Coast to Coast in a Brush Runabout
| Author | Trinkle, Florence M. |
|---|---|
| Genre | Non-Fiction |
| Journal or Book | Motoring West: Automobile Pioneers |
| Publisher | - |
| Year of Publication | 1952 |
| Pages | 298-339 |
| Additional information | - |
PIKES PEAK OR BUST . . . IN A BRUSH
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.
It would be difficult for the drivers of today's luxurious cars on our modern highways to visualize the adverse conditions that faced the horseless carriage when it was first coming into use after the turn of the century. Naturally, these early automobiles were primitive affairs and few drivers knew much about their mechanical parts. Repair and service stations were few and far between—especially where we went—and mechanics still were groping in the darkness, for the most part. There were no highway signs anywhere; in many states, particularly in the West, roads were almost impassable for a low-built vehicle, and it was taken for granted that on a trip of any length there would be many streams to ford.
In 1908 there was no transcontinental automobile highway. The Lincoln Highway was not started until 1913 and wasn't finished for more than a decade. It filled a great want, linking the East with the West and making it possible for travelers to locate towns and cities by calculating exact distances. This was especially valuable in sparsely populated areas. Previously, only the hardiest motorists ventured any distance from home base, and a cross-country pleasure trip was out of the question. A few factories sent cars on long trips for advertising purposes, but the danger and trouble they encountered made the ventures questionable.
In rural districts the populace usually was antagonistic to the automobile because it frightened horses and accidents resulted. Often, upon the approach of a horse, the motorist would stop his car and stand in front of it until the animal could be maneuvered past the evil-smelling contraption.
Once a motorist approached a Michigan farmer driving a spirited team, and seeing the fright of the horses and the women passengers in the buggy, he stopped his car, alighted and gallantly offered to lead the prancing horses past the machine. The farmer said: "Never mind the horses, young man, I can take care of them. You just hold the women."
If the unwary motorist stopped at a farmhouse to ask directions, the farmer invariably would direct him through some mud hole or over some steep hill to be sure the car got stuck. Then in the evening at the corner store the farmer would brag to his cronies how he had sent that "buzz wagon" down the wrong road, and all would be merriment.
After the first world war this nation became road-conscious, spending immense sums on new highways until improved roads with numerous signs and signals extended in every direction. Eventually the motorist was catered to in every state with such innovations as service stations, hot dog stands and motor clubs.
My husband, Fred A. Trinkle, began driving and repairing automobiles in Denver, Colorado, as early as 1900, and in 1907 he became agent for the Brush automobile for the state of Colorado. The car was designed by Alonzo P. Brush and built in Detroit by the Briscoe Manufacturing Co. The Brush Runabout was a two-seated, one-cylinder, double side chain-driven car with a coil-type spring under each corner, acetylene headlights and Prest-O-Lite tank, with no top, windshield, or doors. It was a very sturdy car and could go anywhere there was a road. The chain-drive on each side gave it great climbing power although it was not fast. But that was not a serious deficiency because there weren't many good roads on which to speed in those days, and drivers were not speed-crazy.
To advertise the Brush in 1908, Frank Briscoe decided to send five factory models to different destinations, and asked Fred to come to Detroit and drive one to Kansas City, as he was the only Brush salesman familiar with the West.
At a banquet the evening before the start, each of the drivers was called on for a speech. When Fred's turn came, he told the crowd he could not make speeches, but he could drive a Brush Runabout and that, when he reached Kansas City, he would ask permission to drive on to Denver, climbing Pike's Peak on the way. After the applause had subsided, all forgot about the boast except Fred and Briscoe.
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.
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.
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.
In Kansas City he received instructions from Briscoe to continue to Denver with the Brush, look over the possibilities of a Pike's Peak climb and report if it would be feasible. Fred soon found bad roads all through Kansas, and driving was strenuous work. Beyond Dodge City, he stopped to speed up his engine in the heavy mud and in starting, the chain jumped off the sprocket teeth. This had happened before, as the chains and corresponding teeth had become worn in the steady drag through the mud. He tried to flip the chain on while the engine was running, his usual custom, but in a moment of carelessness he caught his hand between the chain and the teeth of the sprocket, stalling the engine and trapping him as completely as though he were in a bear trap. He couldn't move to reach the gear-shift lever.
drivingaccidentcar partmudenginemaintenanceriskroadroad condition
There was little travel on the road and he was forced to remain in a crouched position for some time. Finally he hailed a tramp walking on the railroad and, after much persuasion, got him to leave the tracks and come to the car. He directed him how to turn off the ignition, put the car in reverse gear, then crank the engine, thus turning the sprocket and chain backward and releasing his hand. He reflected later that he might have been caught for hours; as it was, the flesh on his hand was cut through to the bone. Fortunately he had a box of salve in the car, and the tramp helped dress and wrap his injured hand.
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.
At Lakin, Kansas, he stopped with cousins for a few days, meanwhile selling two cars to be delivered later.
When he reached Colorado Springs, he found good weather and no snow on Pike's Peak, so he telephoned a photographer friend in Denver and told him to meet him at the Springs next morning with his large camera, and ride up with him. Then he removed the running boards and fenders and had a sprag made to drag behind the car so as to hold it on steep grades if necessary when he stopped to speed up the engine.
The old road had been abandoned for years, a cog road and burro trail having taken its place, and the present boulevard was not built until eight or nine years later.
From Colorado Springs, at an altitude of about 7,000 feet, Fred and his photographer drove to Manitou where they bought a hand ax, a shovel, and about 100 feet of rope. Then they drove to Cascade, where they had an early lunch. Here they were directed to follow the canyon road a mile and a half, where they could see a dim road turning to the left, and a small wooden bridge across a creek; there they turned immediately and started a stiff climb on a shelf road dug on the side of the mountain and ending directly over Cascade.
When this route was pointed out to them, they looked up a thousand feet or more to a line on the mountain side which was their road. This seemed to be the crucial part of the climb as it was so steep most cars could not get gasoline to their carburetors and so became stalled. Up to this time no one had heard of vacuum tanks or fuel pumps, and automobiles obtained their gasoline supply by gravity only. This did not bother the Brush Runabout because it was equipped with the only known diaphragm fuel pump which brought the fuel from the tank under the floor boards to a fuel cup on top of the engine. With that arrangement, the motor could be kept running even if the car were standing on end, which accounted for the Brush's ability to get over steep places.
At the top, before getting out of sight of Cascade, Fred backed the car into the bank and the two got out to stretch their muscles. Looking below, they saw a large crowd gathered in the street, each person seemingly only an inch tall, watching them climb the steep shelf on the mountain side. They took off their hats and waved and the crowd answered by waving hats, handkerchiefs, aprons, or anything that was handy.
