Chapter XIV The Passing Show
Tourists! Flocks of them, trainloads and carloads! They came and looked, and passed on, and were forgotten, nine-tenths of them at least.
Anyone who is interested in the study of human nature should set up shop on the Rim of the Grand Canyon and watch the world go by. I have never been able to determine why Eastern people can’t act natural in the West! For instance: Shy spinster schoolma’ams, the essence of modesty at home, catch the spirit of adventure and appear swaggering along in the snuggest of knickers. They would die of shame should their home-town minister or school president catch them in such apparel. Fat ladies invariably wear breeches—tight khaki breeches—and with them they wear georgette blouses, silk stockings, and high-heeled pumps. I have even seen be-plumed chapeaux top the sport outfit. One thing is a safe bet—the plumper the lady, the snugger the breeches!
Be-diamonded dowagers, hand-painted flappers, timid wives from Kansas, one and all seem to fall for the “My God” habit when they peer down into the Canyon. Ranger Winess did tell me of one original damsel; she said: “Ain’t it cute?”
I was standing on the Rim one day, watching a trail party through field glasses, when a stout, well-dressed man stopped and asked to borrow my glasses. He spoke of the width and depth of the Canyon, and stood seemingly lost in contemplation of the magnificent sight. I had him classified as a preacher, and I mentally rehearsed suitable Biblical quotations. He turned to me and asked, “Do you know what strikes me most forcibly about this place?”
“No, what is it?” I hushed my soul to listen to some sublime sentiment.
“I haven’t seen a fly since I’ve been here!”
I was spluttering to White Mountain about it and wishing I had pushed him over the edge, but the Chief thought it was funny. He said the man must have been a butcher.
It is a strange fact that tourists will not listen to what Rangers tell them to do or not to do. The Government pays men who have spent their lives in such work to guide and guard strangers when they come into the National Parks. Many visitors resent advice, and are quite ready to cry for help when they get into difficulties or danger by ignoring instructions. And usually they don’t appreciate the risks that are taken to rescue them from their own folly.
A young man from New York City, with his companion, walked down the Bright Angel Trail to the Colorado River. Everybody knows, or should know, that the Colorado River is a most treacherous river. One glance at the sullen, silt-filled current tells that story. It seldom gives up its dead. But the New Yorker swam it, with his shoes and underclothing on. By the time he reached the far side he was completely exhausted. More than that he was panic-stricken at the undercurrents and whirlpools that had pulled at him and almost dragged him under. He would not swim back. His companion signaled and yelled encouragement, but nothing doing.
Behind him rose a hundred-foot precipice; his clothes and his friend were on the southern bank. The bridge was four miles above, but unscalable walls made it impossible for him to reach that. Furthermore, night was at hand.
When his friend knew that it was hopeless to wait any longer, he left him perched on a rock and started to Headquarters for help. This was a climb over seven miles of trail that gained a mile in altitude in that distance. Disregarding the facts that they had already done their day’s work, that it was dark, and that his predicament was of his own making, the rangers went to the rescue.
A canvas boat was lashed on a mule, another mule was led along for the victim to ride out on, and with four rangers the caravan was off. It was the plan to follow the trail to the Suspension Bridge, cross to the northern bank, follow down the river four miles to the cliff above the spot where the adventurer was roosting let the boat down over the ledge to the river, and, when the New Yorker got in, pull the boat upstream by means of the ropes until they found a safe place to drag it to shore.
When almost down the trail they met the lad coming up, and he was mad! “Why didn’t they come quicker? Why wasn’t there a ranger down there to keep him from swimming the river?” And so forth. But no thanks to the men that had gone willingly to his rescue. However, they said they were well paid by the sight of him toiling up the trail in the moonlight, au naturel! They loaded him on a mule and brought him to the top. Then he refused to pay Fred Harvey for the mule. I might add he paid!
I often wondered why people pay train fare across the continent and then spend their time poking around in our houses. They would walk in without knocking, pick up and examine baskets, books, or anything that caught their fancy. One woman started to pull a blanket off my couch, saying “What do you want for this?” It was an old story to members of the Park Service, and after being embarrassed a few times we usually remembered to hook the door before taking a bath.
One day Chief Joe and I were chatting in front of the Hopi House. His Indians had just completed one of their entertaining dances. As it happened we were discussing a new book that had just been published and I was interested in his view of the subject, Outline of History. All at once an imposing dowager bore down upon us with all sails set.
“Are you a real Indian?”
“Yes, madam,” Joe bowed.
“Where do you sleep?”
“In the Hopi House.”
“What do you eat?” She eyed him through her lorgnette.
“Most everything, madam,” Joe managed to say.
Luckily she departed before we lost control of ourselves. Joe says that he has been asked every question in the category, and then some. I think some of our stage idols and movie stars would be jealous if they could see the number of mash notes Joe receives. He is flattered and sought after and pursued by society ladies galore. The fact that he is married to one of his own people and has a fat, brown baby does not protect him.
