Читать книгу Wealth of the World's Waste Places and Oceania - Jewett C. Gilson - Страница 20

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Death Valley, or the Arroyo del Muerte, as the Spanish called it, is in the western part of southern California, near the oblique boundary of Nevada, a little way north of Nevada's vanishing point. Nowadays one may ride almost into the valley in a Pullman coach. From Daggett, a forsaken station of the Santa Fé Railroad, a "jerkwater" road, as it is called, extends northward to Goldfield and Tonopah, and this road takes one almost as the crow flies to the edge of the valley of the ominous name.

Even in a Pullman coach the trip is trying to both body and soul. But forty years ago?—well, that is a different story. Then there was no Santa Fé Railway, and no Daggett—just a wide stretch of desert dotted with yucca and Spanish bayonet. Prospectors and pack-trains had left trails here and there. One of these, now a wagon-road, lay southward to San Bernardino; northward it lost itself in the desert toward Candelaria.

The region possesses some names that are a trifle paradoxical. For instances, there are the Black Mountains, the grayish red color of which belies their name. Then there is Funeral Range, which, far from being sombre in aspect, is most brilliantly colored. To the southward is Paradise Valley, a plain desert strewn with greasewood and chamiso; and down in the floor of Death Valley is, or rather was, Greenland. But Greenland is not a waste of icebound coldness; on the contrary, it is averred by the laborers in the borax fields to be several degrees hotter than any other place on earth. The surplus water of the spring is employed to produce verdure there, and it is apparently equal to the task, for the forty or more acres so irrigated produce wonderful crops; hence it is "Greenland."

Even twenty years ago the trip to Death Valley was a trying one to the experienced desert traveller in summer; to the tenderfoot without a guide it was almost certain death. The best equipment for the trip was a pair of mules, or else cayuse ponies, and a light buckboard with broad tires—tires so wide that they would not sink in the loose, wind-blown rock waste. The equipment might possibly be found in Daggett; more likely it must be purchased in San Bernardino.

At all events, Daggett was the real starting point, and the first "trick" in the journey was the crossing of Mohave River. The river was pretty sure to be deep—not with water but with sand. Whoever saw water in the channel, or "wash," of the Mohave? Perhaps the oldest settler may have seen it; at any rate he will so claim, for the oldest settler is always boastful; indeed, fairy-story telling is his inherent, bounden right. To make good his assertion he points to the bridge, and certainly the bridge is there; but as for the river, it may be on hand one day—perhaps an hour or so—in ten, twenty, or thirty years!

Beyond the river a wide expanse of desert is before us, and then a beautiful lake comes into view. Real water, is it?—no; just the desert mirage, but it seems real enough to quench a genuine thirst. But the illusion is lessened by the surroundings, for we are approaching a dry sink—an old lake-bed that was filled with brackish water once when a cloud-burst that occurred in Calico Mountains had its busy day.

Back of us are Calico Mountains, a picturesque clump of buttes, and the glimpse of them we get from the north explains why they were so named. And such colors! Their brilliant hues change like kaleidoscopic patterns with the sun's motion. On our right a trail diverges to Coyote Holes, made grewsome by one of many tragedies that have occurred in the region. This time it was a hold-up. A desert waif out of luck and ready cash waylaid the paymaster of Calico mines and relieved him of the money intended for the miners. The robber was soon trailed and he quickly discovered that his only safety lay in hiding. But where could he hide in that desolate flat?

At Coyote Holes there is a spring and a small marsh. The robber buried himself in the mud till all but his face was covered and lay there while the posse searched. But the keen vision of an Indian scout did not fail. When the robber saw that he was surrounded, he put up a brave fight and went down, riddled with rifle-balls. The money was recovered.

A little farther on is Garlic Springs. It is a common camping-place and like other camps is plentifully strewn with the evidence of the prospector's outfit—hundreds and hundreds of empty tin cans. In time we camp at Cave Springs in a little cove of the Avawatz Buttes. Once there came along a man who all said was half-witted. Perhaps he was, but his intelligence was keen enough to prompt him to claim the springs. By selling the water for quenching thirst at the rate of "four bits" a head for stock and "two bits" apiece for men, his spring proved the best gold mine in the district.

