Ghost Towns of the Mojave

Page 5
Elgin, through Caliente, Delamar, Helene, Logan City, and Reveille

Text and photos by David A. Wright

Day 5: Tuesday, April 13

It's a couple of minutes before 6:00. April 13th. Tuesday. And uh ... waking up here in the Meadow Valley Wash.

Those were the first words of the fifth day of the journey through Nevada that Alan Patera, publisher of WESTERN PLACES Magazine and I had been on. It had been a spectacular trip to date, experiencing the land in the raw, and roughing it during a chilly spring. The weather that morning was deceptive. All appeared calm in the Meadow Valley Wash as I crawled from my sleeping bag ensconced inside the back of my truck. I was parked upon an old road above the wash floor near Leith Siding at an elevation of a tick over 3,000 feet. I stood there in the early morning chill in stocking feet, sweatshirt and sweatpants and began to prepare my coffee and breakfast, enjoying the quiet and first morning light.

Then with sudden force, a brisk wind began to blow down canyon, directly into what I thought was my well protected cook station. "Well, it was dead calm when I got up. Dead calm until about five seconds ago, and now all of a sudden a gusty north wind come up and has about blown my camp away. Right in the middle of cooking breakfast. Blowing my food and my cups and everything all over the place," obvious irritation manifested in my tone of voice as I spoke into my recorder. The cold wind made cooking nearly impossible, the Coleman stove flame going full blast, yet long after I broke eggs into the pan, the whites were still clear. So with that I pulled everything inside the camper shell, including myself, and closed the door.

Alan was oblivious to that ruckus, buried within his down sleeping bag contained within the confines of his Ford Explorer parked a hundred yards away. While Alan slept, I piddled around camp, took a sponge bath, broke my camp and packed the truck. The only disturbance in the placid Meadow Valley morning was regular runbys of the Union Pacific Railroad, military jets high overhead and one well worn 4x4 pickup truck running northbound in the Meadow Valley morning commute. Five days of roughing it, sleeping in the back of a pickup truck, and eating light meals from a can -- just the ticket for weight control. "I think I lost weight on this trip, because I'm eating so little in the evenings. Not eating hardly anything during the day. And I haven't snacked on anything. My uh normal belt position won't even hold my pants up. So that's good."

Alan awoke at 8:00 o'clock. Within a half hour we were on our way north. Our plan was to continue north through Meadow Valley to Caliente. Within a couple of miles, the canyon narrowed. This canyon has delivered many classic "gully washers" over the decades since man first decided to put a steel ribbon through here to facilitate his need for swift transportation.

In many cases he has paid for it: with twisted and mangled wreckage; with his life as a goodly number of engineers, conductors, firemen and hobos ended up entombed in mud, steel and splintered wood; with long delays to dig out huge masses of mud, rock and debris; and the necessity of rebuilding the line countless times. By contrast, our morning drive through Meadow Valley was serene and very enjoyable.

Another contrast on our drive north from our campsite is a change from Mojave Desert scrub to Great Basin flora: just 5 miles south we were camping in creosote and Spanish dagger; yet here creosote gave way to sagebrush and juniper dotting the landscape above our heads.

Crossing

Elgin

Elgin's schoolhouse The Meadow Valley Wash just south of Elgin is a train watchers paradise. The canyon is narrow, steep and foliated with abundant cottonwoods. The Union Pacific tracks are punctuated with tunnels followed by steel truss bridges. Be ready to take photos and videos, and bring your love of trains; there is plenty of railroad action to satisfy any railfan.

Alan and I arrived shortly at the small settlement of Elgin. Elgin's history is directly linked with the building of the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad early in the 20th century. Elgin's post office opened March 3, 1913, closed December 30, 1966. Today, several occupied homes are found in this picturesque setting set in the rugged canyon at 3,400 feet above sea level, along with the schoolhouse undergoing restoration. From Elgin, it is 21 miles of easy paved road to Caliente, the largest settlement in these parts.

Caliente

Caliente's history is also tied with the construction of the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad (now the Union Pacific). Originally called Culverwell, a post office opened August 3, 1901 with the name Caliente. A long and stable life has blessed Caliente due to its important position on both the Union Pacific timetables and vehicular traffic on US 93.

Caliente must have had some newsworthy times since 1901, as quite a few newspapers have come and gone since Caliente became a place name on the Nevada landscape. Interestingly, many of the papers were printed with the original printing equipment, brought into the town shortly after its birth.