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.
Nearing the top, they came to the famous "W" where the road travels left for half a mile, then doubles back on a hairpin curve to the point where it started but about 200 feet higher, then back on another hairpin curve, completing the "W." The camera man, tall and heavy, climbed from road to road taking pictures of the car on the "W." They climbed completely around the mountain, coming to the top from the opposite side of the "W." It was a 23-mile climb and had taken all day. Often during the trip both men sat with one foot outside the car so as to be ready to jump to safety if they saw the little car tottering on the edge of the narrow, crumbling road.
That night I received a wire from the Pike's Peak telegraph station, highest in the world, that Fred was safe at the top and would come down next day. To Briscoe in Detroit he wired,
PIKE'S PEAK CLIMB POSSIBLE FOR WE ARE AT THE SUMMIT.
The two men stayed all night on the top at the Summit House, 14,147 feet above sea level. Next day they found the descent much more difficult and dangerous than the climb, for it meant holding back around boulders and other obstructions on narrow, rough, curving trails. On the way down, the bottom of the gasoline tank hit a rock and broke off the drain plug, but they grabbed a gallon can they had in the car for carrying water and saved enough of the gasoline so that by using a squirt gun, they were able to feed enough fuel into the gas line to keep the engine running until they reached Cascade, where they bought a gallon more and this took them to Colorado Springs.
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.
As soon as the Runabout was in commission that night, they started for Denver, two very tired men anxious to get home. I was wakened by a noise to see a man standing in the bedroom door about four o'clock in the morning. I thought it was a burglar with a brown mask over his face, with eyes looking like two burned holes in it, but Fred's grin relieved me of my fears and a bath brought out the original man.
Sometime later a nicely dressed man came into Fred's sales room, introduced himself and said, "You remember me, don't you?" It was the man he had clipped on the chin in the Colorado Springs garage. After a chat, he gave Fred a ticket to the Denver Athletic Club for a certain night, making him promise to go to the fights there. When Fred did, he found that the man was a prize-fighter in the principal bout of the evening. I thought this was a very clever way to let Fred discover his occupation; then and there, Fred decided to be more careful about starting a fight with any other athletic stranger who might not be the gentleman this man was.
Many cars had tried to climb Pike's Peak, but a Locomobile Steamer was the first. The second was a 70-horsepower Stearns. The Brush Runabout was the third and went every foot of the way under its own power.
WESTWARD PIONEERS-A BRUSH AND THE TRINKLES
Everyone at the Detroit factory was jubilant over the climb, and we thought the trip was completed when Fred settled down to his garage work and selling cars.
However, in a few days Briscoe wrote to Fred, asking if he would outfit the car in Denver, drive it to the Pacific Coast, then meet it in Detroit and drive it to New York City in time for the winter motor show. He said he would send a man from the factory to go as observer if he had no one in Denver to go with him. It appalled us at first to think of driving such a little car over the long, uninhabited distances we knew existed throughout some of the western states. We never would have entertained the idea if Fred hadn't been such a good automobile mechanic. We had been to California by train several times over different roads and knew something of what to expect, traveling over the mountain ranges and passes so late in the season.
My parents came from New York State to Michigan as early settlers before I was born, and Fred and his mother came West in a covered wagon to Colorado when he was a small boy, so I guess there must be pioneer blood in our veins; the "call of the road" won.
So Fred accepted Briscoe's proposition and persuaded me to go along as observer, wiring Briscoe to that effect. The answer was,
PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE. COMPLIMENTS TO PLUCKY MRS. TRINKLE.
The factory wired us $500 to outfit and start, with more to be sent when and where we ordered. We were told to spare no expense and to send tires, gasoline, and spare parts ahead for use wherever we thought best. Briscoe never had been West, but he knew that few cars ever had crossed the continent and that we would not have a pleasure trip, to say the least. Since I had previously lived in Nevada and California, it seemed like a homecoming for me, or I might have taken the trip more seriously.
Our first thought was about equipping our car, because as long as we could keep it moving, we would be safe. The next thing was to make sure we would keep warm and comfortable ourselves so we could endure the hardships we were bound to encounter for several weeks along the way. We had to use our own judgment in selecting what to take, as no one we knew ever had made this sort of trip.
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.
He built a box on the back of the car which would carry oil, ax, tools, tires, rope, block and tackle, suitcases, spare parts, and the like. Then he put endless interliners in each tire so we could wear the tire through to them, then take them out and put them into new tires. Once we cut one tire badly on a rock, exposing the interliner and making a tire change necessary, but the other three went all the way to San Francisco with Denver air in them.
There was no room for a camping outfit, and we were forced to run the risk of finding accommodations along the way as best we could, though we carried an emergency hamper containing bacon, skillet, canned meat, crackers, coffee, chocolate, raisins, matches, medicines, and other items.
We had been told by an Alaskan miner that chocolate and raisins make a substantial diet and will sustain life for days. We added chewing gum, which quenches thirst if water is unfit or absent, and we thought we could keep from starving for quite a time if the car broke down far from help or we got lost. We knew there were no road signs of any kind along the way, so we carried a compass and railroad maps.
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.
What directions we could get were very vague but we expected to get information on the way from old stage drivers, teamsters, and livery stable men. We knew that at this time of year we must avoid the Sierra Nevada mountains through Reno and Truckee, Nevada, and Donner Lake, California, where the whole Donner party had perished in the early days in snow so deep that the tops of trees showed in the spring where the party had peeled off bark to eat in a desperate endeavor to keep alive.
Friends told us later that they never expected to see us alive again, but they were wise enough not to fill us with forebodings. Fortunately, both of us had optimistic dispositions and did not anticipate trouble before we came to it.
To send his nightly telegram to the factory, Fred carried an identification card ordering all Western Union offices to accept messages, to be sent collect. I took shorthand notes each day and sent letters to the factory when I could find time to use a writing pad and pencil. Maps were hung in a window at the factory and at all dealers' stores and little cardboard cars were moved along our route each time they heard from us. People passing the showroom windows would stop each day to see how far we had gone.
We did not try to make fast time, because safety was our first thought. Fred went over the car carefully each morning before starting.
We left Denver September 28, 1908, stopping at the office of the Denver Post for a picture, then passed through Fort Collins on the way to Tie Siding, Wyoming; where we came to the Union Pacific Railroad. We followed it for days, near or far, according to the way the wagon road ran. At Tie Siding we got a late dinner and after much shifting about of sleeping children, we were given a bed.
