Moe the Chimpanzee

A Detailed Historical Account

Origins and Early Life
Moe is a chimpanzee with an extraordinary life story that began in Africa and soon intertwined with a California family. In 1967, St. James Davis – then a merchant seaman – encountered an infant chimp in Tanzania whose mother had been killed by poachers. Davis rescued the baby chimp and brought him to the United States with the help of missionaries. He and his wife LaDonna, who were unable to have children of their own due to LaDonna’s health, decided to adopt the chimpanzee and name him Moe. The Davises raised Moe in their West Covina, California home just as one might raise a human child. He wore clothes, was toilet-trained, took showers, and even slept in a bed. Family life for Moe included simple pleasures like enjoying chocolate milk and watching television with his adoptive parents. From his infancy, Moe bonded strongly with the Davises, becoming the center of their family life for decades.

Relationship with His Owners
St. James and LaDonna Davis considered Moe their son in every sense. They referred to themselves as “Moe’s dad and mom,” and treated the chimpanzee as a pampered, if unconventional, member of the family. “That was the word they used to describe him, and that was how they treated him,” a story noted, portraying Moe as a “hairy, rambunctious child” in the Davis household. They taught Moe how to wear clothing, use utensils at the dinner table, and even communicate through simple sign language. In an oft-cited anecdote, Moe participated in the Davises’ wedding ceremony – LaDonna described him as a combination of flower girl and best man – emphasizing just how integrated he was in their personal lives. Over the years, countless family photos showed Moe snuggling with the couple or even lounging in bed with them. The deep emotional bond was mutual: the Davises doted on Moe, and he in turn was docile and affectionate with them, knowing them as his family. LaDonna once tearfully explained that Moe was “like the son she never had,” underscoring the profound connection between the chimp and his human caregivers.

Media Presence and Fame Prior to 2008
The City of West Covina awarded Moe an “Honorary Citizen” certificate in 1971, reflecting his local celebrity status. From the 1970s onward, Moe became something of a local celebrity in Southern California. In fact, a 1971 legal battle over Moe’s residency in West Covina turned into a public spectacle that Moe ultimately “won” – a judge ruled the city could not evict him, remarking in court that “he doesn’t have the traits of a wild animal, and is, in fact, somewhat better behaved than some people.” Following this victory, West Covina presented Moe with an official Honorary Citizen certificate, symbolically recognizing him as one of their own. Moe went on to make numerous public appearances that endeared him to the community. In the 1970s, he was often seen in parades and at civic events – at one point even ceremonially receiving the “keys to the city” of West Covina. Friends wrote a biographical book, Moe, documenting these years, including photographs of the chimpanzee engaging in human-like pastimes. Moe was pictured driving a speedboat and even sitting behind the wheel of a sports car, grinning as if he were out for a joyride. He reportedly “sold” Girl Scout cookies to help local troops and delighted crowds by performing ribbon-cuttings at events. Thanks to such exploits, Moe became a media darling. Local newspapers and TV stations featured stories on “Moe the chimp” over the years – sometimes portraying the charming, well-behaved ape as a model primate, and other times covering the more troublesome incidents that came later. By the early 2000s, Moe’s name was familiar to many in the Los Angeles area, as his saga of domestic life, celebrity cameos, and subsequent controversies played out in headlines.

Housing and Care Arrangements (Jungle Exotics in Devore)
Moe’s living arrangements changed several times over his life, especially after authorities determined he could no longer reside in a suburban home. In 1999, following two incidents in which Moe bit a police officer’s hand and later a visitor’s fingertip (after she reached into his enclosure with red-painted nails), West Covina authorities forcibly removed Moe from the Davis home for violating the city’s wild animal ordinance. This marked the end of Moe’s idyllic life in the house and the beginning of his life in sanctioned facilities. His first stop was the Wildlife WayStation, a noted animal sanctuary in the Angeles National Forest, where he stayed for a few years. In 2003, when that sanctuary ran into licensing problems, Moe was transferred to a nonprofit facility called Animal Haven Ranch near Bakersfield, California. It was at Animal Haven Ranch that a notorious incident occurred in 2005: as St. James and LaDonna visited Moe to celebrate his 39th birthday with a cake and treats, two other younger chimpanzees escaped their cage and brutally attacked the Davises. (Moe himself did not partake in the attack and remained in his enclosure, reportedly looking on in shock.) This horrific event left St. James gravely injured and LaDonna also hurt, and it underscored the potential dangers of captive primates. Animal Haven Ranch closed to the public after the attack, and Moe’s presence there became a legal liability. In the aftermath, Moe had to be moved yet again for his own safety and care. By 2007, Moe found a new home at Jungle Exotics, a private compound in Devore, California. Jungle Exotics is a licensed facility that provides animals – from tigers and lions to reptiles and dogs – for film and television productions. Unlike a sanctuary, it’s essentially a training and boarding compound for working animals. Moe was not used in any show business work; he was kept as a permanent boarder, and the owners built him a large, comfortable enclosure complete with toys, blankets, and even a “lookout tower” platform where he could watch trains go by in the distance. By all accounts, Moe adjusted well and was “a happy camper” at Jungle Exotics, enjoying the fresh air and roomy cage after years in smaller quarters. However, this arrangement would later prove controversial. The co-owner of Jungle Exotics, a trainer named Sid Yost (operating under the business name “Amazing Animal Productions”), had been sued in 2005 for animal cruelty amid accusations that he beat and abused chimpanzees used in Hollywood shows. Yost settled that lawsuit in 2006 by agreeing to send all his chimps to accredited sanctuaries and to bar himself from working with great apes ever again. Yet here was Moe – a chimpanzee – living on Yost’s property in 2007–2008. The Animal Legal Defense Fund later pointed out that Moe’s very presence at Jungle Exotics violated the 2006 legal settlement and raised alarms about the adequacy of Moe’s care. (In fact, ALDF representatives said they had no idea Moe was at Jungle Exotics until news broke of his escape.) Despite these red flags, for a time Moe appeared to thrive in the Devore facility under the day-to-day care of trainers there. Jungle Exotics was Moe’s fourth home since leaving West Covina, and tragically, it would also be the last place he was seen.

