Desert Gazette

Timelines

List

Category: Historical

  • Lt. Amiel W. Whipple’s 35th Parallel Railroad Survey

    Background: Pacific Railroad Surveys of 1853–1854

    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 proved disastrous – 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.

  • Fort Tejon’s Military Legacy

    & 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
    • Cline Library, Northern Arizona University, “Route 66 and Beale’s Wagon Road”
    • National Register of Historic Places, 35th Parallel Route
    • United States Department of War, Topographical Engineer Reports (1850s)
    • Fort Tejon Historical Association
    • Westward Expansion Trails – Cooke’s Road, Southern Emigrant Trail
    • National Archives, Reports on U.S. Camel Corps and Military Roads
    • Journey with Murphy, “Fort Tejon: A Civil War Fort & the Wild West”
    • Library of Congress, Civil War-era military correspondence

  • Hesperia Ditch

    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.

  • The Road That Gold Built

    The Story of Van Dusen Road and Belleville

    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.

  • Murray’s Dude Ranch

    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.

  • Hesperia, 1880s

    Water

    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.

  • Owning History

    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.

  • Road Building in the Mojave Desert

    From Wagon Trails to Motorways

    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.

  • Nicholas Earp, Sarah Jane Rousseau

    The Long Trail West

    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.

  • The Eichbaum Toll Road:

    Opening Death Valley to the Motor Age

    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 Photography

    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.

  • Jacob Nash Victor

    The Naming of Victorville

    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.

  • Regional – Local Histories

    Connections in Understanding

    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
    • Maps and land patents to track use and ownership
    • Environmental clues—old trails, dry lakes, abandoned wells
    • And pattern recognition—seeing how one decision in Washington or San Francisco echoed through the Mojave’s isolated outposts.

  • Deep Histories

    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:

    1. 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.
    2. 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.
    3. 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.
    4. 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.
    5. 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.
    6. 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.

  • Railroad Across the Mojave

    Initially, negotiations between the California Southern and the Southern Pacific over securing a route from Needles to the Pacific Coast proved difficult. The Southern Pacific, which held effective control over the only existing line across the Mojave Desert, was in no hurry to assist a potential rival. The Southern Pacific’s leadership, accustomed to monopolizing rail access into and across California, viewed any arrangement that would aid an eastern competitor with deep suspicion.

    Faced with obstruction and unreasonable demands, the California Southern and the Atlantic and Pacific Railroads—both closely tied to eastern capital—announced a bold plan. If the Southern Pacific would not cooperate on reasonable terms, they declared they would jointly undertake the construction of an entirely new and independent railroad across the desert. This proposed line would have paralleled the Southern Pacific’s existing track but remained free of its influence, offering the first serious threat to the Southern Pacific’s dominance over desert transportation.

    The announcement was not a mere bluff. Surveys were conducted, routes were studied, and eastern investors, eager to establish a competitive foothold in the California market, were prepared to finance the new line. The specter of competition alarmed the Southern Pacific. It recognized that the construction of a rival road could undermine its existing investments, dilute its control, and establish a permanent eastern presence in southern California on terms not of its choosing.

    California Southern Railroad construction in Cajon Pass

    To avoid a costly and unpredictable conflict, the Southern Pacific made a calculated decision. In October 1884, it agreed to sell the line between Needles and Mojave—a route built initially by its construction arm, the Pacific Improvement Company. By doing so, the Southern Pacific sidestepped a potential rival and still profited from its investment in the desert.

    The transfer was a turning point. With control of the Needles-Mojave line secured, the California Southern could at last resume construction in earnest, repairing flood damage and completing its transcontinental link. By late 1885, trains could run from San Diego to Barstow, and by 1886, the California Southern itself had been acquired by the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway, effectively sealing the eastern invasion into California’s rail market.

    California Southern and Atlantic and Pacific Railroad: Timeline with Notes (1880–1886)

    • October 12, 1880 – Charter Granted
      The California Southern Railroad Company is chartered to build a line from San Diego to San Bernardino, opening a new southern route to inland California.
    • May 23, 1881 – Extension Planned
      The California Southern Extension Company is chartered to extend the line northeast to connect with the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, originally aiming for a point about 80 miles from San Bernardino.
    • August 1882 – Reaches Colton
      Track completed to Colton; the line begins to make inroads into Southern Pacific territory.
    • September 13, 1883 – Main Line Opened
      Full operation begins between San Diego and San Bernardino. California Southern faces strong opposition from the Southern Pacific almost immediately.
    • Winter 1883–1884 – Severe Flood Damage
      Torrential rains devastate Temecula Canyon. Thirty miles of track are destroyed, bridges are washed away, and ties are seen floating far out to sea. The company faces ruin unless major repairs are undertaken.
    • Early 1884 – Strategic Setback
      Southern Pacific, exercising influence over the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, forces the eastern connection to be built at Needles on the Colorado River—far beyond the original plan—meaning California Southern must now cross 300 miles of mountain and desert.
    • Mid-1884 – Threat of Independent Construction
      In response, the California Southern and Atlantic and Pacific announce that if necessary, they will build a completely independent railroad across the desert to avoid using Southern Pacific lines. Surveys are ordered, and eastern backers prepare financing.
    • October 1884 – Southern Pacific Relents
      Rather than risk parallel competition, the Southern Pacific agrees to sell the Needles-to-Mojave line to the California Southern Railroad. The Pacific Improvement Company, an entity under the control of Southern Pacific, had built the track.
    • November 1885 – Line Repaired and Completed
      After extensive repairs and new construction, the California Southern opens through service from San Diego to Barstow, near the junction of the Atlantic and Pacific at Needles.
    • October 1886 – Control Transferred to Santa Fe
      The California Southern is formally absorbed into the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway system, becoming part of a major transcontinental route and ending Southern Pacific’s near-monopoly over southern California rail traffic.

    The struggles and ultimate success of the California Southern Railroad marked a turning point in the history of Southern California. By securing a route independent of the Southern Pacific’s control, the California Southern, under the wing of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe, opened the region to competition, lower freight rates, and new waves of settlement and development.

    No longer isolated or captive to a single powerful railroad, San Diego and the inland valleys could now connect directly to the markets of the East. The great deserts and mountains that had once seemed impassable barriers became corridors of commerce and migration. In many ways, the hard-fought efforts of the California Southern and its allies helped lay the groundwork for the explosive growth of Southern California that would follow in the decades to come. It was a victory not only of rails and capital, but of determination against monopoly and geographic hardship.

  • Historical Overview of the Borate & Daggett Railroad

    Introduction The Borate & Daggett Railroad, a short-lived yet pivotal narrow-gauge railway, played a crucial role in the borax mining industry in California’s Mojave Desert at the turn of the 20th century. Its impact on the industry and its transition from traditional mule team freight to an efficient rail-based network make it a significant part of mining history.

