Possibly this chapter is out of place in a book of motor travel on the Pacific Coast, for it has somewhat to do with journeyings by railway train and shifts the scene of action to the barren hills and green valleys of Arizona—the land of mystery and contrast without peer among its sister states. In our goings back and forth to California over the Santa Fe Trail, we had often laid plans to stop at the Petrified Forests near Adamana and to visit Phoenix and the great Roosevelt Dam, which waters the green and fruitful Salt River Valley. It is hard, however, to wrench oneself from a Pullman car before the journey’s end when one has become comfortably located, and so our plans were usually deferred until some indefinite “next time.” Had we taken trouble to ascertain how easily and quickly such plans can be realized, we should no doubt have carried them out much sooner. Leaving Los Angeles in the afternoon in a through sleeper, we awoke the following morning to see the vivid green of the Salt River alfalfa278 fields all about us, reaching Phoenix in time for a late breakfast. We were not posted on the hotels of the town, but went to the Jefferson because it was nearest, finding it a modern, fireproof building with well-appointed, comfortable rooms. There was no meal service, however, and we were directed to a restaurant farther down the street. We also inquired about hiring a car to take us to the Roosevelt Dam and the clerk replied that he would have a driver connected with the hotel call on us shortly. This party appeared while we were at breakfast and expressed his willingness to serve us.
“Of course you mean to spend the night at the dam,” he said, “returning tomorrow.”
We assured him that we didn’t mean anything of the sort—that our time in Phoenix was limited to two days and that only one of them could be devoted to the Roosevelt Dam. “They tell us that it is only seventy-five miles distant,” I asserted. “Surely one hundred and fifty miles isn’t much of a drive if we get away by 9:30.”
“You may think differently after you’ve made the trip,” he replied, “but I reckon it can be done if you feel that you can stand it.”
We thought we knew something of bad roads and rough going and felt sure that the trip couldn’t be much worse than many other one-hundred-and-fifty-mile jaunts we had done279 in a day, and, to get down to business, asked, “What kind of a car have you, and what will you charge us for the drive?”
“I’ve a Dodge,” he replied, “and the regular price for the trip is forty dollars.”
The lady of the expedition had not said much so far but the latter part of the remark aroused her interest and slightly excited her ire. “Forty dollars for one hundred and fifty miles—a six or seven-hour trip!” she exclaimed. “We don’t wish to buy your car, thank you.”
We declined to negotiate farther with a party who was such a palpable would-be robber and on coming out into the street I approached a jovial-looking old fellow in a Ford labeled “for hire,” thinking more of getting a little information than of any likelihood of doing business with him.
“Yes, I can take you to the dam,” he said. “Drive you up to-day and bring you back tomorrow; forty dollars for the round trip.”
“But we want to get back this evening,” we replied, ignoring the unpleasant confirmation of the Dodge driver’s “regular fare.”
“Waal, couldn’t do it in the Ford, but my son has a new Buick six and he can make it all right—but he’d have to charge you fifty dollars.”
We had gotten over the first shock given us by auto rates to Roosevelt Dam and heard this280 with fairly steady nerves—we were bound to make the trip and a few dollars one way or the other were not to deter us. The young man was hunted up and after some dickering he consented to pilot the new Buick six, the pride of his heart, on her maiden trip to the dam for the regular price, but declared it would be well after dark before he could get us back.
“Do you mean to tell me,” I exclaimed, “that a machine like that will require twelve hours to do one hundred and fifty miles?”
“You’ll know more about it,” he replied, “when you’ve been over the road; besides, we’ll have to stop for lunch and of course you’ll want a little time at the dam.” To all of which we assented—and I may anticipate here enough to say that I do know more about it since I have been over the road and that while forty dollars seems pretty high auto hire for a one-hundred and-fifty-mile trip, I am convinced that it would have taken all of that out of my own car and tires had we made the run in it.
