Axotl – Notes

Steamboats on the Colorado River, 1852–1916

Lingenfelter’s Steamboats on the Colorado River, 1852–1916 provides an implicit social and economic history of every settlement that grew—or faded—along the river’s banks. The book’s narrative threads the growth of these river communities directly to the rise and fall of steamboat commerce.

Yuma and Arizona City

Origins: Fort Yuma (established 1850) was the main reason steamboats came to the river at all. Its chronic supply shortages prompted the launch of the Uncle Sam in 1852—the first river steamer.
Growth: Johnson’s General Jesup and later steamers transformed the isolated post into a trade hub. Yuma Indians, Cocopahs, and early merchants (Louis Jaeger, George Hooper, Mrs. Bowman “the Great Western”) were central to its development.
Outcome: Arizona City (later Yuma) became the permanent entrepot for the Arizona interior, surviving floods that wiped out rival settlements (Jaeger City and Colorado City) in 1862.
Steamboat impact: Yuma existed because of river transport—its food, freight, mail, and even building materials came upriver. The steamboat wharf and wood yards formed its economic heart until the Southern Pacific Railroad bridge was completed in 1877.

Fort Mohave and the Mojave Valley

Military anchor: Established in 1859 after Lt. Col. Hoffman’s expedition. Johnson’s General Jesup and Colorado carried the troops and artillery upriver.
Settlement influence: The fort’s constant freight and troop movements supported a network of wood-cutters, ferrymen, and small traders. Mohave and Chemehuevi Indians interacted with the garrison, at first through hostility, later trade.
Mining connection: Steamboats supplied nearby mining districts such as Eldorado Canyon, which developed into a key upriver port. Freight was landed directly from San Francisco via Johnson’s line, showing how the steamboat system enabled northern Arizona’s first mineral exploitation.

Ehrenberg (originally Mineral City)

Origins: Founded in the 1860s as a wood yard and landing above La Paz.
Growth: When gold was discovered at La Paz (1862), Johnson’s boats (Cocopah, Gila) ran regular trips, and the landing evolved into Mineral City—later renamed Ehrenberg.
Economic role: It became the principal upriver port for western Arizona mining. Merchants, assay offices, and stage connections tied it to Prescott and Wickenburg.
Decline: As river levels shifted and the railroad advanced toward Needles, Ehrenberg’s role diminished; by the 1890s, it had reverted to a small ferry and freight stop.

La Paz

Discovery and boom: Founded after the 1862 placer rush at Laguna de la Paz, fifty miles above Yuma.
Steamboat role: Johnson’s Cocopah and Colorado II made it a thriving port for a few years; millions in gold dust and supplies moved through its landing.
Community effects: Temporary but intense—stores, saloons, and a post office sprang up almost overnight. The town declined after the placers gave out, though it remained a shipping point for freighting routes into central Arizona.

Callville and Eldorado Canyon

Callville: Established in 1864 by Mormons under Anson Call as the uppermost navigable landing on the Colorado. Johnson’s Mojave II and the Gila reached it with supplies for Mormon colonies.
Eldorado Canyon: The river link to Nevada’s silver mines. Steamers delivered ore machinery and carried bullion out. Lower Camp and Hardyville (later Bullhead City) also grew as logistical points for these mines.
Outcome: The decline of mining and the development of railroads at Needles ended their importance, but their brief steamboat era left physical and place-name legacies.

Hardyville, Needles, and the Mojave Crossing

Hardyville: Founded by William Hardy in the 1860s near Fort Mohave as a landing and ferry for freight into northern Arizona and served by Johnson’s and later Polhamus’s boats (Gila, Mohave II).
Needles: Grew later from the same corridor once the railroad bridged the river. For a time, both rail and steamboat freight were interdependent—boats ferried heavy goods to and from the rail terminus.
Cultural tie: These settlements owed their early survival to the steamboat’s ability to deliver goods to otherwise inaccessible desert outposts.

Mexican Delta Settlements

Robinson’s Landing and Port Isabel: Transfer points where sea-going schooners met the river steamers. These landings, although primitive, were the logistical lifeline between San Francisco and Arizona before the rail era.
Cocopah and Yuma labor: River tribes provided the essential wood-cutting and loading labor at these lower landings. The steamboat economy reshaped indigenous life, drawing them into the wage economy.
Later decline: When the Imperial Canal and Laguna Dam diverted the river (1905–1909), most of these delta landings were abandoned or submerged.

Imperial Valley and the Lower Colorado (20th century)

Engineering phase: The Searchlight and St. Vallier were used by the California Development Company and the Reclamation Service to ferry materials during the Imperial Valley flood and Laguna Dam projects (1905–1909).
New communities: Mexicali, Calexico, and Imperial grew directly from these river engineering efforts—the last chapter of the steamboat’s social influence.

Summary of Broader Community Ties

Military Supply: Forts Yuma and Mohave created permanent river commerce.
Mining Support: Steamboats connected isolated camps—La Paz, Eldorado, Callville—to coastal markets.
Civic Formation: Yuma, Ehrenberg, and Hardyville evolved from wharves and woodyards into lasting towns.
Cross-Cultural Exchange: Cocopah, Yuma, and Mohave tribes were drawn into trade and labor systems, profoundly altering their economies.
Transition and Legacy: As railroads and dams replaced steamers, most of these towns either adapted (Yuma, Needles) or faded (La Paz, Callville).

In essence, the steamboats were the architects of civilization along the Colorado River. Every settlement from the Gulf to Callville began as a landing, woodyard, or ferry point tied to the fleets of Johnson, Polhamus, and their successors. When the engines fell silent in 1916, the towns they had spawned remained—the permanent human footprint of the river’s steamboat age.

Timeline of Steamboats and River Communities along the Colorado River, 1539–1916
(based on Richard E. Lingenfelter, Steamboats on the Colorado River, 1852–1916, University of Arizona Press, 1978)

1539 Francisco de Ulloa becomes the first European to sight the mouth of the Colorado River while exploring the Gulf of California for Spain.

1540 Hernando de Alarcón sails into the river delta, establishing it as a navigable waterway in Spanish maps.

1781 Mission San Pedro y San Pablo de Bicuñer is founded near the river and soon destroyed in native uprisings; Spanish efforts to settle the lower Colorado end.

1849 California Gold Rush brings heavy overland migration; Dr. Lincoln establishes a ferry at Yuma Crossing to serve travelers heading to the gold fields.

In 1850, Fort Yuma was founded to protect emigrants; supplies were freighted overland at ruinous cost.

In 1850, Lt. George H. Derby attempted to deliver supplies by sea aboard the schooner Invincible but failed due to Hardy’s erroneous map of the Colorado estuary.

In 1852, Captain James Turnbull launched the Uncle Sam, the first steamboat on the Colorado River, assembled near the mouth. She reaches Fort Yuma in December but later sinks.

In 1853, George A. Johnson, Ben Hartshorne, and Captain Alfred Wilcox established a freight company and began regular steam navigation with the General Jesup in January 1854.

1854 General Jesup proves commercial success; Fort Yuma and nearby settlements (Yuma Crossing, Jaeger’s Ferry) grow rapidly.

1855–1856 Additional woodyards established along the lower river; Johnson expands his business.

In 1857, Lt. Joseph C. Ives is assigned to explore the river’s head of navigation with the steamer Explorer.

In 1858, Ives launches the Explorer and ascends the river to Black Canyon; George Johnson’s General Jesup reaches nearly the same point earlier, demonstrating practical navigation to Pyramid Canyon.

In 1859, Fort Mohave was established at Beale’s Crossing; Johnson’s Colorado and Cocopah transport troops and supplies upriver. The Mohaves subdued after brief hostilities.

1859 Cocopah launched, the largest and most powerful stern-wheeler on the river to date; it began freight runs between the Gulf and upriver forts.

1860 Steamers in regular service to both Fort Yuma and Fort Mohave; landings and wood-yards form the nuclei of new settlements.