    In 1898, the Pacific Coast Borax Company, led by Francis Marion “Borax” Smith, constructed a narrow-gauge line that ran approximately 11 miles from the railhead in Daggett, California, to the mining camp of Borate near Calico. This railroad aimed to haul colemanite, a borax ore, out of the Calico Mountains, replacing the famous twenty-mule team wagon transports that had carried borax across the desert in the 1890s. The Borate & Daggett Railroad transitioned from traditional mule team freight hauling to an efficient rail-based network. It became a crucial link in a broader system of borax railroads that ultimately extended to Death Valley.

    In the late 19th century, miners discovered large borax deposits in California’s deserts. They valued borax for its use in detergents and industrial processes. In 1883, prospectors found a rich colemanite borax deposit in the Calico Mountains. Mining entrepreneur William Tell Coleman, known for operating borax mines in Death Valley and using 20-mule team wagons to haul borax across long desert routes, acquired the claim. Coleman later sold his borax properties to Francis Marion Smith, who formed the Pacific Coast Borax Company in 1890.

    By the late 1890s, the Borate mine near Calico produced thousands of tons of ore annually. Initially, borax was transported to the railhead at Daggett by 20-mule teams, a slow and costly process. An attempt to replace the teams with a steam-powered traction engine named “Old Dinah” failed due to the desert terrain, leading to the innovative solution of building a narrow-gauge railroad. This marked a significant transition from traditional mule team freighting to a more efficient rail-based network, reducing costs and modernizing transport.

    Construction of the Borate & Daggett Railroad (1898)

    The railroad was completed in 1898, running 11 miles from Daggett to Borate through Mule Canyon. It used a 3-foot gauge track with steep grades and trestles to navigate the rugged terrain. Two Heisler steam locomotives, “Marion” and “Francis,” handled the ore trains. A roasting mill was built midway at a Marion site to process the ore before shipment, and a third rail allowed standard-gauge boxcars to be loaded there.

    Operations and Infrastructure

    The railroad regularly hauled borax ore to Daggett, where workers reloaded it into Santa Fe Railway cars for transport. The system improved efficiency, replacing the mule teams entirely and reducing costs. The mill at Marion roasted and sacked the ore, streamlining shipment by loading directly into standard-gauge cars.

    Replacing the Twenty-Mule Teams

    The railroad’s completion in 1898 marked the end of the mule team era for borax hauling in the Calico region. Daggett, once a hub for mule teams, evolved into a rail center. The shift to rail transport significantly increased output and reliability for the Pacific Coast Borax Company.

    Expansion to Death Valley:

    The Tonopah & Tidewater Railroad By 1904, ore quality at Borate declined. Smith turned to the Lila C Mine near Death Valley, discovered richer deposits, and began building the standard-gauge Tonopah & Tidewater Railroad in 1905. By 1907, the new line reached Death Valley Junction, prompting the shutdown of the Borate & Daggett line. Operators relocated all activities north, resulting in the abandonment of the narrow-gauge line.

    The Death Valley Railroad, built in 1914, served the new mines at Ryan, CA. It connected to the Tonopah & Tidewater at Death Valley Junction. Equipment from the Borate & Daggett line, including its locomotives, was reused during construction. The Borate & Daggett, Tonopah & Tidewater, and Death Valley railroads formed a network supporting the borax industry across eastern California and Nevada.

    Decline and Abandonment

    In 1907, they abandoned the Borate & Daggett Railroad, removed the tracks, and relocated or stored the equipment. The Borate mine and camp stood deserted, while Daggett’s narrow-gauge facilities lay unused. Workers later moved a locomotive repair shop from the line to Daggett and repurposed it.

    Legacy and Remnants Today

    Even though the railroad has been gone for over a century, off-roaders still use the route through Mule Canyon, where you can see remnants of trestles and the old roadbed. Ruins and mine openings still mark the Borate townsite. A historic garage built from the original repair shop still stands in Daggett. Death Valley museums showcase artifacts like Old Dinah and original 20-mule team wagons.

    The Borate & Daggett Railroad helped usher in a new era of borax mining, replacing animal transport with rail efficiency. Its brief life laid the groundwork for a more extensive borax rail network, which was crucial in the history of desert mining.

  • Modern Mojave History

    The modern history of Mojave Desert communities grew after the mining booms faded and railroads became less of a lifeline. Roughly from the 1940s to now, these places have been redefining themselves—not just surviving the desert but learning how to live with it in new ways.

    Here’s how the modern community story unfolds, level by level:

    1. Military and Aerospace Transformation (1940s–1960s)

    World War II changed everything. The Mojave wasn’t just space—it became a strategic training and testing ground.

    • Camp Iron Mountain and Patton’s Desert Training Center trained soldiers for North Africa.
    • Pilots broke the sound barrier at Edwards Air Force Base, which grew into the heart of desert aviation.
    • China Lake and Fort Irwin brought high-tech military research to places like Ridgecrest and Barstow, drawing families and workers.

    These bases turned small desert outposts into full-blown towns with schools, post offices, and diners.

    2. Route 66 and the Roadside Era (1940s–1970s)

    The desert became part of the great American road trip. Route 66 brought motels, neon signs, gas stations, and diners—places like Victorville, Needles, and Ludlow saw a boom in roadside business.

    Families moved in, schools opened, and churches and drive-ins popped up. This was the golden age of “mom-and-pop” America in the desert.

    3. Suburban Growth and Retirement Towns (1960s–1990s)

    As Southern California’s population exploded, people started looking eastward for cheaper land and quieter lives.

    • Apple Valley, Hesperia, and Pahrump became bedroom communities.
    • Retirees settled in places like Yucca Valley and Desert Hot Springs, drawn by warm weather and low cost of living.
    • Victor Valley Community College, hospitals, and shopping centers brought permanence to areas that once just had a trading post or water tank.

    But growth was a double-edged sword—water use soared, and the Mojave’s quiet shrank.

    4. Conservation and Cultural Identity (1990s–Present)

    As people realized how fragile the desert is, preservation efforts took root.

    • Mojave National Preserve was created in 1994.
    • Groups began restoring historic buildings, like the Kelso Depot and the Apple Valley Inn.
    • Indigenous communities began reclaiming space and stories, renewing ties to sacred sites.

    Meanwhile, desert towns started embracing their unique character—ghost town tourism, art festivals, off-road races, and local museums began drawing visitors. The old pioneer spirit didn’t vanish; it just adapted.

    5. Today: Challenges and Reinvention

    Modern Mojave communities are still small, spread out, and shaped by heat, water, and distance.

    Some focus on eco-tourism or renewable energy. Others wrestle with issues like poverty, declining services, or housing. But there’s pride in being from these places. Pride in the toughness it takes to make a home in the Mojave.

    The modern story isn’t just one of change—it’s about finding a future while holding onto the past.

