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D E S E R T C A L E N D A RD e c . 1-3Farm Bureau Conventionof NewMexico, Albuquerque, N.M.D e c . 4Palm Springs Desert MuseumField Trip to Dolomite Mine offPalms to Pines Highway, PalmSprings, California.D e c . 5Lecture "Indians of Califor-

nia" by Arthur andDonald Barr,Southwest Museum. LosAngeles,Calif.D e c . 6-17National Resources Con-ference, Albuquerque. N. M.D e c . 10-12Pilgrimage andcelebra-tion byTortugas Indians, Las Cru-c e s . New Mexico.D e c . 11 Achones Procession afterVespers, Church of OurLady ofGuadalupe, Taos, New Mexico.D e c . 11-12 Sierra Club's CampingTrip to Stein's Rest Oasis, nearlndio, California.D e c . 12Desert SunRanchers' Ro-d e o , Wickenburg, Arizona.D e c . 12Jemez Pueblo "Matachines,"Santa Fe, New Mexico.D e c . 12 Feast Day of NuestraSenora deGuadalupe celebrated eneve (Dec. 11), Taos and Santa Fe,New Mexico.D e c . 12-13 Dons Travelcade toTucson, Gila Bend, Ajo,SaguaroNational Monument, from Phoenix,Arizona.D e c . 16-24Nightly pageant-proces-sions (Posadas) depicting searchfor lodgings by Mary andJosephin Jerusalem, Mesilla, New Mexico.D e c . 18Palm Springs Desert Mu-seum Field Trip to MagnesiaSprings Canyon, California.D e c . 18-31 Illuminated "City ofBethlehem" Christmas panorama,Climax Canyon near Raton. N.M.D e c . 19Dons Travelcade toVultureMine. Wickenburg. From Phoenix,Arizona.D e c . 24 Ceremonial Dance, Sanlldefonso Pueblo, Santa Fe, N.M.D e c . 24Night Procession with CedarTorches. Taos Indian Pueblo; Cere-monial Dances after Midnight Mass,San Felipe, Laguna. Isleta Pueblos,Santa Fe,New Mexico.D e c . 24Procession of the Virgin.Taos Pueblo, Taos, New Mexico.D e c . 24Christmas eve in Spanishvillages, N.M.;bonfires for ElSantoNino (the Christ Child) lightedbefore houses and in streets, alsobefore candle-lit Nacimientos (Na-

tivity scenes).Christmas WeekNativity Plays, LosPastores and Las Posadas (oldSpanish plays) in St.Joseph's audi-torium and inhomes ofdescendantsof settlers. Taos, New Mexico.D e c . 25 Ceremonial Dance, TaosPueblo, Taos, NewMexico.D e c . 25Deer Dance, Taos Pueblo,Santa Fe,New Mexico.D e c . 25-28Dances at Jemez, SantoDomingo, Tesuque, Santa Clarapueblos, Santa Fe. New Mexico.D e c . 26 -- Turtle Dance, SanJuanPueblo, Santa Fe. New Mexico.D e c . 26-Jan. 1 Southwestern SunCarnival. El Paso, Texas.D e c . 26Desert SunRanchers' Ro-d e o . Wickenburg, Arizona.D e c . 31Deer Dance, Sandia Pueblo.Santa Fe,New Mexico.D e c . 31Annual Pegleg Smith Liar'sContest, Borrego Valley, California.

V o l u m e 17 DECEMBER,1954 N u m b e r 12CO VE RCALENDARRECREATIONG H O S T T O W NPOETRYFIELD TRIPTRAVELFICTIONCONTESTLETTERSP H O T O G RAP H YCH RI S T M ASDESERT QUIZNAT UREN E W SMININGLAPIDARYHOBBYINDEXCO M M E NTB O O K S

Indian Watch Tower at Grand Canyon. Photoby Carlos Elmer, China Lake, CaliforniaDecember events on the desert 3Atop Nevada's Highest Peak

By LOUISE TOPWERNER 4Old Fort Schellboume of Pony Express Days

By NELL MURBARGER 9Forgotten Acres, and ether poems 13Gem Hunting with a Nevada Prospector

By HAROLD O. WEIGHT 14On the Trail of Coronado

By THOMAS B.LESURE 18Hard Rock Shorty of Death Valley 22Picture-of-the-Month announcement 22Comment by Desert's readers 23Pictures of the Month 24Mexican Christmas at Douglas

By JESSIE KENNEDY 25A test of your desert knowledge 26Clown of the Wastelands

By EDMUND C. JAEGER 27From Here andThere on theDesert 29Current news of desert mines 33Amateur GemCutter, by LELANDE QUICK . . 34Gems and Minerals 35Of Desert 's 17thvolume 42Just Between You and Me, by theEditor . . . 46Reviews of current Southwestern books . . . 47

The Desert Magazine is published monthly by the Desert Press, Inc., Palm Desert,California. Re-entered as second class matter July 17, 1948, at the postoffice at Palm Desert,California, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Title registered No. 358865 in U. S. Patent Office,and contents copyrighted 1954 by the Desert Press, Inc. Permission to reproduce contentsmust be secured from the editor in writing.RANDALL HENDERSON, EditorDAVID W. ZANDER, Sales Manager BESS STACY, Business ManagerEVONNE RIDDELL, Circulation ManagerUnsolicited manuscripts and photographs submitted cannot be returned 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 RATESOne Year $3.50 Two Years $6.00Canadian Subscriptions 25c Kxtra, Foreign 50c Extra

Subscriptions to Army Personnel Outside U. S. A. Must Be Mailed in Conformity WithP. O. D. Older No. 19687

Address Correspondence to Desert Magazine, Palm Desert, California

D E C E M B E R , 1954


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Sierra Club members o n the summ it of Boundary Peak, highest point in N evada.Front row, left to right: R osie Balsam, Roland Kent, K en Rich, Jr., John Delmonte;second row: Dick W oodward, Lloyd Balsam, A rt Widmer, Louise Werner, JillJohnson; back row: Walt Collins, Leader Brad Brush, Elgin Pierce, Ken R ich, Sr.,Polly Connab le, John Nienhuis. Soon after this picture was taken, the climbersscrambled d own a ridge, across the state line and up Montgom ery Peak, California.

Atop Nevada's Highest PeakThanks to the perfection of light plastic gear and dehydrated foods,a hiker can now go out and live comfortably for three days out of akna psac k that we igh s 25 poun ds or les s. And that includ es the luxuryof a dow n sleep ing b ag and a n air mattress. Here is another of LouiseWerner's delightful stories of fun and adventure on high mountain trailswith many useful hints for those who go in for backpacking.

By LOUISE TOP WERNERPhotos by Niles WernerMap by Norton Allen

dary Pea k." Boun dary Peak is thehighest point in Nevada. Beyond itthe ridge falls rapidly to foothills anddisappears.We members of the Desert PeaksSection of the Sierra Club, a groupdevoted to exploring the desert moun-tains of the Southwest, naturally feltthe attraction of a desert mountain

Y O U EVER crossed astate line at 12,800 feet abovesea-level? You can d o it in theWhite Mountains, a desert range thatstretches for 30 miles along California'scentral eastern border and then slipsover the line into Nev ada. Imm edi-ately the ridge soars to 13,145 feet,to a point appropriately called "Boun-

with such an impressive position andaltitude.We decided to explore Nevada'shighest point on a Fourth of Julyweekend, approaching it from the east.Driving from Los Angeles to OwensValley via highway 395, we turnednortheast at the town of Big Pine,over Westgard Pass into Deep SpringsValley and crossed the line into FishLake Valley, Nevada, where the roadbecame 3A. We left the black-toppedroad at the Highway Maintenance Sta-tion in Fish Lake Valley, turning lefton a fair desert road that took us 13Vimiles to road's-end at 8000 feet inTrail Ca nyo n. The total mileage fromLos Angeles was 340.A stream watered the meadowwhere the road ended. A board table

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and bench and a ring of sooty rocksaround a pile of ashes indicated a well-used campsite. It was a clean andpleasant spot, uncluttered by the pilesof cans and bottles which mark thestopping place of the litterbug.We changed from the cool clothingwhich had made our drive throughthe desert in July more comfortable,to the warmer, sturdier garb recom-mended for climbing at high altitudes:trousers of rough twill with voluminouspockets (military ski and marine pantsare favorites), a red plaid shirt, a capwith visor to shade the face, bootswith rubber lug soles and three pairsof woolen socks.Foot comfort is of prime importance.One who has not solved his foot prob-lems will hardly enjoy mountaineering.Som e like close fitting boots . Per son -ally, I find a boot most comfortablewhen it is large enough to hold in-soles in addition to three pairs ofwoolen socks, and still allow the footplay. You w ill seldom find a bootsalesman who has tramped the trails.He will sell a boot that looks goodand feels good in the shop. The hikeris interested in how the boot will feelafter his feet have pounded the rocksfor hours. Niles and 1 are in the habitof carrying three pairs of woolen sockswith us when we go to try on newboots.We were to carry our knapsacks

about two miles up-canyon to thehighest available water, camp thereovernight, climb Boundary Peak thesecond day, camp another night and,knapsacking back to the cars, drivehome the third day.My knapsack bulged with a fourand one-half pound down-and-feathersleeping bag, mummy type, a twopound plastic air mattress (a luxuryrecently added as a concession to age),a one and one-half pound rubberizednylon ground cloth, two dinners, twobreakfasts and two lunches (three

po un ds) , nylon parka and wool sweater(14 ounces), a billy can to cook in, acup and spoon, quart canteen (to befilled next day for the climb to thepeak), scout knife, flashlight, matches,dark glasses, first aid kit includingsunburn salve and moleskin for blis-ters. Ten years ago a knap sacker couldnot eat well, sleep warm and be gener-ally comfortable and prepared for emer-gencies on a mountaineering weekendsuch as this with less than a 40-poundpack. Tod ay, with nylons, plasticsand improved dehydrated foods, hecan do it with 25 pounds or less.

Animal trails meandered up thecanyo n. A grouse boom ed in a wil-low thicket, a hollow sound with a

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From Boundary Peak, highest point in Nevada . . .

