194205 desert magazine 1942 may

8/14/2019 194205 Desert Magazine 1942 May

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THE

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25 CENTS


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F O R , A S K I L L E D P I L O T T O C L I M BT H I S I N T E R C E P T O R P L A N E A ^ f l l L E . 1( M A X I M U M S P E E D A MILITARY S E C R E T )

O R F O R y o u T O G E T T H I S F R E EP R O T E C T IO N F R O M T R A I N E DS T A N D A R D S E R V I C E

M E N !

R A D I A T O R C H E C KTO CHECK AND PUT WATER IN YOUR. RAOIATOR MAY SAVB YOUR MOTOR)

B A T T E R Y C H E C K(45 SECONDS TO SEEIF YOUR BATTERYNEEDS WATER MAY

SAVE ITS LIFE )

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D E S E R T

MAY

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1-21-23

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7-98-10

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28-313030-31

1 Annual fiesta and spring corndance, San Felipe Indian pueblo,southwest of Santa Fe, New Mex-ico.Masque of the Yellow Moon, an-nual dramatic production ofPhoenix, Arizona, schools.Border university conference golf,track, tennis meets, Tempe, Ari-zona.School music festival, Roosevelt,Utah .Music festival, Elko, Nevada.First annual Mojave Desert re-union, Perris Hill park, San Ber-nardino, California. Inform ation,Celesta A. Lowe, 379 19th St.Fishing season opens in WhitePine Co., Nevada. Comins lakeand Cave creek remain closed.Ceremonial races, corn dances,Taos Indian pueblo , New Mexico.Fiesta of Santa Cruz; perform-ances of Los Moros y Los Cristia-nos, Santa Cruz, New Mexico.Annual Fiesta de los Floret, No-gales, Sonora, Mexico. GonzaloGuerrero Almada, chairman.Cinco de Mayo, Mexico Indepen-dence day, celebrations in Spanish-American towns of the Southwest.Veterans of Foreign Wars con-vention, Yuma, Arizona.Annual convention, United PostalEmployes of New Mexico, Hiltonhotel , Albuquerque. J. A. Werner ,Albuquerque postmaster, presi-dent.Five-county school track meet,Huntington, Utah.Sierra club members to hike upSnow creek, Mt. San Jacinto, tohighest waterfall in SouthernCalifornia. Mr. and Mrs. RussellHubbard, leaders .Annual wildflower show held byJulian , California , Women's c lubin Town Hall . Mrs. L. Botts andMrs. Alice Blanc, chairmen. Freeadmittance.Opening of general trout fishingseason, New Mexico.Feast Day of San Ysidro, patronof farmers, observed in manySpanish - American villages ofNew Mexico.Uintah Basin livestock show, Ver-nal, Utah .Tahqu i tz Rock , near P a l mSprings, to attract Sierra club'srock climbers. Bob Brinton andDick Jones, leaders.Feast day of San Felipe de Nen;annual fiesta celebrated on follow-ing Sunday (31st) in Old TownPlaza, Old Albuquerque, N. M.Annual Helldorado, Elks' frontiercelebration, Las Vegas, Nevada.Imperial Highway associationmeets at Mount Palomar, SanDiego county .M t. San Jacinto to be climbed bySierra club. Sam Fink, Santa Ana,leader.

Volume 5 MAY. 1942 Number 7

COVERCALENDARPHOTOGRAPHYMININGPOETRYHISTORYFIELD TRIPBOTANYDESERT LOREFICTIONLANDMARKART OF LIVINGARTISTWINNERSLOST MINEWEATHERPUZZLETRAVELLETTERSCONTESTCONTRIBUTORSNEWSHOBBYMININGCOMMENTBOOKS

Night Blooming Cereus , phot og rap h by L. A. Powell,Oakland, California.

Current events on the Desert 3Prize winn ing pictu res in Mar ch 4Gold for the Vaults of America

By HELEN ASHLEY ANDERSON . . . . 5Sag uar o Land, an d other poems 8Polk and Posey on the Warpath

By DAN THRAPP 9Opa l Hunters in Last Cha nce Can yon

By JOHN HILTON 14Marig olds in Desert S an ds

By MARY BEAL 17How Not to Bog Down in Sa nd

By CLYDE FORSYTHE 18Har d Rock Shorty of Dea th Val le y

By LON GARRISON 19Coppe r Mine in Bing ham Can yon

By JOHN BIGELOW 20Deser t Refuge, by MARSHAL SOUTH . . . . 2 1She Prefers the DesertBy EDW. E. LANSER 23Cover Contest Awa rds Annou nced 24Big Ante lo pe Placer , by JOHN D. MITCHELL . . 25Mar ch tem per atu res on the Desert 26Desert QuizA test of your Deser t kn owle dg e . . 26Presid ent Roosevelt 's Stat ement 27Comment from Desert Magazine readers . . . 28Prize Ann oun cem ent for Ma y 29Writ ers of the Deser t 30Here an d There on the Deser t 31Gem s an d Minerals

Edited by ARTHUR L. EATON . . . . 33Briefs from the Desert Region 37Just Between You and Meby the Editor . . . 38Books for Desert Read er s 39

The Desert Magazine ia published monthly by the Desert Publishing Company, 636State Street, El Centro, California. Entere d as second class matter October 11, 1937, atthe post office at El Centro, California, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Title registeredNo. 358865 in U. S. Patent Office, and contents copyrighted 1942 by the Desert PublishingCompany. Permission to reproduce contents must be secured from the editor in writing.RANDALL HENDERSON, Editor. LUCILE HARRIS, Associate Editor.Manuscripts and photographs submitted must be accompanied by full return post-age. The Desert Magazine assumes no responsibility for damage or loss of manuscriptsor photographs although due care will be exercised for their safety . Subscribe rs shouldsend notice of change of address to the circulation department by the fifth of the monthpreceding issue. SUBSCRIPTION RATESOne year, including gold-embossed loose leaf binder $3.00

Two years, including binders for both years 5.00You maydeduct 50c each for binders if not desired.Canadian subscriptions 25c extra, foreign 50c extra .Address correspondence to Desert Magazine, 636 State St., El Centro, California.M A Y , 1 9 4 2


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JlameBy JOE L. ORRLos Angeles, California

Winner of first prize in DesertM a g a z i n e ' s M arch photo-graphic contest is this picture ofa cactus wren's nest in a pricklypear cactus plant. Taken with a3V4x4V4 Auto Graflex camera,F22, 1/50 sec. Super Pan Pressfilm.

By HAROLD WEIGHTPasadena, CaliforniaThis d e s e r t tortoise was photo-grap hed in a c ave in the Black hills, Im-perial county. It is winner of secondprize in the current contest, and wastaken with a 21/4x31/4 KW came ra, 1/50at Fll. Superpan Supreme film.

Special MeAitThe following photos were judged tohave special merit:"Palm Canyon," by Alfred Schmitz,Oakland, California."Trail of Fire," by Phil Remington, El

Centro, California."Desert Trumpet," by Doris Priestley,Pomona, California.


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Clinton Anderson examines the ore as it comes from the tunnel preparatory to the trip downover the tramway to the mill.

Gold fo r th eVaults of America

The day of the pioneer in the West h as notentirely vanished. There is still gold in thehillsand Ihe job of getting it out is no lessa test of human courage and ingenuity thanit was a hundred years ago. In her story ofthe reopening of the old Keane Wondermine overlooking Death Valley, Helen An-derson has given an intimate picture of lifein a frontier mining camp today.B y H E L E N A S H L E Y A N D E R S O N

IJ / E LIVE in the Funeral range,VV 2500 feet above the floor ofDeath Valley. Much of the timethe wind blows like the mill tails of Hade s.Looking down through a gap in the drybrown hills we feel like fleas on the rimof the world, and like fleas, about as help-less.Our camp is an old one known as theKeane Wonder. Such buildings as timeand the elements have been pleased toleave cling to the hills like grim death. Inevery storm they shudder and groanand usually survive. But not always. Onlya few weeks ago my house was torn tosplinters, falling like a stack of cards offa table.With the f lying timbers went much ofthe household goods that had beenbrought in with mules, and my head isstill sore from the two-by-four that struckme when the partition crashed in.But life here in the hills above the des-ert is not all cruel or harsh or dreadful.I must tell you about our sunsets and

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sunrises. I think that over all the earthGod spread some loveliness, and the hills,barren of vegetation are masterpieces ofcolor changing, eternally changing .Their gorgeous climax comes with thesunrise and the sunset, and then whenthe color has gone a quietness settles overall the earth like a prayer wherein beautyholds our hearts open to a thankfulness tothe Master who gave it.I came here from the great snow-mantled, green forested hills of Colorado,and the salt encrusted flats below seemedindeed, a Valley of Death. Vast and lonelyit broods in its own silent way, blastingthe hopes of wanderers who have comeunprepared to withstand its heat and itsterr ;ble bigness.

To me, a stranger but a few monthsago, the creosote bush S'ems the greea-est thing in the desert, and the desert hollythe most lovely, for its soft silver leavesand clusters of red berries are indeedbeautiful. I was surprised to find so manykinds of cacti close at hand. Just nowthere seems to spring from every nook and

corner some bit of green that blooms fora short while. This month and next f indsthe floors of bordering deserts a poem offlowers. They bloom with the eagernessof a life short lived. The earth is indeedlovely while they last. The flowers seem-ingly go on tiptoe to the edge of the waste-land, and stop, their loveliness soon fadinginto the dry, brown stalks of death, andfinally crumbling into the hot sands thatdrift over them until the rains again re-lease them so that they may grow andbloom another year.

