196007 desert magazine 1960 july

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O N T H I S M O N T H ' S C O V E R :

The Gold Rush June cover

The Mining Camp this month's cover--T

The Mining Town August cover

' - '

T H E M I N G C A M PTHE SECOND IN A FAMOUS SERIES OF PAINTINGSBY THE DISTINGUISHEDWESTERN ARTIST

The Ghost Town September cover

In the first installment (June issue) artist Clyde Forsythetold how he and his wife had participated in the gold rush toWahm onie, Nevada . They had stopped to buy gas in a "wideplace in the road" (Las Vegas) and there had learned about thetwo-week-old Wahm onie strike. "That was all I needed to hear,"wrote Forsythe, and off they went.On this month's cover and in the following article For-sythe describes the first stirrings of a Western mining camp a few

hours following its birth.T HE MINERS had named the camp Wahmonie, a ShoshoneIndian word meaning "yellow gold." Obviously, ou r trip tothe camp and watching the men along the trail in theirvarious conveyances inspired the idea for "The Gold Rush"painting which, however, was not done un til 12 years later. Anadventure seems to sometimes need the perspective of time togive it its true value as material for creative use.And so here we were in the camp of tents and bedrolls.Breakfast for $1 bacon and eggs at the tent "cafe." Th en ou rhosts, the shabby little partners, Davis and Ryan, came up witha most astonishing proposal: how would we like to stake out aclaim? All of the area aroun d the big strike had been staked out

even their own claims were a half-mile from campbut theysaid there was open ground near their claims and they would takeus there!W ho were we to shrug off this offer? Th e four of us piledinto the Franklin and second-geared up the slope to a table-toparea. Davis and Ryan set up the stone center monu men t, pacedoff the yarda ge, and made the corner mar kers. We put ou r claimnotice in the usual tobacco can and placed it upside down amongthe stones.Then the boys allowed as how there was still room for an-other claim, right next to ours. At this point we were excitedenough to decide that my wife's brother-in-law, Harold Gay, whowas a mining engineer in Mexico, ought to get in on this "perhapsanother Goldfield" strike. Therefore Davis and Ryan paced-off

the ground and we put Gay's paper in another can, making usall rich.Back to camp to register the claims. We then m et the"camp 's brains," M r. Joe O'Brien. M rs. O'Brien was the onlyother woman in Wahmonie, and they lived in the only woodenresidence in cam p. It was mad e of railroad ties, log cabin style,and assorted pieces of tin for the roof. After listing our claimsin his book, we drifted into talk, and now the long arm ofcoincidence was stretched to the breakin g point. O'Brien , a manclose to 70 years of age, had the speech of a ma n of letters. Helearned that I had worked on a New Yo rk new spaper. Yes, hehad once been a writer for the New York Herald, but in the 80sthey had moved to Leadville, Colorado, for his health."Did you ever hear of a mining man in Leadville namedJudge Owen?" I asked."Do you happen to mean Tom Owen?" O'Brien answered."Y es," I replied, "To m Ow en." Said O'B rien: "I certainly

continued on page 42


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hem ically , man is mostly w ater. To maintain life he must maintain the body 's water level.First, high temperatures ca use him to perspire profusely (a process

This combination of factorsgreater water need, less water availabilitydread. As a result, the desert ha s ga ined an infernal and monstrousationmuch of it unearn ed.A man deprived of liquids would die just as surelyIf more slowlyAlaska, a s he w ould in Death Valley. The secret of desertand

car trunk.With this in m ind.

m a g a z i n e of t h e o u t d o o r s o u t h w e s tpresents its firstS P E C I A L I S S U E

in 23 years of publication, theme of which isH e a t in t h e D e s e r t

Quite naturally most of our stories center in Death Valley, the hottestce in the Northern Hemisphere and perhaps the world. These articlesHot weather is neither overly-dramatized (". . . the cruel,daytime temperatures are comfortable . . .").

Volume23

t e n t sNumber7

Our story begins with the Panam int Indians,

t had on their wa y of life? Author RuthPage 41 In the earl y d ay s of World Wa r II, the Cali-

troops. Weldon Heald, who part icipated

Page 6Wrote E. F. Ado lph in "P hysiolo gy of Man42 ma neuv ers: "Once the desert environ-unders tood, it loses its my stery. Thet, open desert soon grow s to be a friendly

color and sh ado w." Since wa r 's end

Page 8Increasing numb ers of people also are visi t-

er mon ths! Last summ er, 70,000 pers ons

the Park Service is doing to make these visitssafe adventures. Page 10lj But make no mistakethe desert floor is noinnocent playground in summertime. In 1947,two young people became lost on the MojaveDesert for five days. Here, for the first time,is the detailed account of their near-tragicmishap as told by one of the lucky survivors,Mary Jones Blackwell. Page 12II For some folks, th e floor of Dea th Va lleyis home the year-round. How does a youn gmother raise four children in such a place?We asked lean Bullard to describe her house-hold's summer routine. Page 14U Wh at of the anim als and plantlife? Natura l-ist Edmund Jaeger writes about their s trugglefor survival in summertime Death Valley.Page 16ti And now let ' s go half-way aroun d theworld to Iran. William E. Warne tells aboutthe natural air condit ioners perfected cen-turies ago in this ancient and hot land.Page 1811 Fred B innewies wa s for six ye ars superin-tendent of Death Valley National Monument.He writes about his introduction to this fan-tast ic landand his thoughts on leaving i t .

li Cartog rapher Norton Allen portray s hotweather with a map showing highest tempera-tures ever recorded at principal Southwesternweather stat ions. Page 22H A sam pling of month-to-month com ments byvisi tors to Death Valley gives added insightinto the weather picture. Page 231[ This issue a lso conta ins:On the cover: Clyde Forsythe's "The MiningCamp" (story on page 2)

Page 19: Desert QuizPage 27: Desert Driving TipsPage 31: RecipesPage 31: New BooksPage 32: Utah TravelSalt Lake CityPage 33: Arizona TravelCoronado TrailPage 34: Nevada TravelFt. Churchil lPage 35: New Mexico TravelPuyePage 39: Harry Oliver 's AlmanacPage 40: EditorialPage 41: Letters from Our ReadersPage 41: Poem of the Month


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST

I n d i a n s of theSPECIAL ISSUE FOR JULY, 1960, ON "HEAT"

L a n d A f i r eB y R U T H K I R K

M r s. Kirk has spent many years in the DeathValley region. Out of this experience havecome many articles in periodicals, and theexcellent guide book, Exploring Death Val-ley. She and her husband, Louie, a formerDeath Valley ranger, now live in Palmdale,California.

W HEN I WAS a child I went with my parents to buya basket from Annie Cowboy, one of the DeathValley Indians then living in hovels across from thegeneral store in Shoshone, California.Father knocked at the door of a "house" too small toshelter much mo re than a bed and a table. He k nockeda second and third time, and then the door opened. Mr s.Cowboy was a squat woman wearing a shapeless blueprint dress, with only her bare brown feet and ankles peep-ing from beneath its hem.For several minutes, ill at ease, she denied having anybaskets. "N o, " she would say and shake her head. "N obaskets. Do n't got bask et." But she didn't close the door.Eventually Annie Cowboy stopped saying no, and pulleda cardboard box out from under the white oilcloth-coveredtable and took out an exquisite bowl-shaped basket aboutthree inches high, with gently flaring sides and a rounded-in top. We could see other ba skets in the box, eachwrapped in a scrap of cloth to keep it clean, as well asbundles of willow sticks and coils of split willow."Won't you please show my little girls how you makebaskets?" my mother asked.But Mrs. Cowboy only looked blankly at my sisterand me, and spat a sip of her coffee onto the swept-earthfloor of her hovel. She would show us nothing. No t eventhe other baskets. It was this one or none. My paren tsbought it: a true work of art from the hands of a woman

lost midway between the old days when her mother hadroamed the Death Valley country secure in tribal ways, andthe new days when her granddaughter would study chem-istry in the whiteman's high school.The tribal history of the Panamint Indians has not beenan easy one. Destiny gave them too forbidding a ho meland .With only their hands and their ingenuity they had to wrestfood, clothing and shelter from the bleak terrain.There was scant time for the niceties of human life,yet the women developed basketry far beyond the realmof the utilitarian. They could have stopped w ith m erelythe functional, but they chose the beautiful.Probably there were not more than 150 Panamints

living in and around Death Valley when the first white menpassed through the Valley in 1849. The present Indianpopulation is about half that numbe r. Individual familieslived close to springs, migrating when the demands forfood sources dictated.