  • Panamint Legends

    The Road, the Valley, the City, and the Range

    Tucked between the Inyo Mountains and the Panamint Range in eastern California lies Panamint Valley—a vast, arid stretch of desert where stories cling to the rocks and dust. Part of the northern Mojave Desert, this remote basin has seen centuries of human presence, from Native American trade routes and outlaw hideouts to a silver mining boom and military testing. Surprise Canyon is at the heart of this tale, a rugged cut through the mountains that once served as both a refuge and a gateway to fortune.

    Native Roots and Early Exploration For thousands of years, the Timbisha Shoshone and other Native American groups lived in and around Panamint Valley. They followed game, gathered plants, and knew the subtle signs of water in this harsh landscape. Early explorers and pioneers during the California Gold Rush would later follow their trails. However, few stayed long in the face of the valley heat, dryness, and isolation.

    Outlaws in Surprise Canyon In early 1873, three men hiding from the law—William L. Kennedy, Robert L. Stewart, and Richard C. Jacobs—discovered silver in the steep, narrow depths of Surprise Canyon. Some say they were drawn there by rumors of the Lost Gunsight Mine. Regardless, they struck it rich. Sources differ on the exact date: Nadeau places it in January, Wilson in February, and Chalfant in April. But by June, prospectors had filed 80 claims, and the ore was assaying at thousands of dollars per ton.

    Big Money and Bigger Names Enter E. P. Raines, who secured a bond on some of the most promising claims and began promoting the new district. He drew attention by hauling a half-ton block of silver ore to Los Angeles and displaying it at the Clarendon Hotel. This bold stunt brought together jewelers, bankers, and freighters, who agreed to build a wagon road to the mines. Raines continued north to San Francisco and then Washington, D.C., where he met Senator John P. Jones of Nevada, a former Comstock miner and hero of a deadly fire. Jones loaned him $15,000 and soon partnered with fellow “Silver Senator” William M. Stewart to form the Panamint Mining Company.

    The senators spent over $350,000 acquiring prime claims from known Wells Fargo robbers. Senator Stewart arranged amnesty for these men, with the condition that $12,000 in profits be paid to the express company as restitution. It is believed this arrangement convinced Wells Fargo to avoid opening an office in Panamint.

    The Road to the Panamint Mines The silver rush in Surprise Canyon prompted the search for a better supply route. Senator Stewart noticed Meyerstein & Co., a San Bernardino firm, was already sending goods to the region. He encouraged Caesar Meyerstein to establish a stage line. In the fall of 1874, preparations began on a road from Cottonwoods on the Mojave River to the Panamints.

    The Board of Supervisors appointed Aaron Lane as road overseer of the newly formed Mojave District. Lane hired a crew of Chinese laborers under foreman Charley Craw to begin construction. Miners objected to using Chinese labor, but Lane completed the project by mid-November. He advertised the route as an “excellent” road, and the Guardian praised the veteran for his work. Lane submitted a bill for $645.61, but the county approved only $500—a modest sum for 115 miles of desert road.

    This San Bernardino-Panamint Road, sometimes called the Meyerstein Road or Nadeau Cut-Off, shortened the journey to the mines by cutting across from Cajon Pass through Victorville and Hodge (Cottonwoods), connecting with the Stoddard’s Well Road. While freighter Remi Nadeau operated the Los Angeles to Panamint route via Tejon Pass, the San Bernardino route originated separately. Despite the confusion in some sources, the Chinese labor used on the San Bernardino-Panamint Road under Captain Lane should not be mistaken for labor on Nadeau’s route.

    According to the San Bernardino Weekly Argus, stops along the Meyerstein route included Meyerstein to Martin’s, Fears in Cajon Pass, Huntington’s (Victorville), Cottonwoods (Hodge), Wells, Second Crossing of the Mojave, Black’s Ranch, Granite, Willow Tree Station, and finally Post Office Springs, just before reaching Panamint. These links formed a vital corridor to one of the West’s wildest boomtowns.

    The Rise of Panamint City By March 1874, Panamint had around 125 residents. It had no schoolhouse, church, jail, or hospital—and it never would. To avoid robbery on the lawless route to market, the senators cast silver into 450-pound “cannonballs” that could be hauled unguarded to Los Angeles. On November 28, the Idaho Panamint Silver Mining Company was formed with $5 million in capital, followed by the Maryland of Panamint and several others with an additional $42 million by year’s end. That same month, the Panamint News began publishing—though its editor fled town within days after stealing advertising revenue.

    The town boomed. The winter of 1874-75 was its peak. Two stage lines operated, the Bank of Panamint opened, and 50 buildings lined Surprise Canyon. The Oriental Saloon claimed to be the finest outside San Francisco. Mules and burros were the main form of transport. The lone wagon doubled as a meat hauler and a hearse.

    By January 1875, the population hit 1,500 to 2,000. Businesses thrived. A wire tramway sent ore from the Wyoming and Hemlock mines down to the Surprise Valley Mill and Water Company’s twenty-stamp mill. Wood costs $12 per cord, and miners earn $4 to $5.50 per day. The crumbling smokestack of this mill still stands. Daniel P. Bell, the mill’s builder, later died by suicide in Salt Lake City, reportedly after being diagnosed with cancer.

    Crash and Decline Disaster came quickly. The collapse of the Bank of California in August 1875 shook confidence across the state. Panamint stock crashed, speculation dried up, and the Panamint News ceased publication. By November, the population had largely disappeared, with only a few hopefuls remaining. In July 1876, a cloudburst flooded Surprise Canyon, wiping out large sections of the town.

    Senator Jones, once Panamint’s champion, held on until May 1877. But a market panic forced him to shut down the mill. Despite investing nearly two million dollars, the Silver Senators saw little return.

    Later, Revivals and Post Office Spring Attempts to revive Panamint followed. Richard Decker reopened the post office during 1887 and worked claims into the 1890s. The site saw minor revivals into the 1920s and again in the 1940s. 1947-48, American Silver Corporation leased multiple claims and rebuilt the Surprise Canyon road but filed for bankruptcy in 1948. Interest returned in the 1970s, though the fractured and faulted veins proved challenging to follow.

    Near the city ruins, Post Office Spring played an important role. Besides being a water source, it housed a secret mail drop during Panamint’s outlaw days. A box wired to a mesquite tree held letters marked “John Doe”; a rag on a nearby branch signaled mail had arrived. At night, fugitives collected or left messages in secret.

    The Panamint Range: Geology and Life The Panamint Range, separating Panamint Valley from Death Valley, rises from about 1,000 to 11,049 feet at Telescope Peak. It’s part of MLRA 29f and features Precambrian sedimentary and metamorphic bedrock, Paleozoic marine sediments (Cambrian to Carboniferous), Mesozoic granite, and Pliocene basalt. Alluvial fans spread from steep slopes into the valleys. Processes shaping the range include mass wasting, fluvial erosion, deposition, and freeze-thaw cycles.

    Vegetation follows elevation, too, from creosote bush and shadscale at lower levels to pinyon, limber pine, and bristlecone forests higher up. Surface water is scarce; streams run briefly during rains and snowmelt, draining into Panamint and Death Valleys.

