194306 Desert Magazine 1943 June

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Lf, Ql tunxd tBy FRED H. RAGSDALELos Angeles, CaliforniaWinner of first prize in Desert Magazine's April photographic contest ist}' photo of a family church on the road to Chimayo, New Mexico. Takenw. i a 4x5 view camera, 6 inch Dagor lens, Panatomic X film with a "G"fil, r, F:45. Second prize winner on page 39.

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Smoke Bulk

SONG OF THE GOAT HERDERBy MARY SAL E S MIL L SGallatin Gateway, Montana

Out on the desert neath the blue of the skyWander my goats and I.The dead grass sings a requiemAs the wind goes sighing by;God's silence there is brokenBy the lonely curlew's cry.Far from the rim of the desertThe roaring cities lie,Joy and strife within themPain and the tear dimmed eye;Cares that kill the out-worn heartAnd canker joys that die.So on the desert neath the blue of the skyWander my goats and I.Sunshine and space around usTime and the world pass by,For we have a peace that is not of menMy nibbling goats and I.

THE CACTUS* WRENB y E V A M . W I L S O N

El Centro, CaliforniaBehold the wily cactus wren,Whose house (the saints deliver us!)She swings aloft mid sharpest thornsAnd foils her foes carnivorous.

THE SOLDIER RETURNSBy E . A. BRUBACHE RBalboa Beach, California

The desert winds blow over meThe cool winds of the desert night.The stars are near, so very nearSo very cold and very bright.The desert night folds over me.I am alonethere's no one near.Far away toward the westlandsThe guns of battle I can hear.The desert night is whispering thingsAs it takes me unto its breast.The desert song is lulling meInto its long long sleep of rest.I'll be one with the desert soonPart of its stars and wind and night,Part of the mystery and peace,Part of its sands that gleam so white.I'll be part of the desert's song,Part of the peace and mystery,Part of the things that men have feltBut that no human eye can see.The desert draws me to its breast,I am content and all is well,And the desert and God will knowWho that I amand where I fell.

By X A N M . H A M M O N DOh, June, hot June!tree of Grace!weave of lace!stands receptive,gay, deceptive;beauty dripping,nectar sipping;Here the king's abundant colordraped in regal disregardornaments the desert wastelandshades the shrubs of spikenard.As we approach we hear a hummingsoftly, lest we break the thrummingEvery bloom is yielding ransomto a thief full bold and handsome;seeming night drifts gently toward usin a slow consuming flight;tiny spirals leave us gaping;is it smoke or is it waking?Desert, hold your secret tight!

FAREWELL NOW DESERTB y C A R R O L L D F . W I L T O N S C O T TSan Diego, California

Now sinks the red-ball sun behind blue wallsSave where it strikes far minarets of snow,And rosy color mounts the sky and bathesThe suffocating landscape in its glow.I ride across the gravel plain to climbThe rocky stairways of the barrier.Once lilac, purple, blue, now ashen-brownConfronting eastern walls of lavender.Somewhere between, beneath the roseate hazeAre houses, fields and eucalyptus treesEngulfed amid the desolation vastLike a dream-ship that sinks in nameless seas.The mountain summit gained almostreluctantlyI find the road to crowded haunts of men;One lingering gaze at your emblazoned skyFarewell, now, desert, I'll be back again.

DESERT SPRINGB y D A I S Y S T F . P H E N S O NDenver, Colorado

O. a garden is beautiful anyw hereWhen springtime walks, and the world is fair;But crocus and hyacinth cannot compareWith the brave wild bloom of the desert.Your civilized tulip and daffodil brightAre ever a hopeful and radiant sight;But the desert works miracles overnightIn marigold, lupine and mallow.Where yesterday's landscape was drab tobeholdToday is a glory of purple and gold.Such infinite beauty can never be toldWhen springtime has come to the desert.

COACHELLA VALLEYB y M A U D E L. S T A U T ZLe Sueur, Minnesota

The desert flaunts her dainty skirts before meAll lavender and gold and edged with lacygreen.Her spreading palms like beckoning handsallure me.She woos me like some dusky pagan queen.And all around her mighty mountains rearTheir shaggy headsstaunch sentinels toguardAnd hold her sweetness close, and every yearWe find her ageless beauty still unmarred.THE DESERT M AGA ZINE


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IgaanafePelican colony disturbed by motor boat on Lake Pyramid. Photo by I. N. Ga brielson.

Fish and Wildli\e service.

A lake teeming with fish, an island covered with voracious whitepelicans, and Pahute Indians who depend almost as much on the lake'sfish as the pelicans. Here is the triangle Margaret Stone found when sheaccepted the invitation to visit Mary Pepo and her family while theycaught and dried their winter's supply of fish along the shores of LakePyramid in western Nevada. Mary Pepo stated the triangular problem:the government protects the pelicans which are increasing rapidly, there-by eating more and more of the fish and leaving less and less for herpeople. On top of that, an irrigation dam diverts much of the water whichfeeds the lake, causing the waters to recede. Mary Pepo and her peopleare worried, but the author believes there is plenty of fish for pelican andPahute. She sees the real menace to both the Indians and their fish sup-ply in the diversion of the water from the lake.

By MARGARET STONEi "I HIS is the lake where the cui-/ ui live." Mary Pepo, aged Pah-ute woman looked across thesparkling blue waters of Lake Pyramid inwestern Nevada's desert, and sighed. "Iwant to tell you this; years ago when Iwas a little girl we had fish of all kindsfor everybody. Even the great white birdyou came here to see could not make thesupply less. The Indians dried them andsaved them for winter food. Now, sincethe building of Truckee dam, and be-cause the government will not let us break

the eggs of the pelican and kill the greedybirds we shall likely starve."A lugubrious expression settled itselfon her wrinkled brown face. I looked ather and grinned, and Mary reluctantlytwinkled. She knew and I knew the watersof Pyramid teemed with fish, plenty forbird and man. In fact it was her invitationto join her people at the lakeside whilethey caught and smoked their winter'ssupply of cui-ui, a coarse species of sucker,which brought me to camp there in thatwestern desert beside one of Nature's

jokes, a lake 30 miles long, seven or eightwide, set down in a land where a lake isnot expected to be found. Lake Pyramid,there among the Rainbow hills not farfrom Reno, is the last and largest frag-ment of the prehistoric water called LakeLahontan that once covered a great por-tion of the western desert.Mary Pepo has no love for the greatwhite pelican, which since time immemor-ial, has made Anaho island, in Lake Pyra-mid, its summer home and nesting place.There and on other isles in the lake it hasreared its young, leading them southwardin the late fall and returning each springto torment the Shoshone and Pahute In-dians living in that vicinity.Year after year the untiring feud goeson. The fish and wild life bureau underwhose supervision Anaho island and itsrookery of pelicans, largest in the world,lies, admits the pelicans there consumeabout 4,000 tons of fish each season. Eachadult bird eats an average of four poundsa day, and there are now some 5,000 adultpairs of pelicans on Anaho island. Whenthey seek food for their young in thewarm shallows of the lake, and fill theirhuge bill pouches it does look like noth-ing much will be left for the Indians.Watching these ungainly birds feedingI found an old ditty running through myhead. Along with the memory of therhyme came the taste of yellow soap, em-

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ployed by my austere grandmother towash out my mouth when I recklesslychanted the lines in her presence:"What a wondrous bird is the pel-i-can!His beak holds more than his bel-i-can.He can hold in his beak enough for aweek,And I don't see how in the Hel-e-can!"Anaho island, a 248-acre tufa forma-tion in the lake, has been set aside as abird refuge, thus ending for all time theforays of whites and Indians against thepelican rookery there. It was great sport togo to the island in row boats and later inmotor crafts, and beat and flail and maimand kill the ungainly birds and wrecktheir nests. Great sport, but not a safe onenow that Uncle Sam has spread his pro-tection over the island.There is something to be said on theside of the Indians who use dried fish forwinter food. After all, the pelican is a

huge bird and it takes a lot of fish to keep

him going. He is about five feet long, hasa wing spread of eight to 10 feet, andowns a bill at least a foot long. Whenone swoops directly toward an intruder,there is an impression that a range cowhas gone sailing over the moon or else astray bomber is making a forced landing.Before going to the Nevada rookery I haddone a little research on the pelican:"The white pelican is a large grotesquewater bird which breeds on the inland saltlakes of the Great Basin in Western des-ert states. . . . Because of their fish eatinghabits pelicans have been persecuted byman!" And how.Here was a real triangle right besideme: Beautiful sparkling Lake Pyramid,great rapacious white bird defying ex-tinction, and hungry Indian. All theangles clearly set out. And, as usual, noreal reason for any dispute. The lake hasplenty of fish for both bird and man.

unless man himself in his shortsighted

greediness, dooms the lake to oblivion.Since Truckee dam has been built moreand more water is diverted to irrigatelands until only a small trickle reachesthe lake. And the Truckee river, namedby Fremont in honor of Mary Pepo's fa-ther who guided him to the lake in 1844,is the only source of supply for the bodyof water, other than the brief torrents sentin the spring time down the furrowedhills surrounding the lake. That dam isthe real menace to the Pahutes and theirfish.When Truckee led Fremont to the des-ert bound body of water, the explorertook one look at the tufa formationbreaking the surface of the blue mirrorand called it "Pyramid." In those daysthe Pahutes fished its waters from raftsmade of bundles of tules bound tightlytogether. Their hooks were bits ofsharpened bone or cactus thorns from the

desert. At spawning time the lazy fishA corner of thirty-mile long L ake Pyram id, largest remnant of prehistoric Lake Lahontan.From its w aters rise several u fa islands, one of which is a government refuge for the whitepelican. Photo courtesy Reno chamber of comm erce.



