Instead of being a ridge
sculptured on the sides like a mountain range, is found to be composed
of many short ranges, parallel to one another, and to the interior
ranges, and so modeled as to resemble a row of convex lenses set on
edge and half buried beneath a general surface, without manifesting
any dependence upon synclinal or anticlinal axes - a series of forms
and relations that could have resulted only from the outflow of vast
basin glaciers on their courses to the ocean.
I cannot, however, present all the evidence here bearing upon these
interesting questions, much less discuss it in all its relations. I
will, therefore, close this letter with a few of the more important
generalizations that have grown up out of the facts that I have
observed. First, at the beginning of the glacial period the region
now known as the Great Basin was an elevated tableland, not furrowed
as at present with mountains and valleys, but comparatively bald and
featureless.
Second, this tableland, bounded on the east and west by lofty mountain
ranges, but comparatively open on the north and south, was loaded with
ice, which was discharged to the ocean northward and southward, and in
its flow brought most, if not all, the present interior ranges and
valleys into relief by erosion.
Third, as the glacial winter drew near its close the ice vanished from
the lower portions of the basin, which then became lakes, into which
separate glaciers descended from the mountains. Then these mountain
glaciers vanished in turn, after sculpturing the ranges into their
present condition.
Fourth, the few immense lakes extending over the lowlands, in the
midst of which many of the interior ranges stood as islands, became
shallow as the ice vanished from the mountains, and separated into
many distinct lakes, whose waters no longer reached the ocean. Most
of these have disappeared by the filling of their basins with detritus
from the mountains, and now form sage plains and "alkali flats."
The transition from one to the other of these various conditions was
gradual and orderly: first, a nearly simple tableland; then a grand
mer de glace shedding its crawling silver currents to the sea, and
becoming gradually more wrinkled as unequal erosion roughened its bed,
and brought the highest peaks and ridges above the surface; then a
land of lakes, an almost continuous sheet of water stretching from the
Sierra to the Wahsatch, adorned with innumerable island mountains;
then a slow desiccation and decay to present conditions of sage and
sand.
XVI
Nevada's Dead Towns[21]
Nevada is one of the very youngest and wildest of the States;
nevertheless it is already strewn with ruins that seem as gray and
silent and time-worn as if the civilization to which they belonged had
perished centuries ago. Yet, strange to say, all these ruins are
results of mining efforts made within the last few years. Wander
where you may throughout the length and breadth of this mountain-barred wilderness, you everywhere come upon these dead mining towns,
with their tall chimney stacks, standing forlorn amid broken walls and
furnaces, and machinery half buried in sand, the very names of many of
them already forgotten amid the excitements of later discoveries, and
now known only through tradition - tradition ten years old.
While exploring the mountain ranges of the State during a considerable
portion of three summers, I think that I have seen at least five of
these deserted towns and villages for every one in ordinary life.
Some of them were probably only camps built by bands of prospectors,
and inhabited for a few months or years, while some specially
interesting canyon was being explored, and then carelessly abandoned
for more promising fields. But many were real towns, regularly laid
out and incorporated, containing well-built hotels, churches,
schoolhouses, post offices, and jails, as well as the mills on which
they all depended; and whose well-graded streets were filled with
lawyers, doctors, brokers, hangmen, real estate agents, etc., the
whole population numbering several thousand.
A few years ago the population of Hamilton is said to have been nearly
eight thousand; that of Treasure Hill, six thousand; of Shermantown,
seven thousand; of Swansea, three thousand. All of these were
incorporated towns with mayors, councils, fire departments, and daily
newspapers. Hamilton has now about one hundred inhabitants, most of
whom are merely waiting in dreary inaction for something to turn up.
Treasure Hill has about half as many, Shermantown one family, and
Swansea none, while on the other hand the graveyards are far too full.
In one canyon of the Toyabe range, near Austin, I found no less than
five dead towns without a single inhabitant. The streets and blocks
of "real estate" graded on the hillsides are rapidly falling back into
the wilderness. Sagebrushes are growing up around the forges of the
blacksmith shops, and lizards bask on the crumbling walls.
While traveling southward from Austin down Big Smoky Valley, I noticed
a remarkably tall and imposing column, rising like a lone pine out of
the sagebrush on the edge of a dry gulch. This proved to be a
smokestack of solid masonry. It seemed strangely out of place in the
desert, as if it had been transported entire from the heart of some
noisy manufacturing town and left here by mistake. I learned
afterwards that it belonged to a set of furnaces that were build by a
New York company to smelt ore that never was found. The tools of the
workmen are still lying in place beside the furnaces, as if dropped in
some sudden Indian or earthquake panic and never afterwards handled.
These imposing ruins, together with the desolate town, lying a quarter
of a mile to the northward, present a most vivid picture of wasted
effort.
