195212 Desert Magazine 1952 December

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S E N S A T I O N A L L Y N E W F R E E 56P A G E F A L L C A T A L O GThis unique catalog is SVV'xll" in size. It is profuselyi l l us t ra t ed with pictures of a lmost all i tems offered. YourChristmas shopping will be made easy order by mailor visit our shop to select your sifts. This catalog listsGem Cutting Equipment, Grinding Wheels, DiamondBlades, Sanding Cloth, andPolishing Powders, JewelryMaking Tools, Sterling Silver Sheet and Wire, BlankKing Mountings, Jewelry Findings such as Karwires,

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D E S E R T C A L E N D A RD e c . 1-31Special Exhibit, Indianpaintings and drawings by ClarenceEllsworth. Southwest Museum,Highland Park. Los Angeles, Calif.D e c . 2 San Antonio Day at LaLoma, near Taos, N.M. Firelight

procession.D e c . 6Hike up Murray Canyon, inPalm Canyon. Desert Museum,Palm Springs, Calif.D e c . 6 International Children'sChristmas Parade. Calexico, Calif.Dec. 11-12Saint's Day Pilgrimageand Fiesta. Tegua Indians, LasCruces, N.M.D e c . 12Feast Day of Nuestra Se-nora de Guadalupe. Taos andSanta Fe, N.M.D e c . 13 Hike up Eagle Canyon,near Cathedral City. Desert Mu-seum, Palm Springs, Calif.D e c . 13-14 Southern CaliforniaChapter, Sierra Club, knapsack tripto Long Valley, in San Jacinto Mts.,Calif.D e c . 14Desert Sun Rancher's Ro-d e o , Slash Bar K Ranch, Wic ken-burg, Ariz.

D e c . 14Bandollero Tour to Bor-rego Springs, Calif., from Yuma,Ariz.D e c . 16-24Nightly pageant-proces-sions (Posadas) depicting searchfor lodgings by Mary and Josephin Jerusa lem. Mesilla, N.M.Dec. 18-20Annual Turkey Show.St. George. Utah.D e c . 18-31 Illuminated "City ofBethlehem" Christmas panoramain Climax Canyon, near Raton,N . M .D e c . 20Palm Springs Desert Mu-seum field trip to Magnesia Can-yon, near Rancho Mirage, Calif.Dec 23 Historical pilgrimage toCoyote Canyon, Borrego Valley,Calif. Services commemoratingbirth of Ignacio Linares on Christ-mas Eve, 1775, the first white childborn in California.D e c . 24 Night Procession of theVirgin, with cedar torches and pinebonfires. Taos Pueblo, N.M.D e c . 24 Ceremonial Dances afterMidnight Mass in mission churches,San Felipe, Laguna and IsletaPueblos, N.M.

D e c . 24Christmas Eve in Spanishvillages in New Mexico. Littlebonfires for El Santo Nino, TheChrist Child, lighted before housesand in streets; Candle-lit Nacimi-entos (Nativity scenes).D e c . 25Deer Dance or Los Mata-chines, Taos Pueblo, N.M.D e c . 26 Turtle Dance, San JuanPueblo, N.M.D e c . 27Palm Springs Desert Mu-seum field trip to Oswit Canyon,Calif.D e c . 28Desert Sun Rancher's Ro-d e o , Remuda Ranch, Wickenburg,Ariz.D e c . 31Deer Dance, Sandia Pueblo,N . M .Jan. 1-4San Diego Chapter andDesert Peaks Section, SouthernCalifornia Chapter of Sierra Clubtrip to Mitchell's Caverns, Provi-dencia Mts., Devil's Playground,Calico Mts., Calif.

V o l u m e 15 DECEMBER, 1952 N u m b e r 12

C O V E RC A L E N D A RFIELD TRIP

LO ST MINEC O N T E S TPOETRYG H O S T T O W NCLO SE-UP SAR TTALL TALESEXPERIENCEF ICTIO NLETTERSC H R I S T M A STRUE OR F ALSEN E W SM I N I N GLAP IDARYH O BBYINDEXC O M M E N TB O O K SP H O T O G R A P H Y

In Navajoland, by Rex Flemingof Santa Barbara, CaliforniaDecember events on the desert 3We Explored an Old Nevada Lake Bed

By HAROLD WEIGHT 4Troopers' Lost GoldBy KENNETH E. HICKOK 9Prizes for camera pictures 10On That First Holy Night, and other poems . . 11I Remember Bodie

By E. LOUISE SARTOR 12About those who write for Desert 14He Paints Pictures, Too

By JOHN W. HILTON 16Howard Clark Champion Liar 18Life on the Desert

By EDNA PRICE 19Hard Rock Shorty of Death Valley

By JAMES D. KIRKPATRICK 20Comment from Desert's readers 21Christmas Eve in San Felipe

By DOROTHY PILLSBURY 22A test of your desert knowledge 24From Here and There on the desert . . . . 25Current news of desert mines 31Amateur Gem Cutter, by LELANDE QUICK . . 32Gems and Minerals 33Contents of Desert for 1952 38Just Between You and Me, by the Editor . . . 42Reviews of Southwestern literature 43Pictures of the Month Back coverThe Desert Magazine is published monthly by the Desert Press, Inc., Palm Desert,California. Re-entered as second class matter July 17, 1948, at the post office at Palm Desert,California, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Title registered No. 358865 in U. S. Patent Office,and contents copyrighted 1952 by the Desert Press, Inc. Permission to reproduce contentsmust be secured from the editor in writing.RANDALL HENDERSON, EditorBESS STACY, Business Manager MARGARET GERKE, Associate EditorMARTIN MORAN, Circulation ManagerUnsolicited m anuscripts and photographs submitted cannot be re turned or acknowledgedunless full return postage is enclosed. Desert Magazine assumes no responsibility fordamage or loss of manuscripts or photographs although due care will be exercised. Sub-scribers should send notice of change of address by the first of the month preceding issue.

SUBSCRIPTION BATESOne Year $3.50 TwoYears $6.00Canadian Subscriptions 25cExtra , Foreign 50c Ext raSubscriptions to Army Personnel Outside U. S. A. Must Be Mailed in Conformity WithP . O. D. Order No. 19687Address C orrespondence to Desert Magazine, Palm Desert, California

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petrified stumps a re almost like museum exhibits, mounted on their own pedes-tals. Even portions of the roots remain. Fortunately, the wood in these strange]attractions of the Sump Hole was not petrified in a form of interest to rockhoundsas specimens, and the stumps have survived many a rock hunt. Disintegrated woodfrom the stumps and trunks may be picked up on the ground below the stumps ifspecimens are desired.W e Explored an OldN evada L ake B ed

By HAROLD WEIGHTPhotographs by the AuthorMap by Norton Allen7HE FIRST t ime I saw photo-graphs of the strange petrifiedstumps of Fish Lake Valley,Nevada, in 1928, I was determinedthat some day I would visit the origi-nals. Not that I was especially inter-ested in rocks thenin fact, the pion-eer rockhounds of those days werelooked upon as rather queer charac-tersbut the oddity of those stumpsperched on their claystone pedestalsfascinated me.It wa sn't un til 1 945 th at I finallydid make my first trip into that strangecorner of Fish Lake Valley which theinhabitants of surrounding areas havelabeled the Sump Hole. Fortunately

the stumps on their clay pedestalswere still to be seen. I think tha t "for-tunately" is the proper word, for inthe intervening years, with the growthof the rockhound hobby, a number oflarge scale and professional collectorshad combed the area for petrifiedwood. I'm afraid that if those stumpshad been of cutting gradeor evengood specimen materialno trace ofthem would remain today. But sincetheir rockhound interest is as negligi-ble as their geological interest is great,they have been spared except by wind,rain, heat and cold.I will never forget that first visit. Imust admit that its purpose was as

In the Sump Hole of Fish LakeValley in Southwestern Nevada,petrified tree stumps perch onfantastically eroded pedestalsto form a weird natural museum.Overlying masses of hard rockprotect the softer materialswithin from w eathe ring. Fortun-ately, Nature also has protectedthe unique pillars from vandal-ism for, although the areaaround abounds in smallerexam ples of high ly - coloredopalized wood, the stumps them-selves offer collectors poor spe-cimens as well as difficult re-moval problems. Visitors todayto this beautiful arroyo-etchedbowl will find these columnsundisturbed, standing as text-book illustrations of Nevada'sgeologic past.

much to see what was available incollecting material as it was to see thestump s. I was following directionsgiven by a friend, and it was longafter dark when I traveled NevadaHighway 3A through the open passand started down toward Fish LakeD E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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Valley. About a mile southwest ofthe summit, I turned left on a ruttedtrailand in a matter of a few hun-dred yards was thoroughly stuck inthe sand where the trail crossed ashallow arroyo.A chilling wind was whistlingthrough the desert night, and by thetime I had worked the low, heavy carup the far bank and onto slightlyfirmer terrain, I was cold, tired andcovered with sandy dust. And I soonfound that the entire slope up which1 was trying to drive was composed ofsand. Since I didn't know the trail Iwas following, couldn't see far, andwas therefore unable to attempt anyspeed, I progressed by spins and spurts.Finally, less than a mile from the high-way, I gave up, unrolled my sleepingbag and turned in for the night.

