Monday, May 11th. In the Mud.

To you, and you alone, little diary, will I confess a sense of deep discouragement. Mud! Mud! Seas of mud and oceans of rain!

We have been out eight full days and have covered but sixty-five miles. The appetite that I have developed is truly amazing. As I sit by a fence, waiting for Dan to investigate those streaks of ooze and slush called roads, I’m hungry enough to eat Limburger cheese, which is saying a good deal for me. Yet I finished a hearty breakfast but an hour or so ago. I am ravenous, morning, noon and night, and Dan is nearly as bad. When I compare the size of our appetites with the cost of bread and eggs at farmhouses, the dollar and a half that Dan sweat like a stevedore to earn, looks woefully inadequate.

Saturday afternoon we cycled through the town of Morris, stopping long enough to purchase a few supplies. Two miles from town we passed a neat farmhouse, and just beyond found a most beautiful meadow surrounded by trees. The long shadows of late afternoon lay across the thick green sward which rose in a gentle slope.

Delighted with the spot, we cooked our evening meal and lay down to enjoy the glory of the moon, which, floating above the trees, bathed the earth with its soft radiance. The peaceful chorus of night insects and the gentle whisper of the wind in the tree tops soon lulled us to sleep.

I dreamed that we were riding over a long bridge that suddenly gave way with a deafening crash, precipitating us into the rushing stream below. I wakened with a start. Alas, it was more than a dream. The night was like ink. Lightning crackled, thunder crashed and rolled, rain descended in torrents and a fine young rivulet was bounding down the hillside and pouring directly over our bed.

Bewildered, we stumbled around in the darkness, collecting such clothing as came to hand.

“Come on,” cried Dan, “let’s make for the big barn up the road.”

Guided by the flashes of lightning, we hastened across the field and approached the barn from above. A momentary gleam disclosed a black opening before me. I made a dive for the shelter within. Followed a sickening sense of falling, and I spreadeagled onto some yielding, hairy object which heaved and scrambled madly with much blowing and bellowing. Thus I was made aware that my unseemly arrival had disturbed the gentle slumbers of a cow. At least I sincerely hoped that the creature belonged to the gentler sex as I backed out of the stall with more haste than elegance.

Dan, meanwhile, had located the hayloft and, guided by his voice, I groped my way to him, and notwithstanding the stimulating companionship of barley-beards and thistles, contrived to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

The rain ceased about daybreak, and we returned to the scene of the evening before to collect our scattered utensils and spread the soaked bedding in the brilliant sunshine. Most of our recent purchases were ruined, the bread especially being reduced to a soggy mass, so Dan sought the farmhouse to renew our supply. He returned rather indignant with less than a half loaf of bread, for which he had paid ten cents. It then developed that the bacon had disappeared and our dozen eggs were badly scrambled, so Dan reluctantly went back to buy eggs and bacon if possible.

In a few minutes he was back empty-handed, angry right through. The farmer had demanded twenty-five cents for a half dozen eggs, which had cost us twenty cents a dozen in Morris the day before, and when Dan declined to buy had grown insulting.

We made coffee and were drinking it when a roughly dressed man approached.

“Say, folks,” he began, “you better clear out of here. The boss up there is hitchin’ up a team to go to Morris after the constable. I hearn him vow to have you run in for trespassin’ on his land.”

We looked at one another in alarm. Hastily swallowing the last crumbs of bread, we rolled up our wet blankets and made ready for the road, the stranger doing all he could to help. Once on the highway we found riding out of the question because of the mud, and what to do we didn’t know, especially as our friend said that the constable would be glad enough to arrest us for the fee.

“But if your wife don’t mind,” he concluded, “you might come down to the river with me. We’re choppin’ wood down there and the bunch’ll hide you till the constable gets tired nosin’ around and goes back to town.”

No sooner said than done. The men took the wheel, and away we went through the underbrush to the woodchopper’s shack. There were four men there, washing clothes, shaving and attending to the usual Sunday chores. Our adherent explained the situation and they all hustled around to make us comfortable. One built up the fire to dry our things, another hid the wheel, one went out to the road to keep watch, while the fourth arranged a place of concealment for us in the rear of the room. Hardly were the preparations complete, when the watcher reported the coming of the farmer and the constable.

We ducked to cover, the door was shut, and after a bit we heard our hosts parleying with the newcomers and demonstrating their skill in the art of graceful lying. Soon they announced that the coast was clear, but advised us to remain in retirement for an hour or two at least, and, to pass the time, suggested a trip on the river. One got out some fishing tackle, another dug bait, while a third cut rods from the willows. We all followed a winding path to the river where row boats were tied, and stepping in, were off for a little fishing excursion.

The hours flew by on the wings of delight, while the men fished in cool, shady coves or rowed up stream with the oars glinting in the sun. We had a good catch, when dark shadows athwart our course and a gusty breeze that set the water rippling proclaimed the coming of another shower.

Returning to the shanty, the men prepared the glistening spoils, and before the savoury dish was ready for the table, the rain was pounding on the roof.

As the day waned, I became the prey of serious misgivings, but about an hour before sundown the rain slackened and four of the men declared their intention of going to town to see a show, adding that they did not expect to return till morning. Our first acquaintance cooked a hearty meal, then rigged a blanket curtain across one end of the room, and warmed and dried and fed, we retired to rest, giving thanks for the spirit of true brotherhood which often manifests itself in unlikely places.

Next morning our benefactor packed a substantial lunch and started us on our journey. But so far we have made poor progress.

Dan has just come up with the news that our one chance to proceed lies in following the railroad track, so I must up and away.

Well, we are making a little better time along the track than in the slush of the road, though this method of travel is far from ideal. We push the wheel between the rails, and the poor thing goes bump, bump, bump over the ties, while the cooking outfit jingles and clinks and the whole load threatens to fall off. When nerves can stand the strain no longer, we try the path at the side of the track. This we essayed to ride, but a shelving ledge where the path almost disappeared nearly sent us down the embankment, so we trundle the wheel and walk. The pedal barks my shins and I feel like saying something wicked. I hear Dan muttering under his breath and fully second what he is thinking. Just when I can no longer endure the pangs of starvation, he declares that it is time to stop for lunch. Sweet sound!

Luncheon over, I throw myself face down on the gravelled siding. When I consider the lack of money, the scarcity of work, the wretched roads and never-ending storms, my beloved California seems very far away.