The Fred Harvey guides could throw interesting lights on tourist conduct if they wished, but they seldom relate their experiences. Our card club met in the recreation room of the guide quarters, and sometimes I would get a chance to listen in on the conversation of the guides. Their narrations were picturesque to say the least.
“What held you up today, Ed?”
“Well,” drawled Ed, “a female dude wouldn’t keep her mule movin’ and that slowed up the whole shebang. I got tired tellin’ her to kick him, so I jest throwed a loop round his neck and hitched ’im to my saddle horn. She kept up then.”
“Make her mad?”
“Uh-huh.” A pause while he carefully rolled and lighted a cigarette. “I reckon so. When we topped out an’ I went to help her down, she wuz right smart riled.”
“Say she wuz goin’ to report you to the President of these here United States?”
“Don’t know about that. She gimme a cut across the face with her bridle reins.” Another pause. “’Twas real aggravatin’.”
Personally, I marveled at his calm.
“What made you late in toppin’ out?” Ed asked in his turn.
“Well, we wuz late in startin’ back, anyhow, and then I had to stop fer an hour pickin’ cactus thorns outta an old-maid female.”
“Mule unload her in a patch, or did she sit down on one?” Ed was interested.
“Naw, didn’t do neither one. She tried to eat a prickly pear offa bush of cactus, and got her tongue full uv stickers. Said she always heard tell them cactus apples wuz good eatin’. I propped her mouth open with a glove so she couldn’t bite none, and I picked cactus stickers till I wuz plumb weary.”
“Yeh, women is funny that way,” philosophized the listener. “They do say Eve et an apple when she shouldn’t ought to had.”
Another lad was lamenting because he had a pretty girl next to him in the trail party; as he said: “I was sure tryin’ to make hay before the sun went down. Every time I’d say something low and confidential for her ear alone, a deaf old coot on the tail-end of the line would let out a yarp—
“‘What’d you say, Guide?’ or, ‘I didn’t get that, Guide.’
“I reckon he thought I was exclaimin’ on the magnificence of the picturesque beauty of the scenery, and he wasn’t gittin’ his money’s worth of the remarks.”
One guide said he had trouble getting a man to make the return trip. He was so scared going down he figured he’d stay down there rather than ride back up the trail.
Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, these guides, in flaming neckerchiefs, equally audible shirts, and woolly chaps, lead their string of patient mules up to the corral at the hotel, where the trail parties are loaded for the trip into the Canyon. Each mule has a complete set of individual characteristics, and mules are right set in their ways. If one wants to reach over the edge of a sheer precipice and crop a mouthful of grass, his rider may just as well let him reach. Mules seldom commit suicide, although at times the incentive must be strong.
“Powder River,” “Dishpan,” “Rastus,” and a few other equally hardy mule brethren are allotted to carry helpless fat tourists down the trail. It’s no use for a fragile two-hundred-pound female to deny her weight. Guides have canny judgment when it comes to guessing, and you can’t fool a Harvey mule.
“Saint Peter,” “Crowbar,” and “By Jingo” are assigned to timid old ladies and frightened gentlemen.
If I were issuing trail instructions for Canyon parties I would say something like this, basing my directions on daily observation:
“The trail party starts about nine o’clock, and the departure should be surrounded with joyous shouts of bravado. After you have mounted your mule, or been laboriously hoisted aboard, let your conscience guide you as to your actions up and down the trail. When you top out at the end of the day and it is your turn to be unloaded, weakly drag your feet out of the stirrups, make sure that the guide is planted directly underneath you, turn loose all holds, and fall as heavily as possible directly on top of him.
“After you have been placed on your feet, say about the third time, it might be well to make a feeble effort to stand alone. This accomplished, hobble off to the hotel, taking care to walk as bow-legged as possible. If you have a room with bath, dive into a blistering hot tubful and relax. If you were having a stingy streak when you registered, order a bath at the public bathroom and be thankful you have seventy-five cents with which to pay for it. Later take an inventory of your damages and, if they are not too severe, proceed to the dining-room and fill up on the most soul-satisfying meal Fred Harvey ever placed before the public.
“Afterward, in the lobby, between examinations of ‘I wish you were here’ postcards, it might be well to warn newcomers about the dangers of the trip. Probably few tourists are as expert riders as you.”
We liked to poke fun at the saddle-sore dudes, but all the same the trip is a soul-trying one, and the right to boast to home folks about it is hardly earned.
It is really a revelation to study the reaction of the Canyon on various races. On leaving the train a Japanese or Korean immediately seeks out a ranger or goes to the Park Office and secures every bit of information that is to be had. Age, formation, fauna, and flora are all investigated. Then armed with map, guidebook, and kodak he hikes to the bottom of the trail, and takes everything apart en route to see how it is made. English and German travelers come next in earnest study and observation. I am sorry to say that all foreigners seemed to show more intelligent interest in the Canyon than our own native Americans. Perhaps that is because only the more educated and intellectual foreigners are able to make the trip across the ocean. Lots of Americans never get farther than El Tovar, where they occupy easy chairs, leaving them several times a day to array themselves in still more gorgeous raiment.