I have wandered from my originalstory, so back to it now. It is not child'splay, this reclaiming an old camp so thatit will produce ore to be sent down onthe tram car to the mill now being erectedbelow.Every bit of the material used in con-struction comes up on the backs of mules,or of men. Watching these men work un-der the merciless desert sun, I know thespirit of the American pioneer still lives.Men and women still suffer from heatand lack of water, just as they did in theearly days of the Westbut today's gen-


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eration can take it, no less than the pio-neers of an earlier period.Eventually we will have a camp to beproud of, but just at present the less saidabout comfort the better. Water is ourgreatest problem. A sponge bath is a lux-ury we are permitted only once a week. Ihad almost forgotten what a real bath waslike until I had the opportunity to go downto Furnace Creek inn.Down there I saw the tourists "rough-ing it on the desert" amid fittings thatprobably are more luxurious than the fur-nishings in most of their homes. I'd liketo have some of them up here in campabout four weeksjust to give them alittle sample of pioneering as the old-timers knew it.The Keane Wonder mine is a giganticcavern with its roof and walls held up bynatural pillars of rock resembling greattoadstools. Beautiful streaks of quartz andsulphide seamed with ore that bears gold,lead, and silver thread the walls and roofof the mine. Thousands and thousands oftons of earth have been removed from themine during former years, and tunnels arein a remarkable state of preservation con-sidering the years that have passed sinceoperations ceased.During the Christmas season when therains were heavy, tons and tons of rockcame hurtling off the cliffs above one ofthe mine openings, and inside great slabsof rock fell down to mingle with the dustaccumulation of the years. This must becleared before the mine is in actual opera-tion. It takes time and patience.Our telephones were completed yester-

day so we have communication with thelower camp. It saves a lot of climbing upand down the steep trail. That was a hap-py event for my husbandsince he usu-ally was the one to do the climbing.We keep fit up here by eating iots ofsalt. The heat and the wind sap the mois-ture from our bodies. Salt is the answer.The men eat salt and perspire until theirbodies are encrusted with it. You wouldthink they would never want to see an-other grain of salt. But it doesn't workthat way. They crave it, because one can-not live on the desert without it.Mother Nature seems to have antici-pated all this, for the whole floor of thevalley is crusted with salt. The water issaltyeven the air is salty when the windblows. So we in Death Valley are the saltof the earthand we have the salt to proveit. The wind is howling up the canyon likea thousand demonsit most always howlsup here. From my window I can see thesand from the dunes below StovepipeWells winging in a tan mass across thedesert. The blue Panamints rise above ittoward a bluer sky dotted with whiteclouds that seem blissfully unaware of thedisturbance below. Snow covered Tele-scope peak stands clear-cut and aloofabove an impatient desert land foreverchanging contours because of the shift-ing sands.

There is gold in "these here hills" butsome of it has been well hidden and thetrails are hard to find. Those who seek itmust live the hard way. What is a daywithout a bath? We have the years before

us. What is a day without the comforts ofeven a decent chair? We can sit on pow derboxes. We have plenty to eat and a peacethat is God given. What of the leaky roofover our heads? We'll soon have a housethat is air-cooled, and book shelves wherewe can put the few precious books that wedared to bring from the outer world. For-tunately they were undamaged in thetwister that took our house away.What of the long evenings without pic-ture shows and parties which are so mucha part of the entertainment of today? Wehave health and the lordly display of thestars in a far flung heaven and we have thequietness of real content when people havelearned to live with themselves. We havethe joy of blending the old with the newso that we glimpse the glowing paths of afuture through the romantic "Portals ofthe Past." We have the desert and all thatit implies, so we have much. Standing on awindswept hill with the colored desertbefore us, we plan the days and the monthsand the years, and if the fates are kindwe'll bring forth gold for the vaults ofAmerica. If not, we'll have had the joy ofa grand adventure in the land of a pastromance.

The days, the weeks and the months flyby. It has been some time since I took upmy typewriter, and in the meanwhile Ihave kept books, in fact, done everythingfrom cook to run a motor! The pumps arein, the engines in place, as is the com-pressor, and the generator. The motors arehumming away, and I can detect the clat-ter of wheels as the buckets travel up anddown the cables with their loads of sup-

J5\ i j ^ . N 1 ^ x "> SHOSHONE S BAKER XDEATH VALLEY

JUNCTION7 SHOSMOMt



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"The greenest thing on our desert is the creosote bu sh."The author here is seated beside one of the creosotes grow-ing on the slopes of Funeral range near her cabin overlook-ing Death Valley.

Upper Keane Wonder camp in Funeral range. Bunk housein the foreground. Mine dump, upper tram terminal, toolshed and boarding bouse. The upper cabin was bloivndown in a windstorm.plies, or ore. There is water in the tankson the hill, and we have a new "commun-ity shower" as yet unregulated as to tem-perature, but we are hoping! Again mansubdues, if he doesn't entirely conquer thedesert 's whims, and anyway, who wouldwant to completely conquer so great aTeacher!My eyes stray from the keys and I seethe men, as one by one they pick up a loadand start up the trail to the mine. My hus-band is there, and if my eyes do not de-ceive me, he has a load big enough for amule. I make a mental promise that I will"bawl" him out when he comes in, but ofcourse, I never do, for when he comes hehas a lovely piece of yellow quartz, somenew rock, or f lower coming into bloom,and I forget all about it, which is just aswell, because when Clinton has a job todo , he does it.

The tram brings in new treasures everyday. There was the large range, and the

refrigerator. How the cook did appreciatethat refrigerator! It looked strangely smallsuspended there in space as it rode the car-r iers to the top without a mishap. My heartsang out a glad refrain of victory!I can see Death Valley shimmering inthe sun as the salt creeps up the flat to-

ward the dunes. The high hills keep theirpeace, and wrapped in the blue haze ofeternal patience lend mystery to the desertlandscape.My thoughts are checked by the soundof a step. I look up to see Clinton in thedoorway with a look in his eye that I havecome to know. A couple of men are off.He is short handed and must run the tram

himself, a couple of the buckets are offthe line, and the cables are in the act ofdemonstrating the jitterbug; the newcook's belongings are strewn all over thebottom of the canyon."Would I mind going down to the ter -minal to help out with the signals?" I

would not. Wild horses couldn' t keep meaway! We w ork in silence for some time,and by then the buckets are on the line, thecook's things retrieved, and the cables per-suaded into waltz time, so all is well onceagain. Clinton grins, and a man comesdown from the mine to take over my jobwhile I go up the trail to resume my smallhousehold tasks.

As I write, the quiet of the evening isupon us, and the Funeral range spreadsaway in sharply revealed contours. Thesky flames to crimson and Salt creek takeson the same hue. The whole earth is asymphony of color, the day's work doneand the engines still . The quiet deepensinto that indescribable silence of the des-ert eve. High in the brown dry hills welead a simple existence, and coupled withthe toil of willing labor it is a satisfyingexistence. Life is good. There is nothingmore to say.M A Y , 1 9 4 2


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JiandBy MRS. J O H N W. SEARGF.ANTCashion, Arizona

I walked alone upon a desert shoreAn olden shore that rims a passive landWhere giants stand for centuriesandmoreAnd wait, serene, His whispered highcommand.It is a land of many yesterdaysYet holds in store as many more tomorrowsW h e r e one may tread the quiet pathless ways.Forgetting haste and all the ills it borrows.I walk beside the great saguaro treesAnd feel the peace of their tranquillity.But might I live and wear my thorns liketheseI'd ne'er attain such pure humility.These hoary giants stand with arms onhighA prayer of peace, a patience calm and stillTheir solemn ranks breathe softly to the sky.All time is herewe wait but for Thy will. '

CACTUS BLOOMBy IRE NE BRUCEReno, NevadaHail to the radiant blooming cactus thorn.Whose home is with the free and flowing sands!The desert wanted gems, and you were born.With gracious air you lift your dainty handsTo wave a friendly greeting to the sun.Soft desert breezes fan your flaming face.Until your full and glowing life is done.In all the world there is no sweeter grace,Than life and death in Freedom's virgin space!

ACROSS THE DESERT MILESBy L OUISA SPRE NGE R AME SMecca, California

Bird calls to bird across the desert dark.When s ight is stayed and sound is doublysweet;The answering call along the silence comes.And weaves the feathered thread of love,complete.So calls the heart to kindred listening heartAcross the lonely stretch of aching space.And threads the night with answering webs ofthought,And splendid understanding's poignantgrace.

CANYON DECHELLYBy EVANGELINE THOMPSONTucson, Arizona

Away from turning wheel, this gorge whereeagles cry,Fierce deep-slashed beauty, pirlon scented sky.Here painted warriors rise in unweary review.Their fiery heights against the arching blue.As deep within a dream, the creeping river'sstore,Of red-stained sands follow the valley floor.The dust from summer flocks drifts in themellow haze.The Indian tends his patch of ripening maize.When burning canyon rim has lost its day-timefire.Then falls the reverent hush of cross and spire.With lonely bleat of sheep, the night bird'shaunting call.Brown ones seek flimsy shelters by the wall .Man shackled by his smallness, stands in awe,Of ancient city lost in sandstone maw.Unchanged, unchanging grandeur, wisdom bidsme stay,In this red winding, t ime has lost its way.

DESERT GOLDBy R U T H D. POWE RSBrown, CaliforniaMen often say the desert isThe land that God forgot;But He placed here many precious gifts.That made it a treasure spot.

There are gem stones of surprising beauty,Brown-green jaspers, fine in gra in ;Rainbowed agates glow with color.Precious metals on hills and plain.Bu t its finest gold is in the heartsOf the people, who've learned to knowHow to live with God, and their fellow nun ;Their souls develop and grow.For they cannot associate every day,With such wealth as the desert holds.Without taking some of it unto themselves,And enriching their souls with its gold .THOUGHTS* WHEN CLIMBINGTHE SAND DUNES

By E M I L Y B E A C H H O G A NLemon Grove, CaliforniaU p two steps and slip back one,Bare feet buried in the sand;It's worth it even if the sunIs scorching hot, you understand.Never mind if you're fat and forty.Maybe you'll lose a pound or two.Puffing and snorting because you're portlyAnd can't go as fast as you used to do.U p two steps and slip back one,A horney-toad could beat this rate.See the lizard scurry and runWell, being fat is just your fateYou've reached the top panting and grunting.You certainly look an awful sight!But here, at last, is the view you're hunting!Oh, ecstacy of sheer delight!How grand it is to be lazily seated.Yet you secretly plan for one more thrill,When this moment of grandeur and awe iscompleted,You will roll like ti tumbleweed down thebill I

CREED OF THE DESERTBy J U N E L E M E R T P A X T O NYucca Valley, CaliforniaThe sand is embroidered with purpleand yellow;'Tis the Artist's annual display.There 's no charge for the show, (wewant you to know)But pray do not take it away!

