Do you know of any local legends in the Antelope Valley?

The Legend of Lake Elizabeth Part I 

Turning west from the Antelope Valley Freeway (State Highway 14) and onto Palmdale Boulevard, the traveler soon finds the name changes to Elizabeth Lake Road. The two lane roadway periodically passes blue and white signs designating this as Scenic Route N-2. Continuing westward it serpentines through pastoral Leona Valley and into the resort communities of Lake Elizabeth and Lake Hughes. Here it again changes names; this time to Pine Canyon Road as it then winds through woodlands of chaparral, manzanita and digger pine studded hillsides until eventually joining State Highway 138 in the undulating terrain of the far western portion of Antelope Valley.

While the traveler delights in the scenery what he may not be aware of is the route's trespass over some of the most colorful and legendary lands of the Antelope Valley.

One such legend concerns the body of water known as Lake Elizabeth. The gentle name and tranquil scene is indeed a far cry from the lake's supposed origin and original name La Laguna del Diablo or The Lake of the Devil. 

The October sun in 1780 was lone witness as a small band of soldados under command of a young lieutenant realized they were hopelessly lost in a maize of unknown canyons. Time was of the essence since the men, from the Mission de San Gabriel, were on a mission of mercy. A small contingent of soldiers and two Franciscan monks had been attacked by some hostile Indians. Wounded, they had managed to escape but were now stranded without food or medication. The location was somewhere in the foothills west of the great plain of the antelope. 

Anxious to save as much time as possible, the lieutenant took, what he considered to be, a direct route from the mission. Now he was hopelessly confronted by the maize of box canyons and steep moun­tains. 

The lieutenant was desperate. Haste was imperative in order to save the wounded men, yet here they were completely lost. Annoyed and frustrated he paced back and forth, kicking at anything in his path. 

"There must be a direct route nearby," he stormed at his scout. The man shook his head. 

'We can't waste anymore time," the distraught officer cried. "I'd even sell my soul to the devil himself for such a route," he swore. 

No sooner had the words been issued then the devil, arrogant and cocksure, appeared in front of the officer. A dark, pointed beard accentuated the treacherous leer as the evil one leaned close to the fear-stricken lieutenant and looked directly into the officer's eyes.

"Aye. I'm here at your command," the devil sneered. "I'll take you there in time to help your comrades. And according to your terms, I'll collect your soul in return." 

Without waiting for a reply he snapped his long, tapered fingers. Immediately a rancid smell permeated the air as voluminous clouds of sulfurous smoke enveloped the small troop of choking, white faced soldiers many of whom were now on their knees and praying. 

Within minutes the choking fumes had cleared enough so that the men could see a horde of shrieking ghouls wielding picks and shovels digging away at the mountains barricading their passage. 

The devil's crew worked well in advance of the frightened sol­diers; their pitiful wails and continuous groans mingled with the ring of the picks against rock and the scraping sound of shovels moving dirt. A strong, sulfurous smell permeated the air over the hellish scene while an eerie, amber glow flickered over the laborers as they worked non-stop throughout the night and into the next day. 

Before the second day had ended, the sweating, shrieking inmates from hell had created a pass through the mountains to the valley beyond. As suddenly as they had come, the devil's slaves evaporated even before the dust from their labors had settled to the ground. The sickening sulfurous odor was all that remained of their presence. 

The lieutenant mounted his fidgeting horse and started the ner­vous animal down the freshly created trail; his frightened troops cautiously following. 

They rode all night, afraid to stop lest the devil and his ghoulish crew re-appear. By late afternoon they had entered the foothills and were in a long narrow valley. Groves of cottonwoods fringed a series a small springs and the valley floor was covered with lush grass. Here, they found their stranded comrades, gave them food and tended to their wounds. 

The devil and his crew were nowhere in sight nor did they appear during the time the lieutenant and his men were caring for the rescued. When the wounded had recovered enough to travel the officer announced that, at sunrise, they would break camp and return to the mission. 

