[Idah Meacham Strobridge, In the Days of Hank Monk, from The Land of Purple Shadows (1909)]

 

IN THE DAYS OF HANK MONK.

          AH, the fine, free days—the old-time days of the Sierra Nevada mountains ere ever they knew tie or rail, or the discordant sound of whistle or bell! When the long, brown road had many a twist and turn, and it was a joy to follow it in its windings as the six-horse stage swung around the grades on the sides of the pine-clad mountains! The day was never too long, nor the way too far, when one went with wine in the blood and song in the heart, in those years when we and the world were young. Time has grown gray, and we have grown old, and nothing is ever the same. The world goes round and round, and the years go over and over; but the cycles of progress bring us little compensation for those precious things we lost—and loved—when the open road was before us.

          What did we care for discomforts, or delays, or the things which, today, annoy, and worry, and wear? We were young, and the world was our own; we were ready for any experience—for the rough-and-tumble of life and adventure.

          Back, through the years, my memory goes to a trip I made over the mountains in the 'Sixties.

          We were to cross the Sierras to a mining camp on the farther side, starting from San Francisco.

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          It had been raining incessantly for days, and the city's gutters were running with water to the curbs. Men hurried along bending their umbrellas against the storm; few women were seen on the streets. Rain, and wind, and the dirge of fog whistles on the bay! Not a well-chosen time for a trip into the very home of the Storm King! But—with that fine disregard youth has for consequences—we went up the gangplank on board the old Chrysopolis, and began the first stage of our journey. Out through the gray rain, over the gray waters, she churned her storm-tossed way up the harbor, and into the Sacramento river. We ate dinner on dishes which refused to maintain their equilibrium, as the old steamer rolled and pitched in the face of the wind; and all night long, as we lay in our berths, we hearkened to the lashing of the storm. The wind was a gale; the rainfall had become a deluge. Yet we were undismayed at what was in store for us when we should be set into the heart of the mountains. Verily the faith of youth in youth's own ability to meet obstacles is a good thing.

          Morning found us at Freeport (I wonder if it is still on the map?) but we found no abatement of the storm. Far as we could see, the country seemed a vast gray ocean. And out into the dripping sheets of windblown rain we went, and transferred to the State's earliest railway—a little stretch of track which later became (so I am told) a part of the Placerville branch of the Southern Pacific. But that was in the days before the Southern Pacific had come into existence.

          Through the leaky roofs of those primitive coaches the water dripped; it dripped into the laps of the women, and down the backs of the men. Tiny rivulets found their way under the passengers' feet, as streams of rain found their way inside. Middle-aged pessimists stared at each other in gloomy silence, for now it was

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impossible to see anything out through the rain-washed window-panes. Optimistic youth found interest in studying the effect of the situation on the different temperaments, and in speculating on the depth of the snow in the high Sierras—for snow was a joy and a delight to the native-born Californian who lived down by the bay.

          Conditions did not change until the train (rocking from side to side over the uncertain roadbed, and dragging itself slowly on) came to the terminus of its thirty-mile run to Latrobe—a town somewhere in Eldorado County. The name comes back to me after these many years, but of the place I can recall nothing but the blur of rain. Here it was that—wading through mud and water which was over our shoe-tops —we again transferred; this time to one of the three six-horse stages which, together with a fast-freight wagon, evolved themselves out of the worse than Scotch mist. In these days we complain if a light shower leaves a dozen raindrops on us as we pass from railway car to covered motor-car at a station. The moving years make us hypercritical of our luxuries.

          Once within the stage, where we packed ourselves and our small luggage in close quarters (for every seat was taken) quick fingers—outside--fastened us in, buttoning down closely the leather curtains; leaving us in a dismal half-darkness that was wholly eerie, but a delight to the young mind that wove stories out of the mysterious gloom, peopling it with creatures quite as real as the passengers who sat with hat-brims turned down, and coat-collars turned up, listening to the pelting of the storm. It seemed as though all the heavens had united their rains into one vast cloudburst.

