Searchlight — circa 1929-33

UNLV describes the history of Searchlight in the following;

“Gold ore was first discovered in Searchlight by Paiute Indians in 1870, 55 miles south of Las Vegas, but it was not until 1897, when G.F. Colton, a notable prospector, discovered a rich gold vein and word spread, that Searchlight boomed. The following year, the mining district was fully organized. The Quartette Mill opened in 1898 and soon became one of the city’s finest producers. In 1902 the first newspaper, Searchlight, began publishing, and the Duplex Mining Company constructed a twenty-stamp mill. In 1903 a miners’ strike brought the town’s production to a standstill until the mining companies brought in non-union miners to work the mines. The boom peaked during the spring of 1907 when the first train of the Barnwell & Searchlight Railroad arrived at Searchlight’s station to a warm greeting of a fifty-piece cowboy band. In 1907 Searchlight contained over forty-four working mines and a population of 5,000. However, Searchlight was hard hit by the financial panic of 1907.

The city recovered after a number of years and, by 1910, was noted for its fashionable and modern amenities and its commuter train. The community boasted a luxurious hotel, several saloons, a barbershop, a lumberyard, shops, cafes, union halls, boarding houses, schools, several stables, the newspaper, and its own hospital. The biggest mines were the Quartette, Cyrus Noble, Little Brown Jug, Old Bottle, and Duplex, whose gold production totaled $7 million. In 1934 a flotation mill was built, and a 30-ton custom mill ran briefly in 1935. However, by the late 1940s, little was left of the once modern boomtown of Searchlight.”

Image courtesy of the Franklin M. Murphy Photograph Collection, approximately 1929-1933. PH-00232. Special Collections and Archives, University Libraries, University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Las Vegas, Nevada. 

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Johnny-Behind-the-Gun

from Chapter XXV – Ballarat. Ghost Town — Loafing Along Death Valley Trails by William Carruthers

A familiar figure throughout Death Valley country was Johnny-Behind-the-Gun—small and wiry and as much a part of the land as the lizard. His moniker was acquired from his habit of settling disputes without cluttering up the courts. Johnny, whose name was Cyte, accounted for three or four sizable fortunes. Having sold a claim for $35,000 he once bought a saloon and gambling hall in Rhyolite, forswearing prospecting forever.

Johnny advertised his whiskey by drinking it and the squareness of his game, by sitting in it. One night the gentleman opposite was overwhelmed with luck and his pockets bulged with $30,000 of Johnny’s money. Having lost his last chip, Johnny said, “I’ll put up dis place. Ve play vun hand and quit.”

Johnny lost. He got up, reached for his hat. “Vell, my lucky friend, I’ll take a last drink mit you.” He tossed the liquor, lighted a cigar. “Goodnight, chentlemen,” he said. “I go find me anudder mine.”

Johnny had several claims near the Keane Wonder in the Funeral Mountains, held by a sufferance not uncommon among old timers, who respected a notice regardless of legal formalities.

Senator William M. Stewart, Nevada mining magnate, had employed Kyle Smith, a young mining engineer to go into the locality and see what he could find. Smith, a capable and likable chap, in working over the districts, located several claims open for filing by reason of Johnny’s failure to do his assessment work.

It is not altogether clear what happened between Johnny and Smith, but Smith’s body was found after it had lain in the desert sun all day. There being no witnesses the only fact produced by sheriff and coroner was that Smith was dead. Johnny went free. Other escapades with Johnny-Behind-the-Gun occurred with such frequency that he was finally removed from the desert for awhile as the guest of the state.

In a deal with Tom Kelly, Johnny was hesitant about signing some papers according to an understanding. His trigger quickness was explained to Kelly who was not impressed. He went to Johnny and asked him to sign up. Johnny refused. Kelly said calmly, “Johnny, do you see that telephone pole?”

“Yes, I see. Vot about?”

“If you don’t sign, you’re going to climb it.” Johnny signed. He put his gun away when he acquired a lodging house at Beatty, where he died in 1944.

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The Hog Drive to Daggett

TRUE STORIES – TOLD INCORRECTLY – A DESERT TRADITION

A totally unrelated photo of Leslie Kirchner riding his pig reminds me of the legend of the Daggett Pig Drive.

There were too many pigs, and it would have been too expensive to have them hauled to market, yet the little girl’s family needed the money to live in a hotel in Long Beach or someplace like that. The decision was made to drive the hogs to the railroad depot in Daggett as an old-fashioned cattle drive to Abilene. Betty was excited.

