The Mojave River is a strange, beautiful thread of water in California’s high desert. Most of the time, you can’t see it. It hides beneath the sand, popping up only in rare places like Afton Canyon or the Narrows near Victorville. But this ghost river has a long and complicated past tied to shifting earth, ancient climates, lost lakes, and generations of people who relied on it.
It all began millions of years ago when tectonic forces pushed up the San Bernardino and San Gabriel Mountains. These rising peaks blocked older river systems that used to flow toward the Pacific. With nowhere to go, water from the mountains started pooling in the desert. Over time, a new river formed, trapped within these closed desert basins. That was the beginning of the Mojave River.
During the Ice Age, things looked very different. The Mojave River wasn’t just a trickle or an underground stream—it was a robust river that flowed year-round, fed by rain and snowmelt from the mountains. It carried water from the San Bernardino Mountains to a series of massive lakes out in the desert: Lake Manix near Barstow and Lake Mojave farther east. These were deep, wide bodies of water teeming with life. Around 18,000 years ago, Lake Manix overflowed, carving the dramatic Afton Canyon and sending a flood of water toward Soda and Silver Lakes, which became Lake Mojave. Fossils from this time show mammoths, saber-toothed cats, and even aquatic life like fish and freshwater snails around the river and lakes.
When the last Ice Age ended, the climate changed. It got warmer and drier, and the big lakes began to dry up. The river still carried water now and then, but only during the wet season, and it often disappeared underground. Over thousands of years, it became the ghost river we know today. Now, it flows mostly beneath the desert floor, surfacing briefly after storms or in spots where rock formations push it upward.
Despite its dryness, the Mojave River is the lifeblood of the western Mojave Desert. Its rare surface flows and hidden undercurrents recharge underground aquifers, feed oases, and support all kinds of desert life. You’ll find cottonwood trees, willows, and even small fish like the endangered Mojave tui chub in wetter stretches. Birds rely on it too, especially migratory species that need stopover habitat in the middle of a dry land. Some stretches, like Palisades Ranch and Afton Canyon, are rich in wildlife because of the river’s presence.
People have followed the Mojave River for thousands of years. Indigenous groups, especially the Vanyume (a branch of the Serrano), lived along its banks and used its waters to survive in the desert. It also became part of significant trade and travel routes, notably the Mojave Road. Spanish explorers like Father Garces followed it in 1776, and American mountain men like Jedediah Smith came through in the 1820s. Later, Mexican traders and Mormon pioneers used it to reach California.
In the 20th century, towns like Victorville, Barstow, and Daggett grew along the river. They pulled water from its aquifer for agriculture and homes. Over time, more groundwater was pumped out—more than was going back in. This led to water shortages and falling water tables. To fix it, water agencies began regulating pumping and importing water from Northern California to recharge the Mojave Basin. Today, the Mojave Water Agency closely monitors the river’s underground flow.
Climate change is also reshaping the river’s future. Bigger storms could cause major flooding, but longer droughts make the river even more fragile. Meanwhile, conservation groups are working to protect the remaining green places along the river—removing invasive tamarisk, planting native trees, and safeguarding habitat for birds, fish, and other wildlife.
So while the Mojave River may not look like much at first glance—just a dry wash running through the desert—it’s the thread that ties together this region’s natural and human story. From Ice Age megafauna to modern groundwater battles, the Mojave River has quietly shaped life in the desert for millennia.
When I was talking with my friend Rob, we got into a deep conversation—one of those wandering talks about life and how it works. We touched on something debated for centuries: Is life the result of a grand design, or does it all come down to natural processes like adaptation and survival?
This question goes back at least as far as 1802, when Reverend William Paley wrote Natural Theology. Paley famously compared living things to a watch. He argued that if you found a watch on the ground, you’d assume someone made it—a watchmaker. So why not assume the same about life? To Paley, all the complexity and beauty of living organisms was proof of a designer—God.
His words were strong: “There cannot be design without a designer… That designer must have been a person. That person is GOD.”
But about 50 years later, Charles Darwin shook that idea to its roots. In his view, nature didn’t need a conscious designer. Evolution worked through natural selection. Random changes (what we now call genetic mutations) sometimes gave organisms a slight advantage—better eyesight, a thicker coat, a clever escape trick. If those traits helped them survive and reproduce, they got passed on. Over time, those beneficial traits piled up, shaping the species—not by design, but by nature’s quiet filter.
That brings me back to Rob.
Rob had cats, though I never saw them. He’d let them roam his yard, but only when he was around to keep predators like coyotes or bobcats at bay. One thing he noticed: a cat would grab a lizard every now and then. In a flash of desperation, the lizard would drop its tail and run. It might look a bit silly, stubbed in the rear, but it lived to fight another day.
Soon enough, nearly all the lizards in his yard were tailless. Not because they were designed that way, but because the ones that couldn’t drop their tails had already been eaten.
That’s natural selection. It wasn’t part of a plan. The lizards didn’t “choose” to evolve that way. But those with the tail-dropping reflex survived more often, and if they went on to have baby lizards, that trait spread.
In Paley’s time, imagining something so complex as life not being intentionally built was hard. But what Darwin showed—and what Rob’s yard seemed to prove in its small way—is that nature doesn’t need a blueprint. It just needs time, variation, and a bit of pressure to sort out what survives and what doesn’t.
The Sierra Wave is a dramatic weather phenomenon on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, especially near places like Owens Valley. It’s a type of standing wave cloud, formed when stable, moist air is pushed up over the mountain range and then descends on the leeward (downwind) side.
Here’s a simple breakdown of how and why it happens:
Wind hits the Sierra Nevada: Westerly winds (from the Pacific Ocean) blow moist air toward the tall Sierra peaks.
Air rises and cools: As the air is forced up the mountains, it cools and condenses, forming clouds. This is the start of a lenticular wave pattern.
Wave formation: On the eastern side, the air sinks, warms, and then rises again in a repeating up-down wave pattern, like ripples in water.
Stationary clouds: If there’s enough moisture, lenticular clouds form at the crests of these waves. These are the classic “Sierra Wave” clouds—smooth, lens-shaped, and often stacked like pancakes.
Why they matter: These waves can cause extreme aircraft turbulence but also create ideal lift for gliders. Owens Valley is world-famous for sailplane pilots who “ride” the Sierra Wave to high altitudes—sometimes over 30,000 feet.
In short, the Sierra Wave is caused by strong winds, stable air, and the massive barrier of the Sierra Nevada, producing a beautiful but sometimes dangerous atmospheric wave on the eastern slope.
In the early 1850s, as the United States expanded westward, national interest grew in finding a viable transcontinental railroad route. Congress appropriated funds in 1853 for multiple surveying expeditions to explore different potential routes across the West.
Lt. Amiel Weeks Whipple
Under the direction of Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, the Army’s Corps of Topographical Engineers organized surveys along several parallels. Lieutenant Amiel Weeks Whipple, a West Point-trained engineer, was chosen to lead the study near the 35th parallel north, roughly following a westward line from Arkansas to California. The goal was to assess the terrain’s suitability for a railroad, measuring distances and grades, locating mountain passes, and noting the availability of water, timber, fuel, and other resources critical for railway construction. This effort was part of a larger Pacific Railroad Surveys program, which dispatched teams to investigate northern, central, and southern routes for the first transcontinental railroad.
John Milton Bigelow, a physician and botanist
Whipple was already an experienced surveyor. He had worked on the U.S.–Mexico boundary survey after the Mexican–American War and had a reputation for scientific thoroughness. For the railroad survey, Whipple assembled a multidisciplinary team of about seventy men, including Army soldiers for security, teamsters to handle the wagons, and a number of scientists and specialists. The Smithsonian Institution helped select many of the expedition’s experts, reflecting the survey’s dual nature as both a route reconnaissance and a scientific exploration of the largely unmapped Southwest. Notable members of Whipple’s party included John Milton Bigelow, a physician and botanist; Jules Marcou, a geologist from France; and Balduin Möllhausen, a German artist and naturalist who had the backing of famed explorer Alexander von Humboldt. Lieutenant Joseph C. Ives, a young Army engineer, served as Whipple’s second-in-command and led a sub-party during the journey. The team’s diverse expertise meant that, in addition to plotting a railroad route, they would document the region’s flora, fauna, geology, and ethnography in unprecedented detail.
Journey from Fort Smith to New Mexico Territory
Lt. Joseph Christmas Ives
Whipple’s expedition officially commenced in mid-July 1853 at Fort Smith, Arkansas, then a border outpost to Indian Territory (present-day Oklahoma). The caravan – a long train of wagons and pack animals – set westward from Fort Smith on July 15, 1853. The team initially followed established trails where possible: they crossed the Poteau River into Indian Territory and proceeded along rough wagon roads just south of the Canadian River. This path had been traversed a few years earlier by expeditions such as Captain Randolph Marcy’s 1849 wagon road survey to Santa Fe. Even so, much of the region remained sparsely charted. The landscape of eastern Oklahoma was a patchwork of settlements belonging to relocated Native American nations (Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, Seminole, Cherokee, among others). As they traveled through these inhabited areas, Whipple often sought advice and guides from local Native people. The party moved steadily but cautiously, averaging only a few dozen miles per day due to the heavy wagons and the need to survey as they went.
Throughout the Indian Territory, Whipple was struck by the relative fertility and land resources. In contrast to earlier notions of the Southern Plains as part of the “Great American Desert,” Whipple described parts of what is now Oklahoma in encouraging terms. His team noted ample timber stands in regions like the Cross Timbers and discovered occurrences of coal, both assets for any future railroad. They found the prairie soils suitable for agriculture, observing that the area could yield abundant crops with sufficient water. Wildlife was surprisingly scarce along their route at first (likely due to overhunting and the presence of settlements). Still, as the expedition progressed into less populated areas, they encountered more game, including herds of bison and the occasional bear on the plains. The surveyors also recorded observations on the Native tribes they met. Whipple, with an ethnographer’s eye, collected information on indigenous languages and customs. He and his colleagues compiled vocabularies of various Native languages and noted the social conditions of the tribes, many of whom had been relocated to the Territory. The hospitality of local Native leaders helped the party traverse the region; in return, Whipple’s reports portrayed the tribes in a largely favorable light and even noted their openness to the idea of a future railroad bringing new opportunities.
By late summer, the expedition reached the Texas Panhandle, entering an environment of open high prairie. Here, the going became more challenging – the trails were faint, water sources more intermittent, and the heat and dryness more intense. In early September, the party was trekking across the flat expanse known as the Llano Estacado (Staked Plain) in what is now the Texas–New Mexico border area. Despite the hardships of travel across these arid plains, Whipple remained optimistic about the route’s potential. He reported that much of the rolling prairie appeared well-suited for laying track, with gentle grades and few significant barriers. Occasional hazards did arise: at one point, massive prairie fires swept across the dry grasslands, forcing the survey team to move camp to avoid the flames hurriedly. Nevertheless, the expedition pressed onward without major incident by carefully timing their marches between water holes and taking guidance from seasoned frontier scouts.
In early October 1853, Whipple’s party reached Albuquerque in the New Mexico Territory. This was a significant milestone and a chance to regroup. Albuquerque had been an outpost on the old Santa Fe Trail, providing a place to resupply and rest after the long plains crossing. Here, the expedition was joined by Lieutenant Ives’s detachment, which had taken a slightly different approach route. Ives and a small group had traveled separately via a southern path, moving from the Gulf of Mexico through Texas (through San Antonio and El Paso) and northward up the Rio Grande to rendezvous with Whipple. The combined expedition, now fully assembled in Albuquerque, prepared to tackle the most demanding portion of the journey: the remote deserts and mountains between New Mexico and California. They hired an experienced guide, Antoine Leroux, a frontiersman familiar with western trails, to assist in navigating the unknown terrain ahead. As autumn turned to winter, Whipple’s caravan departed Albuquerque, heading west into increasingly rugged country.