The 2008 Escape
Moe’s tranquil stay at Jungle Exotics came to an abrupt end in late June 2008. On Friday, June 27, 2008, the 42-year-old chimpanzee somehow escaped from his enclosure at the facility. The exact circumstances of Moe’s breakout remain a bit mysterious. The owners of Jungle Exotics were baffled as to how Moe managed to defeat his cage’s security – one co-owner noted that the steel enclosure “should have been able to hold a gorilla,” yet Moe had the strength or smarts to pry it open or break the welds. One theory was that Moe, who had always been clever with his hands, unlatched or bent a portion of the cage and simply walked out. Another suggestion was that a recent wildfire in the area might have agitated or frightened Moe, prompting him to make a bold escape into the unfamiliar wilderness. What is known is that on that Friday afternoon, after getting free, Moe wandered calmly from the Jungle Exotics compound onto a neighboring property. He ambled into a house that was undergoing remodeling, startling a group of construction workers inside. Reports indicate Moe may have approached the workers in a non-aggressive manner – one witness thought the chimp held out his hand as if expecting a treat or handshake, and there was even a rumor that a worker offered Moe a sandwich. Before anyone could contain him, however, Moe slipped away again. He hopped a fence and headed off into the vast brushy expanse of the San Bernardino National Forest, which borders the Devore area to the north. By the time animal caretakers arrived on scene, Moe had vanished into the wild. The initial escape occurred in a mountainous, heavily wooded zone, making it immediately difficult to track the chimp’s movements. Moe, who had lived his entire life in human care, was suddenly loose in an environment full of real dangers (rattlesnakes, mountain lions, and other wildlife) and devoid of the easy food sources he was used to. It was a race against time to find him.

Search Efforts After the Escape
The search for Moe in the summer of 2008 was intense and emotionally charged. As soon as his disappearance was discovered, the Davises and their friends mobilized a private search party to comb the foothills where Moe was last seen. St. James Davis, still partially recovering from the 2005 mauling, even ventured out (in a wheelchair) to direct search efforts, demonstrating the couple’s devotion to their chimp despite the physical hardship. They quickly hired a helicopter to fly low over the forest, hoping the noise of the chopper might flush Moe out of hiding or spur him to reveal himself. Searchers on foot used four-wheel-drive vehicles to navigate the rugged terrain and broadcasted recorded chimp calls through loudspeakers in an attempt to lure or communicate with Moe. They also brought in bloodhounds to sniff for any trace of the chimpanzee’s trail. The San Bernardino County Animal Control authorities were on standby with tranquilizer dart guns, but they treated Moe’s escape as a mostly private matter – since Moe was not deemed an immediate public threat, officials did not mount a massive manhunt, instead offering support and a hotline for sightings. Despite these efforts, finding a single chimp in 240 square miles of forest proved exceedingly difficult. No confirmed sightings of Moe came in the first days or even weeks after his escape. The Davises pleaded with the public to help if they spotted Moe – asking anyone who saw the chimp to call authorities but not to approach him, for fear that Moe could be frightened or harmed by strangers. Numerous tips did trickle in: search teams followed up on reports of “big, hairy” creatures in the woods, only to determine those tracks belonged to bears, stray dogs, or even a mule. In one bizarre incident, someone reported seeing “a man in a monkey suit” running in traffic near a mountain road, which sent deputies scrambling, but that too turned out to be a false alarm or prank. A few tantalizing clues suggested Moe might still be roaming nearby – locals noted a couple of outdoor water faucets mysteriously left turned on, and a few chickens went missing from a rural property, raising hopes that Moe was stealthily raiding yards for water and food. However, none of these clues could be definitively linked to the chimp. After several exhaustive weeks, the search gradually wound down with no sign of Moe. Sadly, as of 2008, Moe had not been found and remains missing to this day. His disappearance became an unsolved mystery, leaving the Davises heartbroken and the public wondering whether Moe could possibly survive long-term in the wild.

