In Remembrance of You

by Holley Gene Leffler

  By late afternoon, we finally ran Tacoma down. Gosh, we were almost out of gas. The grocery store had sold the five-gallon tin they had promised to hold for us, and they had no more. They sent us to the local saloon, where the barkeeper said he “might have some—did once!” He led us to a dugout cellar where, among the barrels of empty whiskey bottles, he produced a five-gallon can that smelled more like whiskey than gasoline.

  We promptly gave the dejected Olds a dose of the barroom fuel mix, which so revived her spirits, that in the late afternoon we decided to continue on.

  We asked the people around town what was the best way out. “It’s simple. Just follow the railroad and keep going,” I had remembered my granddaughter’s suggestion to stay in Tacoma, but the saloon hotel was not inviting. We still had daylight and chose to press on, glad to be out of this one-horse town, even if we had to camp out somewhere along the trail.

  Five miles out, the road divided. We chose the one that looked the most traveled. We kept on for another 5 miles until the trail came to a dead end in a sheep camp! We turned around and came back to the fork, jumped out, and walked the other trail a short distance. There were only faint marks of wagon wheels, which we concluded were left by the railroad builders, yet it seemed we’d best try it.

  If we were on the right trail, we should come to a railroad village called Lucin. We hit a fairly good road for a mile or two and motored along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour, cheered up by such good fortune. After two hours, however, we began to get suspicious as our trail swung more and more to the north. Then we came upon a small, weather-beaten sign that read, “175 miles to Boise, Idaho.” We just stared at each other, speechless! We had been going more north than east. New York now seemed halfway around the world!

  We were confused about what course to travel, and it was now about dark. We decided to go back to Tacoma. Since the sand had been so bad the first 5 miles out of Tacoma, I suggested we leave the machine right there in the sagebrush and walk back. That would be easier than pushing her half the distance in the sand and then back again. We were still skeptical about our crankshaft repair and wanted to spare the engine, so we hoofed it back to town. Again, my granddaughter had given good advice. If only I had followed it!

  It was a long walk in the dark. Whit said it was 10:00 p.m. when we arrived back at the Tacoma saloon, still open for business. The proprietor gave us a bed in a room next to the barroom. We got little sleep that night.

  For breakfast we knew what was coming. It was always the same fare in this desert country: ham and eggs—same for dinner, same for supper—with coffee strong enough to float an iron spoon. Vegetables and fruit were as scarce as hen’s teeth. As to prices, we found the most expensive meals averaged fifty cents, but in one place here on the desert we saw a sign that read: “Meal, 25 cents; Square Meal, 50 cents; Gorge, 75 cents!”

  Utah—Great American Desert

  Saturday July 25

  Whit’s diary

  We got up at 5:30 a.m. had breakfast.

  Got to machine at 8 a.m. then we took the road we had found was the right one on the east side of the track. For 24 miles the road was just awful. Some sand. Then a thousand washes in the alkali clay had cut across the road. These were any where from 1 to 10 feet deep and steep sides. One we had to work quite a while on.

  Arrived at Terrace at 2 p.m.

  Here we ate dinner then got gas at S.P.R.R. shop and left for Kelton.

  We took back road and did not see railroad track till we got to Kelton—40 miles. This road was quite good—five miles washed bad.

  We broke steering spring and lashed it with rope.

  They told us water could be got 12 miles out so when we saw a ranch, we put what little water was in our canteen in the machine and walked across a quarter mile to the ranch house.

  This was 6 p.m.

  The road soon grew nice and we ran in some 25 miles to Kelton and arrived at 8 p.m.

  We got up early. With a canteen and two beer bottles filled with water, we trudged the 5 miles back along the railroad. We found our abandoned little Olds, safe and sound. Other than our own footprints, the ground around it had not been disturbed.