Today Alan and I found Caliente to be busy both from a railroad standpoint and from traffic on US 93. We didn't take the opportunity to fully explore Caliente, something on my list for a future trip.

Leaving Caliente westbound on US 93, Alan and I had our sights on the ghost town of Delamar, located on the west side of the Delamar Mountains, southwest of Caliente. In brilliant sunshine, we climbed and topped out upon snowy Oak Springs Summit at 6,237 feet, and then dropped swiftly into the Dry Lake Valley below. After the brief encounter with the piñon and juniper lands of Caliente and environs, we once again descended into the fringes of the Mojave Desert, identified by the scraggly and lonesome Joshua trees that began to dot the open expanse of Dry Lake Valley.

Delamar

Alan and I found Delamar without problem, sitting isolated and forlorn 12.6 miles south of US 93. Those with sharp eyes will catch sight of the Delamar district cemetery at the base of the mountain a mile before reaching Delamar; nearby are the remains of Helene ghost town. I had some trepidation about finding Delamar due to internet research prior to our trip that netted a web page about a group of ghost town enthusiasts who spent two days searching for Delamar without success, though they were armed with topo maps and GPS units.

Central tailings pile at Delamar

My trepidation turned to elation upon arrival at Delamar. My conclusion is that this group was so busy looking for it digitally that they didn't see it visibly, for Alan and I drove straight into Delamar within 45 minutes of leaving Caliente using a good old fashioned Auto Club road map and a BLM map picked up at the district office in Caliente. Roads were in good condition and navigable in two-wheel-drive the entire distance.

Delamar What became Delamar was due to gold discoveries by farmers from the Pahranagat Valley in 1890 and 1891. People rushed into the district from Pioche as reports of rich ore spread, and a rough camp called Ferguson sprang up by the primary mines, and in a nearby canyon. the camp of Helene began building.

In 1893, Captain John De Lamar of Montana purchased the principal claims and stepped up development. A camp sprung up honoring his name, and by 1894 Delamar (sometimes spelled De Lamar) eclipsed Ferguson. On June 16, 1894, the De Lamar Lode began publication, and a post office opened August 6th of that year. By the end of that year, Delamar became one of the largest towns in the county. Delamar produced abundantly the remainder of the 19th century, alone accounting for half of Nevada's mineral output. A second newspaper started circulation through Delamar's streets, the Local Messenger beginning June 3, 1899.

Due to inadequate ventilation and lack of local water, local milling was carried on in a dry process, creating heavy clouds of silica, or "Delamar Dust," that prevailed in the mines and mills. Over time, the camp also acquired a reputation of being a "widow maker," as many a young miner dropped due to the dust filling his lungs.

Cemetery at Delamar

A major fire in 1900 leveled half of town, but it was quickly rebuilt. Almost in deference to the fire, the De La Mar Roaster newspaper began circulation; but was only an opinion sheet put out to blast the Messenger for its criticism of the British involvement in the Boer War, and it died after the first and only issue, March 18, 1900.

The Local Messenger newspaper died quietly in 1901. John De Lamar sold out in 1902, but new owners continued operations successfully. By 1906, Delamar still ranked only behind Tonopah and Goldfield in production, handily out-producing such media-hyped towns as Rawhide, Rhyolite and Manhattan. The De Lamar Lode suspended operation June 19, 1906, when the publisher merged with the nearby Caliente Express to form the Caliente Lode-Express.

By 1909, however, things slowed considerably, as a new slump covered Nevada due in part to the 1907 financial panic. On June 15, 1914, the post office closed. A revival, however came during the first days of the Great Depression. Large scale mining resumed in 1929. The post office was reestablished March 1, 1933 and the school reopened. Mining continued through 1940, and the camp died for good shortly thereafter. The post office delivered mail for the last time February 28, 1941.

Today Delamar is a picturesque ghost town dense with stone ruins, set in the Delamar Range at 5,920 feet above sea level. A range fire within the past year or two has added a surreal quality to parts of town, as charred stubble of sagebrush and blackened earth contrasted with the bright stone walls. In the gusty breeze that blew in from the north, fine silica dust still blew high into the air; I could feel it in my lungs and it gave a gritty taste of what befell those miners who died deep within Delamar's mines.

