At
eight
in
the
morning
we
reached
the
remnant
and
ruin
of
what
had been
the
important
military
station
of
"Camp Floyd,"
some
forty-five
or
fifty
miles
from
Salt
Lake
City.
At
four
P.M.
we
had
doubled
our
distance
and
were
ninety
or
a
hundred
miles
from
Salt
Lake.
And
now
we
entered
upon
one
of
that
species
of
deserts
whose
concentrated hideousness
shames
the
diffused
and
diluted
horrors
of
Sahara—an "alkali" desert.
For
sixty-
eight
miles
there
was
but
one
break
in
it. I
do
not
remember
that
this
was
really a break;
indeed
it
seems
to
me
that
it
was
nothing
but
a
watering
depot
in
the
midst
of
the
stretch
of
sixty-eight miles.
If
my
memory
serves me,
there
was
no
well
or
spring
at
this
place,
but
the
water
was
hauled
there
by
mule
and
ox
teams
from
the
further
side
of
the
desert.
There
was
a
stage
station
there.
It
was
forty-five
miles
from
the
beginning
of
the
desert,
and
twenty-three
from
the
end
of
it.
We
plowed
and
dragged
and
groped
along,
the
whole
live-long night,
and
at
the
end
of
this
uncomfortable
twelve
hours
we
finished
the
forty-five-
mile
part
of
the
desert
and
got
to
the
stage
station
where
the
imported
water
was.
The
sun
was
just
rising.
It
was
easy
enough
to
cross
a
desert
in
the
night
while
we
were
asleep;
and
it
was
pleasant
to
reflect,
in
the
morning,
that
we
in
actual
person
had
encountered
an
absolute
desert
and
could
always
speak
knowingly
of
deserts
in
presence
of
the
ignorant
thenceforward.
And
it
was
pleasant
also
to
reflect
that
this
was
not
an
obscure,
back
country
desert,
but
a
very
celebrated one,
the
metropolis
itself,
as
you
may
say.
All
this
was
very
well
and
very
comfortable
and
satisfactory—but
now
we
were
to
cross
a
desert
in
daylight.
This
was
fine—novel—romantic—dramatically adventurous—this, indeed,
was
worth
living
for,
worth
traveling
for!
We
would
write
home
all
about
it.
This
enthusiasm,
this
stern
thirst
for
adventure,
wilted
under
the
sultry
August
sun
and
did
not
last
above
one
hour.
One
poor
little
hour—and
then
we
were
ashamed
that
we
had "gushed" so.
The
poetry
was
all
in
the
anticipation—there
is
none
in
the
reality.
Imagine
a vast, waveless
ocean
stricken
dead
and
turned
to
ashes;
imagine
this
solemn
waste
tufted
with
ash-dusted sage-bushes;
imagine
the
lifeless
silence
and
solitude
that
belong
to
such
a place;
imagine
a coach,
creeping
like
a bug
through
the
midst
of
this
shoreless level,
and
sending
up
tumbled
volumes
of
dust
as
if
it
were
a bug
that
went
by
steam;
imagine
this
aching
monotony
of
toiling
and
plowing kept
up
hour
after
hour,
and
the
shore
still
as
far
away
as
ever, apparently;
imagine
team, driver, coach
and
passengers
so
deeply
coated
with
ashes
that
they
are
all
one
colorless color;
imagine
ash-drifts roosting
above
moustaches
and
eyebrows
like
snow
accumulations
on
boughs
and
bushes.
This
is
the
reality
of
it.
The
sun
beats
down
with
dead, blistering, relentless malignity;
the
perspiration
is
welling
from
every
pore
in
man
and
beast,
but
scarcely
a
sign
of
it
finds
its
way
to
the
surface—it
is
absorbed
before
it
gets
there;
there
is
not
the
faintest
breath
of
air stirring;
there
is
not
a merciful
shred
of
cloud
in
all
the
brilliant
firmament;
there
is
not
a
living
creature
visible
in
any
direction
whither
one
searches
the
blank
level
that
stretches
its
monotonous
miles
on
every
hand;
there
is
not
a sound—not a sigh—not a whisper—not a buzz,
or
a
whir
of
wings,
or
distant
pipe
of
bird—not
even
a
sob
from
the
lost souls
that
doubtless
people
that
dead
air.