  Folks told us to cross over the railroad and take the trail to the east. It should bring us to Terrace. We began to think we’d never get out of “The Great American Desert,” which stretches all the way from Elko, Nevada, to Kelton, Utah. Only a mile out, we were hemmed in by more deep sand and high sagebrush. We sweated profusely in the blistering hot sun as we dug the Olds out.

  We passed a small sign on a telegraph pole. On our side it read, “Nevada,” and the other side read, “Utah.” I shook my fist at the sign, saying, “We’re out of Nevada. And I hope I don’t set foot inside the cussed state for a long time!”

  From there, Whit and I entered “The Great American Desert of Utah.” We hoped it would treat man and machine more kindly than “The Great American Desert of Nevada.” We followed alongside the railroad track to get to Terrace, Utah. Sometimes we could find a wagon trail. When the Overland Express trains thundered past us, their locomotive engineers would blow their shrill whistles and wave their arms in greeting. The passengers waved too. It made us proud and more determined to complete the trip.

  The road was a nightmare. There were gulleys across the trail, varying from three to ten feet deep. We had to ease the little Olds down into them and help her up the steep banks on the opposite sides.

  By early afternoon, we had covered the 31 miles to the small railroad town of Terrace. We had dinner and began to look for gasoline. To our dismay, not a drop could be found! Employees of the railroad burned coal for their cooking and heating. We learned that there was a supply of gasoline at the engine house, but according to company rules, the man in charge could not sell us any. We suggested that he look the other way while we “acquired” a few gallons. We made him a gift of a silver dollar, with which he might go to the nearest bar and have a drink or two on us. Seeing our plight, he pointed to a bucket and a barrel of gasoline and slipped out the back door on important business!

  By this time, the Olds engine would happily drink almost anything. We pushed on to Kelton, 40 miles to the northeast. We had been told water from wells could be found about 12 miles out at a cattle ranch. The ranch was a quarter mile off our trail and on the other side of a ravine that was impassable except for a footbridge. The engine needed water, so we decided to empty our canteens into the tank and walk over to the ranch to refill them.

  As we neared the buildings and corrals, which were in a bad state of repair, a band of wild cattle caught sight of us. Whit and I sprinted hastily and reached the house, which was abandoned. Unfortunately, we found several small wells that were all dried up.

  We decided to return to the machine, thinking there would be water in the ravine in a mile or two. After all, the cattle had to get water somewhere! The cattle were waiting between us and the Olds. They could take us for some strange animal such as a coyote. A man on horseback was no stranger to them, but on foot, we might run the risk of being trampled. We found a detour through a steep gulley. We reached the Olds without incident but with empty canteens.

  Later that afternoon, we passed many bleached skulls and carcasses of cattle and sheep alongside our trail. They may have died of disease or frozen in a winter blizzard, but more likely, they died from lack of water in the summer heat. We took a back road some distance away from the railroad and did not see a living person during the entire afternoon’s run. A breakdown of our machine might have left us with a long walk and not a drop of water.

  We encountered more washouts for the next 5 miles. The steering spring broke, and I tied it together with rope. Thankfully, the road improved. We hit a twenty mile-per-hour clip over the salt flats. At sundown we saw no signs of civilization and were worried that we might be on the wrong trail. We lit our kerosene lamps and kept plugging along.

  It was not long before lights appeared far ahead. We shouted for joy like two kids at
a baseball game! At last, we’d be able to get a big drink of water. Finally, we arrived in Kelton and pulled up at a small hotel. The landlady assigned us a room on the first floor next to the street, and then she served us some bacon and eggs. We slept badly. It had been a long day.

  Note from Granddaughter’s letter:

  Be sure to stop long enough at Promontory Point to see the place where the East and West are joined by rails. Your trip would have been impossible without the transcontinental railroad to bring you parts for the Olds.

  I was too tired to make sense out of my granddaughter’s note—something about a place to see. I’ll reread it in the morning.