Leaving Delamar, Alan and I backtracked and visited the Delamar cemetery. Headstones only hint at the young lives that were snuffed out by the choking "Delamar Dust": Robert Corkish, October 12, 1871-November 21, 1915; Etta E. Frank, 1873-1896; and upon a white pillar are these words: "In Loving Memory of Fred A. Horn. Son of Agnes and ... [words pecked out] ...August 3, 1893 to March 25th, 1912. Dearest Fred, thou hast left us here, thy lost we deeply feel, But tis God that hath bereft, he can all our sorrows heal." And finally one man must have had iron lungs, for he lived to the ripe old age of 50: Richard Gordon, March 8, 1857-November 2, 1907.

Helene

Helene Within sight of the cemetery, a large tailings pile sits atop the canyon walls, indicating the site of the Magnolia Mine and the townsite of Helene.

What became Helene, and ultimately the larger camp of Delamar, was due to prospecting the region by Hiko farmers in 1889-1891. Two claims stood out as being the richest, the Magnolia and in the next canyon south, the Monkey Wrench. Helene sprang up as one of the first camps among others such as Ferguson, Reeves and Golden City (which were ultimately eclipsed by Delamar). Helene's post office opened its doors June 30, 1892, and Helene jumped up with the region's first newspaper, the Ferguson Lode, which commenced publication September 5, 1892.

Helene produced randomly while other strikes eventually led to the success of nearby Delamar. Ultimately, Helene was quietly absorbed into Delamar and it gave up its own identity with the closing of its post office December 22, 1894. The Ferguson Lode suspended operation February 27, 1893 but was reincarnated as the Pioche Lode for a short time, then returned to Delamar to start up the De Lamar Lode.

Today at Helene, I found a row of low stone walls surrounded by a scattering of 1-gallon tin cans within a beautiful canyon setting with a backdrop of snowy mountains.

It was time to move on, so Alan and I bid the Delamar district goodbye, vowing to return for a more intensive inspection of the district in the future. Our vehicles sped westward on US 93 into more arid desert lands, until we hit the fertile Pahranagat Valley at Ash Fork. As we meandered through the grassy meadowlands southward, a convoy of over a dozen motorhomes heading north indicated that spring was here in a ground-based migration northward as their sky-based feathered brethren mimicked above.

At Ash Fork I spotted a Texaco gas station and mini mart with the cheapest gasoline prices I had seen on the trip. There was a lunch counter staffed by cheerful women who made Alan and me hot and juicy cheeseburgers and large-cut French fries that we enjoyed while sitting on a bench out front. Inside that relatively small store was found nearly anything one could want for in such an isolated corner of the earth.

After leaving Ash Fork, Alan and I ventured north a short distance to the settlement of Hiko. Alan loves to photograph post offices as part of his philatelic interests, so we stopped by the Hiko Post Office located at the shady end of Oak Lane. That post office has been long lived, first opening its doors March 25, 1867 under the name of Pah Ranagat. It was changed to Hiko June 24, 1867. If anyone wanted a TV drama based in a quaint little burg, it could be aptly called "Hiko 89017."

Logan City

Turning north on Nevada 318, we drove a short distance before veering onto a dirt road that lead into the North Pahranagat Range on the west. The ghost of Logan City was our destination. We found the road recently bladed although loose, large stones gave the truck's suspension, the seat coils and my personal suspension upon which I sat a real workout. Mounting aggravation turned to a measure of stress as an ominous sign on the way read "DANGER! MISSILES MAY FALL IN THIS AREA DURING MISSILE TESTING." "Swell!" I thought, "the road can beat my truck and me to a pulp and a missile will take care of what's left!" Alan and I topped a piñon-studded summit and immediately found a striking rock formation and the ghost of Logan City.

Prospectors hailing from Austin were wandering toward the Colorado River in search of a rumored "mountain of pure silver," when an Indian led them to the eastern slopes of Mount Irish in the spring of 1865. There they found a rich ledge of silver and set up camp. Indians attacked in June and chased everyone off temporarily, until the autumn of that year when the settlement of Logan City sprang up.

Soon, enough claims were recorded and ore produced, that a mill was erected nearby in Hiko. During 1866, the population climbed to around 300. A post office opened under the name of Logan Springs July 2, 1868. But shortly afterward, Pioche began its climactic climb to fame, and Logan City lost its residents to that new town. The post office closed its doors August 1, 1871, and Logan City reverted back to sagebrush and piñon pines.

