days in succession be as high as 120° F. A record of six months (1891) -showed an average daily relative humidity sometimes falls to 5. Yet -the surrounding country is not devoid of vegetation. The hills are -very fertile when irrigated, and the wet season develops a variety of -perennial herbs, shrubs and annuals." - -The Encyclopædia Britannica: "California." - -"It is often said that America has no real deserts. This is true in -the sense that there are no regions such as are found in Asia and -Africa where one can travel a hundred miles at a stretch and scarcely -see a sign of vegetation--nothing but barren gravel, graceful, wavy -sand dunes, hard, wind-swept clay, or still harder rock salt broken -into rough blocks with upturned edges. In the broader sense of the -term, however, America has an abundance of deserts--regions which -bear a thin cover of bushy vegetation but are too dry for agriculture -without irrigation.... In the United States the deserts lie almost -wholly between the Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountain ranges, which -keep out any moisture that might come from either the west or the -east. Beginning on the north with the sagebrush plateau of southern -Washington, the desert expands to a width of seven hundred miles -in the gray, sage-covered basins of Nevada and Utah. In southern -California and Arizona the sagebrush gives place to smaller forms like -the salt-bush, and the desert assumes a sterner aspect. Next comes -the cactus desert extending from Arizona far south into Mexico. One -of the notable features of the desert is the extreme heat of certain -portions. Close to the Nevada border in southern California, Death -Valley, 250 feet below sea-level, is the hottest place in America. -There alone among the American regions familiar to the writer does -one have the feeling of intense, overpowering aridity which prevails -so often in the deserts of Arabia and Central Asia. Some years ago a -Weather Bureau thermometer was installed in Death Valley at Furnace -Creek, where the only flowing water in more than a hundred miles -supports a depressing little ranch. There one or two white men, -helped by a few Indians, raise alfalfa, which they sell at exorbitant -prices to deluded prospectors searching for riches which they never -find. Though the terrible heat ruins the health of the white men in a -year or two, so that they have to move away, they have succeeded in -keeping a thermometer record for some years. No other properly exposed -out-of-door thermometer in the United States, or perhaps in the world, -is so familiar with a temperature of 100° F. or more. During the period -of not quite fifteen hundred days from the spring of 1911 to May, 1915, -a maximum temperature of 100° F. or more was reached in five hundred -and forty-eight days, or more than one-third of the time. On July 10, -1913, the mercury rose to 134° F. and touched the top of the tube. How -much higher it might have gone no one can tell. That day marks the -limit of temperature yet reached in this country according to official -records. In the summer of 1914 there was one night when the thermometer -dropped only to 114° F., having been 128° F. at noon. The branches of -a pepper-tree whose roots had been freshly watered wilted as a flower -wilts when broken from the stalk." - - - --The Chronicles of America.--Volume I. "The Red Man's Continent," - by Ellsworth Huntington. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The White Heart of Mojave, by Edna Brush Perkins - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE HEART OF MOJAVE *** - -***** This file should be named 60078-8.txt or 60078-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/7/60078/ - -Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The White Heart of Mojave - An Adventure with the Outdoors of the Desert - -Author: Edna Brush Perkins - -Release Date: August 9, 2019 [EBook #60078] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE HEART OF MOJAVE *** - - - - -Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="center"><a name="cover.jpg" id="cover.jpg"></a><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="The White Heart of Mojave" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><a name="frontis.jpg" id="frontis.jpg"></a><img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="A DESERT ROAD" /></div> - -<p class="bold">A DESERT ROAD</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<h1>THE WHITE HEART <br />OF MOJAVE</h1> - -<p class="bold"><span class="smcap">An Adventure with the Outdoors<br />of the Desert</span></p> - -<p class="bold2 space-above">EDNA BRUSH PERKINS</p> - -<p class="bold space-above"><span class="smcap">BONI and LIVERIGHT</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Publishers</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="smcap">New York</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>Copyright, 1922, by</i><br /><span class="smcap">Boni and Liveright, Inc.</span><br /> -——<br />PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">To<br />my friend<br /><br />CHARLOTTE HANNAHS JORDAN<br /><br /> -who shared this adventure<br />in the wind and sun<br />of big spaces</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<hr class="smler" /> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smaller">CHAPTER</span></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>I. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Feel of the Outdoors</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>II. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">How We Found Mojave</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>III. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The White Heart</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IV. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Outfit</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>V. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Entering Death Valley</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VI. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Strangest Farm in the World</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VII. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Burning Sands</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VIII. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Dry Camp</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IX. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Mountain Spring</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>X. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The High White Peaks</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XI. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Snowstorm and Sandstorm</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XII. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The End of the Adventure</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Appendix</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table summary="ILLUSTRATIONS"> - <tr> - <td class="left">A Desert Road</td> - <td><a href="#frontis.jpg"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">Facing Page</span></span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">Some Half-wild Burros Around Silver Lake</td> - <td><a href="#i054.jpg">54</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">Beatty, at the Base of a Big Red Mountain</td> - <td><a href="#i080.jpg">80</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">The Outfit</td> - <td><a href="#i090.jpg">90</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">The Camp Behind the Barn</td> - <td><a href="#i102.jpg">102</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">The Alkali Bottom of Death Valley</td> - <td><a href="#i130.jpg">130</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">The Desert</td> - <td><a href="#i150.jpg">150</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="left">A Pack-Train Crossing a Dry Lake</td> - <td><a href="#i166.jpg">166</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>I</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Feel of the Outdoors</i></span></h2> - -<p>Beyond the walls and solid roofs of houses is the outdoors. It -is always on the doorstep. The sky, serene, or piled with white, -slow-moving clouds, or full of wind and purple storm, is always -overhead. But walls have an engrossing quality. If there are many of -them they assert themselves and domineer. They insist on the unique -importance of the contents of walls and would have you believe that -the spaces above them, the slow procession of the seasons and the -alternations of sunshine and rain, are accessories, pleasant or -unpleasant, of walls,—indeed that they were made, and a bungling job, -too, and to be disregarded as a bungling job should be, solely that -walls might exist.</p> - -<p>Perhaps your lawyer or your dentist has his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> office on the nineteenth -floor of a modern skyscraper. While you wait for his ministrations you -look out of his big window. Below you the roofs of the city spread for -miles to blue hills or the bright sea. The smoke of tall chimneys rolls -into the sky that fills all the space between you and the horizon and -the sun; the smoke of hustling prosperity fans out, and floats, and -mixes with the clouds, and becomes at last part of a majestic movement -of something other than either smoke or clouds. Suddenly the roofs that -covered only tables and chairs and power machines cover romance, a -million romances rise and mingle like the smoke of the tall chimneys. -They mix with the romance of the clouds and the hills. You are happy. -Nothing is changed around you, but you are happy. You only know that -the sun did it, and those far-off hills. When the man you are waiting -for comes in you congratulate him on his fine view. Then the jealous -walls assert themselves again; they want you to forget as soon as -possible.</p> - -<p>But you never quite forget. You visit the woods or the mountains or the -sea in your <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>vacation. You loaf along trout streams, or in red autumn -woods with a gun in your hands for an excuse, or chase golf balls over -green hills, or sail on the bay and get becalmed and do not care. For -the pleasure of living outdoors you are willing to have your eyes smart -from the smoke of the camp fire, and to be wet and cold, and to fight -mosquitoes and flies. You like the feel of it, and you wait for that -sudden sense of romance everywhere which is the touch of something -big and simple and beautiful. It is always beyond the walls, that -something, but most of us have been bullied by them so much that we -have to go far away to find it; then we can bring it home and remember.</p> - -<p>Charlotte and I knew the outdoors a little. Though we were middle-aged, -mothers of families and deeply involved in the historic struggle for -the vote, we sometimes looked at the sky. In our remote youth we had -had a few brief experiences of the mountains and the woods; I had some -not altogether contemptible peaks to my credit and she had canoed in -the Canadian wilds, so when we decided that a vacation was due us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> -we chose the outdoors. Our labors had been arduous, divided as they -were between the clamorings of the young and our militant mission -to free the world; we were thoroughly habituated to walls and set -a high value on their contents. It was our habit to tell large and -assorted audiences that freedom consists in casting a ballot at regular -intervals and taking your rightful place in a great democracy; nor -did it seem anomalous, as perhaps it should have, that our chiefest -desire was to escape from every manifestation of democracy in the -solitariness of some wild and lonely place far from city halls, -smokestacks, national organizations, and streets of little houses all -alike. For some time the desire had been cutting through our work -with an edge of restlessness. We called it "Need for a Vacation," not -knowing that every desire to withdraw from the crowd is a personal -assertion and a protest against the struggle and worry, the bluff and -banality and everlasting tail-chasing which goes on inside the walls of -the stateliest statehouse and the two-room suite with bath. Our real -craving was not for a play hour, but for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> wild and lonely place and -a different kind of freedom from that about which we had been preaching.</p> - -<p>Our choice of the wild and lonely place was circumscribed by the fact -that we had been offered the use of an automobile from Los Angeles. -The automobile was a much appreciated gift, but we regretted that Los -Angeles had to be the starting point because southern California is -the blissful goal of the tired east and the tired east was what we -needed to escape from. We left home without plans—too many plans in -vacation are millstones hung around your neck—sure only that such -places as Santa Barbara, Redlands, Riverside, and San Diego would be -for us nothing more than points on the way to somewhere else. An atlas -showed a great empty space just east of the Sierra Nevada Range and -the San Bernadino Mountains vaguely designated as the Mojave Desert. -It was surprising to find the greater part of southern California, -the much-advertised home of the biggest fruit and flowers in the -world, included in it. A few criss-cross lines indicated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> mountains; -north of the Santa Fé Railroad, which crosses the Mojave on the -way to the coast, the words Death Valley were printed between two -groups of them; in the south a big white space similarly surrounded -was the Imperial Valley; the names of a few towns sprangled out -from the railroad—nothing else. Was the desert just a white space -like that? The word had a mixed connotation, it suggested monotony, -sterility, death—and also big open spaces, gold and blue sunsets, and -fascination. We recollected that some author had written about the -"terrible fascination" of the desert. The white blank on the map looked -very wild and lonely. We went to Los Angeles on the Santa Fé in order -to see what it might contain.</p> - -<p>We looked at it. After leaving the high plateau of northern Arizona -the railroad crosses the Colorado River and enters the lowlands of the -Mojave Desert. That is the first glimpse the tourist has of California, -but he hardly realizes that it is California, for it is so different -from the pictures on the time-tables and hotel folders. At Needles -he usually pulls down the window<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> shades against the too-hot sun and -forgets the dust and heat in the pages of the last best seller, or -else he goes out on the California Limited which spares its passengers -the dusty horrors of the desert by crossing the Mojave at night. His -California, and ours when we left Chicago, consists of the charming -bungalows with date palms in their dooryards and yellow roses climbing -their porches, the square orange groves all brushed and combed for -dress parade, the picturesque missions, and the white towns with -streets shaded by feathery pepper trees west of the backbone of the -Sierras, not the hundreds of miles of desolation east of them. Hour -after hour we pounded through it in a hot monotony of yellow dust. -Hour after hour great sweeps of blue-green brush led off to mountains -blue and red against the sky. We passed black lava beds, and strange -shining flats of baked clay, and clifflike rocks. It was very vast. The -railroad seemed a tiny thread of life through an endless solitude. The -train stopped at forlorn stations consisting of a few buildings stark -on the coarse, gravelly sand. Sometimes a gang of swarthy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> Mexicans -stopped work on the track to watch us go by, sometimes a house stood -alone in the brush, sometimes a lonely automobile crawled along the -highway beside the railroad. It was empty and vast, and over it all the -sun poured a white flood.</p> - -<p>In spite of the dust and glare a fascinated curiosity kept us looking -out of the dirty windows all day. Occasionally dim wagon tracks led -toward the mountains, some of which were high and set on wide, solid -foundations. They were immovable, old, old mountains. Shadows cut -sharply into the smooth brightness of their sides. Their colors changed -and the sand ran between them like beckoning roads. "Come," it seemed -to say, "and find what is hidden here." Once we saw a man with three -burros loaded with cooking utensils and bedding. He was traveling -across country through the sagebrush. Where could he be going?</p> - -<p>Unconsciously I asked the question aloud and Charlotte answered:</p> - -<p>"He is a prospector looking for a gold mine. Don't you see his pick on -the second mule?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Please say burro," I pleaded. "It gives a better atmosphere. Besides -it is not a mule, it's an ass."</p> - -<p>"Those are the Old Dad Mountains over there, those big rosy ones. -That's where he is going, up the long path of sand. He will camp there. -Perhaps he is not a prospector, he may have a mine already."</p> - -<p>"Of course he has one," I assented. "All the prospectors are dead. They -died of thirst in Death Valley."</p> - -<p>"My prospector did not. He is going to his mine. He tries to work it -himself but it does not pay very well because he can't get enough out, -and he can't sell it because too many booms have failed, and nobody -will invest. So he goes up and down in the sun and has a good time."</p> - -<p>Perhaps you could have a good time going up and down in the sun through -those empty spaces that stretched so endlessly on either side of the -track. I wondered if we might not go to the Imperial Valley and see -that strange thing, the new Salton Sea, a lake in the desert; but -Charlotte objected because that part of the white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> blank was partially -under irrigation, too near the coast, and would be too civilized and -full of ranches. I doubted much if the tired east went there for I -thought that it was the desert like this, only hotter, worse. She -declared that the tired east went everywhere that it could get to. -Evidently it could not reach Mojave, for certainly it was not rushing -around in automobiles trying to be happy, nor pouring the savings -for its short holiday into the money bags of conscienceless hotel -companies. Mojave was indeed a blank, a wild and lonely place.</p> - -<p>"I think," Charlotte remarked after a time, "that we will go to Death -Valley."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because I am tired of looking at the Twenty Mule Team Borax boxes and -wondering what kind of place they came from that could have a name like -that."</p> - -<p>I thought it was not a sufficient reason for me to risk my life.</p> - -<p>"I think," she said, "that it is the wildest and loneliest place of -all. Nobody goes there except your prospectors, and you say they are -all dead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> Think of the gold and jewels they did not find lying around -everywhere. Think of the hotness and brightness. It must be an awful, -lonesome, sparkling place."</p> - -<p>It must be! Those reasons appealed to me, but the idea was a bit -upsetting considering that we had started for a happy-go-lucky -vacation, a little like playing with a kitten and having it turn into -a tiger. Mojave was like a tiger, terrible and fascinating. From -the windows of the Santa Fé train it was a savage, ruthless-looking -country, naked in the sun. It repelled us and held us, we could not -keep our eyes off it. They ached from straining to pierce the distances -where the beckoning roads were lost in brightness. Mountains and -valleys full of outdoors, nothing but outdoors! What was the feel of -being alone in the sagebrush? How free the sweep of the wind must be, -how hot the sun, how immense the deep night sky!</p> - -<p>Thus the wild and lonely place was selected. A strange outdoors for a -holiday truly, and we had an adventure with it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>II</span> <span class="smaller"><i>How We Found Mojave</i></span></h2> - -<p>When the automobile was delivered into our hands at Los Angeles we -wanted to turn around immediately and drive back through the Cajon Pass -into the Mojave Desert, but our inquiries about directions met with -discouragement on every side. It seemed to be unheard of for two women -to attempt such a thing; the distances between the towns where we could -get accommodations were too great and the roads were apt to have long -stretches of sand where we would get stuck. Our friends drew a dismal -picture of us sitting out in the sagebrush beside a disabled car and -slowly starving to death.</p> - -<p>"You could not fix it," they said, "and what would you do?"</p> - -<p>We suggested that we might wait until somebody came along.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> - -<p>They assured us that nobody ever came along.</p> - -<p>We went to the Automobile Club; they received us with enthusiasm and -told us about all the places California is proud of and how to get to -them, but California seems not to be proud of the desert, for when we -mentioned it our advisers became gloomy. They seemed to have no very -definite information and were sure we would not like it. In the face -of so much discouragement we hardly dared to ask about Death Valley -and when we did, hesitatingly, the question was ignored. We simply -could not get there, nobody ever went. The Imperial Valley seemed to be -almost as bad. One of the maps they gave us showed a main highway from -San Diego over into it, but they said that it was only a gravel road, -mountainous and steep, and that we had better stick to the main routes. -Evidently they had no faith in our skill as drivers, nor belief in our -purpose, so we soon gathered up the maps and innumerable folders about -resort hotels, thanked them, and went our way.</p> - -<p>The collection contained no map of the Mojave. She had called us, -but not loudly enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> as yet, and now that we no longer saw her we -remembered her terribleness more than her fascination. We would content -ourselves with the Imperial Valley, at least for a beginning; but -we said nothing more about it and started down the coast with every -appearance of having a ladylike programme. In our then mood we hated -the coast and were guilty of speeding along the fine macadam between -Los Angeles and San Diego in our eagerness to leave it. We turned -due east from the green little city on the shores of its beautiful -harbor and headed for the desert. Our unsatisfactory interview at -the Automobile Club had led us to believe that the Imperial Valley, -irrigated or not, was a wild and lonely place, the desert itself, for -it seemed to be surrounded by difficulties.</p> - -<p>The road from San Diego proved to be good, presenting no hindrances -not easily surmounted, and as we drove along it we told each other -what we thought about the Automobile Club. Gradually the character of -the country changed. A little of the prickly, spiky desert vegetation -with which we were to become so familiar appeared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> The round hills -gave way to piles of bare, colored rock, the soil became a gravelly -sand on which scrub oak and manzanita grew. The houses became fewer. In -one place we had to detour and found deep, soft sand, nothing to the -sand of a real desert road, but we did not know that then. The change -was subtle, yet we felt it. The country took on the harshness that had -repelled us from the train-windows. Being alone in it was at first a -little dreadful.</p> - -<p>After a day or so of leisurely driving we came suddenly to the edge -of the valley. The ground fell before us, cut into rough canyons and -foothills, two thousand feet to a blue depth. It was like a great hole -full of blue mist, surrounded by red and chocolate-colored mountains. -Nothing was clear down there though the mountains were sharply defined -and had indigo shadows on them. The valley was a pure, light blue, -of the quality of the sky, as though the sky reached down into it. -We lingered a long time eating our lunch on a jagged rock, trying to -pierce the blue veils and see the Salton Sea, a big salt lake which we -knew was there with the tracks of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> Southern Pacific beside it, the -sand dunes we had heard of, and the town of El Centro where we were -to spend the night. We could see nothing of them, only a phantasy of -changing color, an unreality.</p> - -<p>We found the whole desert full of drama, but the Imperial Valley is -perhaps the most dramatic spot of all, except Death Valley, that other -deep hole below sea-level which is so much more remote and so utterly -lonely. The great basin of the Imperial Valley was once a part of the -ocean until the gradual silting up of its narrow opening separated it -from the Gulf of California. The bottom of the valley then became an -inland sea which slowly evaporated under the hot sun, leaving as it -receded a thick deposit of salt on the sand. At last the valley was -dry, a deep glistening bowl between chocolate-colored mountains, a -white desolation undisturbed by man or beast, covered with silence. For -ages it lay thus while morning and evening painted the hills.</p> - -<p>Then the railroad came with its thread of life, connecting Yuma with -San Bernadino and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> Los Angeles. Soon a salt-works was built in what had -once been the bottom of the ocean, and later an irrigation-system for -the southern end of the valley from the Colorado River which flows just -east of the Chocolate Mountains. The white desolation was made to bloom -and, in spite of the intense heat of summer, has become one of the -richest farming districts of California. But the drama is still going -on. A few years ago the untamed Colorado River that had fought its way -through the Grand Canyon and come two hundred miles across the desert -turned wild and flooded into the Imperial Valley. It was shut out -again, but it left the new Salton Sea in the old ocean bed. Its yellow -waves now break near the irrigated area; it drowned the salt works. -The Salton Sea is slowly vanishing as its predecessor did; in a little -while the valley will again be dry and white and glistening.</p> - -<p>The road descended before us in jigjags to the blue depth. It was a -good road but narrow in places, dropping sheer at the edge, and steep. -Very carefully we drove down, emerging at last through a narrow, rough -canyon onto the sandy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> floor of the valley. A macadam road led like -a shining band through the sagebrush. This evidence of civilization -was strange in the surrounding wilderness, for as yet we could see no -sign of life in the valley. The sand came up to the edge of the road -and was blown into dunes between us and the new sea. There was nothing -but sunshine and sagebrush and flowers. The flowers amazed us, for -why should they grow there? There was a yellow kind that outshone our -perennial garden coreopsis, and numberless little flowers pressed close -to the sand with spread-out velvet, or shining, or crinkled blue or -frosted leaves. We had to get out of the car to see them, and whenever -we got out we felt the heat blaze around us. We were below sea-level -and even in February it was very hot. The light was almost blinding, -and a silver heat-shimmer swam between us and the mountain-walls. The -mountains seemed to be of many colors which changed as the afternoon -advanced. The sun set in a more vivid purple and gold than we had ever -seen.</p> - -<p>We lingered so long looking at the strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> plants and flowers that -twilight found us still alone with the desert. Only the white macadam -band promised any end to it. Realizing that night was coming and we had -an unknown number of miles before us we stepped on the accelerator with -more energy than wisdom. The result was a loud explosion of one of the -brand-new rear tires. We found the tire so hot that we had to wait for -it to cool before we could change it, and the road hot to touch though -the sun had been down for some time. We called ourselves all manner of -names for being such fools as to try to drive fast on that sizzling -surface. It was the first practical lesson about getting along on the -desert.</p> - -<p>Soon after that we came to an irrigation-ditch. Instantly everything -was changed and we were in a farming country. El Centro is a hustling -town with a modern four-story hotel. We wished it were not four stories -when we learned that part of it had recently been shaken down by an -earthquake, and especially when we experienced three small shocks -during that night. The earthquakes themselves did not seem surprising,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> -they were a fitting part of the weird experiences of the day. We felt -as though we had been very near to the elemental forces of nature; we -had been with the bare earth and volcanic rocks and strange plants that -flourish in dryness, and felt the unmitigated beat of the sun. It was -like seeing the great drama of nature unveiled, fierce and beautiful.</p> - -<p>We stayed several days in the Imperial Valley, visiting the Salton -Sea, figuring out the beach lines of that other more ancient sea, and -walking among the sand dunes. We found that we always went away from -the farms into the desert. She was calling us loudly enough now. We -heard her and were determined to find more of her. When we tried to -go on, however, we met with the same universal discouragement. In El -Centro they said that the road out through Yuma to the desert east -of the Chocolate Mountains was very bad, and the road up the Valley -through Palm Springs and Banning no road at all. Besides, there was -no water anywhere. Later we found out that none of these things were -exactly true, but it probably seemed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> best advice to give two lone -women with no experience of desert roads. Our appearance must have been -against us. Certainly it was no lack of persistence, for we interviewed -everybody, hotel-managers, ranchers, druggists and garage-men. They all -looked us over and gave the same advice. As far as we could learn, the -Mojave Desert which we tried to go to in the first place was where we -should be. We suspect now that they wanted to get rid of us.</p> - -<p>We returned to Los Angeles and attacked the Automobile Club again. -As before we had to listen to arguments about the roads and the sand -and the distances and the accommodations, but this time we listened -unmoved. With a defiant feeling very reminiscent of youth we purchased -a shovel and two big canteens to fasten on the running-board because -we had observed that all the cars in the Imperial Valley were thus -equipped. These implements gave us a feeling of preparedness. We also -bought some blankets and food lest we should break down on a lonely -road. We knew what we wanted now and the Automobile Club found a map. -It was an <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>inspiring map covered with a network of black roads and -many towns in bold type. We studied it and found that we could never -get more than thirty miles from somewhere, and we thought we could -walk that if we had to. For some reason no one told us to beware of -abandoned towns and abandoned roads, perhaps they did not know about -them. One of the black lines led straight toward Death Valley. Once -more we said nothing about our destination, and started.