Public and Legal Responses and Controversies
Moe’s saga over the decades sparked significant public debate and several legal battles, highlighting controversies over exotic animal ownership. Early on, many in the community regarded Moe with affection – as evidenced by West Covina’s granting of honorary citizenship to the chimp – but city officials also grappled with the risks of keeping a chimpanzee in a residential neighborhood. In 1971, when West Covina first tried to enforce its ban on wild animals by removing Moe, the Davises fought back in court and won an unusual reprieve. The judge’s conclusion that Moe did not behave like a wild beast effectively gave the family legal cover to keep him at that time. This case, with Gloria Allred as the Davises’ attorney, received media attention and set a precedent (at least temporarily) that a well-behaved chimp could be treated akin to a household pet. However, as Moe grew older and larger, and after incidents in the late 1990s demonstrated the potential danger (two people were bitten, albeit in provoked situations), public sentiment shifted toward caution. In 1999 West Covina authorities invoked a zero-tolerance stance on the city’s wild animal ordinance, removing Moe for public safety reasons despite the Davises’ objections. The couple’s subsequent legal efforts – including a civil rights lawsuit – led to a 2002 settlement: West Covina agreed to pay them $100,000 and assist in purchasing a house in Baldwin Park (a neighboring city with looser animal regulations) so the family might reunite with Moe legally. In principle, this suggested a compromise to allow Moe back into a home setting outside West Covina. Yet bureaucratic delays and the aftermath of the 2005 mauling incident derailed that plan. By 2005, even some former supporters of Moe’s homecoming questioned the wisdom of keeping a strong adult chimp in a domestic environment, no matter how gentle he seemed. After the 2005 attack (in which Moe himself was blameless but humans were grievously hurt), the controversy over exotic pet primates intensified. The incident became a cautionary tale in news reports about the unpredictability of chimpanzees and the dangers they can pose as they reach maturity. St. James and LaDonna Davis, despite their trauma, remained steadfast in their love for Moe – in 2006 they even put up a sign on their lawn reading “Free Moe,” signaling their continued desire to bring him home. They pressed West Covina to honor the earlier agreement. A judge eventually ruled in 2007 that the city had breached its obligations and ordered West Covina to pay the Davises a further $32,000 and contribute $300 per month toward Moe’s care, since the promised Baldwin Park arrangement never materialized. This legal victory was bittersweet; by then Moe was living at Jungle Exotics under the Davises’ frequent supervision, and the couple’s priority was simply his well-being. Moe’s 2008 escape brought another wave of public response. There was both sympathy for the Davises – a sense of empathy for “parents” desperate to find their missing family member – and renewed criticism of the practice of keeping chimpanzees in captivity outside accredited zoos or sanctuaries. Animal welfare organizations seized on Moe’s disappearance as evidence that stricter oversight was needed. Notably, the Animal Legal Defense Fund called attention to the circumstances of Moe’s care at Jungle Exotics, arguing that Sid Yost should never have had a chimp in his custody at all due to his prior legal ban. ALDF suggested that Moe’s escape (and possible grim fate in the wild) was a tragic result of substandard caretaking and regulatory slip-ups. The case fueled discussion about tightening laws on exotic animal trainers and private ownership. Indeed, California law already prohibits keeping primates like chimpanzees without special permits, and Moe’s story became an example cited in support of these regulations. Ultimately, Moe the chimpanzee’s life reflects the complexities of human relationships with exotic animals. He was at once a beloved member of a human family and a wild creature subject to instincts and strength that humans sometimes underestimated. Public and legal responses to Moe’s situation evolved from indulgence and fascination in the early years to concern and strict oversight in later years. The controversies surrounding Moe – from city council meetings and courtroom showdowns to animal-rights investigations – have had a lasting impact. They have raised awareness about the responsibilities and risks of keeping great apes in captivity, and have prompted ongoing conversations about how we balance compassion for animals with public safety. Moe’s disappearance in 2008 left unanswered questions, but his legacy endures in the legal precedents and cautionary lessons that arose from his remarkable journey.

Luther A. Ingersoll

Luther A. Ingersoll was a journalist, editor, and historian active in Southern California in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He is best known for compiling and publishing Ingersoll’s Century Annals of San Bernardino County, 1769–1904, a substantial local history volume released in 1904. This book is a detailed chronicle of San Bernardino County, California, combining early exploration, settlement, economic development, and biographical sketches of prominent citizens.

Here are a few key points about Luther A. Ingersoll:

  • Background: Not much is readily available about his early life, but he appears to have had a background in journalism and was active in publishing and historical writing.
  • Editor and Publisher: He worked in various editorial capacities and likely contributed to or edited newspapers in California. His writing style shows familiarity with both narrative history and biographical journalism.
  • Century Annals (1904): This was his best-known work and a common reference source for researchers studying early San Bernardino County. The book includes:
    • Explorations and Spanish mission history.
    • Rancho and pioneer development.
    • Biographical sketches (often based on submitted family or self-authored accounts).
    • Civic and institutional growth, including railroads, mining, and agriculture.
  • Methodology: Ingersoll’s work reflected the historiographical style of his time—often celebratory, biographically focused, and boosterish. Still, it captured primary recollections and early records that might otherwise have been lost.
  • Legacy: Despite some historical inaccuracies or omissions, Century Annals remains one of the foundational regional histories for San Bernardino County and is still cited in local historical studies.

