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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




A short distance to the right of Hot Springs Station broken clouds of
steam are seen rising from the ground, as though huge caldrons of water
were being heated there. Going to the spot I find, indeed, " caldrons
of boiling water;" but the caldrons are in the depths. At irregular
openings in the rocky ground the bubbling water wells to the surface,
and the fires-ah! where are the fires. On another part of this desert
are curious springs that look demure and innocuous enough most of the
time, but occasionally they emit columns of spray and steam. It is related
of these springs that once a party of emigrants passed by, and one of
the men knelt down to take a drink of the clear, nice-looking water. At
the instant he leaned over, the spring spurted a quantity of steam and
spray all over him, scaring him nearly out of his wits. The man sprang
up, and ran as if for his life, frantically beckoning the wagons to move
on, at the same time shouting, at the top of his voice, "Drive on! drive
on! hell's no great distance from here!"

>From the Forty-mile Desert my road leads up the valley of the Humboldt
River. On the shores of Humboldt Lake are camped a dozen Piute lodges,
and I make a half-hour halt to pay them a visit. I shall never know
whether I am a welcome visitor or not; they show no signs of pleasure
or displeasure as I trundle the bicycle through the sage-brush toward
them. Leaning it familiarly up against one of their teepes, I wander
among them and pry into their domestic affairs like a health-officer in
a New York tenement. I know I have no right to do this without saying,
"By your leave," but item-hunters the world over do likewise, so I feel
little squeamishness about it. Moreover, when I come back I find the
Indians are playing " tit-for-tat" against me. Not only are they curiously
examining the bicycle as a whole, but they have opened the toolbag and
are examining the tools, handing them around among themselves. I don't
think these Piutes are smart or bold enough to steal nowadays; their
intercourse with the whites along the railroad has, in a measure, relieved
them of those aboriginal traits of character that would incite them to
steal a brass button off their pale-faced brother's coat, or screw a nut
off his bicycle; but they have learned to beg; the noble Piute of to-day
is an incorrigible mendicant. Gathering up my tools from among them, the
monkey-wrench seems to have found favor in the eyes of a wrinkled-faced
brave, who, it seems, is a chief. He hands the wrench over with a smile
that is meant to be captivating, and points at it as I am putting it
back into the bag, and grunts, " Ugh. Piute likum. Piute likum!" As I
hold it up, and ask him if this is what he means, he again points and
repeats, " Piute likum;" and this time two others standing by point at
him and also smile and say, " Him big chief; big Piute chief, him;"
thinking, no doubt, this latter would be a clincher, and that I would
at once recognize in " big Piute chief, him " a vastly superior being
and hand him over the wrench. In this, however, they are mistaken, for
the wrench I cannot spare; neither can I see any lingering trace of
royalty about him, no kingliness of mien, or extra cleanliness; nor is
there anything winning about his smile - nor any of their smiles for that
matter. The Piute smile seems to me to be simply a cold, passionless
expansion of the vast horizontal slit that reaches almost from one ear
to the other, and separates the upper and lower sections of their
expressionless faces. Even the smiles of the squaws are of the same
unlovely pattern, though they seem to be perfectly oblivious of any
ugliness whatever, and whenever a pale-faced visitor appears near their
teepe they straightway present him with one of those repulsive, unwinning
smiles. Sunday, May 4th, finds me anchored for the day at the village
of Lovelocks, on the Humboldt River, where I spend quite a remarkable
day. Never before did such a strangely assorted crowd gather to see the
first bicycle ride they ever saw, as the crowd that gathers behind the
station at Lovelocks to-day to see me. There are perhaps one hundred and
fifty people, of whom a hundred are Piute and Shoshone Indians, and the
remainder a mingled company of whites and Chinese railroaders; and among
them all it is difficult to say who are the most taken with the novelty
of the exhibition - the red, the yellow, or the white. Later in the evening
I accept the invitation of a Piute brave to come out to their camp,
behind the village, and witness rival teams of Shoshone and Piute squaws
play a match-game of " Fi-re-fla," the national game of both the Shoshone
and Piute tribes. The principle of the game is similar to polo. The
squaws are armed with long sticks, with which they endeavor to carry a
shorter one to the goal. It is a picturesque and novel sight to see the
squaws, dressed in costumes in which the garb of savagery and civilization
is strangely mingled and the many colors of the rainbow are promiscuously
blended, flitting about the field with the agility of a team of professional
polo-players; while the bucks and old squaws, with their pappooses, sit
around and watch the game with unmistakable enthusiasm. The Shoshone
team wins and looks pleased. Here, at Lovelocks, I fall in with one of
those strange and seemingly incongruous characters that are occasionally
met with in the West. He is conversing with a small gathering of Piutes
in their own tongue, and I introduce myself by asking him the probable
age of one of the Indians, whose wrinkled and leathery countenance would
indicate unusual longevity. He tells me the Indian is probably ninety
years old; but the Indians themselves never know their age, as they count
everything by the changes of the moon and the seasons, having no knowledge
whatever of the calendar year. While talking on this subject, imagine
my surprise to hear my informant - who looks as if the Scriptures are the
last thing in the world for him to speak of - volunteer the information
that our venerable and venerated ancestors, the antediluvians, used to
count time in the same way as the Indians, and that instead of Methuselah
being nine hundred and sixty-nine years of age, it ought to be revised
so as to read " nine hundred and sixty-nine moons," which would bring
that ancient and long-lived person-the oldest man that ever lived-down
to the venerable but by no means extraordinary age of eighty years and
nine months. This is the first time I have heard this theory, and my
astonishment at hearing it from the lips of a rough-looking habitue of
the Nevada plains, seated in the midst of a group of illiterate Indians,
can easily be imagined. On, up the Humboldt valley I continue, now riding
over a smooth, alkali flat, and again slavishly trundling through deep
sand, a dozen snowy mountain peaks round about, the Humboldt sluggishly
winding its way through the alkali plain; on past Eye Patch, to the right
of which are more hot springs, and farther on mines of pure sulphur-all
these things, especially the latter, unpleasantly suggestive of a certain
place where the climate is popularly supposed to be uncomfortably warm;
on, past Humboldt

