Image not available: W. B. HALE, CONDUCTOR NORTHERN PACIFIC RAILWAY.W. B. HALE, CONDUCTOR NORTHERN PACIFIC RAILWAY.
and through the gathering darkness we can see that we have entered a wild and rocky region, the road winding around and among mountain ranges and snow-capped peaks, following the course of the stream we just crossed for 60 miles.
Captain Gilbert and his brakemen are lively, interesting company, and entertain us during the evening with anecdotes and stories of Western life. “Are you troubled much with tramps, captain?” some one asks, as Conductor Gilbert, during the conversation, made some allusion to the profession. “They do not give us much real trouble,” is the reply, “yet they are a matter of concern, for we are never without them, and need to be constantly on guard; there is always a Wandering Willie around somewhere, and you never know what mischief he may be up to. There are at least a dozen on this train to-night. The trucks are full and several on top of the cars.” This is rather startling information, and I notice Brother Sheppard clap his hand on his right hip pocket to make sure the “critter” is there, and Alfalfa quietly unlocks the cupboard door, where “our artillery” is kept. I see no sign of fear on the serene countenance of Captain Gilbert and believe we’re not in danger; yet Brothers Maxwell and Terry start through the train to make sure the vestibule doors are barred and step traps fastened down. At Trout Creek, a small station 48 miles from Hope, we stopped for water, and F. Hartman, roadmaster of the Missoula and Hope Division, got aboard and went with us to Horse Plains. It is now near midnight, and making my way from the smoker to the “Marco” I turn in, wondering how the poor fellows who are hanging on to the brake beamsare enjoying themselves, for Bailey with the “438” is switching them around the curves at a pretty lively rate.
Our arrival in Helena at six o’clock this morning and the announcement of an early breakfast soon has everybody astir. After breakfast we bid adieu to jolly, whole-souled Captain Gilbert and his genial crew, and under the escort of Assistant General Passenger Agent W. Stuart, Assistant General Ticket Agent C. E. Dutton, and Conductor Dodds, of the Northern Pacific Railway, and Messrs. E. Flaherty and H. D. Palmer, of Helena Board of Trade, start out to see the town. Our time is limited, for we are scheduled to leave at twelve o’clock, and it is impossible to give all the interesting features of this remarkable city the attention they deserve. Helena is a wealthy town; it is located in the centre of one of the richest mining districts in the world; it is the capital of Montana and the county seat of Lewis and Clarke County, with a population of about 14,000; it is up to date in its financial, educational, and religious institutions, and both private residences and public buildings are models of architectural symmetry, strength, and beauty. A military post named Fort Harrison has recently been established here which will be one of the principal points for the quartering of troops in the Northwest. A ride of almost three miles on the electric line through this interesting city brings us to the Hotel Broadwater and “Natatorium,” where the celebrated hot springs are located. We are given the freedom of the bathing pool, which is one of the largest and finest under cover in the world. The most of our party takeadvantage of the treat, and for an hour the waters of the pool are almost churned into foam by the sportive antics of the crowd, whose capers afford great entertainment and amusement for those who do not care to “get into the swim” with the rest. This place is much resorted to by tourists, and invalids are said to be much benefited by bathing in the waters of these hot springs, which are strongly impregnated with sulphur, salt, and iron and heated by Nature’s process to a very pleasant temperature.
Leaving the Natatorium we are invited to the immense brewery establishment of Nicholas Kessler, near by, to await the coming of our train, which is to be brought here for us, as the railroad runs within a short distance of the place. Mr. Kessler is a former Pennsylvanian, one of those hospitable, generous, big-hearted Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and when he learned we hailed from his native State his pleasure was greater than he was able to express and his generosity almost boundless. In the fine pavilion adjoining his establishment he spread us a sumptuous lunch and seemed aggrieved that we didn’t eat and drink all that was placed before us, which was enough for 500 people. When at last our train comes and we bid the old gentleman farewell there are tears in his eyes as he tells us how happy he is that we called to see him, and that he would never forget the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors. He accompanies us over to the train (so do several of his men with boxes on their shoulders), and as we steam away and leave behind us the city of Helena and our generous-hearted new-made friends, we notice in the “refreshment corner” of our combined car a pile of boxes bearing the trade mark of“Nic” Kessler, and another box containing fine oranges that bears the mark of H. S. Hepner, a merchant of Helena.
The space between the ice chests beneath the dining car is vacant; our mascot has fled, having ridden in that uncomfortable position for 782 miles.
It is 12.55 P. M. Helena time when we leave here for Butte over the Montana Central branch of the Great Northern Railway. We have G. N. engine No. 458, Engineer Pete Leary, Fireman R. Hanna, Conductor M. Sweeney, Brakemen F. W. Minshall and F. J. Chapman, who take us to Butte, a distance of 75 miles. As a guest we have with us Trainmaster J. W. Donovan, of the Montana Central, who will accompany us to Butte. We find Mr. Donovan an agreeable and entertaining gentleman who tells us much that is interesting of the country through which we are passing. “This branch was built,” says Mr. Donovan, “for almost the sole purpose of developing the mining interests of the country. You will see very little of any other industry from here to Butte than mining.”