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pushed against one another, forcing theirway up through the shallows of Truckeeto spawn, and then the pelicans and In-dians really feasted. The women andchildren waded in the shallows andcaught them with their hands. They werecured over slow fires and stored for food.Mary Pepo was still talking of those days."When I was little my people campedhere for weeks. My, the fish we caughtthen. We snared them and speared themand caught them in nets made of milk-weed silk. We didn't waste any of themeither, I can tell you. We cut their headsoff, split them down the backs andsmoked them over alder and sage brushcoals. Then we laid them in the sun onhot rocks and turned them over and overuntil they were hard and dry before wepacked them away for winter food."She rambled on and on while my mindwandered through the pages of historywritten there in her land. Here greatcaravans crossing the salt sinks on theirway to golden California were boggeddown and perished; here miners workedand prospered and fought among them-selves and died; here the Pahutes am-bushed and killed marauding whites, un-til the whites became too many for themtaking their lands, their game, theirwater, forcing them into the listless poor

tribe of today. The young ones are break-ing away from the stigma of "Pahute"and forging ahead with their cattle andsmall farms, but the old ones are hope-less.Days passed while I lingered there withthe Pahute people. All day they fishedand prepared their catch for curing. Atnight they feasted and sometimes dancedto the dull beat of a drum and sad wail ofthe flute. At the break of day the menwere off again in their fishing boats. Nowhite men are allowed to own or operate

boats on this ancient fishing water ofthe Indians, and I was delighted at thejustice of that ruling. Indians can renttheir services to white fishermen permit-ted to buy a license for fishing there goodonly one day.The boats headed out toward the tufaformations where the water is deepestand coldest. There at a depth of 50 feetthe white men caught the huge land-locked salmon, called trout, and some-times they weighed 20 or 30 pounds. Thecui-ui, a dumb sluggish fish, never learnsto stay away from the warm shallowswhere it is such an easy prey to pelicanand Pahute.

On my last day at Lake Pyramid I wentout in the boat with the family of MaryPepo. Far out into the lake the motor-boat plowed its way leaving furrows ofgreen white foam behind it. The old In-dian woman trailed a thin brown handin the water and looked with apprehen-sion at the pyramid from which the laketook its name. In her soft Indian tongueshe gave her son some instructions andhe reluctantly veered away from the hugeformation looming above us almost 500feet, its top wreathed in vapor.

"It is not good to go close to thatplace," said Mary with an appeasinghand on my arm. "That is the place of theLake Spirit waiting for souls to come near.Boats are upset here and people drawndown to the dwelling place of the spirit.He never lets them go again." In Reno,later, I asked an old timer about thatlegend and he said there is a very strongundertow near the formation and swim-mers have been drawn under and theirbodies never recovered.While Mary Pepo shuddered at her

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White pelicans breed on Anaho island in Lake Pyramid, the W est's largest rook-ery of pelicans. At times their num ber is so great the island seem s covered withsnowdrifts. Rattlesnakes are numerous on the refuge. Fish and Wildlife photo.own story, her son told me another leg-end of his people concerning the forma-tion. "That is a big basket turned over aPahute woman unfaithful to her husband.The gods punished her. And then she andthe basket turned to stone, but her breathstill comes up. See the steam around theplace?" He couldn't say just what becameof the unfortunate woman's partner incrime, completely ignoring my inquiry.

There is yet another Pahute story con-cerning a basket. North of the pyramidfrom which the lake takes its name is amost interesting formation simply called"Squaw With a Basket." She is supposedto be patiently waiting for her man whowas drawn into the fatal waters of thelake.All the while we were visiting sectionsof the lake the Pahute fisherman was pa-tiently fishing, and with monotonous reg-ularity pulling big sluggish fish into theboat, and then playing out the copperline again with its gaily colored spinners.The fish varied in size from three or fourpounds up to 10 or 12 and they didn'tlook very appetizing to me. But then I'venever been a hungry Pahute on a winterlocked Nevada desert.We circled close to Anaho island, asclose as the law allows, where the peli-cans were so thick they resembled driftsof snow, or brought vividly to my mind,windrows of dirty grey ice packed alongthe shore of Lake Michigan. Some satfull fed in the sunshine, groggy and gar-rulous like village gossipers. Others, dis-turbed by our presence whirled and

circled around the island. Both parentpelicans never leave the nest with its twoor three eggs at the same time. Too manysea gulls are waiting tirelessly to breakthe eggs and eat them. Mary Pepo saidthat when the Indians went to the islandto break up the nests they had to watchsharply for rattlesnakes which infest theplace. They must take a huge toll of eggsthemselves, those egg loving reptiles.Pelicans on the water had difficulty inrising when we came too near them in theboat. For 50 feet or more they struggledjust above the water their feet kickingback like propellors. When they werefree from the surface they tucked theirlegs under them like airplane landinggear, and leisurely flapped their way outof danger.Back on shore, fires had been burninguntil only coals were left, and the fishquickly were beheaded, slices cut awayfrom the backbone, and strung on yuccaropes. These were hung to dry over thecoals. Big wash boilers filled with waterwere placed over briskly burning fires andinto these the carcasses of the big fishwere dropped and boiled until the fleshcame easily away from the bones. Thiswas mixed with corn meal and a sort offish mush evolved.This was a little too much fish for meand I wandered away to my own campwhere I looked across the water. Pyramidis a lake of many moods. Under the mid-day sun it sparkles and murmurs andbreaks into coquettish little ripples. Whena storm arises the waters are dark andmenacing, rolling sullenly into harsh

waves. But tonight, just as the sun wasdropping there was a mirror-like calmnessshot through with streaks of gold, fromthe last faint rays.Then the sun suddenly was gone, anddarkness closed over lake and desert asthough a huge bowl had been inverted

a bowl soon patterned with great softstars. Far down the shore a flute timidlysounded and was encouraged by the firmthump of the age-worn drum of the Pepofamily. It was the hour when the air wasladen with smells and sounds of Indiancamp lifethe heavy smell of oily pinyonfires, the scent of drying fish, the soundof sleepy children and the low plaintivevoices of their patient mothers. Over itall the beat of the drum throbbed and theflute wailed an accompaniment. Soon thecall of hungry coyotes would come fromnearby hills.

Mary Pepo was beside me. So silentlyshe had come I was not aware of her pres-ence until she spoke, "Nothing tastes bet-ter than a fat fish baked on a hot rock. I'llcook one for your supper tonight.""All right, Mary Pepo, but I'll get itready to cook. I want to know it's clean in-side and out before it is baked!" Maryjust laughed. "You white women arefunny," she said.

NEW SURVEY SHOWSPELICAN INCREASEPelicans have more than doubledin Nevada since 1940, according tostate fish and game commission re-ports available April 28. Althoughconsidered a menace to Nevada'sfish the fish and game commissionhas been unable to take any actionbecause the birds are protected byfederal laws.Records of a count of young peli-

cans, all less than half grown, madeon Anaho island, Lake Pyramid, in1940 revealed 1,562 of the birds.Recent count showed the number ofpelicans in the half-grown class hadgrown to more than 3,000.The pelicans are found in smallnumbers at Lake Tahoe, in largenumbers in Pyramid Lake section,and in increasing numbers in thevicinity of Fallon."If pelicans are permitted tofeed unmolested on concentrationsof game fish they easily can undoin one week what has taken sports-men and conservationists years tobuild up," Vernon Mills, state gamewarden, declared recently.



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America's most famous autographs in stone are found on Inscription Rock, N ew Mexico.Photo shows an interesting group o f panels containing nam es and dates cut into rock surface.

Ever since he first saw Names Hill, covered withold pioneer names, Charles Kelly has followedclues to other "stone autographs" throughout theSouthwest. Some he has found on the Oregon Trailand on the Old Spanish Trail; others at points re-mote from today's highways. Many of them haveuncovered heretofore undiscovered links in the his-tory of the West. All of them hold human stories ofhope and tragedy and triumph.By C HARL ES KELLY

f/ EVERAL years ago as I drove along an unfamiliar roadj about 40 miles north of Kemm erer, Wyo ming, my wifeconsulted a road map, one of the first to indicate interest-ing historical spots in red lettering.Nearing a high bluff along Green river she told me it wascalled "Names Hill." Curious to know why it was so called,we stopped at a small house to inquire of a man leaning on thegate. He told us the rocks were covered with old pioneer namesand offered to show us over the hill.That was my first meeting with Julius Luoma, trapper, foxfarmer and self-appointed guardian of historic Names Hill. Aswe crossed the road he pointed out some large inscriptions cutin the rock, and when we arrived at the smooth face of the cliffI found it was literally covered with names and dates. These,I soon saw, were not idle scratchings of Sunday picnickers, buta record of the passing of hundreds of early Oregon and Cali-

fornia pioneers, who had left their names on this landmarkalong the trail for the information of friends who might fol-low later."Has anyone ever made a record of these inscriptions?" Iasked."I don't think so," Luoma replied. "Very few people everstop to look at them. But someone ought to make a record ofthem before they disappear. A good many have already beeneroded away by wind and rain.""Then let's do it now," I said, returning to the car for penciland paper.With Luoma's enthusiastic assistance I spent the rest of theday copying the hundreds of old names on Names Hill. Andthat was the beginning of my favorite hobbyrecording oldinscriptions.The dates, I found, ran from 1840, near the end of the trapperperiod, to 1869 when the first transcontinental railroad prac-tically ended travel by covered wagon. The ford of Greenriver at that point was on the old Greenwood cutoff of theOregon trail and most of the names carved there were of Ore-gon pioneers, but there was also a generous sprinkling of 49ersbound for California. Judging by the dates there was a grandrush of emigrants in the 1850's which gradually diminished to-ward the end of the 1860's.Previously I had done much research in tracing old emigrant-trails, but this was the first time I had seen actual signatures ofthe men who made them. It was such a thrill that I determinedto search out every place where such records might be found

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Kit Carson's name is cut in this rock near the m outh oj Keam s Canyo n, Arizona.and make a permanent record of all such names and dates. Itwas a large undertaking and required traveling hundreds ofmiles over trails unused since pioneer times. Although over3,000 such names have been recorded, the quest is not yet fin-ished. I feel the work already done is well worth while. It hasproved to be an absorbing hobby in a desert country where cli-matic conditions are favorable to the preservation of such his-torical records.