With a pause to view Fish Lake Valley below .. .. . . We dipped across the border to California's Montgom ery Peak.

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TO U. S.HWY. 95

mysteriously aloof note in it, and soonthe plump gray bird fluttered into ourpath and whirred noisily away.Birch and willow thickets gave wayto a spongy meadow where wild onionsmingled with iris and tomato red col-umbines above a cloud of blown dan-delions. The spiralling leaves of skunkcabbage decorated the stream's edge,and wild roses caught at our clothes."The Mountain's Pride," a pink andblue penstemon, stood off by itself,too dainty to join the others.

Trail Canyon is one of the few re-maining refuges of the wild horse inNevada. Though their ancestors weredomestic horses who strayed fromranches in the valleys below, theseanimals in their battle for survivalhave become like mountain goats,climbing the rocky slopes where no

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domestic horse can follow. In sum-mer they crop the grass in the highmeadows; in winter they paw the snowfrom the frozen sage and gnaw atscrub pine, greasewood and rabbitbrush. Half a dozen of them watchedus from near the top of an 11,000foot slope that enclosed the canyonon the north. Their hoof-prints anddroppings along our trail indicated thatthe stream was a popular rendezvous.

The canyon climbed so graduallywe hardly realized we were gainingelevation. Contouring up the slope alittle, to avoid particularly dense thick-ets of willow and birch, we passedimmense old pinyon pines whose baseshad been washed bare on the lowerside, exposing unbelievably large rami-fications of roots that had developedbark for protection.

Some of our friends were alreadycamped in the highest part of the can-yon that afforded both water and levelspace, at about 9500 feet. On thenorth the sage-covered slope, olivedrab with shadows, went up to 11,000feet; on the south a lower, more grad-ual slope bristled with dark greenpinyon pines. The stream, here littlemore than a trickle, cut through theturf. A quarter mile to the southwest,beyond a jumble of boulders, a tongueof snow hugged a trough in a yellowslope that climbed up to a ridge be-yond which hid Boundary Peak, ourobjective for the morrow.

Sparrows riddlc-dee-deed in thewillows as we washed up and gatheredwood to cook our dinner. A Clark'scrow scoffed from a pinyon pine whenwe unpacked our dehydrated meal.As an experiment we had brought anewand "improved," the manufac-turers claimedbrand of dehydratedfood. The vegetable stew weighedabout an ounce per serving. To twoservings we added a 7-ounce can ofveal loaf. A package of biscuit mixpromised, on the label, to make dump-lings when mixed with water andcooked in the stew. We dropped adumpling in the stew. It changed itsmind and became gravy.The same biscuit mix promised tobecome a pancake batter when stirredwith water and powdered egg. We

poured a little on a greased aluminumfoil pie plate set on the coals. It spread,filled the plate, puffed up until tv/oinches high, browned beautifully onboth sides and ended up as a short-cake on which we poured dried peachsauce. Tea and sugar completed adinner that had weighed only eightounces per person in our packs.The sun sank behind the head ofthe canyon and immediately we felt anip in the air. It was hard to believewe had sweltered in Fish Lake Valleythat noon at a temperature above 90.

Six hours later and 4500 feet higher,it took a wool sweater, a parka anda roaring campfirc to keep us warm.Knowing the leader would be wak-ing us at daybreak, we didn't lingerlong around the fire.Sinking into the buoyant depths ofthe new air mattress, I felt entirelyrepaid for the extra two pounds it hadweighed in the pack. Buoyancy is notthe only recommendation for an airmattress. In high altitudes a AVz pounddown-and-feather sleeping bag alone

sometimes hardly keeps the camperwarm. An air mattress under it, how-ever, insulates him from the cold anddamp that comes up from the ground.Breakfast over, Leader Brad Brush,

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: Wm. .. j .. . %, . . r-- .Climbing up the backbone, the yellow slope of scree finely broken rock intowhich footsteps sink and slide back fell behind and the hikers' pace quickenedto Boundary Peak ahead.

a young accountant from Glendale,California, gave the call to start.Though the sun would not hit campfor some time yet, the snow tonguethat marked our route lay white againstthe yellow scree to the southwest. El-gin Pierce, John Delmonte with sonJames, 15, and Dick Woodward fellin line imm ediately, as usua l. Thes epowerhouses never need a second call.As they crossed the stream and tra-versed a meadow thick with yellowmimulus, John Nienhuis, Ken Richwith Ken Jr., 10, joined them, scaringup a jackrabbit that streaked offtoward the jumble of boulders ahead."On the map, Boundary Peak,Montgomery Peak and Mt. Duboisappear to be close together along theridge," said Rola nd Kent, 14. "Whycan't we climb all three today ?" Anyargument that experience might putup against such youthful exuberancemerely went in one ear and out theother. He had to see for himself.T he vanguard waited at the snowtongue for the others to catch up.Walt Collins paused to watch a hawk

sail over the ridge. Lloyd and R ose-marie Balsam, Polly Connable, ArtWidmer and Jill Johnson together ex-amined some quartz specimens theyhad picked up among the granite. WaltHeninger took advantage of the restto lean on his cane and tell an anec-dote. Back at camp Clem and LeeTodd were just starting, with AssistantLeader John Wedburg bringing up therear. Th e job of assistant leade r is nota popular one, since he must keep therear end of the line always in view,sacrificing the opportunity of climbingwith the group. An other of his dutiesis to carry the first aid equipment.The long yellow scree slope stretchedup to the ridge. We had left all trailsbehind . Scree is finely brok en rockthat has eroded off above, poured downand covered the slopes below. Weavoid ascending on scree whenever wecan because footsteps easily sink and

slide back in the soft stuff. This onewe couldn't avoid without going a longway around. So we called on ourpatience and went at it, resting oftenon outcropping boulders that seemedlike islands of stability in a sea of scree.

Ken Jr., with youthful eagerness,attacked the scree aggressively with theresult that he moved a lot of screedownhill without gaining much head-way. "Ta ke it easy," warned his father."Save your energy." And that's aboutthe only way you can make headwayon scree: place your foot lightly, trans-fer your weight with a minimum ofmotion, and you will do a minimum ofsliding.Unstable as the scree was, rosettesof stonecrops had anchored in it.Patches of fragrant white phlox at-tracted swarms of small blue butter-flies. Corsages of cinquefoil glistenedyellow, as if security were not impor-tant.The longest scree slope comes toan end, and so did this one. Fromthe top of the ridge our campsite inthe canyon bottom 1500 feet belowstill lay in shadow, but sunlight flooded

the upper half of the north slope.Something stirred among the sage therean d Walt Collins picked up the wildhorses in his binoculars, in about thesame spot we had seen them the daybefore. We could now see over theD E C E M B E R , 1 9 5 4


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Ken Rich, Jr., 10, carried his 10-pound pack two miles to this camp-site, then up the next day to the topof Boundary Peak.11,000 foot ridge to a mesa dark greenwith pinyon pines.

But our route lay in the oppositedirection, where the ridge humpedskyward. Pinnacles thrust up out ofit like vertebrae on the backbone of adinos aur. Sudden gusts of wind rattledamong the boulders as if through drypaper. Up here it felt more like No -vember than the Fourth of July.Rounding a pinnacle we surpriseda rosy finch pecking away at a pitted

snow patch. Not many birds ventureto an altitude of 12,000 feet. Therosy finch, a mountaineer at heart, hasdiscovered in these lonely high snowpatches a never ending food supply.Every sunny day the perfectly pre-served bodies of insects thaw out onthe surface: butterflies, moths andother winged insects, who sailed upon air currents, never to return . Spidersare often seen high up on glaciers.Seeds, too, are carried up.If you ask a human mountainclimber why he climbs mountains his

answer is likely to be somewhat un-clear. Th e rosy finch has a perfectlyunderstandable answer. He climbsin order to eat from a deep freezethat Nature automatically keeps wellstocked with his favorite foods.

At 13,000 feet most of us werepressing into action recesses of ourlungs we never use at sea-level. On eor two felt nauseate d. Some took salttablets. Clem Todd, whose family isin the citrus industry in Riverside, Cal-ifornia, told us that laboratory testsshow that we lose Vitamin C throughour pores as well as salt. Th at mayexplain why climbers so relish citrusat high altitude levels. Tensing Norkey,the Sherpa who climbed Mt. Everest,spoke repeatedly about his craving for"lemon water ."A climber can usually overcome al-titude nausea by conditioning, expos-ing himself gradually to high and higheraltitudes. Once overcome by nauseahe may not get over it until he goesdown, but the chances are that if hetries it again soon, he will go higherbefore becoming nauseated. An ounceof conditioning is worth a pound ofantidotes.Altitudes between 12,000 and 20,-000 feet stimulate one who is condi-tioned to them. It may be that heabsorbs a stimulant from the rarifiedatmosphere, possibly cosmic rays.About 12 airline miles south of wherewe were climbing, the University ofCalifornia was studying cosmic rayson White Mountain Peak, 14,242 feethigh, the highest peak entirely sur-rounded by desert in the United States.Whatever the cause of the stimulation,it sharpens the senses and makes one'sspirits soar.