It was just as well that-1 did. Withthe first morning light I hiked on upthe tracks, filled with blown sand andpatterned with rodent and reptiletracks. After I had gone a few hun-dred yards, quite suddenly and withlittle warning the trail twisted to astop yards from the edge of nothing.I looked out across a great U-shapedpocket in the hills, hundreds of feetdeep in places, with walls of fantas-tically eroded sedimentaries.The Sump Hole is a beautiful pieceof erosion in its own right, deservingof a more elegant name, and the un-expectedness with which most visitorsfirst come upon it adds to its spectac-ula r effect. It's like a sm all, grey-toned Bryce, a Red Rock Canyonwithout the red, hidden among unin-teresting-appearing sand hills andridges. I've gone back a number oftimes to the Sump Hole. Each time Iam impressed anew by the complete-ness with which Nature has concealedthis page of Nevada's past from thecasual passerby.

A mountain screens it from thenorth, rolling hills from the west, ahigh ridge from the east and the twist-ing channel of its own drainage arroyofrom the south. And though Highway3A skirts it for several miles on thewest, at places within a few thousandfeet of the bowl the passing motoristhas no suspicion of its existence.I don't know who first discoveredthe Sump Hole, or who first foundthe prizes it contains. Some pros-pector, probably, in both cases. Buta very respectable type of rockhoundfossil hunters from the Californiauniversitiesdid the first real explor-ing and collecting there. Their primeinterest was in the fossil bones whichthey recovered from the clays andtuffs and water-laid ash, and in thestory of the pre-human history of theWest which those bones helped de-cipher. In 1926, 1929, 1930, Chester

Above Typical piece of the brown driftwood from the hills west of theSump Hole. Much of it, including this piece, is good enough grade to bepolishable.Below Some of the most beautiful petrified w ood to be found in the westhas been collected in the Sump Hole area, although high grade pieces noware scarce. This specimen is red-brown , red and w hite opalized w ood fromthe brink of the hole.

Stock, R. A. Stirton and E. R. Hallwere publishing papers through theUniversity of California Press, tellingabout primitive horses, various hoofedmammals and rodents whose fossilsthey had found.From their work and that of variousgeologists, including especially H. W.

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Turner, who studied the Esmeraldaformation for the U. S. GeologicalSurvey, some idea of a vastly differenttime in Nevada can be conjectured.Not so long agoas the professorsfigure timeLake Esmeralda gemmedwhat is now sagebrush desert, lavastrewn wastes and chemical-saturatedplayas. The blue waters rolled overall this part of present Nevada, fromthe White Mountains east at least tothe Montezumas. and to the north anundetermined distance. Vegetationwas abundant along its shores: ferns.figs, oaks, willows, sumacs and soap-berry were identified by Turner, andtree trunks up to eight feet in diameterhave been found. Close beside it livedmany animals of the period, amongthem ancestors of the horse, the camel,the antelope, the rhinoceros. Norwere the lake waters barren. Manyfossil fish, some of quite large size,have been found.

Lake Esmeralda probably was atits best during the Mioceneor "mod-

erateiy recent"period of the Tertiary.Many geologists are more cautiousabout calibrating these periods toyear scales than they once were. How-ever, geophysicists, measuring the rateof disintegration of radioactive ma-terials, recently put a possible date of17 million years ago to the Miocene.Of course, even that is 'way back forthose who still look upon a millionin years or dollarsas a large figure.At any rate, it was long enough agofor Nature to bury or erode the greaterpart of that chapter in her autobiog-raphy . For, while we leave our ruinsand ghost towns glaringly exposed.Nature, with more time and resources,hides or disintegrates her ghost lands.But once having hidden it, like a pros-pector with a big strike, it would seemshe cannot refrain from exposing abit for our adm iration. So, in thenorthwestern corner of Fish Lake Val-ley, erosion has placed on exhibitiona vignette from the story of Lake Es-meralda.

On my first visit, 1 camp ed alonefour days beside the Sump Hole andcovered the area pretty thoroughly onfoot. It was on the second day that Icame upon the fossilized tree stumps,in the marl hillocks on the west sideof the bowl, and to me they still arethe most interesting features of an in-teresting region. Apparently the treesof which they are the remnants wereburied or submerged just as they stood.The replacement of the wood in thesestumpsa sort of clay-rock which canscarcely be identified as woodindi-cates that they were buried at a differ-ent time and und er different cond itionsthan the beautifully opalized and agat-ized pieces and limbs which are foundin other layers of the lake sediments.Quite possibly, they tell of some dayof judgment at the end of the lake'shistory , and of the close of the Terti-ary, when tremendous volcanic actiontook place around Lake Esmeralda.They may have been buried in hotmud or ash, or they may have sunkbeneath the water as the earth's surfacetwisted and shifted. Now . at any rate,they have emerged again, their rootsstill coated with a sandstone, and theharder material of which they are madehas prevented the erosion of the under-lying clay, resulting in the odd pedes-tal-mounted exhibit effect.

During my hunting through andover the Esmeralda formations. Ifound many things to interest the rock-ho un d. In the main cliffs bits of fossilbonelooking like the original butsilica-replaced c:;n be found occa-sionally. In the drainage chann els ofthe clay hills I discovered a numberof chunks of very pretty semi-opalizcdwood in various shades of brown,showing every cell of the original. Onthe floor of the Sump Hole, in variousplaces, were paper-thin seams andsheets of chalcedony, sufficiently col-ored in most places to be called sard.Also on the bowl floor, toward thesouth, were pieces of opalized wood.thin pipes of it. coated w ;th greenishsandstone. From appearances theymust have been rootlets. While toosoft to cut, they make interesting spe-cimens.

My best find on that first trip wasmade only a few feet from the pointwhere I camped, and rmht on thebrink of the Sump H ole. Here it wasobvious that a large section of a treetrun k h:>d been haule d awa y. Littleremained on the surface, excepting afew pieces of silicified bark andbranches, but I prospected down thetiny wash in which the trunk had beenburied and dug up several beautifulpieces of brown, white and reddishonal wood and one piece of fine cut-ting grade with a purplish tinge.The whole area of the Sump HoleD E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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is worthy of exploration by collectors.I have many areas there which I ex-pect to investigate in the future. Butfor rockhounds who wish to be cer-tain of obtaining specimens, I canrecommend the low, lava-spoti:ed hillswhich lie across Highway 3A and twoand three miles west of the Sump Hole.A passable auto-trail penetrates thearea, and Lucile, Eva Wilson and Iexplored it on our most recent trip toFish Lake Valley.There is a good deal of petrifiedwood to be collected in these hills, andit can be found in many shades ofbrown to white. Most of it shows per-fect replacement of the original struc-ture and is of cutting and polishingquality. Some is freakish indeed, con-sisting of hundreds of tiny slivers, thewoodalthough replaced with rock

having gone to pieces just as drieddesert wood does. Some is almostturquoise green in color, but of achalky replacement which probablywould not polish. And, near the endof the trail, I did find one piece offinely opalized wood which I was un-able to trace to its source.The prize find of all our visits wasmade by Lucile in the Sump Hole it-self, but it is unlikely that the rest ofus rockh oun ds can match her luck. Itwas a perfect large arrow or spearhead flaked from dark transparent ob-sidian, and it proved that our desertpredecessors knew that strange cornerof Fish Lake Valley long before thewhite man came. I would certainlylike to know what story they built upabout the fossil tree stumps.Probably they came to the valley

to hun t. While I was camped there, 1saw numbers of the rat family, quan-tities of lizards and several jack rab-bits. And while the present mammallife is not as numerous or its individ-uals as large, its fighting spiritcertainly has not lessenedas I dis-covered. In those days, when myexpeditions were more leisurely, I car-ried a live trap with me. That is a de-vice in which the animal to be trappedenters a sort of wire-mesh tunnel and,when he takes the bait, drops panelsclosing off either end of the tunnel.Thus he can be captured without in-jury.When I caught something interest-ing or new, I would place it in a littleglass-walled "studio" and photographit before turning it loose. In the sandhills above the Sump Hole I capturedThe Sump Hole is a small Bryce Canyon in grey. Its beds of clay, sandstone, tuffand breccia are part of the bed of Lake Esmeralda, which covered this portion ofNevada millions of years ago.


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The "Tough Guy," aggressive kangaroo rat from the edge of the Sump Hole. Hebit the hand that fed him but then, he hadn't asked to he fed, or photographedeither.an especially fine kanga roo rat. I useda heavy glove to transfer Mr. Kanga-roo to the glass cage, and there heposed quite willingly, eating content-edly at a piece of the baitpeanutbutter, raisins and bacon fat.

He posed so willingly that, whenit came time to take him out to turnhim loose. I didn't bother to put theglove back on. I should have beenwarned by the aggressive manner inwhich he thumped the ground with hishind foot. But 1 picked him up gentlyand started to carry him to the mouthof his burrow. Then, most dexterously,he twisted about and sank his bigfront teeth into my thumb. Then andthere I ceased being a taxi service. Iput my hand on the ground andopened it wide. Did Mr. Kangarooleave when free? Not until he gath-ered his muscles and gave me one last"Take that!" bite. Then he zoomedoff my hand, located himself almostin mid air, turned and dove into hishole. I still have the scar and theeducation.

