Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
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C
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<p>I had no idea what he meant, so I just smiled. In the evening people began arriving and putting children to bed until I began wondering if each mother ever would find her own child. No one introduced me as I sat and watched the crowd until a white-haired old man with a violin under his arm appeared in the doorway, peered about the crowd, and asked if the lady who had played the piano in the afternoon was there. I asked if he meant me, and his face lit up as he asked if I would try and accompany him on the piano. Here was another piano no one knew how to play!
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<p>The factory required a telegram every night giving the car's location, also a daily written account signed both by driver and observer, to be mailed each night to the factory. Fred won first place among the five cars at the end of the run, later receiving a silver cup and ebony pedestal. The points which won him the decision were prompt and full reports, high gasoline and oil mileage and fewest repairs. His only replacement was a 10-cent commutator spring which he installed himself.
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<p>I don't suppose my husband and I could possibly make clear to modern motorists the intense affection we developed for a piece of machinery—our little Brush Runabout. But at the end of our ordeal (it was 1908) we parted with the car as if it had been a favorite child.
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<p>DIFFICULTY GOING IN THE MOUNTAINS OF UTAH
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<p>Next morning, as we climbed a long grade to the top of the Wasatch Mountains, a dozen or more cowboys on their ponies surrounded us, lighting cigarettes, laughing, fixing saddles, in front and then behind us until we began to get nervous, wondering what they were trying to do. Just before we reached the top of the hill, one of them reined in his pony, faced us and said, "I guess you won't need us to pull you up this hill."
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<p>We went through Fresno, San Jose, past Stanford University, and soon the breeze from the Pacific Ocean brought the salt odor of the water as we rode along "El Camino Real," the old Spanish road used by the padres, Spaniards and Indians long before California was part of the United States. It is bordered by tall eucalyptus trees, with small mission bells at intervals.
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<p>Soon after leaving Promontory, we got into such bad gumbo mud we were glad to back out, after much trouble, and drive on the railroad track as we had been told we would have to do. There were three trains a week on this road to hold the right of way (the main line had been built across Salt Lake). Since this was not a train day, we drove over the road bed and ties, stopping often, as the bumping from tie to tie set our car bouncing on the coil springs, endangering the flywheel. Once two wheels slipped off the tie-ends into the mud and the car hung on the inside of the rail by the other two wheels, at an angle of thirty degrees. We worked with old ties and sticks to raise the wheels from the mud, finally getting them on the ties again. We drove all day in a fog, never stopping for lunch, and made all of 17 miles.
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<p>My face mask came into good use around Salt Lake, for the air was filled with gnats in the mornings, but Fred thought it was ugly, so I removed it whenever we passed through towns.
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<p>We never had had any mechanical trouble with the Brush, and its actions were a puzzle. Late in the afternoon the car took another rest. Fred dutifully alighted and began another search. Suddenly he announced he had found the trouble. My spirits rose at once; all I had been able to do all day was sit and worry when the car stopped and enthuse when it mysteriously started again. The trouble was a simple thing, but it had made the day tragic for us. The insulation was worn through on a wire under the machine, short circuiting the engine when the bare wire happened to touch the metal frame. Locating it was the difficult part, but a little tape remedied it and the car was itself again, fairly spurning the worst mud of the day with its wheels and bringing us to Kelton and a railroad for a Sunday night cold lunch, though we persuaded the waitress to augment it with some hot soup. There was a smug crowd of clerks, teachers, and the like at one table, with not a thought beyond food. They sat there in their Sunday best as we entered dressed in our soiled traveling clothes. They looked at us as though we were something the cat had dragged in. That didn't bother us in the least because we had completed another lap on our journey, with food and shelter for the night, and our trusty car waiting to go at the turn of the crank.