After leaving Clancy we ascend a steep grade, from which we look down into a pretty valley that Mr. Donovan tells us is called Prickly Pear Cañon. Passing Amazon we follow Boulder River for 12 miles as it courses through the beautiful valley of the same name. Four miles from Amazon we pass through Boulder and can see that it is a thriving town. “Boulder is the county seat of Jefferson County,” says Mr. Donovan, “and has a population of about 1200. It ranks as one of the important cities of Montana, being in the centre of a rich mining region.”
This is a wonderful mining district through which we are passing, all the hills and mountain sides being literally honeycombed with the gaping mouths of mines. Eight miles from Boulder we come to the town of Basin, “the largest city,” says Mr. Donovan, “in Jefferson County, having a population of about 200 more than Boulder.” The railroad runs close to the ruins of what had apparently been a large building recently destroyed by fire, and we inquire of Mr. Donovan what it had been. “Two years ago,” he replies, “the Basin and Bay State Smelting Company erected an immense plant that was destroyed by fire as soon as it was in operation. To build and equip the plant cost over $100,000, and its destruction was not only a heavy loss but a serious blow to the mining industries of Basin and all the adjacent country; but I hear it is to be rebuilt if the output and value of the ore in this section will warrant it.”
Our progress has become very slow and engine No. 458 is laboring very hard. “We are now ascending a grade,” says Mr. Donovan, “of 116 feet to the mile and have eight miles to go before we reach the summit.” It is a tedious climb, but we do not weary of viewing the wondrous mountain scenery. As we slowly approach the top of the grade we obtain an excellent view of Bison River Cañon, an exceedingly wild, rugged, and picturesque region. At last we reach the summit at an altitude of 6350 feet above sea level; this is the dividing line between the Atlantic and Pacific slopes. From this point the waters flow westward to the Pacific and eastward to the Atlantic Oceans. I look at my watch; it is 7.55 P. M. in Philadelphia and 5.55 here. We now make better time, and in twenty minutes wearrive in Butte, and are met by Brother O. L. Chapman, C. C., and Brother H. C. Grey, secretary and treasurer of Butte Division No. 294, also Brothers J. H. Dunn and A. H. Elliott, of same division, who introduce us to Major Dawson, “the man who knows everybody in Butte,” and to Mr. J. R. Wharton, manager of Butte Street Railway, who gives us the freedom of his lines. Our people are escorted by the kind brothers who met us, by carriages and street cars, to the Butte Hotel, where refreshments are served, after which we are loaded into two large band wagons and driven through the principal streets of the city. Butte is a wonderful city, worth a trip across the continent to see. It is strictly a mining town and has a population of over 38,000. It is situated near the headwaters of Clark’s Fork of the Columbia River, on the west slope of the dividing range of the Rocky Mountains. Butte is the county seat of Silver Bow County, a county marvelously rich in its mineral products, the aggregate value of its gold, silver, and copper product for one year reaching the enormous sum of $9,060,917.59; and yet it is claimed the mining industry in this district is still in its infancy.
Butte is a city of fine, substantial buildings that are up to date in style and beauty of architecture, and yet it is a bald and barren town, for not a tree, a leaf, a bush, a flower, or a blade of grass can we see anywhere within the length or breadth of its limits. It is surrounded on every hand by smoking smelters and grinning mines, and its streets are filled with rugged, stalwart miners. The eight-hour system of labor is in vogue here, and the mines and smelters run day and night. The greatAnaconda Mine, owned and operated by the Anaconda Company, the richest mining corporation in the world, extends, we are told, under the very centre of the city of Butte, the Butte Hotel standing directly over it. The pay rolls of the mining industries of Butte aggregate $1,500,000 yearly. We are driven out to the Colorado Smelter, and on the way pass the Centennial Brewery, where a short stop is made to obtain some souvenirs. We are shown through the great smelter, and when we come out it has grown quite dark. Our drivers are old stagers and understand handling the reins. To one wagon are attached six white horses, driven by W. M. McIntyre, of the New York Life Insurance Company, and to the other wagon are four bays, driven by Hanks Monk, a well-known character of the West. Hanks is an old stage driver, and claims to be a son of the celebrated Hanks Monk of Horace Greeley and Mark Twain fame. Mr. Monk tells us that he is a Mormon, and a deacon in Salt Lake City Church, but has only one wife, and has found one to be plenty. He is a genial, good-hearted fellow, who, notwithstanding the hardships of his rugged life of fifty-seven years, looks but forty. Hanks claims he followed the trail for many years and never got far astray, but he will have to acknowledge that he got off the trail once, when he ran the wagon load of Pennsylvania Railroad conductors into a sand bank in going from the Colorado Smelter to the station in Butte on the night of May 28th, 1897. Hanks, however, redeemed himself by the dexterous and graceful manner in which he guided those bewildered horses until he struck the proper trail again, and brought us to the station all O. K. It is 10 o’clock P. M. in Butte and time for our train to start. We bidour kind and generous friends and brothers adieu and get aboard. Engine No. 305, in charge of Engineer J. Else, is drawing us, and Conductor J. A. West has charge of the train; C. Dunham is our brakeman. We have as a guest on the train Mr. H. E. Dunn, traveling agent of the Oregon Short Line. After a delay of an hour at Silver Bow, waiting to get a helper engine to assist up a grade, we start on our way again at 1.15 A. M. Eastern (11.15 P. M. Mountain) time, and I make my way to my berth in the “Marco.”
