Tag: Mojave Desert history

Bowen Ranch: A Century in the Desert

The Bowen family came to Juniper Flats in the early 1920s, one of the last waves of homesteaders to try their hand at life on the high desert. They built their ranch on a dry, windswept slope above Deep Creek, and before long, the wagon track that reached their gate bore their name — Bowen Ranch Road. For the family, life was both hardscrabble and rewarding. They tended stock, hauled water, and endured the punishing extremes of desert weather. The Bowen boys grew up half-wild, riding horses through the canyons, chasing jackrabbits, and learning survival the hard way. Coyotes, bears, and sudden storms kept the family on their toes, and every hardship became another “Bowen escapade” that matriarch Gertie would later record in her memoir.

Neighbors like Jim Monaghan in nearby Arrastre Canyon added color to the picture — a small, stooped ex-jockey who dreamed of building a resort in the desert. The Bowens and Monaghan shared the kind of kinship only frontier families knew, trading work and stories as they tried to coax a living from stubborn land. Over time, many neighboring homesteads dried up or were abandoned, but the Bowens held on. By mid-century, their place was the one that endured, and because it sat on the best trail down to Deep Creek Hot Springs, it became the natural gateway to the oasis.

Decades later, after the original family was gone, Bowen Ranch shifted into a new role. By the 1970s and 80s, the springs had grown popular with hikers, nudists, and seekers of desert solitude. The ranch became the checkpoint — the place where you parked, paid a small fee, and then hiked down the ridge to the creek. Whoever controlled the ranch house controlled the access, and that gave rise to a colorful sequence of caretakers.

For a time, Eagle and his partner, Star, connected with the Rainbow Family and ran things. They dressed in feathers and beads, turning the ranch into a kind of countercultural outpost. Eagle himself, despite the persona, was a Jewish fellow from New York, remembered as friendly and fair. Sunlight and Firefly, another couple of the scene, lived up at the old Eagle’s Nest in Arrastre Canyon. Visitors might have raised an eyebrow at the costumes, but the ranch remained welcoming enough.

When Eagle left, though, stability slipped. Caretakers came and went in quick succession, some treating the ranch more as a crash pad than a business. Stories spread of being greeted with “D’ya have any spare dope, man?” at the ranch house, and visitors never knew what kind of welcome they’d get. One figure, remembered here under the name Laura Mason, arrived bright and hopeful but slid into decline. Her red-orange van, abandoned and rusting by an outbuilding, became a stark symbol of how the desert could swallow people whole.

Meanwhile, just beyond, Moss Ranch thrived as a hub of music and community under Lyle and Annie. Money meant little there; guitars and campfires meant everything. Cindy L. and others flowed in and out of that circle, shaping a loose desert family. Some drifted farther still, to places like the Welcome Ranch, where one storm-filled winter in 1978 brought three feet of snow, six-foot drifts, and weeks of isolation. Survival meant burning fences and outbuildings to stay alive — a memory that burned just as deep into the soul as the wood that kept the stove lit.

By the 1990s, Bowen Ranch’s role as gateway was firmly set, but so were the conflicts. Deep Creek Hot Springs had become famous, drawing ever more visitors. Some caretakers tried to manage it with steady rules and reasonable fees, but others took a harder, sometimes hostile line. Reports spread of confrontations at the ranch house, arguments over money, even clashes that drew the sheriff. Longtime hot springers remembered the days of Eagle and Star with nostalgia compared to the tense atmosphere of the late century. The ranch’s identity swung between being a friendly outpost and a guarded checkpoint, depending on who held the keys.

Into the 2000s, those tensions simmered. The road in was still rough, still full of blind curves and washouts, and the danger of drunk or lost visitors lingered. But the ranch kept its place in the desert story. It was the only real trailhead to Deep Creek, and so it continued as both gateway and lightning rod.