Furnace Creek and Bennetts Well were homesites whenthe mesquite beans were ripe; upper Wildrose and Wah-guyhe served in the pinyon nut season; watered canyonssuch as Johnson and Cottonwood were occupied while thepanicles of sand grass hung heavy with seed to be gatheredand winnowed, and the lycium bushes were dotted with redberries that could be eaten fresh or dried and saved tomak e into a mush. Brush hun ting-blinds were built atGrapevine Springs and the headwaters of Cow Creek forshooting mountain sheep; McClain Spring made a goodcampsite from which to hunt ducks and to scoop up tinypu p fish in baskets. Having enoug h food w as a transitorycondition; staying alive was an all-consuming challenge.De ath Valley's heat is no toriou s, and rightly so. Sta-tistics show that this basin is consistantly hotter than anyother place on earth. But this has become known com-paratively recently. To the Indian s, Death Valley wassimply "home"and has been home as far back in mem-ory as tribal tradition rea ched . They did not think of theirland as being uniquely hot, for they had no knowledge ofother lands by which to compare Death Valley.The y felt the hea t, of cou rse. Fro m the time that thefirst pale green of spring freshened the mesquite trees untilafter the last of the pinyon nuts were roasted in the fall,heat was their steady com panion . But they expected it,took it for granted; they did not think of the summer-halfof the year as anything except hot everywhere.As late as 1950, when we were living in Death Valley,

I amazed one of the women teaching me to make basketsby mentioning on one 95-degree October afternoon thatsnow already was whitening the ground in North Dakota."Mm mm mm m. The mountains, you mean ," Dolly said,glancing toward Telescope Peak." N o , " I told her. "Flat land. Just like this," and Iwaved my arm across the sand hummocks that lead southfrom Furnace Creek.Dolly was astonished. She just looked at me, her softbrown eyes probing mine for the truth. I think shefinally believed mebut the statement had no real meaningto her.For years it has been said that the Indians called

Death Valley Tomesha, "Ground Afire," but logic doesnot support this notion. The w ord, which sounds to myear as though it would be more phonetically accuratewritten Dumbeesha, mean s, simply, "red facepaint." Itreferred specifically to the red pigments splashed against the


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Dum meantbeesha meant "red." Com -dumbeesha meant the red earth

There evidently were few specific

overhear. Johnny was holding

The fact that the Indians lived in

Mig rating seasonally was aIt was more a matter of survival

F u r th e rm o r e , b e c a u s e m e s q u i t e

M ay. Then they move to Beatty andne. But, in aboriginal times no

trees. Noth ing at higher eleva-early summer. Pinyon nu ts, for ex-

our years. Mesq uite beans , on the

In May, beans still green and tenderweet drink . In late Jun e and

Th e resulting meal was moist-

Sometimes more water was addedto make gruel, which Dolly told meis good eaten with rabb it me at. "O ryou can eat just the little things be-tween the seeds and throw the restaway," Dolly's daughter chimed in."They're real sweet." This connectivetissue was a major source of sweets,but the early day Indians certainly didnot "throw the rest" of the mesquiteaway. At the end of the harvest sea-son they painstakingly cached drybeans in mounds covered with brush.Only then did they move on to thenext harvest, which happily would leadthem out of the oppressive heat onthe valley floor to the relative coolnessof the mou ntains. But even then, ifthe mountain food supplies proveddisappointing, some families might be

forced to return into the Valley to filltheir carrying baskets from the mes-quite caches.In the spring of 1952 I watchedSusie Wilson make a flat basket twofeet across, coiling it out of cream-colored willow decorated in black withthe roots of alkali bulrushes that she

had soaked in ashes. She was goingnutting once more, and this fine newbasket was to be her parching tray."But why does she stitch it so tightlyor bother with a design?" I asked herdaug hter. "It 's going to get holesburned into it when the pinyon nutsare shaken and tossed with live coals.""Panamint Indians always maketheir baskets pret ty," Agnes answered."Tha t 's the right way to do i t ." / / /


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST SPEC I AL I SSUE FOR JULY, 1960, ON " H E A T "

W i t h P a t t o n o n D e s e r t M a n e u v e r sB y W E L D O N F.H E A L DMr. Heald's work has appeared with fre-quency in this and other publications. Hisnature-travel articles have won for him areputation as one of the West's most capa-ble writers.

DU R I N G W O R L D WAR II I had a fascinating job.I was one of a group of Army climate specialists inthe Research and Development Branch of the Quar-termaster Corps. Our business was to find out the exactyear-round environment and weather conditions on allglobal fronts. Such detailed studies and field work werethe basis for designing correct clothing and equipment tomake our troops efficient fighting machines from the tropicsto the poles. For us, this meant assignments in the jungle,on mountain tops, among arctic ice-floes, and even fivedays afloat on a rubber raft in the Caribbean.But, to me, my most interesting tour of duty was onGeneral George S. Patton's maneuvers in Southern Cali-fornia's Mojave and Colorado deserts during the summerof 1942. There I learned what extreme heat and dryness

can do to a man. I also found out how to minimize thestresses and strains of one of the world's toughest summerclimates, and how to adapt to them. In fact, it was GeneralPatton's maneuvers that made a confirmed desert rat outof me. I decided then and there that I would rather live12 months of the year in our arid Southwest than anywhereelse on earth.There were compelling reasons for these strenuousArmy exercises under the broiling sun. In 1942 the Nazi's"Desert Fox," Field Marshal Romm el, and British GeneralMontgomery were pushing each other around in NorthAfrica. A plan, called "Operation Torch," was formulatedto augment Allied strength there with American troops.General Patton was picked for the job. An ex-cavalryman

turned tank expert, he was ordered to train and equip aNorth African task force to be ready for overseas dutyin late October.From a military point of view no better man couldhave been chosen. With characteristic vigor, the Generalimmediately went into high gear. Cam p Youn g rose likea magic city near barren Shaver Summit, 28 miles eastof Indio. There he organized the 1st Armored Corps; andfrom there he gave his men the most rigorous training indesert warfare our army or any other army has ever known.Although an outstanding strategist, General Patton wasshort on physiology. His method was to harden the mento desert heat and aridity in the shortest possible time"toughen 'em up and damn the temperature!" But insteadof hardening, an increasing number of the troops becamecasualties. Something was definitely wrong.The Quartermaster General assigned Sir Huber t Wil-kins and me to this grim human proving ground. Ourorders were to check on the performance of clothing and

equipment, both issue and experimental , and to suggestimprovements in the light of actual experience in the field.Implied also was a hint that we discover if the multiplyingphysiological crackups were in any way due to Quar ter -master inadequacy. Our headquarters were Blythe AirBase, on the eastern edge of the maneuver area. Therewe worked in collaboration with the Air Corps AeroMedical Laboratory of Wright Field, and other Armytest groups.

My co-worker, Sir Hubert Wilkins, was one of thefinest men I ever knew. Australian-born Arctic and Ant-arctic explorer, he was an expert on desert, tropic and cold-weather clothing. From the beginning of World War IIuntil his death in 1958, at the age of 70, he served as aninvaluable consultant to the Defense Department on thesesubjects. Moreover, he was one of the toughest individualswho ever lived. Powerful, hardy, indom itable, and abso-lutely tireless was Sir Huber t .

T he two of us used and tested each item the Quarter-master had dreamed up for desert warfare. This coveredeverything, from field stoves to handkerchiefs, and includedfootwear, clothing, sleeping bags, tents, and other necessi-ties, as well as a few meager luxuries. We found the mostcomfortable desert summer clothing to be light khakitrousers and an open-necked, long-sleeved cotton shirt.The powerful effects of the sun were felt more in shortsthan anything else, and we quickly discarded them. Rubber-soled shoes of any type were heat conductors and soondeveloped foot soreness. For headgear we preferred anexperimental-type helmet built with a detachable frame,which raised it and permitted air to circulate around theto p of the head . Although this helme t was surprisinglycool, and suitable for mild activities, it tended to wobbleduring heavy exercise. Then a regulation helmet is moredesirablepith, plastic, or other good insulating material.

We tested all the tents, too, night and day, and tookcomparative hourly temperatures. We learned that theaddition of an outer canvas covering, 12 to 15 inches aboveth e roof, reduced daytime temperatures 8 to 12 degreesFahrenheit . The covering not only shades the tent roof,but the free air space between acts as insulation. This istrue also with buildings, and many at Camp Young wereprovided with a second roof.But the most interesting tests were made with humanmaterial. Day after day and night after night for weekson end that summer thousands of men swarmed over theSouthern California desert. Under unbelievably gruelingconditions they manned tanks and other vehicles, covered


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miles of sizzling hot country on foot,ired every kind of weapon, and en-gaged in all types of combat. GeneralPatton's maneuvers were for real andthey simulated actual battle procedure.The din was terrific and a visitor fromMars might have mistaken it for amaniacal carnival.As mere observers we were pro-scribed from slowing down the actionwith our medico-scientific foolishness.However, Blythe Air Base G.I.'s weremade available to the test groups, andwith them we went through all the ex-ercises of the maneuvers, minus tanksand heavy artillery. Tem porary labo -ratories were established and Sir Hu-bert and I took temperatures, feltpulses, and weighed more human sub-jects oftener than a couple of nursesin a maternity ward. For backgroundwe kept a complete record of pertin-ent weather information while in thefield.The human being's reaction to des-ert heat and dryness was a relativelynew study in the United States. Be-cause water is always a scarce com-modity on the desert, commanderswere conserving it by trying to ac-custom the men to a quart, or evena pint, a day for all purp oses . Thisdid save water, but it expended men.Their bodies just wouldn't cooperate.On lively skirmishes in 120-degreetemperature the perspiration oozed out

of me like juice from a grilled chop.In fact, on several occasions I lostweight through sweating at the rateof two to four pounds an hour! Fur-thermore, the test groups found thatmen on maneuvers in the burning heatof the desert sun sweat as much astwo and a half gallons in 24 hours.No wonder the men couldn't take it.Such mounting water deficits quicklymade hospital cases, not hardenedcampa igners. If the troops were tobe welded into healthy, efficient fight-ing units every gill of water lost dur-ing the day had to be made up.At this point desert rats, prospectorsand other old-timers will rise up andsay, tain't so. They will recount pro-digious camel-like feats accomplishedby leather-skinned sons of our South-western deserts. In the main theirstories will be true. Facts m ay besomewhat stretched in the retelling,but there are many well-authenticatedcases of individuals who have gonewithout water in the desert for daysand still lived. This is particularlytrue of seasoned, acclimatized men.