But that is my only unpleasantmem ory of the Sump Hole. It is astriking spot, an excellent place tocamp and rock hunt even in mid-sum-mer. Its altitudeb etween 5000 and6000 feetassures pleasant tempera-tures in the summer, although middaycan becom e quite hot. It is not rec-ommended for winter rockhuntingafter the snow falls.There is no good road right intothe Sump Hole or even right to itsedge. The one up the wash into thecenter of the bowl almost always is

passable to four-wheel-drives, but reg-ular stock cars should check the softspot where the road enters the washbefore trying it. It migh t be best toturn in on the road which leaves 3A8

SUMP HOLE LOG00.0 Junction of N eva da High way 3Awith U. S. Highway 6. 28.1 mileseast of the Nevada State line. 6.1miles west of the junction of U. S.Highways 6 and 95. Turn southon paved Nevada 3A. Keep onpaving.10.6 San dy track, left, climbs to edg e ofSump Hole.11.6 Reverse Y, left, leads to eas ywalking distance of Sump Hole.This is the best road.11.9 Poorly de fined road, right, le ad sinto hills west of highway, andto petrified wood collecting area.Rough, but passable.12.6 San dy auto trail, left, wh ich en-ters the drainage channel of theSump Hole. If road is packed, itis possible to drive up wash intoSump Hole. Drivers of regularpassenger cars should check roadcondition carefully before attempt-ing.at 1 1.6 miles from Highway 6A, thenhike east over the hump. The Sump

Hole should be viewed from spotsalong its rim as well as from its floor.To me. coming upon the erodedwalls of this bowl unexpectedly in theheart of seemingly featureless hills wasan emotional experience. We lookupon the great features of our land-scape the hills, valleys, m oun tainsas permanent parts of the world'sscenery. Compared to our life scalethey are. They are little changed sincethe first Indian nomads wandered intothe Western deserts.But in the ceaseless, measurelesspassage from molten ball to frozenworld, the eternal hills to which welift our eyes are no more than thecards in a deck, briefly arched forshuffling, then shuffled again, dealtout, or cast aside. In this corne r ofFish Lake Valley, we can look upona deck, fortuitously exposed, that Na-ture tossed away millions of years ago.

TftexiOn the waterless, uninhabited Mexi-can Isla Tortuga, 25 miles northeastof Santa Rosalia, halfway down BajaCalifornia's gulf coast, Lewis WayneWalker captured a pair of rare rattle-snakes. He packed them in strongboxes and sent them to Dr. WilliamM. Mann, director of the SmithsonianInstitution's National Zoological Parkin Washington, D. C.Dr. Mann received the rattlers ingood condition, jubilantly identifiedthem scientifically as Crotalus tortu-gensis and installed them in his reptile

house. Although he is one of theworld's foremost authorities on wildcreatures, Dr. Mann had never beforeseen similar rattlers. An unpreposses-sing dusty gray in color, they are not

xicaavery active. The larger snake is almosttwo feet long and has eight buttons inhis tiny rattle. The eyes of both areset in peculiar bulging sockets. The irspecies was first described in 1921.

Walker, a young ex-Marine, wasassisted by the National Geographicsociety on his mission, which tookseveral years to com plete. He suffereda shipwreck, an automobile accidentand considerable hardships during thesearch period.The zoo's new snakes are one of

nearly 30 varieties of rattlesnakes. Allare members of the poisonous pit viperfamily. Ranging from Southern Ca n-ada to Uruguay, they are found onlyin the Americas.D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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The gods that had smiled so benevolently, now frowned. The waterholes were dry.Trooper's Lost GoldBy KENNETH E. HICKOKIllustrat ion by Bil l Edwards

T WAS in the early 1870s whena weary ox-team halted at Mari-copa Well and a tired teamsterreleased the beasts from their yoke.Meanwhile, the emigrant's familytumbled from the wagon to preparethe evening meal, thankful thai: thiswas not another dry camp.The mother and eldest daughterprepared the meal while the twoyounger children helped the father

make camp and gather firewood. Re -cently the warlike Apaches had beenconfined to a reservation and il wasno longer considered hazardous forcross country caravans to build nightcampfires.The travelers did not know that afew days previously a band of Indianshad escaped from the reservation, andhad headed toward the Mexican bor-der. Military scouts, on their trail,reported that the band had swung widearound the new settlement of Phoenix,and were headed southwest, toward the

famous old Indian watering place, onthe bank of Gila River, known asMaricopa Well .Next morning, when the trailingscouts reached the well, they found

the looted wagon still smoldering, theman, his wife and the two small chil-dren slain, but no sign of the elderdaughter, which indicated that she washeld captive. The Indian trail crossedthe river and turned south, straight forthe border. Apparently, the incidentat the well was only a minor diversionfor the savages, who were headed forMexican lands, where U. S. trooperscould not touch them.One scout remained close on thetrail of the renegades, while the othercarried the news of the massacre toFort Tucson. The commanding officerof the fort ordered a company ofmounted troopers, in command of acaptain, to intercept the raiders beforethey reached safety in Mexico, andbring them and their captive back toTucson.The captain led his troop, at forceddraft, southwest from the fort. Theywould ride an hour and rest ten min-utes. The fast pace, in the broiling

heat, soon told on men and horsesalike. The water holes were uncertainin this par t of the desert. The c aptaininstructed the troopers to note care-fully the actions of their thirsty horses.

Cava lrymen of the U. S. Armyfound a rich gold ledge in south-ern Arizona nearly 80 years ag oan d then lost it aga in. Ma nypersons have sought for thisfabulous deposit, but as far asis known, its location remains asecret to this da y.

If any animal acted as though itscented water, they would investigate.Suddenly, the lead horse threw upits head, sniffed the breeze and whirledoff at a tangent, to be followed by therest of the animals in the company.Into a shallow arroyo galloped thehorses, where a pool of rain water hadbeen caught in a depression, at thefoot of a low, rocky ledge that ranalong the wash for several hundredyards.The first served withdrew up thewash to make room for the others.Another pool, similar to the first, wasfound at the upper end of the ledge.Now, there was ample water for all.Parched throats were soothed, can-teens filled, and the thirsty horses wereled up to drink their fill.One observing trooper, gazing intothe pool while watering his horse,thought to himself: "Those shiny peb-bles in the pool sure look pretty." Idly,he scooped up a handful of the brightstones and his shout brought troopersfrom all directions. The soldier dis-played a handful of gold nuggets tohis amazed companions.Each man scrambled for a share of

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the gold. The nuggets soon gave outin the upper hole so some of thetroopers returned to the lower one.Many more of the glittering nuggetswere clawed from the mud that markedthe site of the first water. Some of themen searched along the rocky ledge,in the wash, and excited gasps wereheard on all sides as prize nuggetswere found.

Some of the troopers wanted toabandon the pursuit of the Apachesand start mining this bonanza.The captain was adamant in hisrefusal to listen to such pleas. Further,he collected all the nuggets and dis-tributed them, so that every man hadtwo or three of the shining gold peb-bles. Immediately after the distribu-tion of the nuggets, the order was givenand the troop rode away. Such hillsas were visible had no distinguishingpeaks or other marks and the nearbydesert was unrelieved sand, grease-wood, palo verde and cactus.Not long afterward, the trail of theApaches was cut. Soon the captainand the scouts had planned their strat-egy. The band of marauders was sur-rounded and captured. The Indianswere taken back to Tucson to awaittheir trial and the white girl was re-turned to relatives in the east.The returned troopers were in afrenzy of gold fever. Many of themoffered their resignations from the

army but as their enlistments did notexpire for periods of from one to threeyears, they had to remain on duty.The troopers were well aware thatshifting desert sands would soon ob-literate the trail to the fabulous ledge.Time was of the essence. To wait ayear, to the end of their enlistment,was too long, when one desert down-pour or a sandstorm might forevererase the trail to the nugget laden out-crop. Two of the troopers deserted,stole horses, food and water, mountedand galloped over their old trail to the

shining pebbles.The trail was still plain and theyreached the outcrop in good condition,but thirsty. The gods that had smiledso benevolently, now frowned. Thewater holes were dry.Paying scant heed to thirst, theyloaded each horse with as much goldas it could carry, mounted and beganthe ride back. Soon, it became evi-dent that the horses were loaded farbeyond their capacity, so the grub wasflung away. Next went the oats andnosebags, then the pistols and ammu-

nition.The parched, swollen tongues ofthe men did not permit conversationbut the staggering gait of the horseswas more eloquent than speech. Fin-ally the men dismounted and led the

horses, still refusing to part with thegolden cargo.The men, as well as the horses nowstaggered on the trail. Handful afterhandful of nuggets was thrown intothe brush, as men and horses staggeredon. Finally one man went down, wasunable to rise. His partner, with asuperhuman effort, got the body onthe horse's back and steadied it as hestaggered along.That is how they found them. Onedead, the other dying. Twice, theyhad gazed upon the golden ledge.Both had paid the supreme price forthe second look.The remainder of the trooperslooked upon the bodies of their twodead comrades and gave silent thanksthat they had not deserted and gonealong on the ill-fated expedition.Phoenix was a town without paving

or sidewalks, when this story was toldto a contractor, by an old man he hadhired as a carpenter's helper. Thestory came out a bit at a time, overseveral years, while he worked at thetrade. Little notice was paid then toa story of a mine on the desert. Itseemed that every other man on thestreet knew of a mine. Prospectorswere considered a little loco.However, the old man was different.He worked steadily and well, saved

his money and quietly went about hiswork. Each spring he would take sev-eral weeks off and go looking for thelost ledge. The only time he talkedmuch was just before he would starton his yearly search.The contractor last saw the old manin the spring of 1915, when he quit

work to go on his annual trek. Onthis occasion, the old man pulled twogold nuggets from his pocket and said,"I was a trooper in that company sentafter the Apaches, when we found thegold." Without more palaver, the oldman donned his hat, and was gone.Certainly, many men have searchedfor the lost ledge. Without a doubt,every one of the troopers present whenthe gold was found has had a try forit. How many more? Your guess isas good as mine. It is reasonable tosuppose, however, that the outcrophas never been found, because a richstrike like that could not be keptsecret for long.Tracing the possible routes of thetroopers might place the lost gold inthe Quijotoa or Baboquivari Moun-tains. Both locations have been thescene of small strikes of rich gold on:,so either range would fit the descrip-tion. But just where is the ledge?

Quien sabe!