          The stages lurched, and rocked, and rolled their way up toward the mountains. Overhead, rain—rain—rain; and mud, and endless mud beneath us. Condi-

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tions were too depressing to even permit of the exchange of jokes, and telling of best stories, that comes to those who are shut up in close quarters on a long journey. Only a girl—a very young girl—found it diverting.

          Up the rough road, on over the uplands, across mesas and low hills, and finally the horses splashed along the roadway leading into Placerville. In those days it was full of bustle and life that even the drizzle could not dampen; and an interesting crowd stood on the platform of Wells, Fargo & Company's office where the steaming horses stopped, and the drivers unloaded, and took on mail. An interested crowd they were, too, for they peered curiously into the stage where sat a woman brave enough to tempt Providence by crossing the mountains during a midwinter storm. They stared at the woman and the very young girl; and the latter as frankly returned the stare of those in mud-spattered oilskins which shed oceans of rain-watery tears whenever their wearers moved this way or that. For three long weeks, they told us, there had been no cessation of the rain; not one hour of clear skies had there been. Business men—called across the mountains—reaching Placerville, had become fearful of what they might encounter beyond, and had not dared to venture, so had gone back to their homes at "the Bay." No wonder it was that those there found an interest in seeing the mother and daughter bent on essaying what men had turned back from.

          Afternoon found the stages encountering less mud, as the road—now leading up among the pine trees and granite boulders— reached higher altitudes. Then climbing the "slippery ford" which all the old-time teamsters knew only too well. Ford indeed! A slope of granite had here inclined against the mountain, which was well-night impossible to cross. Like a plane

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of polished glass it had been for any man or horse to attempt to find footing on, until the Stage Company had blasted off the smooth surface and, by macadamizing it, had given animals a foothold there. Even so, it was the dreaded spot in the road, and teams and drivers alike drew a sigh of relief when once it was passed. Our horses plunged up the so-called ford in leaps which brought more than one down with skinned knees, to at last reach the top ; then on to higher lands, where the rain turned to sleet, and the sleet to fine snow. A bitter wind was in our faces, and the leather curtains which we had rolled up when the rain ceased, now came down again ; and we sat in semi-darkness for hours till the creaking of the stage stopped, and our driver unbuttoned the curtains, saying cheerily : "Yere's whur we git supper and stay all night! Git out."

          Oh, how good was the hot supper we sat down to about the long table in the "Strawberry Valley Hotel!" How the pine-log blazed! How delightful was the sleep that came to us in the warm, soft beds after the day-long ride punctuated with jolts and bumps ! How hard it was to awaken before dawn, when thumpings on the panel of the door aroused us from deep and pleasing dreams, and to realize that the "Passengers for the sta—age! Breakfast in thirty min—utes!" was meant for us. Why, we had but just nestled into the soft blankets and clean sheets a moment ago—how could it be morning? But morning it was, though not yet daylight; and we ate breakfast under the yellow shine of the swinging coal oil lamps suspended above the long table. Someone came in from the street, shaking the snow from his overcoat, and stamping his feet to warm the chilled blood. Outside, we could see as the door swung in, it was yet dark. But when breakfast was eaten, and our luggage and

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ourselves again made ready for resuming the journey, and we went forth to take our places in the stages drawn up to the door, we found the dawn there, and all about was a great snowy world. Only ourselves and those engaged in getting us off, moved in the white silence.

          Where were the wheels of yesterday's stage? These had been replaced by coach bodies set upon runners; we were to go sleighing over the summit! So into our seats, with the fur robes tucked tightly around us to keep out the cold; then to give the drivers free rein on the road!

          Oh!—

          And now befell the wondrous thing that made that ride the most memorable of all the trips in those, my early days!