  Sunday July 26

  Whit’s diary

  Left Kelton at 6:45

  Road runs along shore of Salt Lake. Alkali 22 miles to Lake Station then we came to a steep hill. Had to go south one mile to an old road less steep. Here we got up, then uphill for several miles then down some to Promontory on S.P.R.R.

  Here we ate dinner and ran to Corrine, then Brigham City. It was then 6 p.m.

  Then we went on to Ogden, 22 miles more arriving at 8 p.m. Pacific time.

  Mr. Becraft, agent for Oldsmobile, met us and had us put the machine in his place of business—24th and Grant Street.

  A man at Brigham City gave us red apples and apricots. These tasted good to our palates that had been fed on the same diet found in all these towns in California and Nevada.

  Chain broke once today. Gasoline tank leaked. 100 miles—time 12 hours.

  We were able to buy a five-gallon can of gas this morning in Kelton, Utah. Then, we headed out across the hard surface of the white salt flats. For the first 10 miles, we ran faster than at anytime since leaving San Francisco, with little strain on the engine. We swung wide of the wheel tracks on the smooth and hard surface, which was much like a racetrack. Later in the morning, we saw teams of horses pulling scrapers, plowing up layers of salt to be shipped by rail to market.

  We rounded the northernmost shore of the Great Salt Lake and headed east and south toward Ogden. It was a desolate ride all the way to Lake Station, where we came alongside the water’s edge for the first time. The railroad then skirted north of us, while our road to the south of it climbed over some steep hills. We were on the old emigrant trail and found as many as five deep-rutted roads paralleling us. We ran into trouble on the high hills. It took considerable pushing, detouring, and finding better ways to get over them. I felt like I was able to develop ten horsepower on my own as I helped push the little Olds to spare our crankshaft!

  On one of the hills, we got stuck and broke the drive chain after trying for nearly an hour to climb over the top, without success. Fortunately, there were extra chain links in our spare parts repair kit. After making the repair, we backed down to find an old trail that was probably longer, but it was one that we could climb.

  Arriving at Promontory Point at noon, we called at the general store for our five-gallon can of gasoline Whit had ordered by telegram two weeks ago. The storekeeper threw up his hands, “Are you the fellows who ordered the gasoline?” We said we surely were! “Well, it’s gone,” he said. “I had it here, but two fellows in a big auto called for some, and I supposed they were the ones who ordered it. I sold it to them. That was the first auto I ever saw in these parts. I didn’t figure there was another coming!” We guessed it must have been Fetch and his Packard. Evidently, he was still on the go—thanks to our gasoline.

  The storekeeper felt bad, but we calmed him down after measuring our gasoline in the tank with a twelve-inch ruler. We figured we had enough left to take us to Brigham City. Continuing uphill for several miles more, we came to Promontory Point on the Southern Pacific Railroad. We did stop, as my granddaughter suggested. This was the spot where, on May 10th, 1869, just thirty-four years ago, the last spike was driven. California Governor Leland Stanford, representing the Central Pacific Railroad, and Thomas C. Durant of the Union Pacific tied together our country’s first transcontinental railroad here.

  I found a splinter of wood from an old railroad tie. I’ll put it into my watchcase, along with the pebble I found earlier, as another souvenir for my granddaughter.

  We had dinner at Promontory Point. Coming out on top of the next high hill, we could see vegetation in the distance. There were trees, houses, farms, and green pastures, the likes of which we had not seen for the last two weeks in the desert wilderness!

  Out of Brigham City, we noticed that our gas tank had sprung a small leak, but we felt its repair could wait.

  Just before sunset, we wheeled into Ogden and were met by L. H. Becraft in his new CDO. He directed us to the Becraft Olds Motor Works Agency where he took a few photos and took charge of our machine. Becraft, a pioneer cyclist, has a bicycle repair shop, sales store, and auto stable. Can you believe it? He put our rig on display in his showroom overnight. He told us our new crankshaft might be in a box that had just arrived from the factory.