.. inD e c e m b e rEvery month the staff of Desert Magazine selects the two bestphotographs currently submitted, as winners in the Picture-of-the--Month contest, and awards cash prizes to the photographers. Thiscontest is open to all Desert readers and any subject is suitable pro-vided it is essentially of the desert country.Entries for the December contest must be in the Desert Magazineoffice. Palm Desert, California, by December 20, and the winning printswill appear in the February issue. Pictures which arrive too late forone contest are held over for the next month. First prize is $10; secondprize $5.00. For non-winning pictures accepted for publication $3.00each will be paid.

HERE ARE THE RULES1Prints for monthly contests must be black and white. 5x7 or larger, printedon glossy paper.2Each photograph submitted should be fully labeled as to subject, time andplace . Also technical data: camera, shutter speed, hour of day, etc.3PRINTS WILL BE RETURNED WHEN RETURN POSTAGE IS ENCLOSED.4All entries must be in the Desert Magazine office by the 20th of the contestmonth.5Contests are open to both amateur and professional photographers. DesertMagazine requires first publication rights only of prize winning pictures.6Time and place of photograph are immaterial, except that it must be from thedesert Southwest.7Judges will be selected from Desert's editorial staff, and awards will be madeimmediately after the close of the contest each month.

Address All Entries to Photo Editor'Dewti PALM DESERT, CALIFORNIA

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DESERT DAWNINGBy BEL BALDWINBlythe, CaliforniaMy heart was a desert.And dust were my dreams,And empty and dryWere life's numerous streams.When dawn, and a sunrise,And the place where I trodBecame hallowed with promiseAs I stood there with God.Now my desert is bloomingLife's streams overflowAnd I know Love walks with meWherever 1 go.

DESERT PRIESTESSBy BESSIE BERGRio Linda, CaliforniaShe veils in purple shadows mysteriesKnown to the desert nightAnd distant moon,Or to the silent slipping lizard where,Poised under sheltering rock,

He outwaits noon.Hers is the strength of stillness and of Time,Where words are strangely trite.And trail awayInto the spaces, baffled and abashed.Before the ancient sentinelsThat wait, or pray! A BLANKET AND A FIREBy GASTON BURRIDGEDowney, CaliforniaA blanket and a dancing fireUpon the desert's breastWill push your troubles far away.Will give you silent rest.A blanket and a dancing fireOf pinyon limb and coneWill spin a loop of fantasyWhenever you're alone.A blanket and a dancing fireBeside a moon-split lakeCan weld a peace around your lifeThat none but death can break.A blanket and a dancing fireThese two are always friendsWhich warm the cockles of your heartWhen other dreaming ends.

WONDERLANDBy MRS. ROBIE CLEVERWatsonville, CaliforniaMother Nature wields her brushWith such a carefree handAnd brilliant colors she createsThe DesertWonderland!

DESERT VASTNESSBy BLANCHE HOUSTON GRAYGarden Grove, CaliforniaHave you dwelt on the desert at sunset.And sat in the silence thereTill you felt the breath of creation.Borne in on the desert air?

Did you follow the long, rough pathwayThe foot of man has trodSince he started with fear and trembling.Fresh from the hand of God?If so, you have had the setting.Away from the tumult and strife.To ponder the vaster questionsThat lead to a greater life.

I n t h a t f i r s tH o l y l i g h tBy MARY PERDEWSanta Ana, California

At Christmas on the desertThe sands are turned to snowBeneath the brilliant moonlightThat floods the world below.At Christmas on the desertThe skies are filled with light;It's easy to remember anAngel choir at night.At Christmas on the desertWay out where turmoils cease,It's easy to remember thatBlessed song of peace.It's easy to remember

Three Wise Men riding far.Their camels striding swiftlyToward a guiding star.At Christmas on the desertThe star is wondrous bright;It brings to us the gloryOf that first holy night.

A FOOLBy R EEVE SPENCER KELLEYAlbuquerque, New Mexico

A fool walked on the desert sandsAnd careless swung his tender hands,Swept past a lizard, brilliant green,Cried, "where is beauty to be seen?"Past thistle, "hojase," monkey flower,He thrashed away a futile hour;Twice tore his flesh, went sick with heat,And left the desert in defeat.A fool who thought it Nature's dutyTo make display of all her beauty.

StrUvefBy TANYA SOUTH

Strive, then, and work!Nor ask for easy gaining.Life's not to shirk.But to be up, attaining!Who wants an easy life.Stagnant and dead?Through struggle, grief and strifeWe forge ahead!

SAND MEDITATIONSBy DENNIS R. DEANInglewood, CaliforniaOnce a crystal, perfect and fine.Once with beauty in each line,Once a spire, great in height,Once a prism, rich in light.

Now, a lowly grain of sand,Swept into dunes by unseen hand,Whisked along by magic wand.Yours is the life of a vagabond.

YUCCABy AL ICE TENNESON HAWKINSSan Pedro, CaliforniaYoung Summer danced across SouthwesternsandsAnd placed two faring strangers in her debt.One was a horseman riding with a sword.The other walked with prayer beads in hishands.The soldier saw the Spanish Bayonet,The friar, waxen Candles of Our Lord!

CONQUESTBy MARGARET HORMELLNorth Palm Springs, CaliforniaDo you love games that prove your worth?Then plant in desert soil; here's how:First measure off your plot of earthFor sturdy posts and fence allowThen hollow out the sand, two feet.And salvage rocks, both large and small.For building fancied things concrete:Fish pond, incinerator, wallUse mountain dirt alloyed with sandTo fill the pit; manurenot thickAnd water, for a thirsty land.More love than sweat will work the trickWhen shoots appear you've but half won:Windbreaks of lumber, stone, or mortar,A partial shelter from the sun.And after them more water, water!

ACCEPT THE DESERT'S MOODSBy AMY VIAUSanta Ana, California

It seems quite credible to meThat he who frets at a desert moodMust miss the desert's witcheryBy not accepting its bad and good.For the bad and good of the desert blendIn a lure that beckons receptive heartsTo come to the desert as to a friendAnd garner from all that it imparts.For he who frets at a desert moodIs none of the desert's, but alien blood.

TWILIGHT ON THE MESABy MARY PERDEWSanta Ana, CaliforniaWhen its twilight on the mesa,Far, far out, where all is still;Save the distant river rolling.Or a night hawk, lonely, shrill.Then a healing peace come drifting.Lingers softly, gently there.Wiping out small nagging worries.

Soothing sadness, pain or care.In the valley, bright lights twinkle.As the village darkness creeps.While the twilight slowly deepensAnd the quiet mesa sleeps.

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I Remember Bodie3y E. LOUISE SARTOROR MANY years in the back ofmy mind 1 had nursed the wishthat 1 might some day see againthe place of my birthBodie, Cali-fornia. No t until I was a gray-h airedwoman was this wish granted me. Bythen the buildings that remained wereempty ghosts and could no longer tellthe story of the full and exciting lifeBodie had known since William S.3ody first discovered gold there in1859.Mr. Body did not live to know ofthe $80,000,000 in pure gold brick

that was to pour from the mill in lateryears. In 1860the year after he firstdiscovered his bonanzahe was lostin a snow storm close to his originalclaim.The town of Bodie prospered andgrew for several years until the inevi-table peak was reached. As soon asthe rich lodes began to thin out, min-ers, gamblers, saloon keepers andtradesmen began to migrate to otherfields. The steady, hard-working fam-ily men were left to glean the remain-ing ore . But they, too, were drivenaway by the great Bodie fire of 1932which swept through the main streetsand razed the town without mercy.These fire-scarred remnants I gazedupon now. How strange it seemed, likea place I had never known.

E. Louise Sartor remembers the gold mining camp of Bodie, Cali-fornia, as a quiet, friendly place where holidaysthe Fourth of July,Memorial Day, Christmas, even Chinese New Year'swere celebratedby all the tow nsp eop le as merry family o cca sion s. Mrs. Sartor returnedto her birthplace for a visit recently, and in this story she brings toDesert M aga zine readers her mem ories of Bodie at the turn of the centuryas she recalled them in the empty, ramshackle ghost town of today.The mountains, pocked with gapingholes and tailing piles left by prospec-tors in their eager quest for gold,looked dry and gray in the swelteringdesert heat. Silence reigned. Only thefaint tinkling of a sheep's bell couldbe heard in the distance. A rabbit,startled by my intrusion into his world

of freedom, jumped from a nearbyboulder and disappeared into his bur-row. A few cattle grazed peacefullyon scattered patches of green grasswhere a tiny stream inched lazily along.The old stamp mill of shining cor-rugated iron seemed like a huge mon-ster napping in the sun. The slightestdisturbance might awaken it. I thought,looking at it now, and start again thecrunching, pounding roar of machin-ery digesting huge quantities of ore.1 sat on a sagging step of a long-for-gotten home and tried to visualize thetown I had known more than 40 yearsbefore.Board sidewalks had lined the busymain street then. Saloons crowdedclose to each of the six general stores;onlv the two churches and the school-

house were any distance from theswish-creak of the swinging doors.My homewhere I lived with myfather and three sisterswas next tothe old firehouse. I remembered howfrightened we children used to be whenthe huge bell clanged its summons foi-volunteer firemen to man the two-wheeled water cart. The same bellused to toll the years of deceasedtownsfolk as they made the slow tripthrough the streets to their final rest-ing place in the cemetery on the out-skirts of town.The postoffice, a short distance fromthe firehouse, daily was the scene ofmuch excitement as people gatheredto await the arrival of the stagecoachwith its passengers and mail. Store-keepers stood in their doorways toevaluate the customer value of newarrivals. Great clouds of dust coulcbe seen long before the stage enterectown.Passengers were varieda flashilydressed drummer; a slick gamblereager for an easy mark; a Wells-Fargcagent who later would accompany

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>

p f ?

