In Remembrance of You

by Holley Gene Leffler

  After dinner, a saloonkeeper told us there were three different routes we could take, any one of which would end up at a cattle ranch known as White House. He said to follow a road that would take us away from the badly flooded main road. We set out into more desolate, unknown country. Before long, we encountered such high sagebrush between the wheel ruts that we had to turn away from the road repeatedly.

  I looked through my granddaughter’s notes again. She had given us no clues on which way to go. I figured that there must have been a good road when she traveled this area in 1985, or she was too distracted to view into the past to help us with this stretch of the trip.

  At dark we lost our trail entirely. Deciding to go back to Battle Mountain, we searched for our earlier wheel marks under the dim light of the kerosene lamps. This night ride was a corker as we tried to avoid rocks and sagebrush. One of these bushes dragging against our cooler had opened the draincock, causing it to lose all of its water, and the engine was overheating badly.

  Earlier in the afternoon, we had stopped at a spring to refill our canteens. We wondered if we could find it again on the way back. We saw a campfire ahead which was strange because we had not seen a living person since we left Battle Mountain. It proved to be the same spring. It had been unmercifully hot, and on the earlier stop, Whit had accidently left his vest there with his watch in it. A lone Indian, hiding in a wagon there, had found Whit’s vest and watch, and timidly returned them to us. The rest of his tribe had run off in the dark in deadly fear of our horseless carriage, with its headlights and barking engine.

  Whit was glad to have his watch back. Good thing we didn’t put him in charge of the towrope or we would have lost it again.

  We ate our remaining sandwiches and filled the canteens with water. It was after midnight when we rolled back into the main street of Battle Mountain, tired and ready to tumble into bed. We had driven 100 miles today, although 60 miles were lost to backtracking.

  Saturday July 18

  Whit’s diary

  We devoted forenoon to fixing up machine—engine pounding bad—and tightened up connecting rod, etc.

  After dinner at 1 p.m., two cowboys going our way guided us across the plains.

  Grass high between the wheels—some places 6 feet high.

  We stop here all night, and I take wire and pick out the chaff from our water cooler as this combed over the grass like a comb as we ran over it.

  We have a regular ranch supper.

  We made only 25 miles today but hope to be on better roads tomorrow.

  The Humboldt River had overflowed the main road to Battle Mountain, making it a bad job to get here and was lucky we had the cowboys. We took pictures of the boys hauling us out of the creek. I told them I would send them a picture. I gave them a dollar to get a drink when they got a chance as no saloon here.

  We slept in this morning in Battle Mountain and then spent time looking for gasoline. The two general stores had none, but one of the saloon barkeepers had an almost full five-gallon tin can of gasoline sitting among his whiskey barrels. He said it had been there for several years. We sniffed it and, satisfied it was not alcohol, poured it into the Olds’ tank. The engine drank it without complaint. Yesterday, the engine had pounded badly after the loss of water in the cooler had caused it to overheat. We tightened the connecting rod and made other minor repairs.

  After dinner, two cowboys, having heard of our plight yesterday, volunteered to show us an alternate way that would take us to the White House Ranch at Dunphy. We later learned they were employees of the ranch.

  Because of the overflowing Humboldt River, the main road from Elko to Battle Creek was impassable. So the cowboys scouted in advance, picking their way on cow trails among sagebrush. We followed at their pace in the little Olds. Gosh, we felt like we were on a real cattle “drive.”

  When we came to one ford on the Humboldt River, we found it had a sloping bank up to thirty feet high and water about fifteen inches deep. The cowboys fastened their lariats to our front axle. Taking a couple of turns around their saddle horns, they yanked us across as easily as roping a steer! Then we followed their directions, running the machine around slews to keep from getting mired, until we finally hit a little trail leading to the elusive White House Ranch.

  Upon arrival, we were told this was the largest cattle ranch in the United States, made up of 166,000 acres, upon which graze 11,000 head of cattle. There’s a barbed wire fence around 57,000 acres of the land.

  In some places, we had ridden over grasses six feet high, which dragged under the rig. We had grass seedheads all over it. We brushed off two quarts of seeds from the front floor mat. Whit took a wire and picked them out from the fins on our water cooler.

  We were invited to a real ranch supper and asked to stay overnight with the cowboys in their bunkhouse. We might have been delayed for several days had it not been for those two cowboys.

  I found myself relying on my granddaughter’s notes, and was disappointed that she didn’t give us any help with the flooded Humboldt or the way to Carlin. I was pleased that she picked up again with information to help us.

  Note from Granddaughter’s letter:

  Be sure to fill up your canteens before leaving Carlin. There will be no place to get drinkable water until you reach Elko.

  Sunday July 19

  Whit’s diary

  We got away from White House ranch at 7 a.m.

  We ran to Carlin—35 miles.

  Not a soul did we see on the trip. Sage brush and hills. We had quite a range to climb then down again.