    The Road, the Valley, the Legend The road to Panamint, first carved to bring silver to market, is now a rugged path for adventurers. Panamint Valley itself, once crossed by Native trails and mule trains, is now visited by hikers, off-roaders, and desert wanderers: the Panamint Range towers above, its silent peaks guarding the stories of a forgotten boomtown.

    Panamint is more than a ghost town. It mirrors Western ambition—where silver dreams, outlaw grit, and desert extremes shaped one of the wildest chapters in California history.

  • Muscupiabe

    Amuscupiabit

    From across the Mojave and along the Mojave River, springs and other water sources shaped the trail down Cajon Canyon and into the southern California valleys. Trails from all directions met in this canyon and that in itself would possibly indicate that in the overall scheme of things some variety of trade may have taken place here where the trails cross.

    Amuscupiabit – Cajon Canyon

    During the winter months when snow is capping the mountains and the weather is cold the Cajon valley would have generally been warmer. With a good year, there would have been plenty to harvest and forage as well as game to hunt. Drought years may have brought little with it and the camp would have been a starvation camp with little to eat.

    Rancherias

    A rancheria, as the Mexicans called it, would have been a small settlement of Indians living in temporary huts while maintaining seasonal subsistence activities and trade.

    It was among these rancherias … that the missions found the most fertile fields for producing laborers. Whether by trickery or physical force the villagers into the Catholic fold. Being taken to the mission was most likely the fate of the residents of the Serrano rancheria Amuscupiabit in the heart of the Cajon Pass.

    The Old Spanish Trail had become increasingly used as a pack mule trail between New Mexico and California, and with this traffic came the opportunity for those to take advantage of the distant location and desperate nature of the land.

    Crowder (Coyote) Canyon in the Cajon Pass north of San Bernardino
    Hundreds and sometimes even thousands of stolen horses from the ranchos would burst through Coyote Canyon beginning their ‘journey of death’ across the Mojave.

    California horses were beautiful creatures, and the mules were taller and stronger than those in New Mexico and they were easy to steal.  The rolling hills and plains presented clear paths to the  Cajon where numerous hidden canyons and washes were available to slip into and prepare for the furious run across the desert. Horses would be stolen in herds from many different ranchos at once. Hundreds of horses, even thousands could be commandeered and driven by just a few experienced thieves.

    Chief Walkara, ‘Hawk of the Mountains ‘ and the greatest horse thief in all of history along with his band of renegade Chaguanosos, and notables such as Jim Beckwourth and Pegleg Smith would work together in this illegal trade. During one raid they were said to have coordinated the theft of 3,000-5,000 horses, driving them to Fort Bridger to trade for more horses to run to New Mexico to trade again. Horses would fall from exhaustion every mile and the local bands of Paiute would feast on the remains.

    Coyote Canyon

    . . . A few years later Mr. White established a camp in San Bernardino county at the mouth of Lytle creek and again started in the cattle business. Here he was joined by two other white men, who after agreeing to a plan to take up all of the valley lands deserted him before the consummation of the scheme. The Indians learning that he was alone decided that it would be a good time to make a raid and drive away the herds, and under the leadership of Chief Coyote, who was one of the craftiest and most vicious in that section, they accomplished their purpose. The next morning in company with an Indian boy of seventeen years, who was friendly to him, Mr. White started out to find the stock and overtook the thieves at the head of Cajon Pass. Here the Indians had camped and killed a horse, upon which they were feasting when Mr. White discovered them. Cleverly circling the camp he managed to get ahead of them and was endeavoring to stampede the stock when Chief Coyote saw him and started toward him. Waiting until the Indian was within forty or fifty yards of him Mr. White took steady aim and shot him dead, the report of the gun stampeding the cattle. They returned home, Mr. White and the Indian boy following and reaching the valley in safety after having killed a number of other redskins. The boy had been of great assistance to him by loading his extra gun.

    When the governor heard of this affair he sent for Mr. White and ascertaining that he had no land but desired to receive a grant, application was made and surveys taken, and in a few years he received papers conveying to him thirty-two thousand acres of land.

    A HISTORY of CALIFORNIA Extended History of Its Southern Coast Counties – Vol II — J. M. GUINN 1907
    The rich ranchos of southern California.

    In 1843 Michael White was granted one league of land at the mouth of the Cajon Pass called Rancho Muscupiabe. At a point overlooking the trails leading into and away from the canyon he was expected to thwart the raiders and horse thieves that were plaguing the Southern California ranchos. In theory, it was a good plan but in practice, it did not work so well.

    Devore, ca.
    From the piedmont between Devil and Cable canyons, Miguel Blanco could keep an eye out for the horse thieves entering the Cajon.

    He built his home of logs and earth and constructed corrals for his stock. However, the location between Cable and Devil Canyon only served as a closer and more convenient target for the Indian thieves. His family was with him, but after six weeks until it became too dangerous. He left after nine months without any livestock and in debt.

    The Old Spanish Trail went down this slope to behind Miguel Blanco’s rough-hewn homestead. Indians would watch from this forest for Miguel to leave and they would slip down and steal everything that could be stolen.

    Miguel sold his property, however, Miguel had misread the grant, letting the rancho go for much less than it was worth. The land described on the grant was roughly 5 times larger than Miguel thought.  Blanco brought a suit but lost.

    Muscupiabe Rancho, Michael White, Miguel Blanco
    Muscupiabe Rancho

    As the late 1840s and 1850s rolled by wagon roads were being developed in the canyon minimizing the effectiveness of the maze of box canyons being used to cover the escape of desperadoes on horseback. With California becoming a state frontiersmen such as Beckwourth and Peg Leg Smith would not steal from fellow Americans. Horse-thieving under U.S. law had become a crime where before it was just stealing horses from Mexicans. That was only serious if caught in the act. Americans would never extradite them. For the most part, that was the end of the horse-stealing raids.

    • end

  • Owens Valley Chronology

    Pre-Contact Era (Before 1800s)

    • The Nüümü (Paiute people) live in the Owens Valley, using sophisticated irrigation systems to grow native plants. They also engage in seasonal hunting and gathering throughout the region.

    Owens Valley Paiute

    1834 – Joseph R. Walker Enters Owens Valley

    • Joseph R. Walker, a scout and explorer leading a detachment of Bonneville’s Expedition, is credited as the first known non-Native American to travel through Owens Valley.
    • His route takes him along the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada, likely crossing the valley while seeking a pass into California.
    • Walker’s expedition opened early paths for later settlers and explorers.

    Joseph R. Walker, Owens Valley

    1845 – Naming of Owens River and Lake

    • During a U.S. military survey expedition, John C. Fremont named the Owens River and Lake after his topographer, Richard Owens.

    Owens Lake

    1861 – Samuel A. Bishop Arrives

    • Bishop drives 500 cattle and 50 horses into the valley and establishes San Francis Ranch.
    • His actions disrupt Paiute lands and irrigation, leading to armed resistance and the Battle of San Francis Ranch in early 1862.

