In Remembrance of You Read online

  Today the big lumber teams have made the dust a foot deep.

  Machine ran very nice today. Never a once did either one of us get out on the grades to help the machine.

  We made 35 miles this p.m. That is from 11 a.m.—same distance and time the

  Packard made 16 days ago.

  I caught a nice string of trout at dusk tonight in American River in front of station we stopped at called Slippery Ford. Took 12 pictures on today’s run time 6 hours.

  Darn, I couldn’t believe it! The mysterious letter from underneath the seat had warned me, and I actually suggested to Whit that we carry extra gasoline when we left Sacramento. Whit was concerned about the extra weight climbing the Sierras and thought for sure there would be fuel for family cookstoves at the general store in Placerville. Perhaps I should pay more attention to the prankster who wrote me the letter!

  We had to go out of our way (5 miles) to the River Hill Mine to fill up our tank with gasoline kept in storage there.

  It was suggested that we take a team of horses up the road, which was really in bad shape. We were ready to take our chances with the rig. To the surprise of the townspeople, we drove the Olds over some awful hills and had no trouble.

  East of Placerville, lumber teams had pulverized the road. The choking dust and loose dirt was halfway up to our axles and flew in all directions as we drove through it.

  Gosh, at one time we saw a cloud of dust and counted sixteen mules pulling a wagon piled high with big logs. We got off the road. If we hadn’t turned the engine off, we could have frightened the skiddish team off the road and down the mountainside.

  We stopped at a little wayside house for a meal, but the lady there said we were too late. She could only fix us a “bite.” You should have seen that bite! We were served three kinds of cold meats, fried potatoes, bread and butter, eggs, peaches and cream, cake and coffee. I’d like to come back and try one of her square meals.

  Whit and I both like to fish, so we took advantage of a nearby stream. Within half an hour, we both had some nice trout. Bet it would taste mighty good in the morning for breakfast.

  Nevada—Sand Dunes, Snakes, and Sand Tires

  Friday July 10

  Whit’s diary

  We got to Carson City tonight at 8 p.m. Came up today from 4,000 to 8,000 at summit, then down to 6,000 to Lake Tahoe, then up to 8,000 again, then down to 4,000 at Carson City.

  Made some 60 miles today and over some awful mountain grades. Last seven miles dropped 4,000 feet and the road winds back and forth eight times on mountain side overlooking Carson Valley. Thousands of feet from the wheel track on one side.

  Today’s time, pictures and all, 12 hours.

  We took dinner at Myers Station eight miles from Lake Tahoe.

  We stopped at the Park Hotel at Carson. Have needed shave and fine supper.

  We had to push up last grade on summit as the 86 octane gasoline we put in did not give so good results at the highest elevation but ran well when got down to Carson City.

  This morning, my thoughts were of the pioneers struggling through the Sierras. They used the same route we are traveling, only going in an opposite direction. They were headed for California, the land of gold and plenty.

  Through the trees we saw Lake Tahoe shimmering in the distance. At Slippery Ford, the road crossed the stream and went right up the streambed, between high walls of rock. Luckily, the water was low. I got out, got behind the rig, pushed, and blocked the wheels each time we stalled. When that failed, Whit also got out and tried running alongside, steering and handling the clutches. He stuck a stick in the speeder lever to keep the throttle wide open. The wheel ruts were rather deep.

  Within a half hour, we reached better ground, stopped to catch our breath, and got out the map to see how far it was to New York! Ten miles further, we were on the summit, where we had a better view of crystal clear Lake Tahoe, with forests and snowcapped Mount Tallac in the background.

  After 3 miles down a steep, serpentine grade and a half hour through lofty pines, we came to Myers Station. Here we saw U.S. Forest Rangers and picked up our five-gallon can of gasoline which we had shipped ahead by stagecoach from Sacramento. We had our dinner, and then made a side trip to Lake Tahoe. I took a photo of Whit there.

  We took a picture of the California-Nevada state line marker post near a lakeside resort hotel, pleased that now we had left our first state behind us. There was still another climb of 1,800 feet or more ahead of us to the Nevada summit.

  Going upgrade to the summit, the road was sandy and strewn with small boulders that put a heavy strain on the little one-cylinder Olds. The grade was a little too much for our one-lunger, and the high altitude caused it to lose power.

  When my efforts at pushing failed, Whit jumped out and tried to help push and steer at the same time, with the engine running in low gear. Suddenly, both of his feet were run over by the right rear wheel. When the engine stalled, the starting crank flew backwards and caught his britches, ripping them down the front from the waistband to the knee. It made me laugh, and then I remembered the mysterious letter. “Take along some safety pins for emergencies.” I think you could call this an emergency. Good thing I had packed the safety pins. I pinned Whit together, and the damage was temporarily repaired. He definitely did not represent the well-dressed touring car driver! I teased Whit about how dapper he looked. He grumbled, “There’s no one out here to see me but you, and you didn’t walk out of a Sears catalog either.”

  I came up with the idea of tying a sapling pine behind the rear axle. Dragging it behind the rig saved our brake while we descended the steep Genoa Grade.

  Our travel for today was 70 miles, part of it up and the rest of it down.