The ghost town of Bodie, California, one-time b oom camp which produced $80,-000,000 of gold during its peak years. Town cemetery in foreground. Frasher'sPhoto.shipments of gold-brick out of town.Occasionally a pretty woman, dressedin the height of fashion and showinga trim ankle, stepped from the stage.But she quickly disappeared down thestreet to the section near Chinatownwhere white houses stood in a row.They were quiet little houses by day,but bright with lights at night.The Chinese of Bodie were contentto live alone, clinging tenaciously totheir native customs and dress. Thechief occupation of the majority waswashing and ironing. Six heavy flat-i rons were heated on wood burningstovesone in use, five waiting. Alarge wooden barrel of water stoodnext to the ironing board. With a long-handled dipper the Chinese laundry-man would fill his mouth to sprinklethrough pursed lips the dry, clean gar-ment on his board.As a rule, the Chinese district wasquiet, but the Chinese New Year, cele-brated in February, brought a weekof jovial merriment. Everyone waswelcome to participate in the festivi-ties. Through several days and nightsloud reports of firecrackers echoedabout the buildings. Paper streamersand long, hanging prisms of glass thattinkled sweetly in the slightest breezedecorated the streets. Shops, whichalso served as living quarters, werelighted only by burning punks.As children, we would visit thedimly-lit Chinese shops each NewYear's, cautiously sidling to the door-

ways, easing our way in and patientlywaiting for the proprietor to give usthe treats we knew were awaiting us.We waited quietly until, at last, intoeach hand fell a few pieces of orientalcandies and nuts, with a China lilybulb, a fan or a silk handkerchief.Weird, high-pitched music playedall day in the Chinese Masonic Temple.The older and braver children wouldclimb to the balcony and peer in thewindow to see the huge buddha whichseemed alive in the darkened room.There was much in Chinatown to ter-rify children, but not enough to sendthem skittering home before hands andpockets were filled.The Paiute Indians occupied nodefinite section in Bodie, but they con-tributed to the town's daily life asmuch as did the Chinese. The Paiutemode of living was altogether different;their homes were the hills themselves.They had neither need nor desire tobuild houses like those of the whitemen or the Chinese. Rude sheltersmade of rags and sagebrush gave ade-quate protection from the weather.The Indian women wore dresses ofthe brightest possible fabrics. All thegarments were made by hand and wereworn one on top of the other in end-less layers. Most of the sewing wasdone on the streets of the town whilethe squaws sat and chattered in theirPaiute tongue. Many times three orfour dresses could be counted on onesquaw as she stooped or when they

were blown by the wind. Tuck eddown in the bodice of her dress eachIndian woman had a fat strip of bacontied in a colored kerchief. She wouldfish out the salty meat and rub it overher face and hands many times a day,leaving a mirror-like glow on her red-brown skin. This was Paiute beautythe shinier the skin, the more attrac-tive the squaw.It was a common sight to see agroup of Indian women, with theirbright blankets wrapped around theirample bodies and kerchiefs on theirheads, squatting on the ground gam-bling away their small pieces of silver.They would sway back and forth whenthe babies strapped to their backs be-gan to cry. No matter how loud orlong the wails, the game never ceased.Now and then a mother unstrappedher child to nurse it, but her eyesnever left the cards.As dusk fell, one could see the In-dians gather from all directions andwind their way together up the hill-sides. Later, little bonfires dotted thehills, silhouetting teepees and peopleagainst the horizon and filling the airwith the smell of burning sage. ThesePaiutes were thriftless people, workingonly when driven by hunger and buy-ing food from the back doors of thehotelsscraps from the white man'stable.T looked beyond the small churchand watched the sage-covered roadwind its way to the cemetery which

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nestled on the sides of small rollinghills. How desolate it looked in thesurrounding stillness! The woodenfences that enclosed the graves werefalling to the ground in molded heaps;those of iron had been twisted andrusted by the storms of the years.Gazing down the half-hidden path,I could almost see the Memorial Dayparade of uniformed Civil War veter-ans, marching to the tune of "YankeeDoodle" played on flute and drums.We children would proudly fall in line,our arms filled with flowers to beplaced upon the flag-marked graves.Each year the day before DecorationDay, my two older sisters and I wouldgather wildflowers from the hillsidesbluebells and daisies and wild onion.These were mixed with the fast-fadingflowers ordered from distant cities.The fragile wildflowers gathered fromour hills always lasted longest.The glorious Fourth of July wasalways a thrilling time in Bodie. Smallcottonwood trees were hauled intotown, "planted" in large square oilcans filled with water and placed assentinels along both sides of the street.It was one occasion which yearly de-manded a new dressand the generalstores tempted holiday shoppers witha rainbow array of materials. How mysisters and I loved being able to choosefrom them the material for our dresses!At daybreak on the Fourth of July,the pounding of the mill was silenced.

The sudden quiet wakened even thesoundest sleeper, for it was only onthis one day of the year that the milldid not operate. Immediately newsounds were heardthose of firecrack-ers exploding and excited childrenshouting. Everyone gathered in theMiners' Union Hall for the beginningof the day's celebra tion. First on theprogram were songs by all the chil-dren, followed by the reading of theDeclaration of Independence by thetown speaker, whose silver voicematched his bell-shaped body. Wechildren hardly saw the Goddess ofLiberty or heard the band play, forfree ice cream awaited us at the fire-hous e. Races and games filled the day,and for dinner almost every familyate out at one of the two hotels intown.

The climax of the day was theGrand Ball held in Union Hall. Theorchestratwo violins and a pianoplayed quadrilles, polkas and waltzesfar into the night for the dancingcrowds.On the following morning, the onlyreminders of the great day were thepotted cottonwoods, their leaves with-ered and their boughs drooping. Theywere reluctantly taken away.All through the years I have cher-ished the memory of the Christmas

season in Bodie, for it was at Christ-mas time that families and friendsseemed to grow closer together. Per-haps it was because the naked uglinessof the town was changed by winterinto a white vision of loveliness blank-eted by snow. Lights from the win-dows cast ribbons of brightness downeach hom e's path. It was like an invi-tation to all to enter and enjoy thewarmth inside.Through the week before Christmas,the young people had parties to stringpopcorn into long chains. The pop-corn strands were used to trim thetwo large Christmas trees in the Min-

Kenneth E. Hickok, author of"Troopers' Lost Gold," this month'slost mine story, was born in 1905 ina southwest Kansas schoolhouse. Hegrew up on the family's Kansas farmbut, when it came time to choose aprofession, found that cows, pigs andwheat held no allure. So he becamea mining engineer. After four yearsin South America, he returned to thiscountry and spent 15 years more inthe mining game.In 1946 Hickok was crippled bypolio and now, after six years, is "stillon the ropes but slowly coming back."He has had several technical articlespublished before this, his first appear-ance in Desert Magazine. His homeis in Ulysses. Kansas. Bill and Edna Price have traveledthousands of miles of desert countrythe hard wayon foot behind a stringof burros, all their belongings packedon the animals' backs. Edna tells oneof their most warming desert experi-ences in this month's Life on the Des-ert prize-winning story.Until she married Bill, Edna hadnever seen a desert. Neither had Bill.The two were working as nurses toan ailing millionaire when they de-cided they wanted see Death Valley.They quit their jobs, headed West andliked Death Valley so much theystayed. When the money played out.they traded their Ford for six burrosand started walking. Step by step theysaw California, Nevada. Arizona, theArizona strip.In California, Bill traded his lastfew dollars for a tintype cam era. Itproved a good investment. Takingpictures of tourists and people theymet along the way kept the Prices eat-ing during the years they wintered inBaker, California, and summered at

ers" Union Hall where everyone gath-ered on Christmas Eve.Stores displayed their fascinatingarray of gifts for weeks. Gaily-wrappedpurchases were hidden until the dayof Christmas Eve, when families car-ried their gifts to the Union Hall andplaced them about the trees. Dollswere hung on the branches amid color-ful decorations, popcorn chains andtiny lighted candles. Townsmen tookturns watching the trees. Each treehad a guard who held a long stick witha wet sponge ready to douse any firethat might flare up from the candles.Christmas was the time of year ILake Tahoe. The intervening 500miles were traveled by foot and burro-back each spring and fall.With the advent of World War IIand the arrival of young Billy, thePrices found it necessary to make someconce ssion to civilization. Bill now isfire chief in Idyllwild, Ca liforn ia, aresort community in the San JacintoMountains, and Edna acts as Idyllwildcorrespondent for the Hemet News.

O O

It was not until she became a grand-mother that Louise Sartor attained herlife-long ambition to be a free lancewriter. Her story "I Remember Bodie"in this month's Desert Magazine isMrs. Sartor's first saleafter fillingendless wastebaskets with previous lit-erary efforts.In telling the story of Bodie, pastand present, Mrs. Sartor is relatingexperience which is very close to herown heart, for she was an intimatepart of the Bodie scene during the goldrush years.Mrs. Sartor is a native of Bodie.Her father, Martin Holmdrup, was aDanish emigrant who settled there in1880 and worked in the local stampmill for 30 years. He met and marriedhis wife, also a Dane, in the tiny Cali-fornia town. Mrs. Holmdrup diedwhen Louise was 3 years old, leaving

three small daughters in the care oftheir father and a succession of house-keepers. "I loved the excitement thearrival of each new housekeeperbrought," confesses Mrs. Sartor, "and1 always hoped they'd not stay long.The housekeepers stopped coming,however, when Father remarried in1901."In 1911, young Louise Holm drupleft Bodie to live with a sister in CanonCity, Colorado. There she worked inthe city telephone office until she metand married Samuel Sartor, son of apioneer Co lorad o family. In 1929, theSartors and their two small daughtersmoved to Santa Ana, California, whereMr. Sartor was employed by theOrange County Agriculture Depart-ment until his death six years ago.