The latest chapter began in 2020, when new owners transformed the property into the Deep Creek Hot Springs Campground. For the first time, the ranch’s role was formalized, its history acknowledged as part of the site’s identity. They leaned into its heritage, offering camping, managed access, and a sense of stability the place hadn’t seen in decades. The Bowen Ranch name remained, etched not just into the land but into a century of stories.

From the Bowen boys of the 1920s riding horses across the flats, to Rainbow Family caretakers in the 1980s, to storm-battered vans and guitars ringing through Moss Ranch nights, and on into the campground era — Bowen Ranch has always been more than a spot on a map. It has been a doorway to Deep Creek, a crucible of human hopes and failures, and a living reminder that the desert keeps its own rhythm, indifferent to who happens to hold the keys.

Here’s a working bibliography for the Bowen Ranch early history report, with URLs where the material can be accessed or referenced online:

Bibliography

Friends of Juniper Flats. Homesteads in Arrastre Canyon. Friends of Juniper Flats Newsletter, 2006.
https://www.friendsofjuniperflats.org/newsletter/homesteads-in-arrastre-canyon

Gertie E. Bowen. Bowen Escapades. San Bernardino, CA: Self-published, 1964. (125 pp.)
https://www.worldcat.org/title/17022454

Deep Creek Hot Springs Campground (Bowen Ranch). History of Bowen Ranch and Deep Creek Hot Springs Access.
https://deepcreekhotspringscampground.com/history

U.S. Bureau of Land Management. Juniper Flats Recreation Area.
https://www.blm.gov/visit/juniper-flats

DesertUSA. Deep Creek Hot Springs – Mojave Desert, California.
https://www.desertusa.com/desert-california/deep-creek-hot-springs.html

U.S. Bureau of Land Management, General Land Office Records. Land Patent Search – San Bernardino County, CA (Bowen family, 1924 homestead patent).
https://glorecords.blm.gov

If you want to explore more about the early days of Bowen Ranch and Juniper Flats, there are a few key places to look. One is the Friends of Juniper Flats newsletter, which has stories about the homesteads in Arrastre Canyon and paints a picture of neighbors like Jim Monaghan, whom the Bowens knew well.

Another essential piece is Gertie Bowen’s own memoir, Bowen Escapades, written in the 1960s. In it, she tells firsthand stories of life on the ranch — everything from raising kids on the desert frontier to dealing with storms and wildlife.

Summary

Bowen Ranch began in the 1920s when the Bowen family homesteaded 160 acres in Juniper Flats. Their children, the “Bowen boys,” grew up exploring Deep Creek, while matriarch Gertie later wrote Bowen Escapades about their adventures. The ranch, sitting on the main trail, became the gateway to Deep Creek Hot Springs. After the Bowens left, caretakers shaped its fate — from Eagle and Star’s Rainbow Family years to rougher, unstable figures. Nearby Moss Ranch thrived with music, and the harsh 1977–78 winter tested survival at the Welcome Ranch. By 2020, Bowen Ranch transitioned into the Deep Creek Hot Springs Campground.

Two Sides of the Same Story:

Settlers and Seekers in the Mojave Desert

The Mojave Desert has always been a land of extremes—of survival and ambition, of quiet persistence and sudden booms. Two cornerstone texts help tell this story: “Pioneer of the Mojave” by Richard D. Thompson and “Desert Fever” by Vredenburgh, Harthill, and Shumway. Though they cover different periods and perspectives, together they trace the transformation of the Mojave from a sparse frontier to an industrialized desert landscape.

Pioneer of the Mojave introduces us to Aaron G. Lane, one of the first permanent settlers along the Mojave River in the 1850s. His crossing became a lifeline for travelers, freighters, and military expeditions. Lane’s story represents the early days, when survival hinged on access to water, good judgment, and cooperation with those passing through. His efforts in agriculture, trade, and hospitality helped anchor the Mojave as something more than space on a map.

But the story doesn’t end with the settlement.