Traveling westward on the Overland trail, emigrants foundno rock surfaces suitable for cutting until they arrived at Scott'sBluffs, Courthouse Bluffs and Chimney Rock in western Ne-braska. Many names were left there but the rock was soft andthey soon disappeared.Just over the line, near Guernsey, Wyoming, was a long,smooth bluff near a good camping place. Here, at what is calledRegister Cliff, hundreds of names were cut in the rock for

Portion of Independence Rock, "register of the desert," showing some o ld nam es and bronzeplaques placed by v arious historical societies.

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more than a mile along the old trail. This rock was of more en-during nature and most of them are still legible. A completelisting was made some years ago by Paul Henderson, ofBridgeport, Nebraska. The earliest was accompanied by thedate 1796, proving that American trappers had penetratedWyoming long before the days of General Ashley's fur brigade.Other names were dated 1811, 1826, and so on, but none ofthose early trappers and explorers left any written record oftheir travels. Evidently there are chapters of early western his-tory still unwritten.

Farther west, on Sweetwater river, stood Independence Rock,famous emigrant landmark, called by Father DeSmet "the regis-ter of the desert." The earliest trappers and explorers of whichwe have any record cut their names on this great rock and atone time it contained more than any rock on the desert. But al-though it was granite, it has eroded so badly that all those earlyinscriptions have disappeared, the earliest still legible being1847. However, the signatures of hundreds of Oregon andCalifornia emigrants and 49ers are still visible, and these werecarefully recorded and published several years ago by Robert G.Ellison, who was among the first to recognize their historicalvalue.The next important registering place was Names Hill,where emigrants, after crossing the ford, usually spent two orthree days refreshing their animals on the river bottom grass.After listing the names at this place Mr. Luoma took me toHolden Hill, four miles west, where we found many more.On a later occasion he guided me to Emigrant Springs, 12miles west of Holden Hill. It was a good camping place, withplenty of grass and a good spring. On the bluffs above thespring were hundreds of names, but no dates earlier than 1849.On one well protected face of fine grained shale many signa-tures had been scratched with the point of a knife no largerthan ordinary handwriting, yet perfectly preserved. In thesagebrush below the cliff stood a large solitary boulder, look-ing somewhat like a tombstone. Beneath it a pioneer humoristhad buried an empty whiskey keg, then carved on its face this

epitaph: "Peace to His Ashes. Here Lies in Spirit W. Keg,Age 30, from Ky."In 1858 the Lander cutoff was laid out from the western footof South Pass to what is now Cokeville, Wyoming, where itconnected with the old Oregon trail. It crossed the rough SaltRiver mountains which were covered with a heavy growth oftimber. Hundreds of names were cut on the smooth white barkof aspen trees, but a majority of these are now illegible. Otheremigrants skinned the bark off pine trees and engraved theirnames in the wood, which has since been largely covered by newgrowth.The California trail turned southwest from the foot of SouthPass to Fort Bridger and Salt Lake City. On this route, alongthe bluffs of Muddy creek, north of Fort Bridger, are many

early names. After passing the fort, this trail led toward Echocanyon, and a mile before entering it the emigrants passedCache Cave, a trapper landmark. On the walls and roof of thiscave are scores of names, the earliest still legible having beencut by Mormon pioneers of 1847. On a bluff nearby is an-other group left by members of Johnston's army of 1857 andMormons who opposed their entry into Utah.Beyond Salt Lake City, in the southwest corner of Idaho, is apicturesque spot which emigrants called "City of Rocks." Be-cause of its grassy meadows and clear cold water it was a favor-ite camping place. The hard granite rocks which gave the placeits name resisted carving, but hundreds of names were paintedon the sm ooth surfaces. O nly a few are still legible, among themthe name of a brother of Kit Carson.South of City of Rocks the California trail struck GooseCreek, in Nevada. Here, near Horseshoe ranch are some highbluffs on which are found several groups of inscriptions, datingmostly from 1849. Continuing on this trail toward Wells, Ne-

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vada, J. Roderic Korns and I found a bluff of grey lava ash onLittle Goose creek literally covered with names, all dated either1849 or 1850. We called the place Raven Cliff and believe wewere the first to record any of those inscriptions. Among themwas one which read: "G. M. Ferrell, Full Bent for Sacramento.Age 22. We ll." It would be interesting to know if this sailor boyever reached his destination and realized his ambition to diggold.The most famous inscriptions in America are those carvedby early Spanish explorers on Inscription Rock in New Mexico.They justly have received a great deal of attention. But it is notso well known that on the same rock are hundreds of names ofemigrants and soldiers. One large party who left their nameson the rock in 1857 were later attacked by Indians, who tookall their stock, burned their wagons and killed a number of the

Curious inscription in Braffet canyon, near Parowan,Utah, on the Old Spanish Trail, dated 1831 below theword GOLD.

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emigrants. Survivors, making their wayback toSanta Fe on foot,were rescued by Lieutenant Beale, whose name also appearsonthe rock.A peculiarity ofthese emigrant inscriptions isthat thenamesof outstanding leaders ofwagon trains are conspicuous by theirabsence. They were apparently too busy towaste time cuttingtheir names on the rocks. Another noticeable feature isthat al-though thousands of women crossed theplains in coveredwagons, only ahalf dozen ever left their names along the way.The initials "J. W." appear most frequently inall these groups.The most common date is July 4,because allemigrant trainsstopped to celebrate tha t day.Many names occur again and again atvarious stopping placesalong the trail, but amajority are found once only. Some menmade several trips across theplains andadded new dates totheir original inscriptions. Some names found on Register Cliff,first registering place, are also found onrough headstones far-ther west where the men died from disease orwere killed byIndians.Aside from finding these large groups ofpioneer inscriptions,the most interesting angle ofthis hobby isthe discovery of iso-lated inscriptions left byearly trappers and explorers long be-

fore there was an overland trail. Some ofthese experiences havealready been described inDesert.The initials ofHenry W. Bigler, found inBeaver DamWash,Nevada, have been of assistance in relocating the oldDeathValley trail of1849. The name "Denis Julien, 1831," found inUintah Basin, Utah, helped solve themystery ofthe "D. Julien"who left his name insix places along Green river. The longestinscription, except those on Inscription Rock, was one in Frenchleft byAntoine Robidoux in1837,west ofMack, Colorado, an-

nouncing his intention toestablish atrading post inthe UintahBasin.O n avoyage through Glen canyon of the Colorado river in1938 with Julius F.Stone's party, we found thedate "1642"cut inlarge figures on a cliff opposite Lake canyon. Nonameaccompanied it. If this isgenuine it isthe oldest date found onthe rocks inUtah. Nearby on the same cliff wasanillegible in-scription in French dated 1837. Thelatter mayhave been left bya party of French trappers who were continuing theexplora-tions ofDenis Julien begun in 1836.In Braffet canyon, near Parowan, Utah, Frank Beckwith andI found avery curious inscription. On alarge boulder was theword GOLD with letters reversed, and beneath were some in-itials and the date 1831 . Onanother rock nearby was cutacross,some initials and the same date. These were probably madebyearly travelers over the Old Spanish trail through Utah whichwas opened between Santa Feand Los Angeles in 1830. Theword GOLD had been thecause ofconsiderable digging in thevicinity but nothing was ever found.Because ofmy interest inthis hobby I receive many reportsof oldnames and dates on therocks allover theSouthwest.I try to trace each one, and while most such reports prove false,

occasionally som ething wo rth while isfound. Each newdiscov-ery adds something toour knowledge ofearly western history.It isafascinating hobby which has led tothediscovery ofmanyinteresting corners ofthedesert.Whenever I find oneof these old records, whether made byone of theearly trappers or by a covered wagon emigrant, Iknow that the man who cut his autograph inthe rock possessedthe qualities ofcourage, self-reliance, independence and plain,old-fashioned guts!

D i s t r i c t P o w e r H a s aB i r t h d a y . . . Seven years ago, on May 19, 1936,ImperialValley newspapers headlined the story ofthe first consumers being connected to Impe-rial Irrigation District power lines. Themiraculous growth andexpansion of thispublicly owned public utility since that recentdate, is a saga of progress that is a glowingtribute to thepeople of Imperial Valley whoovercame every obstacle in their fight toutil-

ize the power possibilities of the great All-American canal. Starting with three small diesel generatingunits, and a distribution system covering only

a portion of the incorporated city limits of thetown ofBrawley, theDistrict power systemhasspread until today it reaches out toserve everycity andtown in Imperial Valley. In addition,over 2,000 farms andrural homespreviouslywithout electricityare served over a ruralnet-work comprising nearly a thousand miles oflines.The three small diesel generating units grewtothe largest active plant ofits kind inthe Westtwo huge hydro-electric plants were built onthe All-American canal. Gross power salesfor1943 will total nearly amillion dollarstruly atremendous record of accomplishment.

Im p e r ia l I r r i g a t io n D i s t r idU s e Y o u r O w n P o w e r - M a k e i t P a y f o r t h e A l l A m e r ic a n C a n a l

12 THE DESERT MAGAZINE


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Three-sketch layout executed by Rider and R udyard South who came to the rescue when aphotograph for this mon th's "Refuge' was unobtainable. Victoria ivanted to contributebut her big brothers consider her art too impressionistic for D esert Mag azine.