A few preliminaries detained us until nearly ten o’clock, but when we got under way our driver quickly cleared the streets of the town and we were soon skimming merrily along a fine, level road skirting a broad, tree-bordered irrigation canal. This is one of the main arteries carrying the water which gives the valley its green281 prosperity—an unruffled emerald river eighty feet broad and eight feet deep. We crossed a fine bridge over the Salt River at Tempe, nine miles from Phoenix, and about as far beyond this town we entered Mesa, the second city of the valley. So far we found the road level and good, some of it having been surfaced and otherwise improved.
Beyond Mesa we came quickly out of the cultivated part of the valley, pursuing a good dirt road leading through a sandy stretch of desert, toward the rugged hill range which rears its serrated crests against the silvery horizon. Seen from Phoenix, the mountains that encircle the verdant valley are shrouded in the intensest blue—far away hills of mystery that suggest some fairyland beyond—but as we drew nearer to them the blue shadows vanished and the bald, harsh outlines of mighty wall and towering crag seemingly barred our way. The prevailing colors were dull browns and reds and the slopes were almost devoid of vegetation. Great boulder-like hills are tumbled about as though some giant had flung them in wild confusion to bar the ingress of human trespassers. The road, however, finds a crevice by which to enter the mighty barrier and about midway between Phoenix and the dam it begins its conquest of these forbidding hills. Somewhere we had read that282 the government had built a “boulevard” through these mountains to the dam and our preconceived notions were of a fair mountain road. We had, therefore, no mental preparation to assist us in enduring one of the crookedest, roughest, rockiest trails we ever bumped over in all our experience. The route we followed was known as the “Apache Trail” in pioneer days and frequently afforded a secure retreat for these troublesome savages when pursued by the U. S. troopers. In converting it into a thoroughfare for vehicles, it would seem that little has been done except to widen the old trail—a real highway to Roosevelt Dam is yet to be built.
The climb begins at the foot of Superstition Mountain, leaving the river some miles to the left. Much of the road is natural granite rock, almost untouched by the hand of man; again it is blasted in the edge of a cliff, though little has been done to finish the surface to any degree of smoothness. We scrambled through the Devil’s Kitchen—a wild array of fantastic, multi-colored rocks—pink, yellow green—withal a beautiful spot spoiled by a senseless name.
We followed the edge of sheer cliffs or skirted sloping hillsides overlooking charming little valleys. From one point we had a far-away glimpse of the vexed river—we crossed the inevitable “hogback” and the grandest panorama283 of the whole trip burst suddenly upon our astonished vision. It is a vast, oval basin more than a thousand feet in depth, surrounded by parti-colored hills—though golden yellow seems the predominating color—on every side save for the narrow chasm by which the stream makes its escape from the canyon. But from our point of view the creek seemed a silver thread and the pines on the valley floor shrunk to mere shrubs. Our driver pointed out the ranch house where we were to have lunch, though we located it with difficulty, for it seemed no larger than an ordinary dry-goods box. The road here—the only especially creditable piece of engineering on the route—descends the mighty hillside in long, swinging loops and with only moderate grades. It offers many wonderful panoramas of giant crags and towering pinnacles; at times great cliffs rise far above it and again sheer precipices fall away at its side. This wonderful vale of beauty and grandeur goes by the very unpoetical title of Fish Creek Canyon, which again reminds us how unfortunate the pioneers often were in their nomenclature. What a pity that the sense of fitness which clung to the old Indian or Spanish names in the Southwest or the romantic propriety that gave the oriental titles to the palaces of the Grand Canyon was not more common.
