That Monday night we spent in the lovely town of Prescott, Ariz. When we reached there we had been of a mind to follow earlier advice and get on down out of the mountains so as to cross the desert by night. One idea had been to linger till the cool of the evening in Prescott, having a leisurely dinner there while the sun went down. But the service-station man assured us that if we went on at all we had better go as soon as we could, for we had close to 40 miles of winding mountain roads in which we descended 2,000 feet. But then he admitted that when we had negotiated that stretch there wasn't much of any place to get a meal or stay for the night, and we wouldn't want to keep driving all night, after all day, without a rest. So we just stopped where we were, got quarters in a fine hospitable motel, had an excellent dinner across the street and got a Phoenix paper to read. They say the Lord always protects babies and fools, and we understood instantly how privileged we had been, when we found that during the Labor Day week end two men had run off the road at Winslow and been killed; one man had a heart attack while driving, just a few miles north of Prescott and his car and body had been found in the canyon. We had passed the very places without seeing an accident or having any trouble except the mental misery we endured among those curves and peaks and drops.
Starting refreshed the next morning, after having breakfast in Prescott to allow daylight to arrive for our protection down that downhill road, we found the way perfectly beautiful, and didn't worry a bit. Of course, this time we were hugging the mountain, and it makes all the difference in the world which side you are on. We met one woman driving up alone. She had stopped stock-still at a turn-out, with such a look of strain on her face that she seemed to be deciding whether just to die there or go on with her eyes shut and let the worst happen quick. I'd hate to drive up that stretch, on the outside all the way! Someone told us later that it was the stretch where Tom Mix lost control of his car and rolled into the canyon to his death. But for us, on that bright morning, in the inside track, it was one of the most beautiful stretches we encountered. The mountains there were covered with trees, and with every turn there was a change in the view, the mountains seeming to approach and recede as we saw them at different angles. At times we could see so far, great stretches of plains with fold after fold of mountains in the distance, and then the mountains would seem to gather close, but comfortably this time, not as ominously as when we were on that terrible narrow track back beyond Williams.
Eventually we crossed the Colorado River (not especially impressive at that point, we thought) and entered California, passed through the inspection point and reached Blythe, that place which according to the radio every morning at home suffers the most intense heat of any place in the United States. It was 10 o'clock in the morning of a hot sunny day. We don't know how hot because we haven't seen a thermometer since we left home nor heard a weather report. Since arriving here we have learned that the whole country had been having a heat wave. And we could see evidences of prolonged drought most of the way. The exceptions, as near as we remember now, were in Missouri and near Gallup, New Mexico. Anyway, we had reached the point where we were to get the car completely checked, find out what special accouterments if any we needed to cross the desert, and whether we dared cross at once or must wait over till the cool of the evening to start this most momentous portion of the trip.
Ten o'clock on a brazen hot morning at Blythe, Cal., at the edge of the desert (or already half way across, as some folks figure it), we faced our next step with a wild surmise, like Balboa or whatever explorer that was who stood silent upon a peak in Darien. Having met with such diverse advice up to this point, we had left the decision to the last one we asked. This was a service-station man at the east edge of Blythe.
"Sure, it's warm. Where isn't it?" he told us cheerfully. "But the desert doesn't get really hot till about 3:00; it's only 10:00 now and you will be across in three hours. The desert is painted lots worse than it is. If your car is in good shape and you take along plenty of water, you've not a thing to worry about. Go right on."
So we were in for it. To tell the truth, we couldn't see much use, having got that far, in hanging around all day in the heat waiting for the cool of the night, when we could just as well suffer as we drove.
On we went, with a water-bag hanging from the radiator, a thermos bottle of ice water, and a pail partly filled with cold water and some wash cloths to sponge our faces and arms. The water in the pail was soon as warm as bath-water, but it helped anyway. Another time we would put a chunk of ice in the pail instead of water. There is no problem of roads across the desert; they are completely adequate and uncomplicated. We seemed to get plenty warm inside the car but not much warmer than we had been all week. That is, until we got to Indio, which is below sea level. We reached there at high noon and were beginning to get a little flushed of countenance. We had thought we might stop there for lunch but couldn't bear the thought of lingering, so drove on. Life was going on there just as normally as in any town we had seen.If the natives were over-heated they didn't show it. I suppose the human constitution can get used to anything.
