Finding the Worth While in the Southwest

In Short

This travel narrative serves as both a practical guide and a poetic meditation on the American Southwest as it appeared in the early twentieth century. Moving from the adobe streets of Santa Fe through the high mesas of the Pueblo people to the vast depths of the Grand Canyon, it captures a region defined by its rugged geography, Spanish colonial history, and enduring Indigenous traditions. Its legacy lies in its refusal to treat the Southwest as a mere tourist stop, instead presenting it as a living testament to humanity's long, resilient history.

The Story

The journey begins in Santa Fe, which the author describes as a "Royal City" of adobe and sunlight, a place where the seventeenth century feels perpetually just behind a closed door. The narrative arc moves outward from this cultural heart into the surrounding countryside, tracing the Rio Grande to the cliff dwellings of the Puyé, where the soot of prehistoric fires still stains the stone. Each chapter acts as a new stage in a pilgrimage, leading the reader deeper into the desert's "storied land."

The traveler follows the paths of the Conquistadores and early missionaries, but the focus remains firmly on the landscape’s human associations. The account lingers in the "dead cities" of the Salines and at the foot of Acoma—the "City of the Marvellous Rock"—where the narrative weaves in local legends, such as the dispute between villages over a sacred painting of Saint Joseph. It is a journey marked by a transition from the historical remnants of Spanish influence to the living, breathing presence of the Pueblo and Navajo peoples.

As the route pushes westward toward the Petrified Forest and the towering rim of the Grand Canyon, the tone shifts from historical inquiry to natural wonder. The vastness of the Colorado River’s chasm offers a moment of profound reflection on the scale of time. The journey continues through the "Red Rock Country" and southward into the lands of the giant cactus near Tucson. The final movement of the trip descends into the mission chain of Southern California, closing the loop on a geography that is as much about the spirit as it is about the physical terrain. Throughout, the author argues that the true "worth while" of the Southwest is not found in the speed of the automobile, but in the willingness to stop, walk the quiet streets, and listen to the stories told by the land and its long-time inhabitants.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins in the narrow, unpaved streets of Santa Fe, where the author encourages the reader to abandon the automobile in favor of a walking tour. This initial beat establishes the tone of the entire trip: slow, attentive, and deeply appreciative of the quiet, sun-drenched architecture.

The heritage of the Pueblos follows as the route turns toward the Rio Grande and the cliff dwellings of the ancient people. The narrative here contrasts the small, soot-stained rooms of the past with the vibrant, ongoing life of the modern Pueblo villages.

Legends and mysteries emerge during the trek to sites like Isleta and the "Autograph Rock" of El Morro. These chapters highlight the intersection of religious faith and oral tradition, grounding the history of Spanish occupation in the whimsical and often miraculous tales of the local people.

The natural sublime is reached as the path traverses the Petrified Forest and the Grand Canyon. The author shifts his focus to the sheer physical majesty of the landscape, emphasizing the humbling effect such scenery has on the traveler.

The final descent carries the reader south toward the missions of San Antonio and the valleys of Southern California. The journey concludes by tracing the enduring legacy of the Franciscan friars, bringing the long, sweeping arc of the Southwestern traverse to a graceful, meditative end.

The People

The figures in this narrative are less a cast of characters and more a collection of voices and legacies. The Conquistadores, such as Don Juan de Oñate, appear as ghosts in the landscape, their presence marked only by their inscriptions on stone or their bold, if often misguided, explorations. The Franciscan missionaries, represented by men like Padre Juan de Padilla, are depicted as figures of both historical gravity and mythic status, with local legends often elevating them to the rank of mummified saints.

The Pueblo and Navajo people are the heartbeat of the book. The author depicts them as a "primitive and poetic race" whose connection to the land remains unbroken despite the encroaching influence of white schools and modern industry. The "medicine men" and the villagers who participate in the Shálako or the Fiesta de San Gerónimo are portrayed with a respectful, if occasionally romanticized, distance. The author views them as the true custodians of the region, and they serve as the silent witnesses to the reader's presence. Finally, the "traveler" themselves—the reader—is the central figure who must decide how to engage with these people: whether as a curious observer seeking a photograph, or as a respectful guest who understands that some traditions, like the inner workings of an estufa, are not meant for the public eye.

In Its Own Voice

“Your first feeling is a bit of a shock, for the renovator’s hand has fallen heavily upon San Miguel and, frankly speaking, it is a rather hideous old church as viewed from the street.”

The author describes the initial, disappointing impression of Santa Fe’s famous mission church before the reader has a chance to step inside.

“Rambling from room to room, picking up now a bit of broken pottery, now a charred corn-cob, poking into the ashes of fireplaces where the last embers were quenched before history in America began, you experience, I hope, a becoming sense of your youth as a white American.”

Reflecting on the cliff dwellings of the Puyé, the author uses the artifacts of a vanished culture to humble the modern visitor.

“So you see in this glorious Southwest we may still follow in the very footsteps of the gods, and regard the world as it seems through the eyes of a primitive and poetic race.”

The author concludes his assessment of the Navajo and Pueblo people by inviting the reader to adopt a more spiritual perspective on the desert.

What It's Really About

At its core, the book is an argument against the hurried pace of modern tourism. It posits that the Southwest is a place of profound "human association," where the value of a destination is measured by the depth of one's engagement with its history and its people. The central question is how a "materialistic America" can reconcile its own youth with the ancient, enduring cultures it has displaced. The author challenges the reader to act as more than a passive consumer of sights, urging them to recognize the spiritual and cultural weight of the landscape. By connecting the geologic time of the Grand Canyon to the immediate, lived traditions of the Pueblos, the book explores how the past informs the present.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy atmospheric, unhurried travel writing will find much to admire in this volume. It is a book designed for those who prefer wandering through quiet plazas and reading about local folklore rather than checking items off a frantic itinerary. There is a specific pleasure in its 1918 perspective, which offers a window into a Southwest that was then just beginning to be connected by modern roads and motor-stages.

However, a contemporary reader must approach it with an awareness of its era. The author’s language reflects the patronizing, romanticized attitudes toward Indigenous cultures that were common among intellectuals of his time—often framing the Pueblo and Navajo as static, "primitive" relics rather than dynamic, contemporary societies. While he expresses deep respect for their traditions, he also views them through the lens of a colonial history that he does not fully critique. Despite these period biases, the book remains a beautiful, observational guide. It captures a sense of place that persists even today—the sharp blue sky, the scent of the desert air, and the humbling silence of the ruins. It is a reminder that to truly "see" a place, one must be willing to take the long way around and let the landscape speak for itself.