THE AUTHOR TRIES DITCH-JUMPING NEAR ELKO, NEVADA "A shallow, unmarked ditch lay hidden under the June grass at one end of the field and into it we rolled, breaking the undercarriage" (see text, page 59). INDIANS OF MINDEN, NEVADA, VISIT THE AIRMAN AUTHOR AND HIS PASSENGER ON THE AVIATION FIELD AT RENO, NEVADA This is the last scheduled stop for the Air Mail in its flight to San Francisco. At the base of Table Mountain, Bitter Creek leads westward between tinted columns of sandstone pinnacles to Green River. The fertile headwaters of this "Colorado of the West" were once the favorite spring rendezvous for the rival British and American fur companies. A mail plane on an errand of mercy visited those headwaters two winters ago, speeding a doctor to Pinedale, where a dying man lay snow-bound on the slopes of the Wind River Range. Leaving Green River, the Union Pacific swings northward, hugging the valley of Blacks Creek, while we struck boldly west across the most desolate and inhospitable section of any we had thus far seen. For 40 miles the course lay above a country that God had seemingly forgotten. Even the hardy sagebrush could not endure such a cheerless home. Ugly, waterless gulches wandered lost in the cracked and cauterized earth, and the whole bleak, lifeless landscape simmered in the fires of an unconsoling sun. The last outpost of civilization seemed to have receded beyond recall, while we hung like a suspended speck, an ineffectual wa- WATCHFUL HANGAR CREWS READY TO Yet, for the Mail pilot, the curse has been largely lifted from this forsaken land. He knows that his progress is being closely timed by the watchful hangar crews, advised by radio of his departure from the last Air Mail field. Within an hour or more, should he be forced down by weather or motor trouble, anxious teammates will be scouring the countryside to find him and bring him aid. On Granger's Bench, a broad ledge creeping slowly toward us, Lester Bishop once had occasion to test the warmth of this fraternal bond. A sudden snowstorm had swept over the benchland, out of the Uinta Mountains massed to the south. Blinded by the swirling sheets of snow, Bishop had been forced at last to "sit down"; but he kept his engine idling, hoping the visibility would improve. Within AIR MECHANICS, WESTERN STYLE, GATHERED ROUND THE PHOTOGRAPH PLANE AT ELKO, NEVADA Winter temperatures as low as -40° have occurred here, but the Air Mail mechanics have kept the planes in flying condition, working in an unheated hangar. Almost all of the hangars on the transcontinental route are now equipped with heating systems. three hours his isolated bench-top was covered with a three-foot blanket of wet snow (see illustration, page 29). Impossible to take off now. He shut off the engine, drained the fast-cooling water from the radiator, and started on foot for Lyman, 20 miles away, plunging waist-deep with each step in the fresh snow. When too far to retrace his steps, he realized with growing dismay that his failing energy was unequal to the distance yet remaining. Still he struggled on, fighting off the almost overpowering temptation to sink down in the soft covering and rest. TESTING THE FRATERNAL BOND OF THE At the limit of his strength he was roused by the unmistakable tone of a Liberty engine and, looking up, saw a mail plane bearing down upon him. Bob Ellis had located his empty plane and after age-long minutes of anxious searching had sighted the tiny black figure half buried in the deep snow. An hour later Bishop was at the Rock Springs field, carried back in the mail pit of Ellis's plane, which had succeeded in landing on a windswept ridge near by. Beyond the seared cliffs of the benchland the marshy meadows of Fort Bridger and Lyman shine out like an oasis of green. They are fed by eternal springs in the Uintas, whose snowy crowns stretch for 80 miles along the southern horizon, a wondrous silver arrow in the blue quiver of the sky, pointing the Mail pilot's course. Small wonder that the canny Scout Bridger, who knew the West as few men of his day, selected this favored garden spot in which to establish his fort. Among those cottonwoods and willows once rose the smoke of a thousand emigrant camps, WHEN A MAIL PLANE IS DOWN, THE HANGAR CREW'S TURN BEGINS The mechanics in the Mail Service are remarkably efficient and devoted and often perform tasks of great hardships and difficulty under extremely trying conditions, without the encouragement of public acclaim which is usually accorded to the Mail pilot. and friend had eagerly questioned friend, "Are ye for Oregon or Californy?" Past Bridger's Butte, whose oval top appeared as level as a ballroom floor, our course led by an old railroad bed, once the main line of the Union Pacific, but now abandoned for a shorter, tunneled route. The silver pointer along our left closed in and the massive, rounded dome of Porcupine Ridge rose frowning on our right, with beautiful Chalk Creek canyon at its base. THE MOUNTAIN FAIRYLAND OF THE For 60 miles, into Salt Lake across the Wasatch Range, there opened up a mountain fairyland that set my heart on edge, with memories of starry nights within the forest cathedrals of the Sierra slopes, on sweet beds of fir beside a crackling pine-cone fire. To Pilot Boonstra, however, the sight of Porcupine Ridge kindles no such warming memories. Here, on an almost inaccessible ledge, at 9,400 feet, he crashed one stormy De cember morning. For 36 hours he struggled down through the snow, at length creeping on hands and knees to the nearest ranch house, while a mocking magpie kept pace, waiting with easy faith for him to succumb, and a dozen planes searched vainly through the maze of snow-locked canyons. From our high perch we could look down into Echo Creek canyon, 15 miles to the north, a colored cleft in the mountains; then El Canyon Creek, half girdling the forested base of Lewis Peak and winding off between towering hills toward Devil's Slide. A low saddle appeared in the Wasatch Range, marking the head of Emigration Canyon, the last stubborn obstacle in the path of the Mormon migration. As we swept over the ridge, the glorious panorama of the Great Salt Lake Basin burst into full view, while far below lay Salt Lake City, as if set in a silver-chased cup. We eagerly sought the Air Mail field and did not wait to count the stockings on the clotheslines, as Artemus Ward is believed to have done in estimating the size of Brigham Young's household. |