We drove into Marysvale on the morning of June 15, but did not see the town until we were directly over it, so to speak. It lays just under a bluff and we were literally on top of it before we could see it. We had expected to find a much larger place, as it is the terminal of the Rio Grande Western Railroad, but it is a rather dilapidated looking town of only three hundred population, set down in a basin. The location is ideal. Swiss mountains with snow caps to the north and east, a swift little river on the edge of the town, and high tablelands to the south protect it from the winds. It could be made a charming place and may be some day, but it held nothing of interest for us except the postoffice, and so after getting our mail and some provisions we started for Salina, which we understand is about seventy-five miles north of here on the railroad.

The trail took us across the river and over the Sevier Range of mountains into Poverty Flat, which we reached at 2 P. M. The pull over the Sevier Range was short, but steep. It was only thirteen miles, but the first eight seemed to be straight up. If the road had not been very good, it would have been impossible for us to have made it even with three horses, but having reached the top we had a magnificent view, and we enjoyed looking down at the town and river and over the mountains, while the horses were getting their lungs into working order again, before dropping down to Poverty Flat.

At a ranch we obtained permission to put our horses in the corral and give them a good feed of alfalfa, and, as they had done a day’s work, we decided to stay here until the next day. We got a bit of family history and some local traditions from the man at the ranch. His name I have forgotten, but that is immaterial. He did not belong to the Race Suicide Club. He had ten children; two were married. He and his family live in the town of Monroe near here in the winter, and the children go to school. They come out here and farm in the summer. We understood Monroe was called “Monkeytown,” and it seems that both the town and the mesa were nicknamed by an Irishman years ago, who probably was quite a wit, and the names still stick. Two or three different parties had tried to make a living on the mesa and had been starved out, so he called it “Poverty Flat.” He evidently was a man who had ideas of his own, and, believing most of the folks in town to be only imitators, he conceived a great dislike for them, and when he went away from home, which he did quite frequently, if any one asked where he was from he would say, “From Monkeytown.” So, while it is “Monroe” on the map, it is still “Monkeytown” to the surrounding country.

The next morning we drove past Elsenor and on to Monroe, which we found to be quite a good-sized town with telephone and electric light, and it seemed quite up to date for a town away from the railroad. From Monroe we went on ten miles farther to Richfield, a town of two thousand population, on the railroad, where we mailed some letters, leaving at 3:30 P. M. for Salina. We made twenty-five miles this day and passed through three Mormon towns, all seeming prosperous, and the country well irrigated. Just north of Richfield we saw a new irrigation ditch which, when completed, will take care of about a thousand acres. The Sevier Valley here reminded us of Southern California, but the orange trees were lacking. The day was fine, but the snow still lay in patches on the mountains and the air had a chill in it.

We camped at night on the desert side of the valley, and just as we were about to turn in the wind came up, the sky was overcast, and it began to rain. So we put down our wagon cover and made the bed inside, but just as we got inside, much to our disgust, the moon came out and it was all over. We were inside, so we stayed, but did not sleep as well as usual.

Friday morning, the seventeenth, we drove the twelve miles into Salina, over a very dusty road. That short sentence seems an easy way over twelve miles of horrible road, but it could not be helped. It was the only road, and we had begun to find that in this country the roads were all dusty that were travelled much, and those that were not travelled much were practically impassable, because they were not roads at all--just trails. This seemed to be the dryest year in the history of this country and the farther along we went the more complaints we heard. We had not seen any rain since starting and, except for the false alarm of the night before, we were to travel a good many miles more before getting rained on.

Reaching Salina, where we expected to leave the railroad and go east to Green River, we made a few purchases in the provision line and then inquired as to the trail over into Castle Valley. We were surprised when told we couldn’t get up Salina Canyon into the valley, and that if we were going to Green River we would have to go north about a hundred miles, and that while it probably was one hundred and fifty miles farther that way, we could make it easily enough, but with our outfit we couldn’t possibly make the canyon trail because it was washed out. As this was not the first time we had been told we would have to depart from our straight line and go around, we decided not to be easily discouraged, and so began to look about for some one who knew absolutely the condition of the trail.

We were not long in finding a young fellow who had come over a few days before, and he walked out and took a look at our outfit. He looked quite a while at the wide tires and the wagon top and finally said, “I believe I could make it with my team, but I would advise you fellows not to try it.”

I said, “Do you mean that your team could take that wagon over, or do you mean they could take your wagon?”

“I mean I could drive them over with that wagon, but they are used to the mountains and rocks, and I don’t think that team can do it.”

“All right,” I said, “over we go. I think this team is as good as yours, and if you can do it, I can.”

So we started, but I had occasion several times to think he was right before we got there, as you will see, but I had begun to believe in those horses and in my ability to drive them anywhere with that big wagon, except up a tree.