</p> - -<p>A good road led through the Cajon Pass to Victorville and thence over -sand dotted with groves of Joshua palms to Barstow. A Joshua palm is -a grotesque tree-yucca which appears wherever the mesas of the Mojave -rise to an elevation of a few thousand feet. It becomes twenty feet -high in some places and its ungainly arms stick up into the sky. It has -long, dark green, pointed leaves ending in sharp thorns like the yucca. -It attains to great age and the dead branches, split off from the trunk -or lying on the ground, look as though they were covered with matted -gray hair. Charlotte and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> never liked them much, they seemed like -monsters masquerading as trees; but in that first encounter, when we -drove through them mile after mile in a desolation broken only by the -narrow ribbon of the gravel road, they were distinctly unpleasant and -we were glad when we left them behind at Barstow.</p> - -<p>There seemed to be a choice of routes from that town so we had an -ice cream soda and interviewed the druggist, having discovered that -druggists are among the most helpful of citizens. He proved to be an -enthusiast about the desert, the first we had met, and we warmed to -him. He brought out an album full of kodak-pictures of the Devil's -Playground where the sand-dunes roll along before the wind. He grew -almost poetic about them, but when we spread out the map and showed -him the proposed route to Death Valley he grew grave. He said the road -was so seldom traveled that in places it was obliterated. We would -surely get lost. Silver Lake, the next town on it, was eighty-seven -miles away. There was one ranch on the road but he was not sure any one -was living there. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> not even sure we could get accommodations -at Silver Lake. Yes, it was a wonderful country; you went over five -mountain ridges. He forgot himself and began to describe it glowingly -when a tall man who was looking at the magazines interposed with: -"Surely, you would not send the ladies that way!"</p> - -<p>The two words "get lost" were what deterred us. We felt we could cope -with most calamities, but already, coming through the Joshua palms, we -had sensed the size and emptiness of Mojave. At least until we were a -little better acquainted with the strange land where even the plants -seemed weird, we needed the reassurance of a very definite ribbon of -road ahead. We decided to go to Randsburg, then to Ballarat and try to -get into Death Valley from there. The druggist doubted if we could get -into the valley at all. We began to suspect that it might be difficult.</p> - -<p>Randsburg, Atolia and Johannesburg are mining towns close together -about forty miles north of Barstow. The road there was no such highway -as we had been traveling upon; often<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> it was only two ruts among the -sagebrush, but it was well enough marked to follow easily. Great -sloping mesas spread for miles on either side of the track, rising -to rocky crowns. All the big, open, gradually ascending sweeps are -called mesas on the Mojave, though they are in no sense table-lands -like the true mesas of New Mexico and Arizona. The groves of Joshua -palms had disappeared; we were lower down now where only greasewood and -sagebrush grew. The unscientific like us, who accept the word "mesa," -lump together all the varieties of low prickly brush as sagebrush. -The little bushes grew several feet apart on the white, gravelly -ground, each little bush by itself. They smoothed out in the distance -like a carpet woven of all shades of blue and green. The occasional -greasewood, a graceful shrub covered with small dark green leaves, -waved in the wind. Unobstructed by trees the mesa seemed endless. We -stopped the car to feel the silence that enveloped it. The place was -vast and empty as the stretches we had seen from the railroad, and now -we found how still they all had been. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> strong, fresh wind pressed -steadily against us like a wind at sea.</p> - -<p>Atolia was the first town, golden in the setting sun, on the shoulder -of a stern, red mountain. Before it a wide valley fell away in whose -bottom gleamed the white floor of a dry lake. All the mountain tops -were on fire. The three towns were very close together, separated by -the shoulder of the red mountain. Randsburg was the largest, whose one -street was a steep hill. It had a score of buildings and two or three -stores. Johannesburg, just over the crest, had six buildings, among -them an adobe hotel and a large garage. All three towns ornamented -the map with big black letters. We thought we were approaching cities -and found instead little wooden houses set on the sand with the great -simplicity of the desert at their doors.</p> - -<p>According to that map Death Valley was now not more than sixty -miles away. We thoroughly startled the inhabitants of Johannesburg, -familiarly known as Joburg, by the announcement that we were going -there. We did not yet know how startling an announcement it was; but -these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> real dwellers on the desert, intimately acquainted with her -difficulties, met our ignorance in a more helpful spirit than any of -our other advisers had, even the agreeable druggist. Hardly any one -ever goes to places like Joburg just for the pleasure of going, and -they seemed pleased that we had come. They described the Panamint -Mountains which shut off the valley from that side with a barrier -nearly 12,000 feet high. There are only two passes, the Wingate Pass -through which the borax used to be hauled and which is now blocked -with fallen rocks, and a pass up by Ballarat. They had not heard of -any cars going in for some time. Unhappily Ballarat had been abandoned -for several years and we could not stay there unless we could find the -Indians, and no one knew where they were. None of the Joburgians whom -we first interviewed had ever been to Death Valley.</p> - -<p>It was discouraging, but we persevered until we found a real old-timer. -He was known as Shady Myrick. We never discovered his Christian name -though he was a famous desert character. Wherever we went afterward -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>everyone knew Shady. Evidently the name was not descriptive for all -agreed on his honesty and goodness. He was an old man, rather deaf, -with clear, very straightforward-gazing eyes. Most of his life had -been spent on the Mojave as a prospector and miner, and much of it -in Death Valley itself. The desert held him for her own as she does -all old-timers. He was under the "terrible fascination." As soon as -we explained that we had come for no other purpose than to visit his -beloved land he was eagerly interested and described the wonders of -Death Valley, its beautiful high mountains, its shining white floor, -its hot brightness, its stillness, and the flowers that sometimes deck -it in the spring.</p> - -<p>"If you go there," he said, "you will see something that you'll never -see anywhere else in the world."</p> - -<p>He had gem mines in the Panamints and was in the habit of going off -with his mule-team for months at a time. He even said that he would -take us to the valley himself were he a younger man. We assured him -that we would go with him gladly. We urged him—you had only to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> look -into his eyes to trust him—promising to do all the work if he would -furnish the wagon and be the guide, innocently unaware of the absurdity -of such a proposal in the burning heat of Death Valley; but he only -smiled gently, and said that he was too old.</p> - -<p>Silver Lake turned out to be the place for us to go after all. He -described how we could drive straight on from Joburg, a hundred and -sixteen miles. There was a sort of a road all the way. He drew a map on -the sand and said that we could not possibly miss it for a truck had -come over six weeks before and we could follow its tracks.</p> - -<p>"It ain't blowed much, or rained since," he remarked.</p> - -<p>"But suppose we should get lost, what would we do?"</p> - -<p>"Why should you get lost? Anyway, you could turn around and come back."</p> - -<p>We looked at each other doubtfully. In the far-spreading silence around -Joburg the idea of getting lost was more dreadful than it had been at -Barstow. There was not even a ranch in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> whole hundred and sixteen -miles. We hesitated.</p> - -<p>"You are well and strong, ain't you?" he asked. "You can take care of -yourselves as well as anybody. Why can't you go?"</p> - -<p>"You have lived in this country so long, Mr. Myrick," I tried to -explain, "you do not understand how strange it is to a newcomer. How -would we recognize those mountains you speak of when we do not even -know how the desert-mountains look? How could we find the spring where -you say we might camp when we have never seen one like it?"</p> - -<p>"You can do it," he insisted, "that's how you learn."</p> - -<p>"And there is the silence, Mr. Myrick," I went on, hating to have him -scorn us for cowards, "and the big emptiness."</p> - -<p>He understood that and his face grew kind.</p> - -<p>"You get used to it," he said gently.</p> - -<p>It was refreshing to meet a man who looked into your feminine eyes and -said: "You can do it." It made us feel that we had to do it. We spent a -whole day on a hilltop near Joburg looking longingly over the sinister, -beautiful <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>mountains and trying to get up our courage. Happily we -were spared the decision. Two young miners at Atolia sent word that -they were going over to Silver Lake in a few days and would be glad -to have us follow them. Perhaps it was Shady's doing. We accepted the -invitation with gratitude.</p> - -<p>We loafed around Joburg during the intervening days. The stern, red -mountains were full of mine-holes, but most of the mines were not -being worked and the three towns were dead. Everywhere on the Mojave -Desert mining activity had fallen off markedly after the beginning of -the war. The population of the three towns had dwindled away and the -few people who remained did so because they still had faith in the red -mountain and hoped that the place might boom again. The big hotel at -Joburg, which was attractively built around a court and which could -accommodate twenty to thirty guests, was empty save for us. We looked -at and admired innumerable specimens of ore. They were everywhere, in -the hotel-office, in the general store, in the windows of the houses. -Everyone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> had some shining bit of the earth which he treasured. We -bought some of Shady Myrick's cut stones and received presents of gold -ore and fine pieces of bloodstone and jasper in the rough.</p> - -<p>We enlisted the services of the garage to get our car in the best -possible condition for the journey across the uncharted desert. The -general opinion held that it was too heavy for such traveling; the next -time we should bring a Ford. When the two young men appeared early on -the appointed morning with a light Ford truck dismantled of everything -except the essential machinery they also looked over our big, red car -questioningly. They feared we would get stuck in the sand and jammed on -rocks; but generously admitted themselves in the wrong when, later in -the day, they stuck and we did not. Of course they had the advantage, -for we would probably have remained where we stopped, while the four -of us were able to lift and push the little truck out of its troubles. -It was the most disreputable-looking car we had ever encountered even -among Fords, a moving junk-pile loaded with miscellaneous shabby -baggage,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> tools, and half-worn-out extra tires. Our new friends matched -it in appearance. They looked as tough as the Wild West story-tellers -would have us believe that most miners are. We have found out that -most miners are not, though we hate to shatter that dear myth of the -movies. If you were to meet on any civilized road the outfit which we -followed that day from seven o'clock in the morning until dark you -would instantly take to the ditch and give it the right of way.</p> - -<p>The drive was wild and fearful and wonderful. The bandits led us over -and around mountains, down washes and across the beds of dry lakes. -Often there was no sign of a road, at least no sign that was apparent -to us. On the desert you must travel one of two ways, either along the -water-courses or across them. It is strange to find a country dying of -thirst cut into a rough chaos by water-channels. Rain on the Mojave is -a cloud-burst. The water rushes down from the rocky heights across the -long, sloping mesas, digging innumerable trenches, until it reaches a -main stream-bed leading to the lowest point in the valley. When you go -in the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> direction as the water you usually follow up or down the -dry stream-beds, or washes, but when you cross the watershed you must -crawl as best you can over the parallel trenches which are sometimes -small and close together like chuck-holes in a bad country road, and -sometimes wide and deep. One of the uses of a shovel, which we found -out on that day, is to cut down the banks of washes that are too high -and steep for a car to cross.</p> - -<p>Most of the mountains of the Mojave are separate masses rather than -continuous ranges. Between them the mesas curve, sometimes falling -into deep valleys. Instead of foothills, long gradual slopes always -lead up to the rock battlements, the result of the wearing down of -countless ages, the wide foundations that give the ancient mountains an -appearance of great repose. They are solid and everlasting. The valleys -are like great bowls curving up gently to sudden, perpendicular sides. -The mesas always look smooth, beautiful sweeps that completely satisfy -the eye. It rests itself upon them.</p> - -<p>When the valleys are deep they usually <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>contain a dry lake, baked mud -of a white, yellow, or brownish-purple color. Crossing dry lakes is a -curious experience. They never look very wide, but are often several -miles across. You need a whole new adjustment of ideas of distance on -the desert for the air is so clear that distant objects look stark and -near. What you judge to be half a mile usually turns out to be five, -and four miles is certainly eighteen. We were always deceived about -distances until we trained ourselves a little by picking out some point -ahead, guessing how far it was, and measuring it with the cyclometer. -Dry lakes are not only deceitful about their size, but also about their -nature. Along the edges is a strange glistening effect as though water -were standing under the shore. Often the rocks and bushes are reflected -in it upside down, and if the lake is large enough the illusion of -water is perfect. You drive across with a queer effect of standing -still, for there is not so much as a stone to mark your progress. It is -like being in a boat on an actual lake. The sunlight is very dazzling -on the white and yellow expanses and the heat-shimmer makes the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> ground -seem to heave. Sometimes you have the illusion of going steeply up-hill.</p> - -<p>Nothing grows in the lake-beds, but the mesas are covered with the -usual desert-growths, sagebrush, greasewood and many varieties of -cacti. A view from one of the ridges is a look into a magical country. -Only enchantment could produce the pale, lovely colors that lie -along the mountains and the endless variety of blues and pinks and -sage-greens which flow over the wide, sagebrush-covered mesas. The dry -lake far down in the bottom of the valley shines. The illusion of water -at its further edges is a glistening brightness. It is hard to tell -where the baked mud ends and the sand begins. It is hard to tell what -are the real colors and shapes of things. If you can linger a while -they change. The valley never loses its immense repose, but it changes -its colors as though they were garments, and it changes the relations -of things to each other. That violet crag looks very big and important -while you are toiling up the mesa, but just as you are crossing the -ridge and look back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> for the last time you see that the wine-red hill -beside it is really much larger.</p> - -<p>For a short distance we followed the old trail over which the -borax used to be hauled from Death Valley. The familiar name, -"Twenty-Mule-Team Borax," was touched with romance. Out of the bottom -of that baffling, inaccessible valley, through a pass by the high -Panamint Mountains where it is sixty miles between the water-holes, -and over this weird country unlike any country we had dreamed existed -in the world, this prosaic commodity was hauled by strings of laboring -mules. They tugged through the sand day after day and their drivers -made camp-fires under the stars. We can never see that name now on a -package of kitchen-borax, humbly standing on the shelf, without going -again in imagination over those two old, lonely ruts.</p> - -<p>We lunched at a spring under a cottonwood tree—Two Springs is its -name, the only water on the route. Some one once tried to graze cattle -there, and the water came through a wooden trough into a cement basin. -During lunch the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> bandits entertained us with tales of the desert. It -has its own ethics. You are justified in killing a man who robs your -camp or steals your burros. Out there at Two Springs we realized that -it was right. If you lose your food or your pack-animal you may well -lose your life. Many a prospector has never returned. The elder of the -bandits remarked thoughtfully that he was glad he had never had to kill -a man. He knew a fellow who had and who was hounded to death by the -memory. He was justified by desert-ethics, but he had no peace in his -sleep.</p> - -<p>Toward sunset we went down an endless slope among mountains, some of -which were red, some yellow, some a sulphurous green, and some black. -A black mountain is a sinister object. There is a kind of fear which -does not concern itself with real things that might happen, but is a -primitive fear of nature herself. Even the bandits admitted feeling -it sometimes. It is a fear of something impending in the bare spaces, -as though the mountains threatened. A little creeping chill that had -nothing to do with the cool of evening kept us close behind the Ford. -At the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> bottom of the rough slope lay a somber basin full of shadow, -beyond which rose an abrupt, high ridge of sand. In spite of us the -Ford gained there and we saw it far ahead crawling up the ridge like a -black bug. It seemed to stop and jerk and stop and jerk again. Then it -disappeared over the top. For a few fearful moments we were alone with -Mojave. How could rocks and sand and silence make us afraid and yet be -so wonderful? For they were wonderful. The ridge was orange against a -luminous-orange sky, the sand in the shadowy basin reached right and -left, mysteriously shining, to mountains with rosy tops. The darkness -around us was indigo, the two crooked ruts of the Ford were full of -blue.</p> - -<p>Apprehensively, jerking and stopping, stopping and jerking, as the -Ford had done, the engine clanking as though it would smash itself to -pieces, the radiator boiling frantically, we bucked our way to the -summit of the ridge. It looked down on an immense dry lake in a valley -so big that the mountains beyond were dim in the twilight. At the far -side of the lake stood a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> group of eight or ten portable houses, bright -orange beside the purple darkness of the baked-mud lake. It was the -town which we had made that incredible journey to reach. Below us we -could see the little truck struggling through the sand. Presently it -reached the hard edge of the lake and merged with its dark smoothness. -We followed down the ridge in its ruts and drove for three miles -straight across the hard lake-bed toward the town, where now a few -lights gleamed. The orange faded from the houses and the whole valley -became a rich plum-color. It was dark when we came out onto the sand -again and drove into the lonely hamlet.</p> - -<p>A kindly German couple received us. They were as amazed to see two -women arrive in a big car as we were at arriving. Once two men had come -in a Cadillac just to see the desert, but they could remember no other -visitors with such an unusual object. Mrs. Brauer doubted if we would -find much to look at in Silver Lake. We assured her that we found much -already and hoped to find much more.</p> - -<p>"And where did you think you vas going?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> her husband asked, chuckling -vastly in the background.</p> - -<p>"To Death Valley."</p> - -<p>"Mein Gott!"</p> - -<p>They conducted us to a one-room shack beside the tin can dump and -bade us be at home. Strangely enough we felt at home. The door of the -shack faced the open desert, the threshold only three inches above the -sand. It stretched away white and still, radiating pale light. The -craving which had made us seek a wild and lonely place responded to -it. The night was a deep-blue, warm and luminous. A hard young moon, -sharp as a curved knife blade, hung over the hills. We went out into -the vague brightness among the ghostly bushes, and at last onto the -darkness of the lake-bed. Beyond it the sand gleamed on the ridge -we had come over. On either side the mountains we had feared were -strong, beautiful silhouettes. In the northwest stood the mass of the -Avawatz, a pure and noble skyline glowing with pale rose. The Avawatz -had been the most fearful mountain of all in the sultry afternoon, a -red conglomeration of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>volcanic hills. We walked on and on, full of a -strange, terrible happiness. The trackless, unbroken expanse of the -lake seemed boundless, the mountains were never any nearer. We kept -looking back for the reassuring gleam of the lamp we had set in the -window; presently it was lost. Nothing indicated the whereabouts of -the town, we left no footprint-trail on the hard mud, every link with -mankind was gone. Before starting we had located the little houses in -relation to a certain peak and we felt like navigators in an uncharted -sea.</p> - -<p>"We must learn to steer by the stars," Charlotte said. "We must always -remember that."</p> - -<p>We stood still listening to the silence. It was immense and all -enveloping. No murmur of leaves, nor drip of water, nor buzz of insects -broke it. It brooded around us like a live thing.</p> - -<p>"Do you hear the universe moving on?" Charlotte whispered.</p> - -<p>"It is your own heart beating," I told her, but I did not believe it.</p> - -<p>We had found Mojave.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>III</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The White Heart</i></span></h2> - -<p>We had indeed found her. The morning sun came up over the immense -valley ringed with beautiful, reposeful mountains. The big, empty -mesas swept up to them, streaked with purple and green like the -sea. Sometimes shining sand led between them to indistinguishable -rose and blue. Such a palace of dreams beckoned toward Death Valley -behind Avawatz, the sultry, red mountain that had been so magical in -the night; and another called southward to the white desolation of -the Devil's Playground beyond the far end of the lake where stood -a symmetrical, black, mountain-mass with a tongue of bright sand -running up it. The black mountain and the shining tongue of sand were -reflected in an expanse of radiant blue water. This was astonishing -and we hastened to inquire the name of the river or lake<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> that lit the -distance with such heavenly brightness. The old German chuckled so -much that he seemed about to blow up with access of mirth. Finally he -was able to explain that it was only a mirage. We watched it all day -and saw it change to a thin streak at noon and widen again at evening. -The reflections of the bushes at its edge were so magnified that they -looked like trees. To Brauer's endless entertainment we insisted that -trees grew there.</p> - -<p>Ever since leaving Barstow we had been penetrating further and further -into the Mojave. With every mile she had become more terrible and more -beautiful. The colors which had delighted us at Joburg were pale beside -the colors around Silver Lake, the mountains were hills compared to -these beautiful, sinister masses. The sun had been brighter there than -any eastern sun, here it was a hot, white blaze. All the way Mojave had -asserted herself more and more. In the Imperial Valley, at Joburg and -Barstow, we had felt men upon the desert, the drama was partly their -drama; now, though they might still make roads and build houses, they -seemed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>insignificant. We had but to walk two or three hundred yards -from Silver Lake to forget it and be wrapped in the endless stillness. -There was something awful in the silence, the awfulness which our -savage ancestors felt and bequeathed to us in our intangible fear of -the dark and of the wilderness, and the fear of being alone which many -people have; but there was greatness in it too, the greatness which is -always to be found in the outdoors. Balzac remarks that "the desert -is God without humanity." Truly the earth lives, and the sun and the -stars, a rhythm beats in them and unites them. They are the drama and -the human story is only a scene.</p> - -<p>The town of Silver Lake, such a little oasis of life in the solitude, -is owned by the Brauers who operate a general store and give board -to the few travelers who come to the mines in the neighborhood. They -are mostly silver-mines, whence the name. A few years ago there was -considerable activity when the Avawatz Crown and the big silver mine at -Riggs were in operation. Miners came to "town" in Fords which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> no doubt -resembled the junk pile we had followed from Joburg, and sometimes -with pack-trains. The pack-train on the desert always consists of a -string of burros. The burro in spite of his Mexican name, is nothing -more than a donkey, the biblical ass. He seems to be native to all -primitive places, the first burden-bearer. The prospector of the early -days with his pick and shovel was a picturesque figure traveling -across the sandy stretches from water-hole to water-hole. It is often -a hard day's-journey between the infrequent springs, sometimes a -several-days'-journey. He dug and broke the rock, and sometimes he -made his "strike." Then the boom on the desert would begin. Settlers -came in, roads were built and towns sprang up. The brutalities of -mining-camps which we read of were probably reflections of the -inhospitality of the land. The very characteristics which make the -desert dramatic and beautiful make it terrible for mankind to overcome. -The expense of mining operations in that hard country proved to be too -great unless the vein were exceptionally rich, and most of the small -mines are now <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>abandoned. Nevertheless you still occasionally meet a -prospector with his burros, and in remote places like Silver Lake the -Ford has not entirely done away with the pack-train.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i054.jpg" id="i054.jpg"></a><img src="images/i054.jpg" alt="SOME HALF-WILD BURROS WANDERED AROUND SILVER LAKE" /></div> - -<p class="bold">SOME HALF-WILD BURROS WANDERED AROUND SILVER LAKE</p> - -<p>A number of half wild burros wandered around among the little houses -attracted by the watering-trough though there was hardly anything -for them to eat. The soil is said to be so alkali that nothing will -grow there even under irrigation. A patch of grass six feet by two, -carefully cherished by the Brauers, was the only green thing in town. -We saw the list of electors nailed to the door of the general store. -There were seven names on it.</p> - -<p>A lonesome little railroad comes along the edge of the Devil's -Playground from Ludlow on the Santa Fé, past Silver Lake to the mining -camps of Nevada. All the supplies for the neighborhood are hauled -in on it through a country of shifting sand where no wagon-road can -be maintained. Even a railroad, the symbol of civilization, cannot -break the solitude. Great arteries of life like the Santa Fé and the -Southern Pacific become very tiny veins when they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> cross the desert; -the little Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad hardly seems to exist. You do -not see the track until you stumble over it, the telegraph poles are -lost in the sagebrush. There are two trains a week, up in the morning -and down at night. During breakfast on train-day a long hoot suddenly -cuts the stillness you have grown accustomed to. You jump. Mr. Brauer -chuckles at you and finishes his coffee and his anecdote, and gets up -ponderously and knocks the ashes out of his pipe and says:</p> - -<p>"I guess she'll be here pretty soon now."</p> - -<p>Presently you see him sauntering over to the station. In about fifteen -minutes an ungainly line of freight-cars with a passenger-coach or two -in the rear comes swaying along. Mrs. Brauer gathers up the dishes -leisurely. She hopes they have brought the meat. The last time she had -boarders they didn't bring any meat for two weeks. If they bring it she -promises to make you a fine German dinner. She never goes out to look -at the train. Nobody does, except you, who stand in the doorway and -wonder at it. Ever so long ago you used to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> things that resembled -it. It is a curiosity like the strange, long neck of the giraffe. Like -the giraffe it has a momentary interest. It goes, and the silence -settles down again with a great yawn.</p> - -<p>The dry lake on whose shores the town is situated is three miles wide -and eighteen miles long, of a brownish-purple color. The surface is -hard and covered with little ripples like petrified waves. It is the -sink, or outlet of the Mojave River, whose wide, torn bed we had seen -at Barstow spanned by an iron bridge. The river-bed had been as dry as -any part of the desert, and we had supposed it was just an unusually -wide, deep wash. We now learned that in times of heavy rains or much -snow in the northern mountains the Mojave River thunders under the iron -bridge. On a later trip, when we were staying at the Fred Harvey Hotel -in Barstow, we once saw it come to life over-night. In the evening its -bed lay dry and white under the moonlight, in the morning it was full -of hurrying, turbid water. From Barstow the river-bed winds through -the desert to the purple-brown basin at Silver Lake. Were the Mojave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> -a normal river its water would always flow down there and the hard dry -lake would be blue with little white waves running before the wind, but -it is a desert-river and gets lost in the sand. Occasionally the water -flows past Barstow, but it hardly ever arrives at Silver Lake. It came -once in the memory of the present inhabitants, and covered the dry lake -to a depth of three or four feet. The water gradually evaporated and in -a few weeks was gone. Our kind entertainers showed us pictures which -they had taken of the real lake with boats on it. At that time both -the town and the railroad were in the lake-bed and had to be hastily -removed before the oncoming flood. An amusing incident happened one day -at dinner when an artist from San Francisco, who had stopped off on his -way to paint in Nevada, was boasting of the marvels of his city risen -from the great fire and earthquake.