The best strike I ever made was in 1904 when I discovered the Rhyolite and Bullfrog district. I went into Boundary Canyon with five burros and plenty of grub, figuring to look over the country northeast from there. When I stopped at Keane Wonder Mine, Ed Cross was there waiting for his partner, Frank Howard, to bring some supplies from the inside. For some reason Howard had been delayed, and Cross was low on grub.
Half a Century Chasing Rainbows By Frank “Shorty” Harris as told to Phillip Johnston Touring Topics: Magazine of the American Automobile Association of Southern California October 1930
A lost party, the Bennett, Arcane, and Wade families had taken a different route trying to traverse the mountain ranges. The Wade family, traveling behind the others, were the only ones to find their way out of (today’s) Death Valley with their wagons intact. The Bennett and Arcane families felt they could not continue after suffering terrible hardships. Two members left on foot and returned with food and supplies to rescue the others. Actually, only one party member died from starvation and lack of water and was buried there. Legend has it that as the party crested over the rim on their way out of that forbidden valley, Juliet Brier, a woman noted the following in her diary, “Goodbye Death Valley.” (NOTE: From Irving Stones book, “Men to Match My Mountains”
The naming of Death Valley, located in Eastern California, is a topic of interest and speculation. This vast desert valley, known for its extreme heat and arid conditions, has a name that evokes a sense of foreboding and danger.
Contrary to popular belief, the name “Death Valley” was not given due to the number of deaths occurring within its borders. In fact, the valley’s name can be traced back to a group of pioneers who experienced a challenging journey through this unforgiving landscape in the mid-19th century.
In 1849, a group of gold prospectors, known as the “Lost 49ers,” ventured into what is now Death Valley in search of riches. However, their journey quickly turned into a struggle for survival. Many groups perished along the way when facing scorching temperatures, lack of water, and hostile terrain.
The survivors of this ill-fated expedition gave the valley its name. As they emerged from the treacherous landscape, they reportedly looked back and proclaimed, “Goodbye, Death Valley!” This proclamation, filled with relief and gratitude for having survived the ordeal, stuck, and the name Death Valley became etched in history.
Over time, the name Death Valley symbolizes this unique geographical feature’s harsh and inhospitable nature. The valley’s extreme temperatures, with summer highs regularly exceeding 120 degrees Fahrenheit, make it one of the hottest places on Earth. Its arid conditions and sparse vegetation add to its desolate and foreboding reputation.
Despite its ominous name, Death Valley is not entirely devoid of life. Various species of plants and animals have adapted to the harsh conditions, carving out a fragile existence amidst the barren landscape. The valley also boasts stunning geological formations, such as the towering Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes and the iconic Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America.
Death Valley National Park’s unique beauty and extreme environment attract visitors worldwide. The park offers opportunities for hiking, camping, and exploring the arid expanses. However, caution is always advised due to the valley’s harsh conditions and proper preparation.
In conclusion, the naming of Death Valley is rooted in the experiences of the pioneers who first traversed its challenging terrain. While the name may evoke a sense of danger and foreboding, it serves as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the ability to adapt to even the harshest environments.
Ludlow, California, a small unincorporated town along Route 66, has a fascinating history stretching back to the late 19th century. Looking into Ludlow’s captivating past sheds light on its significant role in California’s development and the nation.
Early Settlement:
Ludlow’s story began in the 1870s when it served as a crucial railway stop along the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. The town was named Ludlow in honor of William Ludlow, a prominent railroad engineer. Ludlow’s establishment facilitated transportation and trade in the region.
Mining Boom:
Ludlow experienced a significant boom during the early 1900s, primarily due to the discovery of rich mineral deposits in nearby mines. Gold, silver, and copper mining became the backbone of Ludlow’s economy, attracting miners and prospectors from far and wide. The town flourished with the opening of several mines, leading to a surge in population and the establishment of essential amenities such as schools, saloons, and general stores.