Nevertheless, Army field data proved

conclusively that in the long run each24-hour water loss had to be replacedif soldiers were to live to fight anotherday.From the mass of figures assembled,we worked out a detailed scale ofhuman water requirements. With itcommanders in the field could estimate

how much water was needed each dayby knowing the approximate averagetemperature, planned combat activities(reduced to individual kilogram cal-ories of energy), and the number ofmen involved. Other related factors,when known, such as humidity andwind velocity, could be included inthe formula. It was as simple as tha t.The test groups also compiled tableson the length of time men could sur-vive without water at various tempera-tures; suggested methods of conserv-ing body moisture when water is short

or unavailable; and predicted the dis-tance men could walk with givenam ounts of wa ter. In this last inves-tigation we learned that 20 to 25 milesis about the limit for walking in thedesert, but whatever the individuallimit was, each additional quart ofwater boosted a man's capability forwalking about 5 miles. Th us , if aG.I. walked five miles and quit, theadditional water would carry him an-other five.But as soon as we disposed of onedesert hot-weather problem, up poppedanother. After the men learned todrink copiously, even while on activemaneuvers, some of them developedpainful, spasmodic contractions of va-rious muscles. Many people think thatthese symptoms are due to drinkingwhile doing strenuous exercise. Butthey are not. They are heat crampscaused by lack of salt.Sweat contains salt and perspiring

reduces the necessary amount. Un -fortunately, man, unlike most animals,seldom feels a craving for salt, so mustconsciously make up his losses. Salttablets or salted water in the propor-tion of one ounce of salt per gallon isusually sufficient. Bu t swe at rate s varyfrom individual to individual, and theamount of salt required differs mark-edly. Inhabitants of hot countrieswisely keep a salt balance by eatinghighly seasoned foods. Me xicans onthe hottest days sit down to meals lib-erally sprinkled with chili and hotsauces. We who take a light salad anda malted milk when the temperaturesoars, might well give a thought toour salt balance.

Heat prostration, called heat exhaus-tion by physiologists, was the mostcommon form of breakdown on theman euvers. Th at is true everywhere,and heat waves all over the worldclaim victims by the hundreds everyyea r. It is really a protec tive m ech -anism for an embarrassed and over-loaded heart laboring to maintain aproper heat balance. It occurs usuallyin a collapse resembling a prolongedfaint, and the skin often becomes moistand clamm y. This reduces the over-load on the heart and gives it a chanceto recover. We observed many casesof heat prostration. Rest in the shadeis the only cure, but a dash of waterin the face helps. People w ho diefrom heat prostration are usually thosewith weak hearts or general ill-health.

Heatstroke is our deadliest hotweather enemy, but only two casescame to our imm ediate attention. Itis particularly insidious because thereis a popular misconception as to whatcauses the attack. Mo st people be-lieve that heatstroke is brought on byContinued on page 24


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST

A S u m m e r V i s i ttoSPECIAL ISSUE FOR JULY, 1960, ON "HEAT"

t h e P a n a m i n t sB y H A R O L D 0. W E I G H TMr. Weight has had long association withDesert Magazine. He is recognized todayas an outstanding authority on mineralogy,lost mines and Mojave Desert history. Hean d his wife, Lucile, Desert Magazine'sCalifornia travel columnist, live in Twenty-nine Palms.

TIM E WAS not many years past when summertourist travel into Death Valley was not encouraged.When the hot months came and the "Ground Afi re"started to burn, resorts closed and Nat ional Monumentemployees and their families moved to Summer Head-quarters in Wildrose Canyon in the Panamint Mountains,nearly 5000 feet above the shimmering sink. Only necessarymaintenance work and ranger patrols on main-traveledroads continued down below. Death Valley was indeedDeath Valley.But progress has seeped into the Big Sink. Main roadsal l are improv ed. State Highway 190 and the Beatty andTrona highways carry more through-traffic each summer.Stove Pipe Wells Hotel remains open to the extent ofsupplying gasoline and meals. Furnace Creek Ranch storeand filling station are open . Scotty's Castle and Wildrose

Station offer their usual accom mod ations. Park Servicepersonnel have abandoned their cool perch in Wildrose foryear-round Valley floor living in their modern Cow Creekresidential area.A nd you, too, now are welcome in Death Valley inthe summer. If your car is in good condition and you usecommon sense, you are not likely to get into trouble, andvisiting the Valley when the heat is on is an experienceand something to talk about. But I have concluded, fromseveral such entradas, that to tour the Big Sink in summerisn't much fun.If you want a Death Valley summer vacation to enjoyas well as talk about, follow the example of Death Valleyinhabitants from prehistoric Indians through miningboomers and prospectors to the Park Service's recent past and take to the high Panamints.So much publicity has been given the "deadly" below-sea-level sink that few even among Monument visitorsrealize that there is more mountain than valley in DeathValley Nation al M onu men t. Death Valley is a fault blockwhich dropped as the mountains rose in successive earthmovements. It is bounded on the east by the Grapevine,the Funeral , the Black and Ibex mountains and on thewest by the Cottonwoods, Panamints and Owl Holes.While the unfortunate '49ers who gave the Valley itsname might remember the great chemical sink best, it wasthe Panamint Mountains which forced them to abandon

their wagons and walk. While the Valley won the luridstories, most of the mining excitements which broughtmen to it were in the surrounding mountains.There are places in all these mountains that rim DeathValley where summer temperatures are quite pleasant, but

many can be reached only by difficult trails through hotand uninhabited areas. In the Panamints, however, youcan visit historic sites and ghost camps, follow old trails,cl imb mountains, see old mines and hunt lost mines allwithin easy reach of a paved highway and without everdropping much below 4000 feet elevation.

The high Panamints are accessible from the east byany highway into Death Valley, then through StovepipeWells and up Emigrant Canyon; from the west by Olanchaor Lone Pine past Panamint Springs Resort then downPanamint Valley to Wildrose Canyon or across the Pana -mints to Emigrant Ranger Stat ion and up Emigrant Can-yon; from the southwest by Trona and up Panamint Valleyto Wildrose Canyon.My favorite is the route from Trona over historic SlateRange Crossing. The wall of the Panamints seen from theCrossing is as magnificent a geological spectacle as any inDeath Valley. Now the highway drops smoothly downthe Slate Range into Panamint Valley. But a backwardglance at the old zig-zag road, built up in places by hand-laid rock, will make clear the torment it presented tolaboring freight teams during the mining booms. Nor wasit a breeze for later mechanized tourists. I still rememberslipping into the deep ruts more than 25 years ago, andknocking the exhaust pipe completely loose from theengine.A dirt road, right, close to the foot of the grade, wherethe highway heads straight up Panamint Valley, leads tothe adobe ruins of old Ballarat which was the social and

supply center for the camps in the Panamints at thebeginning of this century. Lon g after its boom had fadedit was the home of the old Death Valley prospectorssuch men as Jim Sherlock, Fred Gray, Chris Wicht, BillieHeider, and Frank (Shorty) Harris. It still is the seasonalresidence of Seldom Seen Slim Ferge, one of the lastremaining prospectors.A right branch of the dirt road that continues north fromBallarat enters Surprise Canyon and climbs steeply to the6000-foot-plus ruins of Panamint City, earliest and greatestof the Panamint Mountains mining camps. Its rich silverwas discovered in the early 1870s by outlaws holed-up inwhat was then one of the loneliest and most isolated sectionsof the West. Two famous Nevada Senators William

Stewart and J. P. Joneshelped make Panamint great .Burning of their mill, drop in silver and lead prices, anda cloudburst that swept the canyon in 1876 combined todestroy the camp.Inyo County has been doing maintenance on the Pana -


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The other branch of the dirt

The highway enters Death Valleyes from T rona. In the

bout 10 people. Reservations forvernight are advisable (Box 397,rona). According to George Pipkin(who with his wife, Anne, operatedildrose in the 1940s and early '50s)the station is halfway between Skidooand Ballarat and during the Skidooboom, from 1906 on, was an impor-tant freight and stage stop with adobecorrals, blacksmith shop, eating houseand saloon. It was aband oned an dvirtually obliterated after the boom,Babcock and his wifeafter a CCC camp wasestablished in WildroseCanyon in the 1930s,and has remained opensince.

through the Panamints. A paved right-branch leads almost immediately to theformer Death Valley Summer Head-quarters which previous to that hadbeen a CCC camp when the boyswere working in the Panamints andbuilding the present foot-trail to Tele-scope Peak. One ranger remains inresidence now.The George party found antimonyledges in the hills beyond and to thesouth of this location . W riting localhistory for the Panamint News from"Rose Springs" in March, 1875, Dr.George said: "On the 23d (of De -cember, 1860) Henderson and my-self, taking two or three days provi-sions, started down in the directionof the Slate Range. Returning on the

25th, we came up through MesquiteFlat and up Windy Canyon, crossingover into Rose Canyon, and aftercrossing the summit discovered theChristmas Gift Lode, so named be-cause of the day."Christmas Gift Lode apparently wasthe first mine located in the Panamints,probably the first within present DeathValley National Monument (Amar-gosa Gold Mine, reputedly located onthe Old Spanish Trail in the late 1850s,l ies south of the M onu me nt) . Desul-tory attempts to work the antimonymainly stibnitehave been made withlargest production during World War I.On that same 1860 expedition, In-

Continued on page 25

Wildrose Springs is lo-cated in the canyonabout 1.5 miles abovethe station. It is now asemi - developed publiccampground, but travel-ers are warned to boil thewater whose purity madeit one of the famousDeath Valley wateringplaces in prospecting andmining boom times. Can-yon and spring werenamed for the roses thatstill grow abundantly, bythe Dr. S. G. Georgeparty which camped herein D e c e m b e r , 1 8 6 0 .George was leading thes e c o n d e x p e d i t i o n t osearch for the Lost Gun-sight, a silver deposit found by the49ers during their escape from DeathValley.

Above Wildrose Springs the highway

To TO NO PAH

_To BAKERi \


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST S P E CI A L I S S U E F O R J U L Y , 1960 , ON " H E A T "

P r o t e c t i n g V i s i t o r s to t h e V a l l e yB y R O L A N D W A U E R

This article marks Mr. Wauer's first ap-pearance in Desert Magazine. He is a ParkService naturalist at Death Valley.