Across Arizona and the Mojave Desert to California
Leaving the relative civilization of the Rio Grande valley, Whipple’s survey entered what is now Arizona – a land largely unmapped by Americans at that time. The expedition first passed through the lands of the Zuni Pueblo, one of the Indigenous villages in western New Mexico. Whipple was very interested in the pueblo cultures; he paused to exchange greetings and study their way of life briefly, even sketching and describing Zuni architecture and traditions for his report. The party struck out from Zuni across northeastern Arizona, traversing the Painted Desert region. They aimed for the Little Colorado River, which they reached by following ancient Native trails. This stretch was difficult: water and grass were scarce, and the winter cold began to set in. The surveyors likely encountered patches of snow as they ascended in elevation. Still, the group persevered, mapping the terrain carefully. They made note of volcanic formations and other geologic curiosities as they approached the lofty San Francisco Mountains (the San Francisco Peaks near modern Flagstaff, Arizona).
Guided by Antoine Leroux, the expedition found a pass through the San Francisco Mountains and descended into the basin of the Colorado River. By January 1854, they were in some of the most remote territory of the Southwest – a stark land of canyons and plateaus. Here, two Mohave Native American guides joined the party and proved invaluable. The Mohave people inhabited the river valley and deserts around the lower Colorado, and they knew the best routes through the arid labyrinth ahead. Under the guidance of these local scouts, Whipple’s team followed a path down a tributary called Bill Williams Fork to reach the Colorado River itself near the boundary of modern Arizona and California.
Crossing the Colorado River in the winter of 1854 was one of the expedition’s most significant challenges. The river was swift and cold, and the expedition had to build rafts or use whatever boats they could improvise to ferry men, animals, and equipment across. This crossing proveddisastrous – strong currents nearly swept away some of the party’s wagons and scientific collections. A makeshift raft capsized at one point, and several precious items (instruments and specimen jars) were lost to the muddy waters. Fortunately, no lives were lost, and Whipple managed to get his entire command safely to the western bank after considerable effort and delay. By February 7, 1854, the surveyors stood in California, having conquered the last significant natural barrier on their route.
Now the task remained to cross the vast Mojave Desert of southeastern California and reach the settled areas near the Pacific coast. The Mojave presented different obstacles: arid expanses, occasional sand dunes, and long stretches with no reliable water aside from a few springs. Still accompanied by their Mohave guides, Whipple’s party navigated along established Native trails that connected waterholes across the desert. They moved generally northwest from Colorado, eventually picking up the path of the old Mojave Road (a route used by Native Americans and the early Spanish travelers to California). This trail led toward the Mojave River, a critical lifeline in the desert. Following the Mojave River upstream (southwestward), the expedition could find water and grass for their stock at intermittent stream bends and oases.
Traveling along the Mojave River, Whipple noted signs of earlier travelers – evidence that this route had been used by Spanish missionaries, American fur trappers, and emigrant wagon parties in years past. They were approaching where the Mojave Road merged with the Old Spanish Trail and the newer Southern California wagon roads. The terrain gradually changed: dry lakes and creosote flats gave way to the higher elevations of the California Coast Range. The expedition’s final hurdle was to cross the San Bernardino Mountains via the Cajon Pass, the same pass used by traders and settlers to enter southern California. Cajon Pass was a natural mountain pass between the Mojave Desert and the coastal valleys. Whipple’s survey assessed this pass carefully, measuring its grade and width, and found it to be a favorable corridor for a railroad line. He reported that Cajon Pass, already well-traveled by wagons, could be engineered for locomotives without extraordinary difficulty – a significant affirmation, since this gap was the gateway to Los Angeles.
After emerging from Cajon Pass, the weary expedition descended into the green fields of southern California. They passed through the outskirts of San Bernardino, a young Mormon-founded community, and finally reached Los Angeles on March 20, 1854. This completed an epic journey of roughly 1,800 miles from the Mississippi River to the Pacific coast. Whipple’s team had spent about eight months on the trail, enduring extreme weather, rugged terrain, and occasional threats (from the environment more so than from people – indeed, relations with Native tribes along the way had been largely peaceful and cooperative). The triumphant arrival in Los Angeles marked the conclusion of the field survey. However, in many ways, Whipple’s work was just beginning: he now had to compile his findings and analysis for the government, recommending whether this 35th parallel route was suitable for a transcontinental railroad.
Scientific and Cultural Observations
Beyond its purely geographic accomplishments, the Whipple expedition made significant scientific and cultural contributions. It was, by design, a traveling research laboratory. The team’s specialists collected volumes of data and specimens throughout the trek. Botanist John Bigelow gathered hundreds of plant samples, discovering species new to science (many western plants would later be named in honor of Bigelow). Geologist Jules Marcou studied rock formations along the route, producing one of the first geological transects of the American Southwest – identifying coal seams and mineral deposits, and noting the volcanic origins of landscapes like the San Francisco Peaks. Topographical drawings and paintings by Balduin Möllhausen, the expedition artist, provided eastern audiences with their first realistic views of wonders such as pueblo villages, broad prairie vistas, and desert mountain ranges. Möllhausen also kept a personal journal describing daily life on the trail, which, along with the diary of assistant surveyor John P. Sherburne, offers vivid insights into the expedition’s experiences (both of these journals were later published and are valuable historical sources).
Lieutenant Whipple was intensely interested in ethnography (the study of cultures). As the expedition passed through regions inhabited by diverse peoples – from the settled Choctaw and Chickasaw farms in Indian Territory to the semi-nomadic Apache bands in New Mexico, the Pueblo villages, and the Mohave and Yavapai groups near the Colorado – Whipple took the time to observe and document their ways of life. He recorded information on tribal governance, agriculture, and daily customs. One notable effort was the compilation of vocabularies: Whipple’s report included comparative word lists for numerous Native languages encountered on the journey, preserving linguistic data that might have otherwise been lost. He was generally respectful in his descriptions, often noting the hospitality and helpfulness the survey party received. For instance, the Zuni and Mohave guides were crucial to the expedition’s success, and Whipple acknowledged their vital role in navigating the rugged country.
The scientific observations were not just academic; they directly tied into evaluating the railroad route’s feasibility. Whipple’s team cataloged where good timber stands grew (necessary for supplying wood for construction and fuel), where water was available year-round, and the locations of coal, iron, or other minerals that might support a railroad economy. In Oklahoma and New Mexico, they identified river valleys and mountain passes that could accommodate tracks with gentle gradients. In the drier sections of the route, they noted stretches that might require constructing wells or aqueducts to supply locomotives with water. The data collected on weather and climate led Whipple to an interesting conclusion: the 35th parallel route, he believed, had a climate “favored by precipitation” compared to some more northerly routes. In other words, he thought this middle-southern route received enough rainfall. He had enough perennial streams to sustain a railroad, without the extreme snowfalls that plagued routes farther north and without the absolute aridity of the far southern deserts. His final report reflected this climatic optimism, emphasizing the agricultural and settlement potential of the lands along the 35th parallel line.
Results and Legacy of the Expedition
Maj. Albert H. Campbell
Upon reaching California, Whipple and his colleagues turned to organizing their notes, maps, and collections. Over the next year, they prepared a comprehensive report for the War Department. Lieutenant Whipple authored the narrative of the journey and the analysis of the route’s suitability for a railroad. He highlighted that the expedition had identified a practicable rail corridor. There were only a few significant obstacles (notably the crossings of the Pecos and Rio Grande rivers and the passage through Cajon Pass), and even those could be overcome with engineering effort. Whipple’s engineer, A. H. Campbell, compared these challenges to building railroads in the Appalachians back east, implying that nothing in the West was insurmountable by modern (1850s) engineering standards. In Whipple’s estimation, the 35th parallel route offered an attractive balance: it was shorter than the far-southern route through Texas, avoided the highest peaks and snows of the central Rockies, and ran through regions that appeared fertile enough to populate and economically develop.
The U.S. government published the expedition’s official findings as part of a monumental series titled “Reports of Explorations and Surveys to Ascertain the Most Practicable and Economical Route for a Railroad from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean.” Whipple’s report was contained in Volume III of the Pacific Railroad Survey Reports (1856), including his detailed narrative, maps, and journey illustrations. An accompanying Volume IV (1856) contained the scientific appendices: reports on geology, botany, zoology, and a significant essay by Whipple on the Native American tribes of the Southwest. These volumes were richly illustrated with lithographs based on Möllhausen’s sketches – images that introduced Americans to scenes like a Plains Indian encampment, a Pueblo village under the cliffs, and the majestic profiles of western mountain ranges. The reports were technical documents and essential works of natural science and anthropology for their time.
Balduin Möllhausen – writer, illustrator
Despite Whipple’s strong recommendation of the 35th parallel route, the decision on a transcontinental railroad was ultimately delayed by political conflict. In the 1850s, Congress remained deadlocked between Northern and Southern factions, each promoting different routes. No single route was chosen before the outbreak of the Civil War. Whipple’s careful survey, unfortunately, did not immediately lead to the construction of a railroad along his line. Indeed, when the first transcontinental railroad was finally built in the 1860s, it followed a more central route (far north of Whipple’s line) to connect Omaha with Sacramento. However, Whipple’s work was not in vain. His survey proved that a railroad could traverse the Southwest and helped identify the best passageways through a once-mysterious region. In the decades after the Civil War, railroad companies did turn to the 35th parallel corridor: the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad (later part of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway) built westward along much of Whipple’s path through New Mexico and Arizona. By the late nineteenth century, a transcontinental railway line was completed along the 35th parallel, validating Whipple’s original vision by providing a direct rail link to Los Angeles through the Mojave Desert.
The Whipple expedition also left a lasting legacy in science and exploration. The enormous collection of plant and animal specimens sent back east enriched American museums and led to the description of new species. The detailed maps produced by Whipple’s cartographers became base maps for the Southwest, used by future travelers, the military, and settlers. His ethnographic notes provided scholars with early documentation of Native cultures in regions that would soon experience dramatic change. Additionally, members of Whipple’s team went on to notable careers: Joseph Ives later led his famous expedition to explore the Colorado River in 1857; Balduin Möllhausen published his illustrated diaries and became known in Europe as an author on the American frontier; and Amiel Whipple himself continued his Army service, ultimately becoming a Union general in the Civil War (tragically, he was mortally wounded at the Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863).
In summary, Lt. Amiel W. Whipple’s 1853–1854 survey along the 35th parallel was among the most successful and influential Pacific Railroad Surveys. It combined meticulous route reconnaissance with scientific inquiry, painting a comprehensive picture of the lands between Fort Smith and Los Angeles. Whipple demonstrated that a railroad through the Southern Plains and Southwest was feasible and revealed the economic promise of that region. His expedition’s findings, published in the Pacific Railroad Survey volumes and subsequent works, helped guide the nation’s understanding of the Southwest and paved the way—literally and figuratively—for future railroads and settlements along his route.
Sources
Reports of Explorations and Surveys… Volume III (1856).Route near the Thirty-Fifth Parallel, under the command of Lt. A. W. Whipple. Washington: War Department, 1856. (Official Pacific Railroad Survey report with Whipple’s narrative, maps, and illustrations.)
Reports of Explorations and Surveys… Volume IV (1856). Washington: War Department, 1856. (Contains Whipple expedition’s scientific reports on geology, botany, zoology, and appendices on Native American tribes.)