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Fourth of July parade in Bodie in 1903. Civil Wa r veterans stand at a ttentionbefore the colors as the annual Independence Day parade app roaches.loved best. Yet, the last year I spentat home was far from a happy one.The main popcorn party of the seasonwith all the young folks invited washeld in the home of the banker'sdaughter. There was no invitation form e. In such a small community it washard to hide such a blow to one'spride, especially when one is just six-teen. I was no longer content to livein Bodie and pleaded with my fatherto let me go away. It was the follow-ing summer before he consented.As I sat on the step of the old homeand thought of these things the feel-ings of the past mingled with those ofthe present. I was again overpoweredwith a feeling of loneliness. Tears wereclose. Just then I saw my daughtercoming. She too had been near thehouse with the sagging steps. She tookmy hand as we walked down past theold schoolhouse. The doors wereboarde d and windows covered. I won-dered if the pegs on the wall of thecloak room where we children hungour coats and hats still were there. Ilonged for a drink from the bucketsof water that were placed on a benchand the tin cups so badly bent frombreaking the ice that formed over thetop. The library had been at th; headof the stairs, the shelves filled withworn books. I wondered if it too stillwas there.I walked down the dusty road tothe church. It was no longer as 1 hadremembered it, prim and neat. Theunpainted structure was in a sorry stateof decay; yet, as though to spite theweather-beaten roof, the steeple stooderect. As I walked through the door.I noticed names and dates written onthe walls of the entrysigns of dis-respect left by tourists.Patches of blue sky could be seenhere and there where roof shingleswere missing or a wall-board hadbroken in two. But the old pot-belliedstove stood as always on its familiarspraddling legs, and each of the hand-

hewn pews was in its rightful place,thick with dust and spider webs. Sevenof the Ten Commandments which hadbeen so beautifully lettered on a largeplaque on the wall above the altarwere conspicuously missing. Only thefirst three, too high to be reached, re-mained.Stumbling over the badly torn rugin the aisle, I sat in the seat that hadbeen mine in Sunday School. I couldno longer keep back the tears as Ilooked around at the destruction of aplace I had loved so well. How couldpeople albeit strangers show so

little respect for a house of worship?When I glanced up, my son-in-lawwas standing with hat in hand, waitingto accompany me when I was readyto leave. A little of my faith in theyounger generation was restored. Forsurely, if he appreciated the meaningof this building there must be otherswho shared his reverence for this an-cient church, for dilapidated andabandoned though it isit still remainssymbolic of the finest influence we hadknown in Bodie after those boomdays when it was a lawless frontiermining camp.

Church in Bodie, C alifornia as it looks today. Fire destroyed most of thetown in 1932, driving away the citizens who had stayed on after the richore veins pinched out.D E C E M B E R , 1 9 5 2 15


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Emil Morhardt, Death Valley artist, miner, poet and teacher, beside one of hiswater colors. He holds several copies of his "Death Valley Poems," publishedlast year.He Paints Pictures, Too . . .

By JOHN W. HILTONPhotographs by the AuthorT WAS at last year's Death Valley49ers Encampment that I methim, a tall, handsome man with

an infectious smile, sitting in the lowerlounge of Furnace Creek Inn with agroup of other a rtists. 1 had beenplaying my guitar and singing whensomeone said, '"Give the guitar to Emil,have him sing us a Tahitian number."I handed the instrument to Emil, anda little bit of magic took place. Sud-denly, we were transported from thewhite heart of the Mojave desert toa coral beach beneath coconut palmsand a tropic moon. One could almostsmell the sea and hear the boomingof the breakers on the outer reef asEmil Morhardtin a half tenor, halffalsetto voicesang an authentic Ta-hitian song. The transition was sosudden that none of us had time toconsider the incongruity of such musicin Death Valley; but then, I was to16

Emil Morhardt has been photographer. South Sea traveler, actor,ballet dance r, comp oser, interior decorator an d rockhound. Now"settled down" in Bishop, California, he teaches art and skiing in thelocal high school, prospects in his spare time, published a book ofpoems last year and paints in realistic water colors the mountains andsan dy va lley s of his desert hom e. In this story John Hilton introducesa remarkably versatile desert personality.learn not to be surprised at anythingthat originated with Emil.There were several more islandnumbers and then, without warning,the singer broke the spell with a com-ical western song called "Starvin" toDeath on my Guverment Claim," andhanded me the guitar. "Just to think."someone sighed, "he can paint too.""Yes. and write poetry," anotheradded, "and run a gold mine, teachskiing and goodness knows what else."

When I looked at Emil's water col-ors, I was at once convinced that hereally could paint, too. The paintingsare crisp, clean and convincing; hiscolors are strong and solid. Patternand design cooperate with good com-

position to present subject matter ina pleasing manner duly regarding goodtaste. Emil Morhardt's water colorsreflect a normal, healthy admirationfor the outdoors and the objects ofNature and an unusual knowledge ofgeological structure.That afternoon I looked up RandallHenderson to see if he would be inter-ested in an article on Emil Morhardtfor Desert Magazineand discoveredthat he was looking for me to suggestthe very same thing! But writing an

article on this man is not as easy as itmay soun d. In the first place, he isbusy and hard to find; and when youdo find him, he wants to talk aboutthe future instead of the past, tung-D E S E R T M A G A Z I N E


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sten mines instead of painting and,indeed, aimost anything but the factsone must have for a biographical story.Finally, after about six months oftrying, 1 corner ed Emil for about anhour in my studio at TwentyninePalms, California, and held him downto the subject in which I was inter-ested: Emil Morhardt!Emil was born on the present siteof Barker Brothers in Pasadena, Cali-fornia, on March 17, 1906, and at-tended schools in Pasadena, Chicago,Newark and Long Beach. He grudg-ingly admits that he distinguished him-self at Long Beach High by serving assoloist for the Girls Glee Club. Thisshows that even at an early age he wasunaffected by outside criticism. A les-ser man would not have had the nerveto take and hold the position.During his high school days, he de-veloped a friendship with Roamer

Grey who later was to be an importantinfluence in his life. The two shareda common hobby of photography, and,because Emil had learned how to de-velop and print pictures, Roamerthought him a wonderful photograph er.Shortly after high school, Emil'sfather died, leaving a small candy man-ufacturing business for him to run."I promptly ran i t into the ground,"he states. "There was supposed to bea quarter of a cent profit in each poundof peanut brittle, but I somehowcouldn't seem to find it."Times had become so tough forEmil that he was reduced to trying tosell his beloved Jalopy. Looking fora buyer, he met Zane Grey's man, BobCarney, who said he had been lookingfor Morhardt as a possible partner forRoamer Grey in a photographic ven-ture. Roamer had sung Emil's praisesso loudly and long that Carney con-sidered him an expert in the field.Before he realized it, Emil was upto his neck in Brownie film. "Therewe were," he remembers, "with $50,-000 worth of photographic equipmentand mighty little knowledge of thereal problems of commercial photofinishing. Our business knowledge waseven more sketchy." The camera shopwas located in Avalon, on CatalinaIsland, however, and the boys had awonderful time losing their shirts.About then, Zane Grey decided heneeded a photographic team to ac-company him on his fishing tripsthrough the South Seas. Roamer andEmil salvaged what they could andjoined the expedition.The South Seas! Tahiti, SouthernAustralia! The voyage spelled adven-ture to young Emil. Actually, "adven-ture" in the sense of hair-breadth es-capes from danger and death were

never a part of Zane Grey's trips. Hedid not believe in it. Such adventures,he felt, were simply the result of a lackof careful advance planning. Therewere storms at sea, to be sure, and theexcitement of filming one of the world'sgreatest fishermen in action in thefinest of fishing waters, but the onlydangerous thing Emil can rememberdoing was to rescue an Island boy'sbankroll.Grey paid his Tahitian boatmen infrancs. On e pay day a roll of bills ac-cidentally slipped out of the hands ofa native boatman and started to sinkslowly in the clear water. The boat-man just stood there watching his

wages disappear; so Emil dived in andrecovered the bills. It was only afterhe was back on board that he realizedthe Tahitian was a far better swimmerthan he, but too smart to plunge intothese waters. Emil shuddered as thefin of a huge shark hissed through thewater close to where he had beengroping for the francs.Emil spent about a year in Tahiti.He chose quarters in a grass shack onthe beach instead of up on the hill withthe others. He explained that thisplaced him in a much better positionto get acquainted with the islandersand to attend their songs and dances.Their music fascinated him and he

Two of Emil Morhardt's water colors. He paints with sure, bold strokesin strong, solid colors.