And
so
the
occasional sneezing
of
the
resting
mules,
and
the
champing
of
the
bits,
grate
harshly
on
the
grim stillness,
not
dissipating
the
spell
but
accenting
it
and
making
one
feel
more
lonesome
and
forsaken
than
before.
The
mules,
under
violent
swearing, coaxing
and
whip-cracking,
would
make
at
stated
intervals
a "spurt,"
and
drag
the
coach a
hundred
or
may
be
two
hundred
yards, stirring
up
a billowy
cloud
of
dust
that
rolled
back,
enveloping
the
vehicle
to
the
wheel-tops
or
higher,
and
making
it
seem
afloat
in
a fog.
Then
a
rest
followed,
with
the
usual
sneezing
and
bit- champing.
Then
another
"spurt"
of
a
hundred
yards
and
another
rest
at
the
end
of
it.
All
day
long
we
kept
this
up,
without
water
for
the
mules
and
without
ever
changing
the
team.
At
least
we
kept
it
up
ten
hours, which, I
take
it,
is
a day,
and
a pretty
honest
one,
in
an
alkali
desert.
It
was
from
four
in
the
morning
till
two
in
the
afternoon.
And
it
was
so
hot!
and
so
close!
and
our
water
canteens
went
dry
in
the
middle
of
the
day
and
we
got
so
thirsty!
It
was
so
stupid
and
tiresome
and
dull!
and
the
tedious
hours
did
lag
and
drag
and
limp
along
with
such
a
cruel
deliberation!
It
was
so
trying
to
give
one's
watch
a
good
long
undisturbed
spell
and
then
take
it
out
and
find
that
it
had been fooling
away
the
time
and
not
trying
to
get
ahead any!
The
alkali
dust
cut
through
our
lips,
it
persecuted
our
eyes,
it
ate
through
the
delicate
membranes
and
made
our
noses
bleed
and
kept
them
bleeding—and
truly
and
seriously
the
romance
all
faded
far
away
and
disappeared,
and
left
the
desert
trip
nothing
but
a
harsh
reality—a thirsty, sweltering, longing, hateful reality!
Two
miles
and
a
quarter
an
hour
for
ten
hours—that
was
what
we
accomplished.
It
was
hard
to
bring
the
comprehension
away
down
to
such
a snail-pace
as
that,
when
we
had been used
to
making
eight
and
ten
miles
an
hour.
When
we
reached
the
station
on
the
farther
verge
of
the
desert,
we
were
glad,
for
the
first
time,
that
the
dictionary
was
along,
because
we
never
could
have
found
language
to
tell
how
glad
we
were,
in
any
sort
of
dictionary
but
an
unabridged
one
with
pictures
in
it.
But
there
could
not
have
been found
in
a
whole
library
of
dictionaries
language
sufficient
to
tell
how
tired
those
mules
were
after
their
twenty-three
mile
pull.
To
try
to
give
the
reader
an
idea
of
how
thirsty
they
were,
would
be
to
"gild refined
gold
or
paint
the
lily." Somehow,
now
that
it
is
there,
the
quotation
does
not
seem
to
fit—but
no
matter,
let
it
stay, anyhow. I
think
it
is
a graceful
and
attractive
thing,
and
therefore
have
tried time
and
time
again
to
work
it
in
where
it
would
fit,
but
could
not
succeed.
These
efforts
have
kept my
mind
distracted
and
ill
at
ease,
and
made
my
narrative
seem
broken
and
disjointed,
in
places.
Under
these
circumstances
it
seems
to
me
best
to
leave
it
in,
as
above,
since
this
will
afford
at
least
a
temporary
respite
from
the
wear
and
tear
of
trying
to
"lead up"
to
this
really
apt
and
beautiful quotation.