284 At Fish Creek Station, we paused at a plain, rustic roadhouse, where a substantial dinner was served after considerable delay, for the landlady and her daughter appeared to be sole attendants upon ourselves and a dozen or more people who came by the stage. While awaiting the dinner call, we amused ourselves in watching the antics of a pair of young mountain lions confined in a wire cage. They were graceful, playful beasts, somewhat larger than a big cat, and about six months old, our driver said. They were caught in the vicinity, which is noted for big game, and the very rare mountain sheep can be seen on the surrounding cliffs at almost any time. The rocks assume many fantastic shapes against the skyline around the valley and by exercising a little imagination we finally could see the “Lion” and the “Cross” on the distant heights. Leaving the station, the road follows the boisterous creek for some distance, winding among trees and boulders which skirt its banks. Then we again climbed rugged granite hills almost devoid of vegetation, save many queer cacti, often gorgeous with blooms, and finally approached the river, which we followed at no great distance for the rest of the run. We saw it from the heights, whence it appeared like a green, fluttering ribbon, as it dashed over its stony bed. As we proceeded the road dipped down in the valley and finally285 came to the very banks of the stream, which it closely followed for several miles. It is a broad, beautifully clear river, plunging over the stones in foaming rapids or lying still and deep in emerald green pools. The road had been washed out for some distance by a spring flood and the new work was excruciatingly rough and strewn with razor-edged stones which wrought havoc on the smooth new tires. The scene at this point, however, is one of wild and entrancing beauty. Far above us rose the rocky walls, splashed with reds and yellows; below us the river banks were lined with cottonwoods, aspens, and willows beneath which were green meadows, with prosperous-looking cattle grazing upon them.
The road swings away from the river for some distance and we again entered the hills; we crawled up narrow, steep grades and around the corners of stupendous cliffs. Ere long a deep-voiced roar announced that the object of our pilgrimage was near at hand. As we came out upon a promontory, we got a full view of the mighty arc of stone that shuts the vast wall of water in the heart of the blue hill range before us. Torrents were pouring from the spillways and a rainbow arched the clouds of mist and foam that rose at the base of the three-hundred-foot fall. We paused in wonder and admiration to286 contemplate the scene—for once the works of man rival the phenomena of nature in beauty and grandeur, though we must confess that the natural background is a very helpful accessory to the wonderful view. Back of the dam the shining blue lake, twenty-five square miles in area, stretches away between the granite hills, which show little traces of vegetation save scattered scrub pines and cedars. Near at hand the reddish-brown volcanic rocks stand out in bold, bare outlines, but gradually softened by the blue mists of the distance, they take on the semblance of fairy towers and domes. Substantial iron bridges two hundred feet long span the spillways on either side of the dam and afford access to a sixteen-foot roadway along the top of the mighty structure.
From the road one gets the most adequate idea of the gigantic dimensions and great solidity of the dam; a few figures illustrating these may be admissable here. The height from lowest foundation is 284 feet; thickness at base, 168 feet; at crest, 20 feet; total length, including spillways, 1080 feet. The cost of the entire work was nine million dollars, of which three and a half millions were spent on the dam alone. Five and one-half years were required to complete the job and formal dedication occurred on the eighteenth of March, 1911, with the redoubtable Teddy himself287 as master of ceremonies. It was not until nearly four years later that the reservoir was entirely filled. There is enough water in reserve to supply all lands now under the system with sufficient moisture for three years, putting any chance of crop failure from shortage out of the question. About three and a half feet of water annually is required to produce crops in the Salt River Valley and this, with the warm sunshine and fertile soil, brings forth a yield that is amazing to farmers in rain-watered sections. A valuable by-product of the system is the water power available at the dam and at various points on the river. The aggregate will exceed twenty-five thousand horse power, which will ultimately pay for the maintenance of the system, giving the land-owner his water service free.
Crossing the dam, we followed the road for a mile or two to Webb Lodge, a comfortable-looking rustic inn built on a point of land extending well into the lake. A good many Phoenix people come here to spend the week-end and enjoy the excellent fishing. A number of stage tourists also stop at the Lodge for the night, completing the trip to Globe, forty-five miles farther, on the following day. We may confess that the thought of a pause for the night here appealed mightily to us, but our plans did not admit of such a stop, and after a half hour’s rest288 in the big chairs on the Lodge veranda we signified our readiness for the return trip.