Was awakened this morning between two and three o’clock by a jar that almost tumbled me out of bed; thought at first our train had left the track and had run into the side of a mountain; I lay quiet a moment, expecting another crash. It didn’t come, and I realized our train was standing still. “Guess I was dreaming,” I said to myself, as I reach over, raise the window blind, and look out. A freight train is moving past and our train is motionless. Mrs. S. is awake, and my movement informs her that I am in the same condition. “What was that?” she quietly asks, referring to the shock that awakened us. “I don’t know, my dear, but I’m sure it was something,” I reply, satisfied now that it wasn’t a dream. We believe the danger is over; that there is nothing to worry about, and are soon asleep again.
Arose this morning about the usual time and find we have just left Pocatello, Idaho, 262 miles from Butte City. We have come through much interesting countrywhile asleep, and have missed seeing the beautiful Idaho Falls. The shaking up we received last night was caused by Engineer Oram coupling engine No. 760 to our train at Lima. Oram miscalculated the distance and banged into our train with more force than he intended. At Pocatello engine No. 760 is exchanged for O. S. L. engine No. 735, with Engineer J. Andrews and Fireman Standrod in the cab, Conductor G. W. Surman and Brakeman H. Hewett, who run us to Ogden, 134 miles.
Pocatello is located in Fort Hall, Indian Reservation, and while passing through this district we see a number of the natives. Much of the country is level and covered with sage brush and bunch grass, constituting immense cattle ranges, with here and there a plot of land under cultivation, watered by irrigation, while at a distance on either side can be seen great ranges of snow-capped mountains. We are reminded of Chester County and home as we see the familiar name of “Oxford” above a little station door as we fly past, midway between Dayton and Cannon. We cross the State Line and enter Utah. Coming to Cache Junction, we are in view of Bear River, that feeds the great irrigating canal constructed by the Bay State Canal and Irrigating Company at a cost of $2,000,000. This canal is about 80 miles long, the waters from which irrigate many thousand acres of land; it is converting this dry and barren desert country into a land of fertility, fruits, and flowers.
As we approach Ogden this great improvement is very noticeable in the beautiful, productive farms and homesteads that are seen on every hand. The most of the settlers through this locality, we are told, are Mormons,but the aspect of their condition and surroundings show them to be a thrifty, industrious, enterprising people. We arrive in Ogden at 11.20 A. M., where a stop of only twenty minutes is allowed. We are met by Conductor E. S. Croker, C. C. of Wasatch Division No. 124, and J. H. McCoy, of same division, who is yardmaster for the Union Pacific Railroad at this point. Much as we desire to make a tour of this interesting city, our limited time will not allow it, but we can see that it is a thriving business place. It is situated on the western slope of the Wasatch Range, at an elevation of 4301 feet above sea level, on a triangle formed by the Weber and Ogden Rivers, which, uniting a short distance west of the city, flow across the famous historic valley and empty into the Great Salt Lake.
At Ogden, going west, the Union Pacific Railroad time changes from Mountain to Pacific time. At 1.40 P. M. Eastern (11.40 A. M. Mountain) time we start on our way again with R. G. W. engine No. 41, in charge of Engineer J. Stewart, Conductor George King, and Brakeman J. Crompton. From Ogden to Salt Lake City we are in continual view of the Great Salt Lake, and pass a number of evaporating dams, where a large amount of salt is procured through the process of evaporation. We arrive in Salt Lake City at 12.30 P. M. Mountain time, and leaving the train we are again hustled into wagons and driven over the city, the places of interest being pointed out and explained by the drivers. Time and space will not permit me to note and describe all the interesting features of this historic and truly wonderful city. We passed through the famous Eagle Gateway and halted on a lofty promontory overlooking
Image not available: “DAN,” SALT LAKE CITY RAILROAD STATION, UTAH.“DAN,” SALT LAKE CITY RAILROAD STATION, UTAH.
Image not available: GRAVE OF BRIGHAM YOUNG, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.GRAVE OF BRIGHAM YOUNG, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.
Temple Square, where we had a grand view of the magnificent $10,000,000 Mormon Temple. Near the Temple is the Tabernacle, an immense, singular-looking affair, with a roof like the shell of a huge tortoise. We are shown the Lion House and Beehive House, former residences of Brigham Young and his large family, and pass the grave where the remains of the great leader lie. It is a plain, ordinary-looking mound, inclosed with a common iron fence. The great monument erected to the imperishable fame of Brigham Young is this beautiful, remarkable city that he founded fifty years ago. For thirty years he was the temporal and religious leader of his people here, and Salt Lake City was almost strictly Mormon. It is exclusive no longer, for of its present population of 65,000 about one-half, we are told, are Gentiles or Christians. “The Christian Science faith is making rapid advances,” says our driver, “and many Mormons are being converted to that creed.” Brigham Young was the father of fifty-six children; when he died he left seventeen widows, sixteen sons, and twenty-eight daughters to mourn his loss, many of whom are living yet.
We are driven through Liberty Park, where is still standing the first flour mill built in Utah. Returning to the train we get dinner, after which our people scatter through the city to see the sights and gather more souvenirs. We are all impressed with the beauty and regularity of the streets, which all cross at right angles, are 132 feet wide, including the sidewalks, which are 20 feet in width, bordered with beautiful Lombardy poplar and locust trees. Along each side of the street flows a clear, cold stream of water, which, with the beauty of thetrees and the sweet fragrance of the locust blossoms, gives to the city an all-pervading air of coolness, comfort, and repose which is exceedingly inviting to a warm and weary tourist. The hour grows late and the time arrives to return to our train, which is sidetracked for occupancy at the Rio Grande Western depot. Several of our party gather at the corner of Main and Second South Street to await the coming of a trolley car that will convey us to the depot, about two miles away. According to the schedule of the line a car should pass every ten minutes, but to-night must be an exception, for it is forty-five minutes before our car arrives, and several of the party have started to walk. It is near midnight when we reach our train and turn in for the night.
