Orr Fisher’s 1922 ‘Scenic Wonders By Auto’
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[Editor’s note: In recognition of Mount Ayr’s sesquicentennial observance in September, the Record-News will run an occasional feature story recounting the early days of the city and county. Items are told in the vernacular of the day in which they were written, but some have been edited with discretion.
This week presents the words of Mount Ayr’s own Orr Fisher writing about an extraordinary car trip to the Rocky Mountains.]
“Through America’s Scenic Wonders By Auto”
by Orr Fisher, September 22, 1922
On a beautiful afternoon in August, I stood on a high hill in Wyoming, with a face turned westward, gazing out upon a most beautiful scene. At that moment I removed my hat in humble reverence and thanked Almighty God for the privilege that was then mine to enjoy. At my feet lay the rugged foothills of the Rockies, carpeted in purple, yellow, and violet flowers. The great forest pines stood gracefully on my right hand and my left. In front and below me were the quaking aspens hovering their trembling leaves artistically about their glistening white trunks. Farther down the hill were other pines, seemingly of different hue as they vanished away in the distance. For miles and miles, they led my searching eyes till they reached the faded blue background where majestically stood Grand Teton like a great monument with its purplish peak silhouetting against a beautiful sky of delicate cerulean, blue. To the right and looking through the branches of the pines I could see Mt. Moran with its deep cut crevices filled with eternal snows. At its base spread the smooth waters of Jackson Lake. Wonderful! Wonderful! The place where I stood seemed like Holy ground. The picture I saw held me in chains of silence. I became speechless. The longer I looked the more insignificant I seemed. In the panorama before me was nothing made by man. In beholding the scene, I forgot self and saw only the works of the master designer of the universe, God. Putting in the words of Psalmist, I would exclaim, “What is man that thou art mindful of Him?” When I consider the heavens, the fathomless blue sky; when I consider the works of thy fingers, the tender flowers in all their delicate variable hues, the sturdy trees and the towering rocky cliffs standing as silent sentinels over they natural wonders; when I consider these things that thou hast made and crowned with everlasting glory I would say again, “What is man that thou art mindful of Him?”
The minutes passed away. I sat down upon the grassy slope fatigued by the climb from the valley below. From this point I could see our camp by the lake shore far below as just a speck in the landscape~lost in the beauty of this picturesque scene. My mind wandered back to the days gone by. I was brought vividly to view the day when I stood by the Golden Gate at San Francisco gazing out upon the solemn Pacific. I could see myself walking upon the floor of Yosemite viewing the great falls. In the shadow of Half-Dome peak, I had lingered to drink in the scenes of its beauty. I had watched the southern tide of the great Atlantic as it splashed its flake white spray against rocky shores of the gulf. I had stood at the mouth of Old Faithful geyser of Yellowstone fame and smelled the sulphur fumes as they came from the interior of the earth. I remembered the giant redwoods of California, the lakes of the north, the swamps of the south. I remembered when I stood on the rim of the Grand Canyon of Arizona looking through space one mile below me and followed the muddy Colorado as it tumbled its way to the sea. I remembered these scenes among many other among America’s natural wonders. They were beautiful, grand, wonderful. And I said to myself the picture I saw before me~the flowers, trees, grass, water, mountain peaks, and snow all fitted snugly and harmoniously in a panel of cerulean blue is most beautiful of them all.
The above description may give one faint idea of just one picture among a thousand that will meet the eye while traveling the Hoback Canyon route to Yellowstone. This road is the easiest accessible and the most scenic of any of the four entrances to the park, in the writer’s estimation.
Before picturing to you some of the beauties and joys that meet the tourist while traveling through America’s Scenic Wonders, let us get the settings of our story something in order in which they occurred.
We left Mount Ayr, Iowa, in a Maxwell 25, on June 21, 1922. Incidentally it was the longest day of the year. There were just three in our party. Quite often on the road one meets the fourth one in a touring party. Usually it’s an unfortunate acquaintance too, for it is either a shaggy, savage looking Airedale or a terrorizing English bull..sometimes conspicuously perched upon the fender, sometimes occupying twelve inches of space on the upholstered cushions. In our first camp out the occupants in the tented home of our nearest neighbors consisted of one man, one woman, and two English bulls. All four were touring from California to Maine. But our little blue Maxwell only hauled three. All human beings. The driver answers the dog in every particular.
Not much use to mention blowouts on a touring trip of several thousand miles. It would take too much time. However, in passing, I will say, we had one on the first day out…not one the last day in and about seven or more in between.