  When we arrived at our hotel in Carson City, we attracted quite a crowd.

  Saturday July 11

  Whit’s diary

  Arrived at Wadsworth at 6 p.m. We ran from Carson to Reno—35 miles in three hours.

  Left 1:30; got in next 35 miles in 4 hours.

  We shipped five gallons of gasoline to Humboldt.

  Roads quite good to Wadsworth.

  Sent three dozen films to Oldsmobile. Also got pictures and film at Reno sent to us from San Francisco. Remailed 18 films more to Oldsmobile.

  Telegraphed Oldsmobile at Reno and at Wadsworth.

  We followed Truckee River to Wadsworth. Distance 70 today. Time 7 hours.

  This morning, the townspeople had less interest in our strange vehicle as we chugged out of town. We skirted the Sierras over sagebrush-covered, rolling hills and arrived in Reno. Here we met up again with the Southern Pacific Railroad.

  The railroad had become our lifeline for several reasons. The tracks had been laid along the easiest possible route not only for the railroad but for us, too. Bridges were constructed when the rails had to cross streams. Sometimes, these bridges were the only way to get across, and the rig could easily bump over the railroad ties. Another reason to follow the railroad is we could arrange to have fuel waiting for us at the next depot, where we could also find food.

  A curious crowd gathered around the Olds when we stopped for supplies at a general store. Here we bought an axe, a shovel, canteens, and desert pith helmets to use instead of our leather chauffeur’s hats, which were of no use in the hot sun of the desert.

  We stopped at the rail express office to have them forward to Winnemucca the unneeded box of repair parts, the extra tire, and the batteries sent to us from San Francisco. Whit sent a telegram reporting our progress to Olds Motor Works in Detroit. Waiting for us at the express office was a pair of canvas sand tires, which Whit had shipped from Pasadena. These were seven feet long, stitched down the middle by hand to an eight-inch width, then stuffed solidly with cotton waste. Whit and his wife, Sophia, had made them, and he proposed to bind them around our rear rubber tires with rope to make a wide, flat surface, on which to ride over the deepest sand.

  Leaving Reno after dinner at 1:30 in the afternoon, we soon had use for the n
ew shovel to dig the machine out of a sandy, dry river wash, where we got stuck. We took off the luggage box and contents and carried it some two hundred yards ahead to firmer ground. I pushed, and Whit danced alongside on foot, steering the rig. Speeding up the engine, Whit gave a loud yell then jabbed the rig into low gear. I responded with an additional push. A few yards were made, a little at a time. Once, I lost my footing in the ankle-deep sand, fell down, and when the rig stalled, Whit found me under the rear axle with my face buried in the gritty stuff. It was a while before I could even get my tongue to come out and the sand out of my eyes! Whit patted me on the back. “You’ll do anything for attention!”

  The road to Wadsworth followed the railroad and the Truckee River. We saw our first coyote today. Frightened by the noise of our engine, it ran for cover in the sagebrush. Our water tank sprung a small leak, but with the Truckee River close by, we were not worried about it.

  The hotel proprietor in Wadsworth pointed out a shed to house the Olds for the night. Here we found one of Alexander Winton’s tires hanging on the wall. It had been removed from the motor car he was driving in his attempt to cross the continent last year. When he tried to get through the sand dunes a few miles east of here, his machine broke down. He gave up in disgust and shipped his motor car back to his Cleveland factory.

  That evening at our hotel, the pessimists gathered around and unfolded a miserable tale! They told us we might as well call off our trip, for it would end for certain only a few miles east in the sand dunes. They said tenderfeet like ourselves had no business fooling around with the desert summer heat and sandstorms. Whit agreed with me. We were up to the challenge. The rig was a sturdy little vehicle and would get us through.

  Consulting our sketchy maps, we learned that the next town was Lovelock, Nevada. The road, such as it was, shifted far away from the railroad over the entire distance. The naysayers continued their tale. There was nothing but sandhills for the first 20 miles out. About halfway to Lovelock, there was only one water hole, which was a steaming sulphur hot spring. Worse still, we would no longer be following the Truckee River.

  A mule team driver, who had been listening to all the dire predictions, said he was going out in the morning with his team and wagon for the first 15 miles on our route. He offered to follow us and give us a tow if we got stuck. Whit quickly said, “You are engaged without further argument.” We figured we were now 323 miles from San Francisco.

  After the challenge of the sandhills, I was curious about what would happen next, so I decided to take a look at my “Granddaughter’s” notes.

  Note from Granddaughter’s letter:

  On the other side of the Nevada sand dunes, you will be able to see a spout of steam (a hot spring). Don’t be fooled by the wagon trail. Bear southeast, and look for a line of telephone poles that follow the railroad tracks.

  Sunday July 12

  Whit’s diary

  Left Wadsworth 8:30.

  A man going our way took our luggage as the roads are very sandy. Also the worst places out as far as Desert Station.

  We packed up and struck out for Lovelock, 70 miles from Wadsworth. This was abandoned line and no water till Browns Station—40 miles. We took canteen of water, lunch, extra gasoline.

