Part 3
The first night we put up at Fond du Lac, at Irvine Hotel. It was fairly good, but a palace compared with what we found the next night at Stevens Point--the Jacobs Hotel. This was our first uncomfortable experience--a third-rate house, with no private bath, hard beds in little tucked-up rooms, a bowl and pitcher with cold water and two small towels the size of napkins, and the most primitive table you could imagine. The weather had kept cool and clear, but the sandy roads with deep ruts were _awful_! As it had rained in the night, the clerk assured us next morning that four cars were stuck in the road west of the town, and we had better not start. We asked him if there was a good hotel at Marshfield. “Good hotel! Well, you folks just wait till you see it! They actually have Brussels carpet on the floor of the dining-room! Good hotel, eh? Nothin’ better this side of Chicago!” The cars were lined up in the street waiting to start. The clouds looked heavy and threatening, and not a ray of blue sky. Everyone was talking to someone. The formalities are discarded on such occasions. We fell into conversation with a charming man, Mr. H., from Fargo, North Dakota. Later we found that he was the ex-governor, and his name was sufficient to get anything you wanted in the Northwest. He and his family were touring to New York; so we exchanged maps and experiences, and he gave us a list of towns and hotels that proved invaluable, with the kindly remark, “If you will show the hotel clerks this list with my name, I am sure you will be well taken care of.” We certainly were--and more!--from there to Yellowstone Park.
We found the Blodgett Hotel at Marshfield--with a really, truly carpet in the dining-room--a good hotel, clean and comfortable. The next day we had two hundred miles to go to St. Paul, and were promised good roads. Colby, Eau Claire, and Chippewa Falls are all attractive towns. Wisconsin boasts of six thousand lakes. It certainly is a paradise for the huntsman and the angler--“The land with charm for every mile.” The method of numbering the state highways is the best we have found. You simply can’t lose your way. We, unfortunately, had several long detours and did not reach St. Paul until one A. M., a very sleepy trio, in a disreputable-looking car.
VI
CLOTHES, LUGGAGE, AND THE CAR
We decided to take as little luggage as possible. In the end, we found that we had more than ten people would need. Each of us had a large dress-suit case, a small handbag with toilet articles, an extra bag for soiled linen (which proved useful), two golf-bags, with umbrellas and rubbers (which were never used), a case of tennis-rackets and balls, a shawl-strap with a heavy rug, rain-coats and top-coats for cold weather, the lunch-hamper, and a silk bag for hats. The tonneau was comfortably filled, with still room for two, and even three, people. The thermos-bottles were stowed away in the side-pockets, easy of access. All the maps were in the right-hand front pocket by the person sitting with the driver. We had an old rug which was so disreputable that no one would steal it; we had been on the point of throwing it away a dozen times, but after it came from the cleaners we hadn’t the heart to leave it behind. That old relic proved to be the joy of the trip. We sat on it when lunching on the roadside, used it to protect the car from the bags and golf-clubs, and when we had a puncture down it went under the car to avoid collecting all the dust of the road on my husband’s clothes. We still have it, and consider the old veteran deserves a pension for life. My advice--take an _old_ rug!