Broken Homes

Photo Title: George A.F.B., 12-22-2013
Photographer: Walter Feller


1. Composition:

  • The curve of the sidewalk pulls the viewer’s eye naturally from the foreground toward the background, which is effective in creating depth and leading lines.
  • The tree in the mid-ground serves as a visual anchor, offering a natural focal point in an otherwise rigid environment.
  • The buildings form a flat horizon, which complements the minimalist and desolate tone of the scene.

2. Lighting and Tone:

  • The subdued, desaturated palette supports the theme of abandonment and decay. There’s a washed-out, almost ghostly feel that mirrors the forgotten nature of the place.
  • Lighting is soft and diffused, likely from overcast skies or a low winter sun. That lends a cold, lifeless mood—appropriate for the subject matter.

3. Subject and Message:

  • The photograph tells a quiet but heavy story—of abandonment, former purpose, and time’s erosion. It’s a subtle documentation of what was once a vibrant part of military infrastructure, now fallen into silence.
  • Including the date and location in the image enhances its documentary value and turns the image into an archival piece.

4. Technical Observations:

  • Sharpness is well-controlled; textures in the concrete, tree bark, and dried ground are detailed but not exaggerated.
  • Some may critique the almost HDR-like softness in tonal contrast, but in this case, it enhances the surreal stillness.
  • The slight tilt of the camera horizon (if unintentional) could be distracting, but it also contributes a sense of unease.

5. Suggestions (if improvement were desired):

  • Cropping a sliver off the bottom might help rebalance the frame if you want to lessen sidewalk dominance and bring the focus more toward the buildings.
  • A version with slightly boosted contrast or selective color treatment (e.g., leaving the tree full desaturated while warming the sky subtly) could offer an alternative mood without losing the melancholy.

Overall Impression:
A quietly powerful photograph. It captures the stark beauty of abandonment with compositional clarity and emotional restraint. The image feels frozen in time—appropriate for a forgotten base in the middle of the Mojave. It’s not loud, but it lingers.

Tamarix Notes

—it’s Tamarix aphylla (athel tamarisk), which only reproduces by cloning, not seed. While it isn’t spreading like Tamarix ramosissima or chinensis, which have taken over waterways in the West, all types of tamarisk share one thing: they use proportionately large amounts of water. So even the non-invasive ones have an impact, especially in desert regions where water is life.

Here’s a list of the most common tamarisk (or saltcedar/athel) species found in the American Southwest, especially the Mojave Desert, with notes on whether they are considered invasive and whether they are heavy water users:

  1. Tamarix ramosissima (Saltcedar)
    • Invasive: Yes
    • Water-sucking: Yes
    • Notes: One of the most aggressive species, spreads by seed and root. Known for choking out native vegetation and monopolizing riparian zones.
  2. Tamarix chinensis (Chinese tamarisk)
    • Invasive: Yes
    • Water-sucking: Yes
    • Notes: Often hybridizes with T. ramosissima. Together, they dominate many desert waterways and floodplains.
  3. Tamarix parviflora (Smallflower tamarisk)
    • Invasive: Yes
    • Water-sucking: Yes
    • Notes: Less common but still invasive, particularly in California. Can handle salty soils and crowds out native plants.
  4. Tamarix gallica (French tamarisk)
    • Invasive: Occasionally
    • Water-sucking: Yes
    • Notes: Less aggressive in arid environments than others but still considered problematic in some regions.
  5. Tamarix aphylla (Athel tamarisk or Athel tree)
    • Invasive: No (not generally considered invasive in the U.S.)
    • Water-sucking: Yes
    • Notes: Grows as a large tree, does not spread by seed in North America, but it still consumes a lot of water. Introduced intentionally as a shade and windbreak tree.

Summary:

  • Invasiveness: Most tamarisk species are invasive, especially T. ramosissima, chinensis, and their hybrids.
  • Water Use: All tamarisks are thirsty. Even T. aphylla, though not invasive, draws significant water—making them ecologically impactful in arid regions like the Mojave.
Tamarix aphylla (Athel tamarisk or Athel tree)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamarix_aphylla
FeatureTamarix aphylla (Athel)Invasive Tamarisk (ramosissima/chinensis)
Growth FormLarge treeShrub or small tree
Height30–50 feet6–20 feet
TrunkSingle main trunkMultiple stems
LeavesScale-like, dull grey-greenFine, feathery, bright green
Leaf SpacingWidely spacedDense along twigs
FlowersSparse, rarely seenShowy pink/white spikes
Blooming SeasonRarely blooms in U.S.Late spring to summer
Seed ProductionNone (no viable seed in U.S.)Profuse—spreads aggressively
Branch ColorBrown to greyReddish to purplish, especially new growth
Water UseHighHigh
Spread PotentialLow (clonal only)Very high (seed and roots)
Typical LocationHomesteads, roadsides, farmsRiverbanks, washes, natural springs
Tamarix ramosissima
Photo 32999308, (c) larry-heronema, some rights reserved (CC BY-NC)
https://www.inaturalist.org/photos/32999308


Eastwood Dams

When people think of Big Bear Lake or Littlerock Reservoir, they usually picture pine-covered hills or quiet desert canyons. But beneath those scenic views lie stories of bold ideas, early 20th-century innovation, and one man who didn’t mind going against the grain: John S. Eastwood.