We are all astir bright and early this morning, and after breakfast, through the courtesy of the managers of the Saltair and Los Angeles Railway, we are tendered a trip on their line to Saltair, one of the latest attractions on the Great Salt Lake, 10 miles from the city. We leave the Rio Grande Western depot at 9.30 on a Saltair and Los Angeles train with engine No. 2, Engineer A. M. Clayton, Fireman John Little, Conductor Joseph Risley, Brakeman F. T. Bailey. We have a thirty minutes’ pleasant ride through an interesting country. The first few miles we pass through a district of cozy homes, surrounded by fertile fields and gardens, the result of industry and irrigation; then come great level stretches of country, utilized as grazing ground, upon which can be seen feeding thousands of sheep. As weapproach the “Great Dead Sea” of America we see that gathering salt is the chief industry, and we pass many basins or dams where hundreds of tons of this useful commodity are procured through the process of evaporation. Arriving at our destination we find Saltair is a magnificent mammoth pavilion built on the waters of Great Salt Lake, 4000 feet from shore. A track resting upon piles connects the pavilion with the mainland, and over this our train is run.
Saltair was erected in 1893 by Salt Lake capitalists at an expense of $250,000. It is of Moorish style of architecture, 1115 feet long, 335 feet wide, and 130 feet high from the water to the top of the main tower. It is over a quarter of a mile from shore and rests upon 2500 ten-inch piling or posts driven firmly into the bottom of the lake. It contains 620 bath houses or dressing rooms, and connected with each room is an apartment equipped with a fresh-water shower bath. Visitors who wish to drink or lunch or lounge will find at their disposal a fine apartment 151 by 153 feet, furnished with convenient tables and comfortable chairs, or if it is their desire to “trip the light fantastic toe,” they will find the ball room always open, a fine piano, and dancing floor 140 by 250 feet. At night this wonderful place is lighted by electricity, there being 1250 incandescent and 40 arc lamps, and above all, in the centre of the building, there is an arc light of 2000 candle power. The bathing season has not opened yet and the water is said to be cold, but many of us have a strong desire to take a plunge in this remarkable and famous lake. The temperature of the water is found to be about 75 degrees, and opinion is divided as to whether or not it is toocold. Manager Wyman takes off his shoes and stockings and dabbles in the water. “It is not cold,” he exclaims, “and I’m going in;” and procuring a bathing suit he is soon splashing in the brine. His example is rapidly followed by others, until the majority of our party, both men and women, are floating and floundering around in water so salt that its density enables one to swim and float with ease, but you are helpless when you attempt to place your feet upon the bottom; the water within the bathing limits averages about five feet in depth, and the bottom is hard, smooth, and sandy. “If you get water in your mouth spit it out, and if you get it in your eyes don’t rub them,” is the advice given us by the bath attendant. If you get this water in your mouth you want to spit it out right away; that part of the caution is unnecessary, for it is the worst stuff I ever tasted. If you get it in your eyes you will want to rub them, and rub them hard, but don’t do it, and you will be surprised how soon the intense smarting will cease.
We love to swim and dive and splash and sport in the water, and have bathed in many places, but in a brine like this never before. In fact, it has been said that nothing like it can be found anywhere this side of the Dead Sea of Palestine. We remained in the water for an hour and all thoroughly enjoyed its peculiar qualities. Several of the party who never swam before did so to-day, but it was because they couldn’t help it, and it was better than a circus to see them. Not one of us regret or will ever forget our trip to Saltair and our bath in Great Salt Lake. Strange as it may seem, this great inland sea occupies an altitude 4000 feet higherthan the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It is 93 miles long, with an average width of 43 miles, containing almost 4000 square miles. It is shallow compared with the depth of other large bodies of water, its deepest places measuring but 60 feet. A number of islands rise out of its waters, the largest being Stansbury and Antelope, near its southern shore. It is between these two islands that beautiful, destined-to-be-celebrated Saltair is located.
Returning, we arrive at the Rio Grande Western depot about 12.30, and after partaking of lunch in our dining car we go in a body to attend services in the Mormon Tabernacle. They were looking for us, for we had been invited to come, and we find a section of vacant seats awaiting us near the centre of the immense auditorium. We are all favorably impressed with what we see and hear, the Mormon manner of worship being not unlike that of any other church. So far as we can discern, the speakers make no effort to expound any particular or peculiar creed or doctrine, but preach charity, love, and duty to one another and obedience to the laws of God, which is a religion good enough for the entire world. An attractive feature of the service is the singing, the choir consisting of 400 voices, accompanied by the music of what is claimed to be one of the largest church organs in the world, and led by a gentleman highly skilled in his profession, who manages his great concourse of singers with remarkable accuracy and precision. This music is aided and enhanced by the peculiar and marvelous acoustic properties of the building, which seems to convey and distribute sound in such a wonderful manner that the entire edificeis filled with the grand and charming melody. We are all delighted and highly appreciate the privilege of having been allowed to visit this, one of the noted wonders of this famous Mormon city. The Tabernacle is an oddly-constructed building, 250 feet long, 150 feet wide, and 80 feet high, covered with an oval-shaped roof that, without any visible support except where it rests upon the walls, spans the vast auditorium beneath, which will seat over 8000 people.
