The Slower Road

When we last checked in with Mr. Johnson, he had just reached Carlin.

“On the morning of the tenth [of September 1882], I left Carlin for Elko, a distance of twenty-three miles. Leaving Carlin I crossed the railroad and traveled on its left for a distance of ten miles, when I recrossed the railroad to my right, down on to a flat plat of mowing land, which brings me to the river that I had to ford. It is now a fine trail. I came to a house, which was a poor shanty and knocked at the door but no one answered. I then went to the barn, which was much better than the house, but could see no one around. I stopped and made a fire, fed the cattle, and got myself a breakfast of boiled eggs and coffee. After breakfast I traveled about a half mile but could not find a trail. I was on the right of the river, close to its bank, but could see no place to ford, on the right was a high bluff rising from the river. I was completely shut in. I returned to the house again but could find no one around, then I retraced my way back to the railroad. On crossing the railroad I saw some men at work a short distance away.

“I looked around for a place to hitch my horse, but could see no tree or shrub, so I took the horse from the carriage and fastened her to the wheel. I then left them and was just getting on the track to go to the men, when I saw a band of Indians coming down the bluff on horseback; there were eighteen of them, and they were about twenty rods away from me. I called out to them to stop; two of them rode up to me and I saluted them, which they returned. I told them that I had come from Carlin and was going to Elko, but had lost my trail; I had been to that shanty but could not find the trail. ‘Here is the trail to Elko,’ said the Indian. I should not have crossed the railroad, but [should] have followed it a short distance further and then crossed. I put the horse into the shafts again and went on, traveling on the left to a dry canyon. …

“… I am now journeying where it is necessary and we are commanded to open and shut gates in crossing the railroads. This command I always comply with. I am traveling on the river running between Carlin and Elko. I have to open and shut gates as the trail runs from pasture to pasture. I am passing through fields of clover, of which I allow my cattle to eat as they go, it is such a change from the dry, barren canyons and roads I have just left. Those that journey on wheels have to make their own trail, which was bad for me as my carriage was light and was very trying to myself and horse. I arrived at Elko just as the freight train came in at half-past five o’clock. I went for the hotel at once and sought out the proprietor, whom I found and telling him my story, said, ‘My cow is a fine animal, gives good milk and a large quantity. I am short of money and obliged to make what little I have go a long way. Will you take milk in exchange for food?’ ‘I will, sir, with pleasure. You are the man for whom I have been looking for some days. I read in a Reno paper and also in a Battle Mountain paper, that a man from California with a horse, carriage, cow, and dog was on his way east, and you are the man, I suppose?’ ‘I am, sir.’ ‘You are a plucky man. You ought to be following a band of music.'”

… continued from yesterday …

“It was not very long before I was at the top of the mountain; there was a fine landscape before me. To my right I could see a long distance, a vast plain, nothing to hinder or obstruct my view. Some smoke in the distance attracted my attention; it was from an engine and was traveling from me, as it gradually went out of sight. I pulled from my box a map of the Central Pacific Railroad, and found that it was the express train from Palisade to Eureka. I drove down the mountain to its base and came to a trail that led to my right. I concluded this trail [would take] me to Palisade, while my left led to Carlin, which I took. I traveled up grade about a mile to the canyon; the first of the mile was good, but the latter hard and rough. I was obliged to stop on coming to a bad washout and said to the horse, ‘Fanny, what do you think of this? We can’t get over this ditch, it is too big!’ I left my team and went on to see in what condition was the remainder of the canyon. Should it prove as bad or worse, I would not attempt its pasage, but return and go to Palisade. I did not find anything worse; on my left I found water that evidently came from the Emigrant Springs, which are situated at the head of the canyon, which was as far as I went. I turned back to where I had left my outfit, and found that they had got other company.

“They had been joined by a band of gypsies, with two large covered wagons, drawn by four horses each. They saluted me as I came up, saying ‘Stranger, you all alone?’ ‘I am not all alone; I have just received company from the west, two teams of gypsies.’ I remember[ed] passing these teams at Reno, some two weeks ago. ‘Well, stranger, how does it look to you?’ ‘To me, it looks rough and tough; when I came to this ditch I stopped and then made an inspection of the road to the springs, and find this the worst part.’ ‘Can we get through, or shall we have to go back and go by the way of Palisade?’ ‘Here is the worst place to get over, especially with your wagons, as they are much larger than mine. We can get across, but it will take some engineering; there are five of us, besides the women and children.’

“My plan was to take out the horses and lead them across the gulch, then slide the wagons into the gulch, running them up the opposite side of the bank as high as we could and lifting in the rear, drag the wagons out of the washout, which we did after considerable engineering, hard labor, and patience. Having done this successfully, the remainder of the canyone was only rough and stony. The gypsies said I had done them a great kindness and that I understood this business and must be a Yankee, and they asked where I was from. I answered that I was a Yankee, from California, and was going to Massachusetts. ‘We have heard often of the Yankees, but never saw one before; we are from California but our home is in Salt Lake City.’ ‘Then you are Mormons, I have often heard what horrid people they are. If you are Mormons, I would risk myself with them at any time.’ ‘You need not be afraid of us, and we shall remember this canyon. We have some good whiskey in our wagon, which I think was made for this time and occasion. Will you have a taste?’ ‘Well, I seldom ever take any, but if you wish me, I will at this time and occasion. Should I ever make a record of this, which I think I shall at some future time, and you happen to see it, you will remember the whole story. It is getting late, we must be going on further.’ So we moved on, I leading the van; with my light team I could travel faster than they with their large, top-heavy wagons, which would rock to and fro like a ship at sea.