* r

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found the natives more than willingto teach him Tahitian songs and chantslike those we heard in Death Valley.Of course I asked the inevitablequ estion : Did he meet any of thegorgeous Tahitian charmers everyonewrites about? Emil's answer was sur-prising. "Well, John," he smiled,"there were plenty of them there, butthe thing tha t 1 noticed first was the irfeet. It grew on me, I just cou ldn'tkeep my eyes off th eir feet. May be Imet some pretty ones, I wouldn't know.Their feet were all terrible. Walkingover the coral rocks, barefoot sincechildhood, had given them splayed,swollen toes with a hard crust that wasdisgusting to me. And their ankleswere just as badcovered with thedark scars of coral cuts. No, I didn'tfall for any of them, not even with theaid of a tropical moon, soft breezesand the murmur of the southern sea."Emil had many tales to tell of ZaneGrey on these trips. Once the boys onthe photographic boat decided that,after all. Zane might not be the bestfisherman in the world. Given thecash to get to the best fishing watersand to hire the finest boat boys, andgiven the advantage of the best tackleand equipment, anyone might becomean outstanding fisherman. To provetheir point, the photographers decidedto fish too. They had identical bait andtackle, the same type of boat, and theyfished the same waters with the same

boatmen for a month. During thattime, Zane Grey landed 21 swordfishand they ended with a score of onebetween them. Grey could sit andfish for ten ho urs w ithout saying aword, Emil recalls, and then suddenly,by some sixth sense, come alive justbefore a fish struck. His boatmen saidhe could smell a fish a mile away.Back from the South Seas, Emilsomehow found time to take up Rus-sian Ballet and even to teach it. Healso played the part of Padre Salgadoin the Mission play, wrote musical

scores for films, did more photography,graduated with a master's degree inmusic from Claremont College in Cali-fornia, went into and out of the in-terior decorating business and wrotemore than 300 songs.While studying at Claremont, hebecame acquainted with Desert Maga-zine writer Jerry Laudermilk, whointroduced him to rock hunting. Hunt-ing pretty rocks led to serious pros-pecting and a study of geology, andsoon Emil found himself in and outof a good many mining ventures.It was in the desert that he first be-came interested in painting. In Tahiti,he had realized that photography hadits limits when it came to portraying hisfeelings abo ut Natu re. In the desert.

he again felt the need to redesign ascene to get the most ou t of it. Th epainting was a natural outgrowth ofhis photo graph y. It started about 1941and now he never carries a camera.His paintings have become increasinglybetter and his recognition has grownwith the improvement, but he stilldoes not consider painting as his primepurpose in life.Emil lives with his wife and childrenin Bishop, California, where he teachesart and skiing at the local high school.He is head of the Sierra Nevada Inter-scholastic Ski Federation, and severalof his group have become champions.He also has organized a symphonyorchestra and directs choral groups forspecial community occasions. Lastyear he published a collection of DeathValley poems, illustrated by his pensketches and photographs.

Of all the things he has done, EmilMorhardt says mining is the most fas-cinating. He likes the feeling that heis producing clean, new wealth, un-tarnished by other hands or otherpeople's hard luck.With his paints, too, and his poems,this versatile desert artist is creatingclean, fresh beauty in a world in whichthe simple, basic elements of life aretoo often obscured by the tarnish ofmaterialistic existence.

INDIAN TEXTILES MADEAS EARLY AS 750 A.D.The textile art of the Indian datesback in known history long before thecoming of the white man. When thefirst Spanish expeditionaries reachedPueblo territory in 1540, they foundthe Red Men wearing blankets of hardwoven cotton ornamented with em-broidery. Examples of woven textileshave been found in ruins dating backas early as 750 A .D . These were madeof fine textured cotton or fine yuccafiber.Weaving in wool probably beganabout 1600 with the introduction ofsheep into the Southwest by the Span-iards. Navajos learned weaving fromthe Pueblo Indians, and first woveblankets as outer garments for bothmen and women.Today the Navajo is the principalweaver among Southwest Indians. Thewomen usually attend to the entireprocess, from herding the sheepthrough carding, spinning and dyingthe wool to weaving the blanket or rugon looms set up near the entrance tothe family hogan.The younger weavers now are ex-perimenting with various combinationsof dyes and different designs, combin-ing the striking geometric patterns ofthe Pueblo arts with those of their owntribe. New Mexican.

Howard D. Clark, Knott 's BerryFarm entry, was awarded the firstplace trophy in the 6th annual PeglegSmith Gold Trek and Liar's contestheld in Borrego Valley. California,October 11. Second place went toGuy O. Glazier of Boulevard. Cali-fornia.In the women's division first placewinner was Gertrude Ritchie of ChulaVista. California, and second honorswent to Josephine Scripps of Santee.California.Dave Olmsted, secretary-managerof the Roads to Romance Associationwith headquarters at Long Beach, Cali-fornia, was master of ceremonies. Thetrophy awarded to Howard D. Clarkwas a miniature figure of Pegleg Smithcast in bronzed plaster. The figurewas sculptured by Cyria Hendersonfor Ray Hetherington, who makes theannual presentation.The Liar's contest this year washeld in the natural canyon amphithe-ater which the Borrego Springs Cham-ber of Commerce has graded andlighted for this and other outdoorevents.Many wild and fabulous yarns weretold by the 30-odd contestants whotook part in the contest, and nearly

half of the 500 spectators who gath-ered in the canyon for the eventbrought their camping outfits and re-mained overnight."On de Rocks Mac" McCain, twicewinner of the Liar's contest, was anentry this year, but failed to qualify.Interspersed between the tall tale^were musical numbers supplied b>Borrego Valley entertainers, and b>the famous Kitchenaires of Julian.California.On Sunday morning following theLiar's contest, a caravan of those pres-ent motored to the Pegleg Smith mon-ument in the north end of BorregoValley and each visitor deposited 10stones on the growing monument, inaccordance with a custom establishecsix years ago.Management of the Pegleg Smithprogram each year is in the hands ofa board of directors of which RayHetherington is chairm an. The Bor-rego chamber of commerce of whichHugh Woods is president, has spon-sored the improvement of Pegleg Can-yon as a permanent site for the contestThe land was donated by the A. ABurnand family, pioneer developersin Borrego Valley.

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L i f e o n t h e D e s e r t A new suit of clothes, and a dollar bill thesewere the things that completely c han ged one man'slife. This Christmas story was one of the winningentries in Desert Magazine's Life-on-the-Desertcontest in 1951.By EDNA PRICE7HE WINTER of 1937-38 wasone to remember on the desert.Snow lay on the low brownbuttes around Baker, California, andthe winds took on a new bone-chillingintensity. Everything that would burnhad been stoked into little wood stovesuntil the desert looked quite swept ofman's refuse.

I was searching the dump one dayfor overlooked bits of wood from oldcar frames, when I heard a raspingcough, and there on a pile of rags inthe shelter of an old car body, I sawa wisp of humanityjust rags, beard,dirt and bonecoughing out his lungsto the raw November winds. Witheach labored breath, pinched nostrilswinged in and out, and a dark flushglowed high on one wasted cheek.

"Why, you have pneumonia," Igasped."Yeah, guess I'm done for," wheezeda thin voice, as the figure huddled far-ther into his bed of rags.I ran for Bill. "There's a sick manon the dumpwhat shal l we do?""Take care of him, of course,"snapped Bill, snatching a blanket fromour bunk. Toge ther we carried thewasted morsel of flesh to the shedwhere we kept our burros and laidhim on a pile of clean straw . So longhad we depended solely on ourselves,we had forgotten that there werecounty hospitals. Bill became hisnurse, just as he had always cared forhelpless people, wounded animals, en-countered on our travels.Our pat ient had no home, he gaveno nam e. He was just a bindle stiffon his way to nowhere. All that heowned, he wore upon his back, raggedclothing under a filthy army overcoatthat he called his "bin ney ." So wenamed him Binney.With warmth, food, shelter and Bill 'scare, Binney slowly recovered. Likea forlorn mongrel seeking a home, headopted us. When I opened our dug-out door to toss the morning washwater, I found Binney perched on thetop step, wearing a toothless apologeticsmile, waiting to be asked in to break-fast. At noon, Binney shuffled to ourdoor and patiently awaited lunch. Andcome sundown, Binney always showedup with Bill, proudly leading one ofour burros. Although he toiled not,Binney was vastly proud of Bill 's abil-ity to wrest a living from tourists bymeans of two burros and a second handcamera.

In our six-by-ten dirt dugout, therewas no place for Binney to sit, saveon our bunk, and this made me wince.I had been brought up to considerone's bed rather private territory, cer-tainly not a roosting place for a ragged,maybe lousy little bindle stiff. I feltsorry for Binney, I told Bill, as I care-fully folded the top blanket and laidit away for the night, but I did wishhe would drift on to his next destina-tion. Bill was shockedand Binneystayed.One evening Bill and Binney ledthe burros home at dusk, followedclosely by one of those women tour-ists bent on seeing behind the scenes.

She had a mild little man in tow, ob-viously distressed over their intrusion.She poked her head down the stair-well, and yelled gaily, "Yoo-hoo downthere! May we come down?""Well, yes," I murmured a bit re-luctantly, "If you can manage tosqueeze in." and I went on dishing upred beans and cutting corn bread intolarge squares."Come on, Herbie," she com-manded, and obediently Herbie fol-lowed.They climbed up beside Binneywith a curious sidewise look at thelittle figure trying to lose himself inthe shadows."Tell me," commanded our guest ,nodding toward Bill, "What does hedo with those burros? Why does hewear that beard? Who are you any-way? How do you make a living? Whydo you live in thisthis place? An dwhat is that heavenly food you arecooking?"I glanced at Bill. He and Herbieseemed to be carrying on a quietlyinteresting conversation. "Why don'tyou eat with us, while we tell you?" Iasked, and reached for two more platesand mugs."Herbie," she shrilled delightedly,"We are invited to dinner," andpromptly edged over to the hingedshelf that served as our table.After supper Binney slipped unob-trusively into the night. "W ho is hetell me about him," asked our in-quisitor.We told her about Binney and hispneumonia; about our Death Valleydays, and Bill 's trading of our Fordfor a string of burros; of the yearsafoot since then, and the tin-type cam-era that Bill had purchased for sevendollars which was now our livelihood.Hours slipped past, while the volubletourist sat silent, open-mouthed.