People who climb together to thesealtitudes develop a peculiar rapport.They will drink from the same canteenwithout fear of germs; they will sharetheir food, their wraps, their socksanything they have considered worthcarrying in their cut-to-the-bone packs.We have yet to hear of any ill effectsfrom such unsan itary beha vior. Theexpansive feeling lasts for days aftercoming back to sea-level.The scree slope had fallen far belowwhere it lay glaring in the midday sun.We pulled up over a hump and lostsight of it. Dea d ahe ad an easy inclineled to the summit of Boundary Peak.Any direction presented the eye aroller coaster ride along snow-etchedridges, up over pinnacles, down pinyoncovered slopes, into deep canyons,across salt flats and up to lakes andmountain peaks.The White Mountain Range itselfstretched southwest. Half an airlinemile away, across a 300 foot dip in

the ridge, Montgomery Peak in Cali-fornia curved up to 13,442 feet. Mo stof us scrambled across, pausing in thelower part of the saddle to drink fromour canteens a toast to the fact thatwe were crossing the line into Cali-

fornia without a customs official ask-ing us whether we carried any citrus.From the summit of MontgomeryPeak, Roland Kent, the eager young-ster who had expressed a wish earlythat morning to climb three peaks inone day, looked over toward the thirdpeak across a 2000 foot drop and saidno more about it.Returning over Boundary Peak, wewrote our names in the aluminum reg-ister box the Desert Peaks Section hadplaced there in 1947. In the interven-ing six years nine parties had signedin, three of them Desert Peaks groups.Ladybugs swarmed over the sum-mit boulders and flying ants an inchlong wanted to share our fruit cock-tail and sardin es. It had tak en fivehours to climb both peak s. We con -gratulated Ken, Jr., on being theyoungest to have accomplished that

feat.From the summit back to camp tookless than three hours. The scree thathad slowed our ascent let us down ina hurry. We sank a boot into it andslid a yard, sank another boot andslid two yards. We literally skateddown.Though thousands of motorists driveup Owens Valley every summer, alongthe western base of the White Moun-tains, few recognize that here is thehighest desert range in the country.

Unlike the Sierra Nevada whose spec-tacular beauty is displayed on the otherside of the valley, the White Mountainssave their charms for those who ex-plore them.JACK MITCHELL VICTIMO F A U T O M O B I L E A C C I D E N T

Jack Mitchell, widely known in theWest as the owner and guide atMitchell 's Caverns in the ProvidenceMountains of California, met a tragicdeath October 28 while he was doinga good turn for one of the visitors atthe Caverns.According to the report received atDesert Magazine office, a visitor's cargot out of control and lodged againstone of the cabins near the Mitchellhom e. In an effort to help the moto r-ist, Mitchell crawled under the autowith a wrenc h. When the car was re-leased it rolled downhill, dragging Jackwith it. Finally it fell over a low walland Mitchell was crushed beneath theweight of the vehicle. M rs. Mitchelland others lifted him into another autoand started for Needles to take him toa hosp ital. He died before reachingEssex. Mrs. Mitchell plans to makeher home with her daughter, Mrs. AlBeauchamp in Needles.

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In the baren ess of the Steptoe Valle y of Schellbourne, N eva da ,are the ghostly r e m a i n s of a once l ively town, where Pony Expressriders, on their round-the-clock schedule s topped for fresh ho rse s. NellMurbarger tells the story of this town and of the last surviving inhabitantshe met there.

By NELL MURBARGERPhotos by the AuthorMap by Norton Allen

/ * * E V A D A ' S B R A S S Y S U N h a dff, at last been swallowed by thepine topped heights of the Eganrange, and the blue shadows of eve-ning were beginning to gather in thecanyons and steal across the wide bare-ness of Steptoe Valley. It was supp ertime, and I was hungry and tired. Ihad already covered more miles thanI ordinarily drive in a day, but a fool-ish sort of urge had kept drawing meon.I wanted to camp that night at old

Fort Schellbourne.Schellbourne has been a ghost townfor nearly 70 years and has alwaysbeen one of my favorite camping sites.Its cold spring water and shade wouldmake it a desirable stopping place evenwithout its great historical interest; and,of course, there is always a possibilityof finding there my good friends, Ruthand T. C. Russell.The Russells own the old town lock, stock, and barrelas well as alot of surround ing land. But since theyalso operate a full-time business atTooele, Utahnearly 200 miles dis-tant, over unpaved roadsthe timethey can spend at the ranch is muchless than they would prefer.Two years had passed since my lastvisit to Sche llbourne . I cou ldn't seethat my two years absence had broughtany appreciable changes. The moun-tainous old willow trees and cotton-woods flanking either side of the streetstill met overhead in a green arch, theirboughs interlacing until the roadseemed to pass through a long, dark

tunnel. Here were the same old stone-and-log buildings and pole corrals; andif the old brick stage station and post-office was a trifle more frayed at theseams, it still appeared good for manya year. As this rambling relic of Over-land Mail days serves as the Russells'

headquarters whenever they are atSchellbourne, I turned back past thebuilding toward the kitchen door. Thestation was unoccupied but in the rearwas a battered old sheepwagon, itsopen door framing a yellow rectangleof lamplight.

Bounding from his lookout post un-der the wagon, a brown-and-whiteshepherd dog came racing to meet mehis tail wagging a violent welcome."He grows lonely for people," saida soft voice. "W e both do . . ."Raising my eyes from the dog, Isaw approach ing me an old ma n. Inthe half-light of the dying day, he ap-peared to be ancient, I thoughtasancient as Ab raha m! Only a small man

no taller than myself and slight ofbuildhis head was bare, his shoesThomas Mulliner, early day stage driver, is the last survivor of the oldmining camp.

Old Fort Schellbourneof Pony Express Days


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iyfc SOi-DH/LL

broken, and the garments that hungloosely on his thin frame were patchedand faded. Yet, looking at that man ,it seemed to me I had never met amore noble-appearing soul.It was his face and eyes that toldthe story. They were kindly and com-passionate; and I knew, instinctively,that here was a person who wouldnever be guilty of casting the first stone.Covering the lower portion of his facewas a full beard, as soft and white asfine silk floss, and a rippling cascadeof white hair fell to a point well belowhis shoulders.Introducing myself, I inquired forthe Russellsonly to learn that theywere at Tooele. I remarked that Schell-bourne seemed to be bearing up wellunder the passage of time. The oldman shook his head.

"O h, no!" he said. "It 's going downfastand it makes my heart bleed tosee it! It didn't look like this when Iwas teaming through here, 50 yearsago . . ."And then he remembered his roleas host. He introdu ced himself as TomMulliner, current caretaker of the place,and insisted that I permit him to cooksome supper for me. When he learnedof my plans to camp there, overnight,he was equally insistent that I shouldnot stay outside, but should occupythe Russells' living quarters in the oldstage station.Preceding me into the large, oldfashioned kitchen, he struck a matchand touched its flame to the wick of akerosene lamp. Then he kindled a firein the old cook stove, and set a teakettle of water over the flame.

I prepared supper and washed thedishes. And then, while the lamplightflickered on those 90-year-old walls,we sat in the shadows, by the cracklingfire, and talked of the days when Ne-vada and Utah were young.His mother, said Tom Mulliner, hadcome West as a baby girl, riding in a

Mormon handcart pushed across theplains by his grandm other. His fatherwas a teamster hauling freight to allthe prominent Nevada mining campsof that day."That was in the 1860s," he saidTom had been born at Lehi, Utah.He had spent his boyhood aroundhorses, and soon as he was judged oldenough to be entrusted with a teamand load, he had followed in hisfather's footsteps, hauling supplies tothe mining camps and ore to the mills.He had teamed into Ophir and Mercur,and Cherry Creek, when these present-day ghost towns were seething withactivity. He had driven stage andfreight wagons, and had carried theUnited States mail on horseback fromGold Hill, Utah, to Cleaveland, Ne-vadaa 50-mile route through heat,drouth, blizzards and mountainoussnow.For 80 years this man had cast hislot in the bordering counties of Tooeleand White Pinemostly around min-ing campsyet, he had never engaged

in mining, himself."I tried it once," he said. "For abouta week! But I couldn't stand it under-ground. I had to get out in God 's sun-shine, again; out where I could seethe sky, and feel the windand bearound horses."As the old man continued to weavestories of pioneer days in the Steptoecountry, the time slipped away un-noticed by either of us until the hourwas late. With a murmured apologyfor remaining so long, my host refilledthe wood box, wished me a pleasantgood night, and returned to the sheepwagon that was his home.Spreading my bedroll on a bunk be-side the stove, I blew out the flame inthe lamp and lay down in the warm,soft dark nes s. It was very still andpeaceful and as I lay there in the quietdark, I reviewed the eras of historythis town had witnessedhistory toldme that evening by Tom Mulliner, whohad helped to make it; history gleanedin the past from old emigrant diaries,

and yellowed newspaper files, andmusty records kept by three genera-tions of men.Among the first white persons tolook upon the Steptoe Valley and itssheltering ranges had been Howard

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Egan, of Salt Lake City, an ex-majorin the Nauvoo Legion. To prove hiscontention that a central route acrossWestern Utah Territory would beshorter and otherwise preferable to thecircuitous Humboldt River trail, MajorEgan had loaded himself and supplieson a single mule, and in ten days September 19 to 29, 18 55 ha dridden from Salt Lake City via thepresent site of Schellbourne to Sacra-mento, a distance of 700 miles! Neverbefore in history had such a feat ofsaddle endurance been known, nor hasit been equalled since.

Major Egan had proven his point;and with inauguration of the first Over-land mail line in 1858, the stages of W.A. Chorpenning were routed to followthe trail thus pioneered. Every 12 or 15miles along this course were locatedrelay stations where spent horses mightbe changed for fresh teams. One ofthe stations so established was SchellCreek, later to be known as Schell-bourne. The Pony Express and thefirst nation-spanning telegraph line laterfollowed substantially the same routeand utilized the same station facilities.With these vanguards of civilization,the first white settlers entered the re-gion as station tenders and hostlersand political troubles began brewing.

For untold centuries of time thegrassy meadows fringing Steptoe Val-ley had been occupied by large Indiancamp s. With fish in the streams, pinenuts in the hills, and abundant wildgame everywhere, the region had con-stituted a desirable home and the red-men were not too willing to relinquishit to their white brothersmany ofwhom did not always behave in broth-erly fashion. W hile their smolderingresentment never ripened into large-scale battle, nuisance raids became ascourge on the land.

P o n y E x p r e s s r i d e r s , p o u n d i n gthrough the mountains on their around-the-clock schedules, were shot fromambush; mail coaches were attacked,drivers and station tenders slain, cor-rals and barns burned, and horsesstolen.