A bank of gray clouds hid the early October sun as the soldiers prepared to travel. An air of uneasiness hung over the men even though all were eager to return to the safety and comfort of the mission. Last night the lieutenant had made confession to the senior padre about his pact with the devil and, although the monk had absolved him, the lieutenant had yet to find any peace of mind. He was after all, a caballero, a gentleman whose word was a point of honor. Even if the word had been given to the devil, it still involved his honor and, as such, had to be kept. A payback would be due. 

This morning he felt chilled, uneasy and apprehensive. Was this a premonition of something evil about to happen? 

As he walked to where the orderly held his mount, his path was abruptly blocked by the sudden incarnation of the devil; leering, arrogant and even more cocksure than before. 

"I've come to collect." The voice was like the hissing of a coiled serpent as a gnarled hand reached out to grab the lieutenant. 

Swiftly, acting with the trained instinct of the soldier, the lieuten­ant drew his sword and boldly thrust it directly into the form before him. With disbelief and horror he watched the blade pass harmlessly through the devil. Behind him, he heard the sharp intact of breath from the monks, the disquieting murmur of fear among the soldiers. "Your toys cannot harm me," the devil laughed and snapping his fingers caused a lightning bolt to strike at the lieutenant' feet. "But I can harm you," Lucifer cautioned. "You made the bargain, not I. And since you are a true caballero I hold you to your word." 

As he had feared earlier the lieutenant was placed in the position of conceding that his word must be honored even if it was with the devil. In resignation, he sighed and turned to address the monks and his soldiers. 

"This time Lucifer is correct. It was I who struck the bargain and therefor it is I who must oblige. Better I be sacrificed than you, my good men and these holy fathers." 

With that statement, the young lieutenant reversed his hold on the sword and followed the traditional form of surrendering to the enemy by offering it to his foe, hilt first. 

It was then that the one ray of sunlight burst through the cloud cover; the solitary, bright shaft of light focused directly on the gold and silver embellished sword handle which, according to popular fashion, was molded in the form of the Christian cross.

A murmur of rev­erence rippled throughout the assembled troops as the hilt became a blazing halo. The location of the sun, behind the sword, cast an elon­gated shadow over the face of the devil; the shadow of the cross! 

The devil's arro­gance turned to shock. Instantly the smile vanished; the mouth twisted gro­tesquely as if struck by a paralytic stroke. Froth formed on the lips, drooled down into the dark, pointed beard.

The devil fell backwards, frantically clawing at the shadow. A low rumbling in his throat turned to a loud bellow, as his body shook in the rage and fear. A horde of ragged demons, ready to fight, responded to his howls.

Regaining his courage the lieutenant pressed forward even as the devil’s horde closed ranks. But the officer failed to be daunted. He continued moving forward, the shadow of the cross looming before him.

The entire valley filled with frantic screams of the devil and his ghouls as the huddled together under the lengthening shadow of the sword’s hilt. Bolstered by the turn of events the monks raised their own crucifixes. Two more shadows fell across the devil and his horde. Other soldiers with similar swords did likewise; the shadows grew in number amid a chorus of loud and fervent holy proclamations shouted by the assembled troops.

Without warning and with the intensity of a bolt of lightning a loud roar rumbled across the valley, drowning the din of mingled voices. Before the echoes had even finished reverberating off the hillsides, the ground began slowly undulating then quickly became violent.

The leaden sky became darker as a mantle of choking black smoke settled over the valley. Grasses, once lush and green, quickly withered as flames, suddenly bursting through the ground, added to the fury of earth’s upheaval. Within minutes a raging fire storm completely encircled the devil and his horde.

Now it was the soldier’s turn to quake with fear. Hurriedly, the lieutenant ordered his men to fall back and make camp away from the valley floor and at some distance from the tempest. Here, the monks fell to their knees and, joined by the soldiers, raised their voices in prayer.

Behind them the fire became a raging cauldron; the roar of the flames interspersed with strange, loud hissing noises. Even though they were some distance away there was no sleep for the men despite the fact that they did feel somewhat safer with the holy presence of a monk and the symbol of the cross.

The holocaust continued throughout the day and the ensuing night. By mid-morning of the next day, peace had again returned to the valley. The late October sky was once more a clear deep cobalt blue and the yellowing leaves of the cottonwood trees no longer shook in the rhythm to the heaving earth.