We passed through Laramie before noon the next day and about 2 P.M. we stopped at a section house on the railroad and asked the only visible occupant, a woman, if she would serve us lunch. She prepared a meal and seemed glad to talk to us, being especially eloquent about her children, saying among other things that they had not been tardy or absent at school in the past year. I had seen no other building for miles so I asked where the schoolhouse was located and she naively replied, "Upstairs. We hire the teacher and the three children are the whole school." I gasped in astonishment at the wonderful record she thought they had made.
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.
We ran into a high road center and embedded the flywheel in the earth, but we managed to back out and soon were headed toward the light which shown from a rancher's window. It was about nine at night. A barbed wire fence halted us before we could reach the house. As I sat under the dripping umbrella, Fred walked along the fence until he came to an entrance near the house. A man opened the door, and very definitely refused to let us spend the night there, but after some urgent pleading on Fred's part he relented and told him how to drive the car into the yard.
I went into the house and sat down behind a warm stove, very meek, cold, and hungry while the men were putting the car under shelter. The rancher's wife was there, and when Fred came inside, he asked me, "Did you tell this lady we haven't had any supper?" I smiled and said, "No, I didn't." She got busy at once and soon we were enjoying an excellent meal.
We never hurried the next morning after we had driven late the night before, so after breakfast we chatted about our trip and I enthused over the distant views, pure air, and delicious odor of the sagebrush after the rain. Then our hostess said, "I'll tell you now why we didn't want to keep you overnight. We have had so many easterners coming here late at night who were rude and disagreeable, cussing the roads, the climate, the people and everything in the state that we said we would never take in another traveler, but you are different and like it here." I had, unknowingly, won them over by my appreciation of some of the beauties of their locality. The couple ended by wanting us to stay a few days and go antelope hunting with them. It was with real regret that we could not accept their invitation, for they were fine people and we never have forgotten their hospitality during the storm in the first stages of our trip.
Within a mile after starting again, we forded the river where we might have had trouble after dark, and came to Medicine Bow. We had trouble through this section with the high road centers. The roads were sixty inches wide while our car was fifty-six inches, the regulation width, and the ruts were worn deep by wagon wheels so our flywheel did not always clear the ground beneath.
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.
The eeriness of the day was climaxed at Hanna, where we ate lunch, by the pervading gloom of the villagers. Upon inquiring what was wrong, we were told that a second mine disaster had occurred within the last few days and bodies still were being brought up out of the shaft. We were glad to move on, even if it might be to trouble of our own ahead.
In mid-afternoon, the snow came down so thick and fast that I was kept busy clearing it from the top of the umbrella, which was being bogged down by the snow's weight. The roads, such as they were, were beginning to disappear under the blanket of snow and we had to crawl along, fearful of damaging the car on some hidden rock. Then we saw a section house, about dusk.
We stopped, determined to go no farther in the storm. We covered the car, took our suitcases and robes, and walked a half mile through the snow, ditches and sagebrush to Edison, as it was marked on the railroad map. A light flashed in a window—a beacon in the stormy night, reassuring evidence of habitation. At our knock, a smiling Japanese section boss opened the door and ushered us in.
Although he was alone, everything was spic and span. His wife was coming from Kansas City the following week, and he had everything shining. He served us a meal, even making hot biscuits, which we enjoyed greatly after our cold day. He built an extra fire in the front room of the good-sized house so we could dry our clothes, but he had no bed for us. We had to sleep on the floor in our clothes, but our host brought out some new wool blankets to soften the floor. In the morning, Fred remarked that there were a lot of wrinkles in the Trinkles.
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.
The sun had melted the snow, making the road so slippery we slid off several times, stalling often in the six miles to Walcott. We had to dig out the flywheel each time, shoveling earth and packing it under the wheels to raise the car and free the flywheel. We finally reached the town for lunch, wondering how far we could go that day over such roads. We were often in mud so thick that it clung to our boots so we could hardly walk.
We had plenty of money, but what good did it do under these circumstances? If our car had been larger and heavier we never would have got through without a tow car, something which was unknown in those days anyway. But we never quite despaired as our sturdy little car kept chugging along.
That afternoon's journey was slow and monotonous. After dark we crossed the North Platte River on a bridge that careened so much I was afraid we might slide off into the stream; then we progressed along a muddy road on the sloping bank of the river to Fort Steele, a big, barren building. It was a relic of the old Indian fighting days, but we found that food and shelter were the most important things after a hard day's work.
We reached Rawlins at noon the next day and had lunch in a quite pretentious hotel. Sandy roads slowed us up in the afternoon and we had to stop at Daley's, a big sheep ranch, for the night. We were made welcome by six young men who showed every possible courtesy. One young man was very anxious about a bad ditch we would have to cross the next morning. He offered to take a team of horses and pull us through, but Fred said the car was going every foot of the way under its own power. I believe they felt sorry for us because our car was so small, not realizing the Brush could get through places impossible for a larger automobile.
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.
After four or five miles Fred turned to me and asked if I had put the shovel back in the car and my heart sank when we found we had laid it down behind a sage brush and forgotten it in the confusion of starting. Every mile was gained with so much effort that we couldn't possibly think of going back for the shovel, because we could buy one at the next town if we were lucky enough not to need one before we got there; but here, again, we were to find that money did not avail us.
It was always my duty, while Fred attended to the car, to scout around and gather up all our tools after we had stopped to work on the side of the road in Wyoming—and that was very often—so I felt the loss of the shovel was all my fault.
We reached Wamsutter that night without needing a shovel, and we were confident we could buy a new one there. But we couldn't, for love or money. The Union Pacific Railroad owned everything in sight, and no one dared sell any of the road's equipment. We were pretty blue, because a shovel was an absolute necessity to us every day along the road. Nothing which had happened to us so far balked us so much as the loss of the shovel. Now we had nothing with which to dig ourselves out of high road centers and fill in bad places.
Just before we started the next morning, a man among the crowd around the car quietly told Fred that about a mile down the road he would see a railroad switch with a broom and shovel standing by it. Then he winked. We drove slowly with our eyes glued on that track, found the switch with its broom and shovel, quickly added the shovel to our outfit and were ready for any emergency once more. Now it was my concern that the handle, stamped U. P. R. R., was kept hidden back of my feet when we came to a town on this railroad, where keen eyes might see it and know it did not belong to us. This shovel saved us later in many places.
We fought bad roads all day through the Bitter Creek country where we were warned not to drink the water or put it in the radiator because it contained so much alkali. The good water was brought in on tank cars, from which we filled our radiator. At night we found the road impassable because of mud and water, and I thought we were stuck there for the night. Fred and "Road Louse 2," as a facetious friend had dubbed our car, left the road and went bouncing on its coil springs over sagebrush and around rocks, while I held my breath and gripped the side of the seat in my endeavor to stay with them. We went over a hill and down, landing at a section house occupied by Austrians who spoke or understood very little English. We surprised them as much as if we had come down in an airplane.
