Evening Star Newspaper, March 2, 1930, Page 104

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MARCH 2, From England, Across America to the South Seas, Australia, Ceylon and India and Back Through Europe in a Midget Car. American Hospitality, Hold-Ups, Cow- boys and Indians—Snakes of Australia. EDITOR’S NOTE: Here is a modest account of a wonderful journey. Miss De Haviland is a sister of the famous airplane de- signer and she is the first woman to accomplish a world tour in a midget car. The interest of her narrative is heightened for Ameri- can readers by the wonder with which she observes many things that have become commonplace to native travelers. BY GLADYS De HAVILAND. HERE were two of us to begin with, for I had with me Miss Eley. We sailed from England to begin our motor trip around the world in New York. Our first thrill was to drive through the Holland Tunnel, where the police keep traffic moving at 30 to 35 miles an hour in order to prevent congestion. Throughout America, in fact, I found that the words “speed limit” were almost unknown; if a limit did exist it was generally in the neighborhood of 40 miles an hour! One of the first things that struck me on - *emerging into the open country was that from the motorist’s point of view America approaches the ideal. Good garages and excellent inns abound, not to mention tourists’ camps. More- over, quite small villages have good accommo- dation, provide really nice coffee, and almost invariably boast a room or rooms where one may dance to the strains of an electrically- driven music machine. Two days after leaving New York we were among the mountains of Maryland—the Al- leghenies—two of which, South Mountain and Fairview Mountain, we had to climb. We were now in a land of romance, and we were told that one stretch of road, overshadowed by pines, is known as “The Shades of Death.” Many hold-ups occurred here in the old stage coach days, and there are legends of dark and terrible deeds. Nowadays, however, the high- waymen are no more, “flivvers” flit swiftly by all day long, and the penetrating odor of gaso- line mingles with the scent of the whispering pines. Traveling through Ohio the weather turned bitterly cold, and after one long run of 160 miles we were glad to find sanctuary at Green- field Farm, where the farmer and his wife re- ceived us with true American hospitality. I remember I ate a simply enormous supper that evening—bacon, sweet potatoes, baked apples and coffee—but the more we ate the more our hosts pressed food upon us. — All along the roadside that day I had noticed little white crosses, and on asking the farmer - what they were he told me that they had been - erected in memory eof people who had been killed in motor accidents, and as warning to others! As 1 had counted no less than eight of them in a stretch of three miles, mishaps ap- peared to have been fairly numerous, in spite - of the perfectly straight road, and I can only conclude that they were caused by skids. Oil seeping up beneath the surface from subter- _ranean springs makes the roads in this neigh- borhood terribly treacherous, and warning signs are placed at the spots where it oozes up particularly badly. Ever since leaving New York tourists’ camps had interested me, and finally I m#fle up my mind, in spite of the lateness of the season, that we must try one. They have the most enticing names—*“Moonlight Cabin,” “U Smile Cabin,” and so forth. The place we selected was Log Cabin Camp, consisting of two rows of cabins about 12 feet -wapart. Each shack is roughly built of pine logs and contains a bed, two chairs, a small table and a stove. From one's bedroom door one looked out across vast stretches of the wildest country. A camp restaurant supplied every one with food. We had ours sent down to our cabin, and did not tumble into bed until midnight—and then it was not to sleep. All night long mice frolicked and squeaked about the floor, enter- ing, I suppose, through the chinks in the pine logs. From Log Cabin Camp we drove on to St. Louis and civilization, and here we were advised "to take the southern route toward Colorado instead of the northern one which I had planned. Whichever route we took, people told us cheerfully, we were “in for it.” If we didn’t freeze in the mountain passes we should be killed by brigands. Several motorists, we were informed, had lately been robbed and murdered in the wilds of New Mexico. It was not exactly ap enticing prospect, but I was determined not to give up now. Other folks examined our tiny car and then shook their heads doubtfully. Owing to her narrowness, they said, she wouldn’t fit the Jiheel-tracks on the “dirt” roads ahead of, us, and therefore we should never get through. We made up our minds, however, that we would have a jolly good try. It was not long before it began to look as if the latter dismal prophecy, at all events, might be fulfilled. The road steadily deterioraved un- til it became no better than a mud-track, the mire being so deep that British motorists can have no conception of it unless they have seen it. Fearsome potholes were everywhere—great cavities half as big as our car itself. Once we went into one. We had strayed off the proper road on to a most appalling track where we skidded in crab-like fashion. On either side lay frozen flood-water of considerable depth, into which I was in momentary fear of sliding. Again and again we stuck fast, having to get