1861 Johnny Moss discovers silver in Eldorado Canyon; the first mining boom supported by river transport begins.

1862 Great Colorado River gold rush; La Paz and Mineral City (later Ehrenberg) were established as upriver mining and freight centers. Yuma (Arizona City) grows rapidly.

1863 Arizona Territory created; steamboats supply frontier posts, mines, and settlements along the river corridor.

In 1864, Mormon colonists founded Callville as the uppermost navigable port on the river; Mohave I and Gila reached it with freight and supplies.

1864–1865 Floods destroy Jaeger City and Colorado City; Arizona City (Yuma) survives and becomes the dominant port.

1866 Hardyville (later Bullhead City) founded as river landing and ferry opposite Fort Mohave.

1867–1870 Johnson’s fleet expanded with Cocopah II, Mohave II, Gila, and Colorado II; regular commercial runs between Gulf and Hardyville.

1870s Ehrenberg (formerly Mineral City) and La Paz prosper as supply depots for mining districts. Yuma thrives as regional capital and customs point.

1877 Southern Pacific Railroad reaches Yuma; rail begins to replace river freight to Fort Yuma and interior Arizona.

1880s Decline of Johnson’s monopoly; smaller independent boats like Searchlight and St. Vallier begin service for construction and local trade. Needles develops as rail terminal at Mojave Crossing.

1890s Limited steamboat service continues for miners and settlers between Yuma and Needles; smaller upper-river craft like Undine and Comet work in Green and Glen Canyons.

1905 Catastrophic flooding of the Imperial Valley (Salton Sink) creates major river diversion works. Steamboats carry rock, equipment, and workers to repair the break.

1907–1909 Construction of Laguna Dam; dredges Alpha, Beta, and Delta assist in engineering works. River settlements (Mexicali, Calexico, Imperial) expand.

1910–1916 Final years of commercial operation; the Searchlight and St. Vallier continue limited freight and survey work.

1916 Steamboat era ends; the last operational vessel, Searchlight, retires. The Colorado’s navigation frontier gives way to railroads and irrigation infrastructure.

Summary:
The river towns—Yuma, La Paz, Ehrenberg, Hardyville, Callville, and others—each owe their existence to this 64-year steamboat epoch. The boats linked mining, military, and agricultural settlements from the Gulf of California to southern Nevada, and their decline marked the end of the Colorado River as an open commercial highway.

Connectivity along the Colorado River, 1852–1916
(based on Richard E. Lingenfelter’s Steamboats on the Colorado River, 1852–1916, University of Arizona Press, 1978)

The Colorado River functioned as a living transportation spine for the American Southwest. From the Gulf of California to the mouth of the Virgin River, its steamboat era linked ports, mines, forts, and settlements into a single continuous system of movement and exchange. The following summarizes how this connectivity developed—its physical, economic, and cultural dimensions.

1. The River as Transportation Artery

Before railroads, the Colorado was the only practical route through an otherwise impassable desert frontier. Steamboats transformed it from a natural barrier into a corridor of movement:

Vertical Integration: Cargoes from San Francisco and Mexican ports entered at the Gulf of California and were transferred at Robinson’s Landing or Port Isabel to shallow-draft river steamers.
Main Route: Steamers ran 600 miles upriver from the estuary to the head of navigation at Callville, with landings every 25–40 miles at woodyards and supply camps.
Branch Distribution: From these landings, mule and wagon roads carried freight to mining camps—La Paz, Wickenburg, Prescott, Eldorado Canyon, and beyond.

The river linked Pacific maritime trade directly to Arizona’s interior economy, reducing freight costs from $500 a ton (overland) to $75 or less.

2. Economic Connectivity: The Steamboat Network

Each segment of the river supported distinct but interlocking economies:

Lower River (Gulf to Yuma):
- Served by General Jesup, Colorado I–II, and Cocopah boats.
- Functioned as the supply chain for Fort Yuma, Arizona City, and Cocopah/Yuma tribal labor networks.
- Exports: military supplies outbound; imports: grain, hides, and ore from upriver.
Middle River (Yuma to Fort Mohave):
- Connected through Gila, Mohave, Cocopah II.
- Supported ranching, freighting, and mining from La Paz, Ehrenberg, and Mineral City.
- Fort Mohave provided stability and demand; nearby Hardyville became the main transfer point to the northern interior.
Upper River (Fort Mohave to Callville):
- Connected through seasonal navigation, reaching Eldorado Canyon and Callville, linking Mormon settlements and Nevada mines.
- Steamboats supplied machinery, food, and mail to isolated canyons and hauled bullion downstream.

These tiers formed an interdependent flow of goods and people—San Francisco → Gulf → Yuma → La Paz → Hardyville → Callville—binding together three territories: California, Arizona, and Nevada.

3. Military and Strategic Connectivity

Fort Yuma (1850) and Fort Mohave (1859): Anchored U.S. authority in the region.
Steamboats like the Jesup and Colorado carried troops, cannon, and supplies upriver, allowing rapid response to uprisings.
The river served as a military highway, tying remote garrisons into the national supply chain without the need for overland caravans.

4. Cultural and Indigenous Connectivity

The steamboat economy drew Cocopah, Yuma, Mohave, and Chemehuevi peoples into wage labor as woodcutters, ferrymen, and pilots.
Traditional seasonal migration routes became part of the logistical system for fuel supply—woodyards spaced every 30 miles were typically operated by natives.
Cultural exchange was double-edged: it increased trade and communication, but also displacement and dependency.

5. Intermodal and Regional Connectivity

Overland Links: Freight from landings connected to desert wagon roads—the Ehrenberg–Prescott route, Hardyville–Cerbat road, and Callville–St. George trail.
Rail Integration: The arrival of the Southern Pacific Railroad at Yuma (1877) and the Atlantic and Pacific line at Needles (1883) converted the river into a feeder route.
- Steamboats ferried rail cargoes across unfinished bridges.
- Yuma and Needles became multimodal junctions, the first in the desert Southwest.
Engineering Connectivity: During the early 1900s, steamboats carried dredge parts, rock, and machinery for the Imperial Canal and Laguna Dam, linking the river’s navigation legacy to the birth of modern irrigation infrastructure.

6. Communication and Settlement Network

Mail and Passenger Routes: Regular boat schedules carried mail and travelers between Yuma, Ehrenberg, and Hardyville—functioning as the desert’s postal road.
Towns and Ferries: Settlements emerged at every refueling stop: Jaeger’s Ferry, Pedrick’s Landing, Ogden’s, Gridiron, Port Famine, Mineral City, Ehrenberg, Hardyville, Callville.
Urban Continuity: The steamboat corridor produced a “string of pearls” settlement pattern—each landing spaced by distance of a single day’s travel.

7. Decline and Legacy

Railroads, motorboats, and dams broke the linear chain of river-based transport.
After 1905, the river was more a site of engineering than navigation.
Yet Yuma, Needles, and Mexicali owe their placement and early prosperity to this 19th-century river connectivity.
Even in decline, the steamboat system laid the geographic framework for later highways, irrigation canals, and border cities.

Summary

From 1852 to 1916, the Colorado River connected the American frontier in a single functional system—military, economic, and human.

The lower river tied the desert to the Pacific.
The middle River opened Arizona’s mines and ranches.
The upper river linked the Mormon, Nevada, and Utah frontiers.

Steamboats were not just transport—they were the connective tissue binding a thousand miles of desert into one coherent region. When they vanished, their routes became the blueprint for roads, railways, and settlements that still follow the river’s course today.

Big Bear Valley

Historical Timeline

Big Bear, California, began as Yuhaaviatam homeland, later drawing gold seekers, ranchers, and dam builders. From Holcomb Valley’s 1860 rush to a four-season resort, its story blends natural beauty, resource ingenuity, and mountain tradition.

Prehistory
• The Big Bear Valley has been inhabited for thousands of years by the Yuhaaviatam (Serrano) people, who live in seasonal villages and call the area “Yuhaaviat,” meaning “Pine Place.”

1845
• Benjamin Davis Wilson leads a posse into the San Bernardino Mountains in pursuit of raiders. The group encounters numerous grizzly bears and kills several, naming the area “Big Bear Valley.”