The lieutenant ordered the men to mount their horses and taking the lead, retraced yesterday’s route in hopes of soon returning to the sanctuary of the mission.

As they rounded the bend in the valley, the somewhat reluctant troops gasped in amazement. Instead of the expected charred and blackened earth where yesterday's holocaust had occurred there now stood a vast body of clear, blue water. The beautiful lake, a scene of peace and tranquillity was a far different scene than that of the devilish horde being consumed by a raging fire-storm.

Never-the-less, the good padre blessed each and every man before they ventured along the shore line on this return route for truly they knew that this beautiful body of water was none other than La Laguna del Diablo. And never would they return.

For many years the peace of the area remained undisturbed for it became known throughout the settlements as the Lake of the Devil. It was an area said to be haunted by evil spirits and off-limits to all mankind.

Subsequent occurrences many years later added credence to this warning. And soon, you too will see why .......... .

The Legend of Lake Elizabeth Part II

Tourists and residents alike find the tranquil setting of Lake Elizabeth a favorite year-round location for fishing or picnicking. The Angeles National Forest, which has jurisdiction over the lake, has provided paved parking areas, picnic tables and rest rooms along the north shoreline.

Recreation, however, has not always been synonymous with the area. In fact, many early settlers considered it a place to be avoided. Legends travel fast and far and the Legend of Laguna del Diablo was no exception.

The lake reportedly had been created on the very site where the devil and his horde of demons disappeared in a caldron of flames that roared forth from a rumbling, cavernous hole in the ground. Whether due to this tale or not there was no activity in this area for at least a full century.

In the mid 1830's Don Pedro Carrillo was the first to settle here after acquiring a land grant that included the placid looking lake. The land, with groves of cottonwoods, also had an abundance of springs and lush grasslands making it an excellent location for raising livestock.

Carrillo had high hopes for the future of this site as his ranch headquarters and started construction of a ranch house, several out buildings and corrals.

His hopes were soon shattered. Within three days after completing construction there were only charred ruins to mark the site. The origin of the devastating fire unknown.

"The work of the devil," the whispered rumors claimed. Don Carrillo did not argue. He abandoned the site.

For over two decades no one dared to intrude upon this land until, in 1855 some American squatters decided to settle there. They too had heard the rumors but disclaimed them as merely ignorant superstitions.

Despite such initial bravado however, even before a house could be built they too abandoned the area and proclaimed the entire region haunted.

Again, the land remained uninhabited until 1883 when Francisco (Chico) Lopez took over the original grant and built his adobe some distance from the shore. From there on the lake took the name Laguna de Lopez. (Lopez Lake).

For awhile it appeared that Lopez alone had defied and defeated the alleged curse of Laguna del Diablo. That is, until one night during the heat of summer.

The night was quiet and peaceful. Overhead, the moon played tag with thick dark clouds creating a variety of alternating shadows on the earth below. On the veranda of his adobe Lopez and a guest were enjoying the warmth and tranquillity of this summer night when they heard the sound of a swiftly approaching horse and a voice calling "Senor Lopez!".

As both men rose to their feet the horse came to a rearing stop in front of them. The rider with a mixture of fear and excitement called for both men to quickly follow him back to the lake.

As with all rancheros Lopez kept saddled horses tied nearby which the two men quickly mounted and followed the vaquero.

Approaching the lake they heard a frightening, loud noise which they described variably as a hissing, whistling scream. By the time they came to the shoreline, however, the noise had stopped. Nor was there anything to be seen except a widening circle of rippling water in the otherwise placid lake. To the casual eye, it was just a quiet, peaceful, warm summer night. Except. . .for the smell.

It made their nostrils twitch and their stomachs chum with its nauseous rancid and fetid odor.

All three horses began to snort; their eyes wide with fear, they pranced about and began rearing. The men, attempting to calm their mounts were caught unawares when a thunderous roar split the night air, followed by the sound of loud splashing. The rippling waters of the lake suddenly exploded into frothy waves which raced to the shoreline.