    1861–1863 – Owens Valley Indian War

    • Conflict between settlers and Paiute bands escalates.
    • The U.S. Army was called to support settlers and forced many Paiutes to Fort Tejon in 1863.

    Paiute Indian War, Fort Tejon

    1862 – Camp Independence Established

    • July 4: U.S. Army establishes Camp Independence near Oak Creek to protect settlers and assert military control during the war.
    • The site later becomes part of the Fort Independence Indian Community.

    Camp Independence

    1860s–1880s – Expansion of Settlement

    • Settlers build farms, ranches, and towns like Lone Pine and Independence.
    • Mining in nearby Cerro Gordo spurs economic growth.

    Lone Pine, Independence, Cerro Gordo

    1872 – Lone Pine Earthquake

    • A devastating quake destroys much of Lone Pine, kills about 27 people, and leaves a visible fault scarp.

    1883 – Carson & Colorado Railroad reaches Laws

    • A narrow-gauge rail line connects the valley to northern mining districts, bringing passengers, freight, and new economic lifelines.

    Carson & Colorado RR

    1900s–1910s – Southern Pacific & Standard-Gauge Rail

    • Southern Pacific Railroad acquires the Carson & Colorado.
    • A standard-gauge line is built from Mojave to Owenyo.

    Southern Pacific RR, Mojave

    1905–1913 – Los Angeles Aqueduct

    • LA secures land and water rights.
    • 1913: The aqueduct is completed, diverting the Owens River to Southern California.

    1924 – Aqueduct Sabotage

    • Local farmers and ranchers retaliate with dynamite attacks on aqueduct facilities, protesting water loss.

    1927 – Owens Lake Dries Up

    • Once a large inland sea, Owens Lake becomes a dry lakebed as diversions continue.

    1960 – End of Narrow-Gauge Rail Service

    • Final train reaches Laws, marking the end of narrow-gauge railroad operations in the valley.
    • The depot is preserved as part of the Laws Railroad Museum.

    1970s–1990s – Environmental Action

    • Residents and conservationists challenge LA’s dust and water practices.
    • 1991: LA is legally required to control dust on Owens Lake.

    2000s–Present – Restoration and Advocacy

    • Efforts continue to restore natural flow, clean up air quality, and address the historical displacement of Native communities.

  • Toll Road Controversy

    The controversy over John Brown’s toll road through Cajon Pass in the mid-19th century revolved around money, fairness, and public access—a classic tension in frontier development.

    Two wagons at the summit. Mormon Rocks and the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance

    1. Brown’s Toll Road and Franchise Rights
    In 1861, San Bernardino County granted John Brown Sr. and his partners a franchise to build a toll road through Cajon Pass, a vital route connecting San Bernardino Valley to the Mojave Desert and beyond. They improved the existing wagon trail—grading it, clearing rock, and making it more passable for wagons—and charged tolls to those using it.

    2. Public Frustration
    While the improvements were appreciated, some settlers and freighters grumbled about the tolls. The road served as a major conduit for travel and trade; paying a toll on what many viewed as a natural thoroughfare didn’t sit well with everyone. The sentiment grew that Brown was profiting off a public necessity.

    3. Competing Routes and Free Road Advocates
    As traffic increased, alternate routes began to be explored, especially by those who wanted to avoid tolls. There were also pushes from the community and local government to establish a public road that would be toll-free. Some even attempted to create alternate trails that bypassed the toll gates, fueling the controversy.

    4. Political Wrangling
    Brown’s toll franchise became entangled in local politics, with supporters arguing it encouraged development and opponents seeing it as a private monopoly over a public passage. This debate sometimes reached county supervisors, and there were calls to revoke or revise the franchise.

    5. Toll Road Decline
    Eventually, as public roads improved and more options became available, the toll road’s importance faded. It’s unclear exactly when tolls stopped, but free passage eventually became the norm, and the road was absorbed into the public road system.

    In short, the controversy was over the balance between private investment and public access, a theme repeated throughout Western expansion. John Brown wasn’t alone—toll roads were common in the 1800s—but he was one of the more talked-about due to its location and importance.

    also see:

    The Toll Road

    Toll Road Through Cajon Pass

  • Brown – Parker Garage

    The Brown-Parker Auto Company Garage in Goldfield, Nevada, is a historic structure dating back to the early 20th century, reflecting the town’s mining boom era. It was originally established by Munro Brown and Orlo Parker, becoming one of Nevada’s first Ford dealerships.

    In 1917, Brown sold his share to Parker when he left to serve in World War I. The original building was destroyed in a fire in 1923 but was rebuilt in 1924. It continued to operate as an auto garage until 1989. Today, it is a notable stop on the Goldfield Historical Walking Tour, highlighting over 190 historical sites throughout the town. The garage is a reminder of Goldfield’s former prominence and the essential role that automobile services played in supporting the remote mining community.

  • Death Valley

    Book Store

    Death Valley Ghost Towns Volume 2

    Into the Jaws of Hell – Sutak, Tom
    Jefferson Hunt (1804-1879) was born in Bracken County, Kentucky, son of John Hunt and Martha Jenkins. He arrived in Utah in 1847. He was married to Celia Mounts in 1823 and Martha Jane Nease in 1846.
    Geology of Death Valley: Landforms, Crustal Extension, Geologic History, Road Guides
    An Unnatural History of Death Valley
    Death Valley History Revealed: Proceedings of the Sixth Death Valley Conference on History and Prehistory
    Death Valley in ’49: An Autobiography of a Pioneer Who Survived the California Desert

    Roadside Geology of Utah (Roadside Geology Series) affiliates.abebooks.com/KeDgra

    Book Store

  • Little Girl Lost

    from: Little Water – Many Indians
    Disaster at the Colorado — by Charles W. Baley, 2002

    . . . After dinner, while making preparations to get underway, it was
    discovered that six oxen were missing. Several men were sent back to
    look for them. After tracking the missing animals for some distance, the
    searchers came upon four carcasses. Two of the carcasses had all the meat
    cut away while the other two were partially butchered. A short distance
    farther, the other two oxen were found. They were freshly killed and
    still warm, the Indians apparently scared off by their pursuers before
    they could strip the meat from the animals. Due to approaching darkness
    and the possibility of an ambush, the pursuit was called off.

    During this phase of the journey, the wagon train was doing
    much of its traveling at night, owing to the great daytime heat of the
    desert and the long distances between water holes. At regular intervals,
    during the night they would stop for a short rest. At one of these rest
    stops, eleven-year-old Ellen Baley, a daughter of Gillum and Permelia
    Baley, fell asleep and failed to awaken when the wagon train moved on.
    Somehow, she was not missed until the train traveled some distance. The
    poor girl awoke to find herself alone in the middle of a vast hostile
    desert. Filled with fright, she began running to catch up with the
    wagon train, but in her confusion, she took off in the opposite direction.
    When she was discovered missing, her father and older brother,
    George immediately rode back to where they had stopped. To their
    horror, she was not there! Captured by the Indians must have been their
    conclusion! Nevertheless, they continued their search by calling out the
    little girl’s name at the top of their voices as they rode back. Their efforts
    were soon rewarded when, far off in the distance, came a faint cry,
    “Papa, Papa.” Her father immediately answered and kept calling her
    name until he caught up with her. When reunited with her family and
    the other members of the wagon train, Ellen had a tale that would
    be told and retold by family members until the present day.