1850s
• Early trappers and cattlemen moved through the San Bernardino Mountains. The valley remains largely remote and unsettled.

1860
• William F. “Bill” Holcomb discovers gold in Holcomb Valley, triggering a rush that brings hundreds of miners and creates mining camps such as Belleville, Union Town, and Clapboard Town.

1861–1862
• The Holcomb Valley boom peaks; San Bernardino County’s population surges. Belleville nearly becomes the county seat but loses to San Bernardino by two votes.

1863–1865
• Decline of the first gold boom as surface gold plays out. Miners leave, and the valley returns to quiet ranching and logging activity.

1870s
• Elias J. “Lucky” Baldwin acquires mining claims around Baldwin Lake and forms the Gold Mountain Mining Company. A second wave of mining begins, centered on the Baldwin Mine.

1884
• Frank Elwood Brown, a Redlands citrus grower, constructs the first Bear Valley Dam, a single-arch granite structure. The reservoir created by this dam was named Big Bear Lake.

1890s
• Big Bear’s role shifts from mining to recreation. Hunters, anglers, and early tourists begin to visit the mountain lake area. Lodges and cabins start to appear.

1903
• Lower-valley growers formed the Bear Valley Mutual Water Company to manage the reservoir and water rights.

1910–1912
• A new multiple-arch dam, designed by John S. Eastwood, replaces Brown’s dam, raising the lake level by about 20 feet and greatly expanding its capacity.

1920s
• Roads improve, and the automobile brings increased tourism. The town of Pineknot develops on the lake’s south shore with lodges, stores, and resorts.

1930s
• Winter recreation grows. Early ski runs are cut, and lodges cater to both summer and winter visitors.
• 1938 – Pineknot officially changes its name to Big Bear Lake.

1940s
• Big Bear becomes a year-round resort. During World War II, mountain roads were used for military transport training, but the area remained largely a recreation destination.

1950s
• Big Bear Alpine Zoo opens as a rehabilitation center for injured wildlife (1959).
• Ski development accelerates with lifts at Snow Summit.

1960s
• Tourism and second-home construction expand rapidly.
• The Big Bear Valley Historical Society was founded in 1967.

1970s
• The community continues to grow, balancing tourism with environmental concerns.

1980
• The City of Big Bear Lake was incorporated on November 28.

1980s
• Alpine Slide at Magic Mountain opens (1983).
• Ongoing improvements in highways and infrastructure make Big Bear a popular four-season resort.

1990s
• Big Bear becomes known for altitude training by professional athletes, including world-class boxers.

2000s–Present
• Tourism, recreation, and environmental stewardship define the region.
• The old 1884 dam remains a historical landmark, sometimes visible during low water levels.
• Big Bear preserves its mountain-resort heritage while serving as a gateway to the San Bernardino National Forest.

Big Bear and the Digital Desert are closely related through geography, ecology, history, and human development. The Digital Desert’s broader Mojave focus naturally overlaps with Big Bear’s transitional mountain-desert setting in several key ways:

Geographic Connection
Big Bear sits at the top of the Mojave River watershed, where mountain snowmelt begins the river’s underground journey through Lucerne Valley and into the Mojave Desert basin. It marks the ecological divide between the San Bernardino Mountains and the desert floor, linking alpine forests with arid valleys.

Ecological Transition Zone
The region bridges montane and desert biomes. Pinyon-juniper woodlands, chaparral, and Joshua tree habitats meet higher-elevation conifer forests. This gradation provides examples of how altitude, temperature, and moisture shape plant and animal communities—central themes within the Digital Desert’s ecological framework.

Historical Ties
Figures like William Holcomb and Lucky Baldwin tie Big Bear’s mining story to other desert mineral ventures, including Holcomb Valley’s influence on later Mojave mining booms. Trails from Big Bear connected to routes leading toward Lucerne Valley, Johnson Valley, and beyond—pathways that also appear throughout Mojave Desert exploration and settlement history.

Water and Infrastructure
The Bear Valley dams (1884 and 1912) represent early Southern California water engineering that parallels other Digital Desert themes such as aqueducts, irrigation systems, and the transformation of desert hydrology. Big Bear’s water storage directly supported the agricultural valleys below, tying mountain runoff to desert life.

Cultural and Recreational Link
Both Big Bear and the Mojave represent frontier landscapes turned into recreation destinations. The same pioneer spirit that shaped desert communities like Apple Valley or Hesperia carried over into Big Bear’s tourism development—cabins, roads, and storytelling built around rugged independence and mountain allure.

Interpretive Relationship
Within the Digital Desert framework, Big Bear serves as a high-elevation counterpart—a living case study for water origins, ecological transition, and cultural continuity. It connects the snow-fed headwaters to the dry basins below, showing the mountain-desert system as one continuous, interdependent landscape.

Ecological Description

Big Bear Valley lies high in the San Bernardino Mountains, about 6,700 to 7,000 feet above sea level, forming a broad mountain basin surrounded by rugged granite peaks and forested ridges. The valley stretches roughly east–west, framed by Butler Peak and Delamar Mountain to the north, and Sugarloaf Mountain, Gold Mountain, and the San Gorgonio massif to the south and east.

The valley floor is relatively flat, a remnant of ancient glacial and erosional processes, with Big Bear Lake occupying its central depression. Originally a meadowed valley with creeks and marshes, it became a permanent lake after the Bear Valley Dams were built. The soils are derived from decomposed granite, supporting open forests and meadows interspersed with boulder-strewn slopes.

Ponderosa pine, Jeffrey pine, white fir, and incense cedar dominate the higher slopes, while black oak, manzanita, and chaparral fill the lower edges. In sheltered meadows and along streams, willows and alders grow, creating rare wetland habitats for species such as the mountain yellow-legged frog and bald eagle.

The climate is alpine-mediterranean—cold, snowy winters and warm, dry summers—marked by dramatic seasonal shifts. Snowmelt feeds Big Bear Creek and Baldwin Lake, the latter a seasonal alkali flat on the eastern edge of the valley.

Ecologically, Big Bear Valley forms the upper boundary of the Mojave Desert drainage system. It captures mountain precipitation that ultimately seeps underground toward Lucerne and the Mojave River basin, linking the high forest to the desert below.

Timeline References

Big Bear Valley Historical Museum. “History of Big Bear Valley.” Big Bear Valley Historical Society, Big Bear City, CA.
BigBear.com. “Dam: The Creation of Big Bear Lake.” Big Bear Visitors Bureau.
BigBearCabins.com. “About Big Bear: A History.” Big Bear Cabins Travel Guide.
BigBearVacations.com. “A History of Big Bear.” Big Bear Vacations Blog.
San Bernardino County Museum Archives. “Mining and Settlement in the San Bernardino Mountains.”
Eastwood, John S. “The Multiple-Arch Dam of Bear Valley.” Engineering Record, 1912.
U.S. Forest Service. “San Bernardino National Forest: Ecological Subsections and Watershed Overview.”
Bear Valley Mutual Water Company. “Early Development and Water Rights History.”
Langenheim, Jean H., and P. H. Osman. “Vegetation and Ecology of the San Bernardino Mountains.” University of California Publications in Botany, 1959.
California Department of Fish and Wildlife. “Baldwin Lake Ecological Reserve Management Plan.”
San Bernardino Valley Water District. “Hydrologic History of the Bear Valley and Mojave River System.”
Wikipedia contributors. “Big Bear Lake, California.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.
Wikipedia contributors. “Big Bear Valley Historical Museum.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.
Brown, F. E. “The First Bear Valley Dam and the Redlands Water System.” Redlands Historical Society Papers, 1884–1905.
U.S. Geological Survey. “Geology and Hydrology of the Big Bear Lake Region, San Bernardino County, California.” Professional Paper Series.

Wright & Troxel

A learning tool

All right, here’s the whole story. No jargon, no technical formatting, just the history of how Lauren Wright and Bennie Troxel shaped our understanding of Death Valley, Tecopa, and the southern Mojave region.