By MARSHAL SOUTHN THE road again, the blue bowl of the desert sky fora roof and a fringing rim of far blue mountains every-where upon the horizon. The old Ford puffs and chugsand the heavily loaded trailer creaks and sways as it trundlesalong behind. It is good to be on the trail again, even though a

scrupulous care in the conservation of gas and rubber has shornour voyaging down to absolute necessity. But the miles that un-roll now beneath the wheels are really those that we stored upduring the winter, when for the greater part of the time the carwas laid up and we used our legs instead. It was a long restor it seemed so, to our impatience. Now it is good to be oncemore on the move.The children are all excitement. To them all things new arean adventure. And their eyes are constantly searching the hori-zon. But there is a tinge of wistful remembering threadingthrough their eager chatter. Those were happy days in the LittleHouse. And under the cottonwoods among the bushy thicketsof the old reservoir.Rudyard still thinks of the frog that had his home in a grass-grown cow-track at the base of a gnarled rabbit bush. A friendlyjewel-eyed little fellow, that frog. Half concealed by the grassblades in his little retreat he would sit and watch us with hisdeep, shining eyes until Rudyard would tickle him gently with

Marshal and Tanya South, with their threechildren, are on the trail again. Many months agothey left their Ghost Mountain hom e, "Yaquitepec,"on the western rim of the Colorado desert in Cali-fornia to find a new homea home where theycould be assured of a sufficient water supply fortheir growing family, yet one remote enough tocarry on their experiment in primitive natural liv-ing. Their wanderings have taken them to manyoases and water-holes in the desertin California,Arizona, Nevada and Utah. It was in a little valleyin Utah that they found temporary refuge duringthe sudden sno wy blasts of winter. . . And nowthey are somewhere on the trail again. They do notknow their destination. Scores of friends have writ-ten them, telling them of favorite retreats, but notyet have they found the ONE PLACE they are sureawaits them.

a grass stem. Then flip! he would be gone, a tiny mottled greenbody making great hops towards the reedy water. But next dayhe would be back again in the cow track.After a few times we got the notion that he really expected us.And enjoyed it all as a great game. Now that we come no morehe probably will sit and muse about all the strange meaning ofhis adventures. And he will tell the story to his children. A nd itwill be handed down from generation to generation. And be-come frog mythology. And be-spectacled frog scientists, in thedays to come will prove that it was all just a wild dream about

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Shimmers of warm air ripple mysteriously across the great

ness as in the beginning of the w orld.It is a hushed dreamy place, this noonday lunch spot. Tanya

A happy desert trio, these young hopefuls. And beginningd upon life. Wh en they heard me be-

Victoria had a hand in the pie also. But the boys, knowingled to get by the art critic.The wheels have rolled onward. The camp spot this evening

DESERT READERS INVITED TOVIEW YAQUITEPEC PAINTINGYaquitepec, in both the spirit and color described inDesert Refuge before the Souths left their Ghost moun-

tain home, has been perpetuated on canvas. The oil paint-ing now hangs in Desert Magazine's home, and all Desertfriends able to travel through El Centro are cordially in-vited to stop in and view this painting of the Souths'first desert home.Thomas Crocker, San Diego, California, artist, hadbeen inspired by the simple natural life led by theSouths. He was determined to preserve a bit of the colorand substance of the dream that was theirs on Ghostmountain. He has succeeded admirably. The 'dobe wallsbuilt with such labor, the little cisterns they cemented tohold the scant rain that fell, the boulders which hemmedin the tiny pocket-handkerchief gardens, the sun dial theybuilt to mark the hours, the ever-changing light andcolor of the mountain-top retreatthe very spirit of theSouths' life, all have been blended in color with bothrealism and imagination by the artist.

4

streamers of orange flame. The red blankets are spread in aclear open space as far as possible from any bushes. For he whoseeks the shelter of greasewood or other desert growths for hisbed is likely to attract unwelcome bedfellows. Not that thepresence of a warmth-seeking sidewinder is to be expected. Butit is something to be cautious about. And scorpions, too, aremore apt to be lurking about the base of bushes where they denin the mouse or chipmunk burrows. A bed well in the open isthe prudent thing . And a little healthy desert wind hurts no one.Certainly it does not seem to be hurting Rider, Rudyard orVictoria. For they are at their nightly acrobatics, turning swiftsomersaults from one end of the spread blanket to the other.Sometimes all three of them, in line, go whirling heels overhead, clear down the whole length of blanket covered earthand back again. Like these nimble tumble-bugs they go so fastthat all you can see is a blur of flying brown arms and legs andrevolving bodies. And the evening air vibrates with wild shrieksof joypunctuated by an occasional "Ouch!" as one or theother overshoots the blanket padding and rolls off onto thepebble littered earth.But such mishaps only serve to add spice to the game. Theynever seem to grow tired and each night the circus has to beterminated almost by force. Victoria is just as much a somer-sault fan as the boys. Perhaps more so. She has tried very hardto teach her rag doll "Georgine" to turn somersaults. But sofar w ith only partial success.It has grown darker. Night is folding down like a shadowyblanket. Tanya has just thrown a fresh armful of dry sticksupon the fire and now sits silent, lost in thought, gazing deepinto the red heart of the blaze. The win d has gone down a littleand above the luminous drift of the fire smoke, clear stars arewinking. I have moved closer to the leaping flames. Not forwarmth but because without their ruddy light upon the page Ican no longer see to write. Out of the darkness and into thecircle of glow about my feet comes ambling a huge old pina-cate beetle, dignified, investigative, for all the world like somefrock-coated old professor out for his evening stroll. His shinyblack body glistens in the firelight as he pokes about, waddlingaround pebbles, thrusting a curious nose under fallen twigs.Gently I touch him with a slender stick. And instantly he standsupon his head and freezes, his pointed rear end upreared likethe menacing muzzle of a siege gun.Curious fellows these pinacates. And widely distributed.Scorpions are said to abhor them. For very practical reasons. Forit is asserted that the pinacate is capable of discharging a cloudof gas that is death to scorpions. I have it on the solemn author-ity of an old-timer that if you place a pinacate beetle and ascorpion together in an empty glass fruit jar the scorpion willspeedily succumb. Whether this be true or not I cannot say, forI have never tried the experiment. There is grief enough amongthe ranks of our "younger brothers" of creation without humanshaving to add to it.

WE SLEEPWe sleep. Whatever be our lot,Whether by night or day,We sleep, and we remember not,Nor do we pause to pray.We sleep. The years flit through our briefBut comprehensive show,And though we taste of joy or grief,How little yet we know.We are as microbes on the Earth,In this, our spirit's youth.And gain through each recurring birthOne hair's breadth more of Truth.

Tanya SouthT H E D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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ncenle.By MARY BEAL

1 UITE unaware of its varied possi-bilities of useful output, most ofus think of the Incense Bush as oneof the crowning glories of desert spring-time. The picture of low hills and rockybajadas burgeoning into golden radianceis so entrancing that the thought of any-thing but beauty never enters the mind.Botanically this handsome shrub isknown as Encelia jarinosa and it is pleas-ingly common. In areas where it holdshigh festival, particularly in Arizona, oneof its everyday names is Golden Hills,which will seem fitting if you've ever seenthe hills where it abounds ablaze with itsglowing color. Brittle Bush too is oftenused, sometimes White Brittle Bush be-cause of the plant's white aspect.

The common name most favored bybotanists is Incienso, which came to usfrom Mexico with the early padres, whereits resinous gum was burned as incense,exhaling a strong penetrating fragrance.Thence too came the name Yerba delvaso, from its use as a pain reliever. Thegum was heated and smeared on the body,especially on the chest and on the side.This versatile resin also served as a primi-tive chewing gum and when melted madea good varnish.The domain of this Encelia extendsfrom above Death Valley in California

down through the Mojave and Coloradodeserts into Mexico, eastward into south-ern Nevada and Arizona. In the norther-ly part of its realm it appears more fre-quently as an occasional shrub, scatteredhere and there or in small groups aboutmountain bases and on up the stony lowerslopes and canyon sides. Going south-ward its abundance increases, often mak-ing a magnificent spectacle that for bril-liant splendor is seldom equalled. Onesuch display, that has attracted many adesert traveler, enlivens the slope alongthe Devil's Garden, from the Whitewaterwash up to the mountains bordering theColorado desert on the northwest.About Tucson the great sweeps of radi-ant color with which countless IncenseBushes emblazon the neighboring slopesattract the eye for a distance of seven oreight miles.

Pale grey of leaf and stem, very oftenquite white, a rounded and rather com-pact bush 2 to 4 feet or more high, itbristles with dozens of naked flower stemscrowned by fragrant showy heads aboutIV2 inches across, the broad orange diskencircled by wide golden-yellow rays, 3-toothed and somewhat fluted. The felt-like ovate leaves, % to 2 inches or morelong, are borne in clusters at the end ofthe branchlets. They are silvery with short

Encelia jarinosa, known variously as Incense Bush, Incienso and Yerba del Vaso.Photo by the author.soft hairs that form a matted, mealy-looking covering. From the stout trunk-like base of the plant spring many woodybranches, all exuding the drops of amberresin, which made the plant of such valueto the Indian tribes.Encelia frutescensThis is a broad, rounding, sometimesrather straggling bush 2 or 3 feet high.The roughish stems are white, in strongcontrast to the bright shiny green leaves,which are 1/3 to 1 inch long, roughenedon the under side and margined by minuteprickles. The yellow flower-heads arerayless, about V2 inch or so broad, on longpeduncles. While the individual heads arenot especially attractive they are so plenti-ful they add good touches of color to thespring pattern. It is one of the commonlow shrubs found on stony and gravellymesas and hills in Arizona, southern Utahand Nevada, in the Death Valley area and

down through the Mojave and Coloradodeserts.Encelia actoniThis has much the same habit and gen-eral appearance of the preceding speciesexcept for the large showy flowers. It haseven been classed as a radiate variety ofEncelia frutescens. The leaves are some-what larger and white-hairy, the bright-yellow flowers IV2 to over 2 inches broad,the deep golden disk often an inch across.It is such a handsome species that we'd re-joice if it were more widespread and ascommon as its other Encelia cousins. Weshould thank our stars whenever we catchthe glow of its resplendent gold. Whichgood luck may be ours from Inyo countythrough the western and central Mojavedesert to Joshua Tree national monument.It has been reported from western Ari-zona, southern Nevada and Utah, where itmay be considered scarce.