There were hogs and pigs as far as the eye could see, being guided by drovers experienced not with driving pigs but with small cattle. One-eyed Ben, the old man, said, “Driving pigs is just like driving tiny cows, except they don’t have horns, which is good because pigs are angry.” The hogs snorted, grunted, and squealed as they hurried down the dusty road. The trick, however, was to keep them from running and losing all their weight.

Little Betty cried when her father told her pigs were classified into ‘lard’ or ‘bacon.’ That meant the dreams of her two favorite pigs, Willis and Tina, wouldn’t be getting a pig wedding and then having a pig family together. Their future looked dark. “Lard or bacon?” thought Betty.

“Cheer up, Betty,” her father told her. “Have a stick of gum.”

And she did, and she stopped crying and went to live in a hotel in or near Long Beach.

The End

Fiction inspired by a true event as described in “Daggett, Life in a Mojave Frontier Town,” by Dix Van Dyke – Edited by Peter Wild.

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Vincent Gap Trailhead is Finally Open

Mt. Baldy and Dawson Peak as seen from the PCT. This view is looking across upper Lytle Creek and still some miles below East Blue Ridge.

Vincent Gap trailhead is once, again, open to vehicles coming in through Wrightwood. Highway 2 continues to be gated to any driving west of the trailhead. If you’re looking to hike up to Mt. Baden Powell or drop down into the East Fork, all this is possible now and through the summer and autumn months.

Looking out across the East Fork of the San Gabriel River to Pine Mountain, Dawson Peak and Mt. Baldy. This view is from a spur ridge just below summit of Mt. Baden-Powell.
A native Columbine graces the East Fork just downstream from Mine Gulch Campsite .
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About Water

Two stories about water, its availability, and value


Not long ago a respectable citizen of a little California town had to cross the desert at a point where water-holes were few and far apart. He depended upon obtaining water at a certain ranch, established at one of the oases on his route, and when he arrived there he and his guide and burros were in sad condition, having been several hours without water. He gave his guide a five-dollar gold piece and told him to see the rancher and purchase the water necessary to carry them to the next watering place. It happened that the rancher’s well was in danger of going dry, and he declined the money, refusing to part with any water. Pleadings were unavailing, and the guide returned to his employer and reported his inability to make a deal. Then the staid citizen arose in his wrath and, with a ten-dollar gold piece in one hand and a revolver in the other, he sought the rancher.

“There is ten dollars for the water, if you will sell it,” he said; “and if not, I will send you to Hades and take it, anyway! Now which will it be?”

There was but one reply to an argument of that kind ; the rancher sulkily accepted the money, the brackish water was drawn from the well, and the journey was soon resumed. As a result of this transaction, however, the rancher was obliged to take a forty-mile journey over the desert and back, to replenish his water-supply from another well.

John F. McPherson, of Los Angeles, manager of the Nevada Land Office, left Los
Angeles, in August, 1900, to traverse the Great Mojave Desert, on his way to look over the lands in the Parumph Valley, in Nevada. His experience, which was by no means uncommon, is best related by himself.

“I left Los Angeles by team,” he says, “to retrace the Government surveys and make field notes. I had with me two companions, one Samuel Baker and a young man from the East. We proceeded over the foothills to Cajon Pass, thence to Victor, out on the desert. It was in the burning days of a fierce, dry summer. The earth was fervid, and the air quivered with the sun’s intense heat, which poured its burning rays from a cloudless sky. Bad luck accompanied us from the very start. At Pomona, thirty miles from Los Angeles, we lost a horse and had to purchase another. At Daggett, out in the desert, which place we reached on the second day of our desert travel, we found the thermometer registering 128 degrees in the shade. We passed through Daggett and made camp ten miles
farther on, at dark.

“Eighteen miles beyond Daggett is Coyote Holes, where we expected to find water to replenish the supply with which we left Daggett at seven o’clock in the morning. We found the well dry when we reached there, and the place red with alkali. Near the well, two pieces of two by four scantling marked the grave of some traveler who had preceded us and who had run short of water before reaching the Holes. He had arrived too far gone to go farther, and his companions had remained with him till the end and had given him a burial in the sand and set the scantlings to mark the spot. Those scantlings proved our salvation a little later.


“By noon we had consumed all but about three gallons of our water -and we determined to save this till the last extremity, for we had yet eighteen miles to go to the next watering-place, Garlic Springs. Our horses were already in bad shape and nearly crazed for want of water. In their eagerness to reach it they plunged forward at a pace that threatened soon to exhaust them. Our efforts to restrain them by means of the reins were unavailing, and we were obliged to take off our coats and throw them over the heads of the animals and then lead them by the bits in this blinded condition.