Even after discontinuance of thePony Express, mail stages continuedTo p According to legend, thisearthen-roofed log house served asa relay station jor the Pony Expressand Overland Mail.Center Formerly the postoffice ofSchellbourne, this old adobe is head-quarters for the Russells during theirinfrequent visits here.Bottom Ruins of the Wells FargoBank, unoccupied for half a cen-tury. The tall doors are of iron. :

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to rumble through Schell Creek for anumber of years, and Indian raids onthese carriers became so flagrant thata company of cavalry was assigned toprotect the station. With this develop-ment, the place was renamed FortSchellbourne and soon afterward be-gan taking on the dignified airs of atown.Silver ore had been discovered inthe nearby ranges, and Schellbournehad blossomed into one of the firstmining boom camps in White Pinecounty. Additional dwellings and busi-ness houses sprang up, and three quartzmills were built.For all their spectacular beginning,Schellbourne's mines did not hold upwell under intensive operation, and by1885, most of her frame buildings hadbeen trundled across Steptoe Slough,and up the mountain to Cherry Creek,and a majority of her citizens had re-moved to more promising fields.With this development, Schellbournebecame a ghost town, with William"Uncle Billy"Burke, as its last loyaldefender. When there was no longerany possibility of the place "comingback" as a mining camp, the Burkeshad acquired the townsite and adjacentvalley as a ranch."The Burkes were still living herewhen I first made the acquaintance ofSchellbourne, more than 50 years ago,"Tom Mulliner had said.Despite the generations of phantomsthat must have been prowling thoseroomsthe restless spirits of teamstersand Indian fighters, and Express ridersand minersI slept undisturbed in theold stage station.At sunup I rose and crossed thekitchen, and looked out the back win-dow. The old sheep wagon was stillstanding there in the yard, the sameas the night before; but the old manwas nowhere to be seen.Kindling a fire in the stove I started

typing notes gathered the previous day.About seven o'clock came a soft knockat the door. It was my venerable friendfrom the sheep wagon.After we had talked a bit, I men-tioned my wish to get some picturesof the place, and asked if he wouldcare to walk over to the old WellsFargo bank building with me."Why, yes!" said the old man, witha twinkle. "But I must warn youyou can't cash any checks there!"And so, with the dog padding at

our heels, and the soft dust rising inlittle puffs with our every footfall, wewalked up the willow-shaded lane tothe old bank. We examined the splen-did stone masonry represented in itsfront wall; and we speculated on why

a bank should have had need for somany doors and windowsfive pairsof great, tall openings each morethan twice the height of a man, andeach with its heavy iron shutters, nowgreen with age.From the bank, we went on acrossthe ravine and up the slope to thecemetery, a small fenced plot in themidst of meadowland and wild flowers.Searching through the deep mattingof grass, we found three graves withwooden crosses, but without identify-ing names or dates. Three other graveswere marked with cut sections of ironwagon tire, hammered flat, and rivetedtogether in the form of crosses. Intothese three iron crosses had been chis-eled three namesWilliam, Eliza, andMarshal Burkethe people who hadclung to Schellbourne for so manyyears after it had been forsaken by allothers."You've seen our goldfish, I sup-pose?" asked the old man. And I hadseen them; but because it was a goodmorning for musing and dreaming, wewandered on across the meadow slopeto the big spring that waters all thisvalley. And there, in that clear pool,swimming lazily around the dark rootsand dark rocks, were myriad pieces ofliving flamethe mysterious goldfishof Schellbourne.No one knows whence they came,nor how long they have been there.

Possibly some pioneer woman or girlhad owned a cherished bowl of gold-fish, and when she died or moved awayto some new location, her pets hadbeen turned into the pool to shift forthemselves. However it happened, thefish thrived and multiplied. And now,they are big enough to fryhad onean appetite for fried goldfish!andtheir numbers have increased until theyfill even the stream that flows out ofthe spring and down the ravine.We went on to prowl about the other

old buildings and corrals, includingthe log structure that legend has setapart as the one-time relay station ofthe Pony Express. While the buildinglooked old enough to have housed thePony Express, there is no known proofthat it ever served those frontier mailriders. The old Army fort, too, hasdisappeared, along with the threequartz mills. All that is left of thetown's ancient past are a few old logand stone buildings, five pairs of pon-derous iron shutters, two rows of greatold trees, a pond full of goldfish, andsix old crosses in a graveyard.With our circle of the townsite com-pleted. Tom Mulliner and I returnedto the stage station, and I said I mustbe going on my way. My host ex-pressed regret that I should leave with-

out seeing the Russells; and while Iwas stowing my few belongings in thecar, he hurried to fix for me a sackfulof fresh eggs, a jar of cheese, and abag of cookies for my lunch."If Ruth had been here," he said inhis soft voice, "she'd have fixed you agood meal. Ruth's right handy thatway. But the old dog and me wemean well, but we're not much good!"As the work-knotted hand of the oldteamster dropped to the shepherd'shead, the old dog thumped his thin tailin answer and raised his brown eyesto the faded blue eyes of the man.They were still standing so as Idrove out of the yard and started downthe long, green tunnel of willow trees,and back toward the highway.

ORGANIZE TO PROTECTJOSHUA TREE MONUMENTFor the protection of Joshua TreeNational Monument and other scenicdesert areas against vandalism andcommercial encroachment, 48 repre-sentatives of Southern Californiagroups dedicated to the conservationof natural resources met at a campfireprogram at the mouth of Deep Can-yon in Coachella Valley, October 23and made preliminary plans for a per-manent organization.

Harry C. James of the Trailfinderspresided at the informal campfire meet-ing. He proposed that the associationbe formed for "the purpose of safe-guarding for wise and reverent use bythis and succeeding generations thosedesert areas that are of unique scenic,scientific, historical, spiritual and re-creation value."He suggested that the immediateconcern of the organization be thepreservation of Joshua Tree Monu-ment.The mining interests want to openthe Monument to prospecting, and fail-

ing in that, to have the park restoredto the public domain for all kinds ofcommercialization. A second groupis composed of business men who areseeking to have a trunk line highwaybuilt through the heart of the Monu-ment. Since the groups seeking theseconcessions are well organized, Jamespointed out the urgency of organizingthose who would guard the integrity ofthe park area.Selection of a name and the form-ation of a permanent organization wasdelegated to a board of seven directors:Harry C. James, chairman, MargaretLutz of Twentynine Palms, Dr. HairyWeber of La Quinta, Roderick Leapand Richard Keller of Thermal, Dr.Ernest Tinkham of Indio and RandallHenderson of Palm Desert.

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r i I", f A

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tafte/i near the old mining camp of Garlock by Henry W. SmithIF THERE BE HILLS

By T. M. ATKINSONBerkeley, CaliforniaIf there be hills I will not fret;If there be sky I can forgetAll of those small oppressive things,The cold world's slurs, the hard world'sstings.Calm are the hills like Olivet.

One shall tramp trails with dew gems wet,Climbing the crag's high minaret,Finding the balm that stillness bringsIf there be hills.Thenwhen the years and life are met,When friends grow few and fewer yet,And dreams of youth are gone with wings,I shall look up as one who singsA quiet song sans all regret,If there be hills! OUT OF THE AGES, SHIP OF ROCKBy BESSIE BERGRio Linda, CaliforniaThis great rock sweeps upward jike the soulOf all humanity throughout all time,Rising above its talus to a goalBelayed in the sky, atop the climb,The far perspectiveby endurance wonFrom the corroding ages. In the sun,Above the surge of storm she stands andnoneBut the strong in heart attain her view-sublime! I DWELL IN THE DESERTBy MORGAN MILLSSun Valley, California

In fancy I've lighted the desert starsEach one, as the twilight goes,Thinkingthey'll make a friendly lightAs the wind and the darkness flowsThrough the vast warm mother-desertTo light the traveler's wayOr light the dreams of a lonely soul,Or a plane or a wandering stray.

By LAURA LAVIGNEPhoenix, ArizonaStill life!Here droops an open sagging gate,A strip of grayish splintered wood.The loop of wireno hand of lateHas placed upon its weathered post.The frosted-red brick fireplace stands,Charcoaled chips upon the hearth;Two tongues of iron-rusted bandsHalf buried in the barren ground.A wheel hub-four spokes still intact;The boot of brown without a heelWith leather stiff, unyielding-crackedInto an ancient time-worn fret.The bent horseshoea bit of glassSun-amethyst, I bend to touch,And see a green-striped lizard pass;A lightning proof that here is stillLife! WESTERN DESERTBy ALICE MOORE REGANFresno, CaliforniaInvoke the keeper of the stars to makeAcross the desert waste, a path of lightFor those who journey in the well of night,And guide their train until the day shallbreak.Before the sun and drowsing creatures wake,Breathe deep the desert scent, the acrid biteOf hoary purple sageand pray the bright,Horizon peaks surround a cool blue lake.

How primitive and strange these barrensands,Where weathered cross and broken rim ofwheel,Mute evidence beside the trail, revealThe fiber of all pioneering bandsWho, faced with perilous unknowns, appealTo God, and onward traverse virgin lands.

FOOLS' GOLDBy KATHARINE BUOY KEENEYPortland, OregonBeside the desert smoldering fireThe while thin wind-blown flames expire

He dreams alone. His search for goldOnly the future can unfold.As he reviews the wasted yearsOf lonely toil his vision blursAs still a deep insistant urgeOf hope renews its upward surge.Now, digging down with drill and pickWithin the rocky soil, a flickUpturns a stone with yellow gleamsThat shows iron pyrites golden seamsFools' goldagain the futile questWith which he long has been obsessedIn search of treasure, win or lose,The lure of gold Man still pursues. SMOKE-TREE SHADOWSBy AMY VIAUSanta Ana, CaliforniaThe lovely smoke tree casts a lacy patchOf shadow on the sandy desert spreadThrough sunny day, but through the moon-glowed nightIt lays a blue medalion down, instead.

Sitent Stcvu"By TANYA SOUTH

Men often speak of silent stars.How know they stars are still?Perhaps our untrained hearing barsThe harmony they fill.

The music of the spheres! How fewHave heard that cadence clear!The flea might think us silent, too,Because it fails to hear.

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Small pieces of bluish and pinkish agate and many colored jasper, which arewashing down from the hills, upper left, can be collected right in the old NevadaScheelite-Rawhide road from Highway 50. Wash just beyond the long low ridge,upper right, is turnoff to the ge m field.