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Dorsey, thedog who carried themail. Photo courtesy Mrs. Lucy B.Lane, Calico.r ' HAT sounded like a dogwhining outside," remarkedAlwin Stacy to his brother,Everett, one stormy evening in the early80's as they sat by the stove in the oneroom back of the post office at Calico.The little mining town tucked away inthe color-splotched Calico mountains inSouthern California, was being swept bya gale which roared through the canyonthen spent its fury on the level stretchesof thegreat Mojave desert to thesouth.

As the slanting rain drummed a tattooon the tin roof, the sound was heardagain. Alwin opened the door narrowlyagainst the blast, shielding the kerosenelamp with hishat. A bigblack andwhiteshepherd dog, thin andfootsore, crowdedpast Alwin into thewarm room, his wetcoat dripping puddles on the floor."I suppose you'll add him to your col-lection," laughed Everett, thinking of thenumerous dogs in distress which his

younger brother had rescued at varioustimes. But even Everett, the practical

minded, couldn't resist the appeal in thedog's intelligent eyes sothey let himstay.A few weeks of care and kindness trans-formed himinto a beautiful creature thatwas the envy of all the dog lovers intown. The Stacy's became so attached tohim that hewas made a permanent mem-ber of the family but they never dreamedthat they were entertaining a future celeb-rity.Everett Stacy was postmaster in the lit-tle adobe building perched on the brinkof Wall Street canyon, in the days whenmining activities wrested 60 millions insilver from this region in 10years. Alwinwas his assistant in the combination postoffice andjewelry store.

When rich strikes at Bismark, Odessa,Garfield and Occidental, a few miles tothe east, caused a rush to the new sitesand made another post office necessary,Alwin was appointed postmaster at Bis-mark and took the dogwith him to thenew site over themountain, in East Cali-co.

Many are the stories told ofDorsey, theblack and white dogwho inthe 1880s carried the m ailbetween the present ghost townsof Calico and Bismark -in theMojave desert of California. Thestory as told here by Cora L.Keagle is from authentic sources.Sh e has talked with many oldminers who saw the dog daily.Contemporary newspaper re-ports gave additional informa-tion. Much of the story w as givenby Mrs.Laura King, familiarlyknown as "Mother of Calico,"who knew the Stacy boys wellan d who fed the dog almostdaily, as he came in with themailsacks.B y C O R A L. KEAGLE

Perhaps it was thememory of the spotwhere he first found kindness that causedth e dog, a few days later, to run awayover therock tumbled hills to OldCalico,as the original town was now called.When he arrived Everett decided that hemight aswell teach him to stay where hebelonged, so,after tying a note to his col-lar, hegave him a switching and pointedup thetrail with thestern command, "Gohome." The dogwent.After that when it was necessary for thetwo brothers to communicate, the dogwas the note bearer. All that wasneces-sary was to fasten a note on hiscollar thenshow him theswitch.The mail between Calico and EastCalico was carried over the hill by a youngboy, Dave Nichols, for whom theminershad chipped in andbought a donkey.Butafter a short time Dave had a chance togo towork in theround house at Daggett.Everyone else was toomuch interested inmining to ride a donkey over thehill, sothe new site waswithout a mail carrier.Then Alwin had an inspiration. Hemade two small mail sacks, filled themwith some worthless papers and a note,strapped them on the dog's back andshowed him the switch. Out he went andup the trail to receive a warm welcome in

16 THE DESERT MAGAZINE

Calico'sC a n i n eCarrier


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Old Calico. On the return trip he carriedreal mail and for three years, rain or shine,made the daily trip over the hill.One day as he came in with the mailsome one said, "Here comes old Dorsey."Dorsey was the name of an old man whopreviously had carried the mail. The namestuck. From that time on he was "Dor-sey."The dog learned to love his task andtook great pride in it. On the trail hewould detour out among the rocks toavoid even his best friend. Any stray dogon the trail would be given a shoulderrush and while the stray was picking him-self up, Dorsey would be well on his way.At the end of the trip a crowd usuallywas waiting for the mail and watchingfor the first glimpse of Dorsey, a blackspeck high up on the mountain trail.Everyone wanted to make a fuss over himbut no one was his friend until tha t sackof mail was off his back. Then, with roll-ing eyes and wagging tail, he swaggered

from one to the other for attention, play-ing to the gallery like a seasoned vaude-ville trouper seeking applause.When, with the decline in the price ofsilver ore, most of the mines were aban-doned, and the Stacy's decided to migratealong with most of the population, theygave Dorsey to John S. Doe of San Fran-cisco, who had cleared $7,000,000 in sil-ver in the Calicos and who had long ad-mired the dog.John Doe took Dorsey to his palatial

...JAt right is the ''ghost'' of the old post ojjice at Calico from which Dorsey carriedthe mail, V. V. S ampson photo.

home in San Francisco and gave himeverything a dog's heart could desire, butto out-of-doors Dorsey something waslacking. He evidently felt the call of hisbeloved Calico hills, so, after a few days,he slipped out of the house and was onhis way. Mr. Doe could find no trace ofhim. Through the daily papers he offereda reward of $100 for his return.Confronted at every turn by the watersof the bay, Dorsey finally admitted defeatand came back to the house, footsore and

weary, but penitent and apparently con-tent to accept the luxury of his new homeand become a proper city dog.An old miner who remembers Dorseywell, paid him this tribute, "He was thehumanest dog I ever saw."Today Calico is a ghost town envelopedin the silence of the desert but among theroofless adobe ruins you still can see thecrumbling walls of the post office build-ing where for three years Dorsey faithfullydelivered the daily mail for Uncle Sam.Town of Calico as it looked when Dorsey carried the m ail. The postoffice teas about halfway up the street on the left. Photo taken in the early 188O.r. Courtesy Mrs. L ucy B. L ane.

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In the shadows of Superstition mountain, legendary site of the famed Lost Dutchmanmine, Ethel Capps prospects for gold and bees. Hetzel photo.

There's Bees in Them H illsEthel Capps really was prospecting for goldnot bees. But the gold

proved elusive, while the bees came right up to her back door. Thatswarming horde could not be ignored, especially with its promise of aflow of honey in a desert land. So this lady prospector subdued her fearof the buzzing creatures, ordered a "How to " book from a mail-orderhouse, rigged up a sting-proof outfit, and proceeded to prospect for bees.By ETHEL CAPPS

^ / OR SEVEN years I've searched for/ gold in the Arizona desert, withthe tall ghostly pinnacles of Super-stition mountain on one side of me andthe less stately hills of the Goldfield rangehemming me in on the other.I found that gold is scarcebut I'mstill prospecting and I have a golden storeto show for it. The gold of honey!My career of prospecting for bees beganquite by accident. Never would I have setabout it deliberately, for my fear of thewinged creatures was deep-seated, datingback to a time in my childhood when anunfriendly one from my father's apiaryfound its way into my childish bloomers.But when a couple of swarms came outof a clear sky and settled on bushes besidemy cabin, and I found myself suddenlyconfronted with the prospect of a gener-

ous supply of honey away out on the lone-ly desert, I managed to get them into card-18

board boxes to await better accommoda-tions.Then out of apple boxes I made whatpartially resembled beehives, and out ofwire screen and cloth I made a bee-hatlike the one my father used to wear. Withthe "hat" tucked securely into my shirtcollar, trouser legs tucked into anklets,old stocking legs pulled over shirt sleevesand gloves, and all cracks sealed withsafety pins until I was quite sting-proof,I went forth to transfer bees.I got them out of the cardboard boxesand into the hives, but my methods musthave been as crude as my equipment, forbefore I could get an instruction bookfrom the mail-order house and learn whatto do and what not to do, my bees had"gone with the wind." The bee-hat joinedthe rubbish in the ash and can pile and the

belated "First Lessons in Beekeeping"went onto the shelf to gather dust.

But history repeated itself this springand I am now established in the bee busi-ness with, not two, but three thriving col-onies of bees.The first slipped into camp unnoticedand before I knew of its presence it hadtaken up quarters in an old discardedtrunk. This one, I decided, should betreated with more consideration than thoseof my former experience. So I resurrectedthe old screen hat from the rubbish pileand repaired it, took my "First Lessons inBeekeeping" down off the shelf, blew offthe dust, and sat down to educate myself inthe intricate art of handling bees.This time I made a first-class hive outof an apple box and other accumulatedlumber and designed it to accommodatehoney frames from the store. There wasplenty of time to make ready, as the beeswere very much at home in the old trunkand were already busy bringing in pollen.I gleaned enough information from thebook to know how to proceed under thecircumstances.The bees must have been in the trunkfor some little time. There was consider-able comb hanging downward from theceiling, completely covered with bees atwork. Slowly and quietly I turned the lidbackward brin ging it to rest in a level posi-tion on a block of wood, thus placing theT H E D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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bees and their comb upside down. Theyseemed undisturbed. Cautiously I placedthe hive on the trunk lid beside them, witha gang plank in front for them to marchinto the hive if I could get them started inthat direction. Then I began cutting downtheir comb and shaking them from it infront of the hive. To my utter amazement,they started marching into it like trainedsoldiers and in less than an hour the jobwas completed.