out and push the car along by main force, for the wheels refused to grip with the engine Our shoes and stockings were speedily soaked with icy water, and we were smothered up to the knees 1 mud. All of a sudden the car pitched into a big hole, from which our united efforts failed to budge her! Utterly weary, and consigning all cars to a clime where mud is un- known, I looked round and spotted a farmhouse in the distance. WHxN I went there for assistance a big Alsatian dog barred my entrance with fierce growls, but I cajoled him to let me pass by giving him toffee. The farmer, when he heard my tale of woe, readily offered help. Even with the essential chains with which his own car was fitted it was only with the utmost difficulty that we got back to my sorely-tried little car and saved her from a watery grave. Fortunately pleasant experiences alternate with unpleasant ones, and two days later saw us bowling merrily along over sunlit prairies, stopping occasionally to take photographs and bask in the sun. Thus we progressed unevent- fully through the Arkansas River Valley to La Junta, in Colorado. An entertaining town is La Junta, full of cowboys and Indians, though it gives one a queer sensation of the mingling of ancient and modern when one sees these picturesque types shopping in chain stores! We stayed there for a day, and then set out again, almost immedi- ately encountering more mud. We were about 10 miles past the settlement of Nodel when the trouble occurred, and at one period there were five cars likewise “stuck” close by. Again we went through the old fa- miliar routine of pushing and heaving, getting covered with mud ourselves in the process. So thick and beavy was the mire that the tires churned it up into masses which wedged themselves tightly between the wheels and the body and mudguards, so that after a time the wheels could not turn. We pulled the glutin- ous stuff away with our hands, but a few yards farther on the wheels gummed up as badly as ever. To add to our troubles it was growing dark and beginning to snow. Just as it looked as if we might have to spend a freezing night in this undesirakie locality three big cars came slither- ing along the track toward us, with brown faces peering out at us. “Stuck?” inquired a voice, and forthwith a perfect torrent of dark-skinned figures poured from the cars. I suppose we must have looked a little alarmed, for one amiable old gentleman who seemed to be the “boss” hastily explained that they were a troupe of Negro musicians on their way to Trinidad. Many hands make light work, and these good fellows soon had us out of our predica- ment. In spite of the fact that they were in a hurry they insisted on driving behind us all the way to Trinidad in case we got stuck again. Right across America, by the way, we found that “road courtesy” is certainly not dead there. Raton Pass, the summit of which is 7,800 feet high, was our next thrill. The climb was one long struggle with snow and slippery roads, and at times there were unguarded precipices along the sides which made the thought of a more than usually bad skid decidedly unnerv- ing. The ups and downs of Raton Pass are really formidable, but it gives one glimpses of some of the most beautiful scenery in America. The mountains are clothed to the timber-line with forests of spruce and pine, full of cougars, bears and deer. Reaching the end of the pass, we put up at Home Ranch, Maxwell; and of all the cold places I have ever been in Maxwell is assuredly the coldest! We had anotheér bitter drive next day, continually drinking scalding hot coffee from a thermos flask in order to keep our blood moving; I found the two pairs of gloves I wore perfectly useless for keeping my hands warm on the steeringwheel. Snow was again a trou- ble, but other motorists were invariably ready to help us, notably a wild-looking but really charming Indian and his wife. We were now in very lonely mountainous country, and although the travelers we encoun- tered were very kind to us I did not like the look of some of the “locals” at all. They were mainly Mexicans and Indians, driving old carts pulled by mules and donkeys, and although they may have been harmless they appeared Quite the reverse, With their large black Mexi- 1930. “Then came the awful moment when I really did see a black snake about six feet long crossing the road right in my track.” fierce, sullen expressions they looked like brig- ands, and I could not help hoping that we should not find ourselves compelled to appeal to them for assistance. ALL the same, it presently looked as if we should have to. We were some 6,000 feet ‘up in the mountains when a nerve-shattering thunderstorm broke over us, accompanied by vivid lightning and hail. We had been warned to get under cover if such a storm occurred, for the hailstones in that region are sometimes s0 large that they will break the windshield glass and tear holes in one’s hood. Since there was no shelter handy, however, we just drove on—and a dreadful time we had of it! Presently the hail turned to snow, covering the windshield until it was impossible to see through it, for the wiper could not function under the thick coating. To crown everything, the engine stopped! Jumping out, I discovered that no petrol was coming through, but tinker- ing with the carburetor in the snow and blind- ing lightning was obviously impossible. Accordingly I removed the float, whereupon petrol