Foreman, Grant (ed.). A Pathfinder in the Southwest: The Itinerary of Lieutenant A. W. Whipple during his Explorations for a Railway Route from Fort Smith to Los Angeles in 1853 and 1854. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1941.
Gordon, M. M. (ed.). Through Indian Country to California: John P. Sherburne’s Diary of the Whipple Expedition, 1853–1854. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988.
Conrad, David E. “The Whipple Expedition in Arizona, 1853–1854.” Arizona and the West 11, no. 2 (1969): 147–178.
Goetzmann, William H. Army Exploration in the American West, 1803–1863. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1959.
Elmer’s Bottle Tree Ranch is one of those places that feels like it grew straight out of someone’s imagination—and in a way, it did. Set along Route 66 in Oro Grande, California, it started with a father and son combing the desert for old glass bottles. Elmer Long’s dad had a passion for collecting, and when he passed, Elmer inherited a garage full of dusty, colorful bottles. Not one to let them sit idle, he started welding up metal trees in his yard and placing the bottles on them like leaves catching the sunlight.
By the early 2000s, Elmer’s yard had turned into a shimmering forest of bottle trees, each topped with bits of found junk—old signs, gears, rifles, and typewriters. It wasn’t just art, it was a conversation. Travelers on Route 66 would pull over, and Elmer would greet them, eager to share stories and hear a few in return.
When Elmer died in 2019, his son Elliott took over the care of the ranch, keeping its spirit alive. Today, it still stands as a glowing patch of creativity in the desert—free to visit and impossible to forget.
Colorado Desert: Southeastern California; part of the larger Sonoran Desert, focused around the Salton Trough and lower Colorado River.
Sonoran Desert: Covers southeastern California, southern Arizona, and extends into Mexico.
Mojave Desert: This desert is mostly in southeastern California and also parts of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah. It lies north of the Colorado and Sonoran deserts.
Southern Great Basin: Eastern California and Nevada; part of the Basin and Range Province, north and east of the Mojave.
2. Elevation
Colorado Desert: Very low (–275 ft to ~3,000 ft).
Sonoran Desert: 250 to 4,400 ft.
Mojave Desert: Generally higher—2,000 to 5,000 ft; with some mountain ranges over 7,000 ft.
Southern Great Basin: Widest range—1,000 to 11,000 ft.
3. Climate
Colorado Desert: Subtropical desert; extremely hot and dry; rare frost.
Sonoran Desert: Also very hot, with both winter and summer rainfall (bimodal).
Mojave Desert: Cooler than Sonoran and Colorado; mostly winter rain; occasional snow at higher elevations.
Southern Great Basin: Cooler and wetter overall; more snowfall and broader seasonal range.
4. Precipitation
Colorado Desert: 2–3 inches/year.
Sonoran Desert: 3–6 inches/year.
Mojave Desert: 3–10 inches/year.
Southern Great Basin: 4–20 inches/year, depending on elevation.
5. Temperature
Colorado Desert: Up to 120°F in summer.
Sonoran Desert: 60°–75°F average, but peaks well over 100°F.
Mojave Desert: 50°–70°F average, with summer highs above 110°F.
Southern Great Basin: 35°–72°F average, with colder winters.
6. Growing Season
Colorado Desert: 250–350 days.
Sonoran Desert: 250–325 days.
Mojave Desert: 175–300 days.
Southern Great Basin: 100–275 days.
7. Vegetation
Colorado Desert: Creosote bush, white bursage, limited plant diversity due to extreme heat.
Sonoran Desert: Most diverse—includes saguaro cactus, palo verde, ocotillo, mesquite.
Mojave Desert: Similar fauna but more cold-adapted species like the desert woodrat; home to the iconic Mojave rattlesnake.
Southern Great Basin: Adds mountain species like bighorn sheep, spotted bat, and wider bird diversity due to higher elevation zones.
9. Soils
Colorado, Sonoran, Mojave: Mostly Aridisols and Entisols.
Southern Great Basin: It also includes mollisols and inceptisols in moister areas.
10. Surface Water
Colorado & Sonoran Deserts: Flash floods; some perennial rivers like the lower Colorado.
Mojave Desert: Rare springs, seeps, and playas; dry washes.
Southern Great Basin: Seasonal mountain runoff to enclosed basins or dry lakes; some spring-fed wetlands.
11. Human Impact
Colorado Desert: Irrigation farming (Imperial Valley), solar development, tourism.
Sonoran Desert: Urban expansion (Phoenix, Tucson), agriculture, mining, military use.
Mojave Desert: Military bases, solar/wind farms, mining, conservation areas (like Mojave National Preserve).
Southern Great Basin: Scattered mining, grazing, military testing, and recreation; relatively undeveloped compared to others.
In Summary:
Region
Elevation
Rain (in/year)
Climate
Key Plants
Notable Feature
Colorado Desert
–275 to 3,000 ft
2–3
Very hot, dry
Creosote, bursage
Salton Sea, subtropical heat
Sonoran Desert
250 to 4,400 ft
3–6
Hot, bimodal rain
Saguaro, palo verde
Most biodiverse desert
Mojave Desert
2,000 to 5,000+ ft
3–10
Hot-cold desert
Joshua tree, blackbrush
Transitional desert, higher, colder
Southern G. Basin
1,000 to 11,000 ft
4–20
Cool-dry high desert
Sagebrush, juniper
Coldest and most varied terrain
Each desert has its own character, shaped by elevation, moisture, and temperature. The Colorado is the hottest, the Sonoran the most diverse, the Mojave the middle ground with its famous Joshua trees, and the Southern Great Basin the coldest and most mountainous.
& transportation in the 19th-century American Southwest
Edward F. Beale, Fort Tejon, and Overland Routes in the 19th-Century American Southwest
Part 1: Fort Tejon – Frontier Garrison and Strategic Hub
Fort Tejon was established on August 10, 1854, as a frontier military post at the southern end of California’s San Joaquin Valley, near present-day Lebec. Its mission was to guard the pass through the Tehachapi Mountains, oversee the newly established Sebastian (Tejon) Indian Reservation, and protect Native inhabitants and incoming settlers from raiding tribes of the Mojave and Great Basin deserts.
The fort replaced the less effective Fort Miller. It was chosen for its strategic position in Grapevine Canyon (Cañada de las Uvas), the primary north-south passage between Los Angeles and California’s interior valleys. Its largely adobe construction made it one of the more substantial frontier outposts in early California.
With an average complement of around 225 soldiers, Fort Tejon was manned chiefly by the 1st U.S. Dragoons, who carried out patrols, guarded travelers, and responded to tensions between Native groups and settlers. During its active years, Fort Tejon became the region’s military, political, and social center. It was also notable for being the post where several future Civil War generals—Union and Confederate—served.
One of the most dramatic episodes in Fort Tejon’s history was the January 9, 1857, earthquake. Estimated between magnitude 7.9 and 8.2, the quake caused widespread structural damage and left a surface rupture more than 220 miles long along the San Andreas Fault. Despite the destruction, the fort remained active.
The fort was critical in overseeing the Tejon Reservation and was at the heart of federal Indian policy in Southern California. Relations were complex: while the fort provided protection, it also enforced relocations and, at times, detained Native groups under harsh conditions. In 1863, following the Owens Valley Indian War, hundreds of Paiute people were forcibly marched to Fort Tejon and held near the fort in makeshift conditions.
Fort Tejon was initially evacuated during the Civil War in 1861 as regular Army forces were redeployed east. California volunteer forces briefly reoccupied it in 1863, primarily to maintain order and oversee Native groups. The post was permanently closed in 1864.
Edward Fitzgerald Beale, the fort’s most prominent figure, served not as a military commander but as Superintendent of Indian Affairs for California and Nevada. He helped plan the reservation system and was instrumental in placing the fort where it could support Indian policy and military objectives. After its closure, the site became part of the vast Tejon Ranch, acquired by Beale and expanded to nearly 270,000 acres.
Today, Fort Tejon is preserved as a California State Historic Park. Several original buildings have been restored, and the site serves as a tangible reminder of a period when military, political, and cultural frontiers converged in a single place.
Part 2: Overland Transportation in the 19th-Century American Southwest
In the decades following the Mexican-American War, the U.S. turned its attention to binding its far-flung western territories to the rest of the country. Before the railroads, the answer was overland travel—wagon roads, stage lines, and military escorts through harsh terrain and uncertain territory.
The Army played a central role in this endeavor. Military wagon roads were cut through mountain passes and deserts, often following earlier Native trails or Spanish routes. Among the most significant was Cooke’s Wagon Road, which 1846 became the first trail suitable for wagons from New Mexico to California. A series of federal surveys followed this to find optimal east-west routes.
Beale’s Wagon Road was one of the most ambitious and famous transportation projects of the pre-Civil War period. Between 1857 and 1859, Edward F. Beale surveyed and cleared a wagon route along the 35th parallel from Fort Defiance (now in Arizona) to Fort Tejon in California. His expedition also tested a new form of desert transport—camels—imported from North Africa. The camels performed well, but their novelty and the outbreak of the Civil War brought the experiment to an end.
Beale’s road provided a straighter, well-watered, and relatively level route across the Southwest. It later influenced the alignments of railroads like the Atlantic & Pacific and highways like Route 66 and Interstate 40.
At the same time, the Butterfield Overland Mail Company was operating the nation’s first true transcontinental stagecoach service. From 1858 to 1861, Butterfield coaches carried passengers and mail along a 2,800-mile route from Missouri to California. This southern path crossed through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California to avoid snow in the mountains. Military forts—like Fort Tejon, Fort Yuma, and Fort Bowie—provided escort, supplies, and protection for the line.
The Butterfield route was relatively short-lived. With the outbreak of the Civil War, much of the southern corridor passed into Confederate territory, and the Union suspended the line in favor of more northerly routes.
Nevertheless, these early wagon roads were essential. They enabled mail delivery, troop movement, and civilian migration. In many cases, the roads laid by military engineers became the foundation for towns, trade routes, and railroads.
Throughout the latter half of the 19th century, railroads replaced wagons, and telegraphs replaced riders. However, many of the pathways carved by teams of soldiers and surveyors remained vital transportation corridors for decades, and some, like Beale’s Road and the Butterfield Trail, still echo through modern highways and desert backroads.
Selected References (no URLs)
California State Military Museum, “Historic California Posts: Fort Tejon”
George Stammerjohan, History of Fort Tejon
Sean T. Malis, Fort Tejon and California in the Civil War
Legends of America, “Edward F. Beale – Blazing the West”
National Park Service, Butterfield Overland Mail Project
Independence, California, is a small town in the Owens Valley’s southern stretch, backed by the towering Sierra Nevada to the west and the Inyo Mountains to the east. With around 600 residents, it serves as the Inyo County seat and a quiet gateway to rich history and dramatic desert landscapes.
The town was founded in 1861, during the mining boom, and named in honor of the Declaration of Independence. While gold rush ambitions shaped its early days, Independence is better known for its historical and cultural sites today. The Eastern California Museum offers an impressive collection of Native American artifacts, pioneer relics, and mining tools, showcasing the region’s layered past. Just a few miles away is the Manzanar National Historic Site, a powerful and sobering reminder of World War II, where thousands of Japanese Americans were interned during a dark chapter in U.S. history.
But the story of this region runs deeper than its buildings and monuments. In contrast, the southern Owens Valley, from Poverty Hill to Rose Valley—including the Owens Lake basin—is a geological and ecological study. This broad alluvial plain was once home to a large lake fed by snowmelt from the Sierras. During the Ice Age, Owens Lake sometimes overflowed southward, but it’s mostly dry today. Its water has been diverted to supply Los Angeles for a long time.