I had learned from the book how toidentify the queen bee and was relievedwhen I recognized her as she went inside,for without her the others would not haveremained.That night I closed the entrance of theirhive and the next morning moved them totheir permanent location in the shade ofa palo verde tree. They are still there,busily engaged in producing honey formy table.Five days later, as I was working in theyard early in the afternoon, I heard a loudbuzzing noise behind me and turnedaround just in time to duck from anotherswarm of bees. When it had passed over-head, I arose from the ground and ranafter it until I saw it go out of sight overthe hill. I knew it would not go far untilit settled and I continued in the same gen-eral direction, scanning every bush andtree. Several times I was fooled by agrowth of mistletoe which looked exactlylike a swarm of bees hanging downwardfrom a limb, but finally I came upon themsettling in a palo verde, not more than a

quarter of a mile from my cabin.Returning home, I collected what wasnecessary to gather beesone of my for-mer box hives, some newspapers to shakethem onto in front of it, my bee clothing,and a saw to cut down the limb on whichthey were settling.The job of hiving this swarm was notas easy as the first. To begin with, theswarm was immense, about the biggest Iever saw. Then, too, I could not get at thelimb to cut it down and had to shake thebees from it onto the paper in front of thebox. That caused a tremendous uproar andthe bees were flying all around me insteadof going into the box and they were con-tinually settling back on the limb. Withbees all around me, under my feet andoverhead, I tried every way but to charmthem to get them into the hive. I pushedthem in at the entrance and scooped themup and dumped them in at the top. Butthe harder I worked the more bees thereappeared to be on the outside.With my dog Trixie, patiently lookingon from the shelter of a nearby tree, Iworked until sundown. It was not long

before the sun went out of sight over thewestern horizon that I noticed the numberwas actually diminishing. With the last

' .'

SkJftfe'UEthel Cap ps and her three colonies, of bees under a palo verde tree.

bee in, I sealed the entrance and all largecracks and carried my prize home.It was about a week before I could geta real hive brought out from town and bythat time the bees had the top of the boxwell covered with comb full of brood andhoney.I also had an extra hive brought out forany other swarm which might take a no-tion to come along, and only a few daysafter it arrived I was told of some bees

having settled under the porch of an oldabandoned house. When I arrived thereto see about adding them to my apiary, Ifound them making brood and honey un-derneath the floorboards of the porch,

amid the dirt and rubbish that had accumu-lated throughout the years. By prying upthe boards, they became easily accessibleand, though a small swarm, it became thethird colony of my increasing apiary.Since then, three swarms have passedby me while I was prospecting on myclaims, until now I keep a cardboard boxhandy, ready for the next one that comesalong. A fellow prospector has caught oneswarm and has seen several more go by.I have been told that the crevices in thecliffs of the Superstition mountain are fullof bees and running over with honey.Yes, sir! There's bees in them hillsinstead of gold.

The author cutting honeycomb from the box top. Th ey are shaken from this onto thebed sheet and readily take refuge in the neiv hive.

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The deepest secrets Nature hashidden in the desert can never betold in decimals and dollar signs.They are written in intangibles ofp e a c e of h ea rt . . . of r est . . . ofs t ran gen es s . . . of mys tery , mag ic ,adventure, allure. Not everyone dis-covers them; no one knows them all.

How does the desert weave its se-d u ct ive s p el l? A n d w h ere? . . . I nits distances. By its sundowns. On itsfar, purple m e s a s . Down in deathlyalkali sinks. Up from parched ca -royos. Across hazy, b lue bajadas .With painted, palm-fringed canyons.On shimmering thirsty m a l p a i s . Inthe throat of a yucca flower.

By JOHN L. BLACKFORDPhotographs by the author .

Dunes of Death Valley1Ephemeral as sand paintings ofthe Navajo are the dunes of DeathValley, shaped into patterns of spec-

tral beauty by the windonly to beerased swiftly once more. Sometimestheir transient particles are cement-

ed to rock, before hurrying fingers ofthe wind can hasten them on. Thensandstorms bite at the rocks, expos-ing them, wearing them, returningthem to dunes all over again. Thatis the lesson of the desertnothing ischangeless, patience is all.

Desert of the Little Colorado2Off in its distancesblue orviolet or grey, the desert contrives itsgreatest magic. In distances there isthe eternal question: What is outthere? No one knows. No one everhas discovered. When you gow henyou reach the Out There, you turn tofind you've left them, the distances,behind you. It's always that way on

Arizon a's desert of the Little Co loradothe great sky, the powder-puffclouds, the vastness of the beyond,the final tantalizing blue veil thatconcea ls it.Monument Valley, Arizona-Utah3In its deep shadows lurks muchof the desert's mystery. They do notventure out wh en the sun is high overthe Navajo's Tsay-Begeh. Theycrouch behind mesas and hide indeep canyons. They lie on thewrinkled sand of mornings to stealaway to sleep at noon. But at eve-ning they leap across the washeslike black leopards springing fromtheir lairs at sunset.



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CAMERA NOTES OF THEAUTHOR-PHOTOGRAPHERThere is always somethinguncommonly fascinating aboutphotographing the desert. HereNature is in the nude, and light-ing, earth color, shadows and abizarre bit of dress subtly en-hance her contours.When a picture succeeds inportraying something worth-while to others, it usually hasits own story for the pho-tographer. A breathless half-mile race over yielding sandsagainst a sun setting red be-hind the smoky Panamintsbarely secured "Dunes ofDeath Valley." I set the 31/4x41/4Speed Graphic at V2 sec, F:32,using an A filter and SuperPanchro-Press film. It struck meoddly that the fast lengtheningdune shadows might be ad-vancing too swiftly for that slowtiming. When waiting for ob-durate clouds for half an hourbelow the rim of Grand Can-

yon, I suddenly realized I hadon my right a far more in-triguing panorama of the Desertof the Little Colorado. A DuoSix-20 set at 1/10, F:22 withPlus-X film and G filter capturedMesas of Monument Valley.From wrinkled barren moun-tain slopes to a range of mys-t e r y is the transformationwrought between noon andevening upon the alluring San-ta Catalinas; Speed Graphic,1/5 sec. at F:32, A filter, SuperPanchro Press film. You wadeAravaipa creek at every bendalong its colorful canyon. Theaccompanying view was takenwith a Speed Graphic, 1/5 sec,F:22, G filter and Super Panchrofilm. Storm Clouds over theJoshua Forest did cover theroad to Pierce's Ferry with sev-eral inches of snow on March16, 1942. In Monument Valley,Tsay-Begeh of the Navajo, theTotem Pole may be glimpsedthrough numberless stony por-tals, each entirely different. Thetwo photographs of MonumentValley were taken with A filter.

Santa Catalinas, Southern Arizona4At sundown, as gossamer cloudfleets ride and rock above the SantaCatalinas, the desert imparts strange

secrets. Tiny elf owls peer from rounddoorways in giant saguaros. Batsswirl from black caverns in the rock,

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tastic Joshua forest. Overhead men-acing spring clouds threaten thateven snow ma y come to the desert.Totem Pole, Monument Valley

7 Burnished b y m o o n b e a m s ,flooded with black pools of shadow,Monument Valley dissipates allsense of reality. It is the UltimateLand. And from its strange heartthrusts the Totem Pole like a goldenshaft from the glittering sand.Across mesas and canyons anddunes, smouldering garnet and goldand mauve in the sunset, through sil-ver mirage of alkali basins, beyondsharp purple peaks of the ranges,the desert is waiting. If you go, youwill never come back. Only a part ofyou. Something of you left therekeep s calling. That is the desert . . .its magic, its mystery.

delicate scent of cactus blooms cap-tures the air.Aravaipa Canyon, Arizona

5Through the desert's spaces,through the quivering heat of far cac-tus reaches, is the paradise of Ara-vaipa canyon. The stream is crystalcool, the birds bright, the boweredleaves shining green. Crimson wingsflash. Songs pour ebulliantly. Witch-ing waters tinkle and splash. Yet oldDon Saguaro climbs down the bril-liant Arizona cliffs to proclaim thatthis too is the desert's own, this bit ofheaven.Joshua Forest

6In its scorching heat, its deso-late silences, its withering droughtthe desert speaks intimately of itself.But this land is not waste. Moisturewill come again. The desert will flow-er. Along the lonely wa y to blue LakeMead, the trail winds through a fan-22 T HE D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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OF YESTERDAY A N D T O D A Ya monthly review of the best l i tera tureof the desert Southwest , past and present .INDIAN'S LIFE BETWEENTWO WORLDS PORTRAYEDThe conflict which always has pre-vailed between Navajo and white man ispowerfully portrayed in the new novel,ARROWS INTO THE SUN, by JonreedLauritzen.It was not until his mother, Nijoni, abeautiful Navajo girl, was killed by aband of raiders that Sigor realized thedeep conflict there always would be with-in him . . . for, although his father, Den-nis, was a wh'te man Sigor nourished ahatred for all others of the white race.Upon the death of his mother, he waspersuaded to go with his father into theMormon territory to face a future amongwhite men. Here he fell in love withHallie, a beautiful Mormon girl, and be-came fast friends with her brother Cory.But Sigor was not happy here and loy-alty to his mother soon forced him to re-turn to the tribe of Dine warriors. Norcould he resign himself to the mercilesstreachery of these people whose creed was"we must do much fighting, killing, sothat our enemies will not become greaterin number than ourselves and take ourmountains and valleys from us."