The woman asked how we got through the mud and where were our children, but my explanations seemed unsatisfactory to her. They gave us the best food they had, but we could scarcely eat it and I sat with my head in my hand, very tired and nauseated by the smell of the food.
Fred brought in our two canvases and put them on the bed for sheets—the woman had given up her bed to us, sleeping in the bunkhouse with the workmen. In the morning we left her well paid, but as soon as possible we threw away the thick coffee and hunk of bread she was determined we were to take for lunch.
After leaving this place we had to use the shovel three times in the first mile, and put in a strenuous time over lonely country roads, reaching Rock Springs for the night. There we found a new hotel with steam heat, but we shocked the proprietor by asking him for a room with bath, and found there was no such thing in the building.
After leaving this place we had to use the shovel three times in the first mile, and put in a strenuous time over lonely country roads, reaching Rock Springs for the night. There we found a new hotel with steam heat, but we shocked the proprietor by asking him for a room with bath, and found there was no such thing in the building.
After good food and a restful night at Rock Springs, we were quite ourselves again as we started another day's work. We ate lunch at Green River and continued, slowly covering ground in this barren land. About sundown we came to a river which high-wheeled wagons and long-legged horses could ford, and Fred was sure he could drive the car through it, but it was pretty wide with rapids and I walked over the railroad bridge, while he and the little car plunged into the water. The motor stopped in midstream.
Fred got out in water above his knees and cranked the car over and over but it would not start, so he called to me that he would walk back a half mile to a construction camp we had passed, and get a man and team to pull the car out of the river.
I sat on the further bank, cold, discouraged and hungry, looking at the river and hearing it gurgling around our few belongings in the car. It was nearly dark when a team appeared with a man riding one of the horses, and Fred waded into the water again, fastened the team to the car and it was soon on dry ground. Fortunately the water had not reached our luggage. It was a frosty night, so Fred had to open his suitcase and get into dry clothes before we could proceed.
The engine started at the first turn of the crank and we wound our way in the dark over a road hemmed in by sagebrush, and after three miles came to a camp at Marston. The chug-chug of our motor brought out the whole section gang to see what was coming, and they gave us a noisy welcome. A double track was being laid and the block signal system was being installed on this division of the railroad, which accounted for the construction camps which were such a help to us.
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.
Next morning, after a few miles we ran into that same river to ford again, but good fortune was still with us; there was another construction camp and gang. Fred went over to where they were working and bargained for a man and team which towed the car through the water, the man sitting in the car as proud as a king while he drove the horses. I walked over the railroad bridge again.
After the man was paid and given a cigar, he beamed all over and said, "I'll go back and tell the boys I've had an automobile ride." It was an eventful day for him, making extra money, getting a good cigar and having his first automobile ride even if the car didn't run under its own power. Being on the right side of the stream to suit us, we enjoyed a good laugh as he and his team waded back through the water.
Fred put in the batteries he had taken off the running boards to keep them dry, and at the first turn of the crank the motor was chugging, ready to go. We neared Granger, Wyoming, at noon, but could not go into the village because there was no bridge across the river. We were told we would find one eight miles up the river if we followed the Oregon Short Line Railroad. This we did, stopping on the rustic bridge for lunch from our hamper, as no one was at home at a ranch where we had hoped to get a meal. There was hardly a sign of a road on the other side so we decided not to go back to Granger for our main road, but to go across the prairie toward train smoke we could see at times in the distance, keeping on the high ridges where it was smoother for the car. There was more or less uncertainty in this, but it was necessary at times that we should decide many problems by ourselves, so we took the risk. After an hour or so we came to a road; we followed it and it turned out to be the right one.
carcar partengineruralinfrastructurenavigationriverroadtrainscenery
We saw no building or person all afternoon. Late in the day, when everything was going nicely, we came to a small, innocent-looking brook but the track had been cut down so deep by high-wheeled wagons that we dared not try to ford it. We walked up and down the stream, searching for a place we could cross safely. Finally we selected a spot with a sandy landing on the opposite side, though the steep bank must be cut down before we could drive into the road.
Feeling quite confident, we forded the stream and stopped the car on the sand while Fred leveled the high bank in front of us with the shovel, as I sat near and watched. When we went back to the car we found that the rear wheels and axle had sunk in quicksand and the car was resting on the body, perfectly helpless, and no help near for miles.
We were utterly dismayed at the sight. When we fully comprehended the plight in which we found ourselves, we got busy. Fred unpacked the jack while I brought a flat stone from the stream on which to place the jack after he had dug out sand to make a place for it. I brought more stones and he packed them and dry earth he had dug from the bank under the wheels, rocking the car back and forth to pack the base solidly. We worked frantically more than two hours. Finally we started the engine and both of us pushed the car to solid ground and into the road.
We were wet with perspiration, so we put on warm wraps, never stopping for a morsel of food, and started on our way without knowing how far it was to a place we could stay overnight. What it would have meant to us to see just one road sign pointing some place!
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.
We left the road and drove over the magic bridge, eventually coming to the little town of Carter, where we got a room at what seemed like a hotel. It was so late we didn't dare ask for a meal, so we lunched from our hamper and dropped into bed worn out.
DIFFICULTY GOING IN THE MOUNTAINS OF UTAH
Next day, on our way to Evanston, we stopped to choose between two roads. Fred thought we should take the one that went down into a gulch or river bottom, while I urged that we keep to higher ground, because if we made the descent, sometime we would have to come back to a higher level. We sat there pondering for a while, for we could not afford to take the wrong road, when, looking behind us, we saw a man on horseback coming up the gulch. We ran back and hailed him before he could get out of sight. He saw us, stopped, waited for us to reach him, and told us to keep to the higher road. All day long it seemed that a miracle had happened just when we were in our worst straits.
We had an easy trip to Evanston that day, near the edge of Wyoming. We had been ten days crossing this state that motorists now cross in a day. We found good accommodations at Evanston, but when we asked for a room with bath, we were told the bathroom was packed full of stored goods and could not be used. We got a good laugh out of that.
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."
"We never would have gotten this far if we did," Fred answered.
We decided they thought our car would get stuck in the deep sand on the steep grade and they would have some fun pulling us out, but the car had crawled along slowly and steadily, spoiling their fun.
As we started down Weber Canyon, Utah, we saw a tiny stream of water which, by the time we left the canyon that night, had become a roaring stream of water, rushing out to the valley between towering cliffs. Weber Canyon was beautiful in its immensity and autumn coloring, but a sucking, sighing wind made us fearful, and we hurried down the narrow roads past Mormon towns in the valleys, and out by the side of the noisy river, reaching Ogden late that night.