At Logan City, Alan and I found a nice stone cabin along with two additional wooden structures of a more recent vintage, along with a dilapidated camper. A short trek around them revealed a few stone foundations amid the sagebrush and piñon pines of its 5,600 foot perch, backed by a striking outcrop of white stone impregnated by bands of dark volcanic ash.

We planned to exit Logan City westward over the North Pahranagat Range, but found that the road petered out within a couple hundred yards from Logan City. So we retraced our path to Hiko and accessed Nevada 375 (Note: closer map investigation since has shown that the road over the North Pahranagat Range is accessed via a canyon to the north).

Driving along Nevada 375, the "Extraterrestrial Highway," we drove through the Alien Capital of the World, the small ranching community of Rachel. A gaggle of motor homes were parked outside the Little A'Le'Inn, the official clubhouse of the flying saucer watchers and government conspiracy types who flock here to keep their eye on super secret Area 51 located west of here at Groom Lake.

Unlimited expanse is one thing Nevada has in abundance; Nevada 375 cuts right through it with the accuracy of a rifle shot. Alan and I shot over the line into Nye County shortly after passing through Rachel; the landscape at this point was imperceptible from Lincoln County from whence we just came. Running north through the Hot Creek Valley, flanked by the snowy ranges of the Reveille and Quinn Canyon Ranges, the late afternoon sun made the most visually of our little piece of Nevada's unlimited expanse. Our immediate sights were set on reaching the ghost town Reveille, situated on the east flank of the Reveille Range, as our camping spot for the night.

Reveille

Out in the middle of nowhere, a green sign indicated simply "Reveille," with an arrow pointing west. Alan and I turned our vehicles up a seldom-used dirt road that led to the old camp, situated six miles west of Nevada 375. Out here, six miles might well have been 6,000 -- we saw no cars or signs of humans since leaving Rachel, an hour prior to our arrival.

View from cemetery at Reveille When Alan and I reached Reveille, the sun had already set behind the range, although the late afternoon sun still drenched the valley and the Quinn Canyon Range to the east, creating a wonderful backdrop. A slight downslope breeze contained a chill as we were only a short distance away from snow patches dotting the old camp, perched at 6,500 feet elevation.

Reveille gave Alan and I a magical moment that evening. As I was setting up my camp, my eye caught a movement far down the canyon. At first I thought it was a range cow and peered through my binoculars for a closer inspection. What I found was a wild horse stallion making his way up the canyon toward us. Further inspection found the remainder of the band of wild horses a quarter mile farther down the canyon. I watched for the horse from time to time while I continued making camp. Over the next fifteen minutes, the stallion continued working his way up the canyon, oblivious to the intrusion upon his territory by Alan and me.

Pondering what lured this horse up our way, I began looking around with the binoculars and spotted the reason: a spring with a filled trough was situated only 250 feet from my camp. Before the stallion caught sight of me, Alan and his dog Charlie walked up to see what I was looking at, and Alan too, became mesmerized by the sight of the wild stallion; one who represents at the same time both freedom and a nuisance to Americans and western ranchers.

Within a half hour, the horse made its way to the spring and began to drink out of the trough. Charlie, Alan's border collie, then caught sight of the horse and gave one loud bark. The stallion bolted upright and gave us a glare that could be seen well at the distance, giving us a hearty snort in his disdain upon the intrusion of his territory. The stallion did not run, but he wandered even closer to my camp and our position, periodically giving audible signals to the group below.

Eventually they all gathered about 150 feet below my truck and milled about for awhile. One stallion, probably a younger gent, decided to have a sparring match with the alpha male, leading to a kick boxing match with both horses reared up on hind legs, hooves flailing, dust flying, their scorning vocals filling the canyon. Alan and I were standing there in awe watching the spectacle; my video camera was propped up on the truck's hood, catching the entire spectacle more entertaining to Alan and I than Goldfield's legendary Gans-Nelson fight.

After the show it was nearly dark, so Alan and I both retired to our wheeled abodes. I prepared my meal, cup of soup, boiled eggs and a glass of wine. Wishing I had purchased a newspaper while at Ash Fork, I instead satisfied myself with Lingenfelter's DEATH VALLEY & THE AMARGOSA. Turning off the lights at 9:30, I enjoyed the night sky; stars shone so bright a moon almost wasn't needed. A few blinking lights arcing across the sky reminded me that I was still in the 20th century, and before I knew it I was in a deep sleep.

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