And so his was a lonely destiny, towander through the canyons seeking tofind comfort in the philosophy of his fa-ther . . . "you must learn what to do withloneliness until you come to the city with-in yourself. For you are a city of refuge.

TALES OF LOST GOLD

The thrill of man's struggle to findlegendary lost gold mines of theWest pulse through Philip A. Bailey's"Golden Mirages." It is a gold mineof Americana, containing the history,legends and personalities of oldCalifornia and the Southwestthegift to give this Christmas.

"Without question the mostcomplete record of PeglegSmith lore ever to be print-ed"Randall Henderson.Colorfully illustrated with photo-graphic halftone engravings, bibli-ography and index.$3.50

DESERT C R A F T S SHOP636 State St. El Centre California

It is the universe about you that is thelonely place. It is to you that all the spiritthings of the world may come to find amingling place. True loneliness willcome only when you are with others whodisturb the quiet of your inner world."The setting of this story is in the fascin-ating canyon country of Utah. It is thefirst novel of Mr. Lauritzen, who writesauthentically of this region where he grewup and spent much of his time exploring.The story is told with a beautiful sincer-ity and true understanding of this Navajocountry where "in the bright colors of itscliffs and in the loneliness of its mesas isthe Navajo spirit."Published by Alfred A. Knopf, NewYork, a Borzoi book. 311 pp. 1943. $2.50.

Evonne Henderson NATIONAL PARKS DESCRIBEDFOR AMERICA'S YOUTH

Inspired over a decade ago by the awe-some grandeur of Carlsbad Caverns, Ir-ving R. Melbo came to feel a new signifi-cance in the natural wonders of thiscountry in general, and the nationalparks in particular.During the years that followed he wasalways looking beyond the physical beautyand scenic attractions of Yellowstone andYosemite, Mesa Verde and other nationalparks. He was seeing and feeling thespiritual and moral inspiration whichstem from these natural creations.Out of that spirit has come a splendidtreatise, OUR COUNTRY'S NATION-AL PARKS, published in two books in1941 by Bobbs-Merrill company. Believ-ing that the national parks have a specialinterest and significance for the youthof America, Mr. Melbo has written thesebooks in language it can understand.Each of the 26 national parks is treatedin a casual informal manner with humaninterest stories and humorous anecdotesinterrupting the historical and scientificportions in a manner that will hold theinterest of everyone.Photographs, maps and drawings com-bine with the text to present a completepicture of each of the parks, so that inthese days of difficult travel and few va-cations readers can take a refreshing tripthrough scenic America while ensconsedin the comfort of their homes.Each book contains 244 pages, pricedat $2.00 per volume. Book One covers theparks of the Southwest, South and East,while Book Two treats the Pacific Coastparks and includes Grand Teton andRocky Mountain national park.Cpl. Rand Henderson

SAGA OF GOLD UNFOLDEDIN AUTHENTIC HISTORYYou may not actually have panned goldyourself, or staked an old prospector, orjoined in a rush to a new lode, but youhave been pulled irresistibly by the cry of"Pay Dirt!" Those meaningful wordshave guided the lives of millions of men,changed the history of the West, madeand destroyed cities overnight.The whole blood-quickening story isrevealed by Glenn Chesney Quiett in hisPAY DIRT, A PANORAMA OFAMERICAN GOLD-RUSHES. Amplyillustrated, written with scholarly care andpenetrating insight, the book's 500 pagespresent a record of the Wests miningcamps and mining men.The Forty-Niners of California havefirst place in the book, then the CrippleCreekers enter the scene. Chronologicallyand geographically, Quiett shifts the sceneto the north, into the Black Hills, and upto Alaska. Finally is revealed the story of

gold in the Southwest, desert rats ofDeath Valley, the five big booms of Ne-vada.For well-authenticated history, mingledwith entertaining anecdotes, this is atreasure. Here you will find tales of lostmines, stories of gamblers and despera-does who were a colorful part of the boommining towns.It gives a complete picture of Ameri-can gold-rushes, adding perspective to thesaga of development in the desert South-west. If nothing else, it will give thereader a feeling of kinship with the oldprospector who plods hopefully on withhis burro, hoping that he may be the nextto shout the glad cry of "pay dirt!"D. Appleton-Century Co., N. Y. 1936.

MINING STORY MINGLESHUMOR WITH TRAGEDYTHE PARDNERS by John Weld is anovel of the California gold rush. It is arobust story of men far from civilization,of "the diggings" back in the mountainswhere every pound of supplies had to bepacked by man or mule.Partnerships were the rule in the gold

camps. They saved expenses and theyhelped to dispel the loneliness. Ira Allen,20 and inexperienced in the ways of thecamps, and Savannah, older and wiseraship's carpenter by trade, form just sucha combination. Humor and tragedy inter-mingle through a brief 18 months of thegold rush, as the story unfolds.There is something of the humor ofMark Twain and the realism of BretHarte in the strange mixture of goodfortune and stark tragedy. If anything,there is too much realism. The story isgrim but powerfully handled.Charles Scribner's Sons., New York.349 pages, $2.75. Marie Lomas



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. . .. . .Evanston, Illinois

Enjoying the Desert Magazine is sec-itself.

myself, so I would be

I especially enjoyed Charles Kelly's,

Thanks so much for spreading the des-ERNEST H. LYONS, JR. . . .Pomona, California

Just a note that should not be taken

Much depends on what is meant byof the following: (1 ) Is it a species

By ( 1) the Desert Lily is not a trueBy (2 ) it might be counted as ay. By (3 ) it is not a true

E. M. HARVEYDear EMH: Your criticism isjustified. Quiz editor ivas too vague,but had in mind your (2 ) , the cri-terion by which non-botanists wouldbe most likely to base their judg-ment. L.H. . . .Tonopah, Nevada

It may interest you to know that my ad

T. J. NICELEYAnjax Mining Co.

Minnesota's Desert . . .Minneapolis, MinnesotaMr. Henderson, Ahoy:Two years ago some pals in Californiasent us a year of Desert for Christmas. Th eresults? Desert is read from cover to cover,including the advertisementsand in ourhearts we are tramping the sands or brous-ing the old mine dumps with you.You people wouldn't admit we have anydesert land here in Minnesota, but we dohave sand dunes just outside the city,known as the Anoka Dunes, and we havea sandy strip of land reaching almostacross the state. The thing most gemmolo-gists remember about us is the red andgrey agate, thompsonite and jasper thatcome from our glaciated state. Would anyof the other readers like to exchange somespecimens with us?

We have a small outfit to do our owncutting and polishing, along with a num-ber of other Minneapolitans. Several maketheir own rings and clips and necklaces.Whenever they come over to our housethey make for the Desert Magazine. I haveto watch it or the latest issue would walkright home with them.MRS. B. G. DAHLBERG Largest Tin Deposit in California . . .Los Angeles, California

Dear Sir:In your January issue under Mines andMining I notice a paragraph under Reno,Nevada, with the statement the most tinever discovered in the U. S. has beenmined or blocked out in the Majubamountains of Nevada.The largest deposit of Cassitterite ore(tin) has been located in the Bullion andLead mountains of San Bernardino coun-ty, California. This is a property covering500 acres with assays showing from fiveto plus 20 percent tin. This is only oneproperty of which we are locators. We

have two others, full details of which wecannot yet make public.I have been in the mining business over40 years, mining in all parts of the world.For the past 20 years I have been a stu-dent of geophysics, and my associate Pro-fessor C. M. M. Wright is also a keen stu-dent. Whereas Marconi spent the lastseveral years of his life studying the valueof radio energy in the treatment of disease,we have spent our time testing radio valuein locating minerals. We are just enteringwhat may be called the field of vibrationsand magnetic attraction, one in which

we may find more wonders than the mindcan now conceive.MAJOR A. J. TERRILL

Jungle No Good for Rockhounds . . .Tropical AfricaDear Lucile:Your April issue just arrived in thisfar-off corner of the world and I want toregister a kick because you omitted theLetters page. To a former desert rat overhere in the Bush country, the letters pagein Desert Magazine is just like mail fromhome.And now that I've gotten that com-plaint out of my system I want you toknow that I enjoyed the April numberimmensely.I often go out on weekend trips into theBush and Jungle country around camp,and it is all strange and interestingbutI still prefer the great American desert.Here one has to stick to the main roadsthe jungle is too thick to do otherwise.Generally it is too dense even to walkthrough unless one has a machete to cuta trail. My most delightful experiences onthe desert were along those winding trailsthat lead off from the main highways to-ward distant mountain ranges, and in-variably end at a homesteader's shack ora prospector's camp or a hidden tinaja.This is a fascinating region for a botan-istbut a helluva place for a rockhound.How can one hunt gem specimens invegetation so thick a boa constrictor canhardly squirm through?I've just learned that Barry Goldwaterhas purchased Rainbow Lodge on thetrail to the famous Natural Bridge. Barryis a true son of the desert. I am glad itwas he rather than an eastern capitalistwho gained possession of it. I've alwaysbeen afraid that resort would fall into thehands of one of those high-pressure pro-moters who would immediately build a90-mile-an-hour boulevard in there andinstall ornamental lampposts on theBridge. Please have Barry reserve a coupleof pack animals for me the first monthafter the war is over. And I hope I findKatherine and Bill Wilson still at thelodge cooking the ham and eggs andthrowing the diamond hitches on thepack ponies.