Original Big Bear Dam – 1885 (colorized)

Eastwood wasn’t interested in building dams the way everyone else did. While most engineers were busy stacking massive concrete walls straight across rivers, he had something different in mind: a system of thin, curved arches that transferred pressure into solid rock abutments. It was lighter, cheaper, and—in his view—smarter.

In Big Bear, the original dam dated back to 1884. It was built by Frank Elwood Brown, a man with a vision to turn the dry, chaparral-covered inland valleys into citrus groves. His dam was modest and practical for its time, but growing demand soon outpaced its capacity. By 1910, the Bear Valley Mutual Water Company called on Eastwood to design something new. What he gave them in 1912 was a graceful structure of eleven concrete arches—his signature multiple-arch style. It raised the lake level and helped feed the thirst of the San Bernardino Valley below. A bridge was added in 1924, making the dam a true link between the north and south shores and turning it into a local landmark.

Meanwhile, about 60 miles west as the crow flies, the Littlerock Dam rose in a very different landscape—dry, wide-open desert edged by the San Gabriel Mountains. Built between 1922 and 1924, the dam had a job to do: tame seasonal flooding and store water for nearby farms and growing communities in the Antelope Valley. Again, Eastwood’s multiple-arch design was chosen. At the time of its completion, Littlerock Dam was the tallest structure of its kind in the world. It stood not just as a practical solution but also as a quiet sign of faith in human ingenuity—a way to harness nature without bulldozing over it.

Over the years, both dams have been modified to meet modern standards. Littlerock was reinforced in the 1990s, its delicate arches now hidden beneath a face of roller-compacted concrete. Some of Eastwood’s original elegance was lost, but the structure still holds firm. Big Bear’s dam remains more visibly true to his vision, standing quietly beside the lake like a relic from a time when ambition was poured in concrete.

Littlerock Reservoir

John S. Eastwood may not be a household name, but his work left a lasting mark on California’s landscape. His dams in Big Bear and Littlerock weren’t just about holding back water—they were about pushing engineering forward. More than a century later, their presence still shapes the way people live, work, and play in the Mojave and San Bernardino Mountains.

Eastwood wasn’t interested in building dams the way everyone else did. While most engineers were busy stacking massive walls of concrete straight across rivers, he had something different in mind: a system of thin, curved concrete arches that would transfer pressure into solid rock abutments. It was lighter, cheaper, and—in his view—smarter.

Hollywood Finches

How House Finches ended up in New York is yet another quirky little chapter in bird history—and it all starts with a bit of rule-bending in the pet trade.

In the 1930s and early 1940s, House Finches were native only to the western United States and parts of Mexico. At that time, they were not present on the East Coast. But their pretty colors and sweet songs made them attractive to bird lovers. So, pet shop owners began capturing them in the Southwest and shipping them to pet stores in the East, especially around New York City.

Here’s the catch: under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, it was illegal to sell native wild birds as pets. But sellers didn’t want to stop, so they tried to work around the law by giving the birds a fancy new name—“Hollywood Finches”—to make them sound exotic and non-native.

That didn’t fool everyone. Enforcement started tightening up when the government caught wind of the illegal trade. In 1940, pet shop owners in New York panicked and did something unexpected—they released their captive finches into the wild to avoid getting caught.

And that’s when things got interesting.

The released birds survived, adapted, and started breeding. They found New York’s parks, gardens, and backyards suitable places to raise families. Within a few years, they had spread throughout the Northeast and expanded rapidly across the eastern half of North America.

So now, thanks to an accidental release tied to illegal pet sales, House Finches are one of the most widespread songbirds in North America. It’s a classic case of unintended consequences—but one that ended with a success story (for the birds, anyway).

House Finch

Rambling On

A natural thread of wildlife presence woven in, showing how desert creatures went about their lives while miners, homesteaders, and road-trippers came and went:

Ivanpah Valley: Mining, Settlement, and the Story of the Mojave

Nestled in the northeastern part of San Bernardino County, the Ivanpah Valley tells a story of shifting sands, silver dreams, and the rugged endurance of those who dared to live in one of the harshest corners of the American West. This desert basin, with its sweeping alluvial fans and ancient hills, bears the marks of both geologic forces and human ambition. From the first mining camps to homesteaders and the rise of Route 66, Ivanpah is a quiet but enduring witness to the broader saga of the Mojave Desert, a place of allure and mystery that has captivated generations.

The valley lies 2,600 and 4,500 feet above sea level and is part of Major Land Resource Area (MLRA) 30g. Its surface comprises fluvial, lacustrine, and wind-blown sands laid down during the Quaternary period, while occasional outcrops of rugged Precambrian rock poke through the sediment. Gently sloping alluvial fans define the terrain, while basin floors and dry lake beds, known as playas, stretch toward the horizon. Rain is rare—only about 4 to 7 inches fall yearly—yet the soil and climate support hardy desert plant communities like creosote bush, Joshua tree, saltbush, and greasewood, depending on moisture and soil type.