DESERT SKIESBy IRE NE BRUCEReno, NevadaAn organ of almighty color playsIn silence to the firmament.Man stands upon the desert brink, and swaysHis soul to sing accompaniment.

THE MUSIC OF THE CAMELCARAVANBy H E L E N W H I T M F . R G A R B E RPittsburgh, PennsylvaniaAcross uncharted miles of shifting sandsTheir padded feet have trod for countless years,The rhythmic music of their measured treadHas caused a record of the joys and fearsOf wandering Arab peoples whose only bedIs underneath the stars in desert lands.

And lonely chieftains in a thoughtful moodHave sung of wars and battles lost and won,Accompanied bv the beat of camel's feetAcross the shifting sands since time began.Through untold days of still and shimmeringheatA saga of Nomadic soli tude.BLUE BOTTLES

By G R A C E S. D O U G L A SBurhngame, CaliforniaBlue bottles in the desert sands beside abrackish poolWhere thirst-crazed men with bleeding hands,clawed in the mud to coolTheir blackened lips. And in the drift of asheslong grown coldBlue bottles lie where pebbles shift, in gulliesdrained of gold.Blue bottles in the hills remote, still outline-graves where restThe dauntless men whose life blood wrote thesaa of the West .

TO AN INDIAN MAIDBy C A R O L I N E VAN D Y N ELos Angeles, CaliforniaThou bronze child of natureDreaming thy years away,Unheeding worldly covetousnessAnd dross of Life's short day.

Gentle thy mien and kind thy heartAnd tender thy will ing hand.But deep the sadness which lies in thy heartFo r thy people and vanquished land.Their woes are thy woesAnd their wrongs thy wrongs.And their rights thy rights shall be.May greed and oppression to earth be crushedForever for thine and thee.

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From a remote hide-out in the desert wilderness of southeastern Utah, Polkand Posey and their band of renegade Utes defied the federal government formany months. But in the end these Indian warr iors learned what other tr ibes-men of the Sou thwest a l ready knewthat the whi te man a lways won . Hereis the story of the last serious Indian uprising in the United Statesan episodeso recent that many of those involved in it are still living. Desert Magazine'sstory of this Indian war was taken from the files of the Indian Bureau in Wash-ington.

P o l k and P o s e yo n th e Warpath

B y D A N T H R A P P

NE mornin g in the middle of May,1914, the commissioner of In-dian affairs in Washington read atelegram he had just received from ClaudeC. Covey, superintendent of the NavajoSprings Indian agency of southwesternColorado.Cortez, ColoradoM ay 14

Comm r Indian AffairsWashington DCBody of Mexican found on reser-vation by Indians. D eath result o\gunshot wounds according to In-

dians. Testimony from circumstantialevidence that Mexican was murderedby Ute Indian now in Blue Moun-tains Utah. Wire instructions as tojurisdiction and what steps I shalltake for apprehension of Indian.Covey Sup/

This message reported the beginning ofa series of outrages, depredations, battles,arrests and escapes, which was to continuefor seven years, punctuated from time totime by waves of terror which threatenedthe calling in of United States cavalry andended only with the killing of one of thearch-leaders.When the Ute Indians were discoveredby the Spanish missionary-explorer Esca-lante, about the time of the first battles inAmerica's war for independence, theywere a warrior people, wild, roving, whosemost deadly enemies were the Navajo inthe south. They lived on the hunt, and onroots and herbs. Later as the white manforced his way into their territory, theyand their cousins the Pahutes, were drivenfarther and farther back into the canyon-ridden recesses of an inhospitable land.A country so poor could not supplyenough game for roving, meat-eating

fighters and the Utes became a lowly peo-ple, living for much of the year in brushand mud huts, subsisting on grasshoppers,

vegetation and to some extent, reptiles. Asthe whites gradually edged their way intothis part of the West, a further change en-tered the life of the Indians. For the whitesbrought horses to ride and livestock toeat.The Utes, Pahutes and Navajo beganacquiring stock. The Navajo, being in 1region constantly traversed bytrappers and explorers and goldseekers added flocks of sheep andgoats and some of them becamewealthy, counting their riches inthousands of head of animals.The Utes and Pahutes, withpoorer lands, and little contactwith the white men remainedwild and primitive and untamed.Reservations were provided forthem, but they preferred to roam

over the isolated plateaus and unknowncanyons, far from government supervision.These roving bands were ax constant nuis-ance to white stockmen and farmers. Eventhe traders had difficulty with them.Fear of an Indian uprising led thewhites to treat them with more than or-dinary caution and encouraged the beliefamong these wild groups that here was apeople inferior to the Indian and afraidof him.The boldest of them became renegades,stealing stock, killing cattle, insolent, alaw unto themselves. There was much tobe said on their side, of course. They hadnever made a treaty with thewhites. According to the consti-tution they were- a nation tothemselves. They stayed wherethey had always lived, and wheret h e i r f at he rs h adlived before them.T h ey h ad b e e ntaught, and the verycountry they inhabit-ed was constantlyteaching them, that

* ~t r ~ . :

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Old Posey's get-away, up the east wall of Comb wash.


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Comb w ash, pictured from the w est. This photograph was taken just south ofPosey's get-away.

only the strong should survive. And sothey existed, the bands of Mancos Jim, ofOld Polk, of Posey, building an enmityamong their neighbors which was tobring them ruin.A few days after receiving the tele-gram, Agent Covey sent a written reportincluding testimony from several wit-nesses to the killing. Couched in legalterms, Indians of the Navajo Springs res-ervation testified as follows:"I , Ca-vis-itz' son, of lawful age,being duly sworn depose and say;that I am an Indian belonging toNavajo Springs reservation; that onor about March 30, 1914, I was go-ing to my home from the agency andmet on the road Polk's son; thatPolk's son asked me if I had met aMexican; that I told him I had andhe then asked me how far ahead hewas and when I told him the M exicanwas not far ahead he said 'I am go-ing to kill that Mexican.' I asked himwhy he wanted to kill the Mexicanand he said the Mexican had a lot ofmoney."Even more damaging was the deposi-tion of several young cattle herders:"We, the undersigned . . . say . . .that on or about the 30th day ofMarch, 1914, we were hunting cattletogether on the plain below Utemountain; that on that afternoon aswe were coming back we came to alittle point of a hill and heard threegun shots in rapid succession; thatwe then rode in the direction of thesound as rapidly as we could; that aswe came up over the hill we saw aman pulling something; that whenthe man saw us coming he appearedto push the object he had been pull-ing over into a little arroyo; that hethen jumped on his horse and rode

rapidly toward the agency leading an-other horse; that we were closeenough to recognize this man and hishorse; that he was a Ute Indian, theson of Polk, known to us as Tse-na-gat . . . that we then went over towhere the Indian had been and sawin this arroyo the body of a Mexican;that the body was lying face up andthe man was dead . . . that the reasonwe did not report the matter at thetime was that the superintendent wasaway and we did not know what to doand that besides we were afraid ofthis Indian and his father as they areknown as bad men, the father, Polk,having killed a number of Indians in-cluding two of Rooster's sons andthat we now fear he will kill us forhaving told this . . . that Polk and hisson have said that they would killIndians or white men who tried toarrest them; that they are now wan-dering from place to place and thelast report we had was that they hadgone to the Blue mountains in Utah;that we are very anxious that thesemen both be arrested at once . . .(signed) John Miller, Harry Tom,and Walter Lopez.It appeared to be an open and shut case.The problem was how to arrest Tse-na-gatotherwise known as Everett Hatch orPa-woo-tachwho, with his tough old fa-ther, had fled to the hills. Agent Coveysent a messenger to the Polks, father andson, who were living with the band ofMancos Jim in Allen's canyon, to inducethem to come in and surrender. Strangelyenough, the appeal nearly worked. OldPolk and his son mounted their horses androde toward the reservation, but beforereaching it their courage either returnedor left them and they turned and fled.Covey then appealed to Washington to

have a warrant served on the Utes by aUnited States marshal.During this time, Old Polk and his out-fit were wandering over the countryside,not attempting to hide, secure in the be-lief that their threats would prevent anydirect action to arrest either of them. Adeputy marshal met and talked withthem. He did not attempt to serve hiswarrant for fear it would arouse tempersand end in violence and loss of life. InCovey's opinion, the young man couldhave been arrested at that time and thewhole affair might have been settled.Lorenzo D. Creel, special agent amongthe scattered bands of Indians in Utah,visited Tse-na-gat and was quite im-pressed with him. Although he consideredthe boy a rather mild fellow, he believedold man Polk was "an all round bad In-dian." Creel estimated Polk's followers tonumber about 25 Utes and Pahutes at thattime.

Trouble was smoldering just beneaththe surface, but as the months went by itseemed that a flareup might be avertedand that eventually the incident could besmoothed out. In the middle of Februarythe following year (1915) a news itemsent out by a press bureau gave the out-side world the first hint of possible con-flict. Cato Sells, Indian commissioner,wired Creel at Salt Lake City to proceedimmediately to Bluff City, Utah, to conferwith Marshal Nebeker with a view to ob-taining an immediate arrest of the wantedmen who now included, besides Polk andTse-na-gat, Old Posey.