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<p>The gas tank had to be soldered, besides replacing the fenders and running boards, before they could start for Denver that night. While working in the garage, another car backed up in front of Fred and began shooting the exhaust in his face. He quit work, went over to the owner, and asked him to move the car, as the fumes were very annoying. The man answered that if he didn't like it, he could move his own car. There was no room to move back, so after a few words—tired from his climb and anxious to get home that night—Fred lost his temper and hit the man on the chin with his fist. The other shook his head and said, "Did you mean that?" Fred replied, "Yes, I did," and soon the two were a rolling heap on the floor. The cameraman had to separate them. The man then moved his car and before Fred left, he came back and apologized to him.
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<p>We did not try to make fast time, because safety was our first thought. Fred went over the car carefully each morning before starting.
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<p>As night approached and we had ridden many miles without seeing any sign of habitation, black clouds were gathering. We decided to try another section house on the railroad for food and lodging for the night, as we had no idea how far it was to the next town, Medicine Bow, but we knew there was a river which we did not care to ford after dark in such a small car. We found a Japanese man who looked at us in such a surly way, only grunting at our questions, that Fred said, "Let's get out of here," and we hurried out over the railroad track, feeling safer in the dark and storm. To cross the railroad we had to open and shut a wire gate on each side of the tracks. We couldn't see far beyond our dim headlights in the darkness and rain, and the feeling of loneliness was great. Finally we saw a tiny light to our right in the distance and Fred told me not to lose sight of it.
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<p>The camp cook took us into his box-car kitchen and served us a most appetizing meal, including parker house rolls. The signal maintainer, a Scotchman, took us to his house, made a fire to dry Fred's clothes, and gave us his bed for the night. He was the only person on our whole trip who would not take any money. All he wanted was a postcard from us when we reached San Francisco, probably thinking we would never reach such a place. We always carried plenty of fruit to supplement our scanty meals, and we gave him some. He said it was a great treat. Later, when we reached San Francisco, we sent him a picture of the St. Francis Hotel, where we stayed.
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<p>Not enjoying our cold room and remembering the comfortable family hotel in Tacoma, we decided to go back there and keep warm while we were waiting for the gear. The express agent promised to send us word as soon as the gear arrived, so we packed our suitcases, took the noon train, and arrived at Tacoma the third time. There we had regular meals, a room with a stove, and plenty of fuel.
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<p>We entered San Francisco by the peninsula, going to a post office where we found word for us to meet a Mr. Harris, the Brush sales manager, at the St. Francis Hotel. He had not arrived, so we registered and spent the afternoon buying new clothes. The first thing I bought was a fragrant bunch of violets, such as grow in California only.
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<p>Because of the extremely low level, which affects me seriously, Fred began to make inquiries in Tonopah, seeking another route into the southern part of California, and was told there was a horse-and-cart trail used by a power line rider, going west. He consulted the power line officials about taking this road and they said a rider with a horse and cart went over this road three times a week, weather permitting. They telephoned and found there was no snow on the passes and fair weather was predicted, so we decided to go that way, avoiding the deep sand below sea level and saving the towing bill.
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<p>After returning home, Fred received a communication from the Bureau of Tours of the American Automobile Association, with a map marking his route, and informing him they had a record in his name as the Seventeenth Transcontinental Automobile Trip.
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<p>We were constantly worried that we would be stranded if our flywheel broke; we had no other with us. This was a desolate country and somehow very depressing, with clouds presaging a storm. This feeling was intensified as we passed the deserted town of Carbon, where open doors swung in the wind and paneless windows stared at us. In one window we saw the head of a horse, and in another we caught the partially hidden face of a man. We were glad to leave the desolate ruins and climb to higher hills, although we still sensed trouble around us.
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<p>We heard there were three feet of snow in Weber Canyon, which we had just come through, and were most thankful we had wasted no time on the way.
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<p>Starting the car, they went down grade before resuming the climb. Rocks, boulders, fallen trees, and other debris blocked the road and had to be cleared away, while washouts were numerous. At the Halfway House, there was a mountain stream with very steep sides. It had once been bridged just below timberline. The two men carried poles from a nearby corral, lashed them together in pairs with their rope, buried the ends in the earth to make them firm, and drove over them as if they were a bridge.
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