Gem Hunting W ith aNevada ProspectorBy HAROLD O. WEIGHT

Photographs by the AuthorM ap by Norton Allen7HERE HAVE BEEN t imes inmy rock collecting when a fullcanteen was more importantthan the finest specimen, and I believemost desert rockhounds have knownsuch moments. But not until I stoodwith Carl E. Sullivan on the slopes ofthe Fairview Range in western Nevadasome time ago did I realize how simpleour water problems are compared withthose of our Southwestern predeces-sors, the prospectors.

Every experienced collector on thedesert carries not only the water hisparty will need, but ample surplus incase the car's cooling system developstrouble or a breakdown forces him towalk out.The old-time prospectors not onlyha d to make sure their own supply ofwater was adequate, but their animalsalso must be watered.Sullivan was one of the old-timers."In 1911," he said, "I prospected thesemountains with a buckboard and twoburros. But I worked only half timeat prospecting. The rest of the time Iwas hauling water from the French-man's spring, which is three miles from

A veteran Nevada prospec-tor told Harold and LucileWeight of a field where calcitegeodes, jasper andagate couldbe found in abundance andlead them through little knowntrails to theFairview Flats area,where on a dark, volcanicslope, the Weights found aRockhound's paradise.

the present Frenchman's station onHighway 50. He charged us a cent agallon.In 1950 "Sully" had invited EvaWilson and Lucile and 1 to his oldstamping grounds in the FairviewMountains to show us the gemmaterialhe had seen there many years agoat a time when he wasmore interestedin gold and silver than in pretty rockspecimens."There's geodes," he told us, "cal-cite geodes and jasper and agate." He

had first seen them in 1907 when as abo y he came this way with his fatherin a freight wagon. The freight outfitmade only 12 miles a day, and Sullyhad time for side-trips into the moun-tains along the way.

1 first met Sullivan when he wasliving near Dead Horse Wells, a his-toric watering place at the edge ofRawhide Dry Lake . He had followedmining most of his long life and hadbeen in on the boom at Rawhide, andlater at the Lucky Boy strike nearHawthorne, Nevada.He had returned with the three ofus to see if he could re-locate thegeode field he had first seen nearly ahalf century before. The road we werefollowing goes northward past the Ne-

vada Scheelite mine and eventuallyconnects with Highway 50 nearFrenchman's station.As we set out, Sully cast cautiouseyes at the white cumulus clouds, al-ready building towering castles in thedeep blue of the Nevada summer sky."Don't camp in washes in this countryduring the summer rainy season," hesaid. "Unless you're about 200 feetabove the stream bed. We have realcloudbursts. Usually in the day, butthree out of ten hit at night."At Nevada Scheelite, a big Nevada

tungsten producer about nine milesfrom Dead Horse Wells, we zeroedthe speedom eter. Less than two milesfarther, the road swung to the rightover a summit, continued northeastthrough a valley scarred by old freight-14 DESERT MAGAZINE


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ing trails, then headed north, still drop-ping, through a winding passage Sully called the Narrows betweencolorful little hills of green, yellow,ash and red.Our interest in the area where Sullywas leading us had been whetted byaccounts that our friend Hallie Jones a friend to all rock hou nds visitingNevadahad given us regarding beau-tiful cutting material southeast ofFrenc hm an's Station. Hallie whooperates Jones Farm House restaurantat the junction of Highways 50 and 95,a few miles west of Fallon alsoshowed us spectacular flowery yellowin clear chalcedony which she calledGold Leaf Jasper, found in that field.We had supposed she and Sully weretalking about the same area. But atthe bottom of the Narrows we crosseda great wash which cut the darkish hillsto the east. It and the clifflike redbutte to the northeast were the land-marks Hallie had described for herfield. And when we crossed the wash,eight miles from Nevada Scheelite, thelittle road she had told us about madea reverse Y up its bank, heading intothe hills.

"There's lots of jasper and good ag-ate up there, to o," Sully said. "Y oucan find small pieces washed downfrom those hills in the roadbed for thenext few miles. But my turnoff isabout five miles farther." After climb-ing out of the wash and around a littlehill and heading down the bajada westopped to hunt along the road. Sureenoughamong the wheel marks andespecially to the east of the road, werehundreds of little broken bits of blueand pinkish agate, pieces of chalce-dony and agate nodules, and smallchunks of jasper.Approximately 12.4 miles from Ne-vada Scheelite we turned sharply east-ward on a little trail apparently unusedfor a long time and difficult to follow.With Sully's guidance we reached agroup of rounded reddish granite knobs

and outcrops, 2.7 miles from the turn-off. An old arras tre told of efforts togrind treasure from the stubborn rock.Arrow chippings of brilliantly coloredjasper, particularly near two small sea-sonal waterholes, indicated more an-cientand possibly more successfulexploitation of local mineral resources.Sully led us north and east to avolcanic canyon, a striking contrast tothe surrounding granites. Her e, in thesoft dark crumbled rock and ash werethe rocks he had prom ised. Some ofthe calcite geodes were largeeight

inches or more across with beauti-ful crystal-coated interiors, but thereseemed to be few of them. Th ere weremany smaller geodes and agate nod-ules and quantities of vivid red andyellow banded and patterned jaspers.

I in

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Carl E. Sullivan, Nevada miner and prospe ctor with one of the b ig calcitegeodes from the field he passed through on his way to the Rawhide Rushin 1907.Heavy clouds had been building upall morning and soon it started tosprinkle. Remembering Sully's warn-ing, we headed back for the main roadand reached Dead Horse Wells in a

drenching rain.Next day, with the storm breakingup , we explored the field Hallie Joneshad described. The road whichbranched up the wash beside the redbutte was well marked until it entered

the bed of the wash, three-tenths of amile from the Y . Then it vanishedcompletely and there was evidence ofrecent and violent flood runoff withgreat boulders in the wash, large up-rooted shrubs and mud-coated rocks.But the bed of the wash was firmlypacked and we had only occasionaltrouble in following it. Alm ost im-mediately, it branched with a strikingformation of pale greenish tufa mark-

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TO FALLON

ing the left branch, which leads intothe collecting area.A nd we soon found that it was asplendid spot for rockhounds . Abouta mile from the road to nearly threemiles, and particularly to the north ofthe wash on the dark, rolling brush-covered hills, we found the same typesof material as in Sully's field in greaterquantity and variety and over a vastlylarger area. The re were thousand s oflittle nodules of calcite, agate andquartz and som e larger ones, fine piecesof vein agate, common and gem-gradejasper and jasp-agate in all shades ofre d and yellow and some green, goldleaf in red, in black and in clear orbluish agate. Much of the jasper hadcalcite, iron or manganese in it, but

large pieces of high grade were found.Again this summer we returned tothat Fairview field for the first time innearly four years. We found changes,indeed. Nevada Scheelite had grownto a company town of 145 persons withthe mill working 120tons a day. Thecamp had its own school and powerplant and daily mail and supply serv-ice. And a new, direct county roadhad been cut through from the mineto Highway 50.Though nothing hadbeen publishedabout this fieldthere was evidencethat either a large number of rock-hounds had been there or that a fewrockhounds had done a great amountof digging and breaking. But there stillare great quantities of jasper and nod-

FAIRVIEW FIELDTRIPLOG:Miles00.0 Nevad a Scheelite road turnofffrom Highway 50; 2.2 mileswest of Frenchman's Station,31.8 miles east of Fallon.07.0 Take old Nevada Scheelite-Rawhide road, which anglessoutheast from the new. Roadis not maintained. Watch forcuts and washes.09.6 Watch for left branch, headingeast to base of Fairview Moun-tains at approximately thismileage from Highway 50.(12.4 mi. from Nevada Scheel-ite) Follow trail to end, 2.7mi., to Sully's field.14.0 Old main road drops into largewash with branch road angl-ing left along high, red butte.Follow branch road, keepingleft at branches in the wash,into gem field from one tothree miles from Y. (Y is 8miles from Nevada Scheelite).20.2 Old main road rejoins newNevada Scheelite road. (1.8miles from Nevada Scheelite.)22.0 Nevad a Scheelite mine.22.6 Road Y. Left (south) branchto Dead Horse Wells, 8.3miles. Right (southwest branchto Rawhide, 5.5 miles).

ules scattered over the surface andthere must be a thousand veins ofrockhound rock buried or partly buried.Ten minutes' walk and an hour's dig-ging at a surface exposure gave usbetter gem jasper than any we hadfound before.Carl Sullivan did not go with us onthis trip. He had moved to Luning,and when we visited him there, wefound things had been changing withhim too. At the primary, just held, hehad been nominated for state assembly-man from Mineral County.

"That means no more prospecting?"I asked.Sully grinned and shook his head."I'm through with following the booms,but I'll never quit prospecting . Th ereare times when it seems I have to getout in the hills. I remember the firstfew nights I spent in Rawhide in 1907 .I tried sleeping in a tent boardinghouse , on one of those narrow cots.Just couldn't get any rest, and I keptrolling out of bed. I told my landladyit wasn't any goodI was tooused tosleeping out in the sagebrush. WhenI came back in to bed that night Ifound she had tied sprigs of sagebrushall around my bed. And I slept well." N o , " he went on, "I'm still in min-ing. Partner and I have an iron de-posit right up here in the Pilot Moun-tains we're expecting big things from.And Mineral County, you know, hasalmost all the minerals. We've evenfound tin. Non-metal l icswhy we've

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a world of them. Glaub er salts, diato-maceous earth, salt, talc. When nearsupplies are exhausted, businesses aregoing to reach out. And they're goingto reach into Mineral County!"He shook his head. "A nd there areso many places I want to look into.An d, by the way - I 've run acrosssome petrified wood. Mayb e next timeyou're up we can take a look at it."And next time we will. Not justfor some pretty Nevada wood, though.Badgered as we are now by doom-pre-dicting commentators and experts andpanels accenting the futility of it all,we desperately need the upsurge offaith in freedom which comes throughbeing with men like Sully.