We carried signs on the Brush—"This car climbed Pike's Peak"—"From Detroit to San Francisco," and the like. Before we could remove our wraps at the hotel, reporters besieged us for information concerning our trip. We also received a call from a couple in the city who owned a Brush Runabout, and they used all kinds of persuasion to get us to stay a few days and visit a beautiful canyon with them, but Weber Canyon had quenched our desire for more canyons at that time and we were bent on moving as fast as possible. However, we did appreciate this courtesy in a strange city.
We found a bathroom in this hotel at Ogden, but could use it only by paying extra. We stayed in Ogden half a day, sending and receiving mail. Then we were on our way to Promontory in the afternoon through a fitful wind and under threatening skies. A single Mormon family lived there, but they kept travelers. We stayed with them two days during a rain, meanwhile hearing much about the bad roads ahead of us around the edge of Salt Lake. We were told we would have to drive on the railroad tracks to get through, but we thought this was a bit exaggerated. We were glad for the chance of a rest at Promontory, which gave us a chance to catch up on our correspondence.
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.
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.
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.
Toward evening a section boss met us and ordered us off the track, under penalty of arrest. We were tired, wet, and discouraged. I looked down at him from my side of the car and said, "I guess being arrested wouldn't stop us any longer than that mud would." He smiled and said he guessed it wouldn't, but for us to get off as soon as possible, for the dirt road was better now. Fred told him we would be only too glad to get off, because the bouncing over the ties was getting the best of us. In a short time we found a crossing and drove onto a road which was none too good. When we came to a box car, a woman greeted us and, realizing this was a last desperate chance for a night's lodging, I asked her if she would keep us overnight and she agreed.
We never thought of those three cars on the siding as the home of the section boss, so when he came home from work there, we were, warming and drying ourselves at the stove. They were a charming couple and we all had an enjoyable evening. We were a little crowded for sleeping quarters but the next morning they urged us to stay over and go duck hunting on Salt Lake, which was in full view of their box-car home. However, we could not tarry for amusement.
Luck had favored us here, for a train had left the three cars the night before, and the cars would be moved the next day. These people refused to take any money for entertaining us, as others had done, but Fred always left some money on the table. They were wonderful to us and to find food and shelter, far from any habitation, on a cold night was a blessing, and we were only too glad to pay for it.
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.
Our next stop was Kelton, 17 miles away, but we found low ground with mud and water all the way. Travel was slow, with the car very erratic in starting and stopping. Fred couldn't find the reason although he fussed over the car, hunting for the trouble in every conceivable part until he was worn out tramping around the car in the mud.
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.
We had hoped to make Lucin the next day, but heavy sand held us back through a barren land—the only human being we saw that day was a man driving a flock of sheep. We camped by the roadside for lunch from our hamper, frying bacon and making coffee. That night we stopped at a sheep ranch, the owner coming in late at night with the flock of sheep we had seen on the road. We spent a good night there, little thinking what was to be ahead of us before we slept again.
From here we found many dry ditches, one so deep that we considered building it up from the bottom but that would mean we would have to go through soft earth, so we decided to try it as it was. I walked ahead, afraid to watch the car go down into the ditch, but as I heard the continuous chugging of the motor, I looked around in time to see it slowly crawling up and over the edge after an attempt no big car ever could have made successfully. Can you wonder we came near to loving that loyal car?
We reached Lucin, at the west end of the railroad across Salt Lake, for a late lunch. In a small restaurant with uninviting food, the waitress warned me several times, in a very low voice, about a high, pointed rock in the middle of the road and hidden by weeds, that had proved most disastrous to a local automobile party the week before. I thanked her silently many times afterward for her warning, though I paid little attention to it at the moment.
After lunch a well-dressed man gave us directions, pointing up a hill. It was long and steep and we climbed it slowly. I noticed a crowd watched us from below near the restaurant, but I thought nothing of it at the time because so many people were surprised to see the car climb steep grades.
After driving for a couple of hours, Fred stopped the car, got out his compass and map, consulted them and said, "We should leave Salt Lake at Lucin, but here it is on our left, with a mountain range on our right. We must turn around and go back to Lucin."
We couldn't understand where we had gone wrong, although we had commented on an increasing steepness and roughness of the track. We had come down hills so steep that when we went back I walked behind the car carrying a rock to block a rear wheel when Fred stopped to speed up the engine on these hills, so that if the brake didn't hold, the car wouldn't start rolling backward. When the car started, I would pick up the rock and follow to be ready when he stopped again, and so on, to the top of the hill, when I would drop the rock and get into the car.
When we got back to a sheep herder's wagon that we had seen in the foothills earlier in the afternoon, Fred walked through the flock of sheep to the wagon where the herder had just lit a candle. He said we should have stayed in the valley and must go back to Lucin to get on the right road. We were pretty discouraged, and to add to our troubles, the car came to a stop a few miles further on. Upon investigation, we found that a pin was lost out of the propeller shaft and, since we had no other and could not find this one in the dark, we were obliged to camp there for the night, though it was cold and snowing. There was dry wood all around us, so we built a fire for light as well as warmth, pushed the car up into a tall juniper tree after cutting off some branches, spaded up the sand and put some canvas on it for a bed, using the car cushions for pillows, and hung up some more canvas on the side of the car and tree to keep off the wind. We ate a little lunch from our hamper and our chewing gum came into good use, as we had no water except that which we drained from the radiator for fear of freezing. That was not fit to drink, so we carefully conserved it for the next day.
roadaccidentcar partnavigationruralsceneryequipmenttemperatureweather
We were carrying a five-gallon milk can to use in Nevada, but had no need to fill it yet, as water was not scarce along the railroad. Fred put me to bed first, clothed in all my warm things including cap, gloves, and boots. He covered me with robes and shoveled sand on the canvas over my feet to keep out the cold wind, and put the umbrella over my head to keep off the snow. I fell asleep almost at once and when I awoke, Fred was sitting by the fire. It was four o'clock and he said he dared not go to sleep because the wind blew the sparks everywhere, and he had been busy all night extinguishing sparks around me and the car, some sparks even catching in the resinous twigs above us.
I made him take my place for a few hours and I sat down to watch the fire. When it got light enough to see, I went back to search for our lost propeller shaft key, a piece of steel a quarter inch square and four inches long. I found it some way back where the car had come to a stop, and it was imbedded in the sand where we had stepped on it while searching in the dark.
So I had good news for Fred when he awoke. After breakfast he put the car into commission and made the only tire change on the trip. We were just ready to start when a covered wagon appeared carrying three young men going prospecting. They stopped to find out what we were doing there and after hearing our story, one of them said that evidently the man at Lucin didn't believe our car could climb the hill and we would have to come back, when he would have the laugh on us and then put us on the right road in the valley. The young man said there was nothing, not even water, for more than a hundred miles the way we were going, and that probably we would have lost our lives.