          It will not seem so wonderful to you of a younger generation, who know nothing of the glamor that hung about the heroes of that far time; but to those who lived in the old. days, and who knew the old "characters" that belonged to the unspoiled West, it explains itself when I tell you that our own stage was to be driven by Hank Monk!

          Hank Monk, the incomparable! The most daring—the most reckless of drivers; and the luckiest. The oddest, the drollest of all the whimsical characters who made Western staging famous the world over. Hank Monk, the hero of the thousand-time-told-story of the great record-run he made to get Horace Greeley "there on time" when the great editor was to lecture in a little mountain "city."

          In my mind's eye I see him now—his clumsy, awkward movements—his slow and bungling way of gathering up the reins, or reaching for the long-lashed whip. But, oh! the magic of his touch, as the horses answered the drawling "Gid-dap!" of the man whose

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master hand they instinctively gave their allegiance to. His fingers on the reins—a message went down the telegraph-line of leathers, unread by us, which every horse understood as a wire operator understands the Morse code. They leaped forward into the snowy road in answer, while I drew a long breath of delight. I was riding behind six strong and splendid young horses that were driven by Hank Monk!

          It was a dream come true! I am quite sure that had anyone asked me which of the two I would rather see —hear—speak to, Hank Monk or the President (and that meant Abraham Lincoln), it would have been the former I unhesitatingly would have chosen. Without doubt, my youthful judgment was biased, but the fact remains.

          Oh, the joy of that ride! I wish there was to be found anything now, in this year of grace one thousand nine hundred and nine, that could give me the delight I knew that day!

          Fresh horses every twelve miles ; and every horse "driven for all he was worth!" With the sharp air stinging our ears, and the big white flakes whirling into our faces, we awoke to the exhilaration of being carried onward to the heights of pines and firs, while Hank encouraged his galloping team with the most unique and amazing language ever used for such purpose. From the bundle of furs on the box came that unceasing flow of words—forceful, grotesque and amusing—which kept the six horses at a pace that put the miles of lower roads quickly behind us. Before, and above, was the mountain, a seemingly illimitable mass of the softest of deep snow. Snow everywhere ; underfoot, overhead. Tamaracks, and firs, and pines were so heavily burdened that the branches were bent downward till their tips were buried in the snow-covering of the ground. Where the snowfall of a few days before

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had half-thawed, and then again frozen, it had encased the spines and leaves of every tree on the mountain in a glittering crystalline network of indescribable loveliness; and all the while soft, new flakes were falling and weighing down the branches more and more, until —grown into great unwieldy masses—they would of a sudden tumble off, and the boughs—released of their burden—would spring up again, bare and green, to their wonted places.

          Telegraph wires hung heavy; so coated with the frozen particles that—large as a ship's cable—they sagged from the poles; the buried poles themselves seeming to be great daggers driven hilt-deep into the bosom of the virgin snow.

          The bells jangling their riotous music, the sleighs dashed through half a mile of white fog—a huge fog-bank that but made the cloudland scene the lovelier; for while a fog from the sea always seems to hide something that is dark and unlovely, a mountain fog in Winter suggests a whole world of white and radiant objects. Through that enchanted fairyland, walled by the clouds and the snow, over the Summit; past dark Tahoe (frozen and cold), out of the land of the pines, and tamaracks and firs, on, and still on we dashed; and so down the other slope of the mountain that looked into the Carson Valley.

          Twice had the other stages gained upon us—twice had they passed; only to be, in turn, repassed by Hank and his matchless six. The snapping of the long lash cutting through the still air sounded like firecrackers on a Chinese New Year. He was putting his big bays to the utmost test of their speed, and now we were racing in earnest. Down the eastern slope of the Sierras we flew as though flung by some giant force from the crest of the mountain. The galloping horses leaped madly down, urged to renewed efforts by the cut of the lash

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swung far out over the leaders' backs by the driver, as in and out of ravines and cañons, swinging around sharp curves, tearing along the edge of precipices, where the slightest miscalculation would have hurled us hundreds of feet below, and where every turn must be figured to a nicety, we raced, and raced wildly—the snow striking back from the horses' beating hoofs pelted us like snowballs, while the sharp wind cut our faces like a whip-lash.