W ITH MORE and more Americans on the highways,driving across the country in better and more reliableautomobiles, it is only natural that summer visitationto Death Valley is on the increase. During the four sum-mer months of 1958, 58,000 persons entered the Valley;in 1959 the summer visitor-total jumped to 70,000.Mo st of these people are merely passing through (theshortest route from Las Vegas to Highway 395 runs acrossDeath V alley ). A great many travelers make this passageunaware that they have driven through a national monu-me nt. But, some summ er visitors go out of their way tovisit Death Valley during its hot season, not a few of themtaking this route in order to be able to say: "I visitedDe ath Valley in the summ er!" It's quite a distinction,although some folks from the humid South have confided

that the dry desert heat wasn't so bad after all. On one125-degree day a man told me that it was more uncom-fortable "at home in Georgia" when the temperature therewas only 90 degrees.But, in the South you can buy a cool soda-pop atevery-other cross-road. Not so in Death Valley. Thereare few "cross-roads" (few of them offering refreshments),and distances are great. In order to mak e safe adven turesout of summer visitations to Death Valley, the NationalPark Service regularly patrols the main-traveled road s. Inaddition, many of the secondary roads are patrolled fromtime to time (see accompanying map).The patrol trucks are equipped with two-way radios,emergency food and rations, extra gas, first-aid kit, tools,maps , free information booklets, salt tablets and plenty ofdrinking water. All patrolling is done in the daytime,unless a heavy rain in the late afternoon or early eveningforecasts a flash flood along a main route of travel.A recent patrol began much like all the othersatheadquarters where my truck was filled with gas andI received last-minute information and instructions fromChief Ranger Danielson.Before I had gone too many miles that morning, I hadto roll up the windows to close-off the blast of hot air.A car pulled out of the Furnace Creek Ranch entranceroad and seeing my Park Service vehicle approaching,stopped. I had my first "custo mer" of the day.I pulled up alongside and greeted the visitors. A beadof sweat rolled dow n the driver's nose. "Kin d of hot dow nhere ," he said. "W e're looking for a place to camp ."Out came my maps, and after learning what this fam-ily wanted in the way of a campsite, I was able to

recommend that they head for Wildrose Canyon and theThorndike Camp at 7200 feet elevation.Death Valley has a way of growing on first-time visitors even in July. The man wan ted to know all abou t thisstartling land, but a youngster's cry of "Let's go daddy,it 's ho t," won out. They headed n orth toward the highPanamints.

The Park Service's protective arm would extend overthese campers in the Wildrose region. District Rang erM att Ryan lives at Emig rant Rang er Station. His friendlyways have helped make this high-country region popularwith Valley residents and visitors alike.I turned south onto the Badw ater Road . The greenmesquite along the Furnace Creek fan contrasts sharply

against the salt pan and the purple mountains beyond.How well Carl Sandburg described this below-sea-levelsetting when he wrote: "the night-cool limestone white ofDeath Valley"except the world around me was hotnot "night-cool."The Badwater Roadone that is irregularly patrolled winds along the eastern edge of Death V alley. I stoppedat the West Side junction to check a mark I had scratchedacross the side-road entrance three days before. No tire-mark had disturbed the mark which meant no car hadturned-off on to this road during the past 72 hour s. Therewas no need to check for trouble on the West Side roadon this morning.A car approached from the south, and the driver waved

his arm indicating that he wanted to talk to me. In a veryexcited voice the man informed me that "A Chevroletand two boys are off the road down there by that pool ofwater!"I asked whether the boys were injured." N o , " he answered, "but they're sure raising a lot ofsweat trying to free that car!"I continued on to Badwaterbut now i t was moreurgent. Two boys in trouble struck a disquieting chord .In August, 1953, two boys had gotten stuck in NaturalBridge Canyo n, and walked out for help. They found aroad and presumably sat throughout the hot day waitingfor help. Their bodies, naked from the waist up, were

found th e following day. A senseless traged y, for their carwas easily extricated from the sand after the rear wheelshad been jacked-up and the ruts dug by the spinningwheels filled-in with rocks.I hoped that the two boys at Badwater had kept theii


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heads and had followed the simplerules of desert safety. A situation re-garded as a nuisance elsewhere some-times becomes cause for panic whenit occurs in the lonely desert.One of the boys was working overthe car while the other was lying inthe shade. They were out of waterand had neither spare tire nor jack.I gave them some salt tablets and allthe water they could drink. In amatter of minutes I freed their car,and they were on their way. They werelucky and, I hoped, a little wiser.I started south once again, and re-ceived a call on the radio . He adq uar-ters had been notified of the two boysin trouble at Badw ater. They wantedmy report . Radio comm unicationsthroughout the Monument fromUbehebe Crater to Saratoga Springsprovides a margin of safety in this

vast expanse.Later that day I stopped at Dante'sView atop the Black M ounta ins. Ele-vation here is 5700 feet, providing apleasant contrast to the temperatureon the Valley floor.I ate my lunch in the shade ofthe exhibit which points out manyof the Valley 's scenic attrac tions . Amovement along the slopes caught myattention. A bighorn ram, browsingalong the terrain below, provided anunforgettable sight a summertimereward!From Dante's View I traveled toDeath Valley Junction where I picked-up the mail for the Valley's summerresidents. And then back to Head-quarters, alert for signs of trouble onthe road ahead.There are nine rules of desert safetyvisitors to Death Valley are urged tofollow. They make good sense.

1. D O N O T O V E R E X P O S E Y O U R -SELF TO THE SUN. Sunburn, sun-stroke or heat exhaustion can be veryserious. Wear a hat and shirt whilein the sun.2 . S T A Y O N T H E M A I N R O A D Swhile traveling through the lower,warmer elevations. These are Califor-nia State Route No. 190; DaylightPass Road to Beatty, Nevada; Scotty'sCastle Road; and Emigrant Pass roadto Wildrose Canyo n. These roads arepatrolled frequently by Park Rangers.3. C H E C K Y O U R G A S O L I N EAN D OIL . Service Stations are 25miles or more apart. Gasoline is avail-able only at Wildrose Station, StovePipe Wells, Furnace Creek Ranch andScotty's Castle.

DEATH VALLEY DUNES

4. D O N O T D E F L A T E Y O U RTIR ES . Pressure generated by heat isnegligible, but heat generated by fric-tion in a soft tire is no t. If you b e-come stuck in the sand, you may findthat the deflation of the rear tires toabout 20 pounds will help you geton your way, but restore normal pres-sure immed iately. If this is not possi-ble, proceed to the nearest servicestation SLOWLY.5. RADIATOR WATER is avai lablefrom tanks placed at strategic pointsalong the main roads. Drinking watershould be carried, although water fromany marked spring or well is safe fordrinking.6 . W A T C H T H E T E M P E R A T U R EOF YOUR CAR MO TOR . Gradesare deceptive. Don't lug your motor.Shift to a lower gear if it overheats.Cool the motor if it boils by first turn-ing it into the wind. Do not stop themo tor. While it is runn ing at a fastidle speed, slowly pour a quart or soof water over the front of the radiatorcore. Th is will cool the mo tor suffi-ciently to allow the radiator cap to beremoved safely. Fill radiator and pro -ceed.7 . STAY WITH YOUR CAR. Re-peat, if trouble develops, STAY WITHYOUR CAR. A Park Ranger or an-other traveler will come by before youcan walk to help.

8 . B E A G O O D R O A D N E I G H -BO R. Rep ort anyone in trouble tothe nearest Park Ranger or servicestation, even if it is inconvenient. Youmay need help yourself some time.9 . PARK RANGERS are s ta t ionedat Wildrose Ranger Station, Grape-vine Ranger Station, Emigrant RangerStation and Monument Headquarters./ / /


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST SPEC I AL I SSUE FOR JULY, I 9 6 0 , ON "H EAT"

D e s e r t O r d e a l: L o s t o n t h e M o j a v eB y M A R Y J O N E S B L A C K W E L LM r s . Blackwell "came aboard" the U.S.Naval Ordnance Test Station at China Lake,Calif., in 1946. Two years ago she re-signed from government service to devotefull-time to raising her two children. RalphJ. Rogers, also a China Lake resident,assisted Mrs. Blackwell in the preparationof this article.

IT WAS A typically hot Sunday morning late in thesummer of 1947. By 10 o'clock the temperature stood

but a fraction short of 100 degrees. Dub Watson andI were sitting in the kitchen of my quarters in the housingarea of the sprawling 1200-square-mile Naval OrdnanceTest Station near Inyokern on the Mojave Desert. Hewas examining the second-hand pistol I had recently pur-chased for $25."I think you were taken," he said. "This gun's barrelis badly pitted." Then he suggested that we get someshells and go out into the desert and give the gun a try.An hour later we were turning off of Highway 395, atSearles, about 15 miles southeast of Inyokern. Our dustylittle road stretched eastward, winding into the Mojave.Desp ite the mountin g heat, we drove for miles. Finally

Dub brought the car to a halt and we had our chance totest the gun. A half-hour of misfires and jammed shellsconvinced us that I had paid $25 for a wall ornament.Target practice a failure, Dub suggested that we savesomething of the morning by continuing our sight-seeingtrip. So on we drove, deeper into the bright desert.Near a thicket of trees a few more miles down the dirtroad , we flushed a covey of quail. Sixty feet from the ro adwas a streamlet of clear water flowing out from under alarge rock. This is what had attra cted these birds to thisotherwise barren area.Following roads which grew fainter as we progressed,we eventually found ourselves winding down a dry wash.