There is no water ahead until we reach Saratoga Springs, a dozen miles beyond, and it is well that we take a small supply along, as the water there is unfit for either man or beast. There is a difference between Saratoga Springs, New York, and the springs bearing this high-sounding name in the Amargosa sink.

Twenty-mule borax team LINK TO IMAGE

Boiling Springs are a night's ride—perhaps twenty miles—beyond. We give our team three hours of rest and start therefor, stopping in the mean time for a midnight feed, where most unexpectedly we find some excellent grazing for our horses. By daylight we are at the Springs and in a locality much like the Bad Lands of South Dakota. But the "boiling" industry apparently is taking a vacation, for the water is not too warm for one's hands and face—and certainly it is refreshing.

We are in a "sink," or the dry bed of a lake, and the cliffs of clay have been sculptured into existence by the Amargosa River. Sometimes, when a dissipated cloud tumbles its contents into the region, the Amargosa is filled bank full with water; but few prospectors have seen more than a trickling stream flowing in its bed.

We turn our way out of the wagon-trail toward Funeral Range to find the canyon of Furnace Creek, and in time we are clambering up a narrow gulch between the multicolored strata of clay buttes. Not a vestige of life, not even the horned-toad or the trail of the kangaroo-rat is to be seen. Half a dozen graves marked each by a wooden cross or a rock monument are in sight. Who are they? Ask the simoom that sweeps like a cruel furnace blast over this forsaken region. To be lost in this desert means horrible suffering, phantom-seeing, and then death. The bodies of these unfortunates were merely found and buried—lost!—dead!

We cross the mesa which forms part of the Funeral Range. Telescope and Sentinel Peaks beyond Death Valley in the Panamint Mountains loom above the horizon; we descend the canyon of Furnace Creek and are in Death Valley.

We are in a strange and weird depression of the earth's crust about fifty miles long and ten wide, the deepest part of which is more than two hundred and fifty feet below sea level. Once upon a time, it is thought, the Gulf of California reached so far inland that it included this gash. Then the never-ceasing winds bridged it with loose rock waste. Thus, Death Valley was born. In time it became a salt lake, a marsh, and then a dry sink.

It is here that the deadly side-winder travels by night instead of day to avoid the excessive heat, and rivers flow with their bottoms up as if to hide from the burning rays of the sun; where Death by name and by nature gives forth no warning note, and even a mountain range on the east side of the valley signifies the service held to commemorate the last resting-place of the unfortunates who have perished here.

The valley is hemmed in on the east by the precipitous side of the gorgeous-colored Funeral Range, and on the west by the Panamint Mountains, which rise to the height of ten thousand feet. The climate is cool and salubrious in winter, but is a fiery furnace in summer, when the mercury in the thermometer sometimes climbs to one hundred and forty degrees in the shade.

Death Valley gained its name from a terrible tragedy that occurred during the early days of the gold excitement in California. Emigrants bound for California overland were wont to follow the same general route as far as Salt Lake City. From here there were two routes, one westerly along the route over which the Central Pacific Railway was afterward built, the other southerly into southern California.

Late in the season of 1849 one of the emigrant parties reached Salt Lake City. Rather than winter there, however, they determined to push forward at all hazards by the southern route. After travelling through Utah and some distance in Nevada, they left the regular trail and decided to turn southwesterly and cross a fairly level mesa. The region was unknown to them, but they believed that by thus changing the route they would be able to reach their destination more quickly. They also thought that they would find better grazing for their stock. After they had crossed the mesa, the route became more rugged and more precipitous, so, in order to lighten the wagon-loads, one by one many articles of furniture were left behind.

When the company reached the head of Amargosa Valley they began to separate. At length one party found looming up before it the streaked and many-colored Funeral Range of mountains. Nothing daunted, they laboriously toiled up to the crest with their teams. On looking down their hearts sank within them as they beheld a precipitous descent to a long, deep, and narrow valley almost destitute of vegetation. This depression was to be christened Death Valley.

It was now too late to turn back; so, unyoking the oxen, they proceeded to lower the wagons down into the valley by hand, using chains and ropes. By the time they had finished the task darkness had shut down and, gathering sufficient greasewood brush to make a fire, they cooked their evening meal with a scanty supply of water and vainly searched for more. The food was eaten in gloomy silence, for they were lost and knew not where they were nor how to reach the nearest settlement.