And our clothes: Of course, a silk or an alpaca dust-coat; linen soon shows soil and looks mussy. This applies to the ladies. I won’t attempt to advise men, for they will wear what best suits them. We wore one-piece gowns of serge, and, when it was hot, voile or even gingham. We each had a silk afternoon frock, which would shake out and look presentable for dinner, a black evening gown for dress-up occasions, a half-dozen crêpe de chine blouses, and a cloth suit. We could have done without the suits. They were used but once or twice. We all took heaps of under-linen, only to find that we could get one-day laundry service in any good hotel, and could buy almost anything in the cities, and even in the small towns. The color of our linen resembled coffee at times, but, aside from that unpleasant feature, we could keep clean and comfortable with no trouble. We each had a sport skirt, a sweater, shoes, a pair of evening pumps, a pair of heavy top-boots, and two pairs of Oxford ties, black and tan, with sensible heels. In driving, I soon found the long-vamp, pointed toe not only a nuisance, but dangerous, and used an old-fashioned, round-toed low shoe. Hats! There every woman is a law unto herself. We each had a good-looking hat in the hat-bag, which, after being tied to the rug-rail, sat on, smashed by the bags, and wet a few times, still kept our hats very presentable. Straw hats will break and be ruined. Those made of ribbon or black satin will withstand the weight of a ton of luggage and come out looking fairly decent. Wash gloves proved practical, also white Shetland veils. Toodles was swathed like an escaped harem beauty; but one good Shetland veil, well tied and pinned in, kept my sailor hat in place comfortably, even when the top was down and I was driving. The hat with a brim is a necessity when the sun shines for weeks at a time. I did not wear motor goggles, but the others did. Through all the Western states we found the female population in khaki breeches and puttees, khaki blouses, and hats like a sun-bonnet or a cowboy’s sombrero, and occasionally a coat to match, which was short and of a most unbecoming length. Often high tan boots were substituted for the puttees. It was a sensible costume, and well adapted to the country and life in the open that Western women lead. They all rode astride, wisely. Often we met parties of four in a Ford just hitting the high spots on the road.
The farther we went into the real West, the West of the movies and the early days pictured by Bret Harte, we realized what part these Western women had played, and were still playing, in their unselfish, brave, industrious, vital lives, in the opening and developing of that vast territory, and in making such a trip as ours comfortable, safe, and even possible. I think, if I ever take the trip again, I shall adopt khaki breeches, and send my petticoats by express to our destination. This reminds me that I have not spoken of our trunks. Nine out of ten people that we have met in San Francisco have asked, “What became of your trunks, or didn’t you have any?” Before leaving New York we sent, collect, by American Railway Express, a large wardrobe trunk, the usual steamer trunk, and a French hat-box to San Francisco, “Hold until claimed.” These were held for seven weeks, and the total expense, delivered to our hotel, was $45.50--not at all bad.
No matter of what material your clothes are made, a long motor trip ruins them. It is a large expense to get them pressed, and a small electric iron answers the purpose. It takes up but little space--every small hotel is equipped with electricity--and you appear _sans_ creases and wrinkles. Don’t do as one friend did, who put it in her traveling case with her bottles. One good bump did the business, and when she took it out “the mess of tooth-powder, cold cream, sunburn lotion, and broken glass was enough to spoil my trip.” Her stock was soon replenished. In every small town across the continent, without _one_ exception, we found the Rexall drugs and articles for sale; even when the town failed to boast of a ten-cent store, Dr. Rexall was on hand. It struck us as very remarkable, and was most convenient many times.
The one article that I regretted not bringing was a good camera. When all our friends said, “Of course, you will take a camera,” my husband replied, that he wouldn’t be bothered with one; “they are a perfect nuisance.” That may be true, and the camera did not go touring; but some incidents that occurred cannot be adequately pictured in words--one in particular, our encounter with bears! Of this I shall speak later.
And now, of the car! I wished my husband, who had all the care of the car, to write his chapter. “Every man knows what to take, and how to care for his car, and there is no use giving any advice.” Perhaps he will--he has!
BY T. G. M. (UNDER PROTEST)
The authoress demands that I, a mere hubby, include a few chirps of advice and what-nots to the intrepid masculine persuasion who drives his own car and contemplates the trip across. You will first undoubtedly think of wearing apparel, and pass those attractive window displays in your home city, with Claude in a lovely green plush hunting suit and Myrtle in a rakish hat, leather coat, and white shoes! Don’t succumb, but take your old “comfy” gray golf or outing suit, with extra trousers, two caps, a medium-weight overcoat, a stout pair of driving-gloves, a half-dozen golf shirts with short sleeves (these are a joy for hot-weather driving and working around the car), a long pongee dust-coat, and one extra suit for emergencies. Your “soup and fish” may better be left at home, unless you plan a stay in some city. One scarcely ever sees evening dress about the hotels in the West, especially among tourists, and never among their distant cousins, the “Fordists.”