Lauren Wright and Bennie Troxel spent their lives in the desert. Starting in the early 1950s, they mapped the roughest country in Death Valley and beyond. What others called chaos, they patiently untangled, rock by rock. Over the years they became two of the most trusted voices in Basin and Range geology, known for their steady field habits, clean maps, and deep respect for what the land itself could tell them.

They began in Death Valley, working through the twisted terrain east of Badwater and Furnace Creek. There, scattered fault blocks looked like a puzzle someone had shaken apart. Wright and Troxel figured out that this “Amargosa Chaos” wasn’t random at all. It was the result of the crust stretching and tearing at low angles, lifting old rocks and dropping young ones. Their maps from the 1960s and 70s showed that the Valley wasn’t just a crack in the earth, but part of a much larger system in which the crust itself was thinning.

They studied the Furnace Creek and Death Valley fault zones and showed that the sideways, or strike-slip, motion wasn’t as massive as some believed. The land was moving both sideways and downward — sliding, stretching, and rotating all at once. Their careful work stopped wild speculation and grounded future studies in what could actually be seen in the rocks.

Later, when the field began to recognize “detachment faults” — those broad, low-angle breaks deep in the crust — Wright and Troxel were already there. They had mapped them years before anyone had a name for them. Their diagrams of tilted mountain blocks, uplifted footwalls, and sinking basins became the foundation for how geologists now picture the Basin and Range province.

Their influence spread southward, into the Tecopa and Shoshone area. Tecopa Basin, once thought of as just a dried-up lake, became under their framework a living tectonic basin — a place still moving, still changing. The basin sits between the Resting Spring Range on the east and the Nopah Range on the west, both tilted blocks bounded by faults. Wright and Troxel’s regional mapping explained how those ranges rose and the basin sank, all part of the same crustal stretching that shaped Death Valley.

The Resting Spring Range, they showed, is a footwall block lifted on a west-dipping detachment fault. That fault likely channels the hot water that feeds Tecopa’s springs. Across the basin, the Nopah Range tilts the other way, dropping the valley floor between them. The lake beds and alluvial fans that fill the basin record every stage of that movement. Their approach — always linking sediments, structure, and landscape — became the standard way of reading desert basins.

Following their line of thought south, the fault belt continues through Sperry Wash to the Kingston Range. There the crust was pulled so thin that deep rocks rose to the surface. Later researchers would prove the Kingston Range to be a metamorphic core complex, but it was Wright and Troxel’s earlier insight into Death Valley’s structure that pointed the way. They showed that the same forces that opened Death Valley also lifted the Kingston Range and dropped the Tecopa Basin between them.

At the southern edge of this chain lies the Avawatz Mountains, a natural hinge between the stretching Basin and Range and the sliding Mojave block. Wright and Troxel understood this as the turning point — where extension gives way to sideways shear. The Garlock Fault lies just to the south, a great east-west fracture that shifts motion from one style to another. They were among the first to argue that these systems are connected, not separate. The Garlock doesn’t stop Death Valley; it redirects it.

South of the Avawatz, the story continues through Soda and Silver Lakes, the broad dry basins near Baker. These, too, line up along the same fault trend. The Mojave River, flowing northward from the mountains through Barstow, traces that same old scar in the crust. The river’s course isn’t random — it follows a tectonic path carved long before any water ran through it. Every terrace, canyon, and dry lake along its route echoes the same pattern Wright and Troxel mapped farther north.

By the time the river reaches Afton Canyon and the dry sinks of Cronese and Soda Lake, it’s running through the tail end of their structural corridor. The ground here still moves, slowly and quietly, along the Lenwood, Lockhart, and Helendale faults. These smaller strands pick up the motion of the Garlock and pass it westward toward the San Andreas. The Mojave River flows right through the middle of it all — a living reminder of how deep-seated tectonics shape even the surface flow of water.

Wright and Troxel’s gift was not just their data but their way of seeing. They treated the desert as a single, connected organism — every basin, every fault, every dry lake part of the same long rhythm of motion. Where others saw disjointed ranges, they saw a story of continuous transformation, stretching from Furnace Creek to Barstow and beyond.

Their maps still hang in field camps and classrooms, and the Geological Society of America’s Wright–Troxel Award continues to support students studying these same basins. The accuracy of modern GPS and seismic work has only confirmed what they drew by hand half a century ago.

In the end, their legacy is both scientific and human. They showed that patient fieldwork, careful observation, and respect for the land can turn confusion into clarity. Thanks to them, the Mojave and Death Valley are no longer a tangle of broken hills but a single, coherent landscape — one long story written in the language of stone.

Desert Magazine, November 1937

Title: Desert Magazine
Date: November 1937
Publisher: Randall Henderson and J. Wilson McKenney, El Centro, California
Price: 25 cents per copy | $2.50 per year subscription
Significance: First issue — the magazine’s debut and statement of purpose.

1. The Desert, God’s Garden of Peace – Poem by Nellie N. Coffman
A reverent poem from Palm Springs hotelier Nellie Coffman portraying the desert as a sacred retreat. She depicts the desert as “God’s Garden of Peace,” a place of quiet renewal and divine beauty for those seeking rest from worldly struggles.

2. There Are Two Deserts (Editorial) – Randall Henderson and J. Wilson McKenney
The opening editorial contrasts two conceptions of the desert: one as a hostile wasteland, the other as a living, inspirational landscape. It introduces Desert Magazine as a “friendly, personal” publication meant to unite desert residents, celebrate desert culture, and counter public misconceptions about arid lands.

3. No. 1 Adventurer of the Desert – Don Admiral
A natural-history essay about the creosote bush (Larrea divaricata), praised as the desert’s most enduring plant. Admiral explains its adaptive spacing, medicinal uses, and role in Native and pioneer life. The article begins a planned series on characteristic desert plants.

4. The Desert Under a Microscope – J. Wilson McKenney
Profile of Dr. Forrest Shreve, director of the Carnegie Institution’s Desert Laboratory on Tumamoc Hill near Tucson. McKenney visits the lab and describes its studies of desert botany, seed germination, and adaptation. The article humanizes science through Shreve’s humor and dedication.

5. He Helps Keep the Chuckawalla Desert Dry – Randall Henderson
A lively sketch of “Desert Steve” Ragsdale, founder of Desert Center, California. Ragsdale’s blend of humor, perseverance, and entrepreneurial grit illustrates the spirit of early highway pioneers who built services across remote desert routes.

6. “Bold Emory” – J. Wilson McKenney
Historical narrative on Lt. William Hemsley Emory, U.S. Army engineer and diarist of the 1846–47 expedition from Fort Leavenworth to San Diego. McKenney recounts Emory’s mapping, scientific precision, and role in documenting the Southwest during the Mexican-American War.

7. Looking Down from Nevada’s 12,000-Foot Oasis – Randall Henderson
Travel account of a Fourth-of-July climb to Charleston Peak near Las Vegas. Henderson describes alpine meadows, sweeping desert views, and the need to preserve the mountain from automobile intrusion. The essay balances adventure with conservationist sentiment.

8. Navajo Shepherdess (Photograph) – William M. Pennington
A noted photograph accompanied by commentary on “dependence” among sheep, shepherdess, and the desert environment. The piece reflects ecological interconnection and was later hailed as one of Pennington’s finest desert images.

9. The Feel of the Desert – John Stewart MacClary
Profile of photographer William M. Pennington. MacClary recounts Pennington’s early career in Durango, Colorado, his work among Hopi and Navajo peoples, and his patient, respectful method of photographing Native subjects. The essay introduces Pennington as Desert Magazine’s signature visual artist.

10. Lost Tree in a Lonely Land – Lillian Bos Ross
Story of the rediscovery of the Elephant Tree (Bursera microphylla) in the Borrego Desert by Dr. E. M. Harvey and Don Admiral. Ross recounts her own trek to find the tree, blending field exploration with the drama of desert endurance and discovery.

11. Luck — Plus Brains – Jonathan Bart
Feature on Kenneth Holmes, a young mining engineer who, with Ed Nicholson, developed a successful gold operation in Imperial County. The story emphasizes education, method, and perseverance as modern counterparts to old-time prospector “luck.”