Our trail ended abruptly at a wall of gravel and debriswhere one of the wash banks had collapsed."This is the end of the line," Dub said as he headedthe car between two large clumps of creosote bus h. Th enhe backed across the wash in an attempt to turn around.But, there was no turning around he re. The w heelsdug in. We were stuck.For two long, dusty, sweaty hours we fought to releasethe car, but all we succeeded in doing was to mire it evenmore hopelessly.We sat in the scant shade by the side of the car toconsider our position. Both of us were filthy dirty. My

slacks and new blouse were plastered to my body like abathing suit. It had been so hot that I had no t worn socks,and the ground heat was boiling up through the thin solesof my sandals . D ub cau ght the leg of his jeans on a bra nchand had ripped the cloth from kn ee to ankle . We were eventhen desperately thirsty. We were 18 miles from the spring

where we had seen the quail; Dub guessed it was anotherdozen miles from the spring to the pavement.The rest did us good. We decided on one last all-outeffort to free the car . Firs t we jack ed u p each whe el, fillingin the trenches beneath with rocks and brush. We leveledaway the ground all around the car as best we could; Dubdug in his heels and was ready to push from the rear. Islid into the driver's seat. The engine sputtered. We wereout of gas.I don't like to think of what followed, even after 13years have mellowed my memory.We started to walk. All we could think of was liquidsthe wonderful spring where we had seen the quail; freshsweet wate r flowing slowly from the groun d. Liq uid scoffee, lemo nad e, tea, orange juice, beer. I closed myeyes and could see the bright beads of moisture condens-ing on the sides of a tall cool drink.We didn't talk much, being too disgusted and uncom-fortable for con versa tion. Eve ry few steps I would hav eto stop and shake sand and sharp pebbles out of mysandals. The sun was now slanting directly into our eyes.We stopped frequently to rest, and as the afternoonwore on, these rest stops became longer in duration. Finallythe sun dropped out of sight, and still we recognized nolandm arks. The period of twilight was all too short. Sud-denly it was dark, and with darkness camefor the firsttimefear.I stumbled over a rock and my tired muscles let mefall heavily. D ub tried to get me back o n my feet, bu t Ipushed him away, telling him that I was too tired to walkanother step. The palms of my hands and my knees hurt,but I was too exhausted to inspect the bruises.Then the moon broke over the rim of the black moun-tains, and some of my anxieties left me. We con tinued onand at 10 that night reached the spring.It is amazing what water will do for a really thirstyhuman being. A half-dozen swallows of that wonderfulliquid and the world began to look different. Fea r andexhaustion all but faded away, and for the first time thatday our thoughts turned to foodor the lack of it.I tore a strip from the hem of my blouse for a washcloth and we washe d a little of the grime aw ay. Th is, plusa cheery fire, made us feel even better.Half-jokingly, Dub asked if I wanted to continue onto the highway. "It 's no t going to be a picnic sleeping onthe hard ground," he said.


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I assured him that I couldn't walkanother step, and anyway, I was sureI would sleep like a baby.I awoke with the sun in my eyes.My first thought was the awareness ofbeing thirsty and very hungry. W henI tried to move I found I was so stiffand sore that lifting an arm was sheer

misery. My feet gave me the mosttrouble. They were swollen, andthrobbed when I tried to walk.Our breakfast was sketchy at best a long, long drink of water.And now we made what must surelyrank as our greatest blunder. Evennow, 13 years laterI cannot under-stand how two reasonably intelligentadults could possibly have been sostupid. We started back toward ourstalled car. The logic here was that asearch party would look first for thecar, and from the air it would be easyto spot. We failed to take into ac-count the simple fact that not one liv-ing soul knew where we had gone.The Mojave is a big desert.We had filled some discarded bottleswith water, but by the time we gotback to the car our surplus supply wasall but gone. We spent the remainderof the afternoon gathering brush anddeadwood for a huge bonfire to attractthe "searchers."We were dreadfully tired even be-fore we began the laborious task of

gathering the brush, and now thepangs of hunger and fatigue were cru-cifying us. All we could talk aboutthat afternoon and evening was foodany and all kinds of food.By nightfall my stomach had con-tracted into a hard knot of misery.It rolled and groaned and churneduntil I could not sit still, and yet I wastoo exhausted to stand upon my rawfeet.It was a miserab le night. I laiddown on the back seat of the car, but

instead of sleep came wonderful vis-ions of thick steaks, juicy slices ofbaked ham, apple pie and ice cream.When it was my turn to watch the fire,I sat stiffly on an uncomfortable rocklest I fall aslee p. I have neve r livedthrough a longer night. Tired, hungry,thirsty, fearfulthe night seemed with-out end.Tuesday morning dawned bright,clear and hot. We were up with thesun, our eyes scanning the skies forairplanes.Dub gave me the last half-inch of

water to drink . I think I was actuallymore thirsty after that final tantalizingswallow than beforeif that is possi-SUNSET ON THE MOJA VE DESERT [ \

ble. Given a choice of food or water,there is no doubt in my mind that Iwould have taken the latter withouthesitation.We scrambled out of the wash toinspect our surroundings, and thethought occurred that if we climbed tohigh ground we might possibly see

the Test Station or Trona or perhapsa highway or well-traveled dirt road.The nearest mountain seemed tobe only a few miles away, and at thebase of one was a spot of bright green.Green! Perhap s it marke d a springwater, grass, trees!So off we went, empty water bottlesin hand, to find salvation. Th e mo un-tain seemed to retreat with each stepwe took, and the ground between be-came rougherbroken by a grid ofsteep-banked arroyos. In our weak-ened conditions we could not walk

far without having to rest. The greenof our oasis began to pale-out as weneared it. Weary hours later we cameto a few scrub trees. The groun d wasslightly damp in spots, but there wasno standing water.Our spirits crushed, we crawled intothe scant shade of one of the trees andlay exhausted upon the hot earth. I

wanted to cry with disappointment,but before the tears came I fell intoa drugged sleep.Dub was still sleeping when I awoke.The sun had set. Tuesd ay was nearlyover. Wh en I sat up , an involuntarymoan escaped me. This awakenedD u b , but he said nothing . We satwithout words long after darkness en-veloped the desert.Finally Dub asked me if I couldmake it back to the car. I was incred-ulous. I explained that I could scarce-ly stand. I told him that he had betterleave me and attempt to make his wayout alone."I got you into this mess and I 'mgoing to get you out," he said. Du b'scourage and good nature never failedhim.It was agreed that we would start

back for the car as soon as it waslight enough to see. Sometime duringthe night I awakened, and as I laythere staring into the black vault above,the queerest thought occurred to me:one cannot see heaven when the sunis shining. Until that momen t I hadnot seriously believed that we wereContinued on page 29


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST SPEC IAL ISSUE FOR JULY, 1960, ON "H EA T"

S u m m e r R o u t i n e for a F a m i l y of SixBy JEAN VALENS BULLARDMrs. Bullard and her husband, Bill, ChiefNaturalist at Death Valley, are passing theirthird summer in the Valley. A mother offour finds little "free time," but when Mrs.Bullard does, she uses it to pursue herwriting avocation. Several of her articleshave been published.RAISING FOUR small children in Death Valley has itsown peculiar difficulties, especially in summer whenschool is outand the Valley temperatures soar.

We live in Death Valley because my husband, Bill,is Chief Park Naturalist here with the National ParkService. Eighteen permanent Park Service families nowlive year-round in their new sea-level hom es. (Th e onlyother people who stay on the Valley floor year-round arethe caretaker at Furnace Creek Inn, two families at FurnaceCreek Ranch, and several people at Stove Pipe Wells.)The mechanics and maintenance men, administrativestaff, rangers and naturalists arrange their work so thatmost of it is indoors in sum mer. The ro ad crew sp endsits time repairing roads at higher elevations, doing onlyemergency repairs on the Valley floor. Extreme heat keepsthe women and children indoors, much as snow, rain orextreme cold would do in other regions."How do you stand the heat?" people frequently askus. The answer is that we try to avoid it as much aspossible. Du ring the hottes t part of the day we seldomgo outside. Wh en I visit a neig hbo r's house, I walk fastor run to get there while my body and clothes are still cool.Th e slower I walk the hotter I get. If I stop on the pav e-ment my feet burn through my sandals."No TV and no telephone? You're really isolated!"exclaimed one of our visitors. "W hat do you do with thekids inside all day long in summer?"With Kent 3, Bill 8, Jan 4, and Wendy 9, we find

there is seldom a dull mo me nt. We do a great deal ofreading, much more than in winter. Th e older childrenread to themselves or to the little ones, or else I readaloud to them. We listen to records, children's and others.The kids play house, or rocket ship, or boat, or museum,or orphanage, or explorers in darkest Africa.We have a big costume box from which come astonish-ing combinations when the desire for dramatics or justplain dress-up appears. We spend ho urs with all sorts ofgames, blocks, puzzles, tinker toys, clay, cloth, paper,crayons, paints and pipe cleaners. This summer our greatestjoy is our new little electric organ which every one ofus loves to play with varying success. The organ keeps

us on tune when we sing.The ho tter it is, the less ambitious we are. Ou r housecoolers can do just so much when the roof temperature is150 degrees. Some days the house is 92 degrees inside.The children often take long naps and then stay up until

11 p.m . or later. We find sum mer is a family time wh enwe get to know each other better.Our National Park Service pool for employees is oneof the biggest mora le factors in De ath V alley. We sp endevery evening there swimming, playing water games, visit-ing with neighbors. It is too hot to swim before sun dow n.The grass-bordered pool and swaying palms remind usof a south sea island setting.Every activity is geared to summer heat, and so is ourclothing. Ou r children wear searsuc ker shorts or playsu itswhen not in bathin g suits. I wear shorts an d sleevelessblouses, and Bill, when not in uniform, wears shorts.This keeps us cool as possible with minimum laundry.One summer job that I can count on as being relativelycool is sprinkling clothes for ironing . I do this in a jiffyby swishing them through the lawn sprinkler. Ironin g

must be done speedily because the clothes dry so rapidly.Believe it or not, I use an electric clothes dryer inDeath Valley. Although diape rs will dry on my clothes-line before I finish hanging a big load on a windy summerday, I prefer using my dryer to avoid standing in theblazing sun. Some of my neighb ors usually hang out the irclothes at night, but I try to plan my housework to haveevenings free at the swimming pool.Cooking is kept as simple as possible. We have nosummer company in contrast to many house guests at otherseasons. To keep my kitchen cool I plug my electricfrying pan or casserole dish into our pat io outlet. Aturkey, roast or baked ham can be used cold for later

effortless me als. I do othe r baking only when th e ovenis going for meat. We usually use paper p lates and cupsto save dishwashing.Solar cooking? Ye s, I learned it in De ath Valley. Thechef at Furnace Creek Ranch taught me to make deliciousclear ice tea: place tea bags and several cloves in a jar ofwa ter, and set out in the sun. After several hours of "s uncooking," a fine ice tea concentrate results. I use hotel-size tea bags, making the concentrate by the gallon. Duringsummer we adults consume a great deal of ice tea, so I tryvariations. Tangerine tea is our favorite discovery (teabags, tangerine rinds, cinnamon and sug ar) . Othe r recipescall for tea bags and nutmeg, cinnamon or citrus peelings.Bread slices set out in Death Valley summer sun be-come stale in 10 minutes. Dried bread for stuffing orbread crumbs is never a problem. This comes in handywhenever I roast a turkey.Did you ever cook your lunch in a child's sandbox?We let the sun cook ours one July day (123 degrees in


15/44

for lunch. Th e trick of cookingIllustratedwritten in1892 by John R. Spears.