For the car, I should carry a wire cable, a tow-line, a spool of annealed wire, six extra spark-plugs, two spare mounted shoes, an extra tube, a valve, and a valve-spring. Be provided with an engine-driven tire-pump, a roll of tape, a tube-repair kit (Lowe’s is a good one), and a twelve-inch Stillson pipe wrench, which you may find a life-saver in an hour of despair. Of course, you will have oil and grease-guns, a pound of grease, and plenty of soft old cloths (which are preferable to waste), and your regular equipment of tools.
Our first puncture was a nightmare. The car was heavily loaded with fourteen pieces of baggage, four spare tires, etc., and it taxed my vocabulary and my moral and physical strength to raise that right rear wheel. Next day I acquired a T. C. (or traveling companion) that never left me--a nice scraggly four-by-six wood block about thirty inches long, chamfered at one end. Of course, the next puncture was also a rear-wheel tire--this time the left one; but here was where T. C. came in. I wedged the chamfered end of T. C. under and ahead of said tire, started the engine, and advanced the car until it rode the block, then put the jack under the rear axle and took the car-weight off the block, pulled out the block, changed the tire, pushed the car off the jack--and presto! there it was, ready for the road, and not even a hair mussed. T. C. is my friend!
By all means acquire honestly (surreptitiously, if you must) a waterproof khaki tarpaulin about eight feet by five. You will find this invaluable to cover the spot where you must kneel or lie to fix things when Old Father Fate hands you a puncture or other kill-joy.
Cord tires are also worth your while; they not only wear much better, and stand up under heat and sand, but you can safely carry a low tire-pressure. Our car weighed close to five thousand pounds, but we carried only fifty-five to sixty pounds pressure. This makes for comfortable riding, reduces your chances of a broken spring, and eases the pain when bucking the deadly chuck-holes that look so harmless but feel much worse than you anticipate--yes, much worse!
We preferred the gas sold by the service stations of reliable oil companies, and, in the main, found it much better and cheaper than the average garage gas--and, between friends, more accurately measured.
The tire-service stations are provided with handy local maps, and between them and the garages you can get the best information relative to the roads in general, and particularly detours, the motorists’ bugbear. Road conditions often change entirely in a few days, and, outside of guiding you along the main traveled routes, the Blue Book ordinarily is not of much assistance. For setting-up exercises, every morning I tested my tire-pressure, turned down all grease-cups, looked over steering mechanism, rear axle, drive-shaft, brakes and spring shackles, and, as a result, we came through with flying colors, without the slightest accident, and our car runs better now than when we started, 4154 miles away.
It may be of interest to speak further of the gas, for, as an item of expense, and your greatest necessity, you _have_ to consider it. We saw no Socony gas after leaving Chicago; the Red Crown gas had taken its place. There were a dozen other makes--Union, Iroquois, Shell, Associated, etc., ranging in price from twenty to forty cents a gallon. Every town and many grocery-stores on the road could supply you. As our tank held twenty-one gallons, not once did we have to carry extra gas. The longest stretch was seventy miles without gas for sale. Of course, you get less mileage in the high altitudes, and the radiator needs to be filled several times a day.
We carried an extra can of water, with our drinking-bottles filled, through the highest mountain country and in the desert; otherwise, the town pump was easily found. We had four spare shoes, but used only one. Two punctures from New York to California is a record to bring joy to any motor heart. Twice we picked up nails, and once some joker stuck a long pin into a tire. Dr. B., of Bronxville, New York, advised us to have a Yale lock put on either side of the hood of the engine, remarking, “Those rubes in country garages are mighty inquisitive, and have no love for city cars. I have had my carburetor monkeyed with many times.” We took his advice and saved ourselves a lot of trouble. In the East we paid $1.50 for a night’s storage in a garage. Through the West we have paid as low as fifty cents. Our total mileage, the amount of gas and oil used, and the cost of each, with the garage expenses, I will give later.