    Disaster at the Colorado — by Charles W. Baley, 2002

  • The Execution of Nowereha

    Adapted from :
    Captivity of the Oatman Girls – by R.B. Stratton – 1858
    Editor – Walter Feller
    CHAPTER V

    Mojave Indian war club and weapons
    Mojave Indian war club and weapons

    “IN the spring of 1854, the project of some exciting hostile expedition against a distant tribe was agitated among the Mohaves. It was sometime before any but the ‘Council’ knew of the definite purpose of the expedition. But when their plans had been laid, and all their intentions circulated among the tribe, it proved to be one of war upon the Cochopas, a large tribe seven hundred miles away. The Cochopas were a tribe with whom the Mohaves had never been at peace. According to tradition, this hostility had been kept actively flaming through all past generations. And the Mohaves were relying on equal certainty upon the truth of the traditional prophecy that they were ultimately to subject the Cochopas to their sway or obliterate them. The Mohaves had as yet been successful in every engagement. They were confident of success, and this was all the glory their ambition was capable of grasping. As for any intrinsic merit in the matter of the contest, none was known to exist. About sixty warriors made preparations for a long time to undertake the expedition.

    “Bows and arrows and war clubs were prepared in abundance, also stone knives. The war club was made of a very solid wood that grew upon the mountain. It was of a tree that they called Cooachee,’ very hard and heavy, and lost but very little of its weight in the seasoning process:

    Olive Oatman
    Olive Oatman

    ” Great preparations were also made by the squaws, though with much reluctance, as most of them were opposed to the expedition, as they had been also in the past to kindred ones. Those of them who had husbands and brothers enlisted in the expedition, tried every expedient in their power to dissuade them from it. They accused them of folly and a mere lust of war and prayed them not thus to expose their own lives and the lives of their dependent ones. It was reported that since the last attack upon them, the Cochopees had strengthened themselves with numerous and powerful allies, by uniting several surrounding tribes with themselves for purposes of war. This was pleaded by these interested women against the present purpose, as they feared that this distant tribe would be now able to avenge the past injury, besides beating the Mohaves in this projected engagement. But go they would, and on the day of their departure there was a convocation of nearly the whole tribe, and it was a time of wild, savage excitement and deep mourning.

    ” I soon learned, though by mere accident, that so far as life was concerned, I had an interest in this expedition equal to that of the most exposed among the warriors. It had been an unvarying custom among them that if any of their numbers should be slain in battle, the lives of prisoners or captives must be sacrificed, therefore, up to the number of the slain, (if that number should be among them,) and that in the most torturing manner. This was not done to appease their gods, for they had none, but was a gift to the spirits of the other spheres. Their only theory about a Supreme Being is that there is a chief of all the Indians who reigns in splendor and pomp and that his reign is one of wisdom and equity, and would last forever. They believed that at the gate of their Elysium a porter was in constant attendance, who received all good, brave Indians, and welcomed them to immense hunting grounds and all manner of sensual pleasures; that if one sought admittance there without a bow and hunting implements, he was to subsist as best he could, for no provision was to be made for him after leaving his tribe. Many were the questions they asked me after they had ascertained what I believed concerning the nature of the heaven of which I spoke, and the employments there. But generally, they would wind up the conversation with ridicule and mockings. When they saw me weep or in trouble, they would sometimes say: ‘Why don’t you look up and call your great God out of the sky, and have him take you up there.’ But under all this, I could plainly see that their questions were not wholly insincere. They frequently marveled, and occasionally one would say: ‘You whites are a singular people; I should like to know what you will be when a great many moons have gone by?’ Sometimes they would say as did the Apaches, that we must be fools for believing that heaven was above the sky; that if it were so the people would drop down. One of the squaws said tauntingly to me: ‘ When you go to your heaven you had better take a strong piece of bark and tie yourself up, or you will be coming down among us again.’ After the soldiers had departed they told me plainly that my life must pay for the first one that might be slain during this contest.

    “I had but a little before learned that we were not much further from the white settlements than when among the Apaches, and had been fondly hoping that as parties of the tribe occasionally made excursions to the settlements, I might yet make my situation known and obtain relief. But now I was shut up to the alternatives of either making an immediate effort to escape, which would be sure to cost my life if detected or to wait in dreadful suspense the bare probability of none of these soldiers being slain, as the only chance for myself if I remained.

    ” The report of the strengthening of the Cochopas since their last expedition gave me a reason to fear the worst. Thus for a long time, and just after having reached a bright place (if there can be in such a situation) in my captivity, I was thrown into the gloomiest apprehensions for my life. I could not calculate upon life; I did not.

    ” For five months not a night did I close my eyes for a troubled sleep, or wake in the morning but last and first were the thoughts of the slender thread upon which my life was hung. The faint prospect in which I had been indulging, that their plans of increasing traffic with the Mexicans and whites might open the doors for my return, was now nearly blasted.

    “I had been out one fine day in August several miles gathering roots for the chief’s family, and returning a little before sunset, as I came in sight of the village I saw an Indian at some distance beyond the town descending a hill to the river from the other side. ‘ He was so far away that it was impossible for me to tell whether he was a Yuma or a Mohave. These two tribes were on friendly terms, and frequent * criers or news carriers passed between them. I thought at once of the absent warriors, and of my vital interest in the success or failure of their causeless, barbarous crusade. I soon saw that he was a Mohave, and tremblingly believed that I could mark him as one of the army.

    “With trembling and fear I watch his hastened though evidently wearied pace.- He went down into the river and as he rose again upon the bank I recognized him. ‘ He is wearied,’ I said, ‘ and jogs heavily along as though he had become nearly exhausted from long travel. “Why can he be coming in alone?’ Questions of this character played across my mind and were asked aloud by me ere I was aware, each like a pointed javelin lashing and tormenting my fears. ‘Have the rest all perished?’ again I exclaimed; at any rate, the decisive hour has come with me.’

    ” I stopped; my approach to the village had not been observed. I resolved to wait and seek to cover one desperate effort to escape under the first shades of night. I threw myself flat upon the ground; I looked in every direction; mountain chains were strung around me on every side like bulwarks of adamant, and if trails led through them I knew them not. I partly raised myself up. I saw that Indian turn into a hut on the outskirts of the town. In a few moments, the ‘criers’ were out and bound to the river and to the foothills. Each on his way started others, and soon the news was flying as on telegraphic wires. ^But what news I could but exclaim. I started up and resolved to hasten to our hut and wait in silence for the full returns.