Amidst all this change and activity, the local wildlife continued its existence with a quiet resilience. Wagons rattled over gravel trails, and miners pounded away at rock walls. Yet, desert tortoises quietly roamed the flats, burrowing down into the cool earth to escape the heat. Coyotes trotted unseen along arroyos, pausing now and then to listen. Jackrabbits darted through greasewood and shadows, while red-tailed hawks circled high above the empty mining camps. For the creatures of the desert, life pulsed to an older rhythm, indifferent to boom or bust, a testament to the enduring resilience of the natural world.

Into this arid but mineral-rich land came waves of miners in the 19th century, drawn by tales of hidden veins and easy fortunes. In 1860, the first productive mine in the Mojave—called “Christmas Gift”—opened in Death Valley, setting off a flurry of activity across the desert. Borax, known as “the white gold of the desert,” was soon discovered and began to be mined profitably. By the 1870s, the Clark Mountain Mining District was established, and with it the town of Ivanpah, at that time the only sizable American settlement in the eastern Mojave.

The Bullion Mine, located on the north end of the Ivanpah Mountains, began production in the 1860s. Its rich silver ore was shipped down the Colorado River and on to Swansea, Wales. In 1879, the mine was producing steadily—about five tons every three days—and wagons driven by Jesse Taylor hauled the ore out across the desert. That same year, the mine superintendent, James Boyd, made headlines by replacing an Indian laborer who earned 75 cents a day with a teenage boy, advertised in the San Bernardino Weekly Times, who would work for $30 a month and board–this was frontier economics at its most practical.

The mine changed hands over the years, and in 1909, it was leased by George Bergman of Eldorado Canyon, backed by a $50,000 bond. With multiple shafts and a depth of 250 feet, the Bullion Mine produced ore containing lead, copper, and silver into the 1910s but has seen no significant production since.

Other mines in the Ivanpah Mountains also flourished, if only briefly. The Standard Mine, discovered in 1904 on the west side of the range, operated from 1906 to 1910 and again during World War I. It was nearly 700,000 pounds of copper and 20,000 ounces of silver. By 1908, a small company town had sprung up around it, with bunkhouses, a store, and an assay office.

The Kewanee Mine, discovered around 1901, was especially busy between 1907 and 1911, employing fifty men and operating its mill.

The Morning Star Mine, just west of the Kewanee, saw its most active years between 1927 and 1939, and by the 1970s, it was still being worked in search of the estimated 100,000 ounces of gold beneath its claims.

A particularly curious chapter comes from the Kokoweef Caves, where, in the 1920s, a miner named E.P. Dorr claimed to have discovered an underground river of gold. The tale has since become the stuff of legend, with some continuing to search for treasure in the shadows of the Carbonate and New Trail copper mines nearby.

While miners chased fortune beneath the ground, another wave of settlers sought a different treasure—land. In 1910, homesteaders arrived under federal land programs, usually staking claims on 160-acre parcels. Many came to the Lanfair Valley and surrounding regions, hoping to make a go of desert farming. The rains of the early 1910s encouraged them—fields sprouted crops, and the dry air drew veterans of World War I suffering from the effects of mustard gas.

But the good years were short-lived. When the rains failed, wells dried up or never reached water. Homesteaders found themselves hauling water across miles of open land. Tensions over water rights flared between settlers and ranchers. Gradually, families gave up. They left behind lonely cabins, wind-worn and silent, scattered across the desert.

And still, the lizards sunned themselves on warm rocks. Desert bighorn sheep lined the mountain ridges, standing like statues in the morning light. After a lucky rain in the springtime, wildflowers painted the valley in yellow and purple while hummingbirds zipped among the blooms—untroubled by claims or county lines.

In the 1920s, the iconic Route 66 was born. Built to connect the Midwest to California, it followed old wagon trails and pioneer routes. It symbolized freedom and opportunity—nicknamed “The Mother Road” and “Main Street of America.” It inspired books, songs, and even a TV show. Its significance in shaping the American landscape and culture is undeniable, evoking a sense of nostalgia and appreciation in those who traverse its historic path.

Then came the Great Depression in the 1930s. Struggling families from the Dust Bowl followed Route 66 west, hoping to grow their food and escape the failing economy. After World War II, traffic along Route 66 surged. Though the road was narrow and dangerous in spots, it remained vital—until the 1950s, when new interstate highways like I-15 and I-40 began to bypass the small desert towns. The last section of Route 66 was officially decommissioned in 1985. But its memory lives on. Starting in 1995, “Historic Route 66” signs began appearing in all eight states the route once crossed. Today, travelers trace its path through the Mojave, chasing a piece of American history.

The Ivanpah Valley and its surroundings may seem quiet today, but the landscape still whispers the stories of boomtowns and busted dreams, sunburned miners and hopeful homesteaders, and dust-choked cars rolling west on Route 66. It is a land shaped by wind, stone, and determination—where people once came looking for gold and found, if not riches, a chapter in the great American tale. And through it all, the desert’s original residents—the coyotes, quail, snakes, and tortoises—have never left, carrying on as they always have, desert-born and desert-bound.