I must add that, except for cleaning the spark-plugs, we had no engine trouble, and the car arrived in perfectly good shape in California.
VII
THE TWIN CITIES AND TEN THOUSAND LAKES
August 6th and 7th we spent in St. Paul, at the first-class St. Paul Hotel--a perfect joy! Our stay here was filled with interest. The capitol building is a noble pile. Summit Avenue boasts of many beautiful homes, but the business life is fast overtaking it. Minneapolis is such a close neighbor that we could not tell where one city began and the other left off. Here cousins took us to the Athletic Club for lunch, in as beautiful a café as we have seen. A bounteous luncheon was served for sixty cents that we would have paid at least two dollars for in New York. This was our last feast on broiled whitefish. As we were all chatting over our trip, a crash as of broken china brought us to a pause. “What in Heaven’s name is that?” we exclaimed. “Oh, just the boys in the ‘training’ café, having a hurry-up lunch,” laughed our host. On the many floors men were spending their noon-hour exercising and keeping themselves fit.
We drove out to the famous summer resort, Lake Minnetonka, picturesque and edged with lovely summer homes. Near by were the Minnehaha Falls, known to all Longfellow lovers, and the Fort Snelling reservation, where the sturdy pioneers defended their lives in the old round tower and block-house. By far the most attractive spot we visited was Christmas Lake, seventeen miles out of town, where the Radisson Inn nestles in the woods, quite hidden from the highway. No private villa could be more lovely. In the large dining-room, which was really a sun-parlor, each table had its own color-scheme, with vines and wild flowers. Plants, ferns, vines, and flowers growing everywhere in the most original baskets and boxes made of twigs, bark, or moss. We all stood exclaiming, like a lot of children, “Isn’t it adorable?”--“Oh, my dear, _do_ look at this Indian rug!”--“Where did they get this willow furniture?”--“Altman never had such exquisite cretonnes!”--“Let’s give up the trip and stop here!”--and so on. We were told that the table was in keeping with the house, and that the place was full all season. This was another high spot on the trip.
Still another pleasure was in store for us--we were to play golf and dine at the Town and City Club. The club is situated between the two cities, near the banks of the Mississippi River. We drove past before we realized that it was not a private estate. Stopping a young man, we asked where the club was. “Got me stuck, Missis; never heard of it.” A small boy of seven came up, and, with a withering glance which took us all in, waved his arm, saying, “Right before your eyes!” We drove through lovely grounds to the club-house. Such gorgeous old trees!--hedges that made you think of Devonshire, lawns like velvet, and a riot of color in the beds and borders--every flowering shrub and plant you could dream of. Of course, the links were fine, and the twilight lasted until nearly nine o’clock. We had ordered dinner in advance; so by a quarter to nine we were seated at our table, with faultless appointments, enjoying such a good dinner, and watching the sky-line of Minneapolis, with its church spires and towering buildings, fade in the afterglow of the sunset. Not one of us spoke as the twilight deepened and the stars came out; we went out on the lawn and saw the new harvest moon through the trees--a bit of Nature’s fairyland, the memory of which will always stay with us.
Here we left the Yellowstone Trail and followed the National Parks Highway north to Fargo, North Dakota, 265 miles; winding in and out over good roads through a myriad of lakes--ten thousand, we were told--in Minnesota. Every mile of the way, as far as the eye could see, were acres of potatoes, corn, and wheat, fertile and green. If you want to visualize Frank Norris’s books and understand how we can feed starving Europe, motor through this state. It was harvest-time. Great tractors were snorting like live creatures, hundreds of men on the big ranches were “bringing in the sheaves,” the country was alive with action, and the world was to reap the benefit of the toil and endless energy of these sturdy men. You have never _seen_ our country until you have traveled through this great grain-belt. Every small town had two or three grain elevators. There were beautiful fields of alfalfa, a mass of bloom with its bluish purple flower as sweet as honey. As we came near these fields, the air was always cool. We couldn’t account for it; but it is a strange fact that the air is considerably cooler when you near an alfalfa field. Can you see the picture? Lakes on every side, as blue as great sapphires, sparkling in the sun, the road lined with the wild sunflowers, often forming a golden hedge on either side for miles, the blue mass of color of the alfalfa fields, and above it the green corn and golden wheat. The magpies were in flocks, and the sea-gulls were skimming over the inland lakes, hundreds of miles from any large body of water, and hundreds more of them were resting on the shores. Strange, was it not? Through the West we have noted the absence of many birds, especially in Montana, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada. But here the crops were so abundant that the little songsters “had first whack at the grain,” as my husband remarked. He was the bird-man of the party, and when he was driving at a top-notch speed or turning a hairpin curve he would calmly ask, “Did you girls see that blue heron?”