The valley’s surface tells the story of time and erosion. Quaternary sediments—old alluvial fan deposits, lakebed clays, and basin fill—comprise much of the ground. You’ll also find volcanic rock from ancient lava flows like the Aberdeen Lava, along with rugged outcrops such as the Alabama Hills and Poverty Hill, made of granite, old volcanic, and metamorphic rock.
The land is mostly flat to gently sloping, though it rises in places from 3,000 to 6,000 feet. Soils vary from gravelly and well-drained on the fans to fine and occasionally saturated in the low-lying basin. Many playa surfaces remain barren, having only recently reemerged from beneath the former lake. Vegetation reflects these conditions—on the basin fill you’ll see greasewood and saltbush, while the alluvial fans support shadscale, hop-sage, blackbush, and creosote bush. Grasslands include saltgrass and alkali sacaton. Though sparse, woodland species like mountain mahogany and water birch hang on in a few upland areas.
The climate here is dry and extreme. Rainfall averages 4 to 8 inches annually, mostly falling as rain. Summers are hot, winters are cold, and the skies are often crystal clear, making Independence a draw for stargazers and astrophotographers.
Water now runs in limited channels. The Owens River still threads through the valley, but much of it is captured and diverted south. Natural outflow from the region is rare, and the lake that once anchored the valley is now a dusty remnant of its former self.
Still, there’s something magnetic about Independence and the valley that surrounds it. Maybe it’s the blend of natural beauty and historical depth. Perhaps it’s the vast open space. Either way, this stretch of the Eastern Sierra remains a place worth exploring for its past, present, and the ever-changing story written in its land.
The Hesperia Ditch was the heart of a bold dream to turn part of the Mojave Desert into a thriving agricultural community. Built in the late 1880s, it was the centerpiece of an irrigation system designed to carry precious water from Deep Creek to the dusty, sun-baked mesa where Hesperia began taking shape.
The story starts with a group of investors led by Dr. Joseph Widney, a former University of Southern California president. Along with the Hesperia Land and Water Company, Widney believed they could make the desert bloom by diverting water across rough terrain and under the Mojave River to what they hoped would become a green and prosperous settlement.
In 1886, they began building the ditch. It wasn’t a simple trench—it was an engineering project that included miles of open canal, flumes, and a steel pipeline that dipped under the Mojave River. The water came from Deep Creek, a rocky stream that runs through a canyon just south of modern-day Hesperia. The company built a small concrete dam at the intake point to raise the water level and direct it into a ditch blasted and dug along the canyon wall. That channel clung to the hillsides, sometimes cut into solid rock, and sometimes supported by stone walls or wooden flumes. The route was carefully graded to use gravity to keep the water moving.
One of the most impressive features of the system was a steel pipeline—about 14 inches in diameter—that crossed under the Mojave River in a kind of inverted siphon. From there, the water continued to a reservoir near present-day Lime Street Park in Hesperia. That earthen reservoir held about 58 acre-feet of water and was a local irrigation hub. Farmers could draw from it to water their fields, orchards, and gardens.
At its height in the early 1890s, the ditch helped irrigate over a thousand acres of land. Apples, peaches, alfalfa, and other crops were planted, and the new town of Hesperia began to take root with a hotel, train station, and grand ambitions. Optimists thought it would become the next great inland farming colony.
But dreams can be fragile in the desert. The irrigation system was expensive to build and even more complex to maintain. The 1880s land boom fizzled out, and Hesperia’s growth slowed. Legal disputes over water rights and the unpredictable nature of Deep Creek’s flow added to the difficulties. Floods often damaged the steel pipeline under the river and had to be repaired multiple times. By the early 20th century, much of the system was falling apart, and the amount of water it delivered had dropped significantly.
In 1911, a new group took over under the name Appleton Land, Water and Power Company. They made some upgrades, including installing a larger 30-inch steel pipeline for part of the route and reinforcing the intake works. Still, only a few hundred acres remained in cultivation. In 1916, just 90 acres of orchard and 220 acres of alfalfa and corn were being irrigated—far less than what had once been envisioned.
Even so, the ditch left its mark. Parts of the original channel along Deep Creek still exist today. A section of the Pacific Crest Trail follows the old ditch grade—its flat path a silent reminder of the engineers who carved it into the canyon wall over a century ago. The route is visible as a narrow shelf lined with old stonework along the hillside.
At Lime Street Park, where the reservoir once stood, a historical plaque honors the day in 1886 when “life-giving water” first reached Hesperia. Without the ditch, the town might never have taken hold. Though modern wells and pumps eventually replaced the irrigation system, the ditch was the first to prove that water could be brought to the high desert—and with it, the chance for people to stay, build homes, and try to make the desert bloom.
Today, the Hesperia Ditch is part of local lore, remembered as both a technical feat and a symbol of frontier determination. While the system didn’t fulfill all the lofty hopes of its founders, it made settlement possible in a place where nature had said no, and that’s no small thing.
In the spring of 1860, Bill Holcomb struck gold in a high mountain valley north of today’s Big Bear Lake. Word spread fast. By summer, a stampede of prospectors poured into what came to be known as Holcomb Valley, setting up tents, cabins, and mining claims. They hit pay dirt—some called it the richest gold strike in Southern California.
The mining camp that sprang up didn’t stay small for long. They named it Belleville, not after some prospector or politician, but after a baby—Belle Van Dusen, the newborn daughter of Jed Van Dusen, the town blacksmith. Her mother had sewn a makeshift American flag for the Fourth of July out of a miner’s shirt and a red petticoat, and the miners, feeling patriotic and maybe a little sentimental, gave the town her name.
Belleville boomed overnight. By the end of 1860, the town had thousands of residents—some say more than anywhere in the county except San Bernardino. The place had everything a gold camp needed: saloons, gambling halls, blacksmith shops, general stores, butcher shops, and a dance hall called the Octagon House. Of course, with that many miners and not much law, trouble came with it—shootouts, lynchings, and outlaw gangs made Belleville a wild place.
But there was a problem. The town was rich in gold and short on everything else, especially food and supplies. The only way in was by pack mule. Wagons couldn’t get through. If you wanted to bring a wagon to Holcomb Valley, you had to take it apart and haul it in pieces.
So the miners did something about it. They didn’t wait for the government. They scraped together about $2,000 in gold dust and hired someone they trusted: Jed Van Dusen. He was handy with tools, was already running the blacksmith shop, and knew the country. Jed built a wagon road from Belleville down the mountain toward the desert, connecting it with a new toll road through Cajon Pass built by John Brown Sr., another early pioneer.
Van Dusen’s road, finished in 1861, made all the difference. Wagons could reach Holcomb Valley from San Bernardino through Cajon Pass and Deadman’s Point. Supplies started flowing in: food, lumber, mining gear, blasting powder—even whiskey for Greek George’s saloon. Stagecoaches came too. What had taken a week by mule could now be done in two days by wagon.
That road helped Belleville grow even faster. Miners brought in stamp mills to crush rock and moved from panning in streams to blasting gold out of hard rock. Belleville got so bold it tried to steal the county seat from San Bernardino. In the 1860 election, it nearly succeeded—some say it did win, but one of the Belleville ballot boxes mysteriously ended up in a bonfire.
Of course, what goes up in gold country usually comes down just as fast. The easy gold dried up. The winter of 1861–62 was brutal—deep snow cut off the town for weeks. Miners left, saloons shut down, and Belleville started to fade. By 1864, it was nearly a ghost town.
But Van Dusen’s road stuck around. Even after Belleville was gone, the road he built continued to serve the area. Ranchers used it for cattle drives, loggers hauled timber down it, and the Forest Service later turned parts into official roads and ranger stations.
Today, the road still exists as Forest Service Road 3N09. Adventurous drivers can still follow the route Jed built by hand, more than 160 years ago. And if you walk through Holcomb Valley, you’ll find a few signs and stones where Belleville once stood—a rough mining town that burned bright and fast, and a road built by a blacksmith whose daughter gave the place its name.
In 1926, Nolie and Lela Murray did something bold. At a time when segregation kept Black families out of most vacation spots, they opened their own guest ranch in the desert outside Apple Valley, California. It was called Murray’s Dude Ranch, and it would become a rare oasis for Black travelers looking to relax, ride horses, and enjoy the wide open spaces of the West without being turned away.
Nolie Murray was a tall, well-dressed businessman from Los Angeles who owned a popular pool hall and cigar shop. His wife, Lela, was a trained nurse, petite and full of energy, always volunteering with civic groups and the church. When Lela’s health began to suffer from the damp city air, doctors suggested she move somewhere drier. They found that place near Bell Mountain, where a small Black homesteading community was taking root. A friend sold them 40 acres of dusty land for a token price, and the Murrays began building a new life.
They didn’t start out planning a dude ranch. At first, the property was a working ranch and a home for wayward youth. Lela and Nolie took in dozens of children—Black, white, and anyone who needed a second chance. The kids helped with chores and got to live in the fresh desert air. But running a ranch and caring for kids was expensive. By the 1930s, the Murrays were struggling to keep it going.
That’s when they saw an opportunity. Dude ranches were becoming trendy—city folks paying to pretend they were cowboys for a weekend. So in 1937, they opened their gates to the public. Murray’s Dude Ranch was one of the only places in the country where Black families could vacation with dignity. Guests stayed in bungalows, rode horses, swam, and gathered for home-cooked meals. Lela wore cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat. Nolie stuck to his overalls. They treated every guest like family.
Word got around fast. The heavyweight boxing champ Joe Louis visited and brought national attention when Life magazine ran photos of him riding horseback at the ranch. Soon, Black entertainers like Lena Horne, Hattie McDaniel, and Herb Jeffries became regulars. Herb even filmed several of his all-Black Westerns on the property, bringing the image of Black cowboys to the big screen.
But it wasn’t just celebrities. Families came from across California, grateful to find a place that welcomed them. During World War II, the ranch even served as a USO club for Black servicemen, who were banned from the one in town. On Easter mornings, Lela hosted sunrise services for hundreds—Black, white, anyone who came.
After Lela died in 1949, Nolie tried to keep the ranch going, but things changed. More vacation spots began opening to Black families. In 1955, Nolie sold the property to singer Pearl Bailey and her husband Louie Bellson. They called it the Lazy B and used it as a private retreat for a few more years.
By the 1980s, the buildings were empty and falling apart. In 1988, firefighters burned down the last of them during a training exercise. Today, the land near Waalew Road and Dale Evans Parkway looks like just another patch of desert, but the story of Murray’s Ranch lives on in history books, old photographs, and the memories of those who once called it a safe and joyful place.
Murray’s Dude Ranch wasn’t just a vacation spot. It was a quiet act of resistance—proof that dignity, hospitality, and hard work could carve out a place of freedom in a segregated world. It gave hundreds of families a chance to ride horses under the high desert sky, to laugh, rest, and belong. And that’s something worth remembering.
In the mid-1880s, a group of ambitious developers set their sights on a stretch of the Mojave Desert, hoping to turn it into a thriving agricultural colony. They called it Hesperia, meaning “western land,” and it was meant to be a modern utopia in the High Desert. The people behind the plan were no small-timers—they included men like Dr. Joseph Widney, a prominent Los Angeles doctor and civic leader, and his brother, Judge Robert Widney. They were joined by big-name financiers like G.A. Bonebrake and E.F. Spence, and even the Chaffey brothers, who had already made their mark with the Ontario Colony.