Station, near which place I wantonly shoot a poor harmless badger, who
peers inquisitively out of his hole as I ride past. There is something
peculiarly pathetic about the actions of a dying badger, and no sooner
has the thoughtless shot sped on its mission of death than I am sorry
for doing it.

Going out of Mill City next morning I lose the way, and find myself up
near a small mining camp among the mountains south of the railroad.
Thinking to regain the road quickly by going across country through the
sage-brush, I get into a place where that enterprising shrub is go thick
and high that I have to hold the bicycle up overhead to get through.

At three o'clock in the afternoon I come to a railroad section-house.
At the Chinese bunk-house I find a lone Celestial who, for some reason,
is staying at home. Having had nothing to eat or drink since six o'clock
this morning, I present the Chinaman with a smile that is intended to
win his heathen heart over to any gastronomic scheme I may propose; but
smiles are thrown away on John Chinaman.

" John, can you fix me up something to eat. " " No; Chinaman no savvy
whi' man eatee; bossee ow on thlack. Chinaman eatee nothing bu' licee
[rice]; no licee cookee." This sounds pretty conclusive; nevertheless I
don't intend to be thus put off so easily. There is nothing particularly
beautiful about a silver half-dollar, but in the almond-shaped eyes of
the Chinaman scenes of paradisiacal loveliness are nothing compared to
the dull surface of a twenty-year-old fifty-cent piece; and the jingle
of the silver coins contains more melody for Chin Chin's unromantic ear
than a whole musical festival.

" John, I'll give you a couple of two-bit pieces if you'll get me a bite
of something," I persist. John's small, black eyes twinkle at the
suggestion of two-bit pieces, and his expressive countenance assumes a
commerical air as, with a ludicrous change of front, he replies:

" Wha'. You gib me flore bittee, me gib you bitee eatee. " "That's what
I said, John; and please be as lively as possible about it."

" All li; you gib me flore bittee me fly you Melican plan-cae." " Yes,
pancakes will do. Go ahead!"

Visions of pancakes and molasses flit before my hunger-distorted vision
as I sit outside until he gets them ready. In ten minutes John calls me
in. On a tin plate, that looks as if it has just been rescued from a
barrel of soap-grease, reposes a shapeless mass of substance resembling
putty-it is the " Melican plan-cae; " and the Celestial triumphantly
sets an empty box in front of it for me to sit on and extends his greasy
palm for the stipulated price. May the reader never be ravenously hungry
and have to choose between a " Melican plan-cae " and nothing. It is
simply a chunk of tenacious dough, made of flour and water only, and
soaked for a few minutes in warm grease. I call for molasses; he doesn't
know what it is. I inquire for syrup, thinking he may recognize my want
by that name. He brings a jar of thin Chinese catsup, that tastes something
like Limburger cheese smells. I immediately beg of him to take it where
its presumably benign influence will fail to reach me. He produces some
excellent cold tea, however, by the aid of which I manage to "bolt" a
portion of the "plan-cae." One doesn't look for a very elegant spread
for fifty cents in the Sage-brush State; but this "Melican plan-cae" is
the worst fifty-cent meal I ever heard of.