trickled slowly into the float-chamber, and I was able to get going again. The engine stopped repeatedly after this, however, and I had to scramble out and repeat the operation until finally I was covered with snow. Presently_some huge black bird flew down low over us. “A bird of ill-omen!” I remarked grimly to my companion, and it surely must have been, for a few minutes later I hit a pro- truding rock, being unable to see it through the snow-wreathed windshield, and it speedily became obvious that the bump had affected the steering. Matters were so bad that we were obliged to come to a standstill, but just as we were won- dering what on earth we were to do another good samaritan came along in the shape of a cowboy in an old car. He stopped, got out, and came up to us. I told him not to bother (all the time hoping, and, indeed, feeling sure that he would!). “I can’t leave you here in this storm,” said the gallant fellow; and after a little argument we gratefully accepted his aid. Forthwith he packed us both into his own car and drove us to the next garage, 17 miles farther on, from which, later on, when the storm was over, we returned to our car with the garage man who put the steering gear right and enabled us to resume our journey. When I first subsided wearily into the cow- boy’s car I felt something hard on the seat, and looking down to see what I was sitting on fund it was a large revolver! He told me that I, too, ought to carry a gun in these parts, since there were some lawless characters abous. An adventure we had a little later on in New Mexico made me see the wisdom of his advice. One day a pair of particularly villainous- looking fellows halted us and demanded money, threatening unpleasant things if we didn’t cash up. I put them down as brigands at the time, but I fancy they were actually “bootleg- gers.” I told them that I was due at the next town for passport formalities, and that if I didn’t turn up there would be immediate in- quiries which would make matters hot for them. While they were considering the matter I slipped in the clutch and dashed off. I half expected them to fire after the car, but they didn't, and. we got. clear, All the same, after that I bought a small automatic pistol which in future I carried loaded on the ledge in the dashboard of the car. J We got through to Arizona without any fur- ther real trouble, and in doing so ran from cold and snow into a most perfect climate, in spite of the month being December. I reflected pleasantly on the change as I sat on the balcony of my hotel at Needles writing up my diary. It was a wonderful night, warm enough to sit out in pajamas and a coolie coa:. Down the main street rows of pepper trees, great palms, and flamboyant flower-covered shrubs bore witness to the subtropical climate, and bandsome Indians strolling about gave the place a fascinating atmosphere all its own. Hitherto I had been disappointed with the American Indians I had seen, but these were charming--tall and slim, with regular features and beautiful white teeth. There were about 600 of them in the little city, and they proved very friendly. In fact, they could not have been more interested in my trip if I had been an Indian woman doing a round-the-world trip in an Indian car! WEwerenowontheednotmtmous Mojave Desert, and set off early one morn- ing carrying four gallons of water, fruit, a tin of biscuits, and the invaluable thermos flask, likewise full of water. For the first few miles the road was quite ordinary. Then came the desert—limitless stretches of sand and rocks, a few coyotes, a weird bird or two, and over all the glorious Californian sunshine and the cloudless blue sky. After 80 miles or so we reached Amboy, a small Indian settlement, where an old Red Man told me that all their water had to be hauled from Newbury Springs, 62 miles away, and cost 35 cents a barrel! Recently, he said, no rain had fallen for over a year, and a temperature of 120 degrees and over was not uncommon. I was fascinated with the desert, but it evidently possesses drawbacks for those who live in it! The sand made steering difficult, and more than once when we stuck in the drifts I blessed our car’s lightness, which enabled us to get out again without undue exertion. California is certainly a lovely country. Its sunshine is soft, golden, invigorating; its scen- ery marvelous and, in addition, it has an at- mosphere of adventure, optimism and modernity that is all its own. There are orange-painted inns set down in the most isolated spots of des- ert country, with signboards bearing such cheery legends as ‘“Come right in and let's get acquainted” or “Oh boy! Hot dog—Ilet's stop!" and so on. . The road to Los Angeles was lined with orange groves. Here and there the golden fruit had fallen from the trees into the road, but Miss Eley informed me that it is a penal offense to pick up an orange and eat it! Nevertheless, I ran the gantlet of the law, for forbidden fruit is always sweetest, and no lurking *“cop”™ sprang from the shelter of the trees to hale me ignominiously to jail. Los Angeles held a disappointment in store for me, for here I was destined to lose my com- panion. She had been prostrated with seasick- ness during the voyage and had been very seedy ever since. She was obviously none too strong, and the prospect of her falling ill later om, when we might be far from help, worried me considerably. I certainly missed my companion, .and yet