Desert Fever picks up where the pioneers left off, charting the feverish rush for gold, silver, borax, and copper that swept across the California desert in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Boomtowns sprang up where campsites once stood. Trail stops like Daggett and Calico became freight hubs. Water from the Mojave River—once used to grow alfalfa—was now hauled to stamp mills and ore crushers.

Both books share the same landscape, but their characters have different goals. Lane and his peers sought stability. The miners and speculators who came later chased their fortunes, often leaving ghost towns in their wake. What links them is the land itself—unforgiving but full of possibility.

By exploring both books side by side, we see the Mojave Desert not just as a backdrop but as a central character in its own evolving history.

Suggested Section Links (for below this intro):

  • Pioneer of the Mojave → [Link to your Lane’s Crossing or full PDF/summary]
  • Desert Fever → [Link to chapter index or embedded content]
  • Related topics: [Mojave River history], [Daggett], [Panamint City], [Mining in the Mojave]

The Cushenbury Grade

The Cushenbury Grade is a steep and winding stretch of mountain road that climbs from the high desert of Lucerne Valley up to the pine-covered town of Big Bear Lake. Today, it’s part of California State Route 18, but long before pavement and guardrails, this canyon trail served miners, ranchers, and Native travelers through the San Bernardino Mountains.

Before roads were built, the Serrano people used footpaths through Cushenbury Canyon to move between desert and mountain environments. These routes followed natural contours through the rugged terrain and were later adopted by settlers.

By the 1860s and 70s, prospectors, cattlemen, and freighters were dragging wagons up and down this slope. During the gold boom in nearby Holcomb Valley, Cushenbury became one of the main north-side routes into Big Bear. It was grueling work—steep grades, loose rock, and no guarantee your wagon would make it to the top in one piece.

The canyon and grade took their names from the Cushenbury family, early settlers and cattle ranchers in the Lucerne Valley area. Their name stuck, and by the early 20th century, the area gained new attention, not for gold but for limestone.

In 1918, rich limestone and marble deposits were discovered along the grade. This sparked industrial interest, and by the 1950s, Kaiser Cement had developed a massive limestone quarry near the top. A narrow-gauge rail system carried raw material down the grade to a processing plant: even today, trucks loaded with cement rumble up and down the slope.

During the 1960s, the state upgraded the road and officially folded it into California State Route 18. This brought pavement, safety improvements, and better access to Big Bear from the desert side. Though safer now, the grade still features tight switchbacks and dramatic elevation changes, rising from about 3,000 feet in Lucerne Valley to over 6,700 feet at the top.

Today, the Cushenbury Grade remains a key route for both commerce and recreation. It offers expansive views of the Mojave Desert below and a sense of just how much effort it once took to reach the mountains. Whether hauling limestone or heading up for a weekend getaway, this road directly links two very different worlds—desert and alpine.

Timeline

Cushenbury Grade Historical Timeline

Pre-1800s:
Indigenous Serrano people use Cushenbury Canyon as a seasonal travel route between the Mojave Desert and mountain forests.

1860s–1870s:
Miners and ranchers began traveling through the canyon using rough trails to access Holcomb Valley and Big Bear. The steep terrain made it tough for freight wagons and livestock.

1880s:
A more defined wagon road is carved into the canyon wall. It’s still rough going—narrow, rocky, and dangerous—but it’s one of the few ways into Big Bear from the desert.

Early 1900s:
The Cushenbury family settles in the Lucerne Valley area, giving their name to the canyon and grade.

1918:
Limestone and marble are discovered along the canyon. As mining gains momentum, the area shifts from wagon trail to industrial corridor.

1950s:
Kaiser Cement develops a large limestone quarry near the top of the grade. A private rail system is built to haul material to the desert floor. This leads to improvements along the road.

1960s:
The state paves and upgrades the road, officially making it part of California State Route 18. It becomes a year-round access route to Big Bear Lake from the high desert.