To-night I stay in Winnemucca, the county seat of Humboldt County, and
quite a lively little town of 1,200 inhabitants. "What'll yer have."
is the first word on entering the hotel, and "Won't yer take a bottle
of whiskey along." is the last word on leaving it next morning. There
are Piutes and Piutes camped at Winnemucca, and in the morning I meet a
young brave on horseback a short distance out of town and let him try
his hand with the bicycle. I wheel him along a few yards and let him
dismount; and then I show him how to mount and invite him to try it
himself. He gallantly makes the attempt, but springs forward with too
much energy, and over he topples, with the bicycle cavorting around on
top of him. This satisfies his aboriginal curiosity, and he smiles and
shakes his head when I offer to swap the bicycle for his mustang. The
road is heavy with sand all along by Winnemucca, and but little riding
is to be done. The river runs through green meadows of rich bottom-land
hereabouts; but the meadows soon disappear as I travel eastward. Twenty
miles east of Winnemucca the river arid railroad pass through the ca¤on
in a low range of mountains, while my route lies over the summit. It is
a steep trundle up the fountains, but from the summit a broad view of
the surrounding country is obtained. The Humboldt River is not a beautiful
stream, and for the greater part of its length it meanders through
alternate stretches of dreary sage-brush plain and low sand-hills, at
long intervals passing through a ca¤on in some barren mountain chain.
But "distance lends enchantment to the view," and from the summit of
the mountain pass even the Humboldt looks beautiful. The sun shines on
its waters, giving it a sheen, and for many a mile its glistening surface
can be seen - winding its serpentine course through the broad, gray-looking
sage and grease-wood plains, while at occasional intervals narrow patches
of green, in striking contrast to the surrounding gray, show where the
hardy mountain grasses venturously endeavor to invade the domains of the
autocratic sagebrush. What is that queer-looking little reptile, half
lizard, half frog, that scuttles about among the rocks. It is different
from anything I have yet seen. Around the back of its neck and along its
sides, and, in a less prominent degree, all over its yellowishgray body,
are small, horn-like protuberances that give the little fellow a very
peculiar appearance. Ah, I know who he is. I have heard of him, and have
seen his picture in books. I am happy to make his acquaintance. He is
"Prickey," the famed horned toad of Nevada. On this mountain spur, between
the Golconda miningcamp and Iron Point, is the only place I have seen
him on the tour. He is a very interesting little creature, more lizard
than frog, perfectly harmless; and his little bead-like eyes are bright
and fascinating as the eyes of a rattlesnake.

Alkali flats abound, and some splendid riding is to be obtained east of
Iron Point. Just before darkness closes down over the surrounding area
of plain and mountain I reach Stone-House section-house.

" Yes, I guess we can get you a bite of something; but it will be cold,"
is the answer vouchsafed in reply to my query about supper. Being more
concerned these days about the quantity of provisions I can command than
the quality, the prospect of a cold supper arouses no ungrateful emotions.
I would rather have a four-pound loaf and a shoulder of mutton for supper
now than a smaller quantity of extra choice viands; and I manage to
satisfy the cravings of my inner man before leaving the table. But what
about a place to sleep. For some inexplicable reason these people refuse
to grant me even the shelter of their roof for the night. They are not
keeping hotel, they say, which is quite true; they have a right to refuse,
even if it is twenty miles to the next place; and they do refuse. "There's
the empty Chinese bunk-house over there. You can crawl in there,
if you arn't afeerd of ghosts," is the parting remark, as the door closes
and leaves me standing, like an outcast, on the dark, barren plain.

