From the rim of the Canyon direct to the Little Colorado the route
is, at present, inaccessible for wagons.
It is a horse trail, and somewhat
of the same nature as all the plateau trails through the Kohonino
(Coconino) Forest. Hence our roundabout wagon trip.
On the Fringe of the Painted Desert. Filling our canteens to the nozzle, we
drove over the western fringe of the Painted Desert. Skirting the mountain,
we made a "dry camp" that night, and used up every drop of water next
morning. Some went for our coffee, and the rest was given to the animals.
Then we started for the far-away Tanner Crossing of the Little Colorado,
across the thirsty desert. As we were without water, it was natural that,
on that particular day, the elements should combine to make it hotter than
usual. A few clouds sprang into existence, but we felt no breath of cooling
air, and as the day grew, the clouds became burning glasses to focus the
sun's heat more powerfully upon us. Late in the afternoon, our eyes were
delighted with the sight of what seemed to be a pool of water, in the road
ahead of us. Parched almost to keen suffering, we drove our weary and
thirsty horses right into it, scaring away, as we did so, several horses
that were standing there, and then, not waiting for cups or ceremony, each
man threw himself flat on his stomach and began to drink the uninviting
compound. A heavy shower had fallen in this one spot, and the pool had not
yet had time to evaporate.
A Dash Across the Little Colorado. The day was sultry and betokened a heavy
rain storm, so, when we reached the Little Colorado, we decided to get over
that night, since, if the storm came, it might render crossing impossible.
Our ambulance was heavily laden, and the crossing dangerous. Before I
ventured, we unloaded about half the weight, and then I undressed, save for
my undershirt, and went to investigate the bed of the crossing for
quicksands. As soon as I had determined where to drive, we started across.
Whipping up the mules, and keeping their necks well into their collars, we
dashed across in safety. Immediately the wagon was unloaded, I turned it
around and crossed alone. The remainder of the load was put in, with our
two men, and, one of them seated by my side with the whip, we "yelled"
ourselves across again. Our wagon was stopped in a sandy drift, our grub
box thrown out, a fire lighted, and with the impending storm in close
proximity, we hurriedly cooked and ate our evening meal. No sooner was my
plate cleared than, taking my roll of blankets, I wearily threw them down
not more than ten feet from the wagon, too utterly "played out" to seek
shelter in the cliff beyond, where a number of cave-like shelves afforded
good level sleeping places, secure from the storm.
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