The horses panicked and stampeded toward the ranch. The riders all three excellent horsemen, momentarily turned their attention from the lake in order to bring their terrified mounts under control. As the horses slowly responded to the bits in their mouths, under control. As the horses slowly responded to the bits in their mouths, Lopez' guest looked back and what he saw caused him to cry out to his companions "Look back. Quickly!"

Wave after wave of water splashed against the shoreline as out of the churning lake arose a huge monster. The three men later described it as "larger than the greatest whale, with enormous bat-like wings that dripped large pellets of water as the monster slowly rose into the air."

The men raced back to the ranch to get their firearms but when they returned to the lake the monster was gone. "Had this been just an apparition?" they asked each other. "Had this really happened?"

They began to wonder; had they all been put under some sort of spell? And if so, had the spell included the horses to make them become so frightened?

No. This had not been something supernatural for the water in the lake was still disturbed and small waves were still lapping foam on the shore. And their horses, still trembling with fear, were ready to again take flight at the slightest sound.

Each man knew that what he had seen had also been witnessed by another. This could not have been their imagination. What had been seen had been witnessed by all, including the three frightened horse, and therefor must have actually occurred. But- what was it? Why was it here and would it soon come back?

Their questions remained unanswered as the night soon returned to its former calm. The three men prayed that what they had witnessed would not be seen again. But, it was not to be.

Shortly after that fearful night Lopez and his vaqueros were jolted out of their sleep by a raucous uproar coming from the horse corrals. In various stages of undress they rushed to the pens. The horses were in a panic; dashing from one side of the pen to another, crowding and bumping into each another, their nostrils wide, their eyes dilated with fear. At first there was nothing to explain their panic but after the men had quieted them down, it was discovered they were short ten head of horses.

No gates were open. No corral poles knocked down. As they checked for signs of rustlers one vaquero happened to look skyward.

"Madre de Dios", he cried, crossing himself. "Look. Look quick!" pointing to the sky.

Now, it was the men who became fearful for there, silhouetted against an iridescent moon, was an incredible and fearsome sight. Some called it a griffon, half eagle-half lion, others said it was a huge winged dragon. By whatever name used the monster, heavy with gluttonous feeding on the horses, was slowly winging its way into the night.

For a full week, reports of other missing livestock came drifting in along with a continuation of various noises emitting from the lake. "The voices of hell," the vaqueros said and refused to ride there after dark.

Another rancher, Don Felipe Rivera, who lived a few miles east of Lopez, reported seeing a large winged dragon attempting to swallow an entire longhorn steer. Rivera said he managed to ride close enough to empty his pistol at the monster only to have the bullets bounce harmlessly off the sides.

"They sounded like pellets hitting the sides of an iron kettle," he told friends.

According to his reports the monster was about forty-four feet long and as large as four elephants with a head resembling that of a big bulldog. Later, a representative from Sells Brothers Circus, reading a newspaper report on Rivera's encounter, offered a $20,000 reward for the live capture of the beast. Tempted by the money Rivera gathered some fearless and able bodied vaqueros, all of whom were experts with the reata (rawhide lariat) but they were unable to track down and capture the monster.

By 1886 the frightful carnivore had apparently disappeared. With a price now on its head, it became the hunted rather than the feared. Some claimed the monster had been chased away by the fearless El Basque Grande (Baron de Leonis), the largest landowner in the area. Others claimed to have personally seen it fly away. The rumors flourished.

Even the Tombstone Epitaph got into the act. A front page article in the Arizona newspaper claimed that two ranchers shot a huge, serpent-like creature they had discovered laying exhausted on the desert some miles outside of town. The coyotes were claimed to have feasted on the monster and so scattered the remains that nothing could later be found.

The validity of the article was never proven and since the Epitaph was noted for its' tongue-in-cheek writing, no further attention was paid to such a claim.

Back at Laguna del Lopez however, one fact remained .... There were no further reports of loud hissing noises at night accompanied by putrid smells and .... no further missing livestock.

The lake continued to lay placid. Peace again returned to the region.

Less one be lulled into a sense of smugness and security, come visit Lake Elizabeth on some dark, moonless summer night.

