It might have been worse

“A good road from Plymouth Rock to Puget Sound.” Thus reads the Yellowstone Trail folder. If you really believe a thing, you may be excused for stating it as a truth. The trusting soul who wrote that alluring statement has never been over the entire trail, or I am greatly mistaken. Credit must be given for the system of marking the trail. At every turn, right or left, the yellow disk is in plain sight.

On leaving Chicago, we went through Lincoln Park and up the Sheridan Road to Milwaukee. The road is a wonderful boulevard, with beautiful homes and estates and glimpses of Lake Michigan, past the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, now the largest in the United States. We had heard much of Zion City. Driving down its main street was like a funeral. The houses were closed, the buildings seemed deserted, and the only evidences of life were two men, a horse and wagon, and a stray dog! We found a good macadam road to Oshkosh from Milwaukee and many such stretches through Wisconsin. At times the road followed closely the shore of Lake Winnebago, and then would wind through fertile dairy country. Trainloads of butter and cheese are shipped from here each year, and high-bred dairy cattle are raised for the market. Was it not strange that we did not have Wisconsin cheese on the menu at any hotel in that state? Several times we asked for it, but no cheese was forthcoming.

The first night we put up at Fond du Lac, at Irvine Hotel. It was fairly good, but a palace compared with what we found the next night at Stevens Point—the Jacobs Hotel. This was our first uncomfortable experience—a third-rate house, with no private bath, hard beds in little tucked-up rooms, a bowl and pitcher with cold water and two small towels the size of napkins, and the most primitive table you could imagine. The weather had kept cool and clear, but the sandy roads with deep ruts were awful! As it had rained in the night, the clerk assured us next morning that four cars were stuck in the road west of the town, and we had better not start. We asked him if there was a good hotel at Marshfield. “Good hotel! Well, you folks just wait till you see it! They actually have Brussels carpet on the floor of the dining-room! Good hotel, eh? Nothin’ better this side of Chicago!” The cars were lined up in the street waiting to start. The clouds looked heavy and threatening, and not a ray of blue sky. Everyone was talking to someone. The formalities are discarded on such occasions. We fell into conversation with a charming man, Mr. H., from Fargo, North Dakota. Later we found that he was the ex-governor, and his name was sufficient to get anything you wanted in the Northwest. He and his family were touring to New York; so we exchanged maps and experiences, and he gave us a list of towns and hotels that proved invaluable, with the kindly remark, “If you will show the hotel clerks this list with my name, I am sure you will be well taken care of.” We certainly were—and more!—from there to Yellowstone Park.

We found the Blodgett Hotel at Marshfield—with a really, truly carpet in the dining-room—a good hotel, clean and comfortable. The next day we had two hundred miles to go to St. Paul, and were promised good roads. Colby, Eau Claire, and Chippewa Falls are all attractive towns. Wisconsin boasts of six thousand lakes. It certainly is a paradise for the huntsman and the angler—“The land with charm for every mile.” The method of numbering the state highways is the best we have found. You simply can’t lose your way. We, unfortunately, had several long detours and did not reach St. Paul until one A. M., a very sleepy trio, in a disreputable-looking car.