The prospect of immediately retracing our way over the cruel road which we had just covered was not at all alluring and we would recommend to would-be visitors to make arrangements for a through trip to Globe by auto-stage, resuming the railroad there. Our return trip was not entirely without its reward, for we saw many weirdly beautiful effects as the sun went down over the giant hills and the blue shadows veiled the mysterious deeps of the savage ravines. Besides, the viewpoints were so vastly different that it was often hard to believe we were pursuing the road which we followed in coming. The sky was perfectly clear and the western horizon was a vast, burning expanse as the sun disappeared, though there was but little afterglow.
But we were hardly in form to appreciate the weird gradations of light and color and the almost terrifying beauty of the twilight mountains about us. The terrible road had worn the lady of the party to the limit of endurance and our anxiety to get out of the fearful hills constantly increased. It seemed an age before we rounded the black bulk of Superstition Mountains and saw the moonlit Mesa glimmering before us. Even the motor seemed to give a sigh289 of relief as the car reached the level plain and settled down to a swift, steady pace after the strenuous work in the hills. Mesa and Tempe were quickly passed and we reached the well-lighted streets of Phoenix a little after nine o’clock. The lady was so thoroughly fagged out that she declared there was no possible hope that she would be able to leave the hotel the next day. A night’s rest in a comfortable bed, however, worked wonders and, though there was considerable complaint about sore joints and muscles in the morning, she declared herself ready, after a late breakfast, to carry out our plan to explore the vicinity of Phoenix during the day.
We soon struck a bargain with the old man whose son had piloted us to the dam, to show us, with the assistance of his trusty Ford, what he considered worth while in and about the city. He proved an excellent guide, for he apparently knew every foot of the country by heart, though perhaps he was a little too much of a “booster” to impart unprejudiced information about Phoenix. We found it quite impossible to disabuse him of the idea that we were seeking investments in the valley—he evidently couldn’t conceive of any other reason for the interest we were evincing in the country. He first descanted upon the climate—the practice of every loyal westerner—and290 we had learned the futility of disputing the asseverations made in such cases.
“I lived in Missouri several years ago and my wife suffered so terribly from rheumatism and other ills that we decided on a change of climate. We moved to Los Angeles and lived there for three years, but there wasn’t much improvement and on the advice of a friend we came to Phoenix a few years ago. My wife is perfectly well now and I feel that I’ve added years to my life. It’s the warm, dry climate that does the business; California is too wet in the winter months. Pretty hot in summer?—Well, yes, but we don’t feel it like you do back east. I stay here the year round and enjoy the weather all the time. The records prove that the sun shines eighty-four per cent of the possible time and there is an average of only thirty-seven rainy days in the year. Yes, it’s good enough for me, and you’ll like it, too, if you decide to come here.”
We first drove about the town and noted the handsome public and private buildings, the wide, well-paved streets, and the many comfortable residences with their pretty grounds. Not many of these could be classed as pretentious, though there are several fine homes on the broad avenue leading to the Government Indian School. The State Capitol, a small but handsome building of classic design, surrounded by ample291 grounds, is situated in the center of the town. Tucson has given up the claim which it once pressed for the capitol, and no doubt a more adequate structure will be built before many years. There are several imposing public school buildings, classic lines prevailing in the architecture of nearly all of them. A beautiful Y. M. C. A. building with the mission motif predominating, fronts a pretty little park. I have already mentioned the hotels, which of course greatly outclass anything one would be likely to find in an eastern town two or three times as large as Phoenix. Near the city is the Ingleside Country Club, with a handsome club house where winter visitors are made welcome. Nor did our guide permit us to overlook the Insane Asylum adjoining the city and assured us that the big addition then building was made necessary by prohibition, recently adopted in Arizona—leaving us to draw any conclusions we might see fit.
Leaving the town we pursued the broad avenue leading to the Indian school—a splendid road running straight away to the blue mountains, sixty miles distant. It seems to me that I never saw elsewhere mountains so intensely blue as those which surround this Arcadian valley. Perhaps the universal greenness accentuates all colors. Surely it was an earthly Paradise on the day of which I am writing—a bright, fresh day292 with a light breeze laden with the odors of orange blossoms and new-mown alfalfa. The Indian school is small and the buildings old, but the surroundings seem ideal for teaching the rising generation of red men the ways of civilization.