</p> - -<p>"Well," remarked our host with the same subterranean chuckle that he -lavished upon us, "Silver Lake ain't so bad. We pulled her up out of -the water once already."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>We tried to imagine the great expanse of living water, how it would -ripple and shine at its edges, and the purple mountain-tops would be -mirrored in it. Once the mirage had come true.</p> - -<p>Every day we watched the dream water increase and diminish at the base -of the black mountain with the tongue of silver sand running up it. The -illusion was always best in the morning, but never quite vanished while -the sun shone. It was so perfect that incredulity at last compelled us -to drive down the eighteen miles of the lake-bed and explore it.</p> - -<p>Brauer's eyes twinkled as he filled our gasoline tank. "You think the -lake ain't dried up yet, hey?" We kept our thoughts to ourselves.</p> - -<p>The first surprise was when we reached the end of the lake and had not -reached the mountain. It looked just the same except that the water -had vanished—hidden maybe by the brush that covered the sand. Our -host had said something about a road, but we had been so sure that the -mountain was at the edge of the lake that we had not listened carefully -enough and failed to find it, so we left the car and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> walked through -the brush. The bushes were very small and starved, growing several -yards apart on ground that was hard and covered with little bright -stones like packed-down gravel. The most flourishing shrub was the -desert-holly with gray, frosted leaves shaped exactly like the leaves -of Christmas holly, and small lavender berries. The following Christmas -Mrs. Brauer sent us great wreaths made of it and tied with red ribbons -to decorate our homes, a happy present that brought the hot brightness -of the desert into the gloom of an eastern winter. As we walked among -the little bushes the sun was very hot and the mountain seemed to -travel away as fast as we approached it. The second surprise was when -it also vanished entirely and three black hills stood in its place. -They were ugly and looked like heaps of coal. The beautiful peak which -we had seen was some ten miles further back on the main range which -shut off the Devil's Playground. It had composed with the three black -hills to form the symmetrical mass. There was no water either, and no trees.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - -<p>The desolation was stark and sad; sand and sand with hardly any -brush reached to the distant range. The palace of dreams was gone. -Disillusioned, we climbed upon the nearest coal-pile, then suddenly -we saw the miracle again, in the north this time, whence we had come. -The town of Silver Lake was mirrored in blue water as shining and as -heavenly as the vision which was lost. The houses had weathered a deep -orange and burned in the sun. The white tank set upon stilts above -the well was dazzling to look at. Trees grew beside the glistening -dream-water. It was brighter than any town or lake could possibly be; -it was magical.</p> - -<p>Thus the desert keeps beckoning to you. Either the unknown goal, or the -known starting-point, or perhaps both at the same time, are magical; -only "here" is ever dreary. While we sat on the coal-pile Mojave -related a parable:</p> - -<p>"Once three brothers slung their canteens over their shoulders and -came to me. They traveled many days toward my shining. They were often -thirsty and very tired. Presently they came to a spring, and when they -had rested<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> a dispute arose. The eldest brother wished to hasten on, -but the second said that my shining appeared no nearer than at the -beginning. Nay, he did not believe in it, he would stay where he was. -The youngest, however, agreed to accompany his eldest brother and the -two set out once more. They crossed high mountain-ranges and deep -valleys, but my shining was always before or after. In the seventh -valley the youngest brother also began to doubt me and refused to go -any further.</p> - -<p>"'I will stay here,' he said, 'these bushes have little cool shadows -beside them, and the ground is bright with little colored stones and -there are flowers. Stay also and let us be happy.'</p> - -<p>"But the eldest brother would not stay.</p> - -<p>"He traveled all the years of his life toward my shining. The second -brother turned the spring into a lake and built himself a house with -orange-groves around it. The third brother rested in the cool shadows -and rejoiced in the little bright stones."</p> - -<p>We listened intently, but there was no moral.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p>In spite of our host's "Mein Gott!" we still persisted in our idea -of going to Death Valley. It was now only thirty miles away where a -shining such as had led the brothers on beckoned beyond the Avawatz. -We learned that this route was impossible for a car, and so dry that -even pack-animals could hardly enter the valley that way. However, we -could make a detour of nearly two hundred miles, striking the Tonopah -and Tidewater Railroad again at Zabrisky or Death Valley Junction, -and possibly get in that way. During the debate the sheriff of Silver -Lake, a silent person decorated with pistols, volunteered to go with -us beyond the Avawatz as far as Saratoga Springs, and as much further -as we could drive the car. He would promise nothing as he had not been -there for some time and was a cautious man, but he thought we might -find it worth while. Any one of those bright paths was worth while to -us, and we eagerly agreed.</p> - -<p>That day's excursion proved even more memorable than the drive from -Joburg. It was like a continuation of it, becoming ever wilder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> and -stranger. We had already heard a few of Mojave's songs, bits of her -color-songs, and her peace-songs, and underneath like a rumbling bass -her terror-song—but we were as yet only acquaintances on the way to -intimacy. Ever since leaving Barstow we had felt that we were advancing -through progressive suggestion toward some kind of a climax. Mojave was -leading us on to something. Her heart still lay beyond.</p> - -<p>A good enough track led north along the railroad for a few miles and -then swung around the base of the Avawatz. We drove up an interminable -mesa where the alleged road grew always rougher and less well-marked, -and the engine had an annoying tendency to boil. The wind was from -behind and the heat of the sun radiating up from the white ground made -it impossible to keep the engine cool. We crossed a ridge among red -and purple hills of jumbled rock and began to descend into an oblong, -sandy basin. The road became so unspeakable that the Sheriff advised -leaving it for the white, unbroken sand of a wash. For miles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> we made -our own track, winding around stones and islands of brush. We were in -a sort of outpost-valley south of Death Valley itself, and separated -from it by what looked like a low ridge of gravel, but we no longer -believed in the reality of what we thought we saw. As a matter of fact -the ridge was succeeded by others, and the only way to get into the -main valley was through an opening with the startling name of Suicide -Pass. The valley we were in is usually considered to be a part of Death -Valley; on many maps the low basins stretching north from the Avawatz -for nearly a hundred miles are included under that name.</p> - -<p>On both sides of the outpost-valley stood mountains of every hue. -They were maroon, violet, or black at the base shading into lighter -reds and clear yellows. One yellow mountain had a scarlet spot on its -summit like a wound that bled. The dark bases of the mountains had a -texture like velvet, black and purple and olive-green velvet, folded -around their feet. As we descended the wash toward sea-level the heat -and brightness of the sun steadily increased.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> Each color shown in its -intensity. The bottom of the valley was streaked with deposits of white -alkali that glistened blindingly. The whole world was an ecstasy of -light.</p> - -<p>Saratoga Springs is a blue pool with green rushes growing around it, in -the angle of a dark red mountain. The water bubbled up from the bottom -of the little pool. A marsh full of green grass and coarse, white -flowers led back from the pool, spreading out into a sheet of clear -water which reflected the bare mountains and the vividly green rushes. -Though this real lake in the desert was a pure and lovely blue, and -dazzlingly bright, it had none of the magicalness of the dream-water by -the three black hills. Somehow it just missed enchantment. Henceforth -we would be able to distinguish mirage by this indescribable quality.</p> - -<p>Saratoga is the last appearance of the Armagosa, or Bitter River, -before it loses itself in Death Valley. Like the Mojave River the -Armagosa gets lost. It flows southward through the desert, sometimes -roaring down a rocky gorge, sometimes vanishing completely for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> miles -in a sandy stretch, then reappearing unaccountably to form oases -like the one at Saratoga. Opposite the southern end of Death Valley -it suddenly changes its mind and turns north on itself to enter -the valley where it makes a great bog encrusted with white, alkali -deposits. The Armagosa flows through an alkali desert carrying along -minerals in solution, which give its water the taste that has gained -for it the name of Bitter River. The water of Saratoga Springs is -flat and unpleasant, though it is fit to drink. There are stories of -poison-water in Death Valley, but most of the springs are merely so -full of alkali and salt that they are repulsive and do not quench -thirst. At Silver Lake the water is strongly alkali. Everybody uses -it, but when a supply of clear spring-water can be hauled in from the -mountains they all rejoice. The Sheriff's partner, Charley, had a -barrel full which he shared with us while we were there. The pool at -Saratoga was full of little darting fish, strange to see in the silent, -lifeless waste. The Sheriff saved some of his lunch for them and sat -a long time on the edge throwing in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> crumbs. Once, he told us, he had -camped there alone for three months prospecting the hills, and they had -been his friends.</p> - -<p>We attempted to drive beyond Saratoga Springs. There was supposed to -be a road, but neither Charlotte nor I could discern it. We bumped -along over ground so cut by shallow water-channels that after about -seven miles we dared not proceed, for a wrecked car in that shining -desolation would stay forever where it smashed. We tried to walk to -the top of the gravel-ridge that seemed to shut off the main valley. -It looked near and innocent enough, but when we tried to reach it over -the dazzling ground under the blazing sun we found, to our surprise, -that we could not. The temperature was about 95 degrees, and the -air very dry. The heat alone would have been quite bearable had it -not been augmented by the white glare. Suddenly we realized that -the little ridge was inaccessible; all the little yellow hills and -ridges, and the rocky crests that shone like burnished metal, were -likewise inaccessible. The realization brought a terrifying sense of -helplessness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> Here was a country you could not travel over: though -your goal were in sight you might never reach it. The strength and -resourcefulness you relied on for emergencies were of no avail; an -empty canteen, a lost burro, a smashed car, and your history might be -finished. We began to understand why this place, so gay with color, so -flooded with light, so clean, so bright, was called Death Valley.</p> - -<p>Before us was the opening in the mountains where the terrible valley -itself lay. It was magnificent in the biggest sense of that big, -ill-used word. On the east side rose the precipitous Panamints with a -thin line of snow on their summits; opposite them the dark buttresses -of the Funeral Mountains faded back into dimness. Between the ranges -hung a blue haze of the quality of the sky, like the haze that had -obscured the hot Imperial Valley. The mountains were majestic, -immovable, their summits dwelt in the living silence. The haze had -the magicalness of mirage. We longed to go on while the sun went down -and the silence turned blue, for now we were certain that under that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> -haze, between those imposing walls, lay the climax to which Mojave had -been leading us, her White Heart. She could never be more desolate, or -stiller or grander. It was the logical journey's end, and what had been -at first merely a casual choice of destination became a fixed goal to -be reached through any hazards.</p> - -<p>"If you go there," the old prospector had said, "you will see something -you won't see anywhere else on earth."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>IV</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Outfit</i></span></h2> - -<p>Death Valley was the goal, but after the day at Saratoga Springs -one thing was certain: no matter if we could get there in an -automobile—and various expedients were suggested to make it possible, -even safe—not thus would we enter the White Heart, not with the -throbbing of an engine, not dependent on gasoline, not limited in -time, not thwarted by roads. When we went it would be slowly, quietly, -camping by the springs, making fires of the brush, sleeping under the -open sky, listening, watching. We had found the outdoors on the desert -a wonderful thing and we wanted to live with it a while. If the White -Heart was the climax of Mojave we felt that it must be a climax of the -feel of the outdoors, one of its supreme expressions. We were going on -a pilgrimage to that.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> - -<p>Such a pilgrimage meant an outfit, either a wagon or a pack-train, and -a guide. We needed a man accustomed to living on the desert, who knew -the valley thoroughly, who could work in its heat and brightness, and -who had the courage to take two ignorant enthusiasts there. We had lost -the easy assurance with which we had talked at Joburg about going to -Death Valley. No wonder the inhabitants of that town had been stunned -when we said that we were on the way there! The unspeakable road beyond -Saratoga Springs and the little gravel-ridge which we could not climb -were sufficient warning of the nature of the undertaking. Mojave is not -easily to be known as we would know her. She keeps herself to herself. -The season added a further complication. Soon it would be April and the -heat in the valley would be too great for us to endure. The pilgrimage -must start no later than January. That meant going home and coming -back. As usual the way to the valley bristled with difficulties.</p> - -<p>We talked to the Sheriff about it. Julius Meyer was nearing fifty, a -lean, strong-looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> man. He had a fine face, very somber in repose as -though he had met with some lasting disappointment, but wonderfully lit -by his occasional smile. His eyes had the hard clearness which living -on the desert seems to produce. They looked straight at you. He said -little, the kind of man who announces his decisions briefly and carries -them out. Mrs. Brauer said of him: "Julius is good." Beyond her praise -and the impression which he made we knew nothing of him except the -incident of the little fishes and that he had lived twenty years on the -desert and had once traveled the length of Death Valley with burros; -but we had no hesitation in asking him to be our guide. He said it was -a mad idea. Nobody ever went to Death Valley unless they expected to -get something out of it, and then they took a Ford if they could find -one and hurried.</p> - -<p>"We are just like the rest of them," we told him. "We expect to get -something out of it, but we can't get it in a Ford."</p> - -<p>He finally agreed to go if we would take a wagon. He refused to -consider a pack-train, saying that we would never be able to pack -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>burros, and walk beside them and ride them in the heat of the valley. -He did not take the discussion very seriously, for he evidently did not -expect us to return. He thought the glamor of Mojave would wear off.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was a promise, and we were certain that when such a man -promised we would see the White Heart. During the following summer and -autumn we kept hearing snatches of Mojave's songs. A bit of pure cobalt -in the depths of the woods, the flash of the sun on the tops of waves, -the clear lovely blue of ruts in a sandy road echoed her. Thinking of -her the eastern sun seemed a trifle pale, the gay brightness of summer -a little dim. We loved the familiar, dear New England landscape, but we -were under the "terrible fascination." Only the sea was like Mojave. -Often Charlotte and I would take our blankets to a lonely part of the -beach and spend the night there. Never before had we slept outdoors, on -the ground under the stars. Knowing Mojave even a little had made us -feel that it might be worth while. We found that it was.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p>"We have to get used to it," we told our astonished friends. "When we -go to Death Valley with the wagon we will have to sleep on the ground."</p> - -<p>We did get used to it and in December wrote the Sheriff. This telegram -came:</p> - -<p>"O. K. Julius Meyer."</p> - -<p>When we appeared for the second time at Silver Lake in the big -automobile we were greeted with even greater amazement than before. We -had driven over from Barstow and traveling on the desert for pleasure -is so novel an idea that everybody thought us insane. There were a few -more people in town than we had found on our former visit, a commercial -traveler and three or four miners, among them a brigand known as French -Pete, with his head tied up in a red handkerchief. They all took a -lively interest in the proposed expedition and gave advice. They were -courteous, but amusement contended with wonder behind their friendly -eyes. They tried to be kind and searched their minds for something good -to say of the frightful valley.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> Each one separately told us what was -its real, true attraction.</p> - -<p>"You see the highest and the lowest spots in the United States at the -same time. Mount Whitney, you know, and the bottom of the Valley."</p> - -<p>Since we had never been able to see Mount Whitney in any of our travels -on the Mojave, we wondered how we should be able to see it from the -deep pit of the valley with the Panamints between, but receptivity -was our rôle. The highest and lowest became a sort of slogan. Sooner -or later everybody we met at Silver Lake or on our way to the valley -said it. We waited for them to say it and recorded it in our diaries: -"Explained about H. and L."</p> - -<p>The Sheriff had procured a wagon drawn by a horse and a mule to start -from Beatty, a hundred miles further up the Tonopah and Tidewater -Railroad, and much credit is due him for the gravity with which he -embarked on the folly. After the O. K. telegram he never expressed the -slightest doubt of the feasibleness, the sanity, and even the usualness -of the proceeding. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> we needed more than anything else was a real -reason for going, seeing the desert and having an adventure with the -outdoors being no reasons at all. He furnished even that. Charlotte had -brought her sketching-box; he saw it among the camping-paraphernalia, -asked what it was, and instantly spread the report that we were artists -in search of scenery. We had the presence of mind never to deny this -and by refraining from exhibitions were able to be both notorious and -respectable.</p> - -<p>We abandoned the automobile and traveled up to Beatty on the railroad, -a seven hours'-journey. On the morning of train-day our bed-rolls and -duffle-bags on the station-platform, and ourselves getting into the -coach in knickerbockers and tough, high shoes created more excitement -than Silver Lake had known for some time. Even Mrs. Brauer came out, -and Mr. Brauer stood with his hands in his pockets, beaming on the -crazy line of freight cars and the heads stuck out of the windows of -the coaches, chuckling and chuckling. There was a Pullman from Los -Angeles hitched to the tail of the train, very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> grand, with all the -window-shades still pulled down so early in the morning. Our guide, -who felt his responsibilities, was chagrined because he could not -get us places in it; but we were more than content, especially when -the conductor, who had a black mustache worthy of one of Stevenson's -pirates and wore no uniform, assured us that the coach was not supposed -to be a smoking-car so our presence would interfere with no one's -happiness. It was full of old-timers who were all remarkable for the -clearness of their eyes. They were friendly and courteous, men past -middle age, dressed in overalls and flannel shirts, who got off at -Zabrisky and such places, where it is hard to see that a town exists. -The younger men, and the more prosperous looking in business-suits were -mostly bound for Tonopah, one of the most active mining-centers left in -the country. During the day many of our fellow-passengers talked to us, -stopping as they went up and down the aisle to sit on the arm of the -opposite seat. The talk was of mining prospects, the booms of Goldfield -and Tonopah, speculation in mining-shares, the slump after the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> war -began, the abandoned towns, the river of money that has flowed into the -desert and been drunk up by the sand. They all agreed that Death Valley -was a desperate place, there had never been any mining there to amount -to anything. To encourage us they never failed to mention H. and L., -but they thought we would find more to interest us in the mining towns -of Nevada. They made them picturesque with pioneering stories.</p> - -<p>The railroad runs along the east side of Death Valley, separated from -it by a range of mountains. It follows the course of the Armagosa River -as it flows south through the desert. In some places the river-bed was -full of water, in others it was a dry wash. Where the water is certain -large mesquites and cottonwood trees grow and the mining stations, -consisting of a store and one or two houses, are nearby. The mountains -along the route are scarred with mines and prospect holes. At Death -Valley Junction a branch road goes to the large borax-mine at Ryan on -the edge of the valley.</p> - -<p>The country is very desolate. Soon after <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>leaving Silver Lake we -passed a group of big sand-dunes with summits blown by the wind into -beautiful, sharp edges. From that viewpoint they seemed to guard the -shining illusion that always beckoned behind the Avawatz. We had seen -them on the way to Saratoga, but so far off that they had looked like -little mounds. They are a miniature of the Devil's Playground, that -utter desolation of shifting sand south of Silver Lake where no roads -are. Now we passed near enough to see their impressive size and how the -wind makes their beautiful outlines. When the sand is deep and fine -the wind is forever at work upon it, blowing it into dunes, changing -their shapes, piling them up and tearing them down. It gradually moves -them along in its prevailing direction by rolling their tops down the -lee side and pushing up the windward side for a new summit. The dunes -literally roll over. The artist who had boasted of his city at Silver -Lake called them the "marching sands." North of the marching sands we -traveled through gray-green mesas much broken by rugged, mountainous -masses, a forbidding and stern land.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i080.jpg" id="i080.jpg"></a><img src="images/i080.jpg" alt="BEATTY, AT THE BASE OF A BIG RED MOUNTAIN" /></div> - -<p class="bold">BEATTY, AT THE BASE OF A BIG RED MOUNTAIN</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> - -<p>Beatty has a magnificent location at the base of a big, red mountain -in front of a greater, indigo mass. It was once a prosperous mining -town, but was at that time partly deserted and many of the small wooden -houses stood empty. Every effort had been made to give the appearance -of streets by fencing off yards around the houses, but it was hard to -get the scheme of Beatty. The first impression was of houses set down -promiscuously on the sand. Some of the yards had gardens where, by -means of constant watering, fruit-trees and roses were made to grow. -Beatty is at a considerable altitude so that while the noonday sun -was hot the nights were cold, sometimes below freezing. The air was -marvelously clear. On the brightest days in the east flowers and shrubs -look as though they were floating in a pure, colorless liquid, and the -vistas are softly veiled. The air seems to have substance. Among the -mountains of the desert it is a flawless plate glass through which you -look directly at the face of the world. Distant outlines stand out -boldly, and every little shining rock and bush is set firmly down.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> - -<p>Prohibition had hit Beatty hard. Most of the ground-floor of the hotel -consisted of a big poolroom and bar over which hung an air of sadness. -We had an impression of moving-day in that forlorn hour when everything -is dismantled and the van has not come. The landlady apologized for the -accommodations which, however, were excellent.</p> - -<p>"We used to keep it up real nice before mining slumped," she said, "but -now there is prohibition, too, and we are clean discouraged."</p> - -<p>She was an ingenious person. In her front yard, one of the prettiest in -Beatty, the walks and flower-beds were edged with empty bottles driven -in neck down. They made a fine border, durable, with a glassy glitter -in the sun.</p> - -<p>At Beatty we first encountered Molly and Bill. Molly was a white mule -and Bill a big, thin, red horse. They were hitched to an ordinary -grocery wagon. Our guide seemed pleased with them, but we were -doubtful. He had rented them from an Indian and said that they were -absolutely desert-proof, they could live on <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>nothing at all and drink -soda-water forever. Bill looked as though he had always lived on -nothing at all, and Molly laid back her long, white ears in a manner -unpleasantly suggestive. Moreover, it did not seem possible that the -frail-looking wagon could carry the supplies and the camping equipment. -We had purchased food for a month. It was both heavy and bulky; bacon, -ham, potatoes, flour, canned milk and vegetables, four pounds of butter -and six dozen eggs. It was the Sheriff's selection; Charlotte and I had -not expected to travel de luxe like that. Indeed we had brought some -dried potatoes and vegetables and had not dreamed of things like milk -or butter or eggs. He made quite a stand for the real potatoes, so they -had to go along. In spite of their bulk the canned milk and vegetables -are almost necessities on the desert, where the water is scarce and -bad, for things that have to be soaked a long time and cooked in the -alkali water are hardly edible. He had a weakness for green California -chilies and horehound candy, so they also were included. Charlotte -insisted on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> dried fruit, especially prunes. The grub alone made a -formidable pile on the porch of the general store. In addition there -was a bale of hay and a bag of grain. It looked like very little for -the dejected Molly and Bill, but the Sheriff said that we could buy -more at Furnace Creek Ranch in the bottom of the valley, and that -we need only feed them while we were actually in the valley, for as -soon as we went up a little way on either side they could forage. We -looked anxiously out over the environs of Beatty, which is fairly -high-up. They were precisely like the environs of Silver Lake, where -the half-wild burros can scarcely find a living. We began to worry in -earnest. By the time the food for man and beast was on the wagon worry -turned to despair. It was full, and the three beds, the duffle-bags, -the sketch-box which we clung to as the only proof of sanity, and the -three five-gallon gasoline cans for carrying water were still on the -ground.</p> - -<p>"It can't be done," we told the Sheriff. "You will have to make some -other arrangement."</p> - -<p>"Now look here," he replied. "You stop <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>worrying. Nobody in this outfit -is to worry except me. That's my job. It's what I'm for."</p> - -<p>His hard blue eyes looked into ours with determination, then he grinned -and from that moment became the Official Worrier.</p> - -<p>Slowly and patiently he built up a monumental structure and cinched it -with rope and baling wire. Everything found a place. As we expected -to make a spring that night it was not necessary to fill the gasoline -cans. They were hung on the back of the load with more baling-wire. -Remembering the day when it had been 95 degrees at Saratoga Springs -we tried to leave our heavy driving-coats behind, but were forcibly -forbidden to do so. They were added to the topmost peak.</p> - -<p>For two days all Beatty, from the leading citizen who sold us our -supplies to the Mexican cook in the railroad restaurant who told us -that it was so hot in Death Valley the lizards had to turn over on -their backs and wave their feet in the air to cool them, had been -much cheered by our presence. Nobody expected us to be gone very long -and they watched the loading up of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> the month's supplies with amused -interest. When we were ready we had to pose beside the wagon in the -middle of the street to have our picture taken. Then somebody cried -"Good luck!" and at last we started.</p> - -<p>As soon as a turn in the road hid Beatty the silence closed around -us. The crisp, clear air made our blood tingle. We walked the first -few miles while the Worrier drove. The sun, the wind, and the scarred -old mountains became the only important things in the world. We were -committed to sunrise and sunset, rocks and brush were to be our -companions, lonely springs were to keep us alive, the roots of the -greasewood were to warm us, all our possessions were contained in one -frail wagon. In half an hour the desert claimed us. The sun that loves -the desert clothed it in colored garments.