Stroll leisurely along the shoreline. The air is stilled and heavy with the heat of the day. All is serene, tranquil. You breathe deeply with contentment enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. But your reverie comes to an abrupt end.

Your nostrils twitch; your stomach turns as your senses pick up and try to repel a thick, fetid and musty odor.

Without warning, the peace is shattered. Unseen in the darkness, out where the water is the deepest, something disturbs the smooth surface of the lake. A widening circle of ripples moves swiftly, lapping against the shoreline and wetting your feet. Alarmed, a flock of coots rise noisily and wing their way into the dark sky.

Then ... all becomes stilled. The lake returns to its former calm; the night again becomes serene. All is peaceful and enchanting. Except...for the smell.

The old-timers said the monster had such a smell. They also said it lived in the middle of the lake, where the water was the deepest. Where the sudden commotion had just occurred.

"It's only a legend" you tell yourself as you stop, turn around and leave the shoreline. There's no such thing as a monster .... Right? ..

by Gloria Hine Gossard

The original source for this story is from On The Old West Coast, Reminiscences of a Ranger by Colonel Horace D. Bell

Like leaves before the wind, gold seekers moved from one place to another in their search to "strike it rich". Sometimes the find was in the most desolate and barren of areas. The high desert was such a place. Underneath the sterile looking, rock strewn mountainsides, veins of gold and silver lay waiting for the industrious.

A land of extremes, the high desert does not cater to the weak. It tests the tenacity of flora and fauna as much as it tests man. Old-timers said the desert has just two temperatures, hot and damn cold and both could occur within a span of just twenty-four hours.

Another factor was the wind. The blustery, howling, irritating wind. Lt evaporated what little moisture there was, sapped the suppleness of new leather and put particles of sand into everything a man ate.

Under such conditions it took men with a strong will and an even stronger constitution to survive. Lessor men would crack. As for those with a hair-trigger temper? Well, when an irate person backed his complaint with a firearm he soon found that, despite his reasoning, shooting someone brought about immediate retaliation. This was called "Frontier Justice" and it allowed no excuses.

Some say this is why there are still ghosts stalking the remnants of the gold camps that once proliferated the mountains northeast of Mojave. Camps which contained up to a thousand people and bore such names as Galer, Red Mountain, Rand Camp and Skidoo. Today, only a few pieces of rusted machinery, tailings of broken rock, crumbled adobe walls and a few weathered boards are all that remain.

Galer Camp is such a place. All signs of activity are absent; that is unless one includes the ghosts. Like the one roaming the nearby ravines, searching for its head.

The dead man's name was Simpson. After the hanging most folks denied ever knowing him because they figured there was so much anger it might rub off on them as well. This had been proven earlier when a friend rescued Simpson from the irate mob after he'd gone and killed that Arnold fellow.

Arnold had been a jolly, likeable fellow; a store-keeper that extended the hand of friendship to everyone. Honest and fair on his prices, he'd helped many a miner with a grub stake; carried many on a tab; things like that.

On the other hand, no one knew too much about Simpson and those that did know him clammed up pretty darned quick. It was just plumb dangerous to say anything, nice or otherwise, about a guy who had just murdered the area's most popular man. And if Arnold wasn't popular before the shooting he darned sure became so after he was killed!

Facts behind the shooting were pretty skimpy but some said Simpson had been turned down after asking for more credit at one of the saloons. A brief scuffle followed, which he lost. Simpson had his gun taken away and told to "go cool off".

Instead, he continued to sulk and got himself another gun. For some reason Simpson then directed his anger towards Arnold and stomped into the man's store. Right in front of witnesses he waved his gun in Arnold's face and demanded to know what the man had against him.

Folks said that Arnold barely had time to answer "nothin' by Gawd" before Simpson shot him. As Arnold fell he pleaded with Simpson not to shoot again but the wild-eyed Simpson just kept pulling the trigger until he'd run out of bullets.

The shots were heard all up and down the dusty street and within seconds a group of irate men grabbed Simpson as he ran out of Arnold's store. That's when this friend stepped in to keep the men from beating up Simpson but found himself being hauled off by a group of burly miners and told to "get lost!"