TELLS ABO UT DISCOVERYANCI E NT S E A M O NS T E RS

One hundred and sixty million yearsago, a sea reptile called Ichthyosaurswam in a part of the Pacific oceanthat covered western Nevad a. Thiswas long before the California Sierraswere uplifted from the ocean watersand when Nevada had a sea coast. Thecreatures looked like giant porpoisesand had fins and paddles like whalesand fishes. The Ichthyosaur tribe dom-inated the seas for 100 million years,disappearing toward the end of theCretaceous even before the whalesmade their first appearance in the seas.The bones of the Ichthyosaur buriedin mud and ooze that has now becomesolidified into shale and limestone,turned into heavy stone.

These bones were found in a quarrywhich is the old sea floor uplifted 700 0feet above its former levelthe bonesresting just as they were deposited andswept by waves long ago. The quarrylies in West Union Canyon in the Sho-shone Mountains of Nye County, Ne-vada, which is a 2V i hour drive fromFallon.Mrs. Margaret Wheat of Fallon, anauthority on archeology recently toldhow these ancient bones were found.She was assisting Dr. S. W. Muller ofStanford University eight years ago inthat area in collecting small shells. Itwas at that time the bones were firstnoticed, but Dr. Muller not being in-terested in old bones at that time dis-regarded them. M rs. W heat however,kept them in mind and in subsequenttrips began sweeping off the top layersof dirt. She realized it was an imp or-tant find and visited Dr. Charles L.Camp at the University of California.

Dr. Camp who is one of the threebest known paleontologists in theworld, became interested, and takinga crew with him to the ShoshoneMountains, found what he calls "themost remarkable deposits of its kind

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Above In the main collecting field at the southern end of the Fairviews.Beautiful gem jasper and jasp-agate and small nodules are found in quantityon the slopes and hills across the wash.Below Branch wash which is followed to the main collecting field at thesouthern end of the Fairviews is marked by this striking greenish tufa"monument."

and in some respects is unequalled."At this time 11 monsters have beenfound, 50 feet long with 9 foot pad-dles and eye sockets one foot in diam-eter.Because of the interest shown bythe many visitors to the site, the Stateof Nevada may take over the presentquarry to preserve and protect it forpublic use and make it a nationalmonument.Fallon Standard Uranium Boom at Moab . . .Moab, Utah, and neighboring Mon-ticello and Grand Junction are in themidst of a uranium boom. Mo ab'spopulation has jumped from 1200 tomore than 4000 in the past 18 months,

trailer courts are filled and motorcourts and hotels are reserved for weeksin advance. Big plans are unfoldingfor the community as a result of themining activity. A $3,000,000 build-ing program is underway, includingconstruction of office buildings, re-modeling projects and a sharp increasein home cons truction. W ork is ex-pected to begin soon on the multi-million dollar Steen ore processingmill which will employ 300 to 400persons. There are already more than500 producing uranium mines on theColorado plateau and the AEC reportsthe number grows by 20 each month. Pioche Record

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Panoramic view from the shoulder of Rose Peak, one of themost impressive sights on the Coronado Trail. A longthe Arizona highway, from Clifton to Springerville, the scenery ranges from thick desert cholla forests to breath-taking mountain views of aspen, juniper and pine.

ON THE TRAIL OF CORON ADOBulldozers and road-graders have been at work since Coronadoand his conquistadores trekked over Arizona's White Mountains inquest of the Seven Cities of Cibola over 400years ago, but the ruggedbeauty of the terrain has not chan ged. Bear, deer, mount a i n lions andwild turkeys still roam the forested slopes. The Coronado Trail120miles long is known as one of themost scenic drives in the Southwestand here are a few suggest ions as to what may be found there.

By THOMAS B. LESUREM a p by Norton AllenF R I E N D S in Arizona spokeglowingly about the CoronadoTrail how the phantoms ofSpanish conquistadores still seem toride over its wildly beautiful moun-tains and along its rugged canyons,how ore specimens lie waiting to bepicked up, how biggame animals roamthe virgin forests and fighting troutfill its streams, how ghost towns standalmost within the shadow of smokingsmelters. The Coronado Trai l , theytold us, is one of the most dramatic,

most unforgettable motor trips in theSouthwest.Intrigued by their insistence, Nancyand I recently loaded our three chil-dren into the family car for a three-day

trip from Phoenix to Clifton, thenceover a winding road that goes over theWhite Mountains and down to Spring-erville. The Coronado route actuallyca n be covered in a few hours , butwe wanted to make a leisurely journeythat would give us ample time to enjoythe scenic beauty of this mountainterrain.Our introduction to the Land ofCoronado came as we approached theagricultural center of Safford, 175miles east of Phoenix via U.S. Route70. All that first day after leavingPhoenix, we drove over erosion-rav-aged desert land streaked with juttingmesas and wrinkled mountainspastthe copper towns of Superior and

Miami, into the sandy San Carlos In-dian Reservation where dust devilsswirled with the slightest breeze, pasttriple-domed Coolidge Dam whoselarge lake seemed like a misplacedpuddle of water in a vast desert ex-panse, and through small trading postslike Bylas where Apaches were gath-ered in quiet groups drinking soda popor munching ice cream cones. Thenwith a verdancy that was dazzlingcompared to the chalky brown desertwe entered Safford where thick fieldsof cotton and grain stood green as aresult of the life-giving waters broughtby the Gila River District Soil Con-servation Project.

Except for this one bright splash offertility, the face of the land appar-ently has changed very little in themore than 400 years since FranciscoVasquez de Coronado and his arm-ored conquistadores crossed this re-gion on their harsh and disappointingsearch for the legendary riches of theSeven Cities of Cibola.Coronado himself described the landas one vast area of desolation whereeach succeeding mile brought "only aworse way through mountains and18 DESERT MAGAZINE


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dangerous passes." With the excep-tion of the 40,000 acres of farmlandnow watered by the Gila, Coronado'sdescription still holds true.Beyond the perimeter of the GilaProject, we could see that the desertstill is king. To the south , rising inhazy-blue isolation from the desertfloor, juts 10,720-foot high Mt. Gra-ham, called by Coronado the Sierra delas Flora or Mountain of Flowers. Tothe north, like a movie backdrop, risethe phantasmal Gila Mountains. Andall around just beyond the greenfieldsare the rough, broken escarp-ments of low-slung mesas.After an overnight stop in Safford,we headed eastward on U.S. 70 forabout 10 miles, then veered northwardon U.S. 666 toward Clifton where theCoronado Trail officially begins. Atfirst, we drove through thick cholla"forests" standing like fuzzy cactussentinels along both sides of the road.But as we climbed gradually from thedesert floor through low hills cappedby chocolate-colored rock castles andodd conglomerate formations, thecholla gave way to dense clumps ofwhip-like ocotillo and squat pricklypear heavy with purple fruit.A little more than seven miles fromU.S. 70, we crested a high knoll fromwhich the land ahead looked like ahuge painting. Fa r to the left, thecreamy-gray smoke of the coppersmelter at Morenci rose lazily above

the mo untains. Directly ahead lay aterraced array of high mesas and rug-ged peaks whose pastel shaded emer-ald, gold, amethyst and sapphire slopeslooked like a huge pile of natural jew-els in the haze-shrouded atmosphere.And spread out below uslike thetop of an oven-crusted cakewas ahigh, arroyo-streaked desert plateaufrosted by the vivid, green-clad banksof the Gila River that cut across itsbreadth.Soon we were driving among thecolorful buttes and canyon-cleft moun-tains of Clifton where we stopped atthe office of the weekly newspaper,The Copper Era, for a chat with edi-tor Al Fenn and his assistant, Mrs.Hildred Brown.Times have changed a lot, they toldus , since the '80s when Clifton was arip-roaring frontier mining town inwhich four or five shootings a daywere comm onplace. In those days,tough miners, gamblers and outlawsran the town and were just as likelyto blast at each other as they were toblast out a glory hole in search of gold.

Now, a quiet, almost somnolent, airgrips the town and only a few oldprospectors scour the hills and canyonsin hopes of a strike.A number of pioneers still living inClifton, Mr. Fenn continued, remem-

"Coronado" narrow gauge locomotive that once hauled ore cars fromMetcalf to Clifton. It now rests in the center of Clifton a s a lonely relicof Arizona's first railroad.Hannagan Meadows Lodge, located about halfway along the CoronadoTrail, is one of the many resorts and sportsmen camps offering touristsreasonable accommodations.

ber the days when the only way sup-plies could be brought into Cliftonwas by mule-drawn freight wagonscoaxed over rough trails. It was toughgoing, he explained, but nobody seemedto think too much abo ut it. I couldn 'thelp wondering, thoughas I remem-bered the broken terrain over whichwe had just passedhow they everdid it. Were men different in thosedays, or just a bit more determined?Mr. Fenn interrupted my thoughtsby saying, "Co me over here. I'd like toshow you something."Pointing to an old picture on thewall, he added, "This was Clifton in

1909. See this urea?" he asked, indi-cating a large smelter, "That's wheremost of Clifton is now . Th ere 's hardlyany trace of the old smelter left.""Where is the copper smelting donenow?" I asked."Up at Morenci. It 's about fivemiles from hereon the top of themoun tain. Tha t smelter is the fourthone in the areaand there's enoughcopper around here to keep it goingfull blast for at least another 40 or 50years."In the square outside the news-paper's office stands an antiquated lo-comotive that once hauled gold and

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THE CDRDNRDD TRRILcopper ore from nearby Metcalf to thesmelters in Clifton.Yes, times have changed in Clifton.Even the old Cliff Jail nearbyblastedout of solid rock in the '80s to housesome of the West's most dangerousdesperadoesnow is almost hidden bya modern service station.I went into the old jail, going downa wooden staircase that led through alarge trap door to two iron-barred,rock-walled cells. As I walked throughthe cramped rooms, an ironic picturecame to mind. He re, in one of thesesame cells some 75 years ago, the jail'sbuilder languished for a while. Seemshe celebrated the jail's completion byinvesting his pay in mescal juice andshooting up old Hovey's Dance Hall.He was promptly arrested and b e-came the jail 's first occupant.