Together, they formed the Hesperia Land and Water Company in 1885. They bought up around 35,000 acres and began laying out a townsite with wide streets, shaded sidewalks, and big dreams. They even built a grand three-story hotel made of adobe bricks and equipped with the latest luxuries—running water on every floor and indoor toilets, which were almost unheard of in the desert then. A small train depot on the California Southern Railroad made it easy for potential buyers to visit. Salesmen would meet trainloads of visitors with pink lemonade and promises of a blossoming future.
The company needed water, and lots of it, to make all this possible. In 1886, they staked a bold claim on Deep Creek, a fork of the Mojave River. They placed a rock monument near their water intake, intending to divert 5,000 miners’ inches of water per minute for use in Hesperia. They built a dam, canals, and even a steel pipe to carry water under the Mojave River to their new town. It was an impressive engineering feat for the time, and it allowed some early farming to take root—grapes, apples, and even a little wine-making found a foothold.
But the dream didn’t last. The great Southern California land boom collapsed in 1887, and the Hesperia project was one of its casualties. Very few people moved in, and the grand hotel stood nearly empty for years. Despite the setback, the water system stayed in place, and the company managed the land as best it could. Around 1911, the original company was reorganized into the Appleton Land, Water and Power Company, which tried again to breathe life into the project. A few small farms carried on, and the irrigation ditches continued to serve the scattered settlers.
One name that occasionally comes up in the town’s early history is James G. Howland. While not listed as one of the official founders, local accounts suggest he played a leadership role, possibly managing operations on the ground. He may have worked with the Chaffey brothers in Canada before coming to California, and some suggest he acted as a general manager or project overseer in Hesperia. Unfortunately, very little is known about him beyond that. He seems to have left the area or faded from public life after the initial boom ended.
The early efforts of the Hesperia Land and Water Company didn’t create the bustling town they had hoped for, but they left behind more than broken dreams. The water rights they claimed remained valid, and the town’s basic layout stayed the same. When post–World War II developers arrived decades later, they found roads, water systems, and legal groundwork already in place. Despite their failure to spark an immediate colony, these early visionaries planted the seeds— literally and figuratively—for what would eventually grow into the city of Hesperia. Their work, including the rock monument at Deep Creek and the remnants of the grand hotel, still echoes in the town’s heritage today.
Combined timelines of Victorville, Hesperia & Apple Valley, CA.
Pre-1800s: Indigenous Presence and Trade
The Serrano and Vanyume tribes lived along the Mojave River, relying on the river’s intermittent flow for food and trade.
Trails used by these tribes would later become parts of the Mojave Road, Old Spanish Trail, and Salt Lake Road.
1850s–1870s: Pioneer Waystations and Early Ranching
1858: Aaron G. Lane establishes Lane’s Crossing on the Mojave River (present-day Oro Grande/Victorville area), offering rest and resupply to travelers heading west.
Lane is considered the first permanent American settler along the Mojave River.
Summit Valley, near present-day Hesperia, sees increased grazing by early ranchers.
The Summit Valley Massacre (1866): A conflict between settlers and Native groups over livestock thefts and land disputes—an often overlooked but significant local tragedy.
1880s: Railroads and Town Foundations
1885: The California Southern Railroad, part of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe system, reaches the High Desert.
A telegraph and railroad station named Victor is established, later renamed Victorville in 1901 to avoid confusion with Victor, Colorado.
Jacob Nash Victor, the railroad manager, is the town’s namesake.
The Hesperia Land and Water Company, led by James G. Howland, promotes Hesperia. It lays out plans for an agricultural colony and resort town, though irrigation plans fall short.
1900s–1930s: Modest Growth and Agriculture
Hesperia experiments with vineyards, orchards, and dairy farms, but water shortages and harsh conditions hinder success.
Victorville grows as a railroad shipping center and stopover for travelers crossing the desert.
The Victor Elementary School District is formed in 1906.
Early buildings still visible include the Hesperia Schoolhouse (Main St. and C Ave.).
1940s: War Changes Everything
1941: Victorville Army Airfield (later George Air Force Base) is established on the western edge of Victorville.
The base brings thousands of military personnel, rapid infrastructure growth, and federal investment.
Apple Valley remains mostly desert ranchland, but interest grows due to its mild climate and open space.
1948–1950s: Apple Valley Booms
1948: Apple Valley Inn opens, built by Newt Bass and Bud Westlund to attract investors and wealthy land buyers.
Stars like Bob Hope, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, and President Eisenhower stay at the inn.
Murray’s Dude Ranch (founded earlier, 1920s–30s): One of the few Black-owned resorts in the country. It hosted African American guests during segregation and was used in Black-cast Western films.
Roy Rogers and Dale Evans buy a ranch in Apple Valley and become its best-known residents, eventually opening Roy Rogers’ Apple Valley Inn.
1950s–1960s: Expansion and Identity
Hesperia Inn and the Hesperia Golf & Country Club try to rekindle resort dreams. Jack Dempsey, the former boxing champion, lends his name to a museum at the inn.
Victorville grows with new housing and infrastructure to support the military population.
Route 66 runs right through Old Town Victorville, lined with diners, motels, and neon signs.
1970s–1980s: Steady Growth and Cultural Legacy
Apple Valley becomes a desirable retirement destination, marketing itself as a “Better Way of Life.”
Civic leaders like Bud Westlund and Newton Bass help shape the town’s modern layout and community services.
The California Route 66 Museum opens in Victorville in a former café, preserving the highway’s local legacy.
1992–2000s: Transformation and Reinvention
1992: George Air Force Base closes under federal military restructuring, dealing a blow to Victorville’s economy.
The base is repurposed into Southern California Logistics Airport (SCLA), an international freight and aerospace hub.
Apple Valley, Hesperia, and Victorville begin to urbanize, growing into commuter towns for the Inland Empire and Los Angeles.
2000s–Present: Modern Challenges and Historic Preservation
Victor Valley College, founded in 1961, continues to serve the region.
Old Town Victorville Revitalization Project aims to preserve the historic downtown.
Apple Valley promotes its Western heritage through the Happy Trails Highway and events honoring Roy and Dale.
Hesperia Lake Park, Silverwood Lake, and local trails draw new visitors and recreation seekers.
1. No one owns it, but many try to control it. History, in its raw form—the past itself—belongs to no one. But the telling of history? That’s a different story. Governments, scholars, media, and even families all shape and reshape the narrative for various reasons: power, pride, justice, profit, or simply understanding.
2. The winners write the first drafts. You’ve probably heard the phrase, “The victors write history.” There’s truth in it—those with power or influence often get the loudest voice in historical accounts. But over time, that gets challenged.
3. Historians are stewards, not owners. Professional historians research, interpret, and present history, but don’t own it. They’re more like caretakers, using evidence to reconstruct the past. Still, their perspectives, training, and even funding can influence the stories they tell.
4. Communities own their stories. Local and Indigenous histories, family traditions, and oral accounts are often marginalized in official records. Yet they are crucial threads of the historical fabric. There’s growing recognition that these groups have a rightful say in how their stories are told.
5. You do, in a way. As a reader, researcher, or storyteller, you shape history. You decide what stories to share, what sources to trust, and what questions to ask. History is a collective memory, and each person helps choose what is remembered—or forgotten.
In the late 1800s, crossing the Mojave Desert meant bumping along uneven wagon ruts, hoping your team didn’t get stuck in deep sand or thrown off course by a flash flood. Early roads weren’t really “roads” at all—they were trails worn into the landscape by repeated travel, especially by miners, freighters, soldiers, and settlers. These rough paths linked desert mining camps like Calico, Panamint City, and Rhyolite to supply towns like San Bernardino, Barstow, and Los Angeles.
One of the most famous freight routes was blazed by Remi Nadeau, who used massive mule teams to haul silver and borax across the desert. Roads like the Bullion Trail were cleared by hand, just wide enough for wagons. The Mojave Road, first a Native trade route, became a military supply line after the U.S. Army established outposts like Fort Mojave.
Things changed with the invention of the Fresno Scraper in the 1880s. Before this tool, road grading was done with picks, shovels, and slip scrapers that barely moved enough earth. The Fresno Scraper, pulled by horses or mules, could scoop, carry, and deposit dirt efficiently—perfect for building up roadbeds and ditches in loose desert soil. It sped up construction and allowed workers to crown roads for better drainage, a critical improvement in a region prone to flash floods.
Railroads arrived in the desert by the late 1800s, including the Atlantic & Pacific, Southern Pacific, and Tonopah & Tidewater. While they made long-distance freight travel easier, they also created the need for short feeder roads to mining districts. These connections were often built with Fresno scrapers and early gasoline-powered graders by the 1910s.
As automobiles grew popular in the early 1900s, so did the need for better roads. The desert’s deep sand, sharp rocks, and dry washes were a nightmare for early drivers. Clubs like the AAA and promoters of the Arrowhead Trail began improving routes and placing signs to guide travelers across the Mojave. Oil-treated surfaces helped suppress dust, and wider grading made roads more durable.
Private entrepreneurs also took up the task. In 1925–26, Harry Eichbaum built a toll road over the Panamint Range to attract tourists to Death Valley. This road, carved through steep canyons and over rocky passes, later became part of State Route 190.
With federal aid laws passed in 1916 and 1921, California began standardizing desert highways like US 66, US 91, and US 395. Road building shifted from makeshift efforts to organized public works, supported by surveying, culverts, and modern grading machines.
What began as a harsh and unreliable network of trails evolved into a web of graded, signed, and—eventually—paved highways, making the Mojave Desert more accessible to settlers, travelers, and dreamers. The scars of early roads can still be seen today, fading into the sand alongside the remains of the towns they once served.
Highlighting key developments and innovations from the mid-1800s to the early 20th century:
1850s – Mojave Road formalized Originally a Native American trade route, the U.S. Army used it to move supplies between Fort Mojave and San Bernardino. It became one of the earliest overland military roads in the desert.
1860s–1870s – Freight roads and mining routes expand Remi Nadeau’s mule teams haul silver from Cerro Gordo to Los Angeles via the Bullion Trail. Roads are little more than widened trails, cleared by hand.
1870s–1880s – Slip scrapers and manual grading dominate Roadwork relies on muscle, picks, shovels, and rudimentary scrapers. Washouts and deep sand are constant problems.
1883 – Fresno Scraper invented It revolutionizes earthmoving in the desert. It enables efficient grading, crowning, and ditching, which are critical for reliable desert roadbeds.
1880s–1890s – Railroads reach the Mojave Atlantic & Pacific, Southern Pacific, and later Tonopah & Tidewater spur the need for feeder roads between mines and depots. Many desert trails are upgraded to accommodate wagon traffic.
1890s – Good Roads Movement reaches the West Bicyclists and farmers are pushing for better rural roads, and awareness is growing about the need for stable year-round access in the Mojave.
1901 – Early auto travel begins in the desert Motorists begin venturing into the Mojave. Sand, rocks, and dry washes make travel difficult without well-maintained roads.
1910s – Arrowhead Trail promoted This early auto route connects Salt Lake City to Los Angeles through the Mojave. Auto clubs mark routes and sponsor improvements.
1916 – Federal Aid Road Act passed The U.S. government begins funding rural road construction. California starts formalizing and grading desert highways.
1921 – Federal Highway Act expands funding More structured planning brings state oversight. Roads like US 66 and US 395 begin taking shape across the Mojave.
1925–1926 – Eichbaum Toll Road built A privately funded road across the Panamint Range to Death Valley is constructed to support tourism. Later incorporated into CA State Route 190.