The first day old “Max” jumped from Mount Ayr to Des Moines. I say “jumped” because the gas we purchased at the Standard Oil Station was unusually good. It had a “kick” in it. Before we left the incorporated limits of Mount Ayr, old “Max” was a rarin’ so high that he broke one of the city’s telephone wires which struck him just above the windshield. Take it from me, he was a rarin to go. If you don’t believe it ask Shorty Long.
The second day “Max” ran from Des Moines to Omaha.
The third day he flew from Omaha to Hastings, NE. About halfway between these two points we were flying so low that “Max” bumped into a Missouri mule that had somehow gotten across the river into Nebraska, probably sometime during the war or about the time when the democrats were “running” things.
There is no need of hasting through our story so we will lay over one day at Hastings and rest up.
Leaving this pretty Nebraska city, we journeyed west on the O.L.D. Highway to Holdridge. From Holdridge we traveled north to Elm Creek, where we again entered the Lincoln highway. We remained on this road till we reached the Hoback Canyon route.
Nothing very unusual happened at our next stop, except a family who were traveling from Wyoming to Missouri in a Ford, furnished us with road entertainment for about two hours. They arose about 5 o’clock in the morning. Must have eaten breakfast soon after. Started cranking the “lizzy” about six. Stopped to rest about six-thirty. It commenced to rain about 6:31. They continued cranking about 6:35 and got the car started about seven a.m.
Our next stop was at a cozy little camp about 190 miles east of Cheyenne. Here we met Dr. King and family, from Blocton on their way to Yellowstone.
Next day’s run was of no unusual interest except “Max” lost part of his carburetor and a peculiar knocking developed internally which necessitated the writer preforming the operation of going into “Max’s” anatomy and removing his connecting rods and pistons only to discover that all the auto needed was a good heavy dose of refined petroleum. “Max” soon recovered from the operation, and we were soon on our way to the capital city of Wyoming. We had been going at such great speed that by the time we reached Cheyenne not a single jackrabbit had kept up with us, and roughly estimating 40,000,000 flies had been left behind. It was restful to linger in this thriving metropolis of old frontier days, complete with historic lore. It is here each year in the last week of July is held the famous frontier day celebration. Here one can see the best riders and ropers in the world. Cheyenne claims one of the best hotels in the west. It has a beautiful campground comfortably equipped with good water, shower \ bath, shade and an unlimited supply of fresh air. Here the tourist will find a good resting place on the lake when quiet is the best tonic for the traveler.
After a good night’s rest, we again hit the trail westward. Our next day’s run took us over the continental divide for the first time, which was the highest point on the Lincoln highway, 8,835 feet on top of the Laramie hills. Going down 1,687 feet, we entered the university city of Laramie. Much might be written of this, Wyoming’s center of learning, but we must pass on. Our next camp after leaving Cheyenne was Rawlins. But before reaching this town, where green grass would be good material for a curio shop or a museum, we saw many things of interest. Owing to the precipitous inclines and the ever-lightening trail, we were obliged to buy gasoline, which, in perfect harmony with the high altitude, had gone up a few degrees. Incidentally “Max’s” radiator sprang a leak and augmented the demand for H2O. For the next few hours supply and demand were in a most exciting combat. ON this stretch of the trail, we passed two Fords standing motionless on a very steep incline. Boulders placed by human hands behind the rear wheels prevented our witnessing a jumbled mass of debris at the bottom of the hill. They were stuck. The whole company, including the president and general manager were out on the ground, apparently in a mood of deep meditation. Probably they were contemplating how they were to push “Henry: over the top. Getting their assurance that any assistance we might render would be unavailable, we motored on. Our progress had only been a short distance when a new scene came upon the screen, so to speak. Our story had lost some of its local color and taken on a bit of historic lore. The writer seemed to be, as it were, in a dream. The Wyoming landscape, as we had been viewing it, had disappeared. Another with no less charm and beauty had taken its place. It was a replica of the beloved land of Palestine. The sky was of that delicate oriental hue. The color and the shape of the hills seemed to speak of the land of Hattin. Mount Hermon could be seen in the distance. On the hillside directly in front of us were sheep, than thousand, perhaps in number. A lone herder stood still in their midst. Could it be he was thinking of the star of the east? Was it possible we were so near Bethlehem of Judea” Possibly this sheepherder, clothed in loose-hanging rags, had communed with angels. As we drew nearer his long locks of tangled hair whipped lazily n “the gentle breeze. Through its thick mass and under the shadow of a faded and weather-beaten hat, we could decipher the face of a man, whose dark piercing eyes were deeply set in a face wrinkled and roughened by the desert winds. A sheepherder tending the flock. Typical of the east but living in the west Wyoming. The land of America’s Scenic Wonders.