One eye blackened and face bruised, his shirt tom to shreds the once case-hardened Simpson cringed as the crowd argued whether to string-him-up now or hold him for a legal sentencing. The latter argument won. Since the nearest marshal was clear up in Independence Simpson was locked up in Arnold's storeroom until the marshal could arrive.

Despite the distances between camps, news traveled fast especially when it concerned someone as popular as Arnold. Before nightfall Galer was bustling with miners from other camps; men who had thought highly of Arnold and were plainly outraged by his murder. They traveled from saloon to saloon, or paused in clusters along the dusty streets. The topic of conversation was Arnold's murder ... and Simpson.

By morning, the opinion was that the marshal would never make it out of town with Simpson in tow. Now the miners had nothing against the marshal and they sure didn't want to be responsible for anything happening to him. But Simpson? Well now, that was different.

That's when Simpson's friend got wind that the crowd wasn't too happy with him either. If he cared to take off for points yonder, however, they wouldn't interfere for the next sixty minutes. It was said that the fellow took off and ran clear into Los Angeles without ever stopping once!

Seeing their duty clearly in front of them, the miners hauled Simpson out of the store room jail and proceeded to make him their guest of honor at a necktie party.

Well now, after that little episode took place, and photographs of the corpse were duly taken, (Folks said he was even strung up again in order to oblige a late arriving photographer) no one knew what to do with the corpse. Everyone was still so outraged by the killing of the popular store keeper they all decided that Simpson wasn't even worthy of burying. The question "What to do with the body?" was solved by just dumping Simpson's corpse far out on the desert floor.

There were those, however, who silently believed that no one, despite the crime, should have their remains just dumped out on the desert. During the dead of the night, they secretly gathered Simpson's remains into a wheelbarrow and went looking for a burial site.

The barren, rocky hillsides were spotted with several old and abandoned mine shafts and into one of these Simpson's lifeless body was dropped.

It so happened that the owner of that old mine came around some time later and found the mummified corpse. He loaded the shriveled corpse into a wheelbarrow and once again Simpson's remains were unceremoniously dumped out on the desert.

Word quickly got around as to what he had done. Once again, in the dead of the night, the unknown benefactors wheeled the ghastly cargo to another old and abandoned mine. In their haste they failed to notice that, in all this moving back and forth, Simpson's head fell off and rolled away into the inky darkness.

It wasn't until the corpse was being dumped into another silent shaft that the loss of the head was noticed. But there's only so much a man can do especially when handling the remains of one as disliked as the late Simpson.

Some folks insisted, that without a head, the body couldn't be identified by Saint Peter to know where to send the soul. But, other than wondering whether that was factual or not, no one seemed overly concerned.

There were no more hangings in Goler after that. No more killings either. And most folks just put the memory clear out of their minds.

That is, unless one happened to be outside during that formidable period of time when night is ending and the day has yet to begin. That's when some said they had seen the headless body of Simpson wandering about, rattling the window panes, pounding at doors, searching in vain for his head.

The dry lake beds and rocky mountainsides southeast of the El Paso Mountains still attract a number of prospectors.

Instead of burros, their supplies are carried inside campers and motor homes and metal detectors replace the pick and shovel.

The desert, however, has changed little. Water is still scarce. The days are still hot, the nights cold. And the wind continues to blow, It howls, shakes the sides of campers and rattles the partially opened windows.

Just before dawn the sounds become more intense. Inside his camper, the traveler wakes up, nervously looks outside. The sage and creosote remain motionless .... but the camper door shakes, the knob rattles.

Just the wind, the traveler assures himself but keeps his nose pressed against the window pane searching for something he really doesn’t want to see.

by Gloria Hine Gossard

Criss-crossing the foothills of western Antelope Valley are numerous small canyons and half-hidden trails that cannot be seen from any vehicle. And this is as it should be for these are areas that hold many secrets of the past.