The place was well filled to-day, and we are told that it is not unusual to have a congregation of 10,000 within the inclosure during Sabbath service. There are twenty double doors nine feet in width, which open outward, like the great doors of a barn, and the floor being on a level with the ground outside, the vast congregation is enabled to make its exit in a very few minutes without crowding or confusion.
The services being over, we soon find ourselves outside the building, but still within the inclosure that constitutes Temple Square. This square or “block,” containing about ten acres, is surrounded by a wall two feet thick and fourteen feet high, composed of adobe bricks built upon a foundation of stone. Four great gates, one on each side, lead into the inclosure, which is ornamented with fine shade trees and beautiful flowers, and contains the three famous buildings of the Mormons, or “Latter Day Saints,” as they prefer to be called. The Tabernacle, where regular service is held each Sabbath, is the only edifice to which the public is admitted. Assembly Hall, a large granite building of unique design, erected in 1880 at a cost of $90,000, is used exclusively by Church officials for special meetings
Image not available: THE MORMON TEMPLE AND SQUARE, SALT LAKE CITY.THE MORMON TEMPLE AND SQUARE, SALT LAKE CITY.
pertaining to the business of the Church. The Temple, a grand granite structure, the building and furnishing of which, we are told, has cost many millions of dollars, is as a sealed book to the outside world. Its interior is regarded as holy, consecrated ground, that has never been contaminated by an “unbeliever’s” presence. To admit a Gentile within its walls would be a fearful desecration. We cannot get inside, and gaze in admiration and curiosity upon its grand and massive walls, wondering what mighty mysteries are hidden within. Near the Temple that he designed and the corner stone of which he laid stands the statue of Brigham Young.
Leaving the grounds, our party scatters, some returning to the train and others strolling around the city. The sun shines very hot, but it is cool and refreshing in the shade. Mrs. S. and myself make a call on Mrs. Catharine Palmer, residing on State Street, a sister of Mr. C. K. Dolby, of Delaware County, Pennsylvania, an acquaintance of mine, who requested me to call on his sister had I the opportunity while in Salt Lake City. We are cordially received and spend a pleasant hour with Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, who are well advanced in years and very comfortably fixed. Their residence is surrounded by great maple trees, planted by Mr. Palmer many years ago, and he now loves to sit on his porch under their grateful shade and enjoy the fruits of his well-spent days of industry and toil.
On our return to the depot I encounter a party of the “boys” under the escort of Mr. James Devine, chief of Salt Lake City fire department, an acquaintance of Brother Leary’s, who are starting on a little tour throughthe town. I join them, and boarding an electric car we make a pleasant trip and are shown many places of interest. Mr. Devine is an excellent guide and entertains us with a number of anecdotes and stories of the people and their customs. “Who is the present head of the Mormon Church, Mr. Devine?” I ask. “An old gentleman by the name of W. Woodruff,” replies Mr. Devine, “but it will not be long, I think, before they will need another, for Mr. Woodruff is past ninety years of age. A short time ago, in commemoration of his ninetieth birthday, a family reunion was held, at which gathering his children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren numbered 90, one direct descendant for each year of his life. The old man is quite wealthy and owns some of the most fertile land in the State of Utah, if not in the world. I know it to be a fact that an experiment was made last year with an acre of his land to determine the amount of potatoes that can be raised per acre under favorable conditions, and that acre produced the extraordinary yield of 800 bushels. A like experiment in producing wheat resulted in the unprecedented yield of 82 bushels.” We can hardly credit this, but Mr. Devine declares it is true. One of the “boys” has been holding a letter in his hand, addressed to some friend in the East, and for some time has been waiting for a chance to deposit it in a letter box without getting left; at last he sees a chance, and quickly springing from the car when it stops at a corner to discharge some passengers, he tries to find an opening in what he supposes is a United States receptacle for letters. “Hold on, there,” exclaims Chief Devine, “I have a key for that if you want to get into it.” It is a fire-alarm box into which our brother is trying toinsert his epistle. “Twenty-five dollars fine for tampering with a fire alarm in this town,” says Brother Maxwell, as the abashed victim of the mistake returns to the car. “Yer-hef-ner bizness to monkey with it,” chided Brother Schuler; but the proper place is soon found and the letter safely mailed.
We called on Jacob Moritz, president of the Utah Brewing Company, of Salt Lake City, who showed us over his immense establishment and entertained us in a very generous manner. During the conversation, Mr. Moritz, while speaking about the decline of polygamy on account of the vigorous enforcement of the law that forbids a plurality of wives, recited an incident that came under his observation a short time since. An old Mormon having several wives fell a victim to the stern mandate of the law. Being under indictment for a criminal offense results in disfranchisement, but the old gentleman did not know he could not vote. Pending his trial an election occurred and the old man went to the polls to cast his ballot, but was sternly challenged. He was dumfounded at first, but was soon made to understand why he was denied the privileges of citizenship. Raising his right hand toward Heaven he exclaimed, “Gentlemen, you won’t allow me to vote, but, thank God, I have twenty-four sons who can vote.” “That’s a family of boys to be proud of,” remarked Brother Leary. “If they were illegally procured,” added Brother Reilly. Mr. Moritz offered a fine cut-glass goblet to the one who could come nearest guessing the number of drams it would hold. Brother Waddington got closest to it and carried off the prize.