  After cleaning up some, we hastened to a first-class restaurant. They had freshly laundered and ironed tablecloths on each table, along with a small vase of flowers. We ordered spring chicken, the first we had tasted since San Francisco. With it came a salad plate of sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. For a change, we had some cooked vegetables with a good cup of coffee and apple pie for dessert.

  Before retiring, Whit sent a telegram to Mr. Olds, telling him of our arrival here. I figured we were almost 1,000 miles from San Francisco.

  Monday July 27

  Whit’s diary

  We found that only one of our boxes had arrived and the shaft had not come from Mr. Olds. I telegraphed him to know about it and also the Wells Fargo Company at Reno to see if they had shipped the box there.

  They answered no.

  Would send by first express.

  We began to strip the machine. The shaft arrived about 8 p.m.

  We got the engine back in rig by night, but not complete. The flywheel and shaft came in a nice box securely fastened in place and speed gear attached.

  Ogden is a good little city; the mountains are back of it the same as in Pasadena only these are Rockies.

  Had a letter from Oldsmobile saying we were doing well.

  When we arrived in Ogden last night, we were directed to a small, respectable rooming house. We settled for the last double bed in a dormitory room, for which the daily rate was fifty cents. About 10:00 p.m. I was up in the middle of the floor, electric light lit, killing bedbugs. We left after trying to get our money back in vain. Luckily, we were able to get an inside room at a first-rate hotel with sheets on the beds. We had a good night’s sleep. The cost was one dollar.

  We slept soundly until 8:00 this morning. At breakfast, we quickly turned down the usual bacon and fried eggs for a stack of flapjacks with butter and maple syrup.

  What a sight we were in our greasy clothes after two weeks in the desert! We were both so sunburned that our noses peeled, and we had several days’ growth of beard. After our first tub bath in eleven days, we were presentable enough for a shave and a haircut. We then bought khaki trousers, underclothes, shirts, socks, and shoes. Believe it or not, Mr. Becraft asked for our discarded outer clothing and shoes. He displayed them in his store window!

  Then we got down to business. Whit attended to letters, telegrams, photos, and writing story material for the auto magazines—Motor Age, Motor World, and The Automobile. I tackled the Olds repairs with the help of a Becraft mechanic. But when the parts box from the factory was opened, we were surprised to find there was no crankshaft, although it contained many other parts.

  Whit sent a telegram to the Wells-Fargo people in Reno, asking if it had been shipped there by mistake. The answer was, “No.” He then sent another telegram to Mr. Olds, who quickly replied that it was shipped separately and was enroute by fast rail express. The crankshaft should arrive at any moment.

  At the Becraft shop they began to strip the machine and pull out the engine. The missing crankshaft we had ordered several days ago in El
ko finally appeared at the railroad station before sundown. What would we have done without the railroad?

  We reassembled the engine and put it back into the rig. We decided to wait until tomorrow to finish our repairs.

  Ogden is a fine little city. With the Wasatch Mountains in the background, it reminded us of Pasadena and the San Gabriel Mountains. Whit picked up a telegram at the post office from Olds Motor Works. Gosh, we felt important. R.E. Olds was pleased with our progress so far.

  Tuesday July 28

  Whit’s diary

  Got pictures—six taken at or near Ogden. Had three dozen at $1 a dozen.

  We got box express from Reno with our new front spring which we had broken.

  We re-piped all the rubber connections, put in new truss rod connecting rod and wrist pin. Engine started hard but at 8 p.m. had it running.

  We spent the day in Ogden. As the mechanic, I was to prove my worth in salt and continued to work on the machine. The new front steering spring, to replace the one that had broken outside of Kelton, came in a box expressed from Reno. We put on a new drive chain, the new front steering spring, and a new chain boot on the differential, in addition to the crankshaft, flywheel, and speed gears. I also replaced the rear truss rod and the engine’s connecting rod and wrist pin. Since I had the time, I re-piped all the rubber hose connections.