12. For This Army — 8000 Grubbing Hoes – Larry D. Wolman
Report on construction of the All-American Canal near the Colorado River. It profiles equipment operators and explains how the project will irrigate over a million acres, linking human labor to desert transformation.

13. Who Knows the Story of This Arizona Landmark? – Prize Contest
Reader contest inviting submissions to solve a historical mystery surrounding an unnamed Arizona landmark. This establishes an interactive feature for readers and desert historians.

14. Sez Hardrock Shorty – Lon Garrison
Humorous fictional sketch introducing “Hardrock Shorty,” a recurring character who would appear for years as the desert’s wisecracking prospector-philosopher.

15. Sandstone Home – Architecture feature
A short illustrated piece on desert homebuilding, promoting use of local sandstone materials suited to arid conditions.

16. The Prospector – Jeff Worth
Poetic meditation on the solitary life and spirit of the desert prospector, closing the issue with a note of rugged individualism and introspection.

Departments and Columns

Calendar of Desert Events: lists 1937–38 hunting seasons, fiestas, and regional gatherings across Arizona, California, and New Mexico.
Prize Photograph Contest: invites reader submissions of desert photography.
Books and Comment: brief reviews of southwestern literature.
Here and There on the Desert: short news notes and observations.
Just Between You and Me: closing column by the editor with informal remarks.

Summary Character

The debut issue defines the desert not as empty land but as a landscape of endurance, beauty, and individuality. Its mix of science, poetry, and portraiture frames the desert as both natural wonder and human community. The publication’s editorial tone is idealistic yet practical—part field guide, part cultural journal—and it laid the groundwork for the magazine’s long-running influence across the Southwest.

Willie Boy & Carlota

A Braided Tale

The story of Willie Boy is one of the most haunting and complex episodes in the history of the California desert. It begins in the early autumn of 1909, when a young Chemehuevi-Paiute man named Willie Boy falls deeply in love with Carlota, the daughter of a respected tribal elder. Their romance, set in the desert landscapes around Banning and Twentynine Palms, was as ill-fated as any tragic ballad of the Old West, and it ended in bloodshed, loss, and a manhunt that became part of American legend.

Willie Boy was about twenty-eight years old, a Chemehuevi from the Southern Paiute people, raised near the Colorado River but often working for white ranchers in the San Gorgonio Pass area. He was a quiet man, by most accounts, known for his skill as a runner and his ability as a capable worker. Carlota was sixteen, the daughter of William and Maria Mike, who lived with their people at the Oasis of Mara, now part of Joshua Tree National Park. Their families knew each other, but Chemehuevi tradition forbade marriage between cousins, which made the match impossible in the eyes of her father.

When Willie Boy and Carlota ran off together, they defied both cultural law and parental authority. They were brought back once, but they met again later that year when the Mike family traveled to Banning for the fall fruit harvest. The reunion of the two lovers set the final tragedy in motion. One evening in late September 1909, Willie Boy went to the Mike family’s camp near the Gilman Ranch to ask for Carlota’s hand. Her father, a strong-willed and traditional man, refused him flatly. Some say the older man reached for a gun, others that Willie Boy had brought one and lost his nerve. There was a struggle, a shot, and when the dust settled, William Mike lay dead. Whether the shooting was deliberate or accidental has never been settled.

Knowing that the white authorities would come for him, Willie Boy fled into the desert with Carlota. They rode and walked across the dry country east of Banning, following faint trails and water holes that only local people knew. When Maria Mike discovered her husband’s body at dawn, she reported the killing to the sheriff. Within hours, a posse had formed, led by Riverside County Sheriff Frank Wilson and his deputy Ben de Crevecoeur. With them were a handful of local ranchers and two Native trackers, John Hyde and Segundo Chino.

The chase that followed quickly became a national story. Newspapers painted Willie Boy as a savage outlaw, “a drunken Piute renegade” who had killed in a jealous rage and carried off a helpless girl. The language was raw, racist, and designed to sell papers. Reporters wrote that the “bloodthirsty Indian” might even threaten President Taft, who happened to be visiting Riverside that week. This hysteria turned a local tragedy into a full-blown legend.

Meanwhile, Willie Boy and Carlota pressed deeper into the Mojave. They moved mostly at night, hiding by day in the arroyos and canyons. Willie Boy’s endurance was remarkable; he could travel fifty miles across rough ground in a day. But they were running low on food and water, and the posse was relentless.

At some point during the pursuit, Carlota was killed. Her body was found later, shot through the back. Early newspaper reports said Willie Boy had murdered her so she would not slow him down. That version fit the outlaw story perfectly, but later investigations suggest otherwise. The coroner’s report showed she was shot from long range, likely by a posse member who mistook her for Willie Boy. She was wearing his coat at the time. Decades later, oral histories from the Chemehuevi confirmed that this is what their elders always believed: that the white men killed Carlota by mistake, then blamed her lover to save face.

After Carlota’s death, the posse pressed on. The final confrontation came at Ruby Mountain, near what is now Landers. Willie Boy took a defensive position among the rocks. As the posse approached, he opened fire, deliberately aiming for their horses rather than their riders. One deputy, Charlie Reche, was wounded in the arm. The standoff lasted all day until the lawmen pulled back to tend to the injured. At sunset, they heard a single gunshot from the mountain. They assumed Willie Boy had turned the gun on himself. When they returned a few days later, they found a badly decomposed body lying near a rifle and declared the manhunt over. They burned the remains on the spot rather than carrying them out of the desert.

That cremation left no evidence. No one could later prove that the body was Willie Boy’s, and none of the posse’s surviving photographs show a face that can be identified. This gap opened the door to one of the enduring mysteries of the story. Among the Chemehuevi, Paiute, and Cahuilla people, the belief persisted that Willie Boy escaped. They said he traveled north through the desert and eventually settled with relatives near Pahrump, Nevada, living quietly until tuberculosis took him years later. Segundo Chino, one of the trackers on the posse who later married Maria Mike, is said to have admitted that the posse never actually caught Willie Boy.

The events deeply shook the Chemehuevi community. They left their traditional home at the Oasis of Mara, afraid that William Mike’s restless spirit might bring misfortune. For many years, they refused to speak of the tragedy. In that silence, white writers filled the void. The newspapers portrayed Willie Boy as a villain and the manhunt as a piece of frontier nostalgia.

Half a century later, journalist Harry Lawton rediscovered the tale. Working from old newspaper clippings and interviews with surviving posse members, he published Willie Boy: A Desert Manhunt in 1960. His book treated the story as both history and myth, but it still leaned toward the posse’s version. The novel won awards and inspired the 1969 film Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here, directed by Abraham Polonsky and starring Robert Blake and Robert Redford. The film gave the story a tragic, modern edge and questioned some of the old assumptions, but it also cemented certain inaccuracies in popular memory.

In the 1990s, historians James Sandos and Larry Burgess revisited the story in The Hunt for Willie Boy: Indian-Hating and Popular Culture. They demonstrated how racism and sensationalism influenced the original reports and concluded that many of the most colorful details were fabricated. They agreed that Carlota was almost certainly killed by the posse, not by Willie Boy, but they accepted that he probably died on Ruby Mountain.

A generation later, Native historian Clifford Trafzer went further. Drawing on oral histories from Chemehuevi and Cahuilla elders, he argued that the man the posse burned was not Willie Boy at all. In the stories told by his people, Willie Boy survived the chase, lived for years among the Paiute in Nevada, and died quietly of illness. Trafzer’s work reframed the legend as a Native tragedy rather than a Western adventure.

For the Chemehuevi and other desert people, the story of Willie Boy and Carlota is more than a love story gone wrong. It represents the collision of two worlds: traditional tribal law and the laws of the new American order. It marks the loss of a way of life and the pain of a community forced into silence.

Today, the tale continues to echo across the desert. Artists and filmmakers have attempted to retell the story from the Native perspective. In 2016, Cahuilla artist Lewis de Soto created an installation in Twentynine Palms called Carlota, giving voice to the young woman whose story had long been overshadowed. In 2022, Jason Momoa produced The Last Manhunt, a film made in collaboration with the Chemehuevi that depicts the event as the tribe remembers it.