Bidding adieu to our kind host, we returned to ourtrain and found dinner ready in the dining car. Chief Devine returned and took dinner with us. We also had with us as a guest Mr. Nymphas C. Murdock, of Charlestown, Wasatch County, Utah. Brother Barrett met Mr. Murdock at the Tabernacle services this afternoon, and becoming interested in his conversation invited him to visit our train. Mr. Murdock is a bishop in the Mormon Church and an intelligent and highly entertaining gentleman. Fifty years ago, when but ten years of age, he came with his parents, who were followers of Brigham Young, on that famous journey to the Great Salt Lake Valley. He has been identified with the Church since its establishment here, and was the first settler in Charlestown, which is located about 35 miles west of Salt Lake City, and he has been postmaster there for 31 years. Mr. Murdock made no effort to intrude upon us any of the peculiar doctrines or beliefs of his Church, but answered all our questions in a frank and pleasant manner, giving us a great deal of useful and interesting information. “Tell us something about your Temple, Mr. Murdock,” I requested, “and why you consider it too holy for visitors to enter?” “The Temple is considered holy because it has been consecrated to holy creeds and devoted to sacred objects,” answered Mr. Murdock in a solemn, quiet tone. “The spirits of the dead assemble in the Temple to commune with living friends.” “If that is so I don’t blame them for excluding the public,” I said to myself, “for if there is anything that will make a spirit scoot it is the presence of an unbeliever,” but I remained perfectly quiet, for I felt there was more coming. “We have a creed,” continued Mr. Murdock, “that declares the living can be wedded to the dead, and it is inthe Temple that this most sacred of all ceremonies is solemnized and performed.” “I can’t see how it is possible,” I quietly remarked. “I will explain,” Mr. Murdock gently said; “to the ‘believer’ it is very plain and simple. Suppose, for instance, I am betrothed to a woman who sickens and dies before we are married; if she truly loved me in life her spirit will meet me at the Temple altar, where marriage rites will be performed that will unite us for all eternity.” I really think Mr. Murdock is a good and honest man and believes what he told us, but to us the whole matter seemed like an interesting fairy story—very pretty, but outside the realm of truth and reason. There were some pertinent questions in my mind I felt like asking, but did not wish to injure the feelings or offend a kind and entertaining guest, and so we bid him good-bye and let him depart in peace.
A number of our people went over to Fort Douglas this afternoon and were highly pleased with the trip. George “Alfalfa” was along and met an old chum over there in the person of William Barnes. William was a messenger in the employ of Mayor Fitler, Philadelphia, when George and he were buddies. He likes army life first rate and George says he is a good soldier. The troops at Fort Douglas are all colored, commanded by white officers. We are scheduled to leave this evening at nine o’clock, and it is drawing near the time; our train is at the station and Manager Wyman has ascertained that our people are all “on deck.” We must not forget “Dan,” the pet bear at the Rio Grande Western depot. He was captured several years ago when a cub and has been confined in a pen near the station ever since. Heis a fine big fellow now, and has been faring well since our visit, for no one of our party thinks of passing the pen of Dan without giving him some sweetmeats, of which he is very fond. My last thoughts are of Dan, for finding I have some lumps of sugar and a few cakes in my pocket, I hasten to his pen and give them to him, and return just in time to get aboard. We leave promptly at 11.00 P. M. Eastern (9.00 P. M. Mountain) time, over the Rio Grande Western Railway, bound for Grand Junction, with the same engine and crew that brought us from Ogden to Salt Lake City. As a guest we have with us Train Supervisor Frank Selgrath, who will go with us to Grand Junction. At Clear Creek, 83 miles from Salt Lake City, we get a ten-wheel engine, No. 132, to help us up a six-mile grade with a rise of 200 feet to the mile. This is a fine, picturesque country, we are told, through which we are passing, but not being able to see in the dark, we cannot judge of its beauty, and finding it is near midnight I hie away to my little bed and am soon fast asleep.
Awakened this morning about six o’clock by Mrs. S. remarking, “I never saw the beat! Who would believe that so much of our country is desert?” I thought she was talking in her sleep, but turning over I find her gazing out of the window at the rapidly-fleeting landscape. We have drifted away from the mountains and rocks and are crossing a level, barren plain. For miles we see no sign of habitation or cultivation, but now in the distance we catch sight of an irrigating canal, with here and there a plot of land under cultivation whose fertility and verdure
Image not available: CHAS. E. HOOPER, OF THE DENVER AND RIO GRANDE RAILROAD.CHAS. E. HOOPER, OF THE DENVER AND RIO GRANDE RAILROAD.
break the hard lines of the desert monotony. We pass a station and upon the name board we see the word “Fruita,” a singular name, we think, for a station; but in the two seconds’ glance we have of its surroundings we can but feel that it is appropriate. Irrigating ditches, fertile fields, thrifty orchards, and blooming gardens are all seen in that fleeting glance, and we are more than ever impressed with the fact that it needs but water to convert these desert tracts into verdant fields. A number of our people are astir, and we too “turn out.” We find we are in Colorado, having crossed the State line at Utaline, a little station 35 miles west of Grand Junction, which we are now approaching, and where we arrive about seven o’clock. We halt here only long enough to change engines, but in our brief stay we can see that Grand Junction is quite a town. It has a population of about 4000; is located at the confluence of the Gunnison and Grand Rivers, with an elevation of 4500 feet; it is quite a railway centre, being the terminus of both the broad and narrow-gauge lines of the Denver and Rio Grande, the Rio Grande Western and the Colorado Midland Railways.
