284 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



West as still the land of Bunkum, Boom, and Brag, 

 and call to mind the street faker with his shiny 

 "topper" and cautionary gush of eloquence. In the 

 heraldic quarterings of California the device of a 

 megaphone should find a place. 



I rode first toward Signal Mountain, just across 

 the border. When last seen it had looked like a pale 

 blue iceberg on the sea-like horizon of the plain: 

 now, close at hand, it was a volcano-like cone of 

 brown rising from a limitless gray of sand. To the 

 southeast ran the line of the Cocopas, tailing off 

 into the yellow murk of a sand-storm — type of 

 poor Mexico's everlasting muddle. Superstition 

 Mountain seemed from here a mere ridge of sand, 

 but Coyote and Fish Creek Mountains rose high and 

 rugged in tantalizing red and purple. I feel I have n't 

 done with those fellows yet. 



The country through which I was passing is one 

 of intense dreariness, a plain of dust with a scatter- 

 ing of desert plants more than usually wretched and 

 unkempt. A few ocotillos alone broke the torrid 

 stillness with a skeleton dance on the quivering air. 

 The sun was blasting, and my canteen of water soon 

 became too hot for enjoyment, though I called on it 

 incessantly for relief. 



A straight white line marked on the desert proved 

 to be a macadamized road which had lately been 

 laid for the benefit of automobilists. This gave 

 notice that I was approaching the settlements of 

 Imperial. Two or three machines passed us, for 

 there is a fair amount of traffic between San Diego 

 and the new-born towns of the valley. In due time 