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>V</span> <span class="smaller"><i>Entering Death Valley</i></span></h2> - -<p>The way to Death Valley from Beatty is across a shallower valley and -through Daylight Pass at an elevation of 4,317 feet. First the road -winds down around small, rough hills, at whose base the deserted -town of Ryolite is situated. Ryolite is what remains of a mining -boom. It is pushed into a cove of a rose-colored mountain—but desert -mountains change their hues so often that it may not always be rose. -Ryolite is a typical American ruin. Its boom was very brief. The town -sprang up over-night. Money was poured in. Water was brought for -miles in a pipe-line, a railroad from Beatty begun, and permanent -buildings erected—it had the pride of a "thirty thousand dollar -hotel," and a bank to match. Immense energy and enthusiasm of youth, -middle-aged greed, too, with its eye on the immediate main chance, -went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> into its making. No doubt some people profited by the building -of Ryolite. It was a tumult of "American initiative"—then it did -not pay. It is easy to picture the promoters, their important hurry, -their "up-to-date methods," their big talk. It is easy to picture the -investors too. Nearly everybody who has money to invest buys stock in -a gold mine once. Great hopes converged on the desert here from many a -board-sidewalked town and prairie-farm; futures were built on it. There -is a throb in the throat for Ryolite, fading into the mountain, its -corrugated-iron roofs rusting red like the hills. The desert is licking -the wound with her sandy tongue until not even a scar will remain. -Sooner or later she heals all the little scratches men make on her surface.</p> - -<p>The dead town faced a wide valley stretching like a green meadow to the -opposite mountains. The thick sagebrush melted together into a smooth -sward over which cloud-shadows floated. The sun evoked lovely, changing -color-tones from it, like a musician playing upon his instrument, -making harmonics of violet and brown and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> sage-green flow beneath a -melody of pure blue. A perfectly straight road cut a white line through -the meadow. The distance was ten miles, but no one unaccustomed to the -clear air of the desert would guess it to be more than three. The road -appeared level with a slight rise under the western mountains which -had strong, dark outlines on the sky. They looked purple and their -lower masses kept emerging from the main range and fading again as the -shadows circled.</p> - -<p>It took Molly and Bill a long time to travel the straight, white line. -By turn we drove and walked, as the three of us could not ride in the -wagon at once. Already the superiority of this mode of travel over -Fords was being demonstrated. We felt the simple bigness of the desert, -and were intimate with the indigo shadow under each little bush, and -the bright-colored stones; we had time to make digressions to some -new cactus or strange-looking rock while Molly and Bill plodded on. -For hours we crossed the valley, hardly seeming to progress. The same -landscape was always before us, yet we were in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> the midst of a changing -pageant. Soon Ryolite was lost in a mass of pale rose and blue that -seemed like a gate to another world. The knowledge that the mountains -were made of dull-red, crumbling rock, and that only Beatty lay behind -them could not destroy the illusion. It grew fairer as we left it. The -dark mountains in front became formidable silhouettes as the afternoon -sun inclined toward them. We could never quite see the canyon by which -we were to reach the pass; several times we thought we saw it, only to -lose it again in the subtleties of shifting shadows.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i090.jpg" id="i090.jpg"></a><img src="images/i090.jpg" alt="THE OUTFIT" /></div> - -<p class="bold">THE OUTFIT</p> - -<p>Soon after crossing the middle of the valley the road began a long, -brutal ascent. Mile after mile it steadily climbed until the sweat made -furrows in the shaggy coats of Molly and Bill; but to us, walking ahead -of the wagon, the valley looked level as before, and only our greater -exertion convinced us of the rise. Here was one of the characteristic -mesas of the Mojave; nothing is quite flat there except the narrow -bottoms of the valleys. Suddenly the road reached the outposts of the -mountain and became much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> steeper through the sandy wash of a canyon. -The walls on either side gradually grew higher and the sand deeper. The -ungainly load proved almost too much for the desert-proof steeds. At -times we all three had to push, and we often had to stop to rest. Night -came while we were still toiling upward. It was cold, and a bitter wind -blew between the walls. During one of the halts the Worrier gathered up -some bits of wood by the roadside, the remains of a ruined shack, and -thrust them under the cinch-ropes.</p> - -<p>"We'll need them," he said, buttoning his inadequate coat to the chin. -"We're in luck."</p> - -<p>"You'll find we're always in luck," we told him through chattering teeth.</p> - -<p>At last Molly and Bill succeeded in reaching the top of the pass. The -spring was still half a mile away in the side of a mountain. We did -not attempt to take the wagon there, but the Worrier took the tired -animals and brought back the water while Charlotte and I found a place -fairly sheltered from the wind in the bottom of a wash, lugged down -the bits of firewood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> and the "kitchen," and began to cook our first -meal on the desert. Soon we heard the Worrier shouting unintelligible -things. Much alarmed we scrambled hastily up out of the wash to find -him returning, followed by a troop of wild burros. They were not in -the least discouraged by his violent remarks, but came all the way -and stood in a half-circle around the wagon, twitching their furry -ears. He was noisily vehement. He said that they would steal and -eat anything from our blankets to his precious chilies sealed up in -tin cans; that they had no conscience, they were the pirates of the -desert. During dinner he kept making excursions to the top of the wash -to throw stones at them. He guarded the wagon all night by sleeping -under it, a practice which he continued throughout the trip, greatly -tranquilizing our minds. Burros and coyotes were the only marauders, -and we knew that they would have a hard time of it. Charlotte and I -dragged our bed-rolls a little way down the wash. It was a wild night. -The stars had an icy glitter and the wind made dismal noises among the -fearsome-looking mountain-tops; before <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>morning it snowed a little, but -we were too tired to care.</p> - -<p>The rising sun awoke us. It leapt up over the mountains; soon every -trace of the light snow was gone, the ground dry, and the air warm. -From Daylight Springs a fairly good track led down eight miles to -the northern rim of Death Valley. Near the end of the descending -canyon Corkscrew Mountain appeared, a symmetrical mass, striking -both on account of its red color like crumbling bricks and for the -perpendicular cliff which spirals around it like a corkscrew. Through -the field-glass the cliff was a dark violet and might be a hundred -or more feet high. Corkscrew Mountain stands out boldly from its -fellows, nor while we were in the valley did we ever lose sight of its -sun-bright bulk. It became our landmark in the north.</p> - -<p>Opposite Corkscrew Mountain the road turned abruptly around a point of -rock. Charlotte and I were walking ahead of the wagon, we went gayly to -the end of the promontory and were brought to a sudden stop by what we -saw. There, without any warning of its nearness, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> an unexpected -crash of orchestral music, lay the terrible valley, the beautiful, the -overwhelming valley.</p> - -<p>The Official Worrier stopped the wagon. Though he thought us insane, -though he declared he could see none of the colors and enchantments we -had been pointing out to him, he was moved. From the look that came -into his eyes we knew that, whether he admitted it or not, like Shady -Myrick he was under the terrible fascination of Mojave. That, after -all, was why he had been willing to come with us to the White Heart.</p> - -<p>"Well," he said brusquely, "that's her!"</p> - -<p>We all stood silent then. We were about three thousand feet above -the bottom of the valley looking down from the north over its whole -length, an immense oblong, glistening with white, alkali deposits, -deep between high mountain walls. We knew that men had died down there -in the shimmering heat of that white floor, we knew that the valley -was sterile and dead, and yet we saw it covered with a mantle of such -strange beauty that we felt it was the noblest thing we had ever -imagined. Only a poet could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> hope to express the emotion of beauty -stronger than fear and death which held us silent moment after moment -by the point of rock. Perhaps some day a supreme singer will come -around that point and adequately interpret that thrilling repose, that -patience, that terror and beauty as part of the impassive, splendid -life that always compasses our turbulent littleness around. Before -terror and beauty like that, something inside you, your own very self, -stands still; for a while you rest in the companionship of greatness.</p> - -<p>The natural features which combined to produce this tremendous effect -came slowly to our understanding. They were so unlike anything in our -experience, even of the wonders of the outdoors, that they bewildered -us. The strange can only be made comprehensible by comparison to the -familiar, and perhaps the best comparison is to a frozen mountain-lake. -The smooth, white bottom of the valley looks more like a frozen lake -than like anything else, and yet it looks so little like a lake that -the simile does not come easily to the mind. Death Valley is level like -a lake, it is bare like a lake, cloud-shadows drift<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> over it as over -a lake, the precipitous mountains seem to jut into it as mountains -jut into a lake, but there the comparison ends and its own unfamiliar -beauties begin.</p> - -<p>Evanescent streaks and patches of color float over the shining floor -between the changing hills. It reflects them. Sometimes a path made -of rose tourmalines crosses it, or a blue patch lies near one edge -as though a piece of the sky had fallen down. Lines of pure cobalt, -pools of smoky blue, or pale yellow, or pink lavender are there, all -quiveringly alive. At times the white crust shines like polished -silver, at others it turns sullenly opaque. Now a blue river flows down -the center—now it moves over under the western wall—now it gathers -itself into a pond around which green rushes grow.</p> - -<p>High above the middle of the valley tower the Panamint Mountains. That -winter their summits were covered with snow as white as the white -floor, and as shining. Without apparent break into foothills they -rise nearly 12,000 feet. Seldom, even in the highest ranges, can you -see so great a sheer rise, for most mountains are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> approached from -a considerable elevation. In Death Valley the eye begins its upward -journey below sea-level. Down there the white floor shimmered and -seemed to move while above it the two peaks of Telescope and Mount -Baldy, joined by a long curving ridge of snow, were a remote, still -whiteness.</p> - -<p>The eastern wall of the valley is not so high, but is hardly less -impressive. The Funeral Mountains are steel-blue with layers of white -rock near their summits. Both the mountains and the valley were named -because of tragedies down on that white floor during pioneering and -prospecting days. It is impossible to get the details of the stories -from the old-timers, each has a different version and no one is very -clear even about his own. One story is of a party of emigrants, men, -women, and children, on the way to the gold-fields with all their -household goods, who entered the valley by mistake and could not find a -way out; another is of a party who were attacked by Indians and fought -in a circle they made of their wagons until the last man was killed. -The remains of the wagons<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> are said to be buried in the sand near a -place called Stovepipe Wells. We never could learn the exact location, -though on a later trip we met a man who said that he had once actually -found them, and that he had seen Indians around there wearing jewelry -and using utensils which they could only have obtained from the white -man sometime in the fifties. There are also stories of individual -prospectors who perished on the burning sands. It does not matter which -particular tragedy fastened such names on this region of celestial day, -they commemorate all whose last sight of the earth was that lonely -splendor.</p> - -<p>The Funeral Range is separated by a deep canyon from the Black -Mountains which continue the eastern wall of the valley. This wall is -from five to six thousand feet high, jutting into the basin in great -promontories as mountains jut into a rock-ringed lake. The range across -the southern end is not so high and was half hidden by an opalescent -haze. All the time we were in the valley that haze persisted. Only -rarely and for short periods could we see any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> detail in the depths -of the hot basin, though the foreground sparkled in the stark, clear -air. The Imperial Valley and Death Valley are always hung with misty -curtains.</p> - -<p>A long, long slope leads from the rock promontory from which we first -saw the valley down to that shimmering pit. It is very rocky, cut by -washes and sparsely covered with sagebrush and greasewood. Occasional -little yellow or blue hills rise like islands from blue-green waves. -The ground is covered with little stones of every conceivable color, -which flash back the sunlight from their polished surfaces. Unfamiliar -green and purple stones lie around, and bright red stones, and a stone -of a strange orange-color like flame. A mass of this is what we must -have seen at Saratoga Springs on the mountain that bled. The impulse -to pick up specimens was irresistible. This proved to be the curse of -walking over the bright mosaics. Each little stone was of a color or -texture more alluring than the last until our pockets became unbearably -heavy. Every resting-time was spent in trying to decide which ones to -throw away, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> as we could not possibly throw one away on the same -day that we picked it up, this was a fruitless occupation.</p> - -<p>About noon we lunched in the shade of one of the little hill-islands. -During the descent the heat had steadily increased and the sun shone -with white, blinding intensity. The Official Worrier grew expansive -and happy. He described himself as a "desert rat," and said that the -hot brilliance suited him entirely. He called it a pleasant, warm day. -Charlotte and I were continually looking at the little blue spots of -shade behind a bush or projecting rock to rest our eyes. We could no -longer look away over the valley, objects merged and vanished there. -One of my recurring dreams since childhood is of trying to walk or run -in a light so dazzling that I could not keep my eyes open for more -than a few seconds at a time. That day my dream strikingly came true. -Everywhere bright heat-waves ran over the ground. The surface of stones -and the tips of leaves glittered dazzlingly. It was probably no hotter -than it had been at Saratoga, but the reflection of light from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> the -immense white bottom of the valley was an almost unbearable brightness.</p> - -<p>Our destination was an abandoned gold-mine on the side of the Funeral -Range. From the lunch-place the Keane Wonder Mine looked on a level -with us and quite near, but we traveled two hours and made a stiff -climb to reach it. This was the hardest bit of marching that we did, -for we were too ignorant of the effects of such a combination of heat -and blinding light to know how to conduct ourselves. We thought we were -sick or overtired, and being much too proud to let the Worrier suspect -such a thing, pressed on without stopping often enough to rest. We had -not yet learned that the wagon was always accompanied by a blessed bit -of shade that we could sit down in any time. Later we appreciated fully -this happy attribute of wagons. More than once we were grateful to the -Worrier for refusing to come with a pack-train.</p> - -<p>The mine was a large plant which had paid well. A mess of buildings, -some half-blown-down, pieces of machinery and the big red mill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> huddled -at the mouth of the canyon where the mountain rises steeply from the -mesa. The mine itself was higher up the canyon down which the ore was -swung in huge buckets that ran on iron cables. Water had been piped -from a spring a mile away, but the pipe was broken. The ground was far -too rough to allow us to take the wagon to the spring, so once more -the Worrier led off Molly and Bill and brought back water in a pail. -Earlier in the day we had lamented the necessity of camping among -wreckage, but when we reached the first building, which once had been a -barn, its oblong, indigo shadow was Heaven. We lay prone on the ground -behind it until the sun went down, not attempting to unload the wagon -or do any useful thing. The Worrier found us thus on his return and -gravely opined that we had better stay a while at Keane Wonder and try -to get acclimated.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i102.jpg" id="i102.jpg"></a><img src="images/i102.jpg" alt="THE CAMP BEHIND THE BARN" /></div> - -<p class="bold">THE CAMP BEHIND THE BARN</p> - -<p>During the three days that we camped behind the barn we were living -about a thousand feet above the bottom of that amazing valley, looking -down into it and up at the still, white peaks of the Panamints above -it. Opposite Keane<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> Wonder what looked like a low, sandy ridge -separates the main sink of Death Valley from a similar though smaller -and less striking basin called the Mesquite Valley. The high Panamints -end in a stern red mass near the sand-ridge, beyond which a long slope -like the one we had come down leads to more distant mountains which, -however, are a continuation of the range. Emigrant Pass through the -mountains over to Ballarat starts from the slope and winds around -behind the stern, red mass. That may well have been the way out which -the party of emigrants who perished sought and did not find. Most of -the time the steadily pressing wind of the desert blew through the -great, bright space. Often we saw it pick up the sand far down at the -edge of the valley and whirl it along in tall wraiths that looked like -ghosts walking over the white floor.</p> - -<p>On the second evening a bell sounded in the dusk. When you travel with -burros on the desert it is the custom to put a bell on one of them -at night so you can find them in the morning, and often the bell is -left on during the day's journey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> That sound meant that someone was -coming to our camp-fire. Soon a frail old man with two loaded burros -and a little dog appeared. It was "Old Johnnie," an habitué of Death -Valley, coming home. He had an unworked gold-mine near Keane Wonder and -he spent his life looking after his property. Apparently he was also -the official caretaker of Keane Wonder itself. He performed his duties -by looking over our camp and guarding every bit of wire and every old -rusty nail as though they were gold itself. He hovered around us, -especially at departure, so we only succeeded in stealing one iron bar -for our fireplace, and we needed two. We cast longing eyes at a certain -chipped, granite kettle, but finally had to borrow that, promising -solemnly to return it at Beatty on our way back. Perhaps he was unduly -suspicious because the Worrier had taken a bit of some very ancient and -hopeless-looking hay, which we found in the barn, to cheer up Molly and -Bill.</p> - -<p>"How could I know he lived here?" he apologized to us. "Anyways, there -wasn't but two mouthfuls."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> - -<p>But "Old Johnnie" was hospitable, as all old-timers are. He urged -Charlotte and me to move into the superintendent's house. It had been -a good house once, but in its present condition we preferred the open -sand, nor could we bear even for a night to have a roof between us and -the blue deeps of that star-filled sky. He was a garrulous talker and -very friendly. He claimed that his mine was richer than Keane Wonder -ever dreamed of being. Once some one had offered him $300,000, but his -partner would not look at it. His tone implied that it was a paltry -sum anyway. He was an inventor, too, and had sold a patent for an -automobile-part which he described in great detail. We asked him if he -still hoped to sell the mine. He seemed not to know what he intended -to do. Plainly he was another victim of the "terrible fascination." He -related how he had lately been to Tonopah and got sick and almost died -from lack of air in the clutter of things. The Worrier said that he had -money put away somewhere, but money or no money, whether he ever sold -the mine or not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> he would hang around Death Valley the rest of his -life.</p> - -<p>"Old Johnnie" rose to fine heights as a story-teller when we invited -him to dinner next day. We had brought some fresh meat which had to -be used up early on the trip, and the Worrier achieved a magnificent -meal. Usually I was the cook, but that dinner was far beyond me. He -invaded the ruined boarding-house, wrestled successfully with the rusty -stove, and produced a roast surrounded by potatoes and onions to be -long remembered. We ate it at the board table in the dining-room. "Old -Johnnie" changed his coat for the festivity; he beamed upon us and -talked. He had the good story-teller's gift of suggestion and in the -midst of that blazing emptiness steeped in a silence broken only by -the wind clanging rusted cables and rattling the loosened iron roof, -he peopled the dining-room again. We saw the faces of the men crowding -in for their supper and heard their voices. Once more the camp-cook in -white apron and cap, for "Old Johnnie" described it as a fine camp "run -right," leaned over the table to pour soup into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> granite bowls. Keane -Wonder came to life while the obliterating desolation crept in at the -door.</p> - -<p>He told stories of other mining camps and of the struggle of individual -prospectors with the valley. You outwit its wickedness or you are -outwitted by it. It was alive, a sort of fascinating enemy. His words -took us with him and his burros down its white length. The enemy had -uncanny powers. She played strange tricks on you. If she could not get -you one way she tried another.</p> - -<p>"You find fellers dead down there," he said. "And they don't die of -thirst, either. Sometimes there's water in the canteens. They just go -crazy. She gets 'em."</p> - -<p>He leaned closer across the table and his voice became lower.</p> - -<p>"And you hear 'em in the night," he whispered.</p> - -<p>"Hear who?"</p> - -<p>"Them. I call it the Lonesome Bell."</p> - -<p>"What is the Lonesome Bell?" We found ourselves whispering too.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You hear it. It's a bell. It rings regular, far off. Sometimes you -hear it all night. It sounds like the bell on a burro. But it ain't -nothing. Once I had a young feller for a partner, and when he heard it -he got up and made coffee for the outfit that was coming. He wouldn't -believe me when I told him it wasn't nothing but the Lonesome Bell. He -waited and waited and nobody came. And the next morning he packed up -and beat it."</p> - -<p>Old Johnnie's eyes glittered with unnatural brightness. He was telling -his own secret. Very vividly he made us see a man alone in the blue -night, dim sand spreading away, dark-blue mountains on blueness. Not a -sound, not even the breath of the night stirring the sagebrush. Through -white, empty days and blue, empty nights he is always alone. He listens -to his own heart beating. Then, far off, the faint sound of a bell. -Then again. He listens intently because it is the only sound for such a -long time. It comes again. It grows louder. He strains to hear. A bell -belongs on a burro—he hears the tramp of burros' feet.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - -<p>With awe we looked at those bright, intent eyes and that thin body bent -tensely forward. Some night the Lonesome Bell will be true, but "Old -Johnnie" will not hear it. A belated traveler with his pack-train will -find a dead camp-fire and an old man asleep forever beside it. "Old -Johnnie" has outwitted the valley so long that he thinks he can always -do it, but she will get him in the end.</p> - -<p>After dinner "Old Johnnie" unlocked the mill and showed us the costly -machinery inside, explaining in careful detail the processes of -milling gold. The canyon behind Keane Wonder is narrow and precipitous -as though it had been gouged out by a giant's trowel. High up on -the mountain-side the dumps of iridescent rock around the mine-pits -shimmered. We sat with him on a beam of the ruined mill while he -pointed things out in the valley. He showed us where Furnace Creek -Ranch lies on the sand by the opening of the canyon between the -Funeral Range and the Black Mountains, but we could not see it because -of the heat-shimmer and the misty veil. He said that the stern, red -mass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> opposite was called Tucki Mountain, an Indian word for sheep, -because the Panamint Indians used to hunt wild mountain-sheep in its -fastnesses. The smooth, bare slope beyond the Mesquite Valley, he said, -was really very rough, cut by deep water-channels and covered with -brush; and rose in that gradual way nearly 3,000 feet before it reached -the mountains. The curious streak in the bottom of the Mesquite Valley -was the swamp of Salt Creek, where the water was so bad you could not -drink it. It joined the morass in the bottom of Death Valley. There -were quicksands there, that you could not get out of if you got in. Men -and burros had been lost that way. He pointed out little, white heaps -down by Salt Creek and said they were sand-dunes a hundred feet high.</p> - -<p>While we sat there a storm swept down the big slope and around on -the face of the high Panamints above Death Valley. First the wind -lifted the sand in the tall whirling wraiths that fled before the -pursuing host of the rain. It came on like an army of giants in bright -armor, dust-clouds swirling before their horses' <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>galloping feet, the -sun gleaming on their million spears that reached higher than the -mountain-tops. In the midst of blazing sunshine the shadow of their -passing was dark on the valley; for a few moments they obliterated the -mountains.</p> - -<p>"Surely," Charlotte said, "it is pouring rain over there, yet they told -us it never rains in Death Valley."</p> - -<p>"That's some rain," he admitted, "but maybe it ain't wetting the sand. -I've been in storms like that when the water all evaporated before it -got down."</p> - -<p>"But it must rain sometimes and the water get down," I objected to both -of them, "for Shady Myrick said that he had seen the valley full of -flowers."</p> - -<p>"I've seen 'em," he assented, with a sudden eager lighting of his -face—"yes!"</p> - -<p>They did not happen to bloom while we were there but we believe in -them. Anything might happen, anything could be true in that terrible, -bright place.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VI</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Strangest Farm in the World</i></span></h2> - -<p>On the fourth day we bade "Old Johnnie" farewell, and descended into -the quivering white basin. The next camp was to be at Furnace Creek -Ranch, the irrigated farm in the bottom of the valley established long -ago in connection with the original borax-works of the Twenty-Mule-Team -brand. The water for irrigation is brought down in a ditch from Furnace -Creek in the canyon between the Funeral Mountains and the Black -Mountains and the ranch is a large, green patch on the sand. In any -ordinary place, or in any ordinary light it would be a conspicuous -feature of the landscape; but, though "Old Johnnie" had pointed it -out so carefully, we could never distinguish it nor could we see it -during our approach that day until we were within half a mile of it. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>Throughout the journey the valley-floor presented the same unbroken, -white expanse.</p> - -<p>For several miles our way continued down the mesa. Here was no road, -only a lurching and grinding down a rocky wash, crawling over the -edge in the hope of something better and returning again to the ills -we knew. It seemed as though the slender-spoked wheels must collapse -under the strain. Our tower of baggage swayed dangerously. The Official -Worrier was a skillful driver and he needed to be, not only on this -day but on several subsequent ones which surpassed it. About noon we -reached the road that leads from Salt Creek at the southern end of -Mesquite Valley across the northern end of Death Valley and along -its eastern side to the ranch. This road was an improvement on the -uncharted wash. There were no rocks in it; but it soon became sandy, -two deep ruts meandering off toward the white floor.</p> - -<p>Presently we came to its edge and skirted the swamp of the Armagosa -River, the morass of mud and quicksands which fills the whole bottom of -the valley, an immense expanse covered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> with large white crystals and -a powdery substance that looks like coarse salt. The valley probably -was once the bed of a salt-lake whose slow evaporation left the thick -alkali crust. The ruts were very deep and the ground soft to walk on, -spongy and hummocky. The Worrier said that if the wagon were to get -out of the ruts it easily might be mired. "Old Johnnie" told us that -in some places in the middle of the bog a team or a man walking could -be sucked down out of sight and one of his tales was of finding a dead -man's face looking up at him out of the ground.</p> - -<p>"He was a Swede with yellow hair," he said, "and he stared at the sun. -He sank standing up."</p> - -<p>The road which crosses the valley below the ranch near the Old Eagle -Borax Works is said to be almost the only way to get over the swamp. -The Panamint Indians are supposed to have known this route and to have -crossed the valley to escape from their enemies, who dared not follow -them.</p> - -<p>A Government bench-mark by the roadside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> indicated 258 feet below -sea level. The heat was oppressive, and the white ground reflected a -blinding light. At one place, rounding the base of a hill which shut -off the view of the nearby mountains, we found ourselves in the midst -of miles of the shining whiteness. It spread in every direction, -reaching to the distant Panamints across the valley and to the hazy -outline of the low range at the southern end. The hill which we were -passing rose into the sky, white as the plain except for a few streaks -of ugly, greenish-yellow-like sulphur. No living green thing appeared. -The white expanse was unbroken by a bush or even by an outjutting rock. -The desolation was complete. An intense silence lay over it. If we -dropped far enough behind the wagon not to hear the creaking of its -wheels, we felt utterly alone, the only survivors in a dead universe. -That day the sky was a hot purplish-blue; no cloud shadows drifting -over the valley relieved its blinding monotony. The rose and silver -which we had seen from above were gone, not even the illusion of water -far off remained. The sun stared steadily down. