Property:Has text
From Off the Road Database
This is a property of type Text.
C
<div class="poem">
<p>Fred carried the tramp with him to the next town and took him to a restaurant for a meal, but as soon as they had finished eating the tramp made a bee-line for a freight train—and oblivion, as far as Fred was concerned.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Throughout Missouri, Fred could get little information about roads or directions. For instance, people living ten miles from Bowling Green had no idea where it was. The roads were so bad he drove much of the time in low gear with the wheels in a solid mass of mud. It was a hard grind across the state, but luckily time and speed had no bearing on the final summing-up of the trip.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The night after the sale and delivery of the car, we were in a Pullman returning to Denver. We spent a day in Salt Lake City and reached home December 1, having been gone a little over two months.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>A golden spike was driven in the railroad at Promontory May 10, 1869, to celebrate the connecting of the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific railroads, thus completing the first transcontinental railroad in the United States. The spike had been removed, but a large signpost gave the date of the event and we were shown where the spike had been.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Montello was a small place, the end of a division on the Union Pacific. Its hotel had recently burned down and the crude rooming house which took its place was so open and cold the water froze in the water pitcher every night. The Japanese restaurant proved so unsatisfactory we could not eat there. Fred spent the forenoon sending to the factory for a new gear and trying to get the car under shelter, but there was no place for it and we had to leave it outside, trusting to the honor of the inhabitants.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>We went straight west over uneven country, crossing a dry borax lake where the 98 percent—pure substance was shoveled up and shipped for commercial use. There was no one living on the way, and the trail was hardly visible at times. In one place we could find no track over a bank and hunted for a suitable place to make the plunge over the edge. Then Fred made me walk ahead to avoid the worry of having another person in the car while he steered it down. He hoped the sand at the bottom would assist him in slowing and stopping, which it did, so we were able to continue on our way intact. Such risks had be taken, for there was no help near for miles—and no turning back—consequently we went through some anxious moments at times, and our nerves got a little frazzled.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Next morning they started in the snow but found the roads drifted badly and had to return there. After a day's delay they were directed over a high road through timber where the snow drifts were not so bad. At night they came back to the regular route and managed to get through after much shoveling.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>Back of our feet in the car were a shovel and an umbrella, ready for quick use. We dressed in serviceable, warm clothing, gauntlet gloves, and high, waterproof boots. At the very last, I added a silk face mask and goggles to my wardrobe. We each had a rubber coat that slipped over the head to protect us from rain, snow, and cold. We each carried a suitcase with one full change of clothes, knowing we could buy more on the way. We divided our money in case of emergency, and both of us had a revolver.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>There was a fair road with a telegraph line to follow, and a full moon overhead. Many times we thought we saw a light but it faded away before our eyes, leaving us bewildered and uncertain. About eleven o'clock, Fred stopped the car and asked me if I saw anything or if there was an optical illusion. It looked like an iron bridge a little to one side of the road, but it appeared so fairy-like in the moonlight that we doubted our eyes, so we stopped the car and walked over to see if it was a real bridge or a mirage. It was real.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>SUNNY CALIFORNIA-THE END IN THE WEST
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>This morning, word came that William Howard Taft had been elected President, this being the day after the 1908 election. We went through an uninteresting, sagebrush-covered land, reaching California at Oasis, a ranch house and store with nothing near it for miles. Two young men were eating lunch but curtly refused to serve us a meal, not even a cup of tea for me. Upon inquiring the price of gasoline, one man said shortly, "Gasoline is a dollar a gallon. How much do you want?" Fred quietly replied, "None. We have plenty."
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The five cars started the next morning, each driver accompanied by an observer who kept track of the credentials on the trip. Arrangements already had been made by the factory in cities along the routes for pictures to be taken when the cars arrived, and newspaper stories along the way were to provide more advertisement for the cars. Fred's itinerary took him through Michigan and Ohio to Cincinnati, west through Indiana and Illinois to St. Louis. Towns in these states were close enough together so he and his companion always could find accommodations, but finally the observer objected to not getting a bath every night and returned to Detroit. The factory sent another observer for the trip from St. Louis to Kansas City.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>These were not happy surroundings after dark. The hours passed slowly and the night was dark, and it seemed the car and I were deserted out there on the prairie among the sagebrush, when about ten o'clock I heard a harness chain rattle in the distance and knew help was on the way. A great relief came over me, although I don't think I had been in any danger. There was only one team in the town. When Fred located the driver, he was eating dinner and refused to stir until the horses were fed too. Fred could only sit and wait patiently until the man was in the mood to start, then he walked the horses all the way to the car.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>But the storm was over, the sun was shining, and we were happy although a little sore from the effects of our hard bed. We ate breakfast, took pictures, bid the friendly Japanese goodbye after settling our bill, and waded back with our belongings to the car. It was shrouded in snow and canvas, just as we had left it. We uncovered it and started off.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>There were two ranch houses where we could stay overnight, and he advised us to carry all the gasoline possible when we left Ely. We greatly appreciated his help and in consequence we took extra precautions, laying in food and fruit, looking over the car to see that everything was in good condition, filling the tanks with gas and carrying on each running board a five-gallon tin can of gasoline for use when needed. In all, we carried 26 gallons.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>The little car already had done strenuous work, so Fred went over it carefully to see that every part was sound, meanwhile selecting the necessary extra parts. The Brush's most serious fault was that it didn't hold enough gasoline for long distances in places where gas stations were few and far between. Fred had an extra gas tank built under the seat and in all we could carry 16 gallons. As the trip progressed, we took on extra gas every time we had the chance, so as to never run short of the precious fuel.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>There was no sign of civilization for miles, and the area wasn't a nice place in which to break down or run out of gas. I doubt if we would have found the proper road if this man hadn't been working on the road on this particular day, and so was fortunately in a position to direct us.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>My father had played the violin and for years I had accompanied him on the piano, so it was a real pleasure for me. The old man's face was serenely happy as I followed him in some of the same pieces I had played with my father, but this man put in his own improvisations and kept perfect time. Presently some men rolled the piano into the empty dining room, and I discovered a crowd had gathered there for a dance, and from then on the old violinist and I were busy while feet kept time to our music, the piano having taken the place of the usual mouth harp. Between dances the old man told me had been a prospector for years, and that someday he would find a gold mine and become rich. His daughter and grand-daughter were dancing on the floor, but the miner's hope of gold still lived in his heart and anticipation showed in his eyes.
</p>
</div> +
<div class="poem">
<p>We got stuck, just as the young man feared, and our shovel work could not extricate us, so out came the block and tackle. Hitched to the root of a big sagebrush, it slowly inched us up and over the bank of a deep, slippery ditch. This delay cost us an hour or more.
</p>
</div> +