“Just beyond Coyote Holes, on the road to Garlic Springs, is a fearful sink known as Dry Lake. Here the ground is shifty and treacherous and the wheels of the wagon sank deep into the sand. Just as we had reached the farther side of the lake the forward axle of the wagon broke, letting the front part of the wagon fall to the ground. This frightened the horses so that they became almost unmanageable. They seemed to realize that this delay meant possible death, and their cries were almost human-like and were indeed pitiable to hear.

“By this time the condition of my companions and myself was dire, and we realized that time was of the greatest importance. The thermometer registered 130 in the shade and no available shade. To add to our misery and increase our danger a terrible sand storm arose, blinding, stinging, and almost smothering us.

“It was like standing before a blast furnace, opening the door, and catching at the blast. There were 1600 pounds of provisions in the wagon at the time, and
if we abandoned that, we would perish of starvation. It could not be thought of. “We unhitched the horses and tied them to the wagon’s rear and stretched the heavy canvas which had covered the wagon over them to protect them from the sand storm. Our salvation lay with the horses. If they became exhausted or broke loose, we knew our bones would be left to bleach upon the desert sands, as have the bones of so many desert travelers.

“The young Easterner lost his courage and cried like a baby. The three gallons of water were divided among man and beast, and then Baker started back to Coyote Holes to get the two pieces of scantling to mend our broken wagon. While he was gone, the young Easterner and I threw the freight from the wagon to make ready for trussing up the rig when Baker returned with the scantlings.

” The storm continued to increase and soon became as dark as midnight. When it came time for Baker’s return, the storm was so high that we feared he would have perished in it or had lost his way. Hour after hour passed, but he still did not return, and we lost hope. At about 9 o’clock in the evening, however, he came into camp with the scantlings. His mouth was bleeding from thirst, and he was nearly blinded by the sand, but he had the material to repair the wagon, and hope returned to all our hearts.

” With stout wires and the timbers, we soon had our wagon in shape, and the freight was speedily loaded upon it, and we prepared to resume our journey. Our
ill luck, however, was not at an end, for when we attempted to attach the tongue of the wagon, the kingbolt was not to be found. It was midnight when we had our wagon repaired and loaded, and it was two o’clock before we succeeded in pawing the kingbolt out of the sand where it had fallen. Then we had twelve weary miles to travel before reaching the water. We were all in a terrible state when we started, and the wagon sank so deeply in the sand that our progress was fearfully slow.

“Twenty-four hours without water in the desert is a terrible thing. Baker went mad before we had covered half the distance to Garlic Springs. He was for abandoning the party, which meant certain death to one in his condition. There was only one thing I could think of to prevent him, and I did. I pulled out my revolver and told him I would shoot him if he attempted to leave the party. He had enough sense or sanity to heed the admonition and stayed with us. I had to carry my revolver in my hand, however, and constantly keep an eye on him. We reached the springs at ten o’clock and were all on the verge of delirium. It was several hours before our swollen and parched throats would admit more than a few drops of water at a time. We bathed in the water, soaked towels in it and sucked at the ends, and by degrees, fought away the demon of thirst. Baker spent five weeks in a hospital after reaching civilization, and we all were unfitted for hard work for a long time.”

It is easy to gather tales of this sort from the towns bordering upon the deserts. There are still more disastrous tales that remain untold because none survive to relate them.

From:
The Mystic Mid-Region
The Deserts of the Southwest
By Arthur J. Burdick – 1904

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Argali

The way our language changes, develops, and reaches back fascinates me. Those animals had to be called something before proper names were defined and decided upon. So probably before Ovis canadensis was made legitimate, at least three common people commonly agreed to call what was then called an Argali, a bighorn sheep, an Argali is what it may have commonly been called.

From; A Pictorial History of California – Frost 1851

The Argali Ovis Moritanoe is found in California, sometimes called the Rocky Mountain Sheep.

By some, the goat of the Rocky Mountains has been confounded with this animal; and it has also been called an antelope, though it is neither the one nor the other, but truly and properly a goat. The characters of this species, or probably variety (for it really seems that, notwithstanding all the diversities of the genus (his, whether in the wild or the cultivated state, there is no well-made out distinction broader than that of variety,) are very apparent and at once prevent any possibility of confounding it either with the antelopes or the goats, though of course, as all sheep do, it approximates more closely to the latter of these than to the former. The body is remarkable for its thickness and roundness in proportion to its length; the legs are very long; the outline of the forehead, seen in profile, is nearly straight; and the muzzle is almost exactly that of the common sheep.