Leaving Clifton, we headed up theCoronado Trail (U.S. 666) into atantalizing atmosphere of yesteryear.Just north of the town, the road ranthrough ragged sand and rock hillshoneycombed with scores of gloomy,abandoned glory holes. It looked asthough almost every miner in creationhad made his mark on the hillsides.Soon we were among mountainousslag heaps and huge, blue-streakedboulders that tumbled haphazardlydown to the banks of trickling azureand rust-tinted Chase Creek. Allaround us the rocks and cliffs werevivid with the tell-tale color of copperore. We pulled off the road and be -gan browsing around . In short orderwe picked up several good copper spe-cimens. Even the children, delighted

at the chance to add new treasures totheir hoard of toys, filled their pocketsthough, I must admit, to them anyold rock was just as good as a hunkof ore.About five miles north of Clifton,we rounded a curve and entered Met-calf. When gold was discovered herein 1872, the town quickly mush-roomed into a community with 2,000inhabitantseach intent on claiminghis share of the wealth. Shootings ,outlaw raids and Indian attacks helpedto enliven the early-day diggings, andthe old Coronado Railroad hauled therich ore over its nine-mile track toClifton. Th en the gold played out, theprice of copper fell and Metcalf wentthe way of so many boom towns builtsolely on the hopes of continued bo-nanzas.

Now Metcalf is a ghost townalonewith its memories and dogeared withage. Stark, roofless walls and c rum -bled, weed-covered foundations weathering back into the ground mark the bubble that burst. But per-haps most symbolic of Metcalf 's his-tory was a brace of battered ore carsclinging like cockeyed acrobats to theside of a steep hill above Chase Creek.Desolate, forgotten and useless nowthat their mining days were over, theywere like a symbol of high hopesdashed on the brink of eternity. Whatwould their tale be if they couldspeak? We could only guess. For likeall ghosts, they presented only a silent,haunting reminder of the past.

North of Metcalf, the CoronadoTrail corkscrewed upward in a series

of S- and U-turns into the Crook Na-tional Forest where desert vegetationwas replaced by increasingly thickerstands of aspen, juniper and pine. Theroad seemed to cling to the edge of thebrown and green hills until suddenlyit leveled off and dipped into the Gran-ville Recreation Area where picnictables were almost hidden by a heavycanopy of trees.

Here the pavement ended and ex-cept for a few small stretches of as-phalt the rest of the trail to Alpine wasdirt and gravel. We found most of theroad well-graded except for the sectionnear the Mogollon Rim where the go-ing was rough and the road narrowedto a path reminiscent of the trailblazed by Coronado over this samearea in 1540.Not so many years ago, this wholeforest-mountain area was alive withmountain lions which roamed thewoods at will, killing off the livestockbrought in by pioneering cattlemen.Government hunters have exterminatedmost of them, but sportsmen told usthere are still enough of the big catsaround to provide hunters with fine tro-phies. And along with other big gamesuch as bear, elk, antelope, deer andwild turkey they help to make theback country along the Coronado Traila fine sports area.As the highway climbed graduallytoward 8,000-foot high Gray's Peak,we saw more and more impressiveviews of the seemingly endless sea ofmountains that mark the Trail 's scen-ery. At times the mountains mistingfrom dark green nearby to blue and

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mauve in the hazy distanceseemedlike weathered pyramids stacked close-ly together above emerald sands. Atother times they rippled away in tinybumps as though the land were afflictedwith a rampant case of goosepimples.But no matter what their appearance,they had one thing in common; a wild,primeval beauty unspoiled by anymark of mankind.About ten miles past the GranvilleRecreation Area we entered the Cor-onado Trail 's thriving cattle countrymarked by numerous side roads lead-ing to ranches like the Double Circle.This particular ranch, incidentally, wasthe scene of many incidents that char-acterized the early Arizona frontier.Once four Texas train robbers whosought refuge at the ranch by takingjobs as cowpunchers were traced tothe Double Circle by a posse and adesperate gun battle ensued. The fourbandits were killed, then buried wherethey fell. In 1 861 , White M ountainApaches staged an ambush on thissame ranch. Sixty men, led by Cap-tain Pinkard, made a valiant effort tofight their way out of the trap . Butthe wily Apaches, skilled in the schoolof hit and run massacres, slaughteredall but one of the men before takingoff into the hills.

Before long, we eased over theshoulder of 8,787-foot Rose Peak onthe top of the Blue Rangeand intoone of the most spectacular mountainscenes of the entire trip. It seemedthat all the other vistas had been com-bined in this one to bring forth a radi-ant and far-reaching panorama. Therewas only one thing to do. We stoppedto absorb this inspiring scene of naturalbeauty.

Past Rose Peak, we dipped intoheavy pine and aspen forests again,going by picnic areas and numeroustrails leading to retreats like SheepSaddle, Hogan Corral and StrayhorseCany on. Th en, we hit the rougheststretch of the entire drive. The roadbecame rocky and washboardy, andquickly narrowed to a little more thanone lane as we started up the face of10,500-foot Mogollon Rim. The speed-ometer reading dropped to 10 milesan hour as we bumped up the road.Curious, chipmunk-like ground squir-rels peeked over the rocks along theside of the road as if to see how wewere making out, then bounded offinto the woods. How , I wondered, didCoronado and his men ever get upthis precipice? It's difficult e noughnow with a road. W hat must it havebeen like without even a path?

Five miles later we topped the rim for another fine panoramic view.Then we went through dense growths

Madonna of the Trail, an 18 foothigh granite statue designed by Au-gust Lienback and erected by theDAR. It is one of 12 similar statueserected from Maryland to Californiato comm emorate the old coveredwagon trails. It is located in thecenter of Springerville.

of tall mountain ferns, into ApacheNational Forest and a torrential down-pour. The rain prevented us from fol-lowing any of the off-shoot trails likethose to K P Cienega Forest Camp,Blue Lock out and K P Creek. But itdidn't stop us from seeking a veritableroadside garden of blue, purple, orange,red, yellow and white wild flowerswhose kaleidoscopic colors seemedlike a rainbow.

It was still raining when we reachedHannagan Meadows whose lush fieldsare rimmed by tall stands of fragrantpines. Then, as suddenly as it hadstarted, the rain stoppe d. Th e sunpeeked through the low-scuddingclouds and the clear, bright air wasspiced with freshness.We felt that Hannagan Meadows,with its fine forest camp grounds andsportsmen's lodge and cabins, was likea miniature Shan gri-la. An d as far as

some of the sportsmen with whom wetalked were concerne d, it was . Plentyof big game in season, they told us,fighting trout in the nearby streams andlots of woodland trails where we couldhike to our heart's content or "let therest of the world go by" while com-muning with the wonders of nature.Leaving Hannagan Meadows re-

luctantly, I must admitwe continuedthe drive northward through alternat-ing forests and small, thickly-grassedmeadowlands carpeted with a riot ofwild flowers. Suddenly, Linda shouted,"Gobble, gobble, gobble!" and pointedto the edge of the road ahe ad. Sureenough, there was a wild turkey se-dately preening itself just off the road.But, seeing our car, it paused for justan instant, then scurried into the sanc-tuary of the woods.Linda was all for stopping and giv-ing chase, but it was getting late inthe day and we still had 45 miles todrive before reaching the end of theTrail in Springerville. So we droveonpast Beaverhead Lodge, the BlueRiver junction which leads to Indiancliff dwelling ruins, across the Camp-bell Blue River and a half dozen foresttrails into Alpine, set in a long, nar-row, pleasantly green valley.The rain began again when westopped in Alpine to telephone aheadfor motel reservations in Springerville.But nobody seemed to mind. "Thewoods need it badly," a storekeeperin Alpine explained significantly. "Agood soaking will cut down the firehazard ."Then, changing the subject, heasked, "See many wild turkeys?" Whenwe told him we'd spotted one, heshook his head and replied, "That'sstrange. Usually folks see a lot of 'em."We also learned that Alpine is oneof the principal sportsmen's centersalong the Co ronad o Trail. Hun tersand fishermen like to use its motels,cabins, restaurants and stores for bases

of operation. And those who like tomake pack trips into wilderness areascan make arrangements there forhorses and guides.Other focal points for pack tripsare Greer, Beaverhead, Diamond Rockand Reed's Lodges, and SprucedaleRan ch. Rates are said to be reason-able. Sportsmen have a choice ofpacking into either the 7400-acre Mt.Baldy Wilderness Area east of Alpinewhere the Little Colorado River rises,or into the Blue Range Wilderness

Area, south of town, whose 216,000acres comprise one of the largest areasin the Southwest still relatively free ofhuman development.The road from Alpine to Springer-

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villea little less than 30 miles longis entirely paved, allowing for fasttravel. However, we loafed along,reveling in its surging beauty ofrolling hills, exquisite meadowlandsand wholesome forests. More than allelse, we enjoyed its greennessa ver-dancy that was so arresting in this sun-browned state of Arizona that it cameas a captivating and satisfying surprise.We found Springerville a typicallyWestern crossroads town where In-dians from the nearby Fort ApacheReservation roamed the streets orloaded their pick-up trucks with sup-plies. We also found it was fully awareof the tremendous fishing potentialitiesalong the Coronado Trail and in hesurrounding White Mou ntains. Enter-prising natives had posted such home-made signs as "Worms10c a Dozen";"Worms That GetResults" and "Well-fed Worms."

Well, I didn't want any well-fedworms that day, but I did want to getmore information about recreationalong the Coronado Trail . So Idropped into the National Forest Head-quarters on the second floor of thelocal Pos t Office. Briefly, her e's whatI learned:The best trout fishing is to be foundin the waters of Crescent and BigLakes, Grant and K P Creeks, theLuna Reservoir, and the upper EastFork of the Black River. Fishing in

the Fort Apache Reservation requiresa special permit which can easily beobtained at Indian settlements orsportsmen's centers. There are morethan two score picnic and campingareas on or fairly near the Trail andvisitors are welcome to use them with-out charge. Forest rangers only askthat campers observe the usual rulesof good woodland behavior and firepreve ntion. Pack trips require specialarrangements at the already mentionedcenters, and no one should attempt awilderness trip without competentguides and adequate supplies.When we left Springerville the nextmorning for the return trip to Phoenixremembering the Trail's many scenicand natural wondersI couldn't helpthinking that Coronado didn't recog-nize a good thing when he saw it. Herode right over his El Dorado andnever knew it! Butmaybe it was justas well. If he had realized its riches,the ensuing years might have com-pletely changed the face of the land.And the Coronado Trail wouldn't becalling me back as it is nownot for

a day but for a real, leisurely sojournin a land where, just for the asking, Ican enjoy a wealth of scenic and recre-ational attractions enriched by morethan 400years of colorful history.