A five-gallon jug of drinking wateris consumed every other day in sum-mer by our four children. Our tapwater has too high a fluorine contentfor children whose front teeth are stillforming (excessive fluorination causestooth discoloration), so we obtain thechildren's water from a nearby tankof defluorinated wate r. We also usethis water for making their powderedmilk and for cooking.

One month's supply of groceries fora family of six is quite a load! Ou rhome freezer becomes the most im-portant appliance in summer when thenearest place to buy milk or bread is40 miles distant. After traveling 140miles to Las Vegas locale of ournearest supermarketit takes severalhours to shop for three or four weeks'food (our cash-register tapes average$ 1 5 0 ) . The last items we buy justbefore starting the two-and-a-half hourdrive hom e are the frozen foods. Byadding dry ice and wrapping our por-table cooler in army blankets, we caneven bring home ice cream. But, thehardest part about long-distance shop-ping is having to get along withoutfresh foods. Lettuc e and celery keeptwo weeks; carrots, cabbage, applesand oranges a little longerand thenwe must wait until the next trip tothe grocery store.

Most Death Valley residents spendmany of their weekends at higher ele-vations. Of course you can't go any-place but up when you start belowsea level, and the high country sur-rounds us in Death Valley.Even in the garage our car gets un-bearably hotso hot, in fact, that itcannot be waxed because wax "cooks"soon after it is applied. You can'teven rest your hand on metal parts.We must sit on towels or fabric ven-tilated seat rests. An old-timer sug-gested wet washcloths on our heads tokeep cool. This prevented the heatflush that appeared on our children'sfaces after about five-minutes of driv-ing. Ope ning the car vents only intro-duce s a hot blast of air. Relief is indirect proportion to the change in alti-tude as we drive out of the Valley.We leave for weekends after sundownFriday, returning late Sunday night.Six pair of skis and a toboggan are

DE SO HER SISTER JA N, 4, A ND BROTHER r \, 3, CAN HAVE SOME FUN. WITHOUT 1 /

stored under our children's bunk beds(we were transferred to Death Valleyfrom Yosemite National Park). Wekeep them there because extreme arid-ity causes damage to wooden articles.Furniture joints loosen when glue driesout, and improperly seasoned woodcracks and warps. A certain amountof water is introduced into the housefrom the cooler so we store some thingsinside that would normally be kept inthe garage.Our new ranch-style homes havebeen built with extended eaves orientedto the sun so our windows are inshadow all summ er. The evaporativecooler has ducts to every room . Wehave a small decorative patio pool inwhich water sprinkles continually,causing a cooling spray and refreshingsound.A sense of humor, we find, helps us

endure mid-summer heat. Each yearwe save a supply of special postagestamps for summer use. The bluearctic explorations stamp features asnowy dog-sled, and the cool blueOlympic stamp is decorated with whitesnowflakes.One hot summer evening we re-turned home from a swim and sat in

our patio watching the distant salt flatsshimmering in the light of the fullmoon . It had an ethereal beauty,strangely moving. Although it was 11p.m., Kent and Jan, our two youngest,were also taking it all in as they hap-pily pumped their swings side by side.Other nights we have witnessed trulyspectacular thunder and lightning dis-plays. Flashes of lightning touched thedistant Funeral Mountains with eerielight as the thunder rumbled ominouslythrough Death Valley. Relative cool-ness is only one of the night-timecompensations.In an old account of Death Valleywritten over a half-century ago, E.Alex ande r Powell said: "F or fullyhalf of the year, Death Valley is ashealthy a spot as any on the contin-ent. During the other half, however,it is a sample package of that fire-and-

brimstone hell of which the old-timepreachers were wont to warn us. In-deed, the hereafter could hold no ter-rors for a man who was able to survivea summer in Death Valley."Since we are now experiencing ourthird summer in Death Valley, it wouldappear that we Bullards need have nofear of the hereafter. / / /


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D E S E R T / M A G A Z I N E 0 1 ; T HE OUT DO OR SOUT HW E ST S P E C I A L I S S U E F O R J U L Y , 1 9 6 0 , O N " H E A T "

A N a t u r a l i s t L o o k s at S u m m e r H e a tB y E D M U N D C . J A E G E RDr. Jaeger, one of the world's most eminentauthorities on the natural sciences of aridlands, is a regular contributor to DesertMagazine. He has authored several bookson desert subjects.

MUCH HAS BEEN writ ten about how man relateshimself to the high temperatures of the desert sum-mer. But how about other animals and the plants?How do they adjust their living habits to the torrid tem-peratures? To understand their summer problems we mustbear in mind at the outset that the mammals, birds, rep-tiles and insects can move about to seek coolness, butplants, most of them perennials, are at the disadvantageof being anchored to one spot and made to take whatevercomes along in the way of weather.The human traveler moving about on the floor ofwildly beautiful Death Valley in midsummer, when theday shade temperatures average from 115 to 120 degreesor more, is bound to be impressed with the near-absenceof animal life of any kind. This is especially tru e betw een10 a.m. and 6 or 7 p.m . when the great heat is on. Theanimals, especially mammals and reptiles, are hidden fromsight because they have sought shelter in burrows, beneathrocks or in other places where the direct rays of the sun,or conducted heat from the hot ground-surface air layers,canno t reach them. If possible these creatures go deepenough underground to find temperatures very much belowthose at grou nd-lev el. Eve n a foot of insulating earthoften helps enormously, and many of the skillful diggers,such as the kangaroo rats (Dipodomys), go much deeper,where the temperature is about 85 degrees or less.There in their underground retreats the animals findnot only bodily comfort, but greater humidity so that theylose less body water by evaporation from the lungs while

breathing. Eva poration from the lungs, used for heatregulation of the body, always decreases when increasedamo unts of water vapor are in the air. It has been foundthat the absolute humidity in a burrow can be three tofour times higher than the simultaneous humidity outside.Body water is further saved by desert animals throughthe greater concentration of solids in their urine. Thisconcentration is almost four times that of man and two-and-a-half times grea ter than in the white rat. Th e faeces ofkangaroo rats are exceedingly dry, tooabout six timesas dry as in white rats when eating the same kinds andamounts of food.The fur of mammals and the feathers of birds are animportant aid in keeping heat from entering the body from

the surrounding air. It reduces the "heat load," as thephysiologists say, and thus is of advantage in watereconomy.The hottest part of the summer day in Death Valley isaround 4:30 to 5:30 p.m.; the coolest just before sun-up.

Appreciable cooling does not occur until some hours aftersunset since the rocks and soil tend to store the heatreceived during the sunny hours. Midnight temperature of108 degrees is not unusua l in July! Usually mam mals,of which the rodents are greatest in kind and number,come from the burrows to feed only when the temperaturedrops to near 95 or 90 degrees, and thus it is possiblethat on the warmest nights these animals remain in theircomfortable underground quarters.Since kit foxes live in deep burrows, they spend theirdaytime hours in com parative comfort. Badgers are scarceon the Valley floor, but because they are excavators ofdeep tunnels they too can escape the discomforts of intenseabove-ground heat. Coyotes are found in considerablenumbers on the Death Valley floor where they hunt rodentsat night. Some of them may go to cooler mountain retreatsduring the day, for they are long distance travelers, oftendoing their hunting many miles from their daytimehabitats.One would think that jackrabbits, which ordinarily donot enter burrows, would have difficulty surviving throughthe time of summer heat, but many are seen around irri-gated areas in the Valley all sum mer. Since jack rabbitshave no sweat glands to help them reduce body tempera-ture, they would seem ill-adapted to this country.Reptiles, especially snakes, must seek shelter in under-ground retreats or else bury themselves deep in sand orin holes under the shade of bushes (mesquite and others)during the hours of torrid heat. Desert lizards spend thehottest part of the day under rocks or in deep rock crevices.It has been observed that many of these creatures are hard-put for food during the hottest seasons, especially thevegetarians such as the chuckawalla. It is reason able tobelieve that though green food is much preferred, dry ornear-dry leaves may be their portion . The lizard thatprobably fares best in summer is the swift-moving gray-white gridiron-tailed lizard (Callisaurus ventralis), but it isseen only at the opening and closing hours of the day. Toget out and move about on the sun-baked sand and tobreathe the intensely-heated midday air near the groundwould prove fatal. If these creatures becom e too warma kind of paralysis overtakes them.Of great interest is the fact that the internal bodycavity of many of the desert lizards is lined with pigmentedmem branes of deepest black. The question arises concern -ing what extent this velvet-black pigmented surface reactsto keep out heat waves of certain parts of the solar spec-trum? We know that transmission of ultra-violet rays