Whether Willie Boy died on Ruby Mountain or escaped into the Nevada desert may never be known. What is certain is that his story reveals how quickly truth can be twisted by fear and prejudice, and how long it can take for those who were silenced to be heard again.

The Willie Boy saga began as a local tragedy, became a legend through the press, and has endured as a window into the uneasy meeting of cultures in the desert. It reminds us that history is not fixed in stone, but lives in the voices of those who tell it, and that sometimes the best we can do is listen to all of them.

Other Roads

Mormon Hogback, Sanford Pass

In the early 1850s, long wagon trains of Mormon pioneers crept down from the high desert into the mouth of Cajon Pass, hoping to reach the fertile San Bernardino Valley beyond. They soon found themselves at a natural choke point – a narrow ravine called Coyote Canyon, now known as Crowder Canyon – where sheer rock walls and a jumbled creek bed made passage nearly impossible. The first wagons through had to be disassembled: wheels removed and rolled by hand, cargo shifted onto a mule’s back, and wagon beds dragged piece by piece over the worst boulders. Early travelers remembered this grueling process, and the Mormon settlers who followed in 1851 likely endured the same ordeal to get their covered wagons through the upper Cajon Pass.

But adversity often sparks ingenuity. Not long after, some enterprising pioneers scouted a detour a few miles to the west of the treacherous canyon. There, a high spine of land offered a way around the worst narrows. This route ran along a slender ridge – a true hogback that rose above the canyon – and though it added a few extra miles, it spared travelers from having to lug their wagons through Coyote Canyon’s rock-strewn gauntlet. The Mormon colonists heading to Southern California in those years eagerly embraced this alternate path. In fact, by the early 1850s, they had established a wagon trail atop that ridge, which would later be known as the Mormon Hogback in honor of the many Latter-day Saint families who had blazed it.

In 1850, a veteran freighter named William T. B. Sanford took it upon himself to hack a rough wagon road along this western Cajon route. Sanford’s road departed the old Spanish Trail near present-day Victorville, climbed onto the flanks of Baldy Mesa, and then edged down through the West Cajon Valley, eventually descending toward a cluster of towering sandstone outcrops. Those pale rocks marked a kind of gateway at the foot of the hogback trail. They would later be known as the Mormon Rocks – named for the Mormon pioneers who camped beneath them after braving the ridge and finally emerging into the open Cajon wash.

Traveling the Mormon Hogback was still a heart-pounding adventure. The ridge was narrow and the drop-offs unforgiving; in places, the trail was scarcely wider than a wagon itself. The ascent to the summit was so steep that teams often had to “double up,” hitching multiple teams of oxen or mules to a single wagon. One contemporary account describes wagons needing as many as 32 mules in harness to tug a heavy load up the incline. On the way back down, drivers would lock their wagon wheels and skid the first several yards, the wooden rims dragging like sleds to slow the descent. The air filled with the shouts of teamsters and the groan of brake chains as each wagon inched along the hogback’s crest. It was perilous, yes, but for a time, this high road was the only practical way for settlers and supply wagons to get through Cajon Pass intact.

Despite these dangers, the ridge route quickly became the preferred wagon road. Sanford and others made further upgrades over the years. In 1855, workers even cut into the mountainside to create a new alignment about a mile and a half west of the original track. This was known as the Sanford Cutoff, which bypassed the most challenging section of the hogback. The grades were gentler than before, though still outrageously steep – some stretches tilted at a 30% incline, straining both beast and brake. Nevertheless, from the mid-1850s up until 1861, virtually every wagon train bound to or from Southern California chose to tackle the Mormon Hogback via Sanford’s route rather than risk the old rocky canyon. For the Mormon settlers in particular, this ridge road was a vital lifeline, allowing them to bring wagons loaded with families, lumber, and provisions into their new settlements without having to unload and reassemble everything at Cajon Pass.

The reign of the Mormon Hogback came to an end in the 1860s. In 1861, a local pioneer named John Brown Sr. partnered with two associates to finally tame the original canyon route itself. Capitalizing on a surge of travelers during a nearby gold rush, Brown’s company widened and improved the old trail through Crowder (Coyote) Canyon, smoothing out the worst boulders and drop-offs. They built a proper wagon road right through Cajon Pass’s eastern narrows and set up toll gates to collect fees from anyone using this new shortcut. Travelers gladly paid a few dollars rather than face the old hogback or haul their wagons apart again. With the opening of John Brown’s toll road – shorter and far less harrowing – the Mormon Hogback’s importance swiftly faded. The new turnpike through the canyon became the main gateway between the desert and the coast. Before long, even stagecoaches and mail wagons were rumbling through Crowder Canyon instead of teetering along the ridge.

Although the wagon ruts along the Mormon Hogback have long since faded into the brush, its legacy remains etched in the landscape and lore of Cajon Pass. The very name “Mormon Rocks” for those sandstone sentinels is a reminder of the emigrants who passed that way in the 1850s. Modern highways and railroads now carry traffic through Cajon Pass, roughly tracing the corridors that pioneers like the Mormons and John Brown once opened up. In fact, the historic Mormon wagon trail itself wound through the same valley of curious rock formations that visitors see today. Next time you drive north from San Bernardino and glimpse the weathered cliffs and crags of Cajon Pass, imagine a line of canvas-topped wagons winding down a dusty mountain ridge. That was the Mormon Hogback – a vital, if temporary, wagon road born of necessity and determination, now a nearly forgotten chapter of the westward migration to Southern California.

Chief Walkara

The Greatest Horse Thief

*Walkara – Representational from an original sketch.*

Chief Walkara (also spelled Wakara or Walker) was a Ute leader who rose to prominence during the early 1800s in what is now Utah, Nevada, and parts of California. Born around 1808 near the Spanish Fork River, he belonged to the Timpanogos band of the Ute people. He was one of several brothers who became influential chiefs, including Arapeen and Sanpitch. From an early age, Walkara was known for his mastery of horses, his courage in battle, and his sharp understanding of trade and diplomacy. These traits positioned him to take full advantage of the chaotic frontier world between Native peoples, Mexicans, and Americans along the Old Spanish Trail.

Walkara’s early fame came from his raiding and trading operations along the Old Spanish Trail, the overland route linking Santa Fe and Los Angeles. During the 1820s and 1830s, this route passed through Ute country, and Walkara quickly learned that power came from controlling who moved through it. He and his men imposed tolls on Mexican traders, demanding gifts of blankets, powder, or metal goods in exchange for safe passage. These tolls were enforced by threat of force but usually honored by both sides, as the traders knew they could not travel safely without Ute permission. Over time, Walkara’s camp became a trading post in its own right, where goods from New Mexico and California were exchanged for furs, horses, and captives.

His influence grew through large-scale raiding, particularly horse raids on ranches and missions in southern California. Walkara’s bands, sometimes numbering 100 to 200 mounted warriors, crossed the Mojave Desert to raid the ranchos of San Luis Obispo, San Juan Capistrano, and Mission San Gabriel. One raid in 1840 reportedly netted as many as 3,000 horses and mules, all of which were driven back across the desert without a single man being lost. His skill in organizing and leading these raids earned him the nickname “the greatest horse thief in the West.” The horses were driven north and east to Utah, where they were traded to Mexican or American intermediaries for guns, powder, and whiskey. Among those traders were mountain men such as James Beckwourth and Thomas “Pegleg” Smith, who became Walkara’s partners. They supplied him with weapons and other goods and, in turn, took the stolen horses to market in Santa Fe or Oregon, often reaping huge profits.

Walkara’s power extended beyond raiding. He also commanded loyalty and fear among many Great Basin tribes. Some allied with him for protection or shared in his profits; others paid tribute to avoid attack. He often incorporated Paiute, Goshute, and Shoshone warriors into his raiding parties. His leadership and wealth gave him the stature of a regional warlord, and even his enemies respected his authority. By the 1830s, he was widely recognized by traders from both Mexico and the United States as the most powerful Ute chief in the Great Basin.