At 9.08 A. M. Eastern (7.08 A. M. Mountain) time we leave Grand Junction, on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, with engine No. 522, Engineer “Cyclone” Thompson, Fireman Bert Roberts, Conductor William M. Newman, Brakemen J. Grout and O. McCullough. Conductor Hugh Long, of Salida Division No. 132, and Charles E. Hooper, advertising agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, met our train at Grand Junction, and we find them a pleasing and entertaining addition to our party. They present us with descriptive timetables, illustrated pamphlets, and souvenir itineraries of our trip over the wonderful scenic route of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. From Grand Junction to Glenwood Springs we follow the Grand River through the Valley of the Grand, amid grand and beautiful scenery. As we approach Glenwood Springs and pass the little stations of Rifle and Antlers, Brother Sloane grows very enthusiastic, for this is a noted hunting district, with which our brother is familiar. From Newcastle to Glenwood Springs, a distance of 12 miles, we traverse closely the north banks of the Grand River, and parallel with the tracks of the Colorado Midland Railroad on the opposite side.
Arriving at Glenwood Springs at 9.40 A. M., we go direct from the train to the springs under the escort of Mr. Hooper, who has made arrangements to give our party free access to the bathing establishment, where we are very courteously received, and each one who desires to bathe is furnished with a suit and a dressing room. Steps lead down into the pool, which is about an acre in size and filled with warm, sulphurous water to the depth of four to five feet. The hot water, at a temperature of 120 degrees, gushes into the pool on one side at the rate of about 2000 gallons per minute, and on the opposite side an ice-cold mountain stream pours in at about the same rate, keeping the water at a pleasant bathing temperature.
We spent an hour in the pool and enjoyed it mightily. How much fun we had we can never tell, but we know we had fun, and other people knew it, too, for the following item appeared in to-day’sAvalanche, an afternoon Glenwood Springs paper:—
Image not available: BATHING POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS, COLORADO.BATHING POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS, COLORADO.
Image not available: IN THE POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS.IN THE POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS.
“Conductors in the Pool.
“The Pennsylvania Railroad conductors who arrived in Glenwood Springs this morning from the West had more fun in the pool than a lot of wild Indians. Their shouts of mirth and their laughter could be heard at Cardiff, three miles south. If the Indians ever had as much fun in that pool as those Pennsylvania Railroad conductors, then, Wampam woopham longheir spookham.”
We all feel that this item does us great honor, but we are puzzled for awhile to understand the meaning of the closing expression, until one of our party who had made a study of savage classic lore interpreted it as meaning, “Yankem, spankem, daredevil blankem.”
After leaving the pool, another hour was spent in visiting the sulphur springs and vapor cave and in writing and mailing letters. The latter we did in the beautiful Hotel Colorado, which is located near the bathing establishment and is said to be one of the finest-equipped hotels between the Atlantic and Pacific. The Grand River separates the baths from the town, and is crossed by a double-decker bridge, the lower deck for vehicles, the upper for pedestrians. We recrossed the bridge and after a short wait for our train to be brought to us we again got aboard, and at 3.00 P. M. Eastern (1.00 P. M. Mountain) time left Glenwood Springs bound for Salida.
For 16 miles we wind through the cañon of the Grand River, and view with feelings of admiration and awe those towering walls of rock of such peculiar construction and varied colors that we wonder what remarkable process of Nature could have ever formed them thus.At Gypsum, 25 miles from Glenwood Springs, Grand River disappears from view and we come in sight of Eagle River, following it for several miles. We pass great beds of lava and can see, away in the distance, a burned and blackened course where the lava had flowed down a chasm in the mountain, perhaps thousands of years ago. On the plateaus, at the foot of towering cliffs, are numerous little farms in a thrifty state of cultivation. We stop at Minturn to change engines, and bid “Cyclone” Thompson and his trusty fireman, Bert Roberts, good-bye.
We leave in a few minutes with engine No. 524. Engineer Al. Philliber and Fireman Charley Wilcox are in the cab, “Billy” Newman and his brakemen remain with us. Conductor Newman is a member of Denver Division No. 44 and an enthusiastic lover of the order. He is a model conductor and an entertaining companion. E. A. Thayer, Esq., superintendent of hotel, dining, and restaurant service, is our guest from Glenwood Springs to Salida, and we find him an interesting gentleman. Brother Dougherty has found an old friend in Brother Hugh Long, and he has much enjoyment in his company. Charley Hooper is everybody’s friend and always has an admiring, interested group around him, and if we could only remember all that Charley tells us we could write an intensely interesting volume. He is perfectly familiar with all of this wonderful country and is an exceedingly interesting companion.
Soon after leaving Minturn we enter Eagle River Cañon, whose sloping, pine-fringed walls rise to the height of over 2000 feet on either side, almost shutting out the light of day. A heavy shower adds to thegloom, but does not detract from the interest, for these mighty mountain sides are honeycombed with hundreds of mines and dotted with the cabins of the miners. It is very curious and wonderful to see a human habitation hanging, as it were, a thousand feet in the air, on the side of a mountain, where it would seem a mountain goat could hardly obtain a foothold; yet there they are, and many of them—in one place an entire village of red and white cottages, so very high up that they look like miniature houses or dove cots suspended in the air. The products of the mines are lowered to the railroad tracks by means of tramways operated by endless chains or cables, and material is conveyed to the lofty residents by the same novel arrangement.