Little is known of Posey's ancestry. Hehas been called, on good authority, a Ute,a Pahute, and half Mexican, half Ute. Hispicture seems to bear out the latter asser-tion.A flurry of telegrams reached the com-missioner's office, starting February 21when Creel wired the first news of a clashbetween Indians and the whites. MarshalNebeker had organized a posse of 20range-bred men and located the renegadeshidden among the rocks far up in Combwash. The posse surrounded the camp be-fore sunrise. J. E. Jenkins, now superin-tendent of the Navajo Springs agency, toldof the battle in this message:

Bluff Utah Feb 22, 1915Commr Indian AffairsWashn DCMarshal and twenty two men appointedto arrest Hatch (Tse-na-gat). At Indiancamp west of here Sunday morning possesurrounded camp. Indians opened firekilling one of posses men. Posse returnedfire killing one of Indians. Battle lastedtwo hours. Indians located in rocks keptfire on members of posse during day. Nofurther fatalities. W ill have conferencewith Nebeker tonight and will give fur-ther particulars.About seventy possemenhere. The situation is rather tense.Jenkins SuptAccording to a wire from Creel, the

10 T HE D E S E R T M A G A Z I N :


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posse scattered the warriors during thenight, capturing some of them. The In-dian leaders escaped, however. Some ofthem probably used Old Posey's "get-away" which, at that time, was unknownto the whites. Leading straight up the faceof an apparently unscalable sandstone es-carpment, 2000 feet high, it could haveprovided an exit for the whole band. Morethan once Posey had been chased up thewash and, for all the pursuers knew, van-ished in thin air by using this hidden trail.It was this knowledge of the country andhis amazing luck that made Posey dreadedby the law abiding and admired by thelawless.But his luck led him to recklessness andin the end it dug his grave.The law agents were not idle whilePolk, Tse-na-gat, and Posey were makingtheir escape. Jenkins kept in touch withWashington: Bluff Utah Feb 23Via Cortex Colo

Com mr Indian AffairsWashn DCSituation here still furious. Citizensmuch alarmed and ivant government totake immediate action. Conferred ivithMarsha l Nebeker. Very properly insiststhat ivarrants be served.Indians hiding inhills. Am endeavoring to get in touch withfriendly elements of Indians and havethem assist in affecting peaceable arrest ofHatch. ]enkins SuptCaptured Indians were taken to BluffCity and held there under guard. Duringthe night of the 23rd one of them attempt-ed to escape and was fatally wounded. Thepossibility of a raid by the renegades onone of the nearby towns was not over-looked. Pickets were placed on guard William Po sey. Photograph courtesyBureau of Indian Affairs.

throughout the region. Peaceful Indianswere frantic with fear, believing theywould be the first object of an attack byPolk and Posey.The plight of the outlaws was not tobe envied. Their horses had been killedsome of them for food, others dying fromlack of forage. This was in the worst sea-son of the year. Winter was breaking upinto the mud and slush of spring, and therenegades, many of them barefoot, withlittle food, inadequate clothing, and noshelter most of the time, had lost some ofthe hardihood and ability to care for them-selves that their more primitive forefatherspossessed. But if the weather hamperedthe Indians, it was even more of an ob-stacle to the pursuers. Roads were impas-sable except to the horseman. Telephonewires, the few that existed, were cut by theIndians or borne down by ice and snow,making communication between the dif-ferent law enforcem ent officers difficultand at times impossible. The whites hadto feel their way about the country, where-as the Indians knew it like the proverbialbook. It was as though they were tryingto capture a covey of quail. Once flushedthey were more wary than ever. It seemedimpossible :o corner them.At one time the combined bands ofPolk and Posey numbered more than onehundred persons, but the number wasconstantly being reduced by surrendersand inroads from weakness and exposure.On February 26, Nebeker, AssistantUnited States Attorney Cook, Jenkins andCreel petitioned the attorney general inWashington to send a troop of cavalry as

the only practical means of arresting thefugitives, putting them on the reservation,and keeping them there. Instead of therequested cavalry, Brigadier General

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Hugh L. Scott was asked to go to Utah,take over the problem and work out a so-lution. He accepted.In the meantime, the Indians hadcrossed the San Juan and entrenchedthemselves in an almost impregnable po-sition north of the Navajo reservation.Here they waited for the final battle, apitiful group of people fighting, part of

them at least, for their lives.A Navajo messenger from Creel to JohnWetherill , famous trader to the Navajos,at Kayenta, Arizona, was fired upon bythe Utes. Four bullets passed through hisclothes, one of them through the letters hewas carrying to the trader, but he escapeduninjured.The first break came March 11 whenMrs. Wetherill , remarkable wife of thetrader, who had the confidence of south-western Indians as had no other person,wired to Commissioner Sells to ask whatterms could be granted Polk and his son.

It was largely through her efforts that onMarch 20 Tse-na-gat, Polk, Posey, and thelatter 's son surrendered to General Scottat Mexican Hat. All except Tse-na-gatwere taken to Salt Lake City, tried, ac-quitted and returned to the NavajoSprings reservation subject to their goodconduct and on their promise they wouldremain there.Tse-na-gat was taken to Denver to betried for the murder of the Mexican, JuanChacon. This young Indian was a ratherremarkable character. Tall, straight, ofregular features and well poised, he im-pressed all who met him. In spite of thewealth of evidence against him he con-vinced General Scott, Agent Creel, andJenkins of his innocence and they allworked for his freedom. There was muchsentiment in his favora feeling thatgrew constantly during his confinement.In the early spring he was moved from theDenver jail to a hospital to be treated foracute tuberculosis, a disease he had al-legedly contracted during the period whenhe and his people were being hunted. Ex-cellent legal aid was appointed for Iv's de-fense and he was acquitted on July 15,1915, and returned to the reservation.Old Polk, Posey, and their bands hadpromised to come to the reservation andsettle down there. They were taken tothe reservation. They stayed there justabout long enough to smoke a couple ofhand rolled cigarettes, draw a breath offresh air, and get some ponies. Then theyresumed their nomadic life, living in Al-len's canyon, Hall canyon, and Combwash, spending most of the time on themove or lounging in a general store atBluff City.It might have been possible to get theminterested in raising cattle, had their range-any value as cattle countrywhich it

hadn't . There was no market for horses ofthe type they raised. There appeared no

solution to their problem other than toleave them as they were, keep them on thereservation under guard, or give them landon which they could subsist and makemoney without too much work. None ofthese things was done.Some of the depredations by these out-law bands showed utter cruelty. Cattlewere found with their eyes poked out,

beaten to death, and mutilated in otherways. Anything connected with the whiteman was considered fair game.Posey seems to have replaced Polk asthe leader of these outrages. Polk hadpassed the sixty-year mark, old MancosJim was in the December of his life, Tse-na-gat was more or less of a lone wolf.Posey, nearing 50, was at the height ofhis career. His astounding luck had ledhim to boast, after he had come through ashooting scrape unscratched:"Me all same Jes' Christ . White man'sbullets no can hit!"This was an unhealthy attitude, but itwas convincing and he was looked up toby his followers as a super man. The re hadbeen a falling out between Polk and Poseyat least on the surfacebut either onecould count on the other to give his fullestsupport in case of trouble with the whiteman. The situation was such that a cli-max had to be reached.However, things muddled along until1923 when, in the early part of the year,a couple of young bucks, Joe Bishop's Boyand Shanup's Boy, entered a sheep camp,booted the Mexican herder out, and pro-ceeded to live off his provisions. Tiring of

this, they left, well fortified with packs ofmutton, oats, and other supplies, and re-turned to Posey's band. A warrant was is-sued for their arrest, but Posey refused togive them up. After several parleys it wasarranged that the boys should come toBlanding and surrender to the sheriffthere. Tried in the local justice court theywere found guilty.It was the intention of the court to passa very light sentence upon these two boysabout 10 days in jailbut according toUtah law, six hours had to elapse betweenthe conviction and the sentence. As it wasnoon when the trial ended, the boys weregiven to the custody of the sheriff. T hetrial had attracted Indians from near andfar. Besides Old Posey's group, membersof other bands were present, most of themstanding outside the courthouse when thesheriff emerged with his two prisoners.The boys could not have known whatwas in store for them or what sentence theycould expect to get. If their consciencesgave them any trouble at all it was becausethey had permitted the state to try them.Tse-na-gat had surrendered, but the whiteman's law had turned him loose again andwhy should they suffer more than he?They glanced around the circle of spec-tators, here and there catching a glimmer

of recognition in dark eyes or a nod ofthe head from some friend. Here they wereamong their people.Jail seemed most uninviting at the mo-men t. The two boys stoppe d and refusedto accompany the officer any farther. He-attempted to drag them back into the jailby force. Joe Bishop's Boy snatched a gunsticking out of the sheriff's belt, broke

free, poked the muzzle of the revolver intothe sheriff's middle, and pulled the trig-ger.The gun failed to fire. Three times theboy snapped the trigger, but the six-shooter continued to balk.As he felt the gun in his side, the sheriffturned Shanup's Boy loose, whirled, andgrabbed at the other, but missed him.Both young men, now free, dashed into acrowd of Indians and dared the sheriff tocome in after them. Blanding saw a novelwestern gun battle then, in which thecharacters were not bank robbers versus

posse, but Indians versus the whole town.Shots were exchanged between bystand-ers and renegades, but no one was fatal-ly wounded.Ponies were waiting for the two fugi-tives and the entire group whooped out oftown heading for the south. The sheriffloaded three or four men into a car andtook out after them without waiting for alarger posse to form. About eight milessouth of town a bullet crashed into thecar, passing within less than an inch ofone of the deputies. The ambush was welllaid and the sheriff was forced to turn backto Blanding to recruit more men and fol-

low the renegades on horseback. Trailingso large a group of Indians was not diffi-cult and the pursuit settled down to a caseof stalking the game.Old Posey shot the horse out from un-der a deputy at a distance of half a mile.It was his first shot of the fight, and mayhave been luck, but even so it was quite afeat for a 30-30 carbine. None of the In-dians, or the possemen for that matter,were marksmen, but in the running fightthat resulted two more deputies were lefthorseless.The Indians were not fighting blind.