A darker side of Walkara’s trade network was his involvement in the Native slave trade. The Utes had long been active in capturing people from neighboring tribes, particularly the more vulnerable Paiutes and Goshutes, and selling them to New Mexican traders. Walkara expanded this practice into a large-scale system of slave raiding. His men attacked Paiute and Goshute camps, taking women and children captive to sell or trade. Many of these captives were sold to Hispanic traders from New Mexico, who took them south to be used as domestic servants, laborers, or farmhands. Children were preferred because they were easier to train and control, and young girls were especially valued. Prices were often recorded as approximately $200 for a girl and $150 for a boy. This trade devastated the Paiute and Goshute peoples, forcing them to live in hiding and even to sell their own children in times of famine to avoid starvation. Horses and captives were often traded interchangeably—one could be exchanged for the other—creating a grim but efficient cycle of commerce that enriched Walkara’s band.

Walkara’s involvement in this trade was no secret. Mexican records show that New Mexican traders, including men such as Don Pedro León Luján, met with Walkara and other Ute chiefs to trade for captives in the 1830s and 1840s. Although Mexican law forbade the practice, it was widely tolerated in frontier regions. When American settlers and Mormon pioneers began arriving later, they were shocked by the existence of this trade. However, many of them also purchased captives as servants under the justification of “redeeming” them. Among the Utes themselves, some oral traditions dispute that Walkara directly sold captives, suggesting that later historians exaggerated the practice or misunderstood Ute customs. Even so, contemporary reports from Mexican, American, and Mormon sources confirm that his band played a significant role in supplying the slave markets of New Mexico.

During these same years, Walkara cultivated relationships with both Mexican and American traders. His dealings with Mexican traders were essentially pragmatic—he provided horses and slaves in exchange for guns, ammunition, knives, and whiskey. With American trappers and explorers, his relations were usually friendly and based on mutual trade. The Utes found that trading with Americans brought better goods than the old Spanish system had, and Walkara’s fluency in both Spanish and English helped him act as a go-between. He often guided traders through Ute territory or arranged safe passage for them in exchange for gifts and favors. American mountain men respected him as a man of intelligence and courage. When John C. Fremont’s expeditions passed near Ute lands in the early 1840s, they noted the presence of influential Ute leaders who controlled the trade and movement in central Utah—almost certainly referring to Walkara.

By the time the first Mormon settlers entered the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, Walkara was already a well-known figure across the entire Great Basin. He had grown wealthy in horses, arms, and trade goods, and his name was known as far as Santa Fe and Los Angeles. Initially, he welcomed the Mormon pioneers, hoping they would become valuable trading partners like the trappers before them. He even accepted baptism into the Mormon Church in 1850, though this was likely more a political gesture than a religious conversion. However, as the Mormons expanded their settlements, they began to interfere with the horse and slave trades that had been central to Walkara’s power. These changes, combined with growing tensions over resources, eventually led to the Walker War of 1853–1854. But in his earlier years, long before that conflict, Walkara was already a legend—an adaptable and ambitious leader who built an empire of horses, trade, and influence stretching from the Mojave Desert to the Rocky Mountains.

He died in 1855 near Meadow, Utah, reportedly from pneumonia, and was buried according to Ute custom with his horse and belongings. His life marked the end of an era when Ute power and frontier trade shaped the fate of the Great Basin, before the arrival of settlers and soldiers transformed it forever.

Old Spanish Trail

John C. Fremont

James Beckwourth

Thomas “Pegleg” Smith

As a Play

You could think of the Mojave Desert as a grand Broadway production—ancient, dramatic, and full of subtle choreography that has played out for millions of years.

The stage is the geology: immense backdrops of folded mountains, tilted strata, and fault lines painted by time. Volcanic cones serve as spotlight towers, alluvial fans sweep like curtains drawn across the basin floor, and the Mojave River cuts a wandering path like a traveling stagehand moving props between acts.

The set is built from plants, rocks, and the occasional weathered structure. Joshua trees rise like eccentric stage pieces, each with its own pose under the lights. Creosote bushes fill in the ensemble—reliable, understated performers who know every cue. Abandoned mining cabins, ghost towns, and derelict rail ties serve as the props and scenery from earlier acts, remnants left between scenes of prosperity and decline.

The lighting crew is the sun, directing each scene with precision—blinding spotlights at noon, warm amber tones at dusk, and moonlit silver rehearsals after dark. The wind adds the soundtrack, whispering through canyons or howling like a restless audience.

The actors? Coyotes, bighorn sheep, and lizards—all improvising within a script written by climate and time. Even the rain, when it shows up, steals the scene with a brief but powerful soliloquy, transforming everything for one fleeting act before bowing out again for months, sometimes years.

Every performance is different, but the play never closes. The Mojave’s production runs continuously, with geology always holding center stage and life finding its cues wherever it can.

The Rabbit Hunt

Conjecture

Following the thread of violence leading to the destruction of an Indian population.

The Four Indian Boys (Late Winter–Spring 1866)

In the late winter of 1866, four sick and starving Indian boys, likely of Paiute or Serrano origin, came through the mountains with a wagon train traveling west across the desert toward San Bernardino. The families in town took them in, each boy being placed with a different household, where they were given food, rest, and care to aid in their recovery.

While staying in the area, one of the boys went rabbit hunting. While out in the brush, they ran into the Thomas brothers. The Thomas brothers were from El Monte, where it was tough and bullies abounded. There was a dispute, and one of the brothers pointed his pistol at the Indian boy. Thinking the other boy meant to shoot, the Indian boy raised his rifle and fired.

A hearing determined that the Indian boy had killed the other in self-defense. When news of the accident reached nearby settlers, tensions quickly rose. Fear, rumor, and resentment fueled a harsh response.

The boys were to be taken home to the desert, and the surviving Thomas brothers and their friends eagerly volunteered for the job. Rather than go through the Cajon Pass, however, the party went over the ridge line between Devil’s and Sawpit Canyons.

The Indian boy who had been involved in the shooting grew suspicious and escaped, hiding in the shadows of the narrow canyon. Another boy was killed in his attempt to flee.

The remaining two boys were taken down near the Las Flores ranch and slaughtered and mutilated as a final insult.

The Battle of Indian Hill (Spring–Summer 1866)

The killings spread anger and grief among the local Indian families in the mountains, who saw the act as unprovoked and cruel. Within weeks, a group of warriors struck back, raiding the lumber mill at Burnt Mill Creek near Crestline — the opening blow in the chain of violence that would lead, within a year, to the Battle at Chimney Rock.

In the weeks following the executions at Las Flores Ranch, anger spread among the mountain Serrano and Chemehuevi bands. The deaths of the boys were viewed as unjust, carried out in cold blood and without reason. Possibly seeking revenge, a group of warriors moved south through the San Bernardino Mountains toward a small lumber operation at Burnt Mill Creek, near present-day Crestline.

The mill was one of several frontier sawmills cutting timber for ranches and for the growing settlement of San Bernardino. At dawn, the Indian raiding party attacked, catching the workers off guard. Several mill hands were killed, and the structures were burned to the ground. The site was left smoldering — a charred ruin that gave the place its lasting name, Burnt Mill.

When word of the attack reached San Bernardino, it caused alarm throughout the foothill ranches and timber camps. Men armed themselves and organized night watches, fearing further raids. Though small in scale, the Burnt Mill episode marked the turning point when isolated resentment turned into open conflict.

From that moment, the settlers in Summit Valley and the surrounding country expected more violence — and before the year’s end, they were proven right.

The Killings of Nephi Bemis & Ed Parrish at Las Flores Ranch (Late 1866)

The tension that followed the Burnt Mill attack did not subside. By late 1866, ranchers in Summit Valley were on edge, certain that more raids were coming. Among them were William Parrish and Nephi Bemis, who operated Las Flores Ranch, one of the most significant and most isolated properties in the valley.