A week ago this bunk-house was occupied by a gang of Chinese railroaders,
who got to quarrelling among themselves, and the quarrel wound up in
quite a tragic poisoning affair, that resulted in the death of two, and
nearly killed a third. The Chinese are nothing, if not superstitious,
and since this affair no Chinaman would sleep in the bunk-house or work
on this section; consequently the building remains empty. The "spooks"
of murdered Chinese are everything but agreeable company; nevertheless
they are preferable to inhospitable whites, and I walk over to the house
and stretch my weary frame in - for aught I know - the same bunk in which,
but a few days ago, reposed the ghastly corpses of the poisoned Celestials.
Despite the unsavory memories clinging around the place, and my pillowless
and blanketless couch, I am soon in the land of dreams. It is scarcely
presumable that one would be blessed with rosy-hued visions of pleasure
under such conditions, however, and near midnight I awake in a cold
shiver. The snowy mountains rear their white heads up in the silent
night, grim and ghostly all around, and make the midnight air chilly,
even in midsummer. I lie there, trying in vain to doze off again, for
it grows perceptibly cooler. At two o'clock I can stand it no longer,
and so get up and strike out for Battle Mountain, twenty miles ahead.

The moon has risen; it is two-thirds full, and a more beautiful sight
than the one that now greets my exit from the bunk-house it is scarcely
possible to conceive. Only those who have been in this inter-mountain
country can have any idea of a glorious moonlight night in the clear
atmosphere of this dry, elevated region. It is almost as light as day,
and one can see to ride quite well wherever the road is ridable. The
pale moon seems to fill the whole broad valley with a flood of soft,
silvery light; the peaks of many snowy mountains loom up white and
spectral; the stilly air is broken by the excited yelping of a pack of
coyotes noisily baying the pale-yellow author of all this loveliness,
and the wild, unearthly scream of an unknown bird or animal coming from
some mysterious, undefinable quarter completes an ideal Western picture,
a poem, a dream, that fully compensates for the discomforts of the
preceding hour. The inspiration of this beautiful scene awakes the
slumbering poesy within, and I am inspired to compose a poem-"Moonlight
in the Rockies"-that I expect some day to see the world go into raptures
over!


A few miles from the Chinese shanty I pass a party of Indians camped by
the side of my road. They are squatting around the smouldering embers
of a sage-brush fire, sleeping and dozing. I am riding slowly and carefully
along the road that happens to be ridable just here, and am fairly past
them before being seen. As I gradually vanish in the moonlit air I wonder
what they think it was - that strange-looking object that so silently and
mysteriously glided past. It is safe to warrant they think me anything
but flesh and blood, as they rouse each other and peer at my shadowy
form disappearing in the dim distance.

>From Battle Mountain my route leads across a low alkali bottom, through
which dozens of small streams are flowing to the Humboldt. Many of them
are narrow enough to be jumped, but not with a bicycle on one's shoulder,
for under such conditions there is always a disagreeable uncertainty
that one may disastrously alight before he gets ready. But I am getting
tired of partially undressing to ford streams that are little more than
ditches, every little way, and so I hit upon the novel plan of using the
machine for a vaulting-pole. Beaching it out into the centre of the
stream, I place one hand on the head and the other on the saddle, and
vault over, retaining my hold as I alight on the opposite shore. Pulling
the bicycle out after me, the thing is done. There is no telling to what
uses this two-wheeled "creature" could be put in case of necessity.
Certainly the inventor never expected it to be used for a vaulting-pole
in leaping across streams. Twenty-five miles east of Battle Mountain the
valley of the Humboldt widens into a plain of some size, through which
the river meanders with many a horseshoe curve, and maps out the pot-hooks
and hangers of our childhood days in mazy profusion. Amid these innumerable
curves and counter-curves, clumps of willows and tall blue-joint reeds
grow thickly, and afford shelter to thousands of pelicans, that here
make their homes far from the disturbing presence of man. All unconscious
of impending difficulties, I follow the wagon trail leading through this
valley until I find myself standing on the edge of the river, ruefully
looking around for some avenue by which I can proceed on my way. I am
in the bend of a horseshoe curve, and the only way to get out is to
retrace my footsteps for several miles, which disagreeable performance
I naturally feel somewhat opposed to doing. Casting about me I discover
a couple of old fence-posts that have floated down from the Be-o-wa-we
settlement above and lodged against the bank. I determine to try and
utilize them in getting the machine across the river, which is not over
thirty yards wide at this point. Swimming across with my clothes first,
I tie the bicycle to the fence-posts, which barely keep it from sinking,
and manage to navigate it successfully across. The village of Be-o-wa-we
is full of cowboys, who are preparing for the annual spring round-up.
Whites, Indians, and Mexicans compose the motley crowd. They look a
wild lot, with their bear-skin chaparejos and semi-civilized trappings,
galloping to and fro in and about the village. "I can't spare the time,
or I would," is my slightly un-truthful answer to an invitation to stop
over for the day and have some fun. Briefly told, this latter, with the
cowboy, consists in getting hilariously drunk, and then turning his "pop"
loose at anything that happens to strike his whiskey-bedevilled fancy
as presenting a fitting target. Now a bicycle, above all things, would
intrude itself upon the notice of a cowboy on a " tear" as a peculiar
and conspicuous object, especially if it had a man on it; so after taking
a "smile" with them for good-fellowship, and showing them the modus
operandi of riding the wheel, I consider it wise to push on up the valley.