RANDALL HENDERSON Wants a Book on the Souths . . .San Francisco, CaliforniaMy Dear Sir:When are you going to publish a bookby Marshal South incorporating hismonthly letters to your magazine? Un-doubtedly you must have this in mind,and I hope it materializes.The monthly letters are delightful,and vaguely reminiscent of Stevenson intheir understanding and appreciation ofsimple living. They are written by a high-ly civilized man, and I think, if you in-corporate them in a book, you will findyourself with a best seller.RICHMOND W. STRONG

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Objects to "Three Babies" Version . . .Yuma, ArizonaDear Mr. Henderson:After reading, enjoying and acceptingas accurate Van Valkenburg's articles onthe Navajo, it was a real shock to findJoyce Muench's story on the Papagoshrine, as printed in your March issue.The legend, as reported, is entirelyfalse in all details. The shrine is theburial place of four children, two boysand two girls, who were thrown into aspring which threatened to flood the en-tire Papago country. The sacrifice driedup the flow and the flood was averted.(While there is no geologic evidence ofa spring at the site, there is evidence onthe ground that the wash which nowflows eastward north of the hills north-west of the shrine at one time, perhaps fora short time, flowed down over the shrinesite, and this may have been the origin ofthe spring story.)The shrine is a mile and one-half north-west of Santa Rosa, on the Ventana-

Hickiwan road, and Santa Rosa is 12miles north of Quijotoa.For accurate reporting of the Wi-ikitaor more properly the Vi-ikita, see South-western Monuments Special Report No.16, April, 1937, in which Charlie R. Steenof the national park service, IsabellePendleton (illustrator) and myself de-scribed in detail the entire ceremony forthe first and only time.JULIAN D. HAYDEN

Dear ]DH: Desert presented Mrs.Muench's story as but one version ofthe legend, and called attention tothe more common version which youhave outlined. Below, Mrs. Muenchgives her sources for the interestingaccount which was printed in theMarch issue. L.H.

Author Gives Legend Source . . .Santa Barbara, CaliforniaDear Miss Harris:Indian legend and history alike werecarried on many lips before it was put intowriting and so subject to the eternalqualities of man's mind which never

turns out anything quite the same whenonce it has passed through the filter ofhis own personal interpretation. But theessence of a legend is not so much in itsdetails as in the truth about the peoplewho treasure it, handing it down throughtheir generations.My husband and I were informed aboutthe presence of the Baby Shrine when wewent through Casa Grande, Arizona. Avery cordial gentleman there, a state sen-ator, described it and located it for us,telling us the story as he had heard it. Itwas a delightful place and it was easy to

believe that in this country where wateris so necessary and so precious, that a26

drought would call for the greatest sacri-fice people were capable of making.We went on to a nearby trading postand heard the same version of the storyrepeated there. We are aware of the ver-sion to which Mr. Hayden refers andwhich was mentioned in the March issue.I have had some scientific training my-self and have the greatest respect for re-search and those who conduct it. It isquite in keeping with such thinking tosay about a legend that having studied allof the available material my own emo-tional constitution permits me to con-tinue to enjoy the beautiful tale of adrought averted through the heroic sacri-fice of children (three or four, it mattersnot to the tale) to save the tribe.JOYCE R. MUENCH More on Papago Legend . . .Rye, New YorkDear Mr. Henderson:I was interested to read in the Marchissue the article by Joyce Muench on theShrine of the Three Babies.I visited this shrine on one of my tripsthrough Arizona. The version of thelegend which I was told differed in thatthe children were supposed to have beensacrificed to save the Papago countryfrom a flood instead of a drought. I mustsay, though, that Mrs. Muench's versionappeals to me more after visiting thatcountry. RUTH C. WOODMANAuthor of Death ValleyDays radio program. DM Liked by Boys Overseas . . .Fallon, NevadaDear Sirs:Desert Magazine is enjoyed by our en-tire family. My son overseas wants us topreserve every copy for future enjoyment.The subscription recently ordered was foran 18-year-old son who has just enteredthe service. He wanted it for the enter-tainment of his six buddies as well ashimself. Seven occupy a cabin together.Young people enjoy your magazine quiteas much as older people, and I want toexpress my thanks to you for your part inhelping keep our boys happy.

BEULAH BUCKNER Suggests Poetry Anthology . . .AFRD-Hammer FieldFresno, CaliforniaDear Randall Henderson:I have read with great pleasure latecopies of Desert Magazine here in ourfield library.The verse is excellent. Strikes me assingularly fine for poetry of the desert. Itwould be most interesting to publish ananthology of desert poems from those youhave collected in Desert Magazinepoems which to my knowledge are the bestever written on the desert.PVT. SELMAN WARREN STONE

About Desert Glaze Materials . . .Los Angeles, CaliforniaDear Mr. Henderson:Being foreigners from back East mywife and I are just learning our wayaround in this wonderful land of yours.A year ago we hadn't discovered DM.Now Life, Satevepost, Esquire andReader's Digest are just a few of the bigtimers that collect dust until we finishDesert from kiwer to kiwer.We want to thank youyour magazinepersonifies everything we'd hoped to findin the West. We anticipate, when the gastanks are full again all over the world, ac-cepting some of the invitations to adven-ture the articles in your magazine havealready offered.In the meantime, I wonder if youcould help us get a head-start on one ofthose adventures. My wife and I are pot-ters. We have been told that western des-ert minerals can supply glaze materialsthat surpass those produced by the Chi-nese potters of the Sung and Ming dynas-ties.I wonder if it has occurred to you thatCalifornia's horde of ceramists might beinterested in a department specializing inceramic minerals, their location and themethods of converting them into clay andglazes.We would enjoy corresponding withany of your readers who are interested inthe subject. L. G. TACKETT

DM WU1 Draw Post-War Trav e l . . .San Francisco, CaliforniaDear Miss Harris:Have been a reader of Desert Maga-zine for a long time and think you havedone a wonderful job in bringing thedesert in all its beauty to those of us whocannot visit it more often.I am confident that after the war thou-sands upon thousands of Americans willgo there for health and relaxation. Nosmall part of this will be due to yourefforts. Keep up the good work.DARWIN ACHESON Wants Bigger Maps . . .San Diego, CaliforniaDear Sirs:You are doing a fine job to carry onwhile the big boss is doing his part forUncle Sam.One thing I think would be of greathelp is a map of the Southwest with allpoints of interest marked on it. For in-stance, if John Hilton goes into the Val-ley of Fire, I would like to know justwhere that is and its location compared toother parts of the country.You do publish location maps, butthey do not take in enough territory. Wecan go to a regular map, but the interest-ing points are not marked on such a map.GENE SKINNERT H E D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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A O T C D T h e A p r i l l a n a m a r k contest, calling for identification of the Yellow Aster mine*tW I t i l a t Randsburg, California, drew many interesting entries, some from men andwomen who had lived within view of the famed glory hole and knew much ofits history at first hand. A double prize of $5.00 each was awarded two contestants who gave the most com-plete and interesting versions. Winners were Elwain S. Culbert of Los Angeles, California, who is now an armyprivate with the Service Battery, Camp Chaffee, Arkansas, and L. G. Blakemore, mining engineer and geologistof Los Angeles. Their stories are combined below.

By ELWAIN S. CULBERT and L. G. BLAKEMOREThe landmark photo shows the Yel-and the town ofon the Mojave desertthe extreme eastern part of Kern coun-for the Rand gold mining dis-in the Transvaal, South Africa, theof a single street, withof ancient buildings lining

The weather-worn cabins arethe hillside and stand outthe sunlight with their galvanized ironRandsburg has lived through threewas discovered1885. Then tungsten wasin April, 1905, and finally silverin April, 1919.In 1893 Ramsey Cox located andthe Goler and Summit placerwas hauling 20and the placer strikesa few miles of his road.

of the placer miners, C. A.and Fredto discover thein the Rand moun-

tains. In 1893 Singleton, whose eyesightwas bad, thought he had discovered goldthere. And two years later he, withBurcham and Mooers, struck their picksinto the outcrop of the Yellow Astermine. During these two years, Burcham'swife, Dr. Rose L. Burcham, had grub-staked the men.Originally known as the Olympusmine, later as the Rand mine, its namewas changed again in 1897when the Yel-low Aster Mining and Milling companywas organized. It is located near the topof Rand mountain just south of Rands-burg and was for many years the largestgold mine in the state. The rich ore fromthe Yellow Aster was at first shipped, butwithin a short time the proceeds fromthe mine were sufficient to allow for theerection of a 30-stamp mill which beganoperation early in 1901. The 30-stampmill proved too small, so in 1903 a 100-stamp mill was built. A water well fivemiles down the wash was sunk 200 feetto furnish the water supply.The Rand Mining district was first or-

ganized at a meeting on December 20,1895. The town grew into a typical min-ing camp, and just prior to the WorldW ar it had a population of over t,000. In1898 a railroad was built from Kramerto Johannesburg, about a mile distantfrom Randsburg, but prior to that timeeverything needed from the outside worldhad to be hauled 50 miles by team fromMojave. The Yellow Aster provided thepayrolls although a number of smallerminesthe King Solomon, Big Butte,Little Butte, Consolidated produced$500,000 each or better.The district underwent another boomwhen John Churchill located Mine No. 1of the Atolia mines and in 1915 tungstenwas the cause of the "war boom" inRandsburg, as the mines were workedday and night in the "Spud Patch" to re-cover theheavy metal.In 1919 the town was again alive withactivity, when silver was struck. WadeHampton Williams and Jack Nosserwere responsible for this discovery, after"Hamp" had recognized hornsilver in

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an oldprospect hole three feet deep. Thetown overflowed with people, and abank was erected in Johannesburg.Today Randsburg (3,423 feet eleva-tion) hasabout 450population. It is lo-cated in the heart of the Rand Quadranglewhere there are two other almost equallyfamous minesthe California Rand Sil-ver mine inRed mountain, and the AtoliaMining company, known for its tungstendeposits. Atpresent allgold mines in thedistrict have been closed by the federalgovernment.The climate isquite arid, with long hotsummers, the temperature often at 105degrees, butduring the winter and springthe weather is freezing and light sn

Documents

194306 Desert Magazine 1943 June