Lake Tecopa Geology

Lake Tecopa was a large lake in southeastern California during the Ice Age. Due to changes in climate, earthquakes, and shifting rivers, it formed and disappeared several times over the past two million years.

How Lake Tecopa Changed Over Time

Early Lakes (~2 million to 765,000 years ago):

  • Before the Amargosa River reached the area, smaller lakes from local rainfall and runoff filled the basin.
  • These lakes could not drain, so water stayed in the basin until it evaporated.

Amargosa River Connection (~765,000 to 580,000 years ago):

  • Around 765,000 years ago, the Amargosa River started flowing into the Tecopa Basin.
  • This caused the lake to grow much larger, filling the basin several times over the next 200,000 years.

Final Overflow (~185,000 years ago):

  • The lake reached its highest level and spilled over, creating a channel that drained into Death Valley.
  • Once this happened, Tecopa was no longer a closed lake. Water from the Amargosa River could now flow toward Death Valley instead of staying in the basin.
  • This spillover permanently changed the region’s water system.

How the Spillover Happened

  • The lake overflowed because of heavy rainfall, rising water levels, and erosion of the basin’s southern part.
  • As water broke through, it carved a channel that deepened over time, allowing the Amargosa River to connect with Death Valley.
  • After this, Lake Tecopa could no longer reform as a long-lasting lake.

Evidence Left Behind

  • Ancient Shorelines: Rings around the basin show where the lake once stood at different times.
  • Fossils: Scientists have found tiny fossils of algae and freshwater mollusks, proving that the lake supported life.
  • Rock Deposits: Layers of calcium carbonate and tufa formed in the lake, marking its highest water levels.
  • Spillover Channel: The area where the lake drained remains a landform today, showing where the water escaped.

Comparing Lake Tecopa to Other Ice Age Lakes

  • Lake Tecopa vs. Lake Manly (Death Valley):
    • Lake Tecopa’s overflow helped form Lake Manly in Death Valley.
    • Lake Manly was filled and dried up multiple times, depending on the climate conditions.
    • Unlike Tecopa, Lake Manly was always part of a larger river system.
  • Lake Tecopa vs. Lake Mojave (Mojave Desert):
    • Lake Mojave (which included Silver and Soda Lakes) was fed by the Mojave River instead of the Amargosa.
    • Unlike Tecopa, Lake Mojave did not spill over into another basin. Instead, it dried up when the climate changed.
    • Both lakes grew and shrank over time due to changes in rainfall and temperature.

Why This Matters

The story of Lake Tecopa helps scientists understand how Ice Age lakes formed, changed, and disappeared. The lake’s final overflow was an important event because it changed how water flowed across the region. Studying Tecopa’s past gives us clues about ancient climates, shifting landscapes, and the history of water in the Mojave Desert.

Desert Rat Scrapbook

Harry Oliver’s Desert Rat Scrapbook was a quirky, hand-assembled publication that ran from 1946 to 1965. Created by Oliver, a former Hollywood set designer and self-proclaimed “desert rat,” the Scrapbook was a mix of tall tales, local history, jokes, and desert lore, all presented in an old-timey, Wild West newspaper style.

Oliver published the Scrapbook from his adobe home in Thousand Palms, California, near Palm Springs. It was printed on rough, oversized newsprint and mailed out to subscribers, who were part of the informal “Lost Horse Phonygraph Club.” The content was an eccentric blend of factual history and outright fabrications, which made it both entertaining and sometimes infuriating for those trying to separate fact from fiction.

Oliver was deeply fascinated by desert culture and the people who lived in remote corners of the Southwest. His work helped popularize the image of the rugged, independent desert wanderer—part prospector, part storyteller, and part trickster. Through the Scrapbook, he connected far-flung desert enthusiasts, building a community around the shared appreciation of the oddities and legends of the region.

Harry Oliver’s Desert Rat Scrapbook was packed with stories that blended real history, wild exaggeration, and outright fabrications. Here are a few standout tales from his collection:

