the magazine y - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

How long are you going to be in
town?' he asked.
To make conversation, I said, Well,
how is the canyon?'
Oh,' he said, 'they are filling it up.'
'Well, that's interesting,' said I.
'Yes,' he continued, 'those — — —
tourists that I take out kick so much gravel
into it that they're filling the thing up.'
I don't believe he ever told or thought
of this before.
I saw Hance at the canyon again in
1903. He was then employed by the hotel
people, just a privileged guest. Later on,
he was given his own cottage and bed
and meals by the Harvey company so
that he would stay around and entertain
the sightseers. On this occasion I saw him
in the middle of the room talking to various
people. Walking over to him, I said,
'My name is MacDougal—I went down
your trail some years ago.'
What did you think of the canyon?'
he asked. I replied, Every time I return,
it is grander than I remembered it.'
'Now, what do you think of that?
Hc.nce asked triumphantly. Some of
these old guinea hens' (he waved his
arms around including the groups of
tourists around him) 'think there's nothing
to it!'
'Well, Mr. Hance,' I continued, 'how
have you been?' Oh,' said John, I have
had lean years—all these years I've lived
on expectations and mountain scenery.'
I heard him tell this soap story to the
guinea hens' at El Tovar. He began by
saying that upon one occasion the snow
became so heavy up at the rim of the
canyon that there were no longer any
visitors and he decided to go down to
Flagstaff and spend the winter.
Said he, "It was a delicate job to know
just when the winter was actually beginning.
Each season I timed my departure
with references to two things: the lowness
of my grub supply, and the near
approach of a heavy snowfall. One night
when I was all set to get out, a terrible
storm came. It lasted two or three days.
I contrived a pair of snowshoes and started
from camp. After half a day's travel
with these snowshoes, fashioned from
split pine, I fell and hurt my ankle so
badly that I could not go any farther.
However, I managed some way to work
my way back to the cabin.
When I got there, I found there was
nothing left but half a jar of sorghum
molasses and a box of Babbitt's Best
Soap. I prepared a mixture of soap and
molasses in a skillet, slicing the soap into
flakes, and adding a few shavings from
an old boot leg to make the mixture as
tasty as possible. Ladies and gentlemen,
that was all I had to eat for a week, when
the snow melted. I tell you frankly, and
I expect you to believe me, I have never
liked the taste of soap from that day to
this.'
Every morning he would tell that story
Picture of Capt. Hance in 1912.
Photograph, courtesy Fred Harvey
company.
at the breakfast table. There would be a
duad silence after he had finished, the
people not knowing whether to laugh
01 not.
Lockwood—Can you tell us one of
tr e stones he used to tell about the canyon,
after he was employed by the Harvey
hotel as official guide?
Sykes—Here is a botanical item. He
was guiding a party down the trail one
day and there was a young lady in the
company who was interested in botany.
As she went along she was picking leaves
from the various trees and plants, and
was examining them and talking about
them. Finally she said:
You know, Mr. Hance, the tree is a
wonderful organism—it really breathes.'
John thought a moment. "Why, yes,'
h_> said, 'it does.' Again he reflected.