  Ate lunch at Carlin then left for Elko—23 miles again.

  Our engine pounded bad and we tried to tighten the connecting rod, but it seemed tight but still pounded. We let it go till we reached Elko at 5:30 p.m.

  Here we ate supper and then took piston out and found the wrist pin broken in three pieces. No wonder it knocked.

  As we did not have any extra pins I telegraphed to San Francisco for one but we will try and make one in the morning if it can be made in this town. If not, will wait till one arrives.

  Today, canteen fell off in rough place and Hammond had a walk back a quarter mile for it. 55 miles—10 hours. Tells the gait in brush.

  We left the White House Ranch early and headed for Carlin, where we had lunch. Beyond there, we traveled through more deep-rutted roadway and had to dig out under the axles several times when we got stuck.

  On the way to Elko, we had to take to the hills to avoid heavy flooding from the Humboldt River, which still left the main road unusable. With more bad sagebrush and gulleyed roads to cross, we got lost once today by taking a wrong trail. It led us into a canyon that had been washed out by a recent cloudburst. We had to ease the Olds down embankments and push her up to the other side to get back to the main trail. The engine was pounding badly, and we stopped and tightened the connecting rod, but still it pounded. We kept on going, risking further damage to the engine, and managed to get to Elko before dark.

  We put the machine in a shed until after supper, then took out the piston and found the wrist pin broken in three pieces. No wonder the engine made so much noise! Damn! Our repair bag of small parts had everything in it but what we needed! Whit telegraphed San Francisco for a wrist pin. Meanwhile, we decided we’d try to make one ourselves if we could find a machine shop in this little town. If not, we’d just have to wait for the new one.

  Thinking back on the day, we saw many jackrabbits. When they sat up on their haunches to look at us, they seemed to be two feet tall, with long ears like donkeys. They could run and leap like greased lightning!

  This desert is an awful country to cross even with an auto, with towns 30 to 50 miles apart and no human beings or drinking water to be found in between. The roads are mere trails through nothing but sand, with mile after mile of sagebrush. Today, one of our canteens fell off. I walked back a quarter of a mile to pick it up.

  I had filled up the canteens as my granddaughter suggested, but we were s
o busy cutting sagebrush that I didn’t keep an eye on the water supply. But we still had the towrope! If we made this trip again, maybe we could figure out how to tie a water bag on the rig. There just is no room to store anything.

  As we shut the engine down on Elko’s main street, cowboys and ranchers flocked out of the saloons and begged us for rides. This being Sunday, many visitors were in town. A big crowd soon surrounded us, asking a variety of questions as usual. “How far will it go on a tank of gasoline? Does it use kerosene? How long have you been on the road?”

  Monday July 20

  Whit’s diary

  Stayed in Elko.

  Ordered wrist pin found broken in three pieces—a new one by mail from San Francisco. We put new fiber on break {sic} and three on low speed. Found one broken bail.

  Had tank soldered, also lamp handle and cap to vaporizer lift-pin. Wrote six or eight letters to magazines and friends.

  There was no machine shop in Elko, but we were able to put a new set of fiber pads on the brake. We replaced one broken ball in a front wheel bearing. We got the water tank soldered and also the handle on a broken lamp. We also replaced the cap to the vaporizer lift pin. Whit spent the rest of the day writing to magazines and friends about our progress. It felt good to take a little break. At least we were not battling the sand and the sagebrush!

  Tuesday July 21

  Whit’s diary

  Still waiting for wrist pin.

  We slept in late this morning for a much needed rest. Since the wrist pin hadn’t arrived in Elko by afternoon, we gave the machine a washing. Then we retired to our railroad hotel room and wrote a few more letters to family.

  I’m grateful that Whit takes care of the newspaper and magazine articles. He has a knack for this. I’m happy just tinkering with the rig.

  Wednesday July 22

  Whit’s diary

  Received wrist pin at 7 a.m. from post office.

  We put it on and got away at 10 a.m.

  Ran to Halleck; had driven 23 miles then, when 10 miles out from there and within two miles of Deeth, the crankshaft broke where the speed gears pin to shaft in the hole cut for pin. We backed up two miles into town as the reverse would work, not driving from clutch beyond the break.

  I wired Olds the facts, and we went to bed.

  The trials and tribulation of the automobilst {sic. (automobilist)} in this deserted country has no ends. We think we can pin it together at the blacksmith shop and will try it tomorrow. I sent for a new shaft to come to Ogden.

  Engine hot twice so had to wait for it to cool off.

  We picked up the wrist pin from the Elko Post Office. We installed it and were on our way by late morning. Not far out of Elko, we had to repair the road with a shovel. A flash flood from a recent cloudburst had completely washed the road out for half a mile.

  After a late lunch in Halleck, Nevada, we had gone only 10 miles when, without warning, the crankshaft broke in two. The engine continued to run but would not drive the forward gear. Whit accidently hit the reverse lever and the rig started to back up. So we just turned around and proceeded toward New York hind end first!