  At last we got back on what we thought was right as the whole country was sage brush and bare hills. When we were making sandy rise, we had our first break—the small sprocket cut-off pins that hold it on and we were stuck in the desert and would have to repair before could do anything. So we left the machine and found we had only 1/2 pint of water in canteen and 8 miles to nearest place—Browns Station on S.P. {sic. (Southern Pacific)}

  It was 35 miles back to civilization and water. So we took a bite to finish our lunch, one drink each of water and started. This was then 8 p.m., nearly dark.

  We struck the railroad after a while and “hit-the-ties” to Browns Station arriving at 10 p.m.

  We took train to Lovelock and telegraphed to San Francisco for complete speed gear by express.

  This morning we joined the mule team driver as he loaded a barrel of fresh water in his wagon. This impressed us that he was a seasoned desert traveler. We transferred our baggage box and an extra five-gallon can of gasoline to his wagon to lighten our load.

  With water in our canteens, some sandwiches, and full tanks of gas and water, we took our leave of Wadsworth. We struck out for Lovelock, riding a mile or so ahead of the mule team. In less than 2 miles, we were stuck in the sand, and we put on our sand tires for the first time. This took nearly a half hour, as we laced them on with lengths cut from our towrope. We struggled along another mile or two, when deeper sand got the best of the sand tires and our pushing and shoveling. We had no choice but to wait for the mules.

  Hitching on behind the mule team wagon with the driver’s towrope, we proceeded in the general direction of New York. Puffs of wind blew stinging grit into our faces as Whit steered and I walked alongside. Hot sand was sifting through the spokes of our wire wheels and was scorching my feet right through the soles of my shoes. This was truly the country that God forgot! Twice when the going improved, we unhooked and drove in advance of the team until we were brought again to a standstill.

  About noon the teamster announced, “Here is where I turn north. You fellows go straight ahead. You’re past the worst of the sand now.” With that, he proceeded to water and feed his animals while we put the baggage box back onto the Olds and stood the five-gallon can of gasoline on the floorboard between us. He drew a rough map of our route in the sand with the butt of his whip, refused to take any fee for his services, and as he and his team slowly disappeared behind a sandhill, we were left to our own devices, feeling like two abandoned babes.

  In an hour we were out of the grayish-white sand dunes area and into the flat, gray-green sagebrush country. Visible for miles ahead was a plume of steam rising. This must be the hot springs talked about in my “granddaughter’s” notes.

  When we were confused about which way to go, I suggested to Whit that we try the trail toward the southeast. “How would you know?” he asked. “Have you been here before?”

  I didn’t want to tell him about the mysterious letter, so we headed away from the spring on one of the wagon roads. But after a mile or two and checking with our hand compass, we decided it was leading us too far north. When we came back to the spring, we tried another trail that eventually headed in a more easterly direction.

  From every high point on the trail, I hoped I might see the line of telephone poles referred to in the notes. If we could spot them, we were certain to find the railroad that would lead us back to civilization. As the afternoon wore on, we began to suspect that this, too, was the wrong trail. Suddenly, as we were climbing a hill, the rig stopped. Oddly, the engine kept on running! Investigation showed that pins holding the drive chain sprocket to the transmission had sheared off. Damn! This was serious. The sun was getting low on the horizon. Knowing that we did not have the necessary parts or tools to make repairs in this isolated spot, we had no choice but to walk on and hope that we would not get lost.

  Taking one of the canteens, which still held a little water, what was left of our sandwiches, and our compass, we abandoned the Olds and started hiking south to find the railroad.

  Just as the sun was setting, we saw those elusive telephone poles like a row of pins in the distance at the Humboldt Sink!

  I decided that the next time, I would follow the suggestions from the letter I found under the seat cushion. I couldn’t understand how I could get mail from the future, but somehow, this granddaughter of mine knew what she was writing about.

  When we finally reached the railroad, we sat down, finished the sandwiches, and drank sparingly from the canteen. At 8:00 p.m. we “hit the ties” eastward. It was a heck of a long way to the next town.

  Soon it was dark. We saw a light ahead, but when we reached it, to our dismay, it was only a sidetrack switch signal. Wearily, we trudged along a few miles further. Instead of
blazing daylight sun, we were fortunately under brilliant stars and moonlight. A lonely night wind from the dried lakebed made the telegraph wires sing.

  About midnight we came to a water tank and section house called Brown’s Station, where we could hear the welcome sound of a telegraph key clicking! The operator told us that no trains stopped there unless telegraph notice was sent back to Wadsworth and that an Overland Southern Pacific train had left there an hour ago and would be approaching soon. If he were to flag that train, he might lose his job. Whit turned to me and said, “All right, Ham, you flag the train, since you have no railroad job to lose. Go on, kid. Get out there and stop that train!”

  The headlight of the train appeared in the distance around 1:36 a.m. Whit and I walked down the track, pulled up some dried sagebrush, set it afire, and waved it across the track. The train slowed down to a walk, but it did not stop as we swung aboard a wooden coach and took a seat. The conductor, right behind us, asked accusingly if we were the two fellows who flagged his train. Admitting our guilt, he asked, “What did you do that for?”