The male’s horns are thick and large; they advance in front of the eyes and form nearly an entire spiral turn. They are flattened laterally like the domestic ram and have similar transverse furrows and ridges. These furrows and ridges are very conspicuous on the basal half of the length of the horn, but much less so on the terminal half, and of the three lateral faces, the front one is the largest.

The horns of the female are much more slender than those of the male; they are compressed, nearly straight, and without furrows; there are, in some instances, plates or folds of skin under the throat, especially in the male; the tail is very short in both sexes; the color in summer is generally grayish fawn, with a reddish or yellowish line down the back, and a large patch of the same color -on the buttocks; and the under part, and the insides of the legs are either russet, yellowish, or of a white sand color; in winter, the color of the upper part is more reddish, and the throat and breast are more inclining to white; but the patch on the buttocks remains much the same at all seasons.

These animals are found in little flocks, of about twenty or thirty in each, on the Rocky Mountains and extending southward as far as California. Several naturalists have expressed their conviction that the mouflon of the south of Europe, the Argali of Asia, and the wild sheep of America, are only climatal varieties of one great species, to which they have given the name of “mountain sheep;” but whether this is or is not positively the fact, we have no means of ascertain ing. Probability is in favor of it, however, and the more so that, among the domesticated sheep, which we have every reason to believe are all originally of the same stock, whatever that stock may have been, there are differences of external appearance fully greater than any which are to be met with among the wild ones; and we believe that, in the whole genus, there are no differences but external ones. Some further confusion and uncertainty are produced among these wild sheep by the conduct of the keepers of museums, who have filled these with horns and other scraps, not having any history, and which have, in consequence, been referred to places where they are not to be found. However, the great puzzle in the history of this genus is the proneness which has to break into varieties, not only in different countries but in the same country and even in the same flock. However, the other two species or varieties are worthy of notice, even though they do not settle, or tend to settle, the question of common origin.

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Other Keenbrook Settlers

by Alice Hall

This portion of an 1875 Los Angeles and Independence Railway map shows John Brown’s Toll Road from Martin’s Ranch (Glen Helen) to Fears House, the upper tollgate. The lower toll gate (Blue Cut) was eventually moved to Faurot House, later called Bear Flat Ranch and Cozy Dell. The site of the Vincent house is now the San Bernardino Water Company property and the Glen House is Keenbrook. Rebecca Fears, daughter of the upper tollgate keeper, married Jerry Vincent.

Let’s see if I can itemize some of the other Keenbrook settlers besides the Glenns and the Keens.

William Gould Bailey, a printer by trade, raised bees in Bailey Canyon high above Verdemont around 1866. When fire destroyed his enterprise, he moved to Keenbrook and started a poultry farm. He was one of the co-purchasers with the Keens. Shortly after his marriage to Cinderella, he was called back to San Francisco to claim his son from a previous alliance, Hervey, whose mother had just died. William had been working in San Francisco with Waterman.

May Schultz and her sister Kate were housekeepers for the railroad, and Hervey Bailey married May.

Hervey Bailey homesteaded the Keenbrook place, and when his natural son, Ray, died, he deeded his property to the boy he’d raised, May’s son, Frank Schultz. Future generations of Baileys didn’t appreciate that Hervey Bailey had been overlooked. Frank married Hilda Wharton, who lived on what is now known as Ruddell Hill (Joe Camp’s place) with her mother and two sisters before they moved across Cajon Creek to the Obst place that became known as Freedom Acres when Anna Mills owned it. Hervey’s son was Raymond Gould.

Hilda Wharton Schultz became our trusted caretaker who managed our livestock when we had to be away from home.

Most of the photos I’ve been posting came from Ray Bailey, the grandson of Londa Bailey, whose husband was the Keenbrook station master between 1911 and 1918. Londa’s sister, Stella Ehwegen, was married to the Cajon station master, who previously served at the Summit Valley station. The two couples visited each other frequently, and both women were avid photographers. Ray Bailey inherited their photographs and graciously shared copies with me when he lived in Muscoy. Ray wanted the photos to have more public exposure, so here it is. More are available in the Cajon Pass book from Arcadia Publishing—from ArcadiaPublishing.com or most large bookstores.

Ben and Kathleen Verbryck also owned land in the Keenbrook area, and they donated land to the USFS to construct the first fire lookout platform in the Pass and the SB National Forest. Steam locomotives often started fires.

Gilbert Stuveling was another prominent landowner north of Keenbrook in the Clear Springs District when the land was assessed at $10 an acre. J.M. Herndon owned over 900 acres in the area.