For four miles we wind up through this marvelous mountain ravine, deeply interested in the wonderful sights and scenery of this extraordinary mining industry. A short stop is made at Belden, where extensive gold mines are in operation, but so high up on the mountain side are the shafts or entrances to the mines that it is impossible to visit them in the limited time we have. Since leaving Minturn our course has been gradually upward, and we have Engineer Amberson, with helper engine No. 513, to assist us up the grade. Emerging from the famous and never-to-be-forgotten Eagle River Cañon, we shortly come to the mining town of Red Cliff. It is a lively, thrifty place of about 1000 inhabitants, has an elevation of 8671 feet, and is surrounded by grand mountain scenery. From this point Mr. Hooper directs our attention to a view of the Mount of the Holy Cross, but only a glimpse is obtained of the great white cross and then it is lost toview. “Distance lends enchantment to the view,” quotes Mr. Thayer. “Do you know,” he continues, “were it possible to transport you to the summit of yonder mount, 20 miles away, and set you down, you would see no semblance of a cross? You would only see rugged rocks, desolate peaks, and snow-filled ravines; you would look in vain for the sublime and typical beauty that you so easily discern 20 miles or more away. You would see, were you in a proper location, the conditions and materials that make your beautiful picture. A great valley or ravine extends down the mountain side, into which the snows of many Winters have drifted. This is one of Nature’s perpetual ice houses, whose supply never becomes exhausted. Across the face of the mountain, near the summit, crossing this ravine at right angles, is another great depression or fissure, likewise filled with perpetual ice and snow. All the surroundings are rugged, rough, and broken, and you would never think of looking for the likeness of a cross in the wild, bleak desolation of ice-bound, snow-filled mountain chasms. Distance, however, obliterates the rocks and roughness and smooths the rugged features of the mountain side, and the great white cross of snow stands out in bold relief, as though formed of carved and polished marble. It is a pretty picture, and one that the imagination and sentiment of man have almost rendered sacred.”
We are now approaching Tennessee Pass, and our engines are working hard as they climb the steep ascent. Our progress is slow, but so much the better, as it gives us an opportunity to contemplate and enjoy the indescribable beauty of this famous mountain scenery. Wereach the pass shortly after four o’clock, at an altitude of 10,418 feet, the highest point on the main line of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Here we again cross the Great Continental Divide and enter the Atlantic slope. Mr. Hooper calls our attention to a tiny stream of water flowing near the track, remarking as he does so, “That is the headwaters of the Arkansas River. We follow it for a number of miles and it will be interesting to notice it gradually increasing in size and volume as we proceed.” Our course is slightly downward and our rate of speed increases. We soon reach Leadville, where we halt for half an hour. The time is insufficient to allow us to visit the town, but we get out and look around. A train of freight cars is standing on a sidetrack a short distance away, loaded with ore, and the “boys” are told to help themselves. A number avail themselves of the opportunity of procuring Leadville “specimens” for souvenirs. The pieces carried away, I imagine, contain but very little of the precious metal, for I believe, judging from the appearance, that the “specimens” are being obtained from a train load of railroad ballast. I tell Brothers Sparks and Matthews and some of the rest my convictions, but they call me a “tenderfoot” and say I “don’t know a good thing when I see it.” Maybe I don’t, but I have a chunk of that stuff in my pocket that I will take home and exhibit to my friends as a specimen of Leadville gold quartz, and if they know no more about the material than I do they will believe it. If it is but a stone, I will prize it as a souvenir from the most noted mining camp of the West.
Leadville first became famous in 1859 as the richest gold-mining camp in Colorado, and was known as“California Gulch.” Five million dollars in gold dust were washed from the ground of this gulch the first five years after its discovery, then for fourteen years it lay almost dormant, until in 1878 rich deposits of silver were discovered. At that time the place took a new lease of life, was renamed Leadville, and has been a booming city ever since. It now has a population of 15,000 inhabitants and is the county seat of Lake County. Leadville has an elevation of 10,200 feet, enjoying the highest altitude of any city of its size in North America, if not in the world. It lies amid some of the grandest and most magnificent scenery to be found anywhere, and is surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountain peaks, whose glistening summits almost pierce the sky. We find the atmosphere cool and bracing, but so exceedingly rare that a brisk walk or short run will make you pant for breath. I found this out when I ran to the sidetrack for a piece of “ballast.”
Our half hour is up and Conductor Newman and Manager Wyman are shouting “All aboard!” We scramble on, and at 7.40 P. M. Eastern (5.40 P. M. Mountain) time our train pulls out and we leave in our rear an interesting, picturesque, and famous town. At Malta, five miles from Leadville, we lay on a sidetrack ten minutes waiting for a train we meet at this point. Leaving Malta, we pass through a fertile valley, through which flows the Arkansas River, that we notice is rapidly growing larger and more turbulent. We are still running parallel with the Colorado Midland Railroad, which for miles is within fifty feet of the Denver and Rio Grande. We notice a severe storm raging on a mountain not far away, and it seems to be snowing hard at the summit.