Late 1920s – Oil and bitumen used for surfacing Desert roads begin receiving treatments to reduce dust and erosion, improving durability for growing auto traffic.
Ancient trade corridors in the Mojave Desert formed a vast network used by Native peoples for thousands of years. These routes connected water sources, villages, seasonal camps, and trade hubs, often following natural landforms like rivers, canyons, and mountain passes. Here’s a breakdown of some of the key corridors:
1. Mojave Trail (Mojave Road)
Route: From the Colorado River near present-day Needles across the desert to Soda Lake, Marl Springs, and eventually to the Mojave River and beyond to the Cajon Pass.
Use: Used by the Mojave (Aha Macav) and other tribes to trade shells, salt, obsidian, and other goods with coastal peoples. Later became the foundation for the Old Government Road.
2. Salt Song Trail System
Cultural Trail: A spiritual and song-based route still remembered and sung by Paiute and Chemehuevi people. It connects sacred sites across the Mojave and Great Basin, reflecting not just trade but ceremony and storytelling.
Route: While not a single physical path, it includes segments through valleys, springs, and mountain crossings.
3. Old Spanish Trail (Native precursor routes)
Route: Parts of this Euro-American route followed much older Native paths from the Mojave River through the Amargosa region and toward Las Vegas and the Virgin River.
Use: Before the Spanish established formal trade in the 1800s, Native groups had long used this corridor to exchange turquoise, basketry, and foodstuffs.
4. Owens Valley–Panamint–Death Valley Corridors
Route: From Owens Valley south and east through the Inyo and Panamint ranges into Death Valley and beyond.
Use: Paiute, Shoshone, and Timbisha traded pine nuts, obsidian, and other materials across this rugged terrain, often using high passes and springs.
5. Coastal–Desert Exchanges
Route: From the Channel Islands and Chumash territories inland to the Mojave via passes like Tejon and Cajon.
Use: Shell beads (money), fish products, and steatite were traded inland, while obsidian, pigments, and desert foods flowed west.
These trade corridors were more than just paths—they were vital lifelines that supported long-standing economies, diplomacy, migration, and ceremony. Over time, many of them were co-opted into Spanish, Mexican, and American routes, but their roots lie in much older Indigenous knowledge of the land.
In the final months of 1864, while the nation was still locked in the chaos of the Civil War, a wagon train rolled slowly across the American frontier. Among its passengers were two families whose names—at least in one case—would echo through the pages of Western legend. The Rousseaus were heading west in hopes of a new beginning. Hardened by war and failure, the Earps sought a better future in California. Leading the wagon train was Nicholas Porter Earp, father of Wyatt Earp, and it was here—on the unmarked road between Salt Lake and San Bernardino—that stories of strength, tension, and hardship unfolded, written down by the steady hand of Sarah Jane Rousseau in her trail diary.
Nicholas Earp was, by any account, a man built for difficult times. Born in 1813, he had lived through the War of 1812 as a boy, served in the Black Hawk War, and later took up arms in the Mexican-American War. He had worked as a farmer, a constable, and a jack-of-all-trades—never truly settling, always looking for something better over the subsequent rise. By 1864, Earp was in his early 50s, grizzled and stiff from rough work. He was also deeply set in his ways.
Descriptions of Nicholas during the journey paint him as short-tempered, headstrong, and deeply opinionated. He took command of the wagon train with the same kind of stern authority one might expect from a battlefield officer. There was little room for softness on the trail. Rules were rules. And if they weren’t followed, the consequences were loud, and sometimes threatening. This didn’t sit well with everyone.
While traveling with her husband, Dr. John Rousseau, and their children, Sarah Jane Rousseau kept a diary of the journey. Her writing is a rare window into the human side of westward migration, especially from a woman’s point of view. She recorded weather patterns, daily mileage, and significant encounters. But she also took note of personalities and frictions along the trail, and Nicholas Earp features more than once in that record, which is not always favorable.
At one point, Sarah wrote that Earp threatened to whip children—including, perhaps, her own. The details are brief, as was her style, but the implication is clear: he had a temper and believed in discipline the old-fashioned way. To modern readers, this feels shocking and harsh, but in 1864, it wasn’t unusual.
Earp’s behavior was fairly common for the time. Discipline, especially of children, often came with raised voices and raised hands. A man like Nicholas, shaped by war and hardship, would have seen his role as head of the train—and his family—as one of control, protection, and order. His approach to leadership was informed by a world in which survival often depended on obedience. There was little room for backtalk or disobedience when you were facing down the deserts of Utah and Nevada, with limited water and no help for miles.
As the wagons moved south from Salt Lake City, they picked up the Mormon Road, a rough route that cut across the Great Basin and the Mojave Desert. This trail, used by Mormon settlers on their way to California, was dry, dangerous, and unforgiving. The group passed through Beaver and Parowan, Utah, into southern Nevada, and then down into the California desert, where their trials multiplied.
In her diary entry dated December 4, 1864, Sarah recorded a chilling stop near Salt Spring, on the southern edge of Death Valley. There, they found the remnants of a mining operation where three men had recently been killed—possibly by local Native Americans. Sarah noted the presence of four abandoned buildings and a quartz mill, and the unease in the camp was palpable. The group was vulnerable, tired, and on edge.
A short time later, they reached Bitter Springs, another desolate stop known for its sparse water supply. According to Sarah, local Native people approached the wagon train but did not attack—perhaps because of the size of the party, or perhaps because their intentions were peaceful. Still, the tension must have been thick in the desert air.
As the days wore on, tempers grew shorter. Food and water grew scarce. Animals began to falter. And the relationships among the travelers frayed. Nicholas Earp’s hardline leadership—so natural to him—probably became harder to tolerate under such conditions. His background, age, and sense of authority collided with the growing exhaustion of those around him. Sarah’s quiet observations hint at these dynamics, even if she never spells them out directly.
And then there was Wyatt Earp—just 16 years old, along for the ride with his family. Later, he would become one of the most iconic lawmen of the Old West, but during this journey, he was simply a boy on a horse. Sarah barely mentions him. He rode. He hunted. He wore out horses. He did not yet command attention. His father’s shadow was too long.
Eventually, the wagons followed the Mojave River, moving past waypoints like Camp Cady or Lane’s Crossing, before climbing the rugged terrain of Cajon Pass. From there, it was a descent into green hills and relative safety. In San Bernardino, they would find civilization—such as it was—and a temporary end to their troubles.
But that journey, and the roles people played in it, stuck. Sarah’s diary survived to tell the tale. In her pages, we see a woman navigating not just a trail, but a world of personalities, expectations, and power struggles. We see Nicholas Earp not as a villain or a hero, but as a man of his time—unyielding, protective, severe. We see the toll that hard roads take on even the hardest men.
And in the background, quietly riding along, was a teenager who would one day walk down a dusty street in Tombstone. But for now, he was just Wyatt—young, restless, and learning, perhaps unconsciously, what it meant to survive in a world ruled by men like his father.
In the mid-1920s, a man named H.W. Eichbaum looked out at the harsh desert landscape of Death Valley and saw something else entirely—a chance to bring travelers into one of the most remote and misunderstood places in California. Eichbaum, an engineer with a background in mining and tourism, had already run successful ventures on Catalina Island and in Venice, California. But the desert kept calling him back.
At the time, Death Valley had no real roads for cars. Miners knew the place, but tourists stayed away. Eichbaum dreamed of building the valley’s first resort at Stovepipe Wells, but first, he needed a road. He made multiple proposals to the Inyo County Board of Supervisors before securing approval in October 1925. The deal allowed him to build and operate a toll road down into Death Valley from Darwin Wash across Panamint Valley and Towne Pass.
The road was built by hand and Caterpillar tractor, winding around boulders rather than blasting through them. It was rough, narrow, and at times treacherous, but by spring 1926, the road reached the edge of the Mesquite Flat Dunes—just shy of his goal. Still, Eichbaum opened his Stovepipe Wells Hotel later that year, and tourists soon followed. His promotional savvy, regular ads in Los Angeles papers, and a sightseeing bus company helped make Death Valley a winter destination.
Eichbaum’s road and resort kicked off auto-tourism in the valley, but he didn’t live to see its full impact. He died in 1932, just before Death Valley became a national monument. As traffic grew and tolls became unpopular, the state eventually took over the route, paving it into what’s now part of California Highway 190. Some rough segments still exist as backcountry routes. But thanks to Eichbaum’s vision and grit, Death Valley was no longer just a miner’s haunt—it became a destination.
Wrightwood, California, nestled in the San Gabriel Mountains, has long inspired photographers to capture its charm, seasons, and community spirit. From black-and-white postcards to vivid digital landscapes, a handful of dedicated photographers have helped preserve this mountain town’s history through their lenses.
Burton Frasher was one of the earliest travelers to the Southwest in the 1920s and 30s, producing black-and-white postcards under the name “Frasher’s Fotos.” His pictures of Wrightwood, like the old clubhouse and the snow-covered lodge, offer a quiet, nostalgic look at what the town was like nearly a century ago.
Another local legend, Helga Wallner, took a more personal approach. She wasn’t just behind the camera—she was part of the community. Helga owned the Four Seasons Art Gallery on Park Drive and was known for her love of hiking, wilderness, and artistic expression. Her photographs of Wrightwood and nearby Big Pines can still be found in the town’s historical museum, reflecting her deep connection to the land and people.
Walter Feller, the mind behind the Digital-Desert website, brought Wrightwood into the modern era with landscape photography and digital storytelling. His photos of snow-covered trees and sunlit trails—sometimes paired with poetry—help others see the area as he does: full of quiet beauty and historical weight. His aerial shots of the town and the nearby regions give a unique perspective that blends natural wonder with careful observation.
Bill Zita, a local firefighter, also documented the town’s day-to-day life for over four decades. His color photos—more than 500 of them—are collected in the book On Call, showing everything from fires to festivals. Through his lens, Wrightwood becomes a living, breathing place.
Moses Sparks, a more recent contributor, focuses on wildlife and nature photography. His work, featured in local exhibits, captures the untamed side of Wrightwood—bobcats, hawks, and quiet forest scenes that many residents only glimpse in passing.
Gary Tarver brings a more intimate, journalistic style to his portraits and event photography. With decades of experience and a knack for natural moments, Gary helps people see Wrightwood as a place and a community.
Together, these photographers—Frasher, Wallner, Feller, Zita, Sparks, and Tarver—have created a visual legacy of Wrightwood that spans generations. Whether through dusty postcards, crisp digital prints, or family portraits, their work tells the story of a mountain town that still knows how to pause and pose for the camera.
Here is a merged, humanized historical essay about Jacob Nash Victor and the naming of Victorville:
Jacob Nash Victor was a determined railroad pioneer whose work helped shape the future of Southern California. Born in 1835, Victor was a civil engineer who eventually became general manager of the California Southern Railway, a crucial piece of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway system. His efforts significantly contributed to the second transcontinental railroad in the United States by giving the Santa Fe route a Pacific Coast terminal.
Victor’s first major task in California was rebuilding 30 miles of washed-out track between Fallbrook and San Diego. But it was in 1883 that he made history. In a daring move, he cut through the Southern Pacific’s tracks at Colton, linking San Bernardino with the coast. Then, in 1885, Victor drove the first locomotive through the steep and rugged Cajon Pass, finally connecting San Bernardino with Barstow and completing the Santa Fe’s transcontinental route. These milestones were celebrated with flowers on the engines and public festivities in San Bernardino. Locals understood the importance of what had just been achieved.