Alexandria, and the hotel of the same name, were comfortable beyond our hopes. The next day we passed through Fergus Falls, where the cyclone of June 22d had demolished the better part of the town. It had been a thriving, attractive place in the heart of the grain-belt, with fine buildings and pretty homes. Now, less than two months later, the wreck and débris were appalling. The wind had wrought strange sights. We saw a sewing-machine in the top of a neighbor’s tree, festooned with bedding, petticoats, and a bird-cage. Houses were turned over as if they had been toys; others were crushed to kindling. Here a small tree or a chicken-coop would be intact, and a building five feet away would be demolished. We stopped off for lunch in a small café in the part of the town that had escaped the gale. The people were talking of nothing else. The whole countryside had driven in to see it, to take the sufferers home, or to render assistance. The waitress paid no attention to our order--just talked. “Why, lady, it was the awfullest thing you ever heard tell on! One moment we were all sitting at our work, and then we heard a roar like a mad bull, or thunder, and the sky got so black that you couldn’t see across that counter. Windows smashed in, and this house shook like jelly. Folks were blown down that street like old newspapers. Scared? My Gawd! we just crawled under the counter and prayed! The door was blown in and the front window smashed. A little kid was blown across that street and straight through that broken glass. My maw’s house was shook to pieces. Maw was cookin’, and she and the stove went off together. Paw was feedin’ the cattle; when we found him he was lyin’ in the next lot with a cow a-lyin’ on top of him and a milkpail a-coverin’ of his head. Most everyone got cut by the glass or broke an arm or leg, tryin’ to hold on to somethin’. The piany in the schoolhouse was took up and planted in a street two blocks away not hurt a bit. It sounds just beautiful now. Some folks I know had their two cats and three dogs killed, and the canary was a-singin’ like mad when they found the house in the end of the garden. The wire fences were the worst; they just wound themselves up like yarn.” Many others told us similar weird tales. We left that town, already being rebuilt, a sober party.
“I wonder what would happen to us if we should meet such a cyclone,” said Toodles.
“I think we would ‘blow in’ to lunch with our friends in Boston,” mused the bird-man.
He has given me this list of birds that we saw through the West: Mudhens, bluebirds, bluejays, robins, ospreys, cranes, loons, terns, the Canada goose, song-sparrows, meadowlarks, hawks, wild swans, woodpeckers, orioles, wild doves, and others. Later we saw sagehens and eagles.
VIII
MILLIONS OF GRASSHOPPERS
We had wired to our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. H., of Fargo, to make a reservation for our party, which they did at the Gardner Hotel. We found a big comfortable hotel, with large rooms, good table, and excellent service. We enjoyed our “stop off” of two days here more than in any other city on our trip. Fargo spells hospitality and “pep.” Our greeting was, “What can we do for you?”
“Find the Packard service station, give us some home-cooking, and let us play golf and tennis.”
“There are only two Packard cars in town, but the manager of the garage owns one and can help you out.”
He did--kind, obliging person! Our second request was granted to the full. Never did fried chicken and creamed potatoes covered with gravy taste so good. We went back the next day and finished up the rest of the chicken. After driving about this charming “up-to-tomorrow” Western city, we went out to the Country Club and the links, and met many truly delightful people.