They acted in concert and retreated in or-derly formation toward a high na rrowplateau to the southwest of Blanding, aplace difficult of access and seeminglyeasy to hold against a superior force.Once on top of the plateau, the Indianssettled down to what they fully expectedto be a long drawn siege. Guns blazedaway, bullets spanned off rocks, hats werepunctured, and all the while the men ofthe posse were inching up the plateau.Traps were laid for the sheriff's men,but they demonstrated they could learnfrom experience and none of these am-

bushes was effective. Toward the latterpart of the afternoon, Joe Bishop's Boy12 T HE D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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Pahute Indian leaden o f Allen canyon: 1Mancos Jim, 2 William Posey, 3Elf egoBacca (not a member) . 4 Joe Bishop Boy, 5 Posey Boy, 6 Dutchy, 7 Scottie, 8JoeBishop Boy, 9 foe Bishop, Joe Bishop youngest Boy, 10 Johnny Peterson, 11 JohnnyCockeye Squaw, 12 Charlie (interpreter), 13 Jack Ute, 14 Bishop Boy, 15 AfainBoy, 16Johnny Cockeye. Photograph courtesy Bureau of Indian Affairs,

leaned over a rock, squinted down his riflebarrel, l ining a deputy in the sights. Hisfinger tightened on the trigger when abullet caught him between the eyes andcompleted his jail sentence forever.Old Posey leaped up on a rock, bran-dished his gun, laughed derisively at thedeputies and dared them to shoot him.They blazed away and he dropped fromsight, to resume shooting in a more ortho-dox manner. Before dusk the plateau wassurrounded.During the night the posse alternatelyworked and stormed its way to the top ofthe mesa, but it was necessary to maintainthe siege throughout the second day, al-though little firing was done after thefirst afternoon. Each side was wary ofthe other, but overwhelming numbers ofwhites decided the battle . During the sec-ond night, the Indians agreed to surren-der to the posse. A tally was taken of theprisoners. Shanup's Boy was there. Posey'sson was there. So was Joe Bishop'sbrother. But not a trace could be found ofPosey. The old wolf had made his escape-again.The prisoners were taken to Blandingand put in a bullpen with others who had

been captured earlier. They admitted,upon questioning, that Posey had planned

this break for two months and had gath-ered arms, ammunition, and supplies andstored them on the plateau for just such anemergency.A large portion of the population ofUtah is Mormon and always has been. Itis one of the doctrines of the Mormonchurch, as laid down by Brigham Young,that the Indians are to be fed, not fought.A wiser policy could not have been fol-lowed, especially in the early days of thesettlement of that region, but in the timeof Old Posey it led to much trouble andsome bloodshed.What happened to Posey? How he

slipped through the lines of the besiegersremains a mystery. Nevertheless he hadescaped during the second night. The oldrenegade was badly wounded when he-crept through the lines, but he made hisway down into Comb wash.Days went by and no word was re-ceived of the renegade. More than a monthlater a cryptic telegram received at Wash-ington read:

Attorney GeneralWasbn DCToday secured body of William Posey.Found him dead in mountains near where

posse engaged Indians. This is last of In-dians for whom hold warrant. Other seven

now in custody. Will return Salt Lake Citytwenty fifth. Ward. U S MarshalOld Posey had finally kept his rendez-vous with death, but i t took more than abullet to stop him. When Ward wired he-had secured the body of Posey, he meantthat he had found him dead and seen tohis burial. Members of Posey's band, how-ever, and many of the citizens of Blandingand Bluff refused to believe the old devilwas dead. A committee of three or fourmen from Blanding located the grave, ex-humed the body, photographed and re-buried it. They discovered that Posey hadbeen shot low in the back and had con-tracted gangrene, from which he died.And so passed the last of the warpathIndians in the United States.Some time later, members of his bandagain unearthed his body, carried it farup Mule Creek canyon, which empties intoComb wash, and reburied it. And so hehas lain for 16 years now, in a grave un-known to any but his closest and mostloyal followers, a man forgotten to history,remembered only in the ever growing

wealth of legend of the country of whichhe was so important a part.M A Y , 1 9 4 2 13


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Bill Whitehall he mines DutchCleanser for w estern America. 1500-foot tram to the Seismo-tite mine.

John Hilton accepted an invitation from the Trona Gem and Mineralsociety, and the Randsburg Lions club, to join them in a dinner and fieldtrip on the Mojave desert of California. Eighty of the earth's ninety-oddnatural elements are found in this regionand there are also some veryinteresting people there, as you will learn if you read John's story of histrip.

Opal Hunters inLast Chance Canyon

By JOHN HILTONJl/ Y INVITATION read like an adylrl, for a zoo. It said: "Come up toRandsburg, California, and jointhe Trona Rockhounds and the DesertLions in a joint meeting at Cottage ho tel."It sounded interesting, and I wrotethem I would be there. I had met some ofthose Trona rock collectors previously.Once when I was working at my blueagate mine in Death Valley an airplaneflew low overhead and dropped a note atmy feet."Trona mineral society coming to see

you," the note read. Looking out acrossthe floor of the desert I could see the dustof an approaching caravan.14

A mineral society that sends its advance-agent out in an airplane certainly is notlacking in imagination and initiativeand I found them to be just that kind ofpeople.My companions on this trip were EdAinsworth of the Los Angeles Times andRandall Henderson of Desert Magazine.We arrived at the Cottage hotel late ona Saturday afternoon in March, and therespread out on a table on the veranda wasKent Knowlton's desert dinner menu. Foryears Kent has been gathering odd speci-mens of stone that resemble the viands ofa delicious-looking meal. He has acquiredthe menu for a seven-course dinner. It in-

Hugh Topp needs rain to help him har-vest his crop of salt.

eludes T-bone steak, salad, vegetables ofmany varieties, celery and olives, cheese,sauce, cake, pie, and even after-dinnermints. Every item is a stone gathered fromthe Mojave desert.But there isn't much nourishment inthat kind of a meal, so we went into thedining room where Rose Worthington-GibsonMojave folks all call her"Worthy"served a dinner that was noless appetizing in appearance than KentKnowlton'sand tasted a lot better.Among our many hosts were Paul Hub-bard, publisher of the Randsburg Times,who had arranged the party, and ClarkMills of the Trona Argonaut. The bitterrivalry that so often exists between neigh-boring towns seems never to have reachedTrona and Randsburg. Trona takes itswealth from the brine that underlies

Searles lake. Randsburg lives on the in-come from the ore in the surroundinghills. They have much in commonnoth-ing to quarrel over. Real desert peoplegenerally are like that.The program included some of mykodachrome slides, and it was one of themost appreciative audiences I ever ap-peared before. Ann Pitkin, president ofthe Trona gem and mineral society, an-nounced there would be a field trip on thefollowing dayto Saltdale salt works inKane dry lake, the Seismotite camp of theCudahy Packing company, and the opalfields near Last Chance canyon.After the dinner meeting Kent Knowl-ton took us over to his cabin. On the



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floor in the corner of the room lay a pileof the commonest sort of boulders. Whenhe turned the ultra-violet ray on them thetransformation was instantaneous. Theseordinary looking rocks burst into adazzling mass of blue-white stars. Every"star" was a pinpoint of scheelite (tung-sten carbonate). Kent's cabin companionhad been out night prospecting with aportable lamp, and had gathered them ina nearby wash.Randsburg is always an interestingcamp. With old-fashioned false frontstores, weather-beaten houses and twistingstreets it represents a phase of the oldWest that is passing, and in some placeshas vanished entirely. The tawny hillsscarred with great mine dumps tell thestory of fabulous wealth that has flowedand still is flowing from the heart of thedesert.When I was 17 I went to Randsburg tosee the famous mineral collection KentKnowlton had in his pool hall. He doesn't

have the pool hall now, but he is still acollector of rare specimens. Randsburg hasgrown much since then, but it never haslost the flavor of the old-time miningcamp.Next morning we joined the caravan offield trippers on the road to Saltdale. Herethe Long Beach Salt company under themanagement of Hugh Topp is harvestingan average of 15,000 tons of table-saltannually. Salt dissolves in water, and yetparadoxically, the salt harvest here is lim-ited only by the amount of the annualrainfall.Topp is a veteran in western mining,and took us out to the dry floor of the laketo explain how Nature helps them oper-ate the salt plant. When rain comes downfrom the hills and spreads over the lower

portions of the sink it dissolves the salt inthe white-crusted mud. The brine thusformed is pumped to great five and ten-acre vats where eventually the waterevaporates and leaves a crust of pure saltseveral inches in thickness on the surface.This is broken up and loaded on a minia-ture railroad to be taken to the mill forgrinding. Final processing is done at LongBeach.The wife of one of the employes at theplant has evolved an interesting hobby.She makes up wire frames of variousshapes, immerses them in salt brine untila sparkling coating of salt crystallizes onthe wires. Rock candy is made by crystal-lizing sugar in the same way. This suggestsa novel Christmas tree decoration for des-ert dwellers who do not have access to thenovelties sold in the stores.Leaving Saltdale we took the windingroad up Last Chance canyonscene ofmuch early day placer activity but nowslumbering under the desert sun withnothing to remind one of its hectic goldrush days except roofless dugouts wheresome of the miners lived.The many-hued cliffs and sculpturedhills here are well worth the drive, evenif there were no other attraction in thisremote corner of the desert.We stopped at the stone cabin of Mr.and Mrs. E. J. Holloway. Mr. Hollowayworks his placer claims in the hills andmembers of his family earn pin money byselling rock samples to visitors who comethis way. They have beautiful specimensof fossil teeth, evidently from some pre-historic animal of huge dimensions. No

one has been able to identify them, wewere told.We wanted pictures of the unusual fos-sils, and little Irma Jean Holloway whohas been collecting rocks since she was big

enough to walk, obligingly posed for uswith the strange teeth.Farther up the canyon we came to theheadquarters of the seismotite mine whichproduces one-third of the Dutch Cleanserused in the United States. Bill Whitehall,mine foreman, told us his company alwayshas the latch string cut for visitors, and ifthey care to climb the hill to the mine tun-nels, they will be shown the undergroundworkings.Mr. and Mrs. Whitehall showed uspieces of a great hollow log of petrifiedwood found deep underground in the seis-motite deposits. The cavity was lined withchalcedony in a most beautiful pattern. Atone layer in the cliff where the seismo-tite is mined they find petrified grainwood, and at a higher level palm wood.Our caravan then continued up the can-yon to the little shack from which HermanPearson operates his opal mines. For asmall fee he permits visitors to go on tohis claims and gather their own gems.