At last we were through, and shefound her voice. "You must write,"she announced firmly. "I won't takeno for an answer. I'll send you paper,pencils, books on how to write. Herbieand I own a diet sanitarium in LosAn geles, and busy as I am , 1 still trymy hand at writing, soap contests,everything. And so can you."1 shuddered . Was this hum an dy-namo going to take over my life andrun it at the same fast pace she ranher own? I didn't want to write. Ionly wanted to walk out on the dunesto watch the ever-changing patternof light and shadow, and the smallbusy insect life at my feet. 1 wan ted

to sit quietly in a stillness so profoundthat it tinkled in my ears like distantburro bells. I'd been hiking for years,and now I wanted to rest. This womanwore me out with her terrific enthusi-asm.True to her promise, the Los An-geles tourist swelled the Baker mailbags with everything a budding author-ess could desirepaper, pencils, "Nar-rative Writing," "Expository Tech-nique," "How to Win a Contest ."Dutifully I wrote my thank yous, andpiled the books in a corner of the

dug-out.The days slipped past and Christ-mas drew near. My mind went backto other Christmases. We chuckledover the one in Death Valley whenIndian Tom Wilson ate our duck fromthe salt marshes, muttering gloomily,"Bacon 'n eggs, hotcakes 'n honey,that 's what I like for Christmas din-ner."Sighing, I studied the leaden skies.If the weather didn't clear up soon,Bill couldn't take pictures, and thatmeant less beans for Binney, Bill andme.Christmas morn dawned bright andchill. Bill went jubilant to work, butin ten minutes he was back, pushing awheel-barrow on which careened twobales of hay, a sack of oats, and ahuge brown paper carton. "The dietsanitarium sent the burros a Christmasdinner," he announced, patting thesack of oats fondly. "W onde r wh at'sin the box?""Books," I said, "More books." Bil lripped it open, and disclosed food such

as we had not even dreamed of foreight long years. There was every-thing from roast chicken to mince pie.Mentally I began dividing it with myneighbors, while Bill tore open lettersD E C E M B E R , 1 9 5 2 19


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from the patients in the food sani-tarium, and packages containing socksand warm pajamas. There was evenone package marked "For Binney."We called him in and placed it inhis thin little out-stretched arms. Itmade us gulp to see him standingthere, looking down at his burden withthat heart-breaking slow look of won-der, disbelief and incredulous happi-ness."For me?" he lisped with that tooth-less grin."Open it," we urged.Slowly, as if prolonging the ecstasyof this moment, Elinney untied thestring, which he carefully woundaround one finger before stuffing it ina ragged pocket. He folded back thewrappings, and took out a warm greysweater, then a pair of good woolenpants, long underwear, sensible black

shoes, a felt hat, even a tie and hand-kerchief. There was nothing missingfrom Binney's new wardrobe. Hiswatery eyes caressed the warm softclothesnew clothes!Suddenly he gathered up the whole

"Useless trees and shrubs in theWest consume and waste almost asmuch water every year as could bestored in Lake Mead behind HooverDam," claims T. W. Robinson, districtengineer of the Geological Survey sta-tion at Carson City. Nevada, in a re-port released recently by the Depart-ment of the Interior.According to Robinson, there aretwo ways by whicn the tree-wastedwater could be savedeither bypump-ing before trees have consumed it orby destroying the unwanted vegetationand supplanting it with more valuablegrowths. Mr. Robinson is convincedthat there is no available source ofreclaimable water so large as that in-volved in the unwanted vegetationproblem.Current data show a total of morethan 11,000,000 acres covered by un-wanted vegetation in 14 of the 17Western States. This acreage con-sumes 16,750,000 acre-feet of waterannually. Considering three Stateswhere no data are available and fivewhere data are meager, it is estimatedthat at least 25,000,000 acre-feet ofwater are lost each year.This amounts to twice the averageflow of the Colorado River, or about

75 percent of the total storage capac-ity of Lake Mead.What is this unwanted vegetationand howdoes it robhumans of enoughwater to build up new cities in aridregions?

outfit and ran to the door. In a fewmoments he was back, dressed in allhis finery."How do 1 look?" hechirped. "Howdo I look in good clothes?""You look fine. Binney," we assuredhim, but Binney did not hear. He hadthrust one hand into his new sweater

pocket, and come outwith a crispnewdollar bill. He caressed it. studied it.smoothed out imaginary creases dreaming. Binney straightened up.threw out his thin little chest, andright there from a crisp dollar bill anda handful of newclothes, another Bin-ney was born.The next day he left Baker. "Goingto hock his new clothes for wine."sneered someone. Not so. In a monthhe was back, shaven, clean, and inbusiness. The dollar bill had been in-vested in needles and pins which he

was selling far from dime store com-petition.Fo r a long time we saw no moreof Binney. Then one day an old carstopped byBill's stan d, and outhoppedBinney. possessor of a car. a partner.

"Classed as phreatophytes." Rob-inson reports, "are some 50 differentspecies of plants, mostly worthless,whose habit of pumping or liftingground water, sometimes from greatdepths, and dissipating it as vapor inthe air costs this nation billions ofgallons of water daily. The range ofthese plants is increasing."

Among the major water wasters inSouthwestern United States are thealder, arrowweed. batamote. cotton-wood, mesquite, rabbitbrush, willow,big greasewood, salt cedar and salt-grass.Looking toward the reclamation ofat least part of this wasted water, sci-entists are now studying each type ofunwanted vegetation to determine howculpable it is as awater robber.In discussing the possibilities forreclaiming water that is now lost tothe air. Robinson points out that muchcould be gained by substituting plantsof high economic value for the uselessphreatophytes"Increasing the efficient use ofground water by substituting plants ofhigher economic value." he says, "has

no t yet been attempted on a largescale. But it is thought to have meritover the more common methods ofpumping or drainage; the substitutedplant digs its ownwell and pumps itsown water." Los Angeles Times.

and a set of new teeth . Binney wasa sa lesman , a man of affairs. Binneyeven had a n a m e . The bindle stiffw as no m o r e .So it was that th is became our mostm e m o ra b l e C h r i s t m a s of all, the C h r i s t -mas when the kindliness of a pass ingtour i s t reached out to the re fuse dumpof human i ty , to lift back to his p lacea m o n g men. a forgotten little bindlestiff. "

M a r d K o c k S h o r tyofDeathValley

By JAMES D. KIRKPATRICKHard Rock Shorty had goneover to Rhyolite in Nevada tosee if he could get a drilling jobfor a few weeks. He neededmoney to keep him in grub whilehe did the annual assessmentwork on the various claims hehad staked out around DeathValley.There was no difficulty in get-ting the job. The rock at Rhyo-

lite was hard, and expert drillmen were in demand. Shortywas known to be one of the best.The boss at the Silver Moonmine told him to come to worknext day on the morning shift.That night in the bunk-housethe conversation turned to rock,and the experiences of the menwhose job it was to blast it intoworkable chunks of ore.One of the miners had comerecently from the Cripple Creekdistrict in Colorado. "Hardestrock I ever seen in my life," heexplained. "Kept seven black-smiths busy sharpenin' drill bitsfer each shift. Hit onevein downthere so tough we used threebarrels o' drills an' hardlyscratched the surface of it."This was too much for HardRock Shorty. In his 37 years ofmining he had encountered aboutevery kind of rock known to thedrilling fraternity."Aw shucks! That 's nothin' ,"he exclaimed. Over in the Pana-mints where me an' Pisgah Billhas that corundum mine we hita ledge so tough we used ninebarrels o' drill bits on "er andthe hole still stuck out fourinches."

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He Dug Rose's Wel l . . .Puente, CaliforniaDesert :I enjoyed reading "They've Triedto Tame Death Valley" in the AugustDesert. I was especially interested inthe map, on page 8, which shows thelocation of Rose's Well.One of the men who dug that wellstill lives. E. E. Palmer, 78 years oldand still healthy and alert, lives inGlendora, California. He and G. W.Rose, my husband's father, broughtin the well on the Amargosa Desertin Nevada.Mr. Palmer and my father-in-law

operated stores in the early miningcamps in Death Valley.MRS. M. A. ROSE Memories of Tonto Basin . . .Whittier, CaliforniaDesert :Weldon Heald's article on TontoNational Monument, which appearedin the October issue of Desert Maga-zine, aroused childhood memories ofa summer spent in the Tonto basin.My uncle, J. C. Whitney, was puttingin the intake of Roosevelt Dam (thencal led Tonto Dam), and Mother andI had gone to visit their camp duringsummer vacation from school.How well I remember the cliffdwellings that Mr. Heald writes aboutin his article! Though our camp wasa good many miles away, the prehis-toric apartments looked but a stone'sthrow from our tent. At a certain timeeach day, the sun shone directly intothe caves and brought out in stark de-tail the chalky beauty of the city in theblue mo untain side. In those days thecliff dwellings drowsed, year in and

year out, rarely visited by humans.It was chiefly Apache labor thatbuilt Roosevelt Dam, and the Indianshad established a village near the proj-ect. The framework of their huts orwickiups was made of poles aroundwhich were woven reeds or willowwands from the marshes along the SaltRiver. Brush was piled on top, asmuch as the slight structure could bear,insulation against the sizzling Arizonasun. When the tribe moved, the houseswent along. The poles were takendown and bundled, and the collapsedwickiup was dragged behind burros orponies. A wide trail of small furrowsled to the new campsite.

The Indians were fascinating. Onour occasional visits they would

proudly display basket work and pot-tery, there never was much conver-sation, however. None of them spokemore than a few words of English,and they all refused to admit theycould understand any of it . Conh..uni-cation was accomplished by gestures,nods, head shakes, no sabes and thefew Spanish words in our vocabulary.The area abounded with curiouscreatures of the desert. The Apacheboys liked to

Documents

195212 Desert Magazine 1952 December