  1. The Lost Pegleg Mine – One of the most enduring legends in desert lore, Oliver frequently wrote about Thomas “Pegleg” Smith’s supposed gold discovery in the Colorado Desert. Pegleg allegedly found black-coated gold nuggets but could never relocate the spot. Oliver’s Scrapbook added layers to the tale, sometimes claiming new clues had surfaced or spinning yarns about hopeful prospectors who had set out on doomed quests.
  2. The Curse of the Lost Dutch Oven Mine – A variation of lost treasure stories, this one involved a prospector who discovered a rich mine but was killed before he could cash in. Supposedly, he buried his gold in a Dutch oven somewhere in the desert, and anyone who searched for it was met with misfortune.
  3. Desert Dynamite Fishing – One of Oliver’s more humorous pieces claimed that some old-timers out in the desert had perfected the art of “dry fishing” with sticks of dynamite. They’d toss a charge into a dry lake bed, wait for the explosion, and then go around picking up dazed or dead fish. Complete nonsense, but it made for a great desert tall tale.
  4. The Phantom Burro – Oliver often mixed ghost stories with desert humor, and this one involved a spectral burro that would lead lost travelers to safety—or, depending on the version, trick them into wandering deeper into the dunes.
  5. The Tin Can Mail Route – This was based on a real oddity: desert drifters and small communities that used tin cans to mark trails and leave messages. Oliver’s version exaggerated the practice, describing elaborate systems of tin can “mailboxes” where hermits and prospectors exchanged cryptic notes, treasure maps, or just empty cans.
  6. Jackass Mail and the Desert Post Office – He wrote about makeshift post offices set up in desert outposts where letters would be delivered by burros or left under a rock for the next traveler to take along. These informal mail systems weren’t unheard of, but Oliver took them to absurd levels, claiming they were still in use well into the 20th century.
  7. Lost Vikings in the Desert – Oliver had a particular fondness for weird history, and one of his pieces speculated that Norse explorers had made it to the Southwest long before the Spanish, leaving behind stone ruins and petroglyphs. While there’s no evidence for it, the story fit in well with the other strange desert myths.
  8. The Camels Are Still Out There – Playing off the true history of the U.S. Army’s short-lived Camel Corps experiment in the mid-1800s, Oliver spun yarns about feral camels still wandering the desert, occasionally showing up to spook travelers.

Harry Oliver knew exactly how to mix fact and fiction into something that kept readers entertained, even if they weren’t sure what was real. His Scrapbook became a kind of time capsule for desert folklore, blending the true stories of the West with the kind of campfire tales that made the region so colorful.

Dutch Charley Koehn

In the lonely reaches of the El Paso Mountains, where the desert stretches wide and the wind whispers through the canyons, Dutch Charley—better known as Charles Koehn—built a life that was equal parts rugged and legendary. A German immigrant turned desert rat, Koehn made his mark not with gold, but with grit, ingenuity, and a bit of old-fashioned stubbornness.

Koehn’s story begins in the 1890s, when he staked a claim at Kane Springs, a much-needed watering hole along the route between Tehachapi and the Panamint Range. While many men chased dreams of striking it rich in the goldfields, Dutch Charley had a different plan—he set up shop right in the heart of the action, offering supplies, water, and even a mail service to the miners and drifters passing through. For 25 cents a letter, a prospector could send word back home, and for a few more coins, he could rest his bones and share a drink at Koehn’s outpost. It wasn’t just a business; it was a lifeline in an unforgiving land.

Despite his knack for trade, Koehn had a prospector’s heart. He spent years scouring the desert for something valuable, and while he never found the gold mother lode, he did uncover something else—gypsum. In 1909, he staked claims on a massive gypsite deposit near his homestead, and by 1910, he had a small operation producing wall plaster. It wasn’t the romantic vision of striking it rich, but it was a steady business. His holdings expanded over the years, and soon, larger companies were leasing his land to extract the valuable mineral.

But life in the Mojave wasn’t just about hard work—it was also about holding your ground. In 1912, a group of claim jumpers, backed by hired guns, tried to push Koehn off his land. The desert was a lawless place, and disputes like these were often settled with more than just words. Koehn, known for being tough as nails, didn’t back down. A gunfight erupted on the dry lakebed, and when the dust settled, Dutch Charley was still standing. The courts later ruled in his favor, affirming his rights to the land. It was the kind of incident that turned a man into a legend.

For decades, Koehn’s outpost—known as Dutch Charley’s Cabin—served as a beacon for desert wanderers. Whether it was a weary prospector looking for water, a film crew from Hollywood needing a mule team, or just a lost traveler in need of a friendly face, Koehn’s place was a welcome sight in the vast emptiness. His generosity was well known, and many recalled his habit of offering water to anyone who needed it, free of charge. It wasn’t just about business—it was about survival, about knowing that out here, in the middle of nowhere, a little kindness went a long way.

But time and fortune have a way of shifting like the desert sands. In the 1920s, Koehn found himself in a series of legal battles over his gypsum claims, and in 1923, he was arrested for allegedly attempting to bomb the home of a judge involved in one of his disputes. Whether he was guilty or the victim of a setup is still debated, but the outcome was clear—he was convicted and sent to San Quentin State Prison. It was a tragic end for a man who had spent his life fighting to carve out a piece of the desert for himself. He died behind bars in 1938, just days before he was scheduled to be released.

Though Koehn himself is long gone, his legacy remains. Koehn Dry Lake still bears his name, a reminder of the claim fights and salt works that once played out on its barren surface. The remains of Dutch Charley’s Cabin stand as a ghostly relic of a bygone era, a time when men built lives in the harshest of places with nothing but their hands, their wits, and an unbreakable will. His story, filled with hardship, adventure, and the occasional brush with the law, is woven into the fabric of Mojave history.

Dutch Charley was more than just a miner or a businessman. He was a character, a survivor, and above all, a man who belonged to the desert. He may not have left behind great wealth, but he left something just as enduring—the kind of story that echoes through the canyons long after the last prospector has gone.