Three miles from Be-o-wa-we is seen the celebrated "Maiden's Grave," on
a low hill or bluff by the road-side; and "thereby hangs a tale." In
early days, a party of emigrants were camped near by at Gravelly Ford,
waiting for the waters to subside, so that they could cross the liver,
when a young woman of the party sickened and died. A rudely carved head-
board was set up to mark the spot where she was buried. Years afterward,
when the railroad was being built through here, the men discovered this
rude head-board all alone on the bleak hill-top, and were moved by worthy
sentiment to build a rough stone wall around it to keep off the ghoulish
coyotes; and, later on, the superintendent of the division erected a
large white cross, which now stands in plain view of the railroad. On
one side of the cross is written the simple inscription, "Maiden's
Grave;" on the other, her name, "Lucinda Duncan" Leaving the bicycle
by the road-side, I climb the steep bluff and examine the spot with some
curiosity. There are now twelve other graves beside the original
"Maiden's Grave," for the people of Be-o-wa-we and the surrounding country
have selected this romantic spot on which to inter the remains of their
departed friends. This afternoon I follow the river through Humboldt
Ca¤on in preference to taking a long circuitous route over the mountains.
The first noticeable things about this ca¤on are the peculiar water-marks
plainly visible on the walls, high up above where the water could possibly
rise while its present channels of escape exist unobstructed. It is
thought that the country east of the spur of the Red Range, which stretches
clear across the valley at Be-o-wa-we, and through which the Humboldt
seems to have cut its way, was formerly a lake, and that the water
gradually wore a passage-way for itself through the massive barrier,
leaving only the high-water marks on the mountain sides to tell of the
mighty change. In this ca¤on the rocky walls tower like gigantic
battlements, grim and gloomy on either side, and the seething, boiling
waters of the Humboldt - that for once awakens from its characteristic
lethargy, and madly plunges and splutters over a bed of jagged rocks
which seem to have been tossed into its channel by some Herculean hand -
fill this mighty "rift" in the mountains with a never-ending roar. It has
been threatening rain for the last two hours, and now the first peal of
thunder I have heard on the whole journey awakens the echoing voices of
the ca¤on and rolls and rumbles along the great jagged fissure like an
angry monster muttering his mighty wrath. Peal after peal follow each
other in quick succession, the vigorous, newborn echoes of one peal
seeming angrily to chase the receding voices of its predecessor from
cliff to cliff, and from recess to projection, along its rocky, erratic
course up the ca¤on. Vivid flashes of forked lightning shoot athwart the
heavy black cloud that seems to rest on either wall, roofing the ca¤on
with a ceiling of awful grandeur. Sheets of electric flame light up the
dark, shadowy recesses of the towering rocks as they play along the
ridges and hover on the mountain-tops; while large drops of rain begin
to patter down, gradually increasing with the growing fury of their
battling allies above, until a heavy, drenching downpour of rain and
hail compels me to take shelter under an overhanging rock. At 4 P.M. I
reach Palisade, a railroad village situated in the most romantic spot
imaginable, under the shadows of the towering palisades that hover above
with a sheltering care, as if their special mission were to protect it
from all harm. Evidently these mountains have been rent in twain by an
earthquake, and this great gloomy chasm left open, for one can plainly
see that the two walls represent two halves of what was once a solid
mountain. Curious caves are observed in the face of the cliffs, and one,
more conspicuous than the rest, has been christened "Maggie's Bower,"
in honor of a beautiful Scottish maiden who with her parents once lingered
in a neighboring creek-bottom for some time, recruiting their stock. But
all is not romance and beauty even in the glorious palisades of the
Humboldt; for great, glaring, patent-medicine advertisements are painted
on the most conspicuously beautiful spots of the palisades. Business
enterprise is of course to be commended and encouraged; but it is really
annoying that one cannot let his esthetic soul - that is constantly
yearning for the sublime and beautiful - rest in gladsome reflection on
some beautiful object without at the same time being reminded of " corns,"
and " biliousness," and all the multifarious evils that flesh is heir
to.

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