          Twice had horses been changed since the race began. We had passed the other stages with a wild hurrah, coupled with Hank's jeers of derision; and the big animals jumped their length each time they threw their feet forward, gaining, steadily gaining—at every spring. Still was he urging them on. The pace was terrific for any but the best of roads—which this one was not; here it was the maddest of reckless daring to attempt it. No one thought of that now; for the spirit that had possession of all—the gambler's chance to win (or lose) dominated each one of us. To win! To be first in at the finish! The disregard of life and limb—the taking chances with death—it was all forgotten.

          We were going like the wind when, without warning, we (horses, sleigh, passengers, driver and all), were flung into a tangled heap at the edge of the road, by the breaking of the tongue. But, Heaven be praised! it was at the upper edge. Hank had shot head-first into the soft snow, never losing his grip for one instant on the reins; and before the floundering horses could make the mishap any worse, he had been dragged out by the passengers who had topped the heap and were unaffected by the spill, and—though dazed a bit for a few minutes—in a marvellously short time he had straightened out the tangle, and spliced the broken tongue with short bits of rope, which, however, looked none too strong for safety. We were not yet back in

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our places when the rival stages and the fast freight wagon (racing, too)—exulting in our mishap—went by with whoops that would put an Indian on the war-path to shame, and we felt that the race was lost. We did not greatly care; for the little accident had brought us back to a world of realities, and we noted how far it was down to the bottom of the cañon. Our blood was cooling, and with it our ardor for racing along grades. "Go slower, Hank!" all cautioned him.

          He shook his old head. "Why, I broke that pole on a purpose, so I could fix a jint in the middle; it'll turn sharp corners quicker."    Importunities were of no avail. And, like Gilpin, away we went again; the "jint" working much better than might be expected. Or, it might have been we were too much occupied in keeping our seats to note precisely how it worked.

          Faster than ever, now, went the team down the slopes of the Sierra Nevadas; and Hank shouted, and whipped, and swore his six whirlwinds into a fury of speed. The stage lurched from side to side of the road, and we swung perilously near the outer edge of the grade as the jointed pole snapped us around the sharp turns; but he only redoubled his yells and let the long lash sting the flanks of the flying horses. Faster and faster. It seemed the speed was like that of a comet, as Hank coaxed and cursed his living comets into a pace that was killing. We waited for them to break their necks—and ours. They did not. And no doubt they enjoyed the mad run as well as their master. Hank was too good a horseman to force them to their injury. And as to his language— Why, he cursed his team roundly, but always lovingly cursed them. His oaths were terms of endearment which they and he understood.

          Past our rivals we dashed, as we came down into the valley ; and—in spite of delay and the broken tongue

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(or perhaps because of it), with the great Hank Monk driving them as no other stage-driver ever did or could guide horses—the six big bays were first in at the finish when we drew up in front of the Carson City stage office.

          Stories of Hank Monk's driving are many; and these have grown threadbare with the telling. Yet there is no one who ever rode with him as he sent his horses on a run with that unerring precision which was surely a gift of the gods, but that recalls the old golden days with a longing for their realization again, and all it once stood for. To once more know the old delight that was half-akin to fear, when he sent his team along under the singing of the lash, up and down the roads of the Sierras!

          The old stages are rotting by the roadside; and the old ways, and old days are forever gone. And Hank —Hank Monk (peerless, incomparable) lies at the end of the run, in the graveyard at Carson City.

          Now we make the trip across the mountains in a few hours, where in the 'Sixties, it took as many days. We gain in time saved; but when all is counted and we balance the column, do we find we are really the gainers?