The Birth of Route 66:
In 1926, Route 66 connected Chicago, Illinois, to Santa Monica, California. Structurally located along this iconic highway, Ludlow became a popular pit stop for travelers, providing essential services and accommodations. The construction of Route 66 brought increased prosperity to Ludlow, as it became a hub for tourists and truckers alike.
The Rise and Fall:
Ludlow continued to thrive throughout the mid-20th century, with gas stations, cafes, and motels catering to the needs of travelers along Route 66. However, the town’s fortunes took a downturn with the opening of Interstate 40 in the 1970s, which bypassed Ludlow, diverting traffic away from the once-thriving town. As a result, Ludlow gradually declined, with many businesses closing their doors.
Preservation and Revitalization:
Despite its decline, Ludlow still bears witness to its storied past. Today, it reminds us of Route 66’s golden age, with several historic buildings still standing. Efforts are underway to preserve and restore these structures, allowing visitors to glimpse Ludlow’s vibrant past. The town has also become popular with photographers and history enthusiasts, who appreciate its authentic charm and nostalgic appeal.
Conclusion:
Ludlow, California, has a rich history as a railway stop, mining boomtown, and a prominent pit stop along Route 66. While the town has experienced its fair share of challenges, its historical significance and unique character make it a place worth exploring for anyone interested in California’s past. Ludlow is an enduring legacy of the Old West and the indomitable spirit of the communities that shaped the American landscape.
In warm weather —and it is hardly ever cold in their tropic valley —the men wear only a breech-clout, and the women a single garment generally made of flaming bandannas bought in the piece. They dress their long hair in curious ropes, and plaster the scalp with mud, tattoo the chin in wild patterns, and have no ornaments save fichus, which they make with great skill from tiny glass beads.
They have been practicing cremation from time immemorial, and were just having a funeral near East Bridge. The corpse, dressed in its best, was stretched on top of a huge pile of dry old ties from the railroad, and the chief mourner touched a torch to the heap of dry brush at the bottom. As the flames sprang aloft and hissed and roared, the mourners stood in a gloomy ring, chanting a wild refrain ; and as the savage fire and savage song went on, they threw upon the pyre from time to time all the earthly possessions of the deceased, and one by one their own garments and ornaments.
Passing the strange, jagged spires of peaks, which are called the Needles because two of them have natural eyelets, —though these are visible only from the canon, and not from the railroad, —I crossed the 1300-foot drawbridge, now abandoned for a fine new cantilever, a dozen miles below, and stood upon the there forbidding soil of California. A night at the rather pretty little railroad town of Needles, and I started off again into the grim Mojave Desert. It was the beginning of two hundred miles whose sufferings far outweighed all that had gone before . . .
DESERT RAT TEN COMMENDENTS [sic] BY THE EDITOR (from Harry Oliver’s Desert Rat Scrapbook)
I
Thou shalt love the DESERT, but not lose patience with those who say it’s bleak and ornery (even when the wind is blowing).
Even when the wind is blowing ..
II
Thou shalt speak of the DESERT with great reverence, and lie about it with great showmanship, adding zest to Tall Tales and Legends.
Adding zest …
III
Thou shalt not admit other DESERTS have more color than the one on which you have staked your claim.
Amboy Crater
IV
Thou shalt on the Sabbath look to the Mountain Peaks so’s to know better your whereabouts, so’s you can help others to know the DESERT, dotting on the map the places where you have camped.
… on the Sabbath look to the Mountain Peaks …
V
Honor the Pioneers, Explorers and the Desert Rats who found and marked the water holes . . . they tell you about the next water hole and try to help you.
VI
Thou shalt not shoot the Antelope-Chipmunk, Kangaroo Rat or other harmless Desert friends. (Keep your shot for a snake.)
Don’t shoot these.
VII
Thou shalt not adulterate the water holes nor leave the campsite messed up. Be sure to take 10 gallons of water with you. Don’t have to ask the other fellow on the road for a quart, but be able to help the tenderfoot by giving him some water.