Land boundaries in the pass have been fairly fluid through the years. Devore used to extend to Glen Helen and even beyond. Keenbrook used to include land on the east side of the creek like Mathews place and Freedom Acres.

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Hilda’s Story

by Alice Hall

The other day I ran a photo of Hilda Wharton Schultz, and I thought a few memories of the area directly from Hilda would be appreciated. The photo, taken from the Blue Cut rock retaining wall, is of the Carlo home she mentioned.

HILDA’S STORY

By Hilda Wharton Schultz

Stories of Devore? Anyone who’s lived there could come up with pages of stories. My memories contain lots of stories of the Devore area.

My mother, Cora Wharton, was widowed young in West Virginia, and raising three daughters alone was difficult. We moved from a relative’s home in Arkansas to Fontana and from Fontana to Lenhardt’s 80 acres (now shown on Forestry maps as Ruddell Hill). We stayed there and took care of his many goats. After the 1938 flood, which trapped us on the hill for three weeks, we moved to Holcomb’s place in Verdemont. When we left in 1941, we lived for three years at the Obst place to watch their son Artie and care for the many goats. That place later became known as Anna Mill’s Freedom Acres across the canyon from Lenhardt’s, set back from Highway 66. Mr. Obst was the manager of Harris’s Department Store. (And Dr. Lenhardt, a veterinarian, had married Norma, the daughter of a Devore poultry farmer.

During the war (WWII), my sister Joanna and I used to go up to Clyde Ranch on Lone Pine Canyon Road. There was a tower there, and we used to spot airplanes for civil defense. I remember a little schoolhouse below Carlo’s big house that was washed out in the flood of 1938.

I remember election polls at Blue Cut. I remember that Kaylen’s place, the green house at Keenbrook, used to have a post office in it (that house has been replaced by a modular), and I remember the little post office on Cajon Blvd. later on. I remember hiking through the hills near Blue Cut (behind Gem Ranch up near the Heby place) and having my hackles rise when I realized something was following me. I never saw it, but I’m pretty sure it was a cougar.

I remember when Minnie Bradley, who bought my Keenbrook place, got her car stuck on the railroad tracks when it ran off the road a little. I could flag down the engineer, and he stopped in time and helped us move the car.

I remember the wide spot where the helper train engines could turn around to go back to town after making the grade. The turn-around was way past Cozy Dell, but on the other side of the wash. It was a big flat place where lots of tracks intertwined.

I remember when there were holding pens for cattle at the Summit and Ed Barnes’ unusual way of killing rattlesnakes- Fire probably is not the best tool for that job.

Hervey Bailey used to tell me some pretty interesting stories about living at Keenbrook. He used to ride the stagecoach from Keenbrook up to Victorville to eat at the Harvey House. He also enjoyed riding the 20-mule-team Borax wagons. He’s the one who homesteaded the Keenbrook area that included the place where I lived for a time.

I remember, after leaving Keenbrook for Verdemont (I lived at the Houghton place at the top of Palm), coming back to Devore almost every day to clean houses for people or care for their livestock while they were away. I worked for Kendall and Mary Rose Stone and Roger and Alice Hall. That’s where I learned never to trust a ram. I also worked for Superior Court Judge Edward P. and Jane Fogg in north San Bernardino.

Editors note: I met Hilda at my dad’s feed store in 1961. She started working for us during holidays and judging junkets in 1962. She was completely reliable and trustworthy and knew her livestock unbelievably well. We visited her both at her little bungalow tucked between the railroad tracks at Keenbrook and the Houghton place in Verdemont. I’ve always said that everyone needs a Hilda, and I miss having that kind of help since she retired.

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Cajon Creek

by Alice Hall

This photo taken by either the Baileys (station masters at Cajon Station) or the Ehwegens, pronounced Ay-vay-gen (station masters at the Keenbrook Station) from Applewhite Road between 1911 and 1918, shows Cajon Creek.

The buildings along the railroad and near the lower right corner are Keenbrook.
I’m guessing that the large clear area against the San Bernardino hills nearing the upper left corner would be Freedom Acres when Anna Mills owned it in the 1970s, formerly owned by Obst.

Another guess is that the white line down the hill points to the Mathews and Hall Ranches. Those places were homesteaded in the 1920s by Francisco and Esperanza Luna and Mr. and Mrs. Francisco Nunez. Monte Mathews and his stepfather, Dr. Henderson Pittman, bought the Luna place. The Nunez place passed through several owners, including Edward and Edna Soehanel, before Harry and Ione Hall bought it in 1952.

Other early homesteaders by the creek were the Fears family, Jerry and Rebecca (Fears), Vincent, and Henry Clock.

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