Victor, proud of the feat, reportedly said, “No other railroad will ever have the nerve to build through these mountains.” He added, “All that follow will prefer to rent passage from us”—a prophetic statement when, 17 years later, the Salt Lake Route (now Union Pacific) followed the same path.
After retiring from the railroad, Victor continued his public service as a San Bernardino County Supervisor during a tense time when Riverside was trying to split from the county. He championed a direct tax that led to the construction of the Old Stone Courthouse at Court and E Streets, which stood until 1927. He also helped oversee the development of many county roads, leaving a lasting mark on the region’s infrastructure.
Following a second retirement, Victor and his wife, Elizabeth Blackwell Blue, spent summers in the East but always returned to San Bernardino for the winter. They considered it home and now rest in Mountain View Cemetery in San Bernardino.
In 1901, to avoid confusion with Victor, Colorado, the U.S. Post Office officially changed the name of the desert town from “Victor” to “Victorville.” The new name preserved Victor’s legacy while giving the growing community its own identity—one still rooted in the bold spirit of the railroad that helped put it on the map.
1862 – John and Dennis Searles were out in the Mojave looking for gold when they stumbled on something unexpected: borax crystals in a dry lakebed. That discovery would change the valley forever.
1873 – The brothers formed the San Bernardino Borax Mining Company and started pulling borax from the dry lake that would later bear their name—Searles Lake.
1908 – With more minerals beneath the lakebed than anyone first realized, the California Trona Company staked big claims. Potash, especially, was in high demand.
1910–1915 – The “Potash Wars” kicked off. Competing companies (and even folks like Wyatt Earp) scrambled for control over the riches buried in the lake.
1913 – The American Trona Corporation took over, built up operations, and founded the town of Trona as a place for its workers to live.
1914 – The Trona Railway was completed, finally connecting this remote desert town to the wider world by rail.
1922–1928 – A strange little monorail carried Epsom salts across the lake. It was a short-lived experiment but a memorable one.
1926 – The company rebranded as American Potash and Chemical. It wasn’t just borax anymore—Trona was now producing various industrial minerals.
1967 – Kerr-McGee, known more for oil and nuclear work, bought up the operation and brought big changes.
1974 – The company town model was starting to fade. Kerr-McGee began stepping back from running the town, which upset many locals who had grown up in the tightly-knit community.
1990 – North American Chemical took over the operation for a hefty price, over $200 million. The handoffs kept coming.
1998–2008—The plant changed hands again—IMC Global, then Sun Capital (which renamed it Searles Valley Minerals), and finally Nirma, an Indian company, took ownership.
2019 – A strong earthquake hit near Ridgecrest and shook Trona hard. Homes and roads were damaged, and the town’s resilience was tested again.
Today, Trona is still where the earth gives up its hidden riches, but it’s also a town with weathered booms, busts, and quakes. It’s got one of the strangest and most beautiful backyards in California—the Trona Pinnacles—where ancient tufa towers rise from the dry lakebed, a reminder that this place has always been shaped by deep time and strong forces.
Hidden deep in California’s high desert once stood a rugged outpost known as Fort Nadeau—a supply and rest station that helped fuel one of the West’s most ambitious freight operations. Though long gone, its story remains a vivid chapter in desert mining and transport history.
A Private Fort for a Public Need
Fort Nadeau wasn’t a military base. It was a privately built station founded in the early 1870s by Remi Nadeau, a French-Canadian entrepreneur who created a central freight line to support the booming silver mines in the Inyo Mountains, especially the Cerro Gordo Mine, the largest in the area.
As silver flowed from the hills, Nadeau’s mule teams carried bullion and supplies between the remote mining camps and the bustling port of Los Angeles. His route became known as the Bullion Trail, and it quickly expanded to include over 1,000 mules, 80 freight teams, and numerous fortified stops like Fort Nadeau.
Strategically Located in Indian Wells Valley
Fort Nadeau, also known as Kelly’s Station, sat at the northwest end of Indian Wells Valley—near today’s China Lake Naval Weapons Center. Located at the base of the steep Taylor Grade, the station provided water, protection, and a place to change teams before the difficult climb to Wild Horse Mesa.
It wasn’t just a rest stop—it had thick adobe walls, corrals, and defensive features. Evidence of bullets and musket balls found decades later suggests it may have been attacked during its heyday.
Echoes from the Past
In 1927, local schoolchildren visited the site and found musket balls scattered around the fort walls—perhaps remnants of a long-forgotten skirmish. One visitor recalled finding a Wells Fargo box imprint in the old corrals’ dried manure, hinting at the valuable cargo that once passed through.
Nadeau’s operations eventually declined with the mines. By 1881, he had moved on to Arizona, and by the 1940s, the Navy acquired the entire region. Fort Nadeau was reportedly bulldozed into a gulch as part of a military cleanup.
Legacy of the Bullion Trail
Though little remains of Fort Nadeau today, its legacy lives on in the stories of early freight travel, the courage of desert teamsters, and the vital role these way stations played in connecting California’s rugged interior to the coast.
For more on this historic route, explore works like Ghost Towns and Mining Camps of California by Remi A. Nadeau, great-grandson of the original trailblazer.
adapted from: Fort Nadeau by Justin Ruhge militarymuseum.org
Travels with Nicholas Porter Earp past every bloody massacre site on the Mormon Wagon Road through the Mojave (The 1864 Diary of Sarah Jane Rousseau)
It was 1864. Four families packed up everything they owned and headed west. They left Pella, Iowa, for California, hoping for a better life. Nicholas Porter Earp, a strong-willed and often fiery man, led the way. He had his sons with him, including 16-year-old Wyatt Earp. Traveling with them were the Rousseaus, the Curtises, and the Hamiltons. Sarah Jane Rousseau, the family matriarch and a talented pianist, kept a daily diary. She wrote about the people, the weather, the landscape, and every struggle they faced.
From day one, it was hard. Cows ran off. A boy nearly got crushed under a wagon. One family lost a horse. The trail stretched out across the prairie, endless and exhausting. Sarah wrote it all down. She described graves by the roadside, thunderstorms rolling in, and the sparkle of a prairie flower. But there were also drownings, sickness, and tensions in the group. Nick Earp didn’t make things easier. He was strict, sometimes harsh. At one point, he exploded angrily because someone dared pass him on the trail.
By the time they reached Salt Lake City, the group had survived months of hardship. But the worst was yet to come. From there, they set out on the Mormon Wagon Road — a path full of blood-soaked history. One of the first places they passed was Mountain Meadows, where 120 people had been massacred just seven years earlier. Sarah didn’t dwell on it in her diary, but she knew the story. Everyone on the trail did.
Further on, the trail twisted through canyons and lava flows. The group crossed the Virgin River 17 times in one day. Nick pushed the wagons up Mormon Mesa without rest, which cost them dearly — a horse later died of exhaustion. When they camped near Paiute villages, they offered cattle in exchange for peace, even taking young men as overnight “hostages” to ensure a calm night. Nick didn’t like it, but Sarah and the others saw it as wise.
They reached Las Vegas — not a city then, just a dusty fort and bubbling springs. Sarah rested, did laundry, and probably took in the quiet. Then it was back on the trail. The desert stretched ahead. They found Resting Springs, a true oasis, and then Salt Springs, where they came upon a horror: the charred remains of a mine. Just weeks earlier, miners had been attacked there. Two fled into the desert and, fearing torture, took their own lives.
At Bitter Spring, Sarah remembered another story — two teamsters murdered, and soldiers later hanging Native men in retaliation. The trail had scars, and Sarah’s diary traced them all. One of her horses collapsed from hunger. She mourned it deeply.
They finally reached the Mojave River, a winding ribbon of life in the desert. At Camp Cady, they may have seen soldiers. They camped at Fish Ponds and Point of Rocks, where water bubbled up from underground. At Lane’s Crossing, they saw signs of real settlement.
Then came Cajon Pass. They climbed in the snow, descending on a road that twisted and dropped steeply. John Brown’s new toll road spared them the worst of Crowder Canyon. Sarah saw green grass at the bottom, a sharp contrast to the desert behind them.
On December 17, 1864, they arrived in San Bernardino. Sarah wasn’t sure if they’d stay. But they did. The Rousseaus settled in town. Dr. Rousseau became a respected doctor and educator. Sarah taught piano. The Earps moved to nearby Colton. Nick became a justice of the peace.
Sarah’s diary ended there, but her words carried on. She told a story not just of dust and hardship, but of grit, endurance, and quiet courage. Her journey wasn’t just miles on a map. It was a passage through history, over blood-stained ground, and into a new life. Her steady and clear voice gives us one of the most vivid pictures of the Mormon Trail and those who dared to cross it.
Before 1800 – Native Life and Ancient Trails Before Barstow had a name, Native people like the Vanyume, Mojave, Chemehuevi, and Serrano lived along the Mojave River. They traveled by foot along established desert routes, following water and trade paths that crisscrossed the region. These ancient trails later became vital to everyone who came afterward.
1776 – Garcés Crosses the Desert Spanish missionary Francisco Garcés passed through the Mojave River area using Native routes. He named the river “Rio de las Ánimas” and described the desert in both spiritual and survivalist terms. His journals gave future travelers clues on how to make the crossing.
1826 – Jedediah Smith Comes Through American trapper Jedediah Smith followed the Mojave River from the Colorado River westward, using guidance from the Mojave people. He was the first American to make the overland journey into California from the east.
1830s–1840s – Old Spanish Trail and Mormon Road Mexican traders opened the Old Spanish Trail through the area, followed by American settlers and Mormon wagons after 1848. The Barstow area—still unnamed—was a key water stop along the river, often called “Fish Ponds” or “Grapevines” by passing wagon trains.
1850s–1860s – Grapevines Camp and Beale’s Mojave Road The U.S. government ordered surveys and improvements to overland routes to secure travel across the desert. One of the best-known efforts was Beale’s Wagon Road, laid out in 1857–1858 by Lt. Edward Fitzgerald Beale. His mission: survey a wagon route from Fort Smith, Arkansas, to Los Angeles—and test out camels along the way. Beale followed part of the Old Spanish Trail and overlapped the Mojave Road from the Colorado River through the Mojave River corridor. Near Barstow, he likely passed through the Grapevines camp, using the same shaded stretch of river that had served Native peoples for centuries. Beale’s Mojave Road helped formalize a transcontinental route and gave the government a clearer picture of the land’s value. Later, the military used this same road to move troops and protect settlers during increasing tensions with Native tribes. In 1860, Camp Cady was built about 20 miles east of present-day Barstow as an Army post along the Mojave Road. The Barstow area (still not yet a town) became a well-used midpoint along this corridor.
1880s – Railroads and Silver Fever The 1880s changed everything. Railroads moved in—first Southern Pacific, then Santa Fe. A small camp at the river junction became a full-blown railroad stop called Waterman Junction, later renamed Barstow. At the same time, silver and borax were discovered nearby in the Calico Mountains, launching a desert mining boom. Barstow, Daggett, and Calico worked as a trio: one ran on ore, handled freight, and kept the trains moving.
1886 – Barstow Gets Its Name Santa Fe Railroad named the new depot town after its president, William Barstow Strong. With the name came a post office, businesses, and permanence. Barstow began to eclipse Daggett and Calico as the region’s main center.
1890s–1900s – Mining Slows, Rail Keeps Rolling As mining faded, the railroad kept Barstow alive. Calico was mainly abandoned by 1907, but Barstow held on as a shipping and transport town. The desert may have emptied, but trains kept coming.
1911 – The Harvey House Shines The Casa del Desierto opened in 1911. This fancy Harvey House hotel and depot served rail passengers with meals, lodging, and class. It became Barstow’s pride and stood as a desert icon for decades.