Just beyond his cabin in a narrow side-canyon we parked our cars and he guidedus up the wash, over and around a seriesof dry waterfalls to the opal field. H ermansaid it was a half mile, but I do not believehe allowed for the ups and downs in mak-ing his calculation.At any rate we eventually arrived there,out of breath and full of hope. His dig-gings are a series of potholes along theslope of a hill. The rock is similar to thematrix of many geodes I have found, andin fact there are places in the depositwhere tiny agates and crystalline geodesrather than opal, fill the cavities.The fire or precious opal is found onlyat a certain level. The remaining rock haseither hollow gas bubble holes or smallnodules of agate, calcite or various zeo-

f" fro MQJA.VE TO SAN BERNARDINOM A Y , 1 9 4 2 15


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Valerie Pipkin poses for the camerain the salt va t where the broken crustis stood on edge to dry before it goesto the mill.

lites, and about every known type of com-mon opal. There is a great variety of min-erals to be found in these tiny cavities, buta majority of the collectors are interestedonly in the opal.Pearson has bro ug ht some beautiful fireopals out of this f ield. The gems, althoughsmall, are as brilliant and colorful as any Ihave seen from Mexico, Australia or theNevada f ields.W e soon learned the best way to getspecimens from these diggings, with onlya short afternoon to explore, is to sit downon a pile of opal-bearing rock and careful-ly sort out the pieces which showed sparksof fire opal. Then cross your fingers andget out your rabbit's foot, place the pieceof rock on a large boulder and gently butfirmly hit it with the prospectors ' hammer.This seems about the only way to obtainthe opalsand it has its surprises and itsdisappointments .

The gem quality opals are scarce. Ob-viously so, or Herman Pearson would notbe opening his f ield to the hammer-houndfraternity. One may hunt for some timeand break many rocks before f inding oneand then inadvertently break the gem intwo in the process of reaching it.

But, as Herman points out, a rock asbig as your fist may yield a ten-dollar gem.So we kept on breaking and hoping . N oneof us found any of the $10 specimens, butall of us found rocks worth brin ging home.Our specimens were small, but the color-ing brilliant. And as one of the Trona col-lectors observed: "If you look at it througha magnifying glass you have a hundred-dollar opal. "Ann Pipkin, president of the Trona

club, found the choice rock of the day.The specimen was found in a pile ofbroken lava, and somehow had been over-

iiThese a re the strange fossil teethfound in Last Chance canyon by theHolloway family. This is IrmaJean wh o knows her rocks.

looked by others. I t was an eight-poundchunk of lava inlaid with a half dozensparkling jewels, each about the size of apea. No two were alike in color and char-acter.

She wisely turned down all suggestionsthat the stone be broken in quest for a big-ger gem inside. There may be an opal asbig as a walnut inside the mass, but she iscontent to have the small gems so beau-tifully arranged in their black matrixand dream of the precious gem that maybe in the center of the mass.From the opal field we drove to thefoot of the tramway which leads up to

the seismotite mine. The mine overlooksthe petrified forest area where the Cowdenbrothers charge visitors a small fee for apersonally conducted tr ip along a trailthat leads to many interesting mineraloutcroppings, including Southern Cali-fornia's best known field of fossil wood.A good trail zig-zags up the face of thehill to the seismotite mine tunnels. It is a1500-foot climbjust enough exercise tomake you puff a little, and wish you werein better condition for hiking.Reaching the top I walked over to thefirst tunnel entrance. I t was barred with

a wooden gate, and I was peering in try-ing to adjust my eyes to the darkness whenthere was a snort that almost caused me

This is the "Chocolate sundae" on eof the colorful rock formations nearthe Seismotite camp in Last Chancecanyon.

to jump backward over the cliff. It wasthe mine mule, whose job it is to haul theloaded dump cars to the platform at thehead of the tram.Bill Whitehall took us on a personallyconducted trip far back into the hillthrough tunnels of snowy whiteness. Seis-motite is white volcanic ash which wasfound to be an excellent scouring agent.Bill loads out two cars of the mineral everyweek. It goes to the processing mill of the

Cudahy Packing company in Los Angelesand emerges in cans with a label wellknown to every housewife.I never have seen mine ore of such uni-form consistency. Every blast brings downa carefully calculated amount of seismo-tite, leaving clean straight walls that holdwithout timbering. The only serious prob-lem is dustand this is solved with anelectrically-driven air blast and the wet-ting down of the f loor underfoot. Due tothe insulation properties of the material,the tunnel remains uniformly cool summerand winter . There's enough scouring ma-terial here to keep the bathtubs andkitchen sinks of western America cleanand shining for another hundred years atleast.I was reluctant to leave this place. Theprospect of encountering one of those pet-rified logs in its snow-white matrix ofseismotite makes this mine a never-endingsource of interest to a rock collector.We came away with a nice collection ofmineral specimens, including a slab of thatpetr if ied wood for Ed Ainsworth's beauti-ful rock garden in Los Angeles. More im-portant, we have the memories of a week-

end of friendly association with some ofthe f inest people on earththe desertdwellers of the Randsburg-Trona area.16 T HE D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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Bdileya midtiradiata.

Marigolds in Desert SandBy MARY BEAL

/IKE flares of bright sunlight theMarigolds emblazon their deserthabitat and happily for us they"ope their golden eyes" over wide-spreadareas. So attractive are they that few canpass them by without stopping to paytribute to their radiant grace.

Each flower-head (1 to 1 % inchesacross) crowns a long leafless stem andconsists of a rather broad golden disk en-circled by a ruffle of numerous bright-yellow scalloped rays arranged in 3 or Alayers.The plant itself holds interest asidefrom its colorful flowers. It is garbed invery pale grey-green flannels, leaf andstem, with most of the foliage on thelower part.A biennial or perennial herb 9 to 20inches high, it sends up a few to severalbranching stems from a woody base. Thesoft felt-like leaves are cleft into short ir-regular lobes. The thin, toothed rays turnpapery in age and fold down over the in-volucre, covering its many short bracts,which are very wooly and narrow.It bears the imposing name Baileya mid-

tiradiala but even botanists are not averseto using the familiar name Marigold. Youfind these sunny blossoms in mountain-ous country, where vegetation is richerbecause of a more ample rainfall. How-ever, they do not aspire to the heights butare content to remain at lower levels, fore-gathering in charming coteries on thelower slopes and intermontane valleys,their bright heads lifted well above thelow annuals of the variegated spring car-pet. They are rather partial to the companyof shrubs.

They grow in loose gravel or sandy soil,favoring gentle slopes and washes of theeastern Mojave, southern Nevada, Ari-zona, New Mexico, into Utah and Texas.Arizonans claim the Marigold flowers soreadily you may find it in bloom at anyseason of the year.It has a variety Baileya iiiidtiradiatavariety pleniradiataw hich is classed asa distinct species by some botanists.Baileya pleniradiataUndoubtedly the commonest Marigoldof desert areas. It is similar to the abovebut leafier and more branching, often

forming a rounded bushy plant 5 to 15inches or more high, occasionally ap-proaching 2 feet. Its flowers are smallerand its gold paler but it blooms with asprightly profusion that often sets it apartand gives it glowing distinction. It is in-clined to congregate in large numbers onfavorable sandy stretches giving them thesemblance of sparkling lakes of pale gold.The stems and leaves are clothed in athicker coat of soft white wool.The flower stalks are much shorter thanthose of its larger relative and somewhatleafy; the heads not more than % inchacross, with numerous clear lemon-yellowrays disposed in layers about a deeper-yellow center, It too has the praiseworthyhabit of blooming in season and out ofseason, whenever encouraged by extrarains. Apparently it is an annual but is inno hurry to complete its cycle of existence.It grows in abundance in sandy soil overmost of the central and eastern Mojaveand Inyo deserts, northeastern Coloradodesert, Arizona and New Mexico. Itthrives in the sands about the extensivelava flows from the dead craters of MountPisgah and Amboy in the eastern Mojave.Baileya pauciradialaThis species has quite individual char-acteristics. Its flower heads are very short-stemmed and smaller (l/2 inch or sobroa d) with only 5 to 8 pale lemon-yellowrays and lack the arresting radiance of theother Baileyas. It is the whole plant itselfthat kindles interest rather than the flow-ersreally quite a strange intriguingplant, its thickish stems and leaves sodensely cloaked in silky white wool as toappear almost spectral. The flowers toohave a wan look, with not a glint of lumin-ous sparkle, the pale rays soon turningpapery and reflexing, so they seem evensmaller, as if trying to make themselvesinconspicuous. A perennial herb 6 to 18inches high, it branches loosely from thebase.

The felty linear leaves (1 to 2 incheslong) are alternate and rather widelyspaced, mostly entire or sometimes irregu-larly or obscurely lobed. The flower budsare like puffs of silken swansdown, soheavily are they muffled in fine w hitewool.Its habitat is in harmony with its ownpale coloringthe sandiest of desert areas,where you find it a common species, inthe Colorado and Mojave deserts and Ari-zona. Surprisingly it waits until summerto carry out its mission of blooming and isnot the least bit stingy with blossomswhich is probably why the rays are so soonreflexedto avoid the direct beams of theardent sun and the equally ardent reflec-tion from the glaring sands. I have foundthis Baileya particularly diverting in theDevil 's Playground, hobnobbing withother sand-lovers in the coves at the footof the high dunes that spread out for

miles in a mountainous range near Kelsoin the eastern Mojave.M A Y , 1 9 4 2 17


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How Not to Bog D own In Sand( A N O P E N L E T T E R TO J O H N H I L T O N )

By CLYDE FORSYTHESketches by the au thor .Smoke Tree RanchPalm Springs, CaliforniaMy dear John:We came down here for a few days to restyou know howit weakens a strong man to paint pictures steadily for threemonthsor did you ever work that long?Well, last night as I sat before a mesquite log fire I got tothinking of that trip you took us on a year ago to locate the biglodestone for theRiverside county fair at Indio, and I shudderedin agony over the memory of how you got your jalopy stuck inthe sand of that wash at the foot of Iron mountain, and how Ipulled 16 ligaments loose helping push you out of it.