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> was the far-spread, -motionless silence of the last days when the whole earth will be dying.</p> - -<p>Winding around the hill we came to the ruins of a borax-works. This had -been the first plant in the valley, then the Eagle Borax Works south of -the ranch was operated, but now the borax comes from the mines in the -mountains at Ryan. Nothing was left of the old borax-works except a few -roofless stone buildings and the ruins of the works which looked like a -row of immense vats embedded in the side of a low ridge. The vats and -the ridge had the same sulphurous color, and melted together. Around -the buildings the ground was covered with tin cans and broken bottles, -but the square of dark-blue shade beside each house was a blessed -relief from the burning sun.</p> - -<p>Beyond the old borax-works the road wound through sand covered with -large mesquites and greasewoods. Though the mesquite is called a tree -it looks more like an overgrown, thorny shrub. It grows near swamps and -dry lakes and is supposed to be a sure indication of water, but its -roots go down very deep and it appears<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> in desolations of sand where -it would be unwise for the wayfarer to dig. Those mesquites in Death -Valley looked very hopeless indeed, sprangling, thorny, leafless things -with a hillock of sand blown around the roots of each.</p> - -<p>As we descended into the valley and came along the edge of the morass -a feeling of deep lassitude and inertia gradually crept over Charlotte -and me. It had been very hard to leave the dark squares of shade at the -borax-works, and now as we crawled along among the mesquites we felt -that the white monotony would go on forever. It pressed upon us like a -weight that never, never could be lifted. We stared down at the sand -with unseeing eyes and went on because we were in the habit of going -on. The ranch was only an imagining, born of vain hope.</p> - -<p>And then the strange-looking, tufted tops of some tall palms appeared -against the sky. They were very striking and we thought they must still -be far off or we would have seen them all day, but not a quarter of an -hour later we reached the fence which separated the desert from the -emerald-green fields. The sudden springing up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> of the ranch was as -unreal as any imagining. The fence was a sharp line of demarcation. On -one side the sand drifted up to it, on the other were meadows and big -willow trees. It was evening when we arrived, so we camped at once by -the irrigation-ditch which made a narrow green ribbon across the sand -with grass and trees growing along its banks. We built our fire between -an encampment of Indians and the white adobe ranch-buildings beyond the -fence. The water rushed down the ditch, clear and cool. How marvelous -this running water seemed! How marvelous to dip out all we wanted to -wash ourselves and our clothes and our dishes!</p> - -<p>Our felicity, however, was short-lived. The Panamint Indians, in -common probably with all Indians, do not count cleanliness among their -virtues. The rising of the fierce, hot sun brought millions of flies -which converted our dishes and camp equipment into black masses that -crawled. Between the Indians and the large herd of cattle at the ranch, -camping by the irrigation-ditch was impossible. We spent most of the -forenoon moving a mile or two away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> among the mesquites. We were on -the gradually sloping ground which leads up from the valley-floor to -the rock-walls of the Funeral Mountains. Here in the valley we found -that our impression from the Keane Wonder Mine of mountains rising -precipitously from the flat white floor had been an illusion. The -characteristic mesa of the Mojave curves up on both sides, sandy, -covered with stones, but often entirely bare of vegetation. Death -Valley is always full of such illusions. Even afterwards, when we knew -better, we could never look down into the valley from a height without -feeling that the mountains rose precipitously out of it. That camp -among the mesquites blazed. The yellow sand seemed to smite our eyes. -Across the valley under the edge of the Panamints the mesa looked a -beautiful dark-blue, but around us was an even greater ecstasy of light -than we had known at Keane Wonder. Everything blazed, the sand, the -slow waves of the heat shimmer, the little rounded stony hills between -us and the Funeral Mountains, and the steel-blue battlements of the -mountains themselves.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Indians at the ranch are employed as laborers, when they will -work. The superintendent, a vigorous, silent Scotchman, was extremely -pessimistic about them. While we were there they had "the flu" and all -we ever saw them do was sit around the corral waiting for supplies -to be handed out. The women and girls, with heavy melancholy faces, -gathered and stared at us. They stared with the stolid curiosity of -cattle, not like burros who twitch their ears saucily, though they -have the burro's reputation for thievishness. The superintendent kept -everything under lock and key. The only Indian who showed a sign of -life was an old fellow who prowled around with a gun after the birds -and wild ducks that make the ranch a resting-place in their flights -across the desert. We were told that there was only one gun in the -whole encampment and that the younger men hunted with bows and arrows. -Most of them looked stunted and their faces were wrinkled like the -skins of shrunken, dried-up apples, as though the valley were taking -toll of the generations of their race.</p> - -<p>The valley takes its toll. Most white men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> cannot live there long. The -vigorous Scotchman had been at the ranch eight years and thought he -could remain, but no one else had ever stayed such a length of time, -and he had difficulty in finding anybody to keep him company for more -than a few months. He told us that no white woman can stand it at all -in summer. As Charlotte and I were almost prostrated even in early -March, we are willing to accept the statement. Nothing that anyone -can tell us of the evil effects of living in the valley is beyond our -imaginations. At times the thermometer goes up to 130 degrees, but -there is something worse than the heat. The Worrier claimed that 130 -degrees was not uncommon in Silver Lake, and that he spent his summers -there without suffering as people do in the valley. The mercury never -rose above 98 degrees while we were at the ranch, a temperature by -no means unknown in eastern summers, yet our feeling of lassitude -increased daily, combined with a faintness and giddiness that we could -hardly combat. The blazing light had much to do with it, and we were -below sea-level. A learned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> scientific man has since told us that so -small a drop in elevation could not be noticeable. Those old-timers -who went insane on the hot sands knew that it was noticeable. You feel -that if you were to go out into that blazing silence you could easily -go insane, or succumb to the deadly inertia which paralyzed Charlotte -and me. Too easily you could lie down in the thin, delusive shade of -some little bush and forget. Even beneath the willow trees beside the -flowing water we could scarcely move, our minds were dazed so we could -neither read nor think. We understood "Old Johnnie's" feeling about the -valley. Something hostile lives there.</p> - -<p>The ghastly, shining swamp and the pools of poisonous water are -horrible to the imagination because of their unnaturalness in the midst -of such choking thirst. Only the perverted brain of a demon could have -invented such a monstrosity. Water is in your thoughts all the time. -From morning until night you are thirsty in the dry heat, and you look -out over the shimmering miles and know that, though there is water here -and there, if you leave the irrigation-ditch <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>you cannot quench your -thirst. You cling to the narrow green line where the mountain-water -flows down. The feeling grows on you that you are visiting some -sinister world which can be no part of your beloved earth.</p> - -<p>And then night comes. A miracle happens and you know this is the same -outdoors you love, only its trappings are put off, it is stripped -of obscuring verdure, naked, and you find it more terrible than you -thought it could be and more beautiful than you thought it could be. -The rising and the setting of that cruel sun are great splendors, that -dark night sky is bigger and deeper than in kinder countries. The stars -are very near, floating in a sea so deep it reaches to infinity; they -are twice as big as ordinary stars, they look like silver balls. The -sky is a deep, dark blue. The whole valley is blue in the night and -luminous like a sapphire. The going-down of the sun is a pageant; its -uprising is a triumph. You feel as though you ought to clash cymbals, -you feel as though you ought to dance and sing when the sun looks over -the mountains. You have been remiss in worship all your life <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>because -you have not learned to dance and sing in honor of the rising sun. The -sun-god was worshiped on the desert for there the sun is a cruel, great -god. His glory consumes the earth, but he is so absorbed in rejoicing -in his glory that he does not know it.</p> - -<p>One night we camped a little way up the canyon behind the ranch in the -vain hope of finding a cooler spot. The canyon entered the mountain -beside a precipitous, jagged cliff made of crumbling yellow rock, so -steep that we could scarcely climb its sides. We attempted it late in -the afternoon in the hope of getting a view of the whole valley at -sunset, but its knife-edge ridges were so sharp and crumbling and our -endurance so slight after the burning day that we could not reach a -satisfactory summit. Being shut up in a canyon was no part of our plan -and we made the Worrier help us lug our beds quite a way from camp to -the top of a little hill overlooking at least part of the valley.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you take them to the top of that there peak?" he inquired -sarcastically, pointing at one of the steel-blue crests of the Funeral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> -Range. We could not help it if he scoffed, we had to see the drama -of the coming of night. Panting from these exertions added to our -fruitless effort to climb the cliff, we brought up a canteen and the -few things we needed and bade him go back and sleep happily under the -wagon.</p> - -<p>We ourselves had very little sleep on the hilltop for the drama was too -stupendous. Slowly the mountains turned blue, and then bluer. Their -beautiful skyline was drawn with a pencil that left a golden, luminous -mark. Pale blue crept into the valley, indigo lay in pools among the -foothills. The whole night was a succession of studies in blue like -the blue nights some artists paint, but every shade of blue that an -artist could mix on his palette was there. Layers of different blues -lay one above another, and changed, and mingled. The enormous stars -came out and hung in the sky like great lamps. The sapphire valley -glistened beneath them. The lamps swung slowly toward the west and then -were gradually extinguished. The sapphire turned into a moonstone, -palely glimmering, and then into an opal full of flashing fires. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> -cruel, great god was coming. He came, and we were two tongue-tied fools -longing to celebrate him and only standing mute and bewildered.</p> - -<p>We always felt that longing and that bewilderment during the evenings -and nights and mornings in the White Heart. They overwhelmed us and -hurt us. We were like prisoners shut in by the walls of ourselves, -unable to break through and be one with such beauty. We could not rest -in it as we had rested for long minutes by the red promontory where we -first saw the valley; there was too much beauty. We clutched at each -changing, evanescent moment, spectators watching through tiny loopholes -in the walls a pageant which passed too quickly and was too big for our -understanding.</p> - -<p>The White Heart exceeds the imagination every way. It is too terrible -and too splendid. It asserts itself tremendously; the green patch of -the ranch lying on the baked sand beside the shining swamp seems more -ephemeral and unimportant than any of man's efforts to tame the desert; -it is an unreality, a dream, and the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>dwellers on it are shadows in -a dream. The majesty of the valley completely overshadows the row of -tall palms against the background of the snowy Panamints, and the -little oasis of alfalfa-fields, willow-trees, and white ranch-buildings -blessed with shade. They might vanish like a mirage and never be -missed. The magnificent procession of the nights and days passes over -the white terror, more magnificent than other nights and days precisely -because of the glowing of that terrible sand and those terrible -mountains, perfect for its own sake, and utterly indifferent whether or -not eyes and hearts can endure it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VII</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Burning Sands</i></span></h2> - -<p>Every day that we stayed in Death Valley seemed more awful than the -last. From ten o'clock in the morning until four in the afternoon we -existed in a blind torpor. Eyes and brain and pumping heart could not -bear it. At noon we always planned to leave immediately, we panted -to escape; then the enchantment would begin and we would forget all -the plans. Soon, however, it became evident that we must get up into -the coolness of the mountains on one side or the other of the burning -basin, for there was no such thing as becoming acclimated. In the -stupor in which we lived the plans we made were extremely incoherent. -We only knew that the mantle of snow on the peaks of the Panamints, so -serene above the quivering heat of the valley, was the most desirable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> -thing on earth. To reach it with the wagon we had to circle the -northern end of the morass, cross the low ridge into the Mesquite -Valley and go up the great mesa leading to Emigrant Pass behind the -mountains. There we would bury ourselves in the cold, wet snow, and rub -it on our faces and fling it about, strong again and able to laugh at -midday. The Worrier pooh-poohed this plan when it finally emerged, for -snow has no allurement for a "desert rat." He suggested that we go on -up the canyon in which we were camped and thus quickly escape, but we -refused to consider that. We had come for the purpose of knowing the -feel of the valley and we must travel over the burning sands.</p> - -<p>The Worrier was amenable; he always was, but he liked to be persuaded. -We went back to Furnace Creek Ranch from the camp in the canyon and -stocked ourselves with hay and drinking-water, as we would find no more -good water until we reached Emigrant Springs some fifty miles away. -The journey over that difficult country would take the better part of -four days. Two of the camps would be by so-called "bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> water," which, -however, animals can drink—the first at Cow Creek not far from the -ranch, and the second at Salt Creek in the southern end of Mesquite -Valley. The third would be a "dry camp," somewhere on the big mesa we -had seen from the Keane Wonder Mine.</p> - -<p>Leaving the ranch rather late on the same day we passed the old -borax-works again, wound round the white and sulphur-colored hill -through the spongy, borax-encrusted ground and along the edge of the -sandy mesa where it begins to rise from the level bottom of the valley. -Cow Creek is a little green spot at the base of the Funeral Mountains -about two miles from the road. Though it is near the ranch we stopped -there in order to break the long pull from Furnace Creek to Salt Creek. -In Death Valley every blazing mile is to be reckoned with and it is -worth while to shorten a day's journey from twenty miles to sixteen. No -track led to Cow Creek from the road, and the mesa, which looked quite -level, turned out to be as steep as usual. It was broken by little -washes and thinly covered with brush. Bumping over it under the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> hot -sun we felt again as though we were in the midst of an interminable -monotony. The mountain seemed unattainable. Charlotte and I, suffering -from the usual lassitude and complete lack of ambition, wanted to stop -and camp on the sand beside a large mesquite, the only thing anywhere -that cast a big enough shadow to sit down in, and we had a sharp -argument with the Worrier.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i130.jpg" id="i130.jpg"></a><img src="images/i130.jpg" alt="THE ALKALI BOTTOM OF DEATH VALLEY" /></div> - -<p class="bold">THE ALKALI BOTTOM OF DEATH VALLEY</p> - -<p>"You can't do that," he said. "It don't matter so much to-day, the -water ain't far, but to-morrow you got to go on and you better do it -now. When we start you've got to get there, or we don't start."</p> - -<p>That was unanswerable and we dragged ourselves on until we reached a -large rock near the spring with a square of blue darkness beside it. -He was satisfied with our endeavor and let us make camp there while -he took the horses to the spring. Cow Creek is chiefly memorable for -another argument, a long, warm debate as to whether or not Molly and -Bill could haul the outfit up the four-thousand-foot rise to Emigrant -Springs. Charlotte maintained that they could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> not. She based her -argument entirely on the appearance of Molly and Bill and she had -a good one; but I, inspired by the band of snow on the tops of the -Panamints and the mountain-climber's zeal, met it with spirit. I said -that Molly and Bill could do it because they were "desert-proof Indian -horses." The Worrier lay at full length on the sand, apparently lost -to the world. I demanded what he thought about it. He replied sleepily -that you "never can tell 'til you try." All the time we were in the -valley we argued, and it is to the credit of all three of us that the -arguments never degenerated into quarrels. Our nerves were very near -the surface. Everything was difficult to do, packing and unpacking, -cooking, shaking the sand out of the blankets, hitching-up, getting -anywhere, gathering brush for our poor little fires. We all did the -minimum of work, and the desert demands very little of the camper-out, -but under the weight that seemed to be always pressing down on us that -little was hard even for the Worrier.</p> - -<p>Next morning we arose with the dawn and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> hastened to get underway -during the cool hours. The road lay over miles and miles of sand, -dotted in some places with sad-looking brush and streaked sometimes -with the white borax deposit. As always, the morning was radiant. -The valley was beautiful, wrapped in its lonely silence, and for the -first few hours Charlotte and I forgot our discomforts in the circle -of high mountains, blue and red in the sunshine, and the clean sweep -of the sand; but by noon we could not see anything and had to ride -ignominiously in the wagon with our eyes on the very tiny oblong shadow -that traveled beside it. Charlotte had dark glasses, but she seemed -to suffer as much as I, who lived again through the nightmare of my -childhood's dream. A hot haze lay over all the distances, though the -air was clear, and the nearby little stones and bushes blazed. The -wagon crawled on, the sand falling in bright showers from the slowly -turning wheels, until Molly and Bill stopped. We shook the reins with -what energy we had left, and the Worrier came up and shouted and threw -stones, but they only looked around at us pathetically.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> - -<p>"We might as well eat lunch here and let 'em rest," he said.</p> - -<p>There was no shade except the bit beside the wagon. We sat in that and -leaned against the wheels. They would not move for Molly and Bill hung -down their heads and the sweat streamed off them. The sand glittered -with little particles of mica, which added to the glaring brightness. -Toward the south the illusion of water appeared once more, not blue -but a glassy gray with several strange-looking shrubs reflected in it -upside down. There was nothing between us and the ranch to look so -large, unless it were magnified like the stunted little bushes in the -mirage at Silver Lake. The Worrier decided that these appearances could -only be the palm trees, though they did not look in the least like palm -trees nor could we see a sign of the green patch of the ranch. It is -curious that we never saw Furnace Creek Ranch from any of the places -where we had views of the valley, either before we had been there or -afterwards, or while we were approaching or leaving it. It sprang from -the earth by magic for our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> bewilderment and vanished the instant we -went away.</p> - -<p>That lunch-place was in the middle of Death Valley at the northern -edge of the morass. Ever since coming down from the Keane Wonder Mine -we had been below sea-level. Tradition has it that the lowest part -of the valley is south of the Ranch, near the old Eagle Borax Works, -but the bench-marks of the government's survey indicate that the part -opposite the white and sulphur-colored hill by the borax-works which we -had passed is the lowest. Two iron posts driven into the ground along -the road had read respectively 253 and 257 feet below sea-level. The -lowest point, 280 feet, was in the morass at our end of the valley not -very far away. Whether being below sea-level has an effect or not we -all suffered that day. The Worrier guessed the temperature at about 105 -degrees, but said that it felt like 120 degrees at Silver Lake. The sun -seemed to stand still in a hard sky. The heat rose solidly from the -endless white sand, the vast glistening swamp and the metallic-looking -mountains. We were in the midst of an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> immense movelessness, in a -silence never to be broken.</p> - -<p>After an hour's halt we started on again, Charlotte and I in the wagon, -though we could hardly bear to be dragged through the heavy sand by -that unhappy horse and mule. Even in the wagon our heads swam, the -ground would not stay still under us, the sun seemed to drink every -bit of moisture from our bodies so we burned in the heat instead of -perspiring. The skin of our faces and hands felt dried up and as though -it might chip off. We were blind and parched with thirst. The water -in the canteens was hot and did not help us much. Molly and Bill kept -trying to stop, and little stones the Worrier threw as he walked behind -whizzed past our heads and thudded on their tired flanks. We had to -fight the hope that they would stop for good and let us creep under the -wagon and shut our eyes; but we never suggested doing it. "When you -start you got to get there."</p> - -<p>The Worrier himself suggested stopping two hours after lunch in the -shade of a little grove of mesquites, though they were not much good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> -as shade-trees. They were about ten feet high, each one with a little -hummock of sand blown around its roots, and branches armed with long -sharp thorns spreading close to the sand. We could not get under them, -but for some reason they were more comforting than sitting beside the -wagon.</p> - -<p>"We'll stay until the sun gets above Tucki Mountain," he said. "We're -getting along fine, if Molly and Bill don't lay down."</p> - -<p>"Suppose they should lie down?"</p> - -<p>"You'd stay by the wagon and I'd go back for help." He spoke cheerfully -as though the idea of walking back over the burning sands was perfectly -commonplace.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you could walk out of the valley from anywhere?"</p> - -<p>"Sure. Got to. I walked thirty miles once without no water. Blazing hot -as this and not a bush big enough to get more than my head under. I -laid down by a greasewood most all day. But I made it."</p> - -<p>Walking through the valley at that season was nothing to an old-timer. -They often cross it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> in June, July and August. Death is lurking behind -the bushes then, waiting for them. Along the way from Furnace Creek we -had passed two of the sun-bleached boards set upright in the sand which -mark graves on the desert.</p> - -<p>As the day cooled we wandered a little way from the road among the -mesquite and suddenly came upon another one. Near it lay the skeletons -of two burros tied to a bush and a little further off a coffee pot -beside the stones that had been a fireplace. Someone had written with a -pencil on the board: "John Lemoign, Died Aug. 1919."</p> - -<p>The Worrier had known John Lemoign. He described him as a regular -old-timer who owned a mine somewhere in Tucki Mountain. Our friend -seemed sorry, but his final comment was:</p> - -<p>"He ought to have known better. But they never learn. They always think -they will make it this time."</p> - -<p>Everywhere that attitude toward accidents on the desert was typical. -"Old Johnnie" told his most gruesome tales as though the victims were -to blame. The valley was an enemy to be out-generaled; <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>if you were -a fool, of course she would get you. It was a pity when she did, -inevitable and not very important. They were not callous, for they -included themselves in the "inevitable and not very important." When -we had first talked to them they seemed to us singularly care-free and -their faith in their own sagacity and prowess pathetically blind, but -we found that we shared somewhat in their attitude as we crossed the -burning sands. We felt able to take care of ourselves—could there -be a more pathetic and blind faith?—and if by some remote mischance -we should not be able, it would be only another painful but trifling -accident. The sun-bleached boards made us sorry, but they did not seem -especially tragic.</p> - -<p>The point of view is born of the desert herself. When you are there, -face to face with the earth and the stars and time day after day, you -cannot help feeling that your rôle, however gallant and precious, is -a very small one. This conviction, instead of driving you to despair -as it usually does when you have it inside the walls of houses, -releases you very unexpectedly from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> all manner of anxieties. You are -frightfully glad to have a rôle at all in so vast and splendid a drama -and want to defend it as well as you can, but you do not trouble much -over the outcome because the desert mixes up your ideas about what -you call living and dying. You see the dreadful, dead country living -in beauty, and feel that the silence pressing around it is alive. The -Worrier said one night:</p> - -<p>"My, ain't it awful! Them stars and everything. Makes you feel kind of -small."</p> - -<p>"Do you like to look at them?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do."</p> - -<p>"Why do you?"</p> - -<p>"I dunno."</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>VIII</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Dry Camp</i></span></h2> - -<p>When the sun stood over Tucki and the mesquites began to have real -shadows beside them we resumed our journey. The little ridge which -separates Death Valley from Salt Creek had looked very insignificant -from the Keane Wonder Mine, but we climbed for more than an hour to -cross it. It was entirely bare and covered with small flat stones of -pale colors, lavender, light-blue, gray and buff, pressed down into a -hard mosaic. Instead of being polished smooth the delicately-colored -little stones were marked with intricate patterns which looked like -the impressions of leaves and sections of plants, as though a vanished -vegetation had left its record upon them. We were not scientific enough -to know whether they were really fossils or whether the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>markings were -due to the action of water or some other cause. So lovely were they -that in spite of the heat which still beat up from the bright ground -Charlotte and I walked behind the wagon in order to examine them. -There, on that hard ridge, where not even one sickly sagebrush grew, we -saw the fronds of ferns and the stems and cups of flowers finely etched.</p> - -<p>From the top of the ridge the dim wagon-track which we had been -following pitched down an almost impossible hill to Salt Creek, a marsh -formed by a stream that keeps itself mostly underground. Coarse grass -grew in it, looking very green in the surrounding waste, alternating -with streaks of white alkali. The marsh winds down from the Mesquite -Valley and cuts through the ridge into Death Valley. The surrounding -country is utterly barren. A little way off up the bog we could see -the beginning of the sand-dunes which "Old Johnnie" had pointed out, -opposite us rose the immense mesa leading up past Tucki Mountain to -Emigrant Pass through the Panamints, at the left just beyond the swamp -stood the harsh, red mass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> of Tucki, first a smooth-looking bare -slope, then towering buttresses and crags of rock. Our side of Salt -Creek was a jumble of little stony hills. Save for the grass and a few -dead-looking mesquites in the swamp we could not see a growing thing in -the whole waste.</p> - -<p>You have to dig a well to get the water from Salt Creek. Several -shallow holes had been dug where the road began to cross the marsh, -and, as one was clean enough for our use, the Worrier was spared the -exertion of making another. Stove Pipe Wells, near which the ring of -wagons is said to be buried, is a little further up Salt Creek where -some prospector once drove down a length of Stove Pipe to preserve -his water-hole. All the water in Salt Creek is bitter and salty, -intolerable to drink. We had thought that we might at least use it for -cooking, but one taste killed that hope. We feared we could not eat -potatoes boiled in it, and knew that tea would be impossible, so once -more we drew upon the fifteen gallons which we had brought from Furnace -Creek Ranch.</p> - -<p>Poor Molly and Bill had no choice in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> matter. They had to drink the -loathsome stuff which the Worrier drew up for them from the uninviting -hole. However, they seemed much pleased with the coarse, green -grass, the first forage they had had since leaving Daylight Springs. -Henceforth they would have to get their own living with occasional -small feeds of grain, as we could not carry enough hay to last for -more than another two days. By that time we should be well up in the -mountains; still, remembering Beatty and the thin pickings at Daylight -Springs, and looking out now over the discouraging bareness, their -prospects seemed far from cheerful.