From the Indian school we drove to some orange groves not far distant and made no attempt to dispute our guide’s emphatic claim that they were quite the equal of the best groves about Riverside or Azusa.
“They can grow any fruit here that can be grown in California,” he declared, “and some that can’t be matured there—dates, for instance. We have frosts sometimes, but I’ve seen worse ones about Los Angeles. Our main crops never fail, though; we can always count on a full yield of grain, alfalfa, sugar beets, or a dozen other staples. And I want to ask you if you ever saw finer cattle than those right before your eyes.”
We followed a road along one of the canals which spread like a network over the valley and furnish unlimited water for the 182,000 acres now under irrigation. About 30,000 additional acres can be reclaimed by pumping water to a slightly higher level and this will comprise about all the available land in the valley. None of it remains in possession of the government and prices of improved land now range from $100 to $500 per acre—very low, our enthusiastic informant asserted,293 when you consider that a single year’s crop will often pay twenty-five to fifty per cent of the original cost of the land. And this did not seem unreasonable when we saw the enormous crops of wheat and alfalfa which are being harvested—and the latter yields two to six cuttings per year. Of course, there may be another side to the story of Salt River Valley’s prosperity—as there is to nearly everything on this mundane sphere—but our interest was too casual to spur us to any careful investigation.
We were back to our hotel in the early afternoon, after having covered a large part of the roads, good, bad, and indifferent, in the immediate vicinity of the town. If we had time to go farther afield, we were assured that there is much of interest within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles about Phoenix. Tucson, one hundred and twenty miles to the southeast, has the State University and one of the oldest and most picturesque of Spanish missions in the Southwest—that of San Xavier Del Bac, still in charge of the Franciscan monks. Granite Reef Diversion Dam is thirty miles to the northeast and just beyond that are the ruins of old Fort McDowell, established in the days of the Apache wars. About it is an Indian reservation where the sons and daughters of these fierce red warriors now pursue the arts of peace—they are famous basket-makers294 and some of them are prosperous farmers and cattle raisers. The Gila Indian Reservation is seventeen miles to the southwest and is remarkable for its excellent buildings, which were erected by the Indians themselves. One tribe, the Pimas, is noted for its pottery, and its proudest boast is that it has never been at war with the whites.
All of these points may be reached by motor over roads ranging from fair to bad—but whatever their condition, constantly improving, for Arizona, despite her limited population as compared with her vast areas, is making every effort to improve her highways. Our old driver left us at the hotel with the earnest plea that we give the merits of Phoenix as a place to live our careful consideration and we assured him that if we did not become citizens of the town it would not be his fault.
Our plans were already made for a stop at the Petrified Forests of Arizona—for these are in Arizona, though it takes a night’s run on the Santa Fe to reach them in this land of magnificent distances. We were met at the little goods-box station of Adamana by a short, swarthy individual who seized our grips and piloted us to the bungalow-like inn across the track, where the proprietor, Mr. Chester B. Campbell, welcomed us and assured us that in response to our295 telegram he had reserved “the best in the house for us.” We found the best to be had in the Campbell Hotel quite primitive enough to suit the taste of the most ardent advocate of the simple life; bath-rooms and running water were taboo and telephone and call bells minus in rooms. But things were clean and one is hardly entitled to Waldorf-Astoria accommodations for two-fifty per day—“American plan.”
We barely paused to deposit our baggage in the room assigned to us before signifying to Mr. Campbell our desire to visit the wonders which had brought us to Adamana and we were assured that nearly everything worth while could be done in a day—since Fords had superseded horses and spring wagons. And I suppose it was fortunate for me that this shift in transportation methods had been made; otherwise what excuse could I have found for including the story of our experiences in a chronicle of the motor car? And there was no ............