A wave of compassion swept over me and I said I wouldshow you how to drive sand without getting stuckand yet Isomehow felt that the work of digging out was the only thingthat saved you from growing up to weigh 300pounds.Lately, however, I have viewed with alarm the debate goingon in Desert Magazine between advocates of the "jack" andthe "shovel" as a tool for prying a car loose from sand, and Ihave decided to emerge from a long silence and divulge somevaluable desert driving information which will make it possiblefor you to drive that old car up a wash as far as a burro can goand you can get bigger and better boulders and not have tolug them so far by hand.And John, I'm writing this more to enlighten the paid-upsubscribers of Desert Magazine than just to help you out ofyour next mess.The secret of driving in sand wasknown to a few of us des-ert rats back around 1916. It is not my own discovery. I learnedthe trick from O. K. Parker whoused to drive the "Death Val-ley Dodge" around the desert in summertime as a demonstra-tion stunt. Heknew his sand dunes.There were no pavements in the desert in those days and ifyou were not a sand driver you had to do a lot of footwork toget help when stuck.If youhave read this far, John, it means you really deserve tolearn the secrethow a friend and I drove the first car in toHidde n Springs canyon and "discovered" it nearly 30yearsago.We drove along the Southern Pacific tracks below Mecca at

midnight. In the sand dunes we bogged down to our hubs, puton our "blocks" and drove to a good camping spot in a widearroyo and in early dawn went on up the canyon.This is how you do it: You need both a jack and a shovel,

but something else besides. You need "spring blocks." Allmakes of cars are constructed substantially alike in principlechassis, springs, bumpers, etc.You get stuck in the sand because when the rear wheels startto spin, due to lack of traction, they dig down and bury them-selves. You put brush down to get out, and you get out, butmore than likely get stuck again. An ounce of prevention be-ing worth a ton of cure in a sandy wash, I will give you theprevention.Pu t a jack under the rear bumper and lift the body of thecar two or three inches. Thewheels will remain on the ground.Now measure the distance between the top of the axle and thechassis frame. According to the way your car is built, you willcut two blocks of tough wood which will fit on top of the axle

spring-clamps and under the steel of the frame above. Cut theends of the blocks to accommodate bolt-heads, rubber bumpers,etc., and fit some straps or wire to keep the blocks in place.Then take the jack away and the weight of the rear body restson the blocks. Your springs are nowuseless as springs, and theold jalopy will ride like a bronco, but it will sure ride the sand.With the springs out of action, the rear wheels cannot jump upand down and dig in.Car owners will have to use their own judgment as to mak-ing the blocks, and most modern cars are hard to get under,they are built so low. I advise going ahead on foot to inspectsuspicious looking sand, and installing the blocks before goinginto it. It's somuch more fun to put the blocks in on flat groundthan when you are down to your hubs and have to dig a tunnelto crawl into.Driving in sand today with spring blocks should be far easierthan in the early days due to the big fat tires we haveif any.My old 1916Dodge tires had little width of tread but shewenton through.And now, John, I hope a lot of desert rats will profit by thisletter to you. If you can find the time to make some blocks foryour old rock-hearse it will save you untold agony on yourrambles. I always read your stories in Desert and it grieves meto learn that youhave trouble going upwashes.Some daysoon let's take our sketch boxes and go on a trip to-

18 THE DESERT MAGAZINE


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HOLE FORR U B 6 E R S N U B

FRAME OFC AR

P A I R OF X 6 * HARD PINE ETC . (AND DRIVE SLOWLY/)W OODL N & L OC K 5 C U T1 0 F IT OVE R R E A R A Y L E -5 T R AP OR W IR E T O 5 P R I N G 5gether in the sandy wastes and I will giveyou a lesson in sand-drivingusing yourgasoline and tires. Bring your guitar.

Yours truly,CLYDE FORSYTHEP. S.Out at Dave Hand's ranch onthe Mojave desert last Christmas. I gotmy station wagon stuck in sand and hehad to pull me out with a tractor. Me, thesand expert! C.F.

ARIZONA SCENIC AREASYIELD BIG REVENUE

The interior department received feestotaling $155,607.80 from visitors toGrand Canyon national park and sevennational monuments in Arizona duringthe fiscal year ended June 30, 1941.

The report was made by Newton B.Drury, director of the national parkservice, to the house appropriations com-mittee at hearings on the 1943 departmen-tal appropriation bill.The break-down:Grand Canyon, $123,803; PetrifiedForest, $24,153; Casa Grande, $2,800.88;Chiricahua, $73; Montezuma Castle,$897.24; Organ Pipe, $10.36; Saguaro,

$1,785.16; Tumacacori, $1,785.16.Total revenues of the service in 1941were $2,179,119, the highest in history,Drury said, adding that 21,050,426 visi-tors flocked to 164 units of the park service for an increase of 174.5 percent overthe 1935 travel year.The park service administration covers164 units, including 26 national parks,four national historical parks, 82 nationalmonuments, 11 national military parks,seven national battlefield sites, 12 nationalcemeteries, one national recreational area,

eight national historic sites and nine mis-cellaneous memorials.

Hard Rock Shortyof Death Valley ."There ain't no prospectors inheaven," decided Hard Rock Shorty."If they got there in the first placethey wouldn't be satisfied. Me, I'vechased the gold bug for moreyears'n I like to remember about an'I know dozens o' prospectors.They're all the same. A story I readabout 'em oncet is sure the truth."Hard Rock yawned, stretched outmore solidly in his chair on theporch of the Inferno store and wait-ed for the proper respectful silencebefore going on with his character-ization of prospectors."This prospector died an' whenhe got up to the Pearly Gates, St.Peter wouldn't let 'im in. Not thathe didn't deserve it, but seemed

like the quota o' prospectors wasfull an' they couldn't take no more.' 'Yuh gotta go on down below,'ruled St. Pete.

'Well, if I can't get in I guessI'll hafta stay out,' agreed the pros-pector, 'but seein 'as I'm here, howabout a visitin' permit? I'd like tosee some o' the boys afore I go ondown an' maybe I c'd get one of 'emto trade with me.'"St. Peter looked a bit dubious,but he finally give 'm the pass al-

though he didn't seem to think

By LON GARRISONthere was much chance o' anybodyswappin' heaven for hell.

"This here prospector walked in,set down with the boys, they all gotto talkin' an' in about five minutesone of 'em sneaked over an' askedif he c'd go on down to the otherplace instead. Pete was somes'prised, specially when inside o'15 minutes they all left, leavin' thenewcomer all alone." 'How'd you do it?' Pete askedthe newcomer." 'Easy,' says the prospector. Ijust told 'em I'd heard of a newstrike down in hell.'"So the prospector had it all tohisself for a while an' he set aroundfor three or four days soakin' his

feet in the artesian well streams,restin' in the shade an' drinkin'lemonade. Then one day he got sorto' fidgety an' he comes over to St.Peter.' 'Yuh know ,' he says, 'I thinkI'll move on down where the boysare myself/' 'W hat for?' asks Peter in sur-prise.' 'Well, I just been thinkin'about that story I told them otherfellers, an' I just gotta go down an'find out if there's anythin' to it.' "

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C O P P E R M I N E Winner of Desert Magazine's March Land-mark contest was John Bigelow of Salt LakeCity, Utah. He identified the accompanyingpicture as the Utah Copper company's mine at Bingham canyon, and hasgiven much interesting information about the project. Scores of excellentmanuscripts were submitted in the March contest and the selection ofwinner was one of the most difficult decisions made by the judges sincethis Landmark series was started. Mr. Bigelow's winning story is pub-lished on this page.

Spence Air Photo

By JOHN BIGELOWREATEST single mining opera-tion in the world!Tha t is the Utah Copper minea t Bingham, UtahMarch LandmarkContest picture.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days aweek this man-made amphitheater is thescene of a great act in the nation's wardrama, turning out single-handed nearlyone-third of all the copper produced inthe United States, reaching productionheights previously believed impossible inthe mining industry.In a single day recently 105,000 tons ofore were removed and as always a ton ofwaste had to be removed for every tonof ore, making an average of 145 tons ofor e and waste moved every minute for 24hours . The daily average is runn ingaround 88,000 tons of ore which is hauled18 miles to mills at Ma gna and A rthu r .By flotation concentration about 36 to 40tons of ore averaging one percent copperare reduced to one ton containing approx-imately 33 to 36 percent copper. Thisproduct is smelted into blister copper at

the nearby Garfield smelter, biggest cop-per smelter in the world . The metal is re-

celebration, but the war may interfere thisyear. The town is out of sight in right cen-te r of pho to . A separate community, High-land Boy, is lower left.The g iant pit is brea th- taking: 21 levelson the west, 12 on the east, three sub levelsall covering 650 acres. The terraces are50 to 250 feet wide, more than a mile longacross the lower west levels and about 50feet apart, vertically. Bottom level is 6190feet above sea level and the top of themoun ta in , 7100. In the pit on the 98miles of electrified track work 32 elec-tric shovels, 58 electric locomotives. Thecompany employs nearly 5000. A 7000-foot vehicular tunnel costing $1,400,000was driven around the ore body to theeast when the highway had to be moved.While leading the world in copper out-put, the mine also is second in molybde-num, second in lode gold and sixth in sil-ver. The amounts of these metals in theor e are small, but the great tonnage workswonders .