17/44

through the dark skin of several desertlizard species is absolutely nil, and thatprotection of the underlying tissues bythe horny part of the skin against anytype of solar radiation is most efficient.We are now led to ask why certaindesert birds (ravens, wheatears of theSahara) have dark to black coloration

of the feathers, and some insects(darkling beetles) have black color-ing of the body armor of chitin? Whatadvantage or disadvantage is it to havea body covering which absorbs ratherthan repels heat? In midsumm er,probably for very good reason, thedarkling beetles are out feeding most-ly at night.In summer Death Valley shrubs arefor the most part a sorry looking lot.They are gray, dry and often almostleafless. M any , like the encelias, droptheir leaves to conserve moisture;

others, such as the creosote bush, showleaves much shrunken because of waterloss; still other plants, like desert holly,retain some of the now-leathery leaveswhich allow scarcely any water to passoutward through them. Such shrubsare in a state of summer moisture-conserving dorm ancy. Their oftenresin-filled stems, even their roots,have only slight amounts of water inthem. Because of the near-moisturelesssoil, no root hairs grow on the plants.The desertfir(Peucephyllum) staysquite green because its roots go deep,often into the crevices of rock; andthis plant is suspected of absorbingmoisture from the air through itsleaves. It surprises many to learn thateven the oven-hot air has some mois-ture in it enough, at least, to bemeasured . It is possible that somehighly-adapted plants may be able toutilize this moisture, especially atnight when the humidity is highest.

The mesquite growing in the centralareas of the Valley stays green allsummer as its generous crops of longsugar-filled beans ripen. Often thesetrees are about the only sign of nat-ural green, except for the cultivatedareas of Furnace Creek Ranch, visibleon the Valley floor from the surround-ing mou ntains. Mesqu ite is a verydeep-rooted plant, able to tolerate thesalts and alkalies that occur in theValley soils.A surprising number of birds areall-summer residents of Death Valley.They can be seen about the numerouswaterholes, seeps and trickles of waterwhich issue from rock crevices in thecanyons, as well as at Furnace CreekRanch and Stove Pipe Wells Hotelwhere there are trees and grass. A fewinsect- and spider-eating rock wrens,

numbers of ravens and English spar-rows are among the most common ofthe land-birds which endure the harshdesiccating summer heat. As mightbe expected, they are active feedersonly during the coolest parts of theday, rising at the very first hint ofdaw n. W hen the crafty rav en is seenin the midday sky he is usually highenough aloft to be above the layersof mo st highly hea ted air. On th eground some ravens are seen restingin the shade, but others seem to goabout their business oblivious of theheat. The roadrunner's tracks (alongwith those of sidewinders, coyotes, kitfoxes, millepedes and darkling beetles)are found on the fine dune sands,showing that this hardy bird bravesthe heat of summer.I am sure few realize how great avariety and number of birds pass over

sere Death Valley in summertime.Many go over at night, but perhapsquite as manyflyover by day. M rs.Matt Ryan, who with her rangerhusband spends the summer at Emi-grant Ranger Station, tells me thatmany small birds of various kinds,from warblers to blackbirds, come totheir pool and feeding tray. Thesebirds are often exhausted and near-dead from thirst, but the Ryans areable to save many."We get many egrets," she says,"and mud hens and even sea gulls

land where there is water; occasionallya killdeer or duck enjoys a chance toget a bit of wetness. I have know n ofsmall birds coming into Stove PipeWells Hotel in summer and dying bythe hundreds, too weak from thirstand hunger to drink and feed whenthey get there . I constan tly keep foodand water available here at our station,and some of the revived songsters staywith us for several days. A you ngpintail duck stayed at our pool forthree weeks. It seems very strangethat most song-birds, when they comefj3j~:-W'

to our pool, first open their mouthswide, pant, and sometimes wait beforedrinking, but the desert black-throatedsparrows seldom stand around panting.They go right to drinking as soon asthey arrive."August is the humid month whenthe angry storm clouds gather over

the surrounding mountains. With themmay come not only unbearably hotand stuffy days, but also big down-pours of water in the form of localcloudbursts. When these rare stormsoccur, great sheets of water rush downthe mountain slopes or, gathering inthe canyons and narrow slot - likegorges, crash madly down to the Val-ley floor with a great roar.These flash floods take a mighty tollof wildlife. In 19 42 a clou dbu rst onthe west side of the Panamint Moun-tains sent a noisy wall of water 30 feet

high down through narrow corridor-like Surpise Can yon . With impressivedestructive power the swirling watertore out trees and shrubs, moved hugeboulders and drowned or crushed un-der moving rocks almost every livingcreaturefrom small rodents to rep-tiles and insectsin its path. It wasall so overpowering and sudden thatthere was no escape.Cloudburst waters spreading overthe sands and gravels of the bajadasand Valley floor may awaken to sud-den luxuriant growth some of the sum-mer-annual plants, such as the low-growing yellow - flowered pungent-leafed Pectis papposa, and the hand-some spreading-stemmed honey-sweet,Tidestromia. Then, for a few daysthere is a show of color on the landand sweetness in the hot desert air.Several times while crossing DeathValley in summer I have taken joy inthe sight of theseflourishingfieldsohandsome plants on an otherwisescorched landa bit of greenness thatcomes as a gift of an angry cloudburst./ / / - v .

*K*


18/44

DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST SPEC I AL I SSUE FOR JULY, I 9 6 0 , ON "H EAT "

N a t u r a l A ir C o n d i t i o n e r s of I r a nB y W I L L I A M E W A R N EThis is the fifth in a series of articles byMr. Warne based on his observations inIran during his work there as Point A Ad-ministrator. Mr. Warne currently is Di-rector of the California State Departmentof Agriculture.

REAL TRIPLE-PLATED high-octane hea t has a de-pressing effect on the deser t dweller. Some like topooh pooh heat and to pretend to ignore it, but eventhose who love the desert most concede that a blazingmid-summer day on the shadeless sand can be more thanuncom fortable. Such a day can be deadly.Few, indeed, are there among the initiated who haveever permitted themselves to be really endangered by thesun. But the wh ole fraternity w ill exert utmo st ingenuityto discover a way to keep cooland so often withoutsuccess.That has been my experience in the Southwest, andin other arid parts of the world.When I saw the village on Hormuz Island, a few milesoff the South Iranian coast at Bandarabass in the Gulf ofOm an, the day was glaring hot. It was only late springin 1952 by the calendar, but the sun beat down, and itslight reflected from so many directionsfrom the glassysea, from the rocky hills, from the old stone fort, fromthe unrelieved mud and stuccoed walls of the townthatmy eyes throbbed even when squinted to a slit .Dust from iron oxide ore, being loaded into a leakytub standing a few yards offshore, sifted over everythinguntil even the sweaty hair of an urchin who was sailing ashingle at the water's edge was coated a dark brick red.There were several of us in the motorboat as it swungtoward the dock. The m otion gave us some breeze, butwe were hot, nevertheless. Everything w as hot to thetouch.On seeing the village close at hand, I was overwhelmedwith a depressing sense of heat, discomfort and futility.Why on earth, I asked myself, had the Portuguese foundedhere one of their early city-colonies, like Macao in Chinaand Go a in India? Well, I told myself, they had aban-doned it centuries ago, leaving nothing but their blood inthe sandand in the islanders, too, I added, after a closerlook at the self-same urch in. Th e old fortress is notentirely in ruins. It is still form idable, b ut bleak, do ur, fo r-bidding and, I thought, on this day the stones will bescorching hot.I missed the thrill that so often comes on first visitinga storied place. Instead , I sat simply being uncom fortablyhot, looking down at my knees as the boat inched towardthe landing.A strange little memory had come vagrantly into mymind. I remembered as a boy in the Imperial Valley ofCalifornia running barefooted across the road on such a

day, suffering exquisite torture from the super-heated sand,stopping to stand on one foot in the pitiful shade of acocklebur, only big enough to cast a foot-sized shadow withits withering leaves, holding the other foot in my hand, ina hopping posture, and finding the sole painfully hot tothe palm!The boat bumped the dock.My good friends Ardeshir Zahedi and Abol Radji , whohad come from Teheran with me in the plane, were obvi-ously disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm . I regrettedit but found difficulty throwing off the mood.Men were plodding to the water's edge with basketson their head s filled with the dry red ore. Th ey s plashedright in and walked to the side of the small ship, whereanother man reached down and lifted the basket to dumpit. By the time the men got to the ship, the water cameup to their shoulders, and the low swelling waves splashedin their faces. W hat an extrao rdinary lon gshoring m ethod ,but in the heat of the day it had its adv anta ges. It did no tcheer me up.Th e place was virtually without fresh w ater. W e werecontemplating opening a salt mine, or rather reopeningone that the Portuguese once operated . It was a goodprospect, clearly enough. Even so, the place seemedsparsely endowed.A jeep took us to the mine where the red oxide wasobtained. It was distressingly hot, and the red dust waschokingly dense. We stopped at the fortress. Th e imp res-

sion was one of a massing of stone, no form but bulk."Well," Ardeshir said, mopping his brow and givingup trying to snap me out of my mood, "the colonel incommand has invited us into his house for tea beforewe return to Bandarabass.""By all means," I said, trying to appear polite. "Pleaseaccept for us."We entered a barren yard through a gate in a mud wall.We trooped indoors and were seated, village style, on a rugon the floor of a square room unrelieved by furniture. Iput my hat down beside me and waited for a servant tobring the tea.Quickly, I became aware of a wafting cooling breezecirculating through the room . The re had been so littleair stirring outside that I was surprised. I glanced aro und .No one was waving a fan. I had no t really expected to findthat this was the answer, for the breeze was much toosteady and too strong.