    “I could imagine that I saw my doom written in the countenance of every Mohave I met. But each one maintained a surly reserve or turned upon me a sarcastic smile. A crowd was gathering fast, but not one word was let fall for my ear. In total, awful silence I looked, I watched, I guessed, but dared not speak. It seemed that everyone was reading and playing with my agitation. Soon the assemblage was convened, a fire was lit, and ‘Ohitia’ rose up to speak; I listened, and my heart seemed to leap to my mouth as he proceeded to state, in substance, thus: ‘Mohaves have triumphed; five prisoners were taken; all on their way; none of our men killed; they will be in to-morrow !’

    ” Again one of the blackest clouds that darkened the sky of my Mohave captivity broke, and the sunshine of gladness and gratitude was upon my heart. Tears of gratitude ran freely down my face. I buried my face in my hands and silently thanked God. I sought a place alone, where I might give full vent to my feelings of thanksgiving to my heavenly Father. I saw his goodness, in whose hands are the reins of the wildest battle storm, and thanked him that this expedition, so freighted with anxiety, had issued so mercifully to me.

    “The next day four more came in with the captives, and in a few days, all were returned, without even a scar to tell of the danger they had passed. The next day after the coming of the last party, a meeting of the whole tribe was called, and one of the most enthusiastic rejoicing seasons I ever witnessed among them it was. It lasted, indeed, for several days. They danced, sang, shouted; and played their corn-stalk flutes until for very weariness they were compelled to refrain. It was their custom never to eat salted meat for the next moon after the coming of a captive among them. Hence our salt fish were for several days left to an undisturbed repose.

    “Among the captives they had stolen from the unoffending Cochopas and brought in with them, was a handsome, fair-complexioned young woman, of about twenty-five years of age. She was as beautiful an Indian woman as I have ever seen; tall, graceful, and ladylike in her appearance. She had fairer, lighter skin than the Mohaves or the other Cochopa captives. But I saw upon her countenance and in her eyes the traces of awful grief. The rest of the captives appeared well and indifferent about themselves.

    “This woman called herself ‘Nowereha.’ Her language was as foreign to the Mohaves as the Americans, except to the few soldiers that had been among them. The other captives were girls from twelve to sixteen years old; and while they seemed to wear a ‘ don’t care appearance, this Nowereha was perfectly bowed down with grief. I observed she tasted but little food. She kept up a constant moaning and wailing, except when checked by the threats of her boastful captors. I became very much interested in her and sought to learn the circumstances under which she had been torn from her home. Of her grief, I thought I knew something. She tried to converse with me.

    ” “With much difficulty, I learned of her what had happened since the going of the Mohave warriors among her tribe, and this fully explained her extreme melancholy. Their town was attacked in the night by the Mohave warriors, and after a short engagement the Cochopas were put to flight; the Mohaves hotly pursued them. Nowereha had a child about two months old; but after running a short distance her husband came up with her, grasped the child, and run on before. This was an act showing humaneness that a Mohave warrior did not possess, for he would have compelled his wife to carry the child, kicking her along before him. She was overtaken and captured.

    ” For one week Nowereha wandered about the village by day, a perfect image of desperation and despair. At times she seemed insane: she slept but little at night. The thieving, cruel Mohaves who had taken her, and were making merry over her griefs, knew full well the cause of it all. They knew that without provocation they had robbed her of her child, and her child of its mother. They knew the attraction drawing her back to her tribe, and they watched her closely. But no interest or concern did they manifest save to mock and torment her.

    “Early one morning it was noised through the village that Nowereha was missing. I had observed her the day before, when the chief’s daughter gave her some corn, to take part in the same, after grinding the rest, to make a cake and hide it in her dress. “When these captives were brought in, they were assigned different places through the valley at which to stop. Search was made to see if she had not sought the abiding place of some of her fellow captives. This caused some delay, which I was glad to see, though I dared not express my true feelings.

    ” “When it was ascertained that she had probably undertaken to return, every path and every space dividing the immediate trails was searched, to find if possible some trace to guide a band of pursuers. A large number were stationed in different parts of the valley, and the most vigilant watch was kept during the night, while others started in quest of her upon the way they supposed she had taken to go back. When I saw a day and night pass in these fruitless attempts, I began to hope for the safety of the fugitive. I had seen enough of her to know that she was resolved and of unconquerable determination. Some conjectured that she had been betrayed away; others that she had drowned herself, and others that she had taken to the river and swam away. They finally concluded that she had killed herself, and gave up the search, vowing that if she had fled they would yet have her and be avenged.

    ” Just before night, several days after this, a Yuma Indian came suddenly into camp, driving this Cochopa captive. She was the most distressed-looking being imaginable when she returned. Her hair disheveled, her -a few old clothes torn, (they were woolen clothes,) her eyes swollen, and every feature of her noble countenance distorted.

    “‘Criers’ were kept constantly on the way between the Mohaves and Yumas, bearing news from tribe to tribe. These messengers were their news- carriers and sentinels. Frequently two criers were employed, (sometimes more,) one from each tribe. These would have their meeting stations. At these stations, these criers would meet with promptness, and by word of mouth each would deposit his store of news with his fellow expressman, and then each would return, to his own tribe with the news. When the news was important, or was of a warning character, as in the time of war, they would not wait- for the fleet foot of the ‘runner,’ but had their signal fires well understood, which would telegraph the news hundreds of miles in a few hours. One of these Yuma criers, about four days after the disappearance of Nowereha, was coming to his station on the road connecting these two tribes when he spied a woman under a shelf of the rock on the opposite side of the river. He immediately plunged into the stream and went to her. He knew the tribe to which she belonged, and that the Mohaves had been making war upon them. He immediately started back with her to the Mohave village. It was a law to which they punctually lived, to return all fleeing fugitives or captives of a friendly tribe.

    ” It seemed that she had concealed that portion of the corn meal she did not bake, with a view of undertaking to escape.

    ” When she went out that night she plunged immediately into the river to prevent them from tracking her. She swam several miles that night, and then hid in a willow wood; thinking that they would be in close pursuit, she resolved to remain there until they should give up hunting for her. Here she remained for nearly two days, and her pursuers were very near her several times. She then started and swam where the river was not too rapid and shallow when she would out and bound over the rocks. In this way, traveling only at night, she had gone near one hundred and thirty miles. She was, as she supposed, safely hidden in a cave, waiting for the return of night, when the Yuma found her.

    ” On her return, another noisy meeting was called, and they spent the night in one of their victory dances. They would dance around her, shout in her ears, spit in her face, and show their threats of a murderous design, assuring her that they would soon have her where she would give them no more trouble by running away.

    ” The next morning a post was firmly placed in the ground, and about eight feet from the ground a cross-beam was attached. They then drove large, rough wooden spikes through the palms of poor Nowereha’s hands, and by these they lifted her to the cross and drove the spikes into the soft wood of the beam, extending her hands as far as they could. They then, with pieces of bark stuck with thorns, tied her head firmly back to the upright post, drove spikes through her ankles, and for a time left her in this condition.