Hatd Rock Shottyof Death Valley g C$i

"Dusty?" repeated Hard RockShorty in answer to a questionasked by one of the dudes whowas loafing on the lean-to porchat the Inferno store."Yep, I've seen times whenthey wuz a heap of sand blowin'in the air. Back 30-40 yearsagowe had a dust storm the old-timers still talk about."That wuz a real duster.Blowed 43days and nights with-out countin' Sundays and holi-days. Dust wuz so thick youcould walk on it. Pisgah Bill wuzdrivin' a freight wagon in fromTonopah, an' for over 30 milesthem mules wuzwalkin' on noth-in ' but dust. He busted a single-tree comin' through the pass an'when he'd replaced it he hung

the old one on a pinyon treegrowin' beside the road. Afterthe storm wuzover he went backto git it and found it hanging jestwhere he put iton a limb 19feet above the ground."Down here in Inferno it wuzkinda dusty too. It wuz so thickwe dug tunnels to git over to thecabin across the road. But thefunniest thing was that gopherthat started drilling holes in thedust so he could git up to air.He musta spent a lot o' time doin'it fer when the storm quit andthe dust settled down it left himan d his holes jest sittin' thereoutside the postoffice window.Foolishest lookin' gopher youever saw."

J u d g e s P a r t i a l T o P i c t u r e s of L i f e . . .The judges in Desert Magazine's Picture-of-the-Month contest areglad to consider all kinds of subjectssunsets, landscapes, odd rockformations, unusual plants and flowers, ghost towns, mines etc.butin making their selections each month they have a wee bit of prejudicein favor of photographs which show lifehuman interest and animalshots. There is a wide range ofpossibilities in this field of photography,and most readers are partial to pictures showing some phase of life.The contest is limited toblack andwhite photographs, and they shouldbe well lighted and well composed photos with strong contrasts.

Entries for theDecember 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. Fornon-winning pictures accepted for publication $3.00each w ill bepaid. HERE ARE THE RULES

1Prints for monthly contests must be black andwhite, 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 ofday, 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 andprofessional photographers. DesertMagazine requires first publication rights only of prize winning pictures.6Time andplace of photograph areimmaterial, except that it must be from thedesert Southwest.7Judges will be selected from Desert's editorial staff, and awards will be made

immediately after the close of thecontest each month.Address All Entries to Photo Editor*DeA&it PALM DESERT. CALIFORNIA

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L i m n sOxygen in the Air . . .Maxwell Air Base, GeorgiaDesert:Your comment in the SeptemberDesert that deep breathing in hotweather is an aid to one's comfortinterested me.When I read your statement I won-dered if it could be that deep breath-ing increased evaporation of moisturein the lungs and hence cooled the bodyfrom the inside something like adog's panting keeps him cool. So farI have not found any studies on thesubject. If you know of any experi-mental data I'd like to hear of it.

Another possibility is mentioned inCollier's for November 18, 1950."Keep up with the World," page 8,quotes a U.S. Government report (titlenot given) as saying:"There is less oxygen in a cubic footof hot air than in the same amount ofcold air."Oxygen is of course a vital require-ment: its restriction even in smallamounts over a long time may eitherdiminish the effectiveness of all bodilyfunctions or force the body to learnto use the available oxygen more ef-

ficiently. Th ere is some indication thatboth effects probably do occur, buttheir full significance for tropical ac-climatization, if any, remains to beexplored."Apparently there are still interestingpossibilities to be explored concerningman's ability to get along in the desert.ALONZO W. POND

Comments of a Reader . . .Portland, OregonDesert:I have been a reader of Desert fromthe start and it has gradually improvedin reading and general appearance.Your addition of color was an im-provement, and I am sure if it wereused on the inside would help theappearance, too. Keep up the qualityof pape r stock. I sometimes think theRockhounds get too much space, butI know that they represent thousandsof outdoor people, too.I am a retired pharmacist, retiredmountain climber and retired botanist.You may have read of the Leachs in

th e New York Botanical Magazine orHorticulture (Boston) , or ChristianScience Monitor. The story of the fourboys on Shiprock is a good one andDouglas Kelly is a good writer andknows his climbing language. But the

picture of Erik Barnes rappelling withbare legs is unus ual. Go od climbe rsdo not generally expose their legs thatway. The other pictures were fine.I noticed that you put the "Petri-fied" coyote in quo tation s. It mightbetter be called mummified or justdriedbut it is news just the same.We read the stories of animals, people,adventures in living on the desert andthe poems. I'm glad to see TanyaSouth back in September's issue. Welike stories of Indians and would likea good long story of John and LouisaWetherill. They were great people.JOHN R. LEACHWould Retain Boating Trips . . .Los Angeles, CaliforniaDesert:In your column, "Just Between Youand Me," August issue of Desert, youexpress the opinion a "swap" for amore accessible area in Utah wouldbe preferable to preserving the can-yons of Dinosaur National Monument.Though my visits to that state havebeen brief, I fully agree Utah has somesuperlatively colorful and scenic areaswhich should be protected from dev-astation.However, where in any of our pres-ent monuments can one experienceanything comparable to the boatingtrips on the Yampa and Green Rivers.The trip through the Lodore Canyonis an exciting and memorable experi-ence and under the guidance of com-petent boatman is not a hazardousundertaking.If for no other reason, it does seemthat Dinosaur's rivers should be pre-served and developed for the enjoy-ment of those who derive benefit, bothspiritual and physical, from this formof recreation. No information hasreached me that the access roads can-not be improved and extended, andthe trails laid, so that the monumentwould be more accessible.

L O R E T T A M I E S SProtect Our Natural Beauty . . .Ontario, CaliforniaDesert:Our government and those who areresponsible for making some of theimportant areas of our country intoNational Monuments, are indeedworthy of prais e. Th e protec tion ofthis beauty from the destructiveness ofmankind is so important, for withoutit, there would soon be little beautyleft to enjoy.

I have been amazed at the destruc-tiveness of travelers in these protectedareas. Many are just though tless, andwhen informed of their negligence, co-operate. However, others are some-times rude and belligerent. Only those

who are selfish would deliberately de-stroy our natural beauty.On one occasion, in a Monumentarea, five persons emerged from a cararmed with shovels, pliers and sacksintending to carry off a 16 inch moundcacti in bloom . W hen I informed the mof the law and penalty for this action,they drove away without the cacti, butwere furious at such a restriction. Fo r-tunately, I don't think we have toomany like that. E M E R S O N H E E R English Sparrow Problem . . .Joshua, CaliforniaDesert:How can we get rid of English spar-rows? They are back again, and asusual the other birds the cactuswrens, desert sparrows, flycatchers,even linits and woodpeckers, havegone . It has been suggested that weuse poison bait, but we feel it is toodang erous for othe r wild life. CanDesert readers suggest an answer toour problem?H E R B E R T a n d A N N E B R O W N

Deming, New MexicoDesert:In the May issue, Gilman Taylor ofBarstow, California, asked about rat-tlesnake marke ts. If M r. Taylor isinterested in capturing them for sale,I would suggest he contact Don Shupeof Socorro, New Mexico.J E R R Y R E E S EPAPAGOS FEAR LOSS OFLAND TO WHITE MINERSPapago Indians of Southern Arizonamay be in danger of losing parts oftheir reservation. John Den ton, a Tu c-son attorney at a meeting of the Asso-ciation for Papago Affairs said thePapagos are the only tribe on a reser-vation in the nation which does nothave the right to minerals under theland. This provision was made byPresident Woodrow Wilson when heset aside the two million acres as areservation in 1916.Though various changes have beenmade in Indian affairs bills, each timea rider has been added denying thePapagos mineral rights. As a result,it is now possible for prospectors tostake out land on the reservation andif they can prove there is mineral un-der the stake, can file a claim andwork the land. Min ers with claims onthe reservation can cause hardship forthe Indians by forcing them to move.The Papago Indians are especiallyconcerned because of the large scaleuranium hunts being staged in variousparts of the state. Every time a planeflies over the reservation, the Papagosworry for fear it might be carrying ageiger counter. The Phoenix Gazette

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P I C T U R E SO F T H EM O N T H" P o p " C l a n t o n o f J e t o m eThis fine photograph of the ex-prospector of Jerome, Arizona, wonRobert J. Bochek of Scottsdale, Ari-zona, first prize in Desert's Picture-of-the-Month. Taken w ith a Rolliflex3 . 5 , Plus X film at f. 11 in 1/100second.

V f r g i n ' m C i t y C h u r c hAge and serenity are reflected inthis photo taken at Virginia City, byNicholas N. Kozloff of San Bernar-

dino, California. Awarded secondplace in the contest, the picture wastaken with a 4 x 5 Speed Graphic,SXX film with G filter at 3. 32, 1/50second.24


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M e x i c a n C h r i s t m a s . . . at D o u g l a sIn Douglas, on the Arizona-So-nora border, there is enacted eachyear a simple and touching Christ-mas drama in which the Mexican

working people and their childrenplay the roles of biblical charac-ters. This is the procession of LasPo sad as a ritual wh ich origin-ated in the teachings of the padreswho first brought Christianity tothe desert Southwest.By JESSIE KENNEDYPhoto by Ray Manley

NE DECEMBER evening in myhome town of Douglas, Arizona,I heard the chant of strangemusic. It cam e from the outskirts oftown, where the streets wind off intothe desert and become mere trailsthrough the scrub brush which growson hillsides.I went out to the gateway. Comingdown the roadway I saw a cluster offigures

195412 desertmagazine 1954 december

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