</p> - -<p>When we had located our camp as far as possible from the tin cans and -ancient rubbish of other camps, the Worrier took his shot gun from -under the wagon seat and went off to hunt ducks. Ducks! How could the -desolation of Salt Creek, after that journey over the burning sands, -yield ducks? At every green place like Furnace Creek Ranch and Saratoga -Springs, we saw birds. They flashed in the sun and their twitterings -broke the silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> While we unloaded the wagon that evening we saw -small yellow birds like wild canaries light on the mesquites in the -swamp, and many tiny blue birds; but it was hard to believe in wild -ducks, even harder there than it had been at the ranch where the old -Indian snooped around with his gun.</p> - -<p>The Worrier's assurance was so surprising that we put off getting -dinner and dragged ourselves to the top of one of the stony hills -overlooking the winding of Salt Creek toward Death Valley to watch -him. From that viewpoint the swamp coiled between high, perpendicular, -sulphur-colored bluffs like a poisonous snake glistening with green -and white spots. One small blue pool far off was its eye. The Worrier -was working his way toward that from grass-tussock to grass-tussock. -Presently he reached it and vanished in a bunch of rushes at its edge.</p> - -<p>While we sat and waited the enchantment of sunset began. The sky -became orange and green, the terrible valley that we loved and hated -began to put on its sapphire robe, the sulphurous walls that prisoned -the snake turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> pink, the poisonous blue eye, too blue, too bright, -softened—the enchanter almost had us by the throats again, ready to -choke us until tears came in our eyes, when two shots spilt the spell. -We sprang up, startled; we had forgotten that a man was hunting ducks -in a swamp. A scramble then, back to the fireplace, a hasty match, the -red fire kindled and leaping up, the smoke-blacked pot balanced on the -iron bar stolen from "Old Johnnie," the soft clash of tin dishes, and -soon a proud hunter coming home through the sapphire night.</p> - -<p>Early next morning we were underway, floundering across the swamp. The -Worrier fulfilled his function by doing a little worrying there, for -he remarked afterwards that he might have lost Molly and Bill. Salt -Creek marsh is a little sample of the giant bog that makes the bottom -of Death Valley fearful. The road usually traveled to Emigrant Pass -leads along the edge of the marsh and through the sand-dunes before it -begins to ascend the big mesa, but "Old Johnnie" had instructed us to -avoid the heavy sand by keeping to the base of Tucki<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> Mountain. There -was a sort of track in some places, but mostly we ground among rocks -and made detours to avoid gullies too deep to cross. The base of the -mountain had looked smooth, instead it was cut by wide, deep washes -full of rolled-down boulders. For nine miles we skirted Tucki before -we began the ascent of the mesa itself. Not till then did we pass a -bench-mark indicating that at last we were as high as sea-level. Except -that the road around the mountain was rocky instead of sandy there was -very little difference between the morning's journey and the one across -Death Valley. The light and heat were intense and we suffered from the -same feeling of depression. Even when we began to ascend the mesa we -were hardly conscious of any relief. Though we climbed two thousand -feet that day we were still on the burning sands under the pitiless -sun. Everything burned, rocks were hot to the touch, the endless stony -ground was a hot floor. Tucki Mountain showed a dull red as though it -smoldered, and the hot blaze on the mountains beyond the great mesa was -smoke rising out of furnaces.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p> - -<p>After passing the bench-mark we were in the midst of an immense space -far away from any mountains, toiling for miles up a stony barrenness -where only scattered sagebrush grew. The road was so washed out that -often no trace of it showed and the Worrier steered by intuition. The -wagon groaned and swayed, and Molly and Bill stumbled and sweated. -In the roughest places we led them. We all walked most of the day to -lighten their load. A long spur of Tucki Mountain reached up the mesa -several miles to the left, ending in a red promontory which we must go -around, and that point became our goal. We toiled and toiled, but it -was never any nearer. A quarter of an hour, a day, a year of putting -one foot heavily in front of the other, and we would look up expecting -some reward for so much labor, and the red promontory would be exactly -where it was before.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon we saw a cloud of dust moving. We hoped it might be -wind coming to cool us, but it turned out to be a cattle outfit cutting -across the mesa to our road. The dust cloud looked near, yet it was -fully two hours before we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> met the cattlemen. The sight of the big herd -of cattle on the desert was stranger than the yellow and blue birds -or the fabulous wild ducks had been. They were being driven over this -awful country to a spring feeding-ground in Wild Rose Canyon, and they -were white with dust, limping on sore, cut feet. Two men and a boy in -big hats and with pistols at their belts rode small shaggy horses, -galloping through the brush and shouting when the tired cattle tried -to stop or scatter at meeting us. Wild Rose Canyon was cold at this -season, the men said, and there was plenty of fine water in it. "A -river runs down the middle," the boy volunteered. We looked out over -the shimmering mesa stretching hopelessly in all directions. A canyon -called Wild Rose where a river flowed between the mountains!</p> - -<p>We inquired further into the fairy tale. The Canyon was about forty -miles away by the route which we would have to take with the wagon. -It led up into the high Panamints. There was a spring by some old -charcoal-kilns right under Mt. Baldy. The cattlemen knew nothing of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> -Telescope Peak. They had never heard of any one climbing the mountains. -They supposed it was easy enough when the snow was gone. No doubt -prospectors had been up, but there was nothing there, it was no good. -We saw them eying the Worrier curiously, evidently wondering what -manner of creatures he had managed to pick up.</p> - -<p>After a mile or two they left us, turning off by an ancient signboard -pointing vaguely toward the long, red spur of Tucki Mountain with the -legend: "Water Eight Miles," and in the opposite direction across the -trackless, torn-up waste: "Water Fifteen Miles." What are eight miles -or fifteen miles to the modern man accustomed to leap over distance? -To the primitive traveler with horses and mules, and until now all -travelers throughout the ages have been thus primitive, a mile is a -formidable reality. Mojave teaches the truth about it. At the end of -those two days, that "Water Eight Miles" was as inaccessible to us as -though it had been fifty. Even if we had been full of vigor we probably -could not have reached it with the wagon over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> that rough ground. The -cattlemen, however, on their tough little horses, went to it. We did -not attempt to leave the two dim streaks that occasionally marked our -road, but at dusk stopped and made camp beside them.</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i150.jpg" id="i150.jpg"></a><img src="images/i150.jpg" alt="THE DESERT" /></div> - -<p class="bold">THE DESERT</p> - -<p>That was our first genuine dry camp, though it was the third time -we had depended on the water carried from Furnace Creek. Water is -the commonest of all commodities, so common that we fail to realize -its meaning until we are without it. All the camps thus far had been -resting-places, homes. We had come to feel that any spot where we built -our fire could be home, for the essentials of home are very simple; a -little water, something to eat, a bit of fire, and good friends. In the -mess at Keane Wonder, in the forbidding inhospitality of Salt Creek, -we had had them all and been at home; but that night, when the Worrier -began to unload the wagon in the stark middle of the solitary waste, we -were not at home. Nor could we make it home, however brightly we urged -up the fire or cheerfully we talked. One of the essentials was missing -and the gasoline cans<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> could not take its place. No water, not even bad -water, not a drop! That mesa was not a human resting-place; we were -aliens in it, transients, one-night-standers. The Worrier laughed at -our restless forlornness. On subsequent travels we have learned to make -dry camps almost as nonchalantly as he does, but they are never home.</p> - -<p>In the hot miles between Furnace Creek Ranch and the mountain-spring -we learned the meaning for our little lives of the commonest of -commodities. We had never been so thirsty, no amount of water could -satisfy us, and the supply was limited. We had enough for all our -needs, yet we never could forget that there was an end to it. When the -jolting of the wagon slopped some out around one of the corks we could -have wept. Using any for cooking or washing dishes, and pouring out ten -gallons for Molly and Bill at the dry camp seemed terrible. Until then -we had thoughtlessly turned on a faucet, or drawn a bucket from a well, -or dipped water out of a stream. Now there was no water. The miles were -not only hot, they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> dry miles. The diminishing supply of warm, -unattractive liquid in the dented gasoline-cans was our most precious -possession. We would have parted with everything we had, rather than -lose it.</p> - -<p>From the camping place the red promontory looked as far away as it had -been at noon; we seemed to have made no impression on our goal. Below -us the Mesquite Valley spread out, immense and still, with the green -thread of Salt Creek crossing it. On the far side rose the Grapevine -Range, of which Corkscrew Mountain is the southern end. The evening air -was so clear that we could see the spiral cliff and the opening of the -canyon that leads to Daylight Pass. It looked very near, yet how many -days'-journeys we had come from there! Heat and thirst and weariness -lay between. The grimness of Death Valley, cool now in the shadow of -the Panamints, was hidden by the buttresses of Tucki. The long line of -sultry red rock that had smoldered and smoked all day slowly turned -blue in the twilight. It seemed as though you might saunter over there -and lay your hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> upon it, yet the signboard pointing to the water at -its base had read eight miles. We had long lost sight of the cattlemen. -Suddenly, in the dusky blueness under the mountain, their camp fire -bloomed like a crimson cactus flower.</p> - -<p>Evening smoothed the whole mesa into a blue and yellow floor rounding -gently the mountains. It was impossible to believe that it was -everywhere cut into hills and canyons by washes fifteen or twenty feet -deep as it was around our camp. In the bottoms of the declivities large -greasewoods and cacti grew, and occasional tufts of dried grass; but -the wind-swept ridges were bare and every particle of sand was blown -away from among the stones. On one of the beaten-down mosaics near -our camp something gleamed dimly. We went to it and found large white -stones laid in the form of a cross pointing toward the east. Another -traveler, then, had stopped here. Perhaps he had looked at the red -promontory and the spiral cliff and lost hope; perhaps he had prayed -for water; or perhaps he had made it as a thank-offering for the -blessed coming of cool night.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>IX</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The Mountain Spring</i></span></h2> - -<p>The next day's climb was easier, for by the time the sun had asserted -its full vigor we were at an altitude where the air was cool, -tinglingly crisp, and so clear that it seemed not to exist at all. The -earth sparkled with laughter and shouted her joy in the glory of light.</p> - -<p>For several hours the red promontory continued to recede, then suddenly -we were rounding it, and soon afterwards entered a gorge whose sides -steadily became higher and higher. The bottom of the gorge was a wide, -sandy wash much cut up by rains, full of boulders and grown over with -brush. The vegetation became ever greener and more luxuriant. The wash -looked like a wind-tossed green river between crumbly, precipitous -mountains of many colors. Some were a dull red, some sage-green,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> some -buff, some dark yellow, while an occasional purple crag gave the canyon -a savage appearance. These mountains had the velvet texture which we -had seen at Saratoga Springs, especially the sage-green ones. The -colors were not an atmospheric illusion for the mountains were actually -made of different colored rock. We investigated them with great -interest. Though the velvet-textured hills had often been all around -us, they were always too far away or the sun was too fiercely hot for -us to get near enough to touch them. Now we walked along the edge of -the wash picking up the colored rocks while the Worrier led Molly and -Bill up the middle. It was so steep that he often had to rest them.</p> - -<p>About three o'clock we came unexpectedly upon a little spring. It -was in a green cleft between a red and a yellow hill where the water -trickled over the rock into a charming basin. Eagerly we dipped in -our cups. It was true! Here at last was a real mountain spring, very -cold, tasteless, a miraculous gift from Heaven. We drank and drank. The -Worrier unhitched<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> Molly and Bill and they broke away from him to rush -at the water. They did not stop drinking until the last drop was gone.</p> - -<p>This bit of Paradise was a complete surprise. The map did not show the -little spring, nor did the Worrier know of its existence. It was so -tiny that doubtless it is often dry. Emigrant Springs itself, with a -much more plentiful flow of water, was about a mile further on. There -the canyon narrowed with steep, high sides broken into some beautifully -shaped summits. The spring is only a few miles from a big abandoned -mining camp called Skidoo and used to be an important one for desert -travelers. Someone once built a shack, and nearby was a cave with a -fireplace inside, also a corral, part of whose fence had since been -used for firewood. Like all desert watering places the surroundings -were littered with tin cans, old shoes and rusty iron. We know now -what becomes of all the old shoes in the world; they are spirited -away to the desert. An ancient government pamphlet that we had found -blowing about in one of the shacks at Keane Wonder and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>carefully -preserved describes very scientifically how to locate water, then -throws science to the winds and says that the tin can is the best of -all methods. When you find a pile of tin cans stop and search. It -is surprising how quickly you cease to see the litter, provided it -is sufficiently ancient not to be actively dirty. The desert has no -foreground; you soon stop looking much for things near at hand and get -the horizon-gazing habit. If a flower or a shining stone is at your -feet you see it joyfully, but if it is a tin can it does not exist. -There are too many far-off, enchanting things to look at. You are never -unaware of the sky, nor the beautiful curves of the mountains; no -forests nor roofs conceal them from you, and your eyes pass untroubled -over small uglinesses.</p> - -<p>We made our camp in the shelter of an immense rock that stood alone -in the middle of the wash, and settled down for a long resting space. -The desert was exhibiting her variety in monotony. Between the burning -sands and this mountain coolness what a difference, and yet what an -essential sameness! Here is the same glittering sand, the same colorful -rocks, the same plants,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> the same bare, crumbling hills. The sun blazes -with the same brightness, turning every projecting edge of rock and -little leaf into a spot of light. The all-enveloping silence is the -same. The distances shine with the same illusion.</p> - -<p>All around Emigrant Springs are mountains from five to seven thousand -feet high. One day was devoted to a stiff climb up to the abandoned -mines at Skidoo, at an elevation of about 6,000 feet. A trail started -up from Emigrant Springs, but it looked very steep, so we went a longer -way around intending to come down it. Part of the route lay over high -ridges from which we saw the splendid mass of the snowy Panamints, -now close at hand. We passed little patches of snow in the shadows of -the rocks. The sky was a deep blue all day and the air cold with the -mountain sting in it.</p> - -<p>The town of Skidoo lay in a high valley shut off from a view by the -surrounding hills. They were barren and made of crumbly yellow rock. -The long narrow basin itself was covered with sagebrush like a blue -carpet. The town had consisted of one wide street along which several<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> -buildings were still standing. An incredible number of stoves, broken -chairs and cooking utensils were strewn about. The most imposing -building had been the saloon, behind which a neatly piled wall of -bottles, five feet high and several feet wide, testified to past good -cheer. The Worrier said that four thousand people once had lived here. -They had brought water twenty-eight miles in a pipe-line from a spring -near Telescope Peak. During the war the pipe was taken out and sold -to the government, but we could see the trench plainly, perfectly -straight, leading off toward Mt. Baldy across high ridges. With the -taking out of the water Skidoo died.</p> - -<p>The place was littered with paper-covered books and old magazines. In -one house we found a pile of copies of a work entitled "Mysterious -Scotty, or the Monte Cristo of Death Valley." Needless to say we stole -one, which became a treasure to be brought out in idle hours by the -camp-fire. "Scotty" was a boon to the Worrier who did not hold much -with the sort of literature that we carried around. Early in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> the -expedition he had glanced over our library and preferred meditation. We -had a few slim volumes of verse, "Leaves of Grass," some wild tales of -Lord Dunsany's and a learned treatise on how to paint. This last helped -us to keep up the fiction of artistic greatness.</p> - -<p>From Skidoo we traversed the top of a long ridge from the precipitous -end of which we had a superb view over Death Valley. We owed this -to "Old Johnnie" who had told us to go there, for among the tumbled -peaks of the Panamint Range around Skidoo you could wander a long time -without getting a commanding view of the valley. The point from which -we saw it that day was opposite Furnace Creek Ranch, but even with -the glass we could not distinguish the green patch of the ranch, nor -could we see the Eagle Borax Works lower down. The bottom looked like -a white plain with brown streaks around and across it. Death Valley is -always different. That afternoon there was no play of color, no magical -mirage. From there, looking straight down seven thousand feet, it was -ghastly, utterly unlike anything on the earth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> as most of us know her. -It was like the valleys on the dead, bright moon when you look at them -through a powerful telescope.</p> - -<p>We stayed too long watching the shadow of the Panamints, as sharp and -stark as a shadow on the moon, encroach on the white floor. Twilight -had begun by the time we reached Skidoo again to hunt the trail down -to Emigrant Springs. We tramped around the rough hills searching for -it until darkness made it impossible to distinguish it even if we had -found it. There below lay our camp. Could we have gone down a ridge or -a canyon to it we would have defied the trail, but it was necessary to -go crosswise over several of the ridges that buttress the mountain, and -up and down their steep dividing canyons. Even the Worrier hesitated -to attempt this in the dark. Getting lost is one of the easiest things -you can do in desert mountains for they are very broken, flung down -seemingly without plan, cut by deep, often precipitous gorges. The same -old, tattered pamphlet that gives advice about tin cans also advises -about getting lost. It says that persons not blessed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> with a good sense -of locality had better find some other place than the desert for the -"exercise of their talents." Standing on top of a mountain you think -you know very well where to go, but when you get into those clefts -among those hills that look all alike you find you do not know. Any -moment you may meet a barrier to be climbed over with great labor or -gone around at the risk of getting involved in little canyons leading -off in the wrong direction.</p> - -<p>There was nothing to do but skirt around the mountain and try to get -back onto the path by which we had come. During the quest we had our -reward and were glad. Just as night was closing in a shadow rose like a -curtain beyond the mountain-tops that shut Death Valley from us. It was -a blue shadow and a rose-colored shadow. It was both those colors and -yet they were not merged to a purple. It seemed to rise straight up, a -live thing, as though the spirit of the valley were greeting the stars. -The beautiful apparition remained less than a minute; always after that -we looked toward deep valleys at evening hoping to see it again, but we -never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> saw it, though night made wonderful shadows and blue pools of -darkness in them. Death Valley is a thing apart. It is a white terror -whose soul is a miracle of rose and blue.</p> - -<p>About an hour later we came upon the cabin of "Old Tom Adams," another -old-timer guarding his own mine and Skidoo. He came out and made a -great fuss about finding "ladies." He had heard of us before. He -offered to make coffee, but a deep craving for more substantial food -forbade any delay. He talked incessantly and would hardly let us go; no -doubt we were the most exciting event for a long time. He described a -way to get down the mountain by following the tracks of his burros. He -swore we could not miss it, you just "fell down" right into Emigrant -Springs. He went a little way with us to be sure we started down the -right ridge; after that we "fell down" in about two hours and a half. -It was the worst, the rockiest, the steepest series of hills and -gullies we ever encountered. Presently the deceitful moon turned the -bushes into white ghosts and fooled us about the angle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> ledges. -From time to time we saw burro tracks in the sand, but we suspect that -a herd of wild burros pastures around there. The Worrier's opinion of -"the old fool" was unmentionable, nor did it soothe him to suggest that -the old man had tried to do his best.</p> - -<p>Next day Old Tom appeared at Emigrant Springs wanting to know if we had -seen a white burro and a black burro. We had that very morning.</p> - -<p>"They're mine," he said, "but I can't keep 'em home."</p> - -<p>Hunting burros seemed to be his life work. Two weeks later we heard of -him twenty miles away still hunting his burros. The Worrier opined that -he had no burros, but our guide was prejudiced.</p> - -<p>We learned to appreciate what it meant to hunt burros, for though our -burros were horses, the Worrier spent most of the days in camp looking -for them. It was amazing how far they could travel with hobbles on. -They were clever at hiding, too, but we were assured that they were -dull compared to burros. Everybody on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> the desert seems to have burros -somewhere that he expects to use some day. They are all delightfully -casual about them:</p> - -<p>"Did you happen to see a bunch of burros in the gulch youse come -through?"</p> - -<p>"No. Have you lost yours?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Gone about a week. I thought maybe they was over there."</p> - -<p>The hope seems to be that they will come back for water. Generally they -do, but sometimes they go to some other water hole and leave you to -guess which one. At Silver Lake the brigand called French Pete had come -from thirty miles off looking for his burros.</p> - -<p>"You ought to put a bell on them," our hostess had told him.</p> - -<p>"I did, but it's no use. You can't find 'em, anyway. They're too smart."</p> - -<p>"Do they hide?"</p> - -<p>"Hide! The one with the bell gets behind a rock and holds his neck -perfectly still while the others bring him food!"</p> - -<div class="center"><a name="i166.jpg" id="i166.jpg"></a><img src="images/i166.jpg" alt="A PACK-TRAIN CROSSING A DRY LAKE" /></div> - -<p class="bold">A PACK-TRAIN CROSSING A DRY LAKE</p> - -<p>Another day at Emigrant Springs was spent in climbing Pinto Peak, 7,450 -feet high. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> chose it because it was the highest point anywhere -around, and we hoped for a good look at Mt. Baldy and Telescope Peak -in order to lay out a route by which to climb them. Pinto Peak is on -the west side of Emigrant Pass, overlooking the Panamint Valley and all -the region to the foot of Mt. Whitney in the Sierra Nevada. The peak -is not visible from the spring and we had to guess at a possible way -up. We began by ascending a steep ridge leading in the right direction, -over and among several little summits. The ridge brought us to a large, -high plateau set round with little peaks and cut at the sides by deep -canyons. The top of the ridge and the plateau were dotted over with -cedar trees, for on the desert, where everything is different, you do -not climb above the timber, you climb up to it. Between six and seven -thousand feet the trees begin, and sometimes in sheltered corners -become twenty or thirty feet high. They are not large nor numerous -on Pinto, but there are enough of them to give the ridge a speckled -appearance from below. The plateau sloped gradually up toward the -west and we selected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> the furthest little rounded rise as probably -Pinto Peak. For two miles we walked toward it over comparatively -level ground. From that side Pinto is not especially interesting as -a mountain, being only a higher point in a big table-land, but its -western side is a precipice falling two thousand feet into a terribly -rocky and desolate canyon. Not until we reached the extreme edge of the -plateau did the view open. It appeared suddenly, black mass after black -mass of harsh mountains leading over to Mt. Whitney, serene and white -on the wall of the Sierras. The Sierra Nevada are the barriers of the -desert. Beyond that glistening wall lie the lovely and fertile valleys -of California. Over there at that season the fruit trees were beginning -to bloom, on this side was only bareness, black rocks, and deep pits of -sand.</p> - -<p>Mt. Whitney is toward the southern end of the high peaks of the -Sierras. That day they bit into the sky like jagged white teeth. -Southward the range is lower, rising again in Southern California to -the peaks of San Bernadino and San Jacinto. We could vaguely see San -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>Bernadino Mountain, mistily white, mixed up with the clouds. Below us -lay the Panamint Valley under the western wall of the steep Panamints -which separate it from Death Valley. This basin is neither so low nor -so large as the famous one east of it, but is of the same character. -At its edge, pressed against the mountain, we could make out with the -glass the once prosperous mining town of Ballarat, the Ballarat that we -had so gayly started to drive to from Johannesburg. With the Worrier's -help we traced the route we would have come over. He pointed out the -red mountain on which the three mining towns are perched, then came -a line of low hills, then an immense dry lake where the Trona Borax -Works are located, then a range of ugly-looking black mountains, then -a long mesa which he said is almost as rough and difficult as the one -we had recently come over, then the Panamint Valley, shimmering hot, -glistening white, first cousin to Death Valley itself. It would have -been a magnificent drive, but suppose we had undertaken it in the -sublime innocence that was ours at the time! We had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> crossed a -dry lake, never wrestled with a mesa, never in our wildest imaginings -pictured such a place as the Panamint Valley,—and at the end we would -have found the town deserted!</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't have made it," the Worrier teased us, "you would have -turned back before you got to Trona."</p> - -<p>"We would not!" But in our hearts we knew how we would have been weak -from pure fear of the ugly-looking black mountains. The terrifying -approach to Silver Lake was nothing compared to them, nor would we have -had a friendly little Ford chugging along ahead.</p> - -<p>As we had hoped, the top of Pinto commands a fine view of Telescope -Peak and Mt. Baldy joined by the beautiful, long ridge which reposes so -splendidly above Death Valley. From this side they looked higher and -snowier. We studied them carefully with the glass. The great mass of -snow was discouraging, but it seemed to be blown off the sharp ridges -which showed black. We planned to move the outfit as far as possible up -Wild Rose Canyon which branches off from Emigrant Canyon about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> twenty -miles above Emigrant Springs and leads up to the far, high peaks. From -there we thought we could climb the rounded summit of Mt. Baldy and -walk along the splendid curve to the slender pyramid of Telescope. No -lover of mountains could look at those pure, smooth lines as long as we -had looked at them and from as many aspects without being filled with -the desire to set his feet upon them.</p> - -<p>It is not the height of a mountain nor its difficulty which makes it -desirable, but something in the mountain's own self. The Panamints are -neither very high nor very difficult, but they are dramatic and alone. -Besides the contrast of their snow with the burning sands beneath, -we wanted the feel of a truly lonely mountain top. The Panamints are -truly lonely. They are not objects of solicitude to any mountain club; -no tourist keen for adventure, nor boy scout outfit, nor earnest-eyed -mountaineer who carves the record of his conquests on his pipe-bowl -or his walking-stick, have left their names up there. No trail leads -up the Panamints, nor are their summits splashed over with paint like -the stately,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> desecrated summit of Mt. Whitney. We would not be forced -to know in letters a foot high that on August 27th, John Doe made the -ascent. We do not hate John Doe, but we prefer to meet him under roofs. -If he loved the mountain, rather than so disfigure it, he would throw -ink at his most cherished possession; and only lovers of mountains have -the right to invade their loneliness. The Panamints, with their feet in -the burning heat of Death Valley and their heads in the snow, almost -unknown to any save a few prospectors, guarded on all sides by the -solitudes of the desert, seemed utterly desirable to us.