  This happened to us only a short distance from the village of Deeth, which had two houses, a blacksmith shop, and a railroad station. It might as well have been spelled “Death.” Darn, this was our worst breakdown yet! Whit nearly broke his neck twisting around to see where we were going. How embarrassing. The whole population of this little place was out to watch us as the Olds came limping backwards into town.

  It would take most of a week for a new shaft to reach us from Michigan. So before we asked for one, we decided we’d take the rig to the blacksmith shop and attempt a repair. We planned to drill holes in the shaft on either side of the break and try to pin it back together with 20-penny spikes.

  Those pessimists back in Wadsworth were right. We had no business subjecting an auto or ourselves to the tortures of the summer heat, thirst, sand dunes, sandstorms, and sagebrush in this forbidding desert country! Our distance covered today was only 33 miles, including those driven backwards.

  Thursday July 23

  Whit’s diary

  We drilled with bit brace two holes in engine shaft and pinned each side break; then at 2 p.m. ran to Wells. Here I telegraphed Olds our day’s work.

  Telegraphed Tacoma to find out if gasoline was there for sale. Received answer it was.

  The machine drove quite well but expect it to break down again some out of the way place. 219 miles from here to Ogden and hardly any people on the way.

  Roads quite good—Deem to Wells.

  Had hard work to find gasoline in this place. At last a man dug up five gallon can of Red Crown.

  Stopped at Bulls Head Hotel. Still have bad pain in chest or stomach.

  Whit and I took turns with the bit brace. It took us most of the morning to drill and pin the crankshaft back together. The blacksmith had offered to weld the break if we would pull the engine out. Perhaps he could have, but we doubted it with the tools he had available. After slipping things back into place, I gave the little Olds a tryout. The engine ran alright, but would it hold? We were both skeptical.

  After dinner, we drove 20 miles to Wells, which is the entrance into the Humboldt River Valley. There are some thirty natural wells in the area from which Wells gets its name. The old emigrant caravans quenched their thirsts and watered their animals here.

  We saw sage hens in the wild for the first time today, about the same size as guinea hens. For several miles, the road was jumping with swarms of crickets, some as big as walnuts and black as coal. The going was quite good. The machine ran well. We hoped it would not break down again in some out of the way place!

  When we arrived in Wells, Whit wired the Olds Company of our day’s work and asked them to ship a new crankshaft to Ogden, some 220 miles ahead of us. He let them know that we would attempt to make the distance with our temporary repair. Whit also sent a telegram to a general store in Tacoma, Nevada, to find out if gasoline was for sale there. We received a “yes” answer.

  We stayed overnight at the Bullshead Hotel in Wells. The manager showed us a shed made out of old railroad ties, where we could house the Olds.

  Note from Granddaughter’s letter:

  Even if you make it to Tacoma by early afternoon, you might stay overnight and get a fresh start the next morning. Outside of Tacoma, the trails are so poorly marked that it’s easy to get lost.

  We’ve had some mechanical delays, so we need to keep going each day as long as we have daylight. I noticed my granddaughter gave us the option, “You might stay overnight in Tacoma.” We’ll see.

  Friday July 24

  Whit’s diary

  Ran Wells to Tacoma. Arrived at 4 p.m. Dinner at Toano. Day’s run 76 miles. Time 11 hours.

  At Tacoma we left at 4:30 p.m. and, after going a few (eight) miles, concluded we were on wrong road and came back to railroad track four miles out of Tacoma; as the sand was bad, we left machine and walked the railroad track back to Tacoma rather than run the machine as we would have to return in the morning.

  Got into Tacoma again at 8 p.m., ate supper and to bed.

  Truss to rear axles knocked off about 2 o’clock. Took it off and put in box.

  Roads very good except two short steep hills where we had to lug up luggage and force the machine up by hand. One of us at each hind wheel for 75 feet.

  We made 6” at a lift and then tugged.

  These were steepest of anything we have found so far from San Francisco.

  This morning we left Wells and found good roads until we had a tussle with a hill. It was the steepest we encountered yet. After running in low gear for a while, we shut down and blocked the wheels. It took both Whit and me to carry our luggage box to the top of the hill. We groaned under the weight.

  Walking back down to the machine, we each took hold of a rear wheel and forced the rig up the hill a few inches at a time. We took a breathing spell between rounds, blocking the wheels each time
with rocks, until we reached the top.

  In the afternoon we came in sight of Tacoma, which looked from the hill we had just come over to be about 3 or 4 miles distant. It was a town of just a few buildings, but after an hour, as we drove straight toward them, they looked to be 10 miles away and seemed to stay there. The faster we drove, the further off they seemed to get. In the clear desert atmosphere, distances are deceptive. A mountain that appears to be only a short hike could be 25 or even 50 miles away!