One of the men knew of an old road around the foot of the mountain and took Fred to show him where he could get on to it. Our car pushed its way between shrubs and overhanging trees until we came in view of the valley and down to the road. We were thankful for help in time of need.
Then I remembered the warning the waitress had given me the day before about the rock in the middle of the road, so we saw it in time although it was nearly hidden in the weeds, and gave it a wide leeway, saving ourselves a bad crack-up that probably would have ended our trip right there.
We were sorry we didn't again meet the man who had given us the wrong directions. I often have wondered what he and his friends thought as they saw us climb the hill and go out of sight down that barren, uninhabited, waterless valley in a little car with no camping outfit, no sign of any food, and probably not any quantity of gasoline. He had put our lives in jeopardy just to be funny, had missed his laugh, and might have let us ride to our deaths. It was only Fred's careful study of maps and the lay of the land, with his keen sense of direction, that saved us in time.
Reaching Tacoma, Nevada, for lunch, we found a family hotel and had a chance to wash away the traces of our night's camping and enjoy a real meal. We left the town, never thinking we were to return there two more times, the last visit taking several days.
A man pointed down a road but it took us through a marshy field and we could find no way through, so we came back to Tacoma late in the afternoon for further directions, and the man said we should have turned but he had not told us, and there were no signs of any kind. It was late, but Montello was only seven miles away and we decided to continue that evening because we had lost so much time the day before, so we left Tacoma the second time.
About halfway to Montello the car came to a stop. One look under the hood was all that was needed. Three teeth were broken out of the timing gear. That meant three things: First, to get a team to tow the car into Montello, for we were determined to keep advancing; second, to get a new gear from the factory; and third, a long wait, perhaps making us get to the Coast too late, although we still were on the main railroad and that was in our favor in getting the gear from the factory. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and now to have our cheerful little car silent and still was tough luck.
I had to stay alone with the car while Fred walked to Montello for a team, if such a thing existed there. It was almost dusk, but I preferred no light on the car to call attention to me as I curled up on the seat with my revolver tucked under the robes. He started down the road for help. Evidently the little car was not going every foot of the way on its own power, even if we had good roads now. Indian campfires gleamed in the distance, coyotes yelped and answered each other from all sides, and the railroad might produce a tramp.
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.
HOSPITALITY SHORTENS A LONG WAIT
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.
While scouting around, Fred found that the railroad company had a dining car there to serve meals to the train crews as they came in from their division runs, so he made arrangements for us to have our meals there.
Among his discoveries, he found that there was one piano in the town, and the owner and his daughter invited us to their home for the evening for some music. We went, but the piano was so out of tune it could not be used. A tuner from Ogden, across Salt Lake, would cost forty dollars, and since the girl did not play anyway, they had done nothing about it. The middle C was down a tone, and others nearly as bad. The owner loved music, and we sat there rather dejected when Fred, a resourceful chap, suggested we tune the piano with his monkey wrench. I was used to tuning a violin. I objected at first to what seemed like a ridiculous idea, but the man was delighted and urged so insistently that I finally relented. The front of the piano was off in no time, and I warned Fred to turn the pegs that held the wires very carefully as I plucked the strings. I was fearful of a wire breaking, but after the third tuning the pegs held and the instrument sounded fine. The man was delighted, and brought in a box of candy from his store, and we played and sang what could be remembered, there being no sheet music.
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.
There was a copper mine in the mountains back of the hotel which gave this place considerable patronage and kept it in existence. We enjoyed the quiet and rest we had there, and were better fitted when we left to continue our trip. One day an Indian woman who was cleaning windows got up the courage to ask, "Where you come? Where you go?" I could not make her understand, and after a long look from her beady eyes she merely snorted, "humph!" The Chinese cook was very happy this same day, laughing when he saw me, saying, "We have chicken on the fence tonight."
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!
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.
I found out what the Chinese cook meant in his remarks about chicken; it was served, not on the fence, but on the table, and was accompanied by other good things to eat. Everyone made us feel at home. After the grown-ups had eaten, the table was reset and every child was awakened and brought out to eat, then put back to bed. After the meal, the tables were removed and the dancing began again. Later a stranger offered to take my place. I gladly relinquished it and went to bed. I do not know how long the party lasted, but some of the people were there for breakfast when we came down in the morning.
On the ninth day of our wait, word came from the express man that the gear had arrived, so we went back to Montello after lunch. In two hours Fred had the gear in, the engine timed, baggage packed, and we waved good-bye to our friends. We stayed that night in Cobre, Nevada.
We left the main railroad there to avoid possible snow at the California border, spending an uneventful day through a sparsely settled section of Nevada. On our way we saw steam coming from the earth in a circle, perhaps a mile in circumference, which caused much speculation on our part. We reached Cherry Creek that night and Ely about two o'clock the next day. There we went directly to the post office where we expected mail, and while Fred was inside a well-dressed man wearing a wide rimmed, black hat examined the car and its signs, then came up to me and asked if we were going on that day and if we knew the route. I told him we were going to the restaurant first, then get our directions and go some distance, if possible. He introduced himself as the guide for the famous Thomas Flyer car which had gone through that section a few months previously, while competing in the New York-to-Paris road race. He said he would be glad to go with us to the restaurant and give us full directions while we were having our meal. I thanked him and said we would be pleased if he would do so.
When he joined us at our table, we felt acquainted at once, since he knew drivers and automotive friends of ours. He gave us much valuable information besides drawing a crude sketch of our roads and the ones we must avoid on the way to Tonopah, a distance of 250 miles with no place to get gasoline on the way.
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.
We left Ely about three in the afternoon, expecting to reach Barnes's ranch that night or have to camp out, as there was no habitation along the way. We could reach out and touch snow in many places along the eight miles to the top of Murry's Canyon. The truss rod on one side broke as we were climbing, allowing the rear axle to move forward, thus loosening the chain, which came off the sprocket teeth.
Fred cut a small tree the right length and size with his hatchet, notched it to fit where the truss rod should go, drove it into place to hold the axle firmly, and we were on our way again. He had to repeat this procedure several times, finally carrying several pieces with him as they kept splitting. We reached the Barnes ranch long after dark.
A man cooked us a meal there. Many Indians were around the place. Our principal thought was to get an early start the next day, but Fred took time to go to the woodpile, where he found a piece of broken doubletree of hard, tough wood from which he shaped a substitute for the broken truss rod. It lasted more than 200 miles across a desolate section of Nevada. Perhaps Mr. Briscoe had been right to call him resourceful.