We did our best to see all we could and admire every thing possible across the desert but there was a certain monotony about the sand and the tufts of vegetation, and not having taken any notes we can't at this moment recall anything of intense interest to tell you. By 1:00 o'clock we figured we were across and drew a deep breath of relief. We weren't any cooler for quite a while, but we were safe. Soon after 8:00 we drew up at a motel in Riverside and called it a day. This motel was the Spanish type, set right in an orange grove, run by most hospitable, homey folks. The accommodations cost less than anywhere we had been, and furthermore we were given fresh orange juice as well as ice water when we arrived, and were promised free coffee and rolls in the morning if we waited till 7:00 or after to start. We appreciated the kindliness but didn't take advantage of the morning treat; we were too anxious to get to the end of our journey. We bathed and relaxed, ate some crackers and cheese and peaches we had with us and went to bed, right then in broad daylight. In the morning early we got up and wrote our daily letters home (omitted the night before) and were packed and on the road by 5:00, before daylight but cheered by a gorgeous full moon.
Back in Prescott we had been fortunate enough to meet a couple who had just come from Santa Monica, who gave us their detailed map and instructions for getting through Los Angeles, which had been our final worry. Following these directions, we sped along and were through that huge and fantastic city before morning traffic picked up. "Just follow route 60 or 70 or both, sometimes it will be one, sometimes the other, and sometimes they join; it doesn't matter. Eventually you will find yourself on the Ramona Freeway. You will come to a sign that says routes 60 and 70 end. Don't pay any attention to that. Just go on and you will be on the Hollywood Freeway."
Those were the instructions and they worked out except that when we paid no attention to the sign, we didn't find ourselves on the Hollywood Freeway. True to form we had been able to miss what our advisers said couldn't be missed. However, after a few stabs in different directions we located the freeway and found an entrance to it. Those freeways are sheer delight, and they are building more of them all the time here in California. They are so easy to get onto and off of, and spacious enough so that every driver can take his own pace without bothering any one else.
We were to see a sign, "Santa Monica Boulevard 1/4 mile," and sure enough we did. And what do you know? We were back on good old 66. We followed that right to the sea, turned right on alternate 101 and jogged comfortably north the last hundred miles of our trip, almost all of the time being within sight of great Pacific. At Santa Barbara we turned onto a street that appeared to lead into town, and luck seemed to be all our way this day. At the filling station we got a city map, stopped next door for a good warm breakfast, then simply drove up Milpas street to Anapamu, on that to Garden, then to the corner of Loma Vista and Carmelita, and there we were, at the house with the pepper tree over the walk. (Such lovely street names they have here!)
As we climbed out of the car we heard David's voice exclaiming, "Here they are!" This was not according to plan. We had expected his ship to be late, that it would take a day or two for processing, and then while he got down here we would have time to get our hair done, have the car washed and greet him in lady-like state. Instead his ship had docked early, it had taken only two hours for processing, he had been lucky enough to get the last available roomette on the south-bound train, and the last three or four days while we were struggling toward him over mountain and sand, he had been lolling on the beaches and picnicking in the mountains, resting and reading, here in this comfortable place with our sister-in-law and her 14-year-old daughter. However, in the joy of meeting, with our soldier safe in the homeland after his year at the front in Korea, all was forgiven all around, his premature arrival and our delayed one, and since then all has gone merry as a marriage bell, as the saying goes.
Within a few hours we felt completely rested and the memory of any difficulties had begun to fade. This is certainly a place where it is easy to take your ease. We will be here two or three days and then head for home. We haven't a thing to worry about. We have a man to drive! -- Hope.