10 gallons of water ought to do it.
VIII
Thou shalt not steal (from the prospector’s shack), nor forget to fill the wood box and water pail.
Don’t be an asshole and mess up or steal stuff from some guy’s cabin.
IX
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor; you know the mining laws; you know the whereabouts of his monuments.
Sign of the times.
X
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s sleeping bag, his gun, nor the contents of his canteen.
Death Valley was having one of its periodic wind storms when the tourists drove up in front of Inferno store to have their gas tank filled.
Hard Rock Shorty was seated on the bench under the lean-to porch with his hat pulled down to his ears to keep it from blowing away.
Desert wind storm
“Have many of these wind storms?” one of the dudes asked.
“Shucks, man, this ain’t no wind storm. Jest a little breeze like we have nearly every day. You have to go up in Windy Pass in the Panamints to find out what a real wind is like.
“Three-four years ago I wuz up there doin’ some prospectin’. Got together a little pile o’ wood an’ finally got the coffee to boilin’. Then I set it on a rock to cool while I fried the eggs.
“About that time one of them blasts o’ wind come along and blowed the fire right out from under the fryin’ pan. Blowed ‘er away all in one heap so I kept after it tryin’ to keep that fryin’ pan over the fire to git my supper cooked.
“I usually like my eggs over easy, but by the time 1 got one side done I wuz all tired out so I let ‘er go at that. Had to walk four miles back to the coffee pot.”
Once I asked Shorty Harris how he obtained his grubstakes. “Grubstakes,” he answered, “like gold, are where you find them. Once I was broke in Pioche, Nev., and couldn’t find a grubstake anywhere. Somebody told me that a woman on a ranch a few miles out wanted a man for a few days’ work. I hoofed it out under a broiling sun, but when I got there, the lady said she had no job. I reckon she saw my disappointment and when her cat came up and began to mew, she told me the cat had an even dozen kittens and she would give me a dollar if I would take ’em down the road and kill ’em.
“‘It’s a deal,’ I said. She got ’em in a sack and I started back to town. I intended to lug ’em a few miles away and turn ’em loose because I haven’t got the heart to kill anything.
“A dozen kittens makes quite a load and I had to sit down pretty often to rest. A fellow in a two-horse wagon came along and offered me a ride. I picked up the sack and climbed in.
“‘Cats, eh?’ the fellow said. ‘They ought to bring a good price. I was in Colorado once. Rats and mice were taking the town. I had a cat. She would have a litter every three months. I had no trouble selling them cats for ten dollars apiece. Beat a gold mine.’
Prospector with grubstake essentials
“There were plenty rats in Pioche and that sack of kittens went like hotcakes. One fellow didn’t have any money and offered me a goat. I knew a fellow who wanted a goat. He lived on the same lot as I did. His name was Pete Swain.
“Pete was all lit up when I offered him the goat for fifty dollars. He peeled the money off his roll and took the goat into his shack. A few days later Pete came to his door and called me over and shoved a fifty-dollar note into my hands. ‘I just wanted you to see what that goat’s doing,’ he said.
“I looked inside. The goat was pulling the cork out of a bottle of liquor with his teeth.
“‘That goat’s drunk as a boiled owl,’ Pete said. ‘If I ever needed any proof that there’s something in this idea of the transmigration of souls, that goat gives it. He’s Jimmy, my old sidekick, who, I figgered, was dead and buried.’
“‘Now listen,’ I said. ‘Do you mean to tell me you actually believe that goat is your old pal, whom you drank with and played with and saw buried with your own eyes, right up there on the hill?’
“‘Exactly,’ Pete shouted, and he peeled off another fifty and gave it to me. So, you see, a grubstake, like gold, is where you find it.”
from: Loafing Along Death Valley Trails A Personal Narrative of People and Places Author: William Caruthers