When word spread that Indians had been seen again in the surrounding hills, Parrish and Pratt refused to abandon their post. They stayed behind to guard their livestock and property, while others left to summon help from San Bernardino. Sometime soon after, a band of Indians appeared at the ranch. Accounts differ on how the meeting began — some say they approached peacefully, others that they came under the guise of trade — but before long, gunfire erupted.

When riders returned from San Bernardino, they found both Parrish and Pratt dead, the ranch looted, and stock driven off into the backcountry. Their deaths shocked the valley and became the final spark that united the settlers in retaliation.

Within days, a large posse was organized. Men from San Bernardino, Hesperia, and the mountain ranches gathered in Summit Valley, buried the dead, and set out to track the Indian band responsible. Their pursuit carried them northward through the mountain ridges and into the country around Rabbit Lake and Chimney Rock, where the final confrontation would soon take place.

The Pursuit and Battle at Chimney Rock (Winter 1867)

After the deaths of Parrish and Pratt, settlers and ranch hands across Summit Valley and the foothill country gathered to form a large posse. Around forty men took part, armed with rifles and revolvers, determined to track down the Indians believed responsible for the attacks at Las Flores Ranch and Burnt Mill Creek.

The trail led north through the timber and granite ridges of the San Bernardino Mountains. For several days, the Indian band held the high ground, watching from the ridgelines above the valley. They moved cautiously through the rugged terrain, following old paths toward the upper basin near Rabbit Lake.

From there, the group descended through the rocky terrain toward Chimney Rock, an isolated sandstone formation overlooking what is now Lucerne Valley. On the far side of the ridge, near Rabbit Springs, lay their village, a seasonal camp used for gathering food and trading with other desert groups.

As the posse closed in, the Indians made their stand among the boulders and ledges at Chimney Rock. A running fight broke out that lasted several hours. The settlers fired from cover while the Indians answered from higher ground with muskets and arrows. When the shooting stopped, between thirty and forty Indians lay dead, and the survivors fled eastward toward the desert.

The battle — fought in February 1867 — marked the end of large-scale Indian resistance in the San Bernardino Mountains. The settlers soon returned to Summit Valley, and word spread quickly through San Bernardino that “the Indian war was over.”

Aftermath and Legacy (After February 1867)

When the fighting ended at Chimney Rock, the mountains fell quiet again. The surviving Indians slipped away toward Rabbit Springs and the upper Mojave River, while the settlers gathered their wounded and buried the dead. Many of the Indian casualties were left on the field, and for years, travelers reported finding scattered bones among the rocks.

The posse returned to San Bernardino, where their action was hailed as the end of Indian trouble in the mountains. Local newspapers described the engagement as a victory that brought peace to the frontier, though for the surviving Serrano and Chemehuevi families, it was remembered as a deep loss. Entire families were wiped out, and those who remained moved away to the lower desert and to reservations at Morongo and San Manuel.

In the years that followed, Las Flores Ranch became a central stop for freighters and cattlemen moving between San Bernardino and the desert. The surrounding country was filled with new homesteads, and the Indian villages in the upper valleys disappeared. Only the stone outcrops and dry washes kept their memory.

A century later, in 1967, the State of California designated Chimney Rock as Historical Landmark No. 737, recognizing it as the site of the last major Indian–settler conflict in the San Bernardino Mountains. The monument still stands above Lucerne Valley, a reminder of a hard and tragic passage in the region’s history.

Memory and Historical Recognition (Late 19th Century–Present)

For years after the Battle at Chimney Rock, the story of the fight was passed down in fragments — part caution, part justification, and part fading memory. Early settlers spoke of it as a final act that “secured the mountains,” while Indian descendants told of families lost and villages erased. By the 1880s, as ranching and logging expanded, the details of who fought and why began to blur, preserved mostly in oral tradition and a few scattered newspaper mentions.

Interest in the subject revived in the mid-20th century when local historians, including Burr Belden and members of the San Bernardino County Museum Association, began gathering surviving accounts. These efforts led to the site’s formal recognition in 1967, 100 years after the battle. The Lucerne Valley Historical Society, in collaboration with the California Office of Historic Preservation, placed a marker on the flat area below the rock outcrop.

Since then, Chimney Rock has stood as a place of reflection rather than triumph — a reminder of how fear, misunderstanding, and vengeance shaped the San Bernardino frontier. Modern researchers and descendants of both settlers and Native families continue to revisit the record, trying to piece together a fuller picture of what happened along the old trails that ran from Summit Valley to Rabbit Springs.

The story of Chimney Rock remains not only a record of conflict but also a measure of change — from an era of violence and dispossession to one of remembrance and the slow work of understanding.

The Last Troubles and Santos Manuel’s Leadership (Late 1860s–1870s)

Even after the Battle at Chimney Rock, hardship did not end for the remaining Indian families in the San Bernardino Mountains. Scattered and grieving, small groups of Serrano and Chemehuevi people tried to return to their traditional camps along the creeks and canyons above Summit Valley. Settlers, however, now claimed most of the water and grazing lands. Sporadic raids and reprisals continued for several years, and the surviving Indian families lived in constant fear of being hunted down or driven away again.

By the early 1870s, leadership among the scattered mountain Serrano had passed to a man named Santos Manuel. Realizing that his people could not endure another winter of pursuit and hunger in the high country, he gathered the remaining families and led them down from the mountains into the valley below. They settled near the foothills north of San Bernardino, in a place that came to be called Politana, and later near Highland, where they would form the heart of the present-day San Manuel Band of Mission Indians.

Santos Manuel’s decision saved what remained of his people. Though stripped of their old homelands around Rabbit Springs, Summit Valley, and Las Flores, they survived as a community and carried their history forward. His leadership brought an end to years of conflict that began with the tragedies at Las Flores Ranch and Burnt Mill Creek — closing one of the most turbulent chapters in the story of the San Bernardino Mountains.

The Ord Mountains

General Edward O. C. Ord has a small but interesting connection to the Mojave.

Ord was a career officer who fought in the Mexican-American War, against Native tribes in California, and later became a Union general in the Civil War. Before his rise to prominence, though, he spent time in California during the 1840s and 1850s. After arriving in Monterey in 1847, Ord worked on some of the earliest surveys of California.

That position put him in charge of military affairs in California and Nevada, where he directed troop deployments in and around the Mojave to protect settlers and suppress conflicts with Native peoples. His work overlapped with the surveying of wagon roads, trails, and the need to establish military posts to protect emigrants, mail lines, and freight routes. Fort Tejon, established in 1854, and later Camp Cady along the Mojave River (1860s), were part of that broader mission. While Ord himself did not leave a long record of direct operations in the Mojave, his service in California helped shape the Army’s early presence in the desert region.

In 1863, during the Civil War, Ord briefly commanded the Department of the Pacific, headquartered in San Francisco. That position placed him in broad command of military affairs in California and Nevada, and he oversaw troop deployments in and around the Mojave, where soldiers guarded settlers and suppressed conflicts with Native peoples.

There are actually two distinct mountain ranges in Southern California that bear the name Ord Mountains, and the duplication stems from historical, cartographic, and military associations.

The better-known Ord Mountains sit north of Lucerne Valley and southeast of Barstow, between the Stoddard Wells area and Johnson Valley. These were named for General Edward O. C. Ord, a Civil War officer who had earlier surveyed parts of California in the late 1840s. His name was applied to several places in the state, and this Mojave range was one of them.

A second, lesser-known Ord Mountains name shows up southwest of Lucerne Valley, closer to Hesperia and Apple Valley. This separate range appears to have been named after an incident in 1849, when Lieutenant Ord and his cavalry detachment were attacked while surveying in that area. Contemporary reports described the soldiers being “surrounded and mauled” by Native Americans. Later mapmakers and local usage extended Ord’s name to those hills as well, even though they are distinct from the main Ord Mountains to the north.

So, while General Ord is not a “Mojave figure” in the sense of someone like Kit Carson, Edward Beale, or later officers tied directly to desert posts, his career intersected with the Mojave at points when the U.S. Army was extending its influence, building forts, and securing travel routes across the desert.

Lucerne Valley

San Bernardino National Forest

Camp Cady

Mojave River