1920s – Barstow Becomes a Highway Town With cars replacing trains for many, Barstow shifted from a rail town to a highway town. In 1925, Main Street was rerouted to better serve autos instead of trains. Then in 1926, U.S. Route 66 was designated and passed through town.
1929 – Brief Brush with the Sky Barstow joined the early air travel history with a short-lived desert airport picked by Charles Lindbergh’s airline. Though it didn’t last, it was a sign of Barstow’s connection to every new frontier—rails, roads, and even the skies.
1940s – The Military Moves In World War II brought the military to the Mojave. The Army opened Camp Irwin north of town for training, and the Marine Corps opened a logistics base near Barstow. These bases brought families, jobs, and a new phase of growth.
1947 – Barstow Becomes a City In 1947, Barstow officially incorporated. It was no longer just a camp or a depot—it was a proper desert city.
1950s–1962 – Crossroads of the Desert Route 66, U.S. 91, and U.S. 466 all ran through downtown Barstow. The town boomed with gas stations, motels, and diners. In 1960, Barstow College opened. In 1961, Camp Irwin became Fort Irwin, a permanent base. By 1962, Barstow stood proud as the desert’s “Crossroads of Opportunity,” with a deep history rooted in ancient trails, bold explorers, wagons, rails, and desert grit.
Learning the local and regional history of the Mojave Desert means tuning into a layered story shaped by environment, survival, movement, and adaptation. It’s a desert, yes—but not empty. Its history is written in petroglyphs, wagon ruts, mining tailings, rail ties, homestead ruins, and the still-beating hearts of small towns.
Local history in the Mojave often starts with places: a spring, a crossroads, a mine, a family ranch. These places tell human-scale stories—Chemehuevi trade paths, Paiute irrigation techniques, 19th-century stage stops, homesteaders braving wind and isolation. One town might have formed around a reliable water source or a rail siding, then boomed with mining or wartime industry and faded again when the ore ran out or highways shifted.
Regional or provincial history connects those dots. The Mojave’s broader story includes Spanish exploration, military campaigns, rail competition (think Southern Pacific vs. Santa Fe), and the spread of infrastructure like Route 66 and the aqueduct systems. You also see how waves of federal policy—land acts, park creation, military use—shaped wide swaths of desert land and life.
To truly learn it, you piece together:
Oral history from Indigenous communities and old-timers
Newspapers and legal records from mining districts and rail towns
c. 9000 BCE – Indigenous peoples, likely ancestors of the Kitanemuk and other local tribes, begin using the Antelope Valley for seasonal travel and trade. The valley serves as a crossroads between the Mojave Desert and coastal regions.
1772 – Spanish explorer Pedro Fages passed through the Antelope Valley during early inland expeditions north of San Gabriel Mission.
1800s (early) – The valley remains sparsely used by Spanish and later Mexican ranchers, with little permanent non-native settlement.
1848 – California becomes part of the United States following the Mexican-American War. American settlers begin trickling in.
1854 – Fort Tejon is established to the west of the valley. It becomes a military post and supply route, protecting settlers and goods traveling through Grapevine Canyon and the valley floor.
1858 – The Butterfield Overland Mail sets up a stagecoach route crossing the valley, including stops near present-day Lancaster and Mojave.
1860 – The Los Angeles to San Francisco telegraph line cuts across the valley, a key advancement in communication.
1860s–1870s: Ranching became more common as open land and rail access attracted cattlemen. H.J. Butterworth and others ran large cattle operations.
1876 – The Southern Pacific Railroad reaches the valley, connecting it with Los Angeles and the Central Valley. This leads to the development of rail towns such as Mojave.
1880s – Early farming begins, especially around Lancaster and Rosamond, spurred by unusually wet weather. A few antelopes still roam the open grasslands but vanish by the decade’s end due to overhunting and dry winters.
1884 – Lancaster is officially established as a station town along the Southern Pacific line.
1886 – Mojave becomes a critical rail junction connecting the SP and the Borax routes to the desert.
1890s – Agriculture spreads, especially dry farming of wheat and barley. Homesteaders attempt to settle remote areas. In 1894, a severe drought begins, devastating crops and driving many settlers away.
Early 1900s – Irrigation and windmill-powered wells slowly return life to abandoned farms. Electricity arrives, helping boost productivity.
1913 – The Los Angeles Aqueduct is completed by William Mulholland, delivering water from the Owens Valley to L.A. The project passes through the Antelope Valley and contributes to growth and infrastructure.
1921 – Palmdale is formally incorporated as a town site, growing from a rural colony founded by Swiss and German families in the late 1880s.
1933 – Muroc Army Airfield (later Edwards Air Force Base) is established. This brings a long-term military and technological presence to the valley.
1940s – World War II transforms the Antelope Valley into an aerospace hub. Military testing and development expand rapidly.
1950s – Both Palmdale and Lancaster grow quickly as workers settle in to support Edwards AFB and companies like Lockheed. Suburbs, schools, and civic centers appear.
1962 – Palmdale is officially incorporated as a city.
1977 – The space shuttle Enterprise makes its test flights at Edwards AFB, showcasing the valley’s role in national aerospace history.
1980s–2000s – Growth continues, with the valley balancing residential expansion, agriculture, and ongoing defense contracting work.
Today – Palmdale and Lancaster anchor the valley, which supports farming, aerospace, solar energy, and commuters. The wide desert skies and quiet spaces remain a draw, as do the area’s historical roots.
The deeper history of a place doesn’t usually begin with grand events or famous names—it starts small. One family is settling near a spring. A trail worn down by generations of feet. A store that sold more than goods—it passed along stories. These local pieces might seem scattered or minor at first, but when you look closer, they connect. Like layers of soil in a core sample, each one has a story, and stacked together, they tell the history of a whole region.
Here’s how these local stories help us understand the bigger picture:
They show what happened on the ground. Big histories often discuss things in general terms—laws passed, wars fought, economies shifting. Local history shows how those things played out. Maybe a new law was ignored in one town, or a railroad line shifted the heart of another. It adds the human detail that broad overviews miss.
They show how everything connects. A small mill might seem like a side note until you learn it supplied lumber for rebuilding a major city. A desert trail might have been a supply route in wartime. These connections help explain why things happened the way they did.
They correct the record. Big histories often skip over places that seem unimportant. But digging into local documents, graveyards, and old newspapers can reveal surprises—and sometimes challenge what we thought we knew.
They keep culture alive. Local history holds onto things the bigger stories often lose: old place names, folk sayings, recipes, and customs. These details matter, especially for communities that have been pushed aside or erased over time.
They give historians the raw material they need. All those national and provincial stories are built on the little things: land deeds, school records, letters, maps. Without this groundwork, the larger story would have no foundation.
They show cause and effect in real life. You can’t explain a regional rebellion or a major irrigation plan without looking at what happened in the specific towns and valleys involved. That’s where you see how plans succeeded—or failed—and what it meant for the people living there.
Local history matters because it puts people back into the picture. It turns maps into places, and dates into stories. Want to understand a region? Start small. That’s where the truth lives.
Prehistoric times Before any fort was built, the Tejon Pass area was a natural corridor for Native peoples like the Kitanemuk and Yokuts. They hunted in the rolling hills, traded along the ancient trails, and lived near springs and oak groves.
1772 Spanish explorer Pedro Fages, one of the earliest Europeans to pass through the area, later gave the region its name. The nearby Tejon Canyon (meaning “badger” in Spanish) was named after the region.
1854 Fort Tejon was established by the U.S. Army to protect settlers, mail routes, and ranches from raiding and to keep peace between Native groups and new arrivals. It was one of the earliest Army posts in California’s interior.
1854–1864 Fort Tejon operated as a frontier outpost. Soldiers lived in simple adobe and wooden buildings and patrolled the region on horseback. The fort also oversaw a military experiment—the U.S. Camel Corps. A handful of camels were brought in to test their usefulness in desert transport. Though the camels proved capable, the experiment didn’t last.
1857 The Fort Tejon earthquake struck on January 9. With an estimated magnitude of 7.9, it remains one of the largest earthquakes in California’s history. The epicenter was near the San Andreas Fault, not far from the fort, and the shaking was felt as far north as San Francisco.
1861 When the Civil War broke out, most U.S. Army troops were withdrawn from California. Fort Tejon was briefly used by California volunteer units but never regained its earlier importance.
1864 The Army abandoned Fort Tejon. Buildings fell into disrepair, and the site mainly became quiet, used for ranching and grazing.
1930s Interest in preserving California’s early military history grew. Restoration efforts began, and Fort Tejon became a California State Historic Park.
Today Fort Tejon is a quiet, scenic park in oak woodlands near Lebec, just off Interstate 5. A few restored buildings remain, including the barracks and officers’ quarters. Reenactments, educational programs, and exhibits help visitors step back in time to the era of frontier California, before freeways and fast food replaced mules and mess halls.
Prehistoric times Before there was a town, the Paiute-Shoshone people lived in the Owens Valley for thousands of years. They built irrigation ditches, hunted game, and grew native crops. The area around modern Lone Pine had creeks, springs, and fertile land—ideal for their way of life.
1834 Explorer Joseph Walker passed through the valley. His route over Walker Pass helped open the area to future travel and settlement.
1861 Silver was discovered in the Inyo Mountains, and miners arrived in droves. Lone Pine was founded as a supply point for the booming Cerro Gordo mines across the valley. It was named after a single pine tree that once stood near Lone Pine Creek.
1865 Tragedy struck when a deadly earthquake hit the Owens Valley. The quake, estimated at magnitude 7.4, caused major damage to Lone Pine. Nearly every building collapsed, and about 27 people died. Fault scarps from that quake can still be seen today.
1870s Lone Pine grew as the main gateway to Cerro Gordo and later Darwin. Mules hauled ore, and wagons loaded up supplies. The town had blacksmiths, boarding houses, saloons, and a steady stream of travelers and prospectors.
1880s–1890s The Carson & Colorado Railroad came through the valley, reaching Lone Pine’s southern neighbor, Keeler. Though Lone Pine wasn’t directly on the rail line, it remained an important hub for travelers and freighters.
Early 1900s Lone Pine began to shift from a mining supply town to a ranching and tourism center. Its location at the foot of the Sierra Nevada made it a natural base for climbers, hikers, and adventurers headed toward Mount Whitney—the tallest peak in the lower 48 states.
1924 The first film crew arrived. Lone Pine’s wide-open spaces and rugged scenery made it a Western favorite. Over the decades, hundreds of movies were filmed in the nearby Alabama Hills, featuring stars like John Wayne, Roy Rogers, and Clint Eastwood.
1930s–1950s Lone Pine’s movie legacy grew. Local businesses thrived on tourism and film production. At the same time, the town’s ranching and farming roots kept it grounded. The Los Angeles Aqueduct, built in the 1910s and expanded later, continued to drain water from the Owens Valley, creating conflict with local farmers.
1942 The Manzanar War Relocation Center opened just north of town. This internment camp held over 10,000 Japanese Americans during World War II. Lone Pine residents witnessed one of the darker chapters in U.S. history up close.
1960s–1980s The town kept a steady pace. Tourists came for fishing, hiking, and climbing. Lone Pine remained a place where folks stopped on their way to Death Valley or Yosemite.
1990s–Today Lone Pine embraces its movie history with the annual Lone Pine Film Festival and the Museum of Western Film History. It also serves as a base for outdoor enthusiasts, with Mount Whitney, the Alabama Hills, and countless hiking trails right outside town. Despite its small size, Lone Pine holds onto a big piece of California history—mining, movies, mountains, and more.