We came as near to catastrophe this day as any time on our trip. It was uneven country with some steep hills, and on one I walked behind the car carrying a rock to block a rear wheel when necessary. The roads often followed creek or river bottoms on the climb to the summit, where the mountains usually broadened out before the descent on the other side. But on this one, the descent began as soon as we reached the top, and on a curve we had to avoid a bad rock that towered in the center of the road.
The brakes were slow in taking hold and we were headed for the rock when Fred, with a supreme effort, brought the brakes into concerted action with the steering gear, missing the rock by only a few inches.
There was utter silence between us as we started down the steep road in Currant Creek, and when we dared look at each other, we saw that each was white as a sheet. We passed one house on our way down into a level valley which had a hazy mountain range on the farther side. That day we saw only one man, and he was raking rocks out of the road. He seemed quite out of place, but we decided he had come from a mine in the hills. We stopped to ask him directions and, as we were eating fruit for lunch, we gave him an apple. He asked more questions than we did, but he told us to keep straight down the valley until we came to a road that turned directly toward the mountain, fifty miles across the valley, and that by going across this valley we could come to Twin Springs ranch, where we could stay for the night.
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.
It was sunny weather and we had good natural roads. We kept putting the miles behind us and kept nearing the hazy mountain until we were around the foot of it and in another valley. It was ten o'clock at night when we came to some haystacks and buildings which we could hardly tell apart in the dark. Fred's knock was answered by a voice saying they didn't keep people overnight. After some argument, Fred threatened to sleep in the haystack if they didn't let us in. When the man discovered there was a woman outside, he came to the door partly dressed, with a candle in his hand, and agreed to get us a meal and let us stay overnight, but he said there was no bed for us. We found he was only the cook—a surly old Englishman. The others at the ranch were away, driving cattle to Tonopah. He must have seen how tired we were, for after a substantial meal he said he didn't think anyone would be back that night and that we could have the extra bed. There wasn't a white sheet on it, but everything was clean and of good material, for which we were thankful. Soon we were fast asleep.
sunweatherroadagriculturedrivingmountainroad conditionaffectroad sidescenerysun
When we appeared in the morning, the cook was getting breakfast, and asked Fred to go outside with him and bring in the meat. Fred returned with a grin on his face and a hind-quarter of beef on his shoulder. He carefully laid the meat on a table and the cook cut off immense steaks for our breakfast, which we ate ravenously in preparation for a long day's ride to Tonopah. When he found I had lived in Smoky Valley, Nevada, and visited the A. B. Millett family, who were old friends of his, he changed from a cross cook to a genial host, telling us about the hot springs we would pass on the road that day, showing us the twin springs from which the ranch got its name, and giving us directions so that we had no trouble all day. We brought some of the outside world into his life for a short time, and I don't believe he ever forgot us, besides being paid well for his extra work.
After fifteen miles we came to the hot springs steaming out of the ground and rocks. There is always an uncanny feeling about an earthquake or steam coming out of the ground. We stopped, and Fred took off his shoes and stockings and waded around in the water as I took pictures. Indians came here from miles around for hot bath treatments, running the water from pool to pool as they wanted different temperatures.
We passed through a rolling section of the state, coming down into a level valley that led us straight across to staked mining claims, probably located during the mining boom, but looking like monuments now. Soon we were in the town of Tonopah, mostly a one-street village. We found a room with a promised bath, but at ten o'clock at night we were informed that the water could not be heated. We had become accustomed to excuses like this when we asked for a bath, so we were not surprised or disappointed.
Fred found a garage in Tonopah and the proprietor allowed him to use the machinery to repair the broken truss rod. We stayed here half a day, picking up mail and meanwhile changing our plans. From here we had expected to go south through Goldfield, Stovepipe, and Skidoo, but we were warned we would find sand on the edge of Death Valley, below sea level, where we would have to be towed ten miles by a team at the cost of $40.
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.
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.
That night we came to Silver Peak, a famous mining camp of early days, with hot springs and bath houses, but it was dark when we arrived and we did not discover them until morning when we were ready to leave. Around here, the ground was strewn with black rock, very much like soft coal or slag, which looked to us as if it had come from a volcano, but we had no idea we were near the truth. When I went outside in the morning, the first thing I saw was an extinct, gray-sided volcano looming high above the green mountains not far from the town. It looked like a big cup and was so old and menacing in a beautiful world it had not been able to destroy, that it fascinated me, and as we left in the morning I couldn't take my eyes from it until it was behind us, and then I was sorry to leave it.
Before leaving, our host took me out and showed me a rocky knoll that he said in early mining days would be covered with rattlesnakes that came out to sun themselves, and the glitter of their bodies could be seen a long distance as the sun shone on them. One miner began shooting them and saving their rattles, until he was able to send a peck of them to Tiffany's in New York.
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."
When they came out of the store and saw our automobile with its signs, they woke up and began asking questions, but we got in the car as they declared that no auto had ever been over the road, and that no auto could get through. We paid no attention to them and drove away as they stared in astonishment. They watched us out of sight, probably expecting us back before evening. We went through sandy valleys and over summits until at dusk we found ourselves climbing between towering bluffs with stars peeping at us through the opening at the top. On the broad summit other roads converged on ours, and soon after we started the descent, we were flagged to a stop by a man with a red lantern. He demanded seventy-five cents toll, which we gladly paid.
He said the road down the mountain was good but narrow and steep, and that we would find good accommodations in the valley. We took it slowly, because it seemed the rocks reared their bulk to oppose us in the dark, but as we came to them, there always was a good road around them, though I found myself bracing my feet for a bump that never came. We realized that this passage was never meant for an automobile and that more than once the Brush Runabout had rushed in where a long-wheelbase car would have feared to tread. We reached a railroad at Big Pine in Independence Valley, where much later all the traffic went that way, the road having been built through and the man who had made his living towing autos through the sand at the edge of Death Valley had moved away, there being no business. Years later we learned that the Brush was the first car to go from Tonopah, Nevada, to Big Pine, California, on that road.
SUNNY CALIFORNIA-THE END IN THE WEST
We were now east of Mount Whitney, the highest point in the country, and we must go a hundred miles south to find a lower mountain to cross. We had level roads and warm weather and enjoyed our ride through Independence Valley where workers on the mountainsides were constructing a $49,000,000 aqueduct to carry water to Los Angeles. We had a little experience with deep sand in this valley at the edge of the Mojave Desert, getting into a spot where our wheels went round and round without moving the car. We could have deflated our tires and pumped them up by hand, but we thought it easier to get out our two canvases, spread them on the sand, and run the car on them, then carry one ahead, spreading it in front of the car and driving onto it, and so on.
mountainaffectdrivingcar partroadroad conditiontemperatureweather
Some Indians hooted and jeered at us, getting a great kick out of seeing us work, but we laughed with them because we were making slow but sure progress and would soon be gone. We were two days in this valley, turning west at Coyote Park to go over a low range of mountains.