</p> - -<p>We sat on a rock studying the map, which was no help at all, and -eating the big, sweet, California prunes of which we always carried -pockets-full as aids to wayfaring. The Worrier acquiesced in our -mountaineering project, though without enthusiasm. He bade us not -forget that it would be cold up there. The sight of the snow had -already set him shivering. We twitted him with being a "desert rat."</p> - -<p>"You may have got along better than we did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> in Death Valley," we said -to him, "but it's our turn now; that's fair."</p> - -<p>The Worrier scorned prunes and always looked on with dour superiority -during our consumption of them. Soon he left us and went to hunt -the "lost mine." There are many legends of lost mines in the -desert-mountains and we paid no especial attention to this one, being -weary enough to sit still, munching prunes, and looking out over the -fearful, majestic landscape. In an hour he came back with a handful of -rocks. He laid them solemnly before us. They were pieces of gold ore -which he had found in a hole a little way below the summit.</p> - -<p>"The lost mine," he said.</p> - -<p>"You had better come back and work it," we laughed.</p> - -<p>"I'll have them assayed." His manner was serious.</p> - -<p>"Why, you don't think——"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. But anyways, we'll call it the Prune Stone Mine."</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact he did have them assayed and did go back with his -partner; but the Prune<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> Stone Mine, like so many mines in the Death -Valley Country, failed to fulfill its first promise.</p> - -<p>During the week that we camped at Emigrant Springs we saw no wild life -except a few little brown birds that made a happy twittering in the -mornings. Sometimes in the blue night we heard the distant howling of -coyotes, and once an owl mocked us with a cry that sounded ridiculously -like "Hoo, Hoo, Skidoo!" He was a native, no doubt, and old in wisdom. -In the rambles among the mountains we found our first wild flowers. -They were small except one striking crimson-velvet one with a ragged -blossom like garden balsam. It grew in clumps about six inches high -and made vivid spots of color against the rocks. Later, as the spring -advanced, we found a great variety of flowers, but never this one -except at high altitudes. Seeing it was always a joyful heart-beat. The -graceful greasewood was in bloom, covered with small yellow flowers -that looked like little butterflies perched on the slender branches. -The nights were still very cold, often freezing the water in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> the pail, -but the days were pleasantly warm. The sun shone with such dazzling -brightness that during the middle of the day the shady sides of rocks -were the best resting places. A fresh, steady wind blew nearly always -up or down the canyon, sometimes piling great white masses of clouds -in the sky, always scouring the world incredibly clean. Each night was -a blue wonder. The mountains were delicate, luminous shapes in front -of a sky infinitely far away. The big stars hung low and burned with a -steady, silver shine.</p> - -<p>Every day we climbed one or another of the ridges and smaller mountains -close to the spring. It was good to lie on their summits in the sun. -From any one of them we could look down the canyon and see the whole -length of the Mesquite Valley, always the same, yet, like Death -Valley, always different. You can look day after day at the deep, hot -basins of the desert without ever knowing them. Quickly enough you -can see the obvious features of the Mesquite Valley—the continuation -of the Panamints on the west, the wine-red Grapevine Mountains on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> -the east, the low blue hills in the north, the level bottom of the -valley streaked with white alkali where Salt Creek crosses it and "Old -Johnnie's" big sand-dunes are glistening little ant hills—but you must -stay all the hours of a long day to find out what she really is, and -then you will not know. Listen:</p> - -<blockquote><p>"Behold me! You think that I am an arid valley with a white alkali -streak down the middle of my level-seeming floor. You think that -I am surrounded by red mountains, or perhaps you think they are -blue, or purple—well, not exactly—more rose.</p> - -<p>"Come down to me! I am very deep between the mountains. I am very -white. But if you do not like me so I can be a wide, level plain -covered with velvet for you to lie on.</p> - -<p>"Come down to me! Rest beside this lake. See how it shines, how -blue it is! I am all in white like a young girl with a turquoise -breastpin. You don't believe that? I am a Witch, I can be -anything. My wardrobe is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> full of bright dresses. I will put them -on for you one by one.</p> - -<p>"See, I know more colors of blue than you ever dreamed of. When -you tire of blue I change to ripe plums. Now I throw gray gauze -over my purple. I look like a nun, but am not. Here is my yellow -gown. You do not like it? See, I have all degrees of red, fire red -and crimson and pink, the color of bride roses. Here is my finest. -It is made of every color, but the tone of it is the gray breast -of a dove. You did not know that the breast of a dove could be -made of all colors, but now I show you.</p> - -<p>"Do you not love me? You remember too well that I am hot as a -bake-oven. You think that if any one were fool enough to come down -to me I would steal behind and grip him by the throat.</p> - -<p>"What of it? Why do you question me so much? You see how old I am, -how many storms have left their scars on me, and you think I am -wise. But I am only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> fair. Is it not enough to be old and yet fair?</p> - -<p>"Beauty is sitting on my topmost peak making the enchantments that -confirm your dreams. She experiments with many materials; she -makes new combinations forever.</p> - -<p>"Behold all the desolate places how they are hers—the lonely -hills, the lonely plains, the lonely green sea, the lonely -sands—she clothes us in gorgeous raiment, she makes us content -with death. Where she is your heart can pasture even to the -emptiness between the stars."</p></blockquote> - -<p>A lifetime is not long enough to listen to the songs of the desolate -places. A whole sunny, timeless day is too short to hear the Mesquite -Valley. The days and nights of the desert merge into each other. They -are like perfectly matched pearls being strung on an endless string. -You delight to run your fingers over their smooth surfaces and detect -no difference.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do we move to-morrow?" Thus the Worrier.</p> - -<p>"Why to-morrow?"</p> - -<p>"We have been here a week."</p> - -<p>That is not possible! How could a week slide into past things so soon?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>X</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The High White Peaks</i></span></h2> - -<p>Wild Rose Canyon has a lovely name, justified by a small clump of -bushes that may bear wild roses sometime. The canyon, where it branches -east from Emigrant Pass, is very narrow with precipitous sides. -Emigrant Canyon itself at this point is walled by high cliffs so close -together that the wagon track fills the gorge. A considerable stream, -bordered with feathery trees, flows through the lower end of Wild Rose -Canyon and down Emigrant Pass toward the Panamint Valley and Ballarat, -but dies before it emerges from the cliff-like hills onto the long, -stony slope that leads into the valley. Once more we had been deceived. -From Pinto Peak the rocky cliffs appeared to rise directly out of the -Panamint Valley, but a walk down the western descent of Emigrant Pass -revealed the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> long, brush-covered slope that we had learned to -know so well.</p> - -<p>The cattlemen had been there and gone away, leaving the cattle in -Wild Rose for their spring range. The young steers huddled together, -staring with their expression of fierce innocence. They had tramped the -stream-bed into a bog and otherwise made camping at the mouth of the -canyon unpleasant. A stone shack with an iron roof was located near the -spring. It was rather a magnificent shack with two rooms, the inner one -windowless like a cave. For some reason that seems to be the approved -way of building sleeping-rooms on the desert. At Keane Wonder veritable -black holes were the sleeping-quarters near the boarding-house. The -shack had no floor and the uneven ground was littered with rubbish, as -indeed were all the surroundings. The mess around the spring at Wild -Rose bothered us more than the litter anywhere else. Perhaps it was -because we were shut in on all sides by high walls, and there were no -vistas nor even any beautifully shaped summits to look at. For once -the desert was all foreground, little trees<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> along the stream, little -bushes, little stones. A tin can in such a small environment can hardly -be ignored.</p> - -<p>As soon as possible therefore, we pushed on up the canyon which widened -into what looked like a plain surrounded by mountains. In reality it -was level nowhere, but rounded down like a giant oval basin about five -miles wide and seven or eight miles long. The mountains on the east and -south were covered with cedars whose vanguard dotted the edge of the -mesa under Mount Baldy, now become a great white mass, very near, led -up to by a precipitous ridge broken into jagged peaks. Telescope Peak -lay behind Baldy and was not visible. There was more snow than we had -supposed in our survey from Pinto Mountain, it lay all along the jagged -ridge, coming down in some places almost to the mesa. The northern wall -of the canyon was composed of lower mountains. The one furthest east -was a big, pointed, red mass, polka-dotted with little trees near its -summit. Looking back whence we had come the mountains seemed to close -the narrow gorge.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> - -<p>The cattlemen had told us that Wild Rose Canyon was full of water, but -after we left the spring we found none. The big wash down the middle -was dry—the boy must have seen it on some rare occasion when it had -water in it—and the great bowl far too large and too rough to admit -of much scouting for springs at the bases of the mountains. We had -thought that we would see the deserted charcoal-kilns and thus find -the spring which the cattlemen had described, but there was no sign of -any kilns. We supposed that they were somewhere along the bottom of -the precipitous ridge that led up to Mount Baldy. In that direction -the mesa was so terribly cut up that we could not attempt to take the -wagon there until we had first explored it, so we made a dry camp in -the middle of the basin under the shelter of the eight-foot-high bank -of the wash.</p> - -<p>The wind had blown harder than usual all day with an icy bite from -the snowy heights. During the night a racing cloud deposited snow -on the northern hills which before had been bare. A real storm now -became our fear, for a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> more snow would defeat our project. -Moreover Wild Rose Canyon is at an altitude where the cold at that -time of year is intense, and we had to depend on the sun's fires to -warm us sufficiently during the day to make life possible through the -night. The "desert rat" became a bundle of misery. We had not realized -the paralyzing effect cold would have on him. He sat and shivered, -apparently unable to move or to think, so utterly wretched that -Charlotte and I offered to give up the Panamints and "beat it" to a -more salubrious climate. We could not bear to see our friend suffer; -but he flatly refused, angry with us for even making the suggestion, -saying that when he started to do a thing be generally did it.</p> - -<p>The next morning was as cold as ever. Still the Worrier refused to -consider moving out, and when the sun had warmed the great windy bowl -a little, he went back to fetch more water from the spring by the -old shack. We explored the base of the long ridge under Mount Baldy -as well as we could, but failed to find the charcoal-kilns. However, -it was possible to get the wagon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> over there, so in the afternoon we -moved the whole outfit up to the first cedar trees. There the mesa -became so steep that Molly and Bill could no longer pull the load. The -Worrier had brought ten gallons of water, enough for several days, and -the "desert-proof" horses were turned loose to find their way back to -the spring at the mouth of the canyon. What either they or the cattle -ate at Wild Rose remained a profound mystery to us. The mesa was -covered with low, dry brush, interspersed occasionally with bunches -of yellow grass. We could see the dark backs of the steers like spots -moving through it, but it looked like anything rather than a spring -feeding-ground.</p> - -<p>Camp-in-the-Cedars was charming. A real tree had become a wonderful -object. For once there was plenty of wood and the Worrier kept himself -warm chopping and carrying. After the feeble little fires of roots -and twigs to which we had been accustomed, that blazing, crackling -camp-fire was a rich luxury. Dinner was a banquet. Our bed was laid -under a big piñon tree through whose tufts of fine needles the -enormous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> stars looked down. We had a glimpse through the far-off mouth -of the canyon of distant peaks, vague in the starlight. The wind rose -and fell softly through the pines and cedars, like the breathing of the -great white mountain beneath whose side we slept.</p> - -<p>The white dawn of a clear day filtered through the blue darkness. -Before the sun had climbed over the ridge we were started on our long -anticipated adventure. It began with a stiff scramble up the first -buttressing ridge, then a long pull to the crest of the barrier that -walls the southern side of Wild Rose Canyon. The steep inclines of -gravelly rock were varied with ledges. Soon we reached the snow, so -hard that steps had to be dug in it with much scuffling of hobnailed -shoes. The green trees growing out of the white snow were very lovely, -and also useful to hold on to. When they were far apart we had some -exciting moments when we zigzagged over the smooth, white crust, which -was as steep as a shingled roof. In about two hours we reached the top -of the ridge. Until then we had faced the white slope, working too hard -to look back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> very often at the basin that was falling away below us. -Suddenly we stood on top. The world opened beyond into an immense white -amphitheater shut in by snowy peaks with the pyramid of Telescope, -visible once more, at the far side. After the hot, dry sands, how -miraculous seemed this glittering winter!</p> - -<p>We pressed on toward Baldy along the ridge, which proved to be much -steeper than it had looked. It was covered with trees, and great -patches of snow grown soft now in the sun. However, by keeping a little -below the crest on the southern side most of the snow could be avoided. -There the ground fell so precipitously from the ridge to the canyon -below that only an occasional tree grew on it, and we had an unimpeded -view of the two white summits and the magnificent sweep of snow between -them.</p> - -<p>Noon brought us to a little saddle north of Baldy, which connects it -with another rounded summit of the same name. Here were no trees and -the snow was blown off clean. With what eagerness we panted up the -last few yards! The mountain climber has his great reward when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> -"looks over." That is his own peculiar joy. He toils for hours with -the ground rising before him to a ridge that seems to cut the sky, -only to find a higher one beyond. He surmounts that, and another and -another, until at last he gains the highest and the mountains yield -their secret. Breathlessly we stood on the little saddle. We looked -down into Death Valley from the still height to which we had looked up -so long. The white floor shimmered through layers of heated air, 10,000 -feet below. Again the valley was different. That day it was full of -sky, as the Imperial Valley had been when we first saw it. Nothing was -distinguishable down there, it was a well of clear blue. The Funeral -Mountains looked like hills. Behind them the jagged ranges of desert -mountains spread back with one tall, snowy peak in their midst, Mount -Charleston, sixty miles away on the border of Nevada.</p> - -<p>Southward on the saddle the mound of Baldy's summit presented its snowy -side. For the most part the snow was hard enough for us to walk over -the crust, but sometimes we floundered in nearly to the waist. That -was hard work. By<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> one o'clock we reached the top where the snow was -blown off, leaving bare black rocks. It was a quiet day for the desert -and especially for the mountains. A slight wind came from the south; -the sky was cloudless, a deep, still blue. Mount Baldy overlooks all -the country in a complete panorama, save where the beautiful pyramid -of Telescope Peak cuts into the view. The horizon was bounded on three -sides by snow mountains, Mount Charleston, the San Bernadinos and -the wonderful Sierra Nevada. Between these white barriers spread the -desert, deep white valleys, yellow dry lakes, ranges of rose and blue -and dark-violet mountains, all shining in the incomparable brightness -of the sun.</p> - -<p>Now, at last, we saw the famous "H. and L." of which we had heard so -much. "You see the highest and the lowest points in the United States -at the same time," everybody had told us. From the top of the Panamints -we could see Mount Whitney towering in the west, while in the east the -mountain sides fall precipitously into Death Valley, 280 feet below sea -level. There must be some more accessible viewpoint which <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>commands -this dramatic spectacle, for it is not likely that our informants -expected us to climb Mount Baldy.</p> - -<p>From the summit of Baldy the long curving arête that had looked so -beautiful from Death Valley on one side and from Pinto Peak on the -other led over to Telescope Peak. It was no disappointment. Sloping -sharply down from Baldy, level for a ways, then rising again toward the -white pyramid, it extended for about three miles, precipitous on both -sides, often not more than ten feet wide on top. The exhilaration of -walking thus in the clear air high above the spread-out world is always -a boundless joy; on this shining wall in the middle of the desert the -joy was almost unbearable. The great plain of the world was clear cut, -no veiling haze softened its distances, it flashed and sparkled, full -of strong, austere lines and strong, satisfying contrasts. Like a -victorious lover, you walk the heights of your conquest; everything to -the great circle of the horizon is yours; by right of patience and love -you possess it.</p> - -<p>If we could only be like the three old cedars<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> that have withstood the -hurricanes on the ridge and gaze with them until sunset, through the -night and the wonder of morning! They are so gnarled and old, and so -calm. Watchers, they stand on the summit of the world, and they might -tell us, if we could stay, why the mountain-tops are joyful. Instead, -we must drag around these aching bodies clamoring to be kept warm and -to be fed, never letting us listen long enough. Already the sun was -descending toward the west, and we had to hasten on if we wanted to -reach Telescope Peak and get back to fire and food before the cold of -night.</p> - -<p>When the arête began to rise it became rapidly very steep. The snow -became harder and harder until it turned to ice. The lovely pyramid, -now directly overhead, shone blindingly in the slanting sun. The -only possible way to its peak was up a sharp knife-edge, from which -both sides fell sheer for thousands of feet. Was it all solid ice? -The conviction that it was had been hinting defeat to each of us -for the last half hour of the climb, but no one cared to speak of -that possibility until we were within four hundred feet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> of the top, -clinging to trees and slipping badly. The peak rose at a possible, but -terrific angle; the trees for the remainder of the way were much too -far apart to hold on to; the ice was perfectly smooth, and glistened -like a skating rink set on edge. No amount of kicking with hobnailed -shoes could make a foothold on it, and one slip on that knife-edge -either way meant a slide down the ice-sheet to almost sure destruction. -You cannot climb such an ice wall without either an ax or a rope; with -either one we would have tried it. We could have cut steps with an ax, -or we might have been able to lasso the trees above with a long rope, -and pull ourselves up by it. So lately come from the furnace of Death -Valley, how should we suppose that we would need the implements of an -Alpine mountain-climber? Down, down, more than 11,000 feet, lay that -white pit veiled with the smoke of iridescent haze.</p> - -<p>The Worrier, who professed deep scorn of all mountains for their own -sakes, looked longingly at the smooth peak. It fascinated us all like a -hard, glittering jewel. He said he "hated to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> beat." So did we all -"hate to be beat," but we would have been ungrateful indeed for the -joy of that day had we not been able to turn back and remain thankful. -There was no sense of defeat in the going-down.</p> - -<p>The descent was easy except for the heartbreaking pull up Mount -Baldy again. His sides were far too straight up and down to admit of -any going around him. On the summit we made a concession to aching -bodies by taking a long rest and eating what was left of the bread -and cheese and the everlasting prunes. The Worrier had long since -dubbed our route "The Prune Stone Trail." We jested light-heartedly -about building cairns along it with a prune stone carved on the top of -each, and insisted that we owned a half interest in the Prune Stone -Mine, as he would never have found it had we not dragged him up Pinto. -Mountain-hater as he was and heat-loving "desert-rat," he genially -admitted that, snow or no snow, the top of Baldy was "fine." As we sat -there Death Valley turned a dark, deep, luminous blue. We could see the -Avawatz Mountains by Silver Lake and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> notch in the hills where the -blue pool of Saratoga cherishes its little darting fish. The slanting -sunlight was resplendent on the arête and the west slopes of Telescope -Peak. The Worrier called him an old rascal; but we were glad to leave -him so, with his white robes unsullied by scrambling feet. His image -would remain always to the inward eye in dull days and difficult days, -a reminder of how beauty watches around the world.</p> - -<p>When the sun stood just above the wall of the Sierras we began the long -descent down the rounded, snowy side of Baldy to the little saddle, and -down the long, steep slope and the little, buttress slope where the -cedar trees had been so lovely in the snow. Night came while we were -still going down, and the basin of Wild Rose Canyon was a violet lake.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XI</span> <span class="smaller"><i>Snowstorm and Sandstorm</i></span></h2> - -<p>Breakfast was late next morning like Sunday breakfasts in houses. -Charlotte asked if it was Sunday. No one knew what day it was in the -far-off world, but we proclaimed it Sunday at Wild Rose. It was a true -Sunday, a day of rest after hard exertion, a still day washed clean by -the mighty sun. Immense and still. The great bowl curved tranquilly to -the tranquil hills, the cedars and piñons along its edge glistened like -little bright fingers pointing at the sky.</p> - -<p>During the middle of the day the sun was hot, in the morning and the -evening the big fire blazed. Camp-in-the-Cedars was lovely enough to -stay in forever, but shortly after noon the Worrier announced that -he must find the charcoal-kilns, he could not "be beat" by them. The -little trees were so beguiling, the tranquil brightness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> of the mesa -so inviting, that we followed him, buoyed up by the cold, clear air. -We wandered along the base of Baldy to where a small, purple mountain -jutted into the great basin. Around that we went, leisurely picking -our way over the rough ground until at the extreme northern end of the -bowl we found an attenuated wraith of a road leading up into a heavily -wooded canyon. A road must once have been the way to somewhere, and -we followed it, climbing steeply for nearly a mile. It brought us -to a small, level spot where, made of rocks like the mountains and -indistinguishable until we were right on them, stood seven immense -charcoal-kilns like a row of giant beehives. They were so big that we -could walk upright through their doorways, that looked like arched -openings in their sides. Old Tom Adams had said that they were used -in the seventies to make fuel of the cedars and piñons, to be hauled -thirty miles to the smelter at a lead mine. They had been deserted so -long that the camp rubbish had disappeared from around them and they -merged into their background, become again a part of Nature herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> - -<p>What strenuous endeavor they denoted! Everywhere men have left their -footprints on the Mojave, sojourners always, never inhabitants. The -seven kilns were the most impressive testimony of brief possession that -we saw, more impressive even than the twenty-eight-mile-long trench -that brought the water to Skidoo. We had seen it from there crossing -high ridges; in the great bowl of Wild Rose it was clearly marked, -going from side to side and vanishing up the first ridge which we -had climbed to Baldy. The cost and labor of making it must have been -immense. Mojave was already breaking down the edges preparing to brush -it away, but it will be a long time before she can obliterate those -kilns. They will still be eloquent in that remote fastness long after -Keane Wonder and Ryolite are gone.</p> - -<p>Behind the kilns a dim path climbed the mountain-side to a little, -secret spring, an oval rock basin not more than five feet long and so -deftly hidden that we wondered what prospector first had the joy of -finding it. From the elevation of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> the spring we could look along the -length of Wild Rose Canyon, where the sagebrush smoothed to a blue -and green and purple sea, and through its narrow opening to the white -serenity of Mount Whitney. Thus framed the white peak seemed to float -in the blue sky. Very swiftly Mojave brushes men off, but always with a -fine gesture. From the midst of her most obliterating desolations she -never fails to point at some far-off shining.</p> - -<p>Too late we learned that the little spring at the head of the canyon -would have been the place for our camp. Not only would we have had the -delight of its cold, pure water, but the ascent of Mount Baldy looked -shorter and easier from there. Perhaps we each cherished the hope -of moving up next day and trying once more to scale the glittering -ice-wall with the help of our wood-chopper's ax and the rope from the -wagon; but we never discussed the idea for that night the dreaded storm -crept over the mountains. It came stealthily on padded feet, putting -out the stars. At dawn big wet snowflakes gently sifting through the -still air awoke us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> - -<p>During the day the storm increased. The wind arose and blew in gusts -seemingly from every direction. Fortunately the trees afforded plenty -of big wood, so we were able to keep a roaring fire, though the -heavily-falling, wet snow sometimes threatened to put it out. It snowed -so fast that we were shut in by white walls not more than twenty feet -away. We pitched our tent with the opening toward the fire and tried to -get some shelter in it while the Worrier hunted the horses. The tent -was the only serious mistake in the outfit. It was a light, waterproof -silk tent with a pole up the middle. We had expected to use it as a -shelter from the wind and had tried once before at Emigrant Springs. -On that occasion its light-weight material had flapped and rattled in -the blast until we were glad to creep outside and sleep under the edge -of a rock. Before morning it blew down. The only practical tent for -the desert is a very low one, like a pup-tent, made of heavy canvas, -with extra long pegs that must be driven deep and buried in the sand. -During the eternity of snowstorm in which Charlotte and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> waited for -Molly and Bill, we alternated between holding up the pole in the gusts -of wind and rushing out between them to drive in the pegs with the ax. -This, and the necessity of constantly building up the fire, kept us wet -and cold all day, for the snow was not the dry, whirling snow of really -cold climates, but was as wet as a heavy rain. It clung so we could not -shake it off and melted on our clothes. The Worrier did not retrieve -Molly and Bill until four o'clock. It was late to move, but the storm -showed no sign of abatement and we remembered with growing affection -the shack at the entrance to the canyon. Hastily packing in the white -downpour that hissed through the air, we left Camp-in-the-Cedars.</p> - -<p>As soon as we had descended a little way into the basin the snow -ceased, but a white cloud continued to hang over the place where our -charming camp had been. During the remainder of the day and throughout -the night heavy clouds veiled all the mountains, occasionally dropping -flurries of snow around us. An icy wind rushed down the canyon. When -we reached the shack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> it seemed palatial. We cleared out the rubbish -by throwing it down the hill in front of the door, the approved way of -cleaning up on the desert. When there are too many cans you throw them -behind the bushes, and we had learned to do it with great vigor and -accuracy of aim. Much to the Worrier's amusement we scrubbed the table -and tried to wipe off the cracked, rusty stove set up on three empty -gasoline tins. That stove was a marvel in the art of consuming much -fuel without emitting any heat. We took turns huddling close to it. The -walls sheltered us from the wind, but as far as the stove was concerned -we might almost as well have been outdoors.</p> - -<p>After supper we had to reckon with the dungeon that was the bedroom. -The Worrier recommended it highly, but we viewed it with a certain -awful apprehension. We had a devil's choice between that and the frigid -outdoors that kept beating on the shack with gusts of wind. We made -the mistake of choosing the dungeon. When the candle was blown out -fear crouched in the blackness. All the tales we had ever read of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> -prisoners in damp cellars assailed us—horrors, tortures, black holes. -The terrors of these man-made fears in this shut-in, man-made place -were far worse than the wild outdoors. Presently little scratchings -and gnawings apprised us that we were not alone. Unbearable then was -the walled darkness. We gathered up the bed and went outside, stepping -carefully over the Worrier who, forever faithful, was sleeping across -the door.