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D e s e r t Q u i z Here are 20 ques-tions pertaining toHEAT and HOTPLACES. A passing grade is 11 correctanswers; 12 to 14 is fair; 15 to 17, good;and 18 or more rates excellent. (If youflunk this test, blame the weather!)Answers are on page 30.1 . Death Valley National Monumentwas established in 1949. True

False2 . Highest official temperature everrecorded in the United States was148 degrees. Tru e False3 . Death Valley lost its claim to hav-ing the lowest land in the UnitedStates when Alaska became the 49thstate. True^. False4 . 100 degrees Fahrenheit is warmerthan 100 degrees centigrade.True False5 . Death Valley Scotty had a careeras a professional showman beforebuilding his castle in Death Valley.True False.6. Ground temperature rarely exceedsair temperature. True False7 . The Panamint Indians of DeathValley are a small offshoot of theShoshone nation. True False ..-.8. A corner of Dea th Valley Nationa lMonument lies in Nevada. TrueFalse9. The Funeral Mountains are east ofthe Death Valley trough. TrueFalse.....

1 0 . Desert mirages are more commonto the summer than the wintermonths. True False1 1 . Contrary to popular belief, the cre-

osote bush will die if it does notget water at least once a year.True..... False1 2 . Because of the great heat, bird-lifeis absent in Death Valley duringthe summer months. True False1 3 . Towne, Daylight and Jubilee aremountain passes leading into DeathValley. True._. False1 4 . Deer is the only game that legallycan be taken by hunters in DeathValley. True False1 5 . Tight-fitting clothing which hindersevaporation of body perspiration isnot recommended for summer wear.

True False1 6 . Home evaporative coolers work bestin humid weather. True False1 7 . Like the Grand Canyon in Arizona,the Death Valley trough was carvedby action of a river. True False1 8 . Clouds are practically unknown insumme r desert skies. True False1 9 . Because underground burrows areso hot, desert animals shun themduring the hottest part of the day.True False.2 0 . William Lewis Manly was a pioneer

Southwestern weatherman. TrueFalse

"Do you find it cooler here?" Radjiasked, apparently noticing I had re-vived somewhat." Y e s , inde ed," I said. "It is quitepleasant, and I am surprised that thereis such a strong circulation of air inhere. Those windows seem small andthe air outside is still.""Oh," Ardeshir said, breaking in."It is the natural air conditioning. Thishouse has a Hormuz fan."I had become aware of the curiousconstruction of the ceiling. It had fourlarge vents. I now could feel that thebreeze was settling down from one ofthem.There could be no desert coolerhere. There was no power on theisland to operate the fan."Natural air conditioning?" I askedskeptically, yet with increasing interest.There was the breeze as evidence thatthe words had some meaning."Here on Hormuz Island manyhouses have a wind trap on the roof,"Radji, an engineer, began to explain."It is just a large box with the foursides opened to the four wind direc-tions, and funnels leading from theseopening through the ceiling below, di-recting such breezes as may stray aboutonto the heads of the people who sitthere."

"The slightest breeze is concentratedby the trap and funnel," Ardeshiradded. "Th ere is usually a little windfrom some direction, and the trapfaces four ways and operates what-ever the direction of the breeze.""Not as good as a refrigerated,forced-air system," Radji matter-of-factly went on, "but it works."Y e s , I thought, it works.And again I had found somethingentirely new to me, hidden away in adesolate impoverished cast-off village,whose merit only a few moments be-fore I had completely overlooked, evenrejected."Who invented this thing?" I asked,after we had climbed to the roof toinspect the trap.They are very old, I was told. Allpeople hereabouts know how to buildthem. They are not used in manyplaces because there has to be somebreeze to trap, but here on HormuzIsland they are considered quite suc-cessful.My depression had left me . It wasa little nearer evening and the sun wasnot so unbearab ly bright. The heatseemed to recede a little. We beganour trip back to Bandarabass in goodspir it s. / / /

STRUCTURE LOOMING ABOVE THISISLAND BUILDING IS A WIND TRAP


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DESERT/MAGAZINE OF THE OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST SPECIAL ISSUE FOR JULY. 1960, ON "HEAT"

O n L e a v i n g t h e v a l l e y C a l l e d D e a t hB y F R E D W . B I N N E W J E SDuring the past several years there hasbeen an acceleration in the interest in DeathValley, due, in large part, to the good workof Mr. Binnewies, the National Monument'ssuperintendent from 1954 to the early partof this year when he was named assistantsuperintendent of Glacier National Park.

IT ALL BEGAN wi th a phone call in April, 1954, fromthe Regional Director of the National Park Service atSanta Fe."You've been selected to be the new superintendent ofDeath Valley National Monument," he said.

All I could answer at first was: "What? Death Valley?"Immediately I had visions of barren wastes and ofunbearable heat. I told my wife, two boys and daughterabout the transfer and they were as flabbergasted as I was.At the time we were at Bandelier National Monument6000 feet high and surrounded by the Santa Fe NationalForest of northern New Mexico. It would be quite achange in scenery, we agreedespecially with summercoming on.O ne of the Park Service employees met me in LasVegas, Nevada, and drove me the 140 miles to DeathValley. In all that distance we passed but three placesof habitation, and they were very small ones at that.Like most people who had only read about the desert,I was totally unprepared for what met my eye that day.Even after living in the wide open spaces of New Mexicofor several years, I had not comprehended what the truevastness of the desert could be. To be able to see 100miles is commonplace in the Death Valley country.They say first impressions are best. This certainly heldtrue that day. It was made to order: bright sunshine, a fewpuffy clouds in a sky that was bluer than any other I hadever seen, the temperature around 100 degrees which, in

that dry atmosphere, is comfortable. About 16 miles fromheadquarters we topped a low pass and started the longdescent down Furnace Creek to the Valley floor. I keptlooking for vast areas of drab sand, but instead we passedmile after mile of multicolored rocks of pastel hues. Abouthalf-way down the pass we came to buff-colored old lakebed deposits that had been shifted and piled on edge in anendless variety of shades and forms. The sun created lightand shadow effects that are past describing.We emerged suddenly from the mouth of the wash andDeath Valley spread out before usa truly awe-inspiringsight. Across the 12 miles of nearly-flat Valley floor rosethe massive Panamint Mountains topped by 11,049-footTelescope Peak. The Valley spread endlessly to the north

and southa great trough 140 miles long and from 4 to16 miles wide, with over 500 square miles below the sea-level contour.This then was my introduction to Death Valley, and I

viewed it with mixed emotions. The vastness was over-whelming and somew hat frightening. With only sparsevegetation for scale, it was difficult to judge distances, andI knew something of the feeling that the first emigrantsmust have had in 1849 when they descended into theValley after a long trek from Salt Lake.

It takes time to get used to Death Valley. I shall neverforget the feeling 1 had one day after having been therethree months. I was driving down Emigrant Canyon onthe west-side of the National Monument. At the pointwhere the canyon opens to give a view of the entire north-ern portion of the Valley, an inexplicable realization cameto me. Very suddenly 1 knew what it was all about Iunderstood the desert. After that, while I respected thedesert, I had no fear of it. And believe me, you mustrespect this desert or it may get the best of you.Everyone who has heard of Death Valley has listenedto fantastic stories of the intense heat here during thesummer in which little or nothing can live, and so theother National Park Service employees (except for oneranger) and I moved out of the Valley that first summer.As had been the custom for many years, we went to thesummer headquarters in Wildrose Canyon in the PanamintMountains. The camp is 4300 feet above sea level20to 25 degrees cooler than the floor of the Valley.It was necessary during the course of the summer tomake several trips down into the Valley, and I found,largely due to the extreme dryness, that it was not nearlyso bad as feature writers would have you believe. It was

hot, to be sureup to 128 degreesbut with the humidityat five to 10 percent, the weather was far from unbearable.Consequently, the next year I asked the other employeesif they would like to try living in the Valley all summerinstead of moving out. They all agreed to give it a try.All of us stayed the entire summer and strangely enough,small babies seemed to have less heat rash than wouldnormally be expected in more temperate climates. Sincethen the summer headquarters has been almost abandonedan d the employees live at the Monument headquarters allyear.High temperatures hold a certain fascination and in-terest, but the Valley's truly delightful winter weathercannot be ignored in this report. From about the middleof October to the first of May, Death Valley has as wonder-ful a climate as can be found anywhere. Temperaturesrarely reach freezing at night, even in January, and theclear bright days are usually in the 60s and 70s. That ,combined with the very dry atmosphere, makes Death

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Valley a most pleasant place to visitor to Hve in.I think that one of the most inter-esting surprises I found in Death Val-ley was the color. Fa r from beingdrab, the mountains and rock forma-tions are a riot of shades of red, brown,buff, green, yellow, purple, pink, whiteand black. Just take the drive to Bad-water, 280 feet below sea level, and

near the lowest land in the WesternHemisphere, or through Titus Canyon,and you will see what I mean. Go upto Artists Palette and you will find atleast 13 different colors in the rocksthat look for all the world as if agreat artist had spilled his paintsover them. I have spent hours watch-ing the play of light and shadow onthe mountains, canyons, gullies andhills, and they are forever changing,forever challenging, and forever beau-tiful.The magnificent works of nature inthe desert are appealing in themselves,and so are the people who live in thismagnificent setting. I did not meetthe famous Death Valley Scotty (hedied in January, 1954), but it was myprivilege to know some of the oldprospectorsSeldom Seen Slim, BuckJohnson ( the Duke of Muddy wa ter) ,Dolph Nevares and John Thorndykerugged individualists who have spentmost of their lives in and around DeathValley.John used to kid the dickens out

of me over my initiation to cloud-bursts. About the middle of August,1954, th

196007 desert magazine 1960 july

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