Now we climb almost perpendicular heights,
thousands of feet; now we slide down into chasms barely escaping the
rushing waters; then we shoot through a tunnel two miles long under
1,500 feet of solid rock; now we rush over vast plateaus 10,000 feet
above the sea; then we catch glimpses of herds of cattle, now of great
caves, lone trees with not a bit of earth visible about their roots;
now we rush into Leadville, a mining camp of 10,000 people. At
midnight a huge stone rolled down the mountainside onto the track,
delaying us for two hours. Had it fallen a minute later we would have
been crushed into nothingness.
In the morning I awoke in Utah, rode all the forenoon over arid
plains; gaunt, hungry wolves scud away, cayotes ran yelping, and jack
rabbits hopped out of sight for dear life; then we arrive at Salt Lake
City, which the Mormons have transformed from a howling wilderness
into a fine city, with a surrounding country budding and blossoming
with bounteous harvests. The peak towers aloft where the United States
Regulars halted after their terrible march over the mountains, near
where the famous Nauvoo Legion of the Mormons surrendered, after their
rebellion to make Brigham Young their king, though he said that by a
wave of his hand he could hurl back the balls of the national cannon
to annihilate the soldiers of the republic.
I drank in with delight the music of the grand organ and the four
hundred trained singers of the Mormon choir in the vast tabernacle.
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