The odor of fried bacon led us to three loads of hay, with the wagon drivers camped by the roadside. They were on their way to the aqueduct workers with their teams, as trucks were rarely thought of then. The men aroused from their beds in the hay and waved us a greeting, evidently surprised to see the little car scampering across the hills in the dusk. This was a weird evening, passing tall cactus plants, yucca plants, and Joshua trees in the moonlight, coming down into a mountain-enclosed valley where cattle were so frightened at us we slowed to a snail's pace so they would not injure themselves, running away in panic. We found an exit where a river flowed out into another valley, and came to Onyx, which consisted of a store and post office with a southern California ranch house.
affectanimalcarmountainplantroad sidescenerynightriverslownesstreeWest
The family was not at home but a Chinaman cooked us a late meal, breaking out every few minutes with a chuckling laugh. He was quite confused when he couldn't find the key to our room, so we just pushed the dresser across the door and forgot about it.
We met the family in the morning. They were curious about us and the car, and four bright-eyed little boys and their timid mother had their first automobile ride before we started. We thought it would be a good advertisement for the car, but the four pairs of brown eyes were sad when we left; it was just the plaything they wanted.
We were told to follow the river road and we would have no trouble. We assumed we had a delightful day ahead of us along the river, but we found ourselves going over mountain tops on narrow shelf roads with hairpin curves and so far above the river that a horse on the river bank looked no larger than a dog. In one place, we turned a bend in the road and came face to face with an old white horse, a cart and driver. The horse hunched down and rolled his eyes in terror, but never moved, leaving that to us, as he was wise to the ways of narrow roads and knew safety lay on the inner side, no matter how scared he might be. We backed up some distance until an inner curve widened enough to let the horse past. His eyes were filled with fear as he passed, keeping strictly in the center of the road and taking no chances with the outer side. I had sympathy for the horse, as I was nervous also after riding all day on the outside, looking down on treetops.
When we stopped to rest, I lay down on the ground to relax and recover my poise. We did not even stop for lunch, as the skies were dark with clouds and we didn't want to be caught in rain on narrow, slippery roads where we might go over the edge and get hung up in a tree. At last we realized we had been going downgrade all day. About dusk we came into open country and long after dark we reached Kern, a town of oil wells and derricks near Bakersfield, California. Here we found a hotel and a much-sought-after bath after our strenuous riverside ride.
We turned north next day, heading for San Francisco, and felt, after fighting bad roads so long, that we had nothing to do all day. There still were no road signs, but the region was so well settled we had no trouble in finding our way or getting food and lodging.
Our shovel was forgotten and the umbrella was worn out from the wear it received back of our heels. Flowers were in bloom—especially oleanders—and when we came to the grape and wine districts, we stopped at a winery and climbed a long ladder to look into one of the immense vats of claret, which looked like a lake of ink. The owner gave us a sample, running it out of a hose to rinse the glass before filling it, as one would water. It was a common sight to see a wagon and hay rack full of grapes.
Near Dos Palos, where we were delayed one evening by a stoppage in our gas line, we saw a beautiful sight. The honking of wild geese attracted our attention, and we saw flock after flock coming through the air like black clouds, alighting to feed in the marshes nearby, then rising and going on while others came to take their place.
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.
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.
Next day we drove the dirty, dingy car to Golden Gate Park on our way to the ocean, but a policeman stopped us at the entrance and said no autos with signs were allowed in the park. Fred told him how far we had come, how long it had taken, and all we wanted now was to get to the edge of the water and wet the wheels of the car in the Pacific ocean, then it was to be shipped to Detroit, where he would met it and finish the trip by driving it to New York City in time for the midwinter automobile show.
Getting past the brusque-appearing policeman was easy compared to getting past some of the mud we had along the way. He smiled indulgently at our earnestness, and said to go and come by the South Drive, and it would be all right. Having overcome the last obstacle, we drove through the lovely park, past the site of historic Cliff House and Seal Rocks, and down to the ocean, where a wave gently came up, wet the wheels of the travel-stained car, and slowly receded.
This was the end in the west, and there was no way to show how dear the little grey car had become to us after carrying us across so many miles and through so many dangers. The chug of its one-cylinder engine had been the sweetest music in our ears during our month-long trip. I could only put my hand on the hood and choke back the tears.
The car was shipped back to Detroit by express so as to be ready to finish its journey to New York City, and Fred was to follow it to Detroit.
We looked up old friends and scenes. Meanwhile, Mr. Harris and a new car arrived by train. After a few days he decided to go to Los Angeles to look over the automobile situation. He went by train while we and the new car went by ship—a delightful and unexpected pleasure. We disembarked at San Pedro, the car being swung down from the upper deck. Then we bought gasoline and drove to Los Angeles, twenty miles away. Business took us to Pasadena several times, and we enjoyed driving beneath the palms and through orange groves, where the trees were heavily laden with fruit, not quite ripe but of a beautiful color, always with a few bunches of waxy blossoms.
affectpleasurecartraindrivinggasolineother mobilitiestreescenery
We spent Thanksgiving in Los Angeles, and Fred sold the new car to Fred Ingersoll, a mail carrier in Pasadena who had written the factory. He was one of the first mail carriers to use an automobile in his deliveries, and eventually drove the car enough miles to have circled the earth several times.
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.
On December 20 Fred left Detroit with the old car to complete the trip across the continent, with Harvey Lincoln, a factory man, as observer. They went through Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo, and to Little Falls, New York, where they were stopped by a blizzard.
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.
From Albany they went down the side of the Hudson River, but on a steep hill the car coasted to a stop. They found the timing gear had lost some teeth again. It was similar to the accident we had had in Nevada. Fred, fearing much trouble, had the foresight to add an extra timing gear to his parts at Detroit before starting. They simply pushed the car to the sunny side of a barn and made the change in zero weather. After an hour and a half the new gear was in place, the engine timed, and they were on their way.
The car reached New York City December 30. Fred drove over Brooklyn Bridge, through Brooklyn to Coney Island, dipped the wheels of the Brush in the Atlantic Ocean, and was in time for the automobile show which opened January 1, 1909. The insignificant, shabby automobile had reached its goal. It stood in the huge hall with its signs, much-used shovel, and all the dirt and mud it had accumulated on its long trip, among its more aristocratic companions in Grand Central Palace. With its driver, it attracted a great deal of attention.
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.
This was a happy climax and far beyond our expectations, because we had thought of the trip only as an advertising stunt for the Brush factory and the Brush Runabout.