“It was about half-past ten o’clock when we got to the washout and it was three o’clock as we left. When we reached the springs just out of the canyon, we camped for dinner. After eating and resting we again moved on and gained the top of the mountain. We were delighted with the view, the surroundings were grand and imposing. We reached Carlin just as the sun was setting from our view.”

I haven’t yet received photos from the CAA group in Windsor (I’m sure they’re too busy having fun to send me any photos!), but I’ll post them here as soon as I do get any. For now we’ll continue with Mr. Johnson’s tale …

“I left Beowawe on the morning of the ninth [of September 1882]. I was awakened by a passing train from the west, and on getting up I found it was a little past three o’clock. I fed my cattle and got ready for an onward move; it was four when I started for Carlin. The first part of the road was on the river side, which soon I had to ford, a good gravelly bottom. After journeying about a mile I came to a fine Eastern-built house. A half mile beyond there were many horses feeding by the road. After passing them, they fell in my rear and continued to follow me; I attempted to drive them back, but they took no notice either of me or my dog, whom I set on them. They kept following close behind the cow, which annoyed her.

“I thought it best to turn back to the house, this being the best way to get rid of them. I returned, they following me, and drove up to the house, but could not see anyone around, so I called out loud and strong. This brought a man to the door. I told the man I was traveling East and in passing nearly two hours ago, those horses fell in [behind me]; I tried to drive them back but could not, so I had returned with them as I did not know how far they would go with me, thinking best to get rid of them. ‘Well, stranger, I am sorry they have given you this trouble. How far are you traveling?’ ‘I belong East, in Massachusetts.’ ‘That is my home also.’ ‘What part of Massachusetts is your home?’ I asked. ‘Fall River was my home. Where are you from with this outfit?’ ‘I am from California, more than three hundred miles north of San Francisco.’ ‘You have come a long distance, and led that cow all that way?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘That beats the devil all hollow.’

“[I asked,] ‘How is the road from here to Carlin?’ ‘Most of the way is good — you will find it rough through the canyon. I came through a few days ago on horseback, there is no trouble traveling that way. You have a wagon, it will be hard for you to get through with it. There are some washouts, but you will be able to get over them. Stop and get some breakfast with us, we are late this morning, but it will be ready soon. I will give your horse some oats.’ ‘I will stop for the grain for my cattle as they need it. I think a great deal of the cattle and have to take great care of them, or I shall not be able to get them through this tramp.’ ‘Go in and get a dish of coffee. By the way, will you take something that will help you along?’ ‘Yes, I will, there is nothing better than a good cup of coffee, and I want nothing more. It is just what I need this morning; anything else would be out of place.’

“I had breakfast with them, it was a good one, and with strangers from my own State of Massachusetts. It was seven o’clock as we bade each other goodbye, he hoping that I would get through my journey all right.”

… to be continued …

When we last checked in with Mr. Johnson, he was preparing to leave Battle Mountain.

“On the morning of the 8th [of September 1882] I left Battle Mountain, about three o’clock, intending to reach Beowawe the same day, traveling a distance of thirty-three miles. On leaving Battle Mountain I followed the railroad to my right for over a mile, then following the river for some ten miles, when I again came to the right of the railroad to Shoshone station. In making Beowawe I pass two stations, Argenta and Shoshone. I traveled twenty-three miles in nine hours, making only one stop, the road being one of the best. On arriving at Shoshone, twelve miles, I introduced myself to the station agent …”

After the two chatted for a bit, “[the station agent said,] ‘Stranger, take your horse and cow and turn them into the grass, give them their dinner and come in and take dinner with me, and when you get home, you can say that you dined with John Briggs, of Shoshone, formerly of New York City.’ I did not wait for a second invitation. Our dinner consisted of bacon and eggs, bread, butter and coffee; you will remember I have always milk with me. After dinner we talked awhile. I inquired the distance to the next station. He replied, ‘It is ten miles to Beowawe. About a mile from here, take the right trail, leading you over the mountain, it is a less distance, and you will not have to ford the river, which is more mud than water.’

“I left him with good wishes and went on. On coming to the trail I hesitated whether to go over the mountain or ford the river, but concluded to cross the mountain. When about halfway up I stopped. I left my horse and went to the top, came back and said to the horse, ‘Fanny, can you get up this hill with your load? It is a hard pull, but let us try.’ We went about four rods further, then halted, and then made one more pull for the top, which we accomplished. This saved some three miles and we ran no chances in fording the river. The descending was much easier; making the descent we cross the railroad, and from this crossing to the station the road is good. The course of the railroad from Wadsworth to this mountain is north by east. Then turning to the right, making three-quarters of a circle, in reaching Beowawe, a distance of ten miles, where I arrived about six o’clock in the evening.”