Death Valley; Swamper Ike’s Traditional Lore: E-Book

D. A. Hufford

• Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 39

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Death Valley;  Swamper Ike’s Traditional Lore, is a description of an excursion from Los Angeles to Death Valley in 1901.

Das E-Book Death Valley; Swamper Ike’s Traditional Lore: wird angeboten von Charles River Editors und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
journey; mojave; los angeles; frontier

Leseprobe

DEATH VALLEY; SWAMPER IKE’S TRADITIONAL LORE:

..................

D.A. Hufford

LACONIA PUBLISHERS

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Copyright © 2016 by D.A. Hufford

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Death Valley;

DEATH VALLEY;

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Swamper Ike’s Traditional Lore:

Why, When, How?

BY

D. A. HUFFORD.

As though urged to journey unarmed and alone through the interior of Tiburon Island, on the Mexican coast, and meet the savage Seris, did the old Hermit of Mussel Rock start when Swamper Ike suggested the pilgrimage through Death Valley. The name reechoed more horribly than the dangers to be met in the barren valley which had gained the reputation of being the playa of Father Time.

Swamper Ike laughed, but there seemed to be a hollow mockery in the hilarity that sent a chill through me and for a moment curbed even my youthful craving for adventure.

Ike was a peculiar character—one such as it would be expected would revel in regions the thought of which would repulse most men. Tall, with stooped shoulders, a piercing eye, determined cast of countenance, a sun-cracked face, resembling a piece of leather left in the sun for years, his wiry body encased in shabby clothing, the old desert guide was happy when his recitation of adventure thrilled his listeners.

That hollow laugh that day seemed to allay all the fears of the old hermit and spur him on to travel to the end of the earth rather than concede to the credit of rough though honest Ike, the victory of having frightened him.

It was on the morning of December 11th, 1901, that our caravan passed through the streets of Los Angeles, and a number of street urchins, attracted by a placard rudely painted on the side of our canvas-canopied wagon, “Death Valley or Bust,” followed us.

Our party consisted of George Spooner, Swamper Ike (the desert sailor), the hermit, whom we had sobriqueted “Ennui,” and myself. The wagon was of stout construction, somewhat worn, as it had seen previous duty, but still serviceable, and the horses were of the Norman breed, especially selected for their stoutness and endurance.

It was dark when we arrived at the mouth of the San Fernando tunnel, having traveled twenty-five miles since morning. For years the hollow where we pitched our tent had been known as “Hobos’ Retreat,” which name it gained from the towering live oaks and the crystal brook which furnished a temporary haven for the knights of the road who travel toward the sunny southland.

At sunrise we entered the narrow and sandstone-walled pass into Newhall, and from thence to Saugus. At nightfall, under spreading live oak trees near where a stream in the San Franciscito cañon flowed, we pitched our tent, and lounged in the rays of the silver moonlight and listened in the silence of nature to the reminiscences of Swamper Ike.

The trip through the cañon was especially interesting, inasmuch as the country traveled was rough and in the garb of nature. The narrow road a hundred times crossed the stream, and on the low banks at the fords were still to be seen the hoof-marks of horses driven by other argonauts.

After a twenty mile drive through the cañon, we arrived at the summit at night. Before us lay the fertile Antelope Valley, and the view was telescopic in its range. The road to the valley was mountainous and extremely serpentine, having been cut out of the mammoth rocks of the mountains. From the crest of the highlands Antelope Valley seemed so tranquil and peaceful that the title, “home of the unchained wind,” by which all travelers know the country, seemed a mockery.

Too true did Shakespeare say, “All is not gold that glitters;” but it was until we entered the valley and experienced the fury of the gale that we realized that the peaceful appearing ranches were not located in Paradise. In the distance a train wound its way toward Lancaster, and the lowing herds of cattle seemed to be in harmony with the destructive winds.