    “They soon returned and placed me with their Cochopa captives near the sufferer, bid us keep our eyes upon her until she died. This they did, as they afterward said, to exhibit to me what I might expect if they should catch me attempting to escape. They then commenced running around Nowereha in regular circles, hallooing, stamping, and taunting like so many demons, in the wildest and most frenzied manner. After a little while several of them supplied themselves with bows and arrows, and at every circlet would hurl one of these poisoned instruments of death into her quivering flesh. Occasionally she would cry aloud and in the most pitiful manner. This awakened from that mocking, heartless crowd the most deafening yells.

    ” She hung in this dreadful condition for over two hours ere I was certain she was dead, all the while bleeding and sighing, her body mangled in the most shocking manner. When she would cry aloud they would stuff rags in her mouth, and thus silence her. “When they were quite sure she was dead, and that they could no longer inflict pain upon her, they took her body to a funeral pile and burned it.

    “I had before this thought, since I had come to know of the vicinity of the whites, that I would get borne knowledge of the way to their abodes by means of the occasional visits the Mohaves made to them, and make my escape. But this scene discouraged me, however, and each day I found myself, not without hope it is true, but settling down into such contentment as I could with my lot. For the next eighteen months during which I was witness to their conduct, these Mohaves took more care and exercised more forethought in the matter of their food. They did not suffer and seemed to determine not to suffer the return of a season like 1852.

    “I saw but little reason to expect anything else than the spending of my years among them, and I had no anxiety that they should be many. I saw around me none but savages, and (dreadful as was the thought) among whom I must spend my days. There were some with whom I had become intimately acquainted, and from whom I had received humane and friendly treatment, exhibiting real kindness. I thought it best now to conciliate the best wishes of all, and by every possible means to avoid all occasions of awakening their displeasure, or enkindling their unrepentant, uncontrollable temper and passions.

    ” There were some few for whom I began to feel a degree of attachment. Every spot in that valley that had any attraction, or offered a retreat to the sorrowing soul, had become familiar, and upon much of its adjacent scenery, I delighted to gaze. Every day had its monotony of toil, and thus I plodded on. . . .

    –

    Read the complete Chapter V., here


  • No Paraphernalia Required!

    The March 1915 issue of Motor magazine contained an article by A. L. Westgard on “Motor Routes to the California Expositions.” The following is an excerpt from that article:

    Owing to the recent improvement of the transcontinental routes, it is no longer necessary to load one’s car down with all sorts of paraphernalia to combat the many difficulties which formerly were strewed along the path, nor is it, in this day of dependable motor cars, necessary to carry a multiplicity of parts. Still, it is well to outfit with reasonably limited equipment to provide against mud, possible breakdowns, and climatic changes.

    To begin with, limit your personal outfit to a minimum, allowing only a suitcase to each person, and ship your trunk. Use khaki or old loose clothing. Some wraps and a tarpaulin to protect you against cool nights and provide cover in the case of being compelled to sleep outdoors are essential. Amber glasses, not too dark, will protect your eyes against the glare of the desert. You will, of course, want a camera, but remember that the high lights of the far west will require a smaller shutter opening and shorter exposure than the eastern atmosphere.

    Carry sixty feet of 5/8-inch Manila rope, a pointed spade, a small ax with the blade protected by a leather sheet, a camp lantern, a collapsible canvas bucket with spout, and a duffle bag for the extra clothing and wraps. Start out with new tires all around, of the same size if possible, and two extra tires also, with four extra inner tubes. Select a tire with tough fabric; this is economical and will save annoyance. Use only the best grade of lubricating oil and carry a couple of one-gallon cans on running-board as extra supply, because you may not always be able to get the good oil you ought to use.

    And, mark this well, carry two three-gallon canvas desert water bags, then see that they are filled each morning. Give your car a careful inspection each day for loose bolts or nuts and watch grease cups and oil cups. Carry two sets of chains and two jacks, and add to your usual tool equipment a coil of soft iron wire, a spool of copper wire, and some extra spark plugs.

    West of the Missouri carry a small commissary of provisions, consisting of canned meat, sardines, crackers, fresh fruit or canned pineapples, and some milk chocolate for lunches. The lack of humidity in the desert sections, combined with the prevalence of hard water west of the Missouri River is liable to cause the hair to become dry and to cause chaps and blisters on the face and hands as well as cause the fingernails to become brittle and easily broken. To prevent this, carry a jar of outing cream and a good hair cleanser. Use them every night.

    -.-

  • Wallflowers

    The Wallflower Collection

    A collection of historic and vintage photographs by a variety of photographers reworked and colorized. Working with these old photos like this has given me reassurance that the things I see, they would have seen in much the same way.

  • California Southern

    The importance of our railroad

    The Southern Pacific had a monopoly on Southern California’s Transcontinental Railroads. Nothing came in or went out on any other rails than Southern Pacific rails.


    However, the Southern Pacific at Needles needed to connect with the bridge at the Colorado River to the Atlantic and Pacific. In order to do this, they worked out an agreement wherein the Atlantic & Pacific could use their rails to ship to and from San Francisco. Southern California still remained in a monopoly.

    San Diego wanted a share in the rapid growth of the state. With the high cost of getting there, most tourists simply stopped in Los Angeles.

    The California Southern, backed by investors from Boston, built from San Diego to Colton, but the Southern Pacific delayed their progress further north for over a year in what became known as the ‘Frog War.’ ‘Frog’ is the term for a rail crossing rail assembly so that either track can cross the other.

    Formidable, but not impossible, building through the Cajon Pass to the Mojave River, through the upper and lower narrows, and then along in the same direction to Waterman, now known as Barstow. San Diego now had the benefit of a link to a transcontinental railroad and Southern California had a competitive transportation network.

    W.feller.

  • Vintage Wrightwood

    By Burton Frasher

    Photos of Wrightwood, California — 1928 – 1937

  • The object of the Route Map

    MAPS AND SURVEY – 1913
    BY ARTHUR R. HINKS, M.A., F.R.S.

    CHAPTER III
    route traversing
    The Explorer’s Route Map

    The first care of a traveler who passes through an unknown, or partially explored country, is to make a record of where he has been, and of the main features of the country along the route by which he has traveled. Often singlehanded, encumbered by transport, compelled to keep to the track, and unable to leave his party, he cannot hope to make anything in the nature of a map, in the ordinary sense of the term. But for his own guidance, to avoid getting lost, he is compelled to determine his position day by day in much the same way that the position of a ship is determined at sea, by observation of the Sun and the stars, so that he is able to say roughly in what latitude, and perhaps in what longitude his halting places were. Moreover, as he goes along he is able to make such observations of the shape and course of his path as to enable another man coming after him not only to arrive more or less at the same place but to follow the same route. And finally, he can keep a sort of running record of the things that lie immediately to the side of his path. All this is done by the construction of a “route traverse” or “route map.”