Of course, out of the hundreds of thousands that come to Grand Canyon, only a stray one now and then causes any anxiety or trouble. It is human nature to remember those that make trouble while thousands of the finest in the land pass unnoticed. Any mother can tell you that gentle, obedient Mary is not mentioned once, whereas naughty, turbulent Jane pops into the conversation continually. Rangers feel the same way about their charges.
Perhaps a hundred people got on the train leaving the Canyon one snowy zero night. Those people were forgotten instantly, but not so the bellicose dame found wandering around the station asking when her train would go. She had a ticket to New York, and stood on the platform like Andy Gump while the train with her baggage aboard pulled out.
“It was headed the wrong way!” she explained tearfully, and stuck to her story, even when the sorely tried superintendent led her to the tracks and showed her that said track absolutely and finally ended there, without argument or compromise. And she was furious. Her former outburst was a mild prelude to what poured forth now. She would not stay there until morning when the next train left. She demanded a special train; she ordered a handcar with which to overtake the recreant train; she called for a taxi to chase across to Williams with her, a mere eighty miles of ten-foot snowdrifts. Only shortage of breath occasioned by altitude and outraged sensibilities prevented her commandeering an airplane! None of these vehicles being forthcoming, she would stop in Washington if she ever made her escape from this God-forsaken hole, and have every Park employee fired. The Superintendent took her to the hotel, then came to me for help.
“Please lend her a comb and a nightgown,” he begged.
“All right.” I was used to anything by now. “Silk or flannel?”
“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “She acts like red flannel but probably expects crêpe de chine.”
I sent both over, and never saw either again.
My heart went out to a poor little lady, sent by heartless relatives, traveling with only a maid. She was not mentally able to care for herself and certainly should not have been allowed to visit Grand Canyon. However, she and the maid arrived, with other visitors, and the maid seated her charge on a bench near the Rim, then went away about her own business. When she came back, behold, the little lady had vanished. After a long time, the maid reported her absence to the Ranger Office, and a search was organized. Soon after the rangers had set out to look for her, an automobile traveling from Flagstaff reported they had met a thinly dressed woman walking swiftly out into the desert. She had refused to answer when they spoke to her, and they were afraid she was not responsible for her actions.
Ranger Winess, the Chief, and I climbed into the ever-ready Ford and took up the trail. A heavy storm was gathering and the wind cut like a knife. For several miles we saw nothing; then we saw her tracks in the muddy road where the sun had thawed the frozen ground earlier in the day. After a while great flakes of snow came down, and we lost all trace. Backtracking ourselves, we found where she had left the road and had hidden behind a big rock while we had passed. For an hour, through the falling snow, with night closing around us, we circled and searched, keeping in touch with each other by calling back and forth continually. It would have been easy enough for the rangers to have lost me, for I had no idea what direction I was moving in. We were about to give up and go back to Headquarters for men and lights when Ranger Winess stumbled over her as she crouched behind a log. She would have frozen to death in a very short time, and her coyote-picked bones would probably never have been discovered. She insisted she knew what she was about, and we had literally to lift her into the car and take her back to El Tovar.
Whether the Canyon disorganized their judgment or whether they were equally silly at home I cannot tell, but certainly the two New England school teachers who tried horseback-riding for the first time, well—! I was mixing pie crust when the sound of thundering hoofbeats down through the woods took me to the door. Just at my porch some men were digging a deep ditch for plumbing. Two big black horses, a woman hanging around the neck of each, came galloping down on us, and as the foremost one gathered himself to leap the ditch, his fainting rider relaxed and fell right into the arms of a young Mormon workman. He carried her into my house, and I, not being entirely satisfied with the genuineness of the prolonged swoon, dismissed the workman and dashed the ice-cold pie crust water in her face. She “came to” speedily. Her companion arrived about that time and admitted that neither of them had ever been on a horse before, and not wanting to pay for the services of a guide they had claimed to be expert riders. It hadn’t taken the horses long to find out how expert their riders were, and they had taken matters into their own hands, or perhaps it might be better to say they had taken the bits in their teeth and started for their stable.
The girl on the leading horse said she had been looking for quite a while for a suitable place to fall, and when she saw the Mormon she knew that was her chance!
It wasn’t always the humans that got into trouble, either. I remember a beautiful collie dog that was being given an airing along the Rim. He suddenly lost his head, dashed over the low wall, and leaped to his death a thousand feet below. It took an Indian half a day of arduous climbing around fissures and bluffs to reach him and return him to his distracted owners for burial. They could not bear to leave the Canyon until they knew he was not lying injured and suffering on a ledge somewhere.