fined on the Atlantic seaboard. Last yearUtah Copper produced about 514,000,000pounds of copper.In the background of the picture maybe seen canyons filled with waste, a majorproblem.Bingham was prospected by U. S. sol-diers in 1862 and strangely enough be-came a gold camp. The deposit of low-grade porphyry averaging one percentcopper and two percent iron was know n ,

bu t it remained for a farm boy turned en-gineer, Daniel C. Jackling, to examine theproperty in 1898 and outline a revolu-tionary development of mining and mill-in g on such a scale that he was considereda crackpot. He persevered and in 1904Utah Copper company was organized. Heis still president today. The company is asubsidiary of Kennecott Copper corpora-tion.Located 30 miles southwest of Sal!Lake City in the Oquirrh mounta ins, Bing-ham clings to walls of a knife-cut canyon.One steep, narrow, winding street runsthrough the town to the mine and othermines. In August or September the townrecalls its rowdier days with Galena Days

OLDTIMER'S VISIONA huge painting, 20x50 feet, that tookone year to complete depicts a coveredwagon train crossing the desert in 1868an d is on exhibition at Knott's BerryPlace on Highway 39 two miles fromBuena Park, 22 miles out of Los Ange-l e s . Framed in The Old Trails Hotel of1868 this remarkable picture with thenew lighting effect is dramatized by atwo-minute narrative coming from thelips of The Old Timer, a figure settingon the end of the old bar. This amazingpicture is a fitting exhibit for the firstof many old Ghost Town build ings at theVillage, all of which may be seen byanyone without charge. Knott's BerryPlace, Buena Park, is famous for the ex-cellent chicken dinner and boysenberryp i e . Here is published the 32-page illus-trated magazine and the current issuepictures and describes this mammoth oilpainting. Ten cents sent to Ghost TownNews, Buena Park, California, willbring you a copy postpaid.

GREATEST NEEDIN HISTORY !

AMERICAN REDCROSS20 T HE D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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Tw o of the South's tiny garden terraces, laboriously c onstructed bypushing aside the massedgranite boulders that cover Ghost mountain. A lusty crop of radishes is seen in the gardenat the left.If readers of Desert Magazine imagine that life on

Ghost mountain where Marshal South and his fam-ily are carrying on their adventure in primitive liv-ing is all just a glorious picnic, they are mistaken. Intheir world, where every task from the making ofkitchen utensils to the gathering of food and fire-wood must be done with their own handsand theday ends when darkness comesthere are fewhours left for play. And yet they do have theirrecreationand if you are interested to know whatconstitutes recreation at Yaquitepec, Marshal tellsthe story this month.

By MARSHAL SOUTHU D Y A R D and I were under the shade of the ramada.w a s a warm, drowsy afternoon and the sleepy littlebreeze that came stirr ing through the junipers carriedwith it the faint incense of desert flowers. Everything was veryquiet and still. All around us the rock-tumbled summit of Ghostmountain lay glowing in the sun. Lizards basked on the warmboulders and the sharp, dark shadows of the junipers werelike patterns cut from black paper.In the house Tanya was hushing Victoria to her afternoonn a p ; and at the table Rider was wrestling with his daily arith-metic lesson. Occasionally, according to the manner in whichthe problems proceeded, he emitted soft, under-breath sighs or

growls or chuckles. The faint, intermittent sounds seemed toaccentuate the silence.Last week wewent upon a spring picnic. It wasRider 's ideaa suggestion which, in the beginning, encountered a ratherchilly welcome from "the Powers ," for the work budget wasover full. We might as well have spared ourselves the troubleof argument however. Once the magic word "picnic" had beenuttered the day was utterly lost.

W e surrendered gracefully. I filled a canteen with water andTanya packed a lunch. And after we had gently, but firmly, dis-suaded Rudyard from attempting to lug along about 15 poundsof old stones and other treasures, we set out.I suppose we at Yaquitepec are abnormally primitive frankrebels, if you will, against the straight jacket and all-too-oftenhollow mockery of the thing called civilization which percheslike a strangling "Old Man of the Sea" upon the shoulders ofmost of the world. Yet I think we can claim no different urgefrom that which stirs the heart of almost everyone, no matterhow "custom tailored," over this matter of picnics. A goodsign! A cheering signand with hope in it! See how the mostjaded of tired eyes will light; how the most wearied of "fi-nance" saturated bodies will tense and the most rabid addictsof "System" and "Progress" will forget for a moment theirjangling tin gods of te lephone and machine at the mention ofa picnic. Deep down, the seedthe seed of freedom and sim-plicity which the Great Spirit implanted in every breathingthingstill sleeps. It is not dead. In good time, when man hasbattered himself weary and bleeding into the dust, it will wakenagain to save him and to set his feet anew upon the trail.

Thus , we reflected as we tramped happily away across themountain crest, picking our way along the narrow path thatwound among mescals and bisnagas. The m or ning was perfect;the sort of perfection which seems to exist nowhere else but in

MAY, 1942 21


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the desert at springtime. Rider carried the lunch and Tanya thecanteen. I carried little Victoria in a blanket. Rudyard, thwartedin his original plan to tote along "pwecious rocks" and otherballast, carried a scratch pad and a pencil with which to "Dwawsketches an' wite pomes." Down the trail ahead of us a friend-ly roadrunner scooted for a few moments, then turned aside andvanished over the rocks with a flirt of his long tail. Far off thedimness of early morning haze still lingered among the buttesand washes of the lowland desert.At the edge of the ridge, where our steep foot-trail dips down-ward over the precipitous edge of Ghost mountain, we stoppedand took off our sandals. Bare feet are infinitely safer on theseslopes; especially when one carries a precious burden. The looselitter of rocky fragments clicked and gritted underfoot as wemade our way carefully downward, and the mica flakes in thestones sparkled in the sunlight as though the trail had beenstrewn with powdered gold. On the topmost twig of a wind-gnarled juniper a canyon wren watched us, pert-eyed, as wepassed and poured forth a sweet trill of song. A grand morn-ingespecially for a picnic.W e were headed for a tiny valley among the rocky buttes thatclustered the foot of Ghost mountain to the north. A micro-scopic thin g, scarce larger than a giant's pocket handkerchief,but we had never been there. And it was not too far off. W hat

better combination than a picnic mixed with exploration?From the foot of Ghost mountain we struck off across aspace of lowland desert, threading our way between the creo-sotes and the yuccas and with a wary eye for bristling chollasthat grew here and there, half concealed, among the clumpedgalleta grass. Bees hummed. And presently, in the blackenedhollow trunk of an ancient, dead yucca that stood beside thewhite sands of a little wash, we came upon a big colony ofthema stream of busy workers passing back and forth througha round gnawed hole that probably, in the beginning, had beenmade by some rat or chipmunk. Peaceable enough, these desertbeesif left alone. Molested they are likely to reveal tempers asferocious as that of an angered desert Indian. A mixed breed.Most of them are blacks.We reached the foot of the butte presently and started toclimb. Th e tiny valley that was our objective lay high up,rimmed in a skirt of rocks. The going was tough, but as weclambered upward we came all at once to the trace of an ancientIndian trail. The "old people" had been here before us. Clumpsof later-grown cactus and mescals blotted the old path in placesand its dim trace, in sections, was deeply trenched and ruttedby long years of storm. But it was an infinitely easier route thanstraight climbing. Slipping and stumbling, following its dim,zig-zag windings, we passed at length over the top of the ridgeand down into the little depression that was our goal.It had been a stiff, breathless climb. But here was rewardenough. The tiny valley was a creosote and yucca studded bowl,rimmed by stony ridges. And, used thou gh we were to the beau-ty of the desert, it looked like a little bit of sunlit fairyland. Itwas a patterned carpet of gold. Myriads of little yellow flowersgrew everywhere between the bushes, so thickly that the foottrod down dozens with every step. The clean white gravel be-tween the plants sparkled in the sunshine like crushed marble.In the deep shade beneath the wide-branching creosotes crowdeda luxuriance of sheltered grass, green and tall, its massed ver-dure lit by the glint of unnumbered blue blossoms which thechildren promptly christened "corn flowers." Above, thebayonet-fringed heads of the drowsing yuccas lifted great foun-tain plumes of white, wax-like flowers, round and about whichhummingbirds whirreddarting and poising in flashing sparksof color. There was a breeze too. It seemed to belong to the val-ley, for we had not noticed it before. It stirred softly amongthe yucca plumes and swayed the long slender branches of the

creosotes and fanned a bewildering breath of fairy perfume22

down the sunlit aisles between the bushes as it went about soft-ly on noiseless feet. It seemed something more than a breeze.Perhaps, as Rider suggested though tfully, it was the Spirit ofthe Flowers.We ate our lunch in the narrow shade of a clump of yuccaswhich reared brown-skirted, palm-like trunks above our heads.Out in the warm, still beat of the sun, torch cacti spread greatblooms of scarlet, and tiny, gay mimulus blossoms did sentryduty amidst the crowding ranks of yellow daisies. From brush

thickets to yucca clumps orioles winged. The heady incense ofmillions of flowers rose in the warm sunshine and the fan ofthe breeze stirred rippling waves in the thick masses of the tallgrass clumps. The glint of gold from the flowers was dazzling tothe eyes. Our spread of blanket was a tiny island in the midst ofa gorgeous rug of yellow and white, green, blue and pink.We finished our simple lunch and then lay and sunned our-selves in the warm drowsy peace, letting our bodies drink deepof the healing strength of the earth. Overhead a couple of desertravens passed, flapping heavily across the sky and commentingon our presence with a long-spaced, philosophic "chowks."Rudyard wrote a "pome," scribbling industriously weird pen-cil marks of alleged writing upon his scratch pad. Victoria wentto sleep, a tiny fragment of uneaten tortilla in one hand and a

bunch of yellow flowers in the other. After a while Rider andRudyard wandered out to a small clear patch of glinting whitegravel and began to build fairy houses. Fashioning them withwalls and roofs of carefully collected little flat colored stones,doors and windows and paths and gardens, all complete. It isa favorite play job.If ever, when wandering through untrodden sections of thewasteland silence, you should come suddenly upon a tiny clear-ing, wherein cluster a group of little Pueblo Indian houses,shaded by tiny twig trees and with proportionately sized border-ing corn patches, all carefully planted with b

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