1990s–present:
The Cushenbury Grade is heavily used by cement trucks and tourists. The steep climb and sharp turns remain challenging, especially in winter, but it’s a vital link between two different environments.

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.

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.

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.

The Story of Garces Rock

In the spring of 1776, while revolution stirred on the East Coast, something quieter, though no less meaningful, was happening far in the West. A Spanish Franciscan missionary, Father Francisco Garces, was on his fifth and final journey into the heart of what is now California.

Guided by Native people and traveling by foot and mule, Father Garces came up through the Antelope Valley, tracing ancient indigenous trails through uncharted territory to Europeans. From there, he pressed on into the San Joaquin Valley, turned east and crossed the rugged mountains near Tehachapi, and continued into the dry interior, heading toward the Mojave River.

During this leg of the journey, near the base of Castle Butte, east of present-day California City, someone in his party left behind a quiet message. Carved into a large boulder was a simple inscription:
“Cura Garces – Abril 1776.”
A trace is left in stone to mark their passage through the high desert.

That rock sat in silence for more than 150 years. Then, around 1935, an old prospector pointed it out to a man named Mike Sanchez, but the story of the stone didn’t go far. Sanchez wasn’t much of a talker, and the tale faded.

Later, in 1963, local historian Glen Settle gave a talk at an elementary school in Lancaster. A teacher there told him about the rock. One of her students—Mike Sanchez’s son—had shared the story, and he even had a hand-drawn map.

Two years later, in 1965, Settle and several other members of the Kern Antelope Historical Society followed that map and found the rock. It had already suffered some vandalism, so the group relocated it to a safe location. They called in a local man with a truck and a sturdy A-frame hoist. With help from a few Air Force sergeants, they carefully transported the rock to the Tropico Gold Camp Museum in Rosamond.

They brought in experts to study it. One priest, an authority on early Spanish California, confirmed that the words and cross were consistent with 18th-century Franciscan markings. The weathering on the carving was old, possibly as old as Garces’ journey.

During the 1976 U.S. Bicentennial, organizers mounted the rock on a traveling display. They showed it at schools and events throughout the Antelope Valley. It was a rare, tangible link between the Mojave Desert and the very year the United States was born.

In 1979, the rock was loaned to the new East Kern Historical Museum in California City, close to where it had first rested centuries earlier.

Then, tragedy struck in the dark hours of February 4, 1981. The museum caught fire. Local fire crews responded quickly, but upon arrival, the wooden structure was already fully engulfed in flames.

At first glance, the Garces Rock seemed to have survived the blaze. But it crumbled into fragments when someone gently touched it the next morning. The heat from the fire, followed by cold water from the hoses, had cracked and fractured the boulder beyond saving—even the carved inscription dissolved into dust.

Firefighters did everything they could. There was nothing left.

What was lost that night wasn’t just a rock. It was a rare and quiet witness to a moment of deep historical significance—when a European missionary followed Native guidance across the mountains, valleys, and deserts of early California.

Father Garces didn’t live long after his desert crossing. He was killed near the Colorado River in 1781, near what is now Yuma, Arizona. But his name still lives on in places like Garces Memorial High School in Bakersfield—built near the spot he once called a “beautiful place for a mission.”

Though the rock is gone, the story remains. It’s kept alive by teachers, old-timers, maps passed down, and folks who care enough to remember. It’s proof that sometimes the desert whispers back—and if you listen closely, you can still hear the footsteps of history echoing through the sand.

Huntington’s Station

Huntington’s Station was the first trading post in the area, and although Heber Huntington only owned it from 1873 to 1878, it remained known as Huntington’s Station until the the railroad came through and renamed it Victor. The river crossing with a few modern exceptions as the Narrows Bridge, Rainbow Bridge, and the cement plant looks much the same today as it did in 1872 when Mecham built what has become Stoddard Wells Road.

Mojave River, Victorville
Mojave River at Huntington’s Crossing