It was apparent to all, however, that they must hasten to leave this kiln-dried desert valley as soon as possible. Abandoning their wagons and nearly all of the surviving oxen to their fate, after incredible hardships from lack of both food and water, about one-half of the company of thirty souls that crossed the Funeral Range reached the settlements alive. Succumbing to their sufferings, the others dropped, one by one, by the wayside unknelled and uncoffined. The skeletons of several of these unfortunate emigrants were found years afterward by exploring parties and prospectors.

Among those who escaped was a man named Bennett, who, on reaching the nearest town, reported that he had found a ledge of pure silver. The reputed discovery occurred in this way. As he was wending his course along one of the canyons he came across a spring, and, being both thirsty and tired, after taking a drink sat down to rest. While sitting there he carelessly broke off a piece of a rock jutting out near him, and perceiving that it was very heavy and thinking it might be of some value, placed a small part of it in his pocket.

After he had reached San Bernardino he happened to purchase a gun lacking a front sight. Bennett therefore sought a gunsmith, whom he requested to make a sight out of the metallic rock which he had found that he might have a souvenir which would not be easily lost.

To the astonishment of all who learned the facts, the metal proved to be pure silver. This circumstance gave rise to the celebrated "Gunsight Lead," a phantom that was chased in every direction from Death Valley; but, like the mirage of the desert, the lead was never found.

In summer the valley is said to be the hottest place on the face of the earth, and persons deprived of water even for an hour become insane. Men who have attempted to cross it at mid-day have been known to fall dead, and birds flying across have been killed by the fierce heat.

Cloud-bursts occur occasionally on the adjoining mountains, when torrents pour down the declivities, filling the canyons with streams of water sometimes many feet deep, which sweep everything before them. A cloud-burst may change the whole face of the mountain. Cloud-bursts come usually in the hottest weather and almost with the suddenness of an explosion. A swiftly moving black cloud tipped with fiery streaks and growing rapidly appears above the crest of the mountains. Then it sinks like a monster balloon turned sidewise until it strikes a ridge or peak; the flood is then let loose and destruction follows.

Many stories are told of persons barely escaping with their lives by hastily climbing up the side of the canyons, beyond the reach of the roaring waters, and of others being overwhelmed and drowned. Such a flood, caused by a cloud-burst, may have buried the alleged Gunsight Lead and have changed the conformation of the canyon beyond recognition.

No one without experience in travelling over deserts in the summer season can realize the hardships attending travel in the region of Death Valley nor the sombre sameness of the arid stretches of sand. When the sun has set and the full moon rising makes the silhouettes of the mountains look darker, a vague, indescribable sensation comes over one—an awe-inspiring feeling of insignificance and helplessness amidst scenes of majestic desolation. If religiously inclined, one is prone to utter the words of the wandering Arab of the Sahara, "Nothing exists here but Allah! Allah hu Akbar!—God is greater than all his created witnesses." In summer, the air being almost entirely destitute of moisture, evaporation is exceedingly rapid, and so hot is the sun at this season that metal objects lying out-of-doors burn the hand if touched.

Many years ago valuable borax deposits were discovered in the Death Valley and thousands of tons of borax have been freighted out by huge wagons drawn by mules; indeed, "twenty-mule-team borax" has become almost a household term. Borax is still mined here, but not so extensively as formerly, more accessible borax deposits having been found in Nevada and elsewhere—and the twenty-mule team is now a motor-truck!

Nearly one-third of all of the borax of the world comes from the deserts of California and Nevada. When borax was first discovered in California the wholesale price in New York was about fifty cents a pound; now it is about six cents.

The various applications of borax to industrial and domestic uses have kept pace with its enormous production during the last twenty-five years, until now it is used for more than fifty different purposes. The meat-packers of the United States alone use several million pounds as a preservative. It is also used with excellent results as an antiseptic in dressing wounds and sores.

Furnace Creek enters the valley on the eastern side of Death Valley, but its waters soon sink out of sight. The creek is used to irrigate a tract of alfalfa, a small garden, and a few trees; and the small ranch, a veritable oasis in a desert, is rightly called Greenland. A few men are kept employed here by the borax company. Now and then, however, the whole crowd, tiring of the extreme heat, desert in a body.

This region is now robbed of some of its terrors by the completion of the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad, which touches Death Valley at the old Amargosa Borax Works.