</p> - -<p>The clean outdoors! Let it snow, let it hail, let the water run down -the mountain and seep through the bed, let the wind tear at the -ponchos! It was nothing compared to being shut up in a dark place. -About midnight we were suddenly struck awake by a terrific din. After -the first tense moment we recognized it as coyotes howling in the -canyon. That was nothing either compared to vague little scratchings -and gnawings in an eight-by-ten shack.</p> - -<p>Next day the storm continued, with clear intervals during which we -rushed out to spread our clothes and blankets in the sun that thirstily -drank up the snow at the bases of the mountains.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> "Scotty" beguiled -the hours and the weird tales of Lord Dunsany, read aloud beside the -cracked stove, never had a more appropriate setting. All around the -mountains were white except where some insistently black rock heaved -out. Clouds hurried across the sky like Indians galloping on the -war-path, the wind screaming around the rocks was their war-whoop. In -the moments of peace between their raids huge giants of cloud shook -their fists at us over the walls. The silence of Mojave was torn to -tatters. Yet, somehow, we still felt it. Just as the wild tales we read -intimated a stillness behind, so the tumult was a ripple on indomitable -peace. You have seen a little whirlwind plow a furrow through the -water of some glassy lake, making quite a bit of a tumult, but leaving -undisturbed the tranquillity of the surface beyond its narrow path. -Though between the walls of the canyon where we camped we could not see -the still surfaces, we sensed them. The storm was an incident. Mojave -took it and made a strong song.</p> - -<p>Wild Rose Canyon was the furthest point of our journey; from the old -shack the going home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> began. The sun rose brilliantly on the following -morning and deceived us into starting back to Emigrant Springs. As soon -as we had left the narrow canyon and could once more see the expanse of -the sky, we knew that the storm was by no means over. We even debated -returning to our palace, cracked stove, black hole, and all; but when -you have broken camp, found the horses, packed up, and started, a -two-hour-long process, you will risk almost anything rather than turn -back. There were compensations, too, even for the wind which shortly -came to life again and thrust its knife to our hearts. The sky was a -magnificent spectacle. It was not gray, nor overcast, nor brooding, but -full of torn-up, piled-up, tumultuous clouds, a fitting canopy for the -country beneath it. The top of Emigrant Pass is a big mesa surrounded -by all kinds of mountains from the broken, battered buttresses and -steep snow-peaks of the Panamints to smooth, bare, rounded hills -folded over each other and dimpled like upholstered sofas. In bursts -of sunshine the shadows of the clouds raced over them all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> snatching -at each other and getting mixed up in the canyons. Sometimes a cloud -spilled out its contents and for a while obliterated one of them. -Toward noon the clouds made a concerted attack on the sun, calling up -new cohorts until at last they succeeded in covering him entirely and -keeping him covered. Then a great change fell upon Mojave. She became -forlorn, her bright colors faded into gray. The brush shivered in the -wind and made a cold, crackling sound. A few immense Joshua palms -scattered over the mesa waved their grotesque arms like monsters in -pain. The wind whistled through their stiff, spiky leaves. They were -in bloom with a heavy mass of waxy white flowers on the end of each -branch. The sun had polished the flowers, tipping every branch with -a silver ball; now they stuck up into the lead-colored sky, dull, -lead-colored things.</p> - -<p>All the familiar places that had been drenched with sunshine, -brilliant with color, almost as magical sometimes as the burning sands -themselves, now appeared in this sad, gray mood. After leaving the top -of the pass we crossed a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> large, high plateau known as the Harrisburg -Flat. On the way over to Wild Rose it had been still and hot, the -openings between the mountains had hinted at the illusions of Death -Valley behind them; now a cloud full of wind and snow rolled up out -of the narrow opening of Emigrant Canyon. Storms were all around us, -but until that moment we had hoped that we might escape. There was no -escape. The Harrisburg Flat became a white, whirling fury. The wind -that smote us was like a solid, moving wall. The cloud was not made of -snow, but of ice, a fine hail that cut our faces. It was so dense that -we could not see ten feet in front of the wagon. We had some difficulty -in making Molly and Bill face it, but it was necessary to go on. All -day the icy wind had been pressing upon us, now it was so cold that we -felt we could not withstand it long. Fortunately the sheltering walls -of the canyon were not far, but the half hour during which we struggled -toward them seemed an eternity. The Worrier shouted at the laboring -horses and for the first time when he knew that we could hear him, he -cursed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> - -<p>By the time we reached the canyon the hail had stopped but the terrible -wind continued. It seemed as though it would rip the bushes out of the -ground. In place of the ice, fine particles of sand assailed us—had -the wash not been thoroughly wet we would have had more of it. It must -have rained violently in the canyon, or else in the dusk we missed the -particular route among the rocks by which we had come up, for the way -was so washed out that the Worrier could hardly pilot the load.</p> - -<p>Every bit of energy we had was centered on reaching the ruined shack -at Emigrant Springs. When we were able to say anything at all we -speculated about how dirty it might be and whether or not there was a -stove in it. The dirt was a certainty, but nobody could remember about -the stove, as we had avoided the shack when we were there before. After -a freezing eternity we came around the last bend of the canyon. Home -was in sight, and our hope perished for smoke was coming out of the -chimney! Not only was there a stove, but there was a man snugly camping -beside it, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> unknown man, a usurper, a robber! We were full of angry, -helpless indignation.</p> - -<p>"If it's Tom Adams," the Worrier snapped, "we'll throw him out."</p> - -<p>But it was not Tom Adams. It was another old-timer, an old man, who -wandered ceaselessly to and fro over the desert. He was a gentle soul, -but we were in no mood to appreciate that then. Of course he offered -to move out of the shack when he saw "ladies" coming on such a bitter -night, and equally of course we could not allow it. If Charlotte and -I chose to invade the wilderness we must take the chances of the -wilderness as other people did. Our pride was involved, but we had to -refuse very summarily, even rudely, before the old man would accept our -objection. Then he retired into the shack with hurt dignity, while we -pulled down some more of the corral fence to make a blazing fire. We -solaced ourselves with the belief that the outdoors was better than the -shack anyway, as it had been better than the black hole. In the course -of time we were warm again and managed to keep warm through the night.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the morning the innocent usurper sent us, via the Worrier, a pan of -hot biscuits, a most welcome and delicious gift. Charlotte and I called -on him later to thank him and make amends if we could. He entertained -us for two hours with the story of his travels, but he would not accept -our invitation to dinner, saying that he wasn't used to "dining with -ladies." We sincerely hope it was not a sarcasm. The question which the -possession of the shack raised is rather a difficult one. Was our pride -worth more than the true chivalry of a kindly soul? To us it was, to -him it was not.</p> - -<p>The wind continued to blow with violence for several days, though we -had no more rain nor snow. It is easy to see how the desert has been -torn to its rough harshness. That steady-blowing wind alone could wear -the mountains to their jagged outlines, crumbling the softer rock down -to fill the valleys. It picks up the sand and uses it to grind the -mountains smooth. It piles it against the cliffs to make new foothills -and hollows it out to make new canyons. It drives the rain against the -mountains to rush down, rolling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> rocks along the gorges and digging -the deep trenches across the mesas. Where no network of roots holds a -surface soil wind and rain work rapidly. On the homeward journey from -Wild Rose we understood the cut-up mesas and the gouged-out canyons -better.</p> - -<p>Down in the Mesquite Valley, where we took the sandy road along the -edge of the marsh instead of the rocky one by which we had come because -Bill had lost a shoe, we saw what the wind can do with sand. In the -afternoon we reached the foot of the mesa that leads from Emigrant -Canyon to the bottom of the valley and were at the beginning of "Old -Johnnie's" sand-dunes. It had been a sparkling day with a clear sky, -but the wind was still blowing. The Mesquite Valley was as hot as we -remembered it, but, after the ice-cloud on the Harrisburg Flat only -two days before, it seemed a delicious hotness. With the assurance of -seasoned travelers able to make a dry camp anywhere, Charlotte and I -insisted on stopping there for the night. Molly and Bill would take -four hours to make the nine miles of deep sand to Salt Creek,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> and we -always hated to make camp in the dark. The Worrier wanted to go on. -He said he had a hunch that we ought to, but he allowed himself to be -persuaded. We should have heeded that hunch of an old-timer.</p> - -<p>Hardly had we unpacked the wagon and made a fireplace before we noticed -that the wind was increasing. Little whirligigs of sand began to -run across the valley. Soon they were charging at us down the mesa. -First they came singly, then merged into a cloud of sand that rattled -against the pots and the wagon. Luckily for us the wind was blowing -from the mountains over the mesa where there was comparatively little -sand to pick up, for had it been coming across the dunes we would have -been buried alive. Of course it was impossible to cook; in a very few -minutes it was impossible to do anything but crouch in the lea of the -sand-heap around the roots of the biggest mesquite. The Worrier seemed -to shrink up and draw in his head like a turtle. He shouted something -at us, of which we could only hear the word "hunch." The air was full -of a rushing, hissing sound.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> - -<p>Charlotte and I covered ourselves with the ponchos, drawing them over -our heads when the sand came hurtling through the top of the Mesquite. -Molly and Bill huddled close together about fifty feet away with their -backs to the blast, and much of the time the sand was so dense that we -could not see them. The Worrier also was lost in the yellow cloud. The -sand was very fine and, in spite of the ponchos, sifted into our hair -and ears and clothes. It gritted in our teeth so we felt as though we -were eating it. We could see it piling up around the next mesquite, -and could imagine it whirling through the valley over the tops of "Old -Johnnie's" dunes.</p> - -<p>Often the wind goes down at sunset, but that day the sun sank invisibly -and the fury increased. We felt a queer excitement not unmixed with -fear. Thus, only a hundred times worse, must the sand blow over the -vast Sahara Desert while the Arabs cover their heads, calling on Allah. -When the solid ground itself arises there is no help but Allah.</p> - -<p>After sunset the Worrier emerged again from the flying yellow mass. -His shirt was blown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> tight to him and the loose sleeves whipped in the -wind. He leaned against it bending forward. He shouted that we might -possibly get some shelter by continuing along the road toward Salt -Creek, where it winds further around the side of Sheep Mountain. He -advised us to move, because if the storm continued he could not keep -Molly and Bill.</p> - -<p>"Tie them up!" we yelled.</p> - -<p>"Can't. Go crazy." Then, as we did not move, his voice rose -peremptorily:</p> - -<p>"Come on! If it gets worse we can't go."</p> - -<p>We had disregarded his first hunch; now, if he had another, far be -it from us to raise difficulties, though we could hardly see how it -was possible to travel even then. Charlotte and I staggered up from -the mesquite and all three of us packed as speedily as we could. It -was a disorderly packing, as we could scarcely stand before the wind, -and were almost blinded by the sand. Molly and Bill were wild with -excitement. I remember vividly bracing myself against the wall of wind, -holding on to Molly, who objected to backing around to the wagon-pole, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>unable to open my eyes and hardly able to breathe.</p> - -<p>We all piled into the wagon. The excited horses were willing to travel -with their backs to the wind. There was a track to follow, but its -edges were already rounding full of sand. If the storm should continue -long enough it would be smoothed out.</p> - -<p>The Worrier's hope was justified, for at the end of three or four miles -the wind seemed much less furious. We were among the dunes and found -a fairly quiet little gully full of deep sand as fine and soft as the -sand on a beach. Something in the set of the wind through the mountains -left this oasis of peace. We were even able to cook the long-delayed -dinner. We did it by moonlight, slowly and carefully handling things -and keeping them covered as much as possible, like having a picnic on a -windy seashore.</p> - -<p>The Worrier suggested that we climb to the top of the dune which -partially sheltered us, if we wanted to see what a sandstorm looked -like. We did so. From that vantage point of comparative calm we saw the -whole Mesquite <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>Valley filled with a dense yellow cloud that completely -shut out the surrounding mountains, rising higher than they, swirling -at the top like smoke ascending into the dark night sky.</p> - -<p>In the morning we climbed the dune again and looked across over the -others. The blowing sand was less dense and we could see them all. "Old -Johnnie" had been right, they were a hundred feet high. Their shapes -were very beautiful, with knife-edge tops ridged in pure, clean lines -from which fringes of fine sand blew up like the wind-tossed manes of -white horses. The masses and outlines of the dunes suggested Egyptian -architecture; the pyramids and the crouching sphinx were there. Sand -dunes must have been familiar to the Egyptians dwelling beside the -Sahara. What is the huge sphinx, brooding and massive, gazing with -strong eyes across the emptiness, but an interpretation of the desert -carved in stone?</p> - -<p>We reached Salt Creek early and spent the rest of the day there. The -wind continued to blow, the sand still swirled off the dunes, and the -yellow dust-cloud still obscured the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>mountains; but we were in the -shelter of Tucki and the ground was so stony that we were not much -troubled by the migrating sand. Once more Charlotte and I climbed the -ridge from which we had watched the Worrier's remarkable hunting. The -whole big basin of Death Valley between its high walls of rock was -blurred with dust, clouds of sand with wind-frayed edges rose into the -sky, not a gleam of radiance showed through. The green and white snake -of Salt Creek coiled sullenly among the sulphur-colored hills. Only -the blue eye was bright, poisonous, unwinking. The fair water that was -too polluted for human drinking seemed to mock us. We waited for the -enchanter to come at sunset, but as the day merged into evening the -scene became inexpressibly dreadful.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Charlotte arose from the rock on which we were sitting.</p> - -<p>"Let us go," she whispered, and without further comment we hurried back -to camp and made the Worrier collect enough wood from the swamp for a -truly cheerful fire.</p> - -<p>The following day we traveled once more up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> the long, northern mesa -of Death Valley, but by a different route from that by which we had -descended. This way was shorter, avoiding the long pull across the -valley, though it was rockier, steeper, and cut by more islands of -hills to cross or go around than the other. In many places the road -vanished utterly, and only a "desert-rat" could have piloted a wagon -safely to its destination over that maze of ridges and gullies.</p> - -<p>The day was fine. At last the wind had died down and the dust-clouds -were slowly subsiding. Both Death Valley and the Mesquite Valley were -veiled in heavy haze, but the brightness of their changing color now -shimmered through. All day the white blaze of the sun was around -us and the silence, after a week of tumultuous wind, was a mighty -dreaming. It was the living silence which we had first known on the -night when we wandered away from Silver Lake, the silence in which the -earth moves. The mountains dwelt in it majestically. Mojave was again -making her fine gesture, unconscious of the discomforts and terrors of -small living things. Her pointing at the far-off shining is always a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> -conquest of grimness, as though sorrow were a stepping-stone to beauty.</p> - -<p>By the out-jutting cliff of Daylight Pass, from which we had first -beheld Death Valley, we made a long stop. Familiarity had only enhanced -its splendor. With different eyes we saw the shining floor, the sad -Funeral Mountains, the calm, white curves of the high Panamints. What -had been a picture was now a living experience. The rose and silver -shifting over the white valley-floor had new meaning. We knew that -floor, we knew the feel of it, and its ever-changing beauty was a -miracle. We were justified in the pilgrimage, for only by going thus -to the White Heart, making stones and brush and jagged rocks our -companions, depending on the springs to keep us alive and the roots of -the greasewood to warm us, could we have known what a miracle it was. -The words "terror" and "beauty" which we had spoken during the first -look down into the valley and had thought that we understood, had real -content now. We knew that they belonged together and that one covered -the other and changed its meaning.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>XII</span> <span class="smaller"><i>The End of the Adventure</i></span></h2> - -<p>It was April when we returned to Silver Lake. Spring was walking on -the desert. The sand and the stony mesas were decked with flowers. -Great patches of California-poppies bent on hairlike, invisible stems -before the wind, little floating golden cups. Blue lupins, like spires -of larkspur, glistened in the sun. A four-petaled, waxy flower with -a shining, satiny texture spread in masses on the sand. Daisies with -yellow centers and lavender petals clustered beside rocks. A little -plant like the beginnings of a wild rose tossed tiny pink balloons in -the air. The shoots of the purple verbena ran over the ground, sending -up little stems to hold its many-floretted crowns. Even the thorny -cactus bloomed with a crimson, poppy-shaped flower.</p> - -<p>When we went on excursions to the mountains the bayonet-leaves of the -yucca guarded tall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> spikes which bore aloft white, shining blossoms, -and the grotesque branches of the Joshua palms were tipped with -brightness like lighted candles. Everywhere high clumps of yellow -coreopsis rivaled the sun. Beyond the dry lake at the base of the -sand-ridge which had been so terrifying on our first drive through the -desert stood stately Easter lilies hung with great white bells. Easter -morning we went over there and gathered armfuls for our kind German -hosts. Their house and ours were abloom during our stay, for we could -no more resist gathering these amazing flowers than we could resist -picking up the many-colored stones. Every dish and bowl was full and -tin cans rescued from the dump were promoted to be vases.</p> - -<p>The gallant little flowers in such a stern environment! They were -touchingly lovely, blooming wherever they had the smallest chance and -looking trustingly at the sun. It was as though we had never seen -flowers before, never really seen them.</p> - -<p>Indeed, until we went on pilgrimage to the White Heart, we had never -seen the outdoors,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> never really seen it. How could we not see it when -the outdoors is always on the doorstep? We had thought we saw it, we -had talked about it, a place for pleasant dalliance when work inside -the walls was done, or a sort of glorified gymnasium to make the -blood race and the heart beat faster. The outdoors is the awe-full, -magnificent universe moving along, inexpressibly fearful and beautiful!</p> - -<p>And we might have seen it anywhere! The drama is always going on with -its terror and beauty. The gentlest countryside is a part of it. -Everywhere the grim touches hands with the fair, storm alternates with -calm, flowers grow out of death, and the fairness, the calm and the -flowers are the stronger. Poets and artists know this when they step -across their thresholds in the morning—whence their unreasonable joy -at being alive—but most of us have to be shaken awake before we can -see what is in front of our eyes.</p> - -<p>The desert shook us awake. We had come looking for mysteries and -"terrible fascinations" and found only the mystery of the old outdoors<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> -and the terrible fascination of the old outdoors. Beauty pressing -around sorrow—the desert is simply a very forceful statement about -that.</p> - -<p>For the adventure with the outdoors is the adventure with beauty. And -when you have that adventure the jealous walls, however engrossing -their contents, and they may be very interesting and amusing and -serious and exciting, can never bully you again. They have doors and -windows in them and beauty is around them like a garment. You and I, -unaccountably split off from the vast drama and blessedly able to be -aware of it for a little while, shall we let the din and bother inside -the walls, the frantic lunging at the still face of time, raise such a -dust in our eyes that we cannot see?</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>"Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all</div> -<div>Ye know on earth and all ye need to know."</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Every day while we rested at Silver Lake we looked the length of the -barren lake bed to the bright mirage at the base of the black mountain -that was no mountain at all, and northward over sandy emptiness to the -enchanted pathway <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>leading behind the Avawatz. Fourteen of the still, -bright days of the desert were strung on the endless string before we -had to say good-by to our hosts and to the Worrier.</p> - -<p>Never can we forget any of the people whom we met during our adventure -with the outdoors, neither the few whom we have mentioned in this -inadequate telling of it, nor the many whom we have not. They were all -unfailingly kind. It was very hard to part from our guide, and nothing -reconciled us to it except his cheerful promise to act as Official -Worrier again. Our hostess invited us to come any time and stay as long -as we liked, an invitation of which we have gladly availed ourselves.</p> - -<p>We piled our baggage into the automobile, abandoned so long at Silver -Lake, and through a whole sunny day drove away from the White Heart. -The dim road led past sinister little craters that long ago spilled -ugly, black lava over the hills, through acres and acres of blue lupins -blown to waves like a sea, across two ranges of enchanted mountains and -down into and over the white Ivanpah Valley where the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> heavy sand made -the engine boil. Several times we left the car to walk on the savage, -torn-up hills made gentle by flowers. When the noise of the engine was -hushed the silence was full of the singing of birds.</p> - -<p>In the rose and orange of evening we reached Needles on the bank of the -red Colorado River, and came out of the wild and lonely place onto the -great highway that joins the Atlantic and the Pacific. The sand and -rock trail follows the steel road of the Santa Fé. Transcontinental -trains roar past and pennants flutter on automobiles from Maine and -Florida, Michigan and Texas, Oregon and California. Dust clouds roll -over the edge of Mojave as America goes by. Some travelers look at -her curiously, some look longingly, some shudder, some pass with the -window shades pulled down. All the time she is singing on her rosy -mountain-tops and in her deep, hot valleys where the blaze of the sun is white.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> - -<h2>APPENDIX</h2> - -<p>" ... That part of California which lies to the south and east of the -southern inosculation of the Coast Range and the Sierra comprises an -area of fully 50,000 sq.m. For the most part it is excessively dry -and barren. The Mohave Desert—embracing Kern, Los Angeles and San -Bernardino, as also a large part of San Diego, Imperial and Riverside -counties—belong to the 'Great Basin.' ... The Mohave Desert is about -2,000 ft. above the sea in general altitude. The southern part of -the Great Basin region is vaguely designated the Colorado desert. -In San Diego, Imperial and Riverside counties a number of creeks or -so called rivers, with beds that are normally dry, flow centrally -toward the desert of Salton Sink or 'Sea'; this is the lowest part of -a large area that is depressed below the level of the sea, at Salton -263 ft., and 287 ft. at the lowest point. In 1900 the Colorado River -(q.v.) was tapped south of the Mexican boundary for water wherewith -to irrigate land in the Imperial Valley along the Southern Pacific -Railway, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>adjoining Salton Sea. The river enlarged the Canal, and -finding a steeper gradient than that to its mouth, was diverted into -the Colorado Desert, flooding Salton Sea, and when the break in this -river was closed for the second time in February, 1907, though much of -its water still escaped through minor channels and by seepage, a lake -more than 400 sq.m. in area was left. A permanent 60 ft. masonry dam -was completed in July, 1907.</p> - -<p>" ... Death Valley surpasses for combined heat and aridity any -meteorological stations on earth where regular observations are taken, -although for extremes of heat it is exceeded by places in the Colorado -desert. The minimum daily temperature in summer is rarely below 70° -F. and often above 96° F. (in the shade), while the maximum may for -days in succession be as high as 120° F. A record of six months (1891) -showed an average daily relative humidity sometimes falls to 5. Yet -the surrounding country is not devoid of vegetation. The hills are -very fertile when irrigated, and the wet season develops a variety of -perennial herbs, shrubs and annuals."</p> - -<p>The Encyclopædia Britannica: "California."</p> - -<p>"It is often said that America has no real deserts. This is true in -the sense that there are no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> regions such as are found in Asia and -Africa where one can travel a hundred miles at a stretch and scarcely -see a sign of vegetation—nothing but barren gravel, graceful, wavy -sand dunes, hard, wind-swept clay, or still harder rock salt broken -into rough blocks with upturned edges. In the broader sense of the -term, however, America has an abundance of deserts—regions which -bear a thin cover of bushy vegetation but are too dry for agriculture -without irrigation.... In the United States the deserts lie almost -wholly between the Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountain ranges, which -keep out any moisture that might come from either the west or the -east. Beginning on the north with the sagebrush plateau of southern -Washington, the desert expands to a width of seven hundred miles -in the gray, sage-covered basins of Nevada and Utah. In southern -California and Arizona the sagebrush gives place to smaller forms like -the salt-bush, and the desert assumes a sterner aspect. Next comes -the cactus desert extending from Arizona far south into Mexico. One -of the notable features of the desert is the extreme heat of certain -portions. Close to the Nevada border in southern California, Death -Valley, 250 feet below sea-level, is the hottest place in America. -There alone among the American<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> regions familiar to the writer does -one have the feeling of intense, overpowering aridity which prevails -so often in the deserts of Arabia and Central Asia. Some years ago a -Weather Bureau thermometer was installed in Death Valley at Furnace -Creek, where the only flowing water in more than a hundred miles -supports a depressing little ranch. There one or two white men, -helped by a few Indians, raise alfalfa, which they sell at exorbitant -prices to deluded prospectors searching for riches which they never -find. Though the terrible heat ruins the health of the white men in a -year or two, so that they have to move away, they have succeeded in -keeping a thermometer record for some years. No other properly exposed -out-of-door thermometer in the United States, or perhaps in the world, -is so familiar with a temperature of 100° F. or more. During the period -of not quite fifteen hundred days from the spring of 1911 to May, 1915, -a maximum temperature of 100° F. or more was reached in five hundred -and forty-eight days, or more than one-third of the time. On July 10, -1913, the mercury rose to 134° F. and touched the top of the tube. How -much higher it might have gone no one can tell. That day marks the -limit of temperature yet reached in this country according<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> to official -records. In the summer of 1914 there was one night when the thermometer -dropped only to 114° F., having been 128° F. at noon. The branches of -a pepper-tree whose roots had been freshly watered wilted as a flower -wilts when broken from the stalk."</p> - -<blockquote><p>—The Chronicles of America.—Volume I. "The Red Man's Continent," -by Ellsworth Huntington.</p></blockquote> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The White Heart of Mojave, by Edna Brush Perkins - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE HEART OF MOJAVE *** - -***** This file should be named 60078-h.htm or 60078-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/7/60078/ - -Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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