A century ago this was cattle country. Vast leagues of land comprised three Spanish land grants; Rancho El Tejon, Rancho Los Alamos y Aqua Caliente and Rancho los Liebres. Before then, leather clad soldiers periodically swept through the country looking for deserters, both of their own kind and those of the native converts from the Missions San Fernando, Santa Barbara and San Gabriel. Some searches were successful; some were not and others failed to even return. Had these men also deserted? Or ... had they perished at the hands of the hunted who had then become the hunter?

The answer remained locked within the land to become one of the many mysteries held within these silent canyons.

The vaquero was returning to his home in the Tehachapi Mountains. For the past month he had been tending the cattle grazing the hills of Rancho los Liebres and now that his relief had come he was hurrying home to his wife and children.

It was spring but the feel of winter was still in the air and the vaquero pushed on as a cold wind swept across the valley floor. By taking a small, rocky canyon the vaquero could escape the full force of the wind and also save several hours riding time. Although other vaqueros claimed the canyon was haunted and warned him not to be in there after darkness the vaquero, anxious to get home, still considered the canyon the quickest and most protected route. But he hadn't reckoned on the irascible springtime weather and, his mind on other things, failed to notice the thick, dark clouds sweeping in from the east.

He was midway into the canyon when the late afternoon sun disappeared behind the bank of leaden clouds. With no further warning hard stinging pellets of cold rain began falling. Urging his horse into an extended trot the vaquero pushed on. The canyon walls closed in on them as their route became narrow and steep. Despite the cold, steaming sweat rose from the damp neck and flanks of the horse; its breathing labored as it climbed the rocky ascent.

Rain now turned to sleet and the vaquero decided it best to rest his horse and seek shelter until the sudden storm abated. He found a large felled pine, its gnarled roots still clinging tenaciously to the canyon walls and the trunk resting on an outcropping of large rocks. Between the roots and the granite, the sturdy lower branches formed a partial bower large enough to shield the vaquero and part of his horse.

Although it had seemed like an eternity to the vaquero, there was no way of telling how long he had huddled under the tree until the sleet turned back to rain and then, this too, ceased to fall. In its place a mantle of thick dense clouds obliterated the landscape, erasing the vaquero's sense ·of direction in this unfamiliar canyon.

His horse was from the Liebre remuda (herd) and should he give it its head to find the trail he might well find himself back where they had started from. Just then his horse snorted, moved nervously about and with quivering nostrils looked off iIJ.to the dense white fog. Afraid that a bear was nearby the vaquero cautiously followed the direction of his horse's fright and there vaguely saw the outline of another horse.

Again his horse snorted and ended with a nicker, this time more in recognition of another horse than in fright. There was no answer but the vaquero could distinctly hear the sound of shod hooves moving over the rocks.

"Hola," he cried. "Who are you? I was on my way to El Tejon but I'm lost."

No answer. The hoof sounds grew closer. The vaquero's horse pranced about as his rider swung gracefully into the saddle. Again the vaquero announced his presence but his words sounded hollow as they bounced against the dense clouds. Once again there was no answer.

At first the vaquero thought the horse to be a member of one of the numerous bands of wild horses that roamed these foothills but the fact that is was shod changed that.

His horse became quiet. The vaquero held his breath least he not hear an answer or any further sound. Silence.

Then the sound of rocks sliding as a horse moved down a hillside. The vaqueros' senses sharpened as he heard something else; the soft distinct jangle of spurs. There was a rider on the horse!

"Hola, companero," he called again." Are you going to El Tejon?"

Again no answer. By now the vaquero realized the mist was so dense that sound did not always carry but he felt sure that he heard someone instructing him to follow. The voice was hollow as voices often are in such an environment but his horse eagerly fell in behind the stranger and the vaquero just as eagerly allowed it to do so.

Once, and just briefly, the swirling fog parted and he could see they were following a line-backed "grullo", a buckskin horse. But the rider remained merely a darkly cloaked form.

After several unsuccessful attempts to make conversation the vaquero decided to just quietly follow his mysterious guide. This made him uneasy. A cold shiver ran up and down his body causing him to cross himself and whisper "Madre de Dios. Ride with me."

The fog was so dense that the vaquero had no idea where they were or where they were going but, since his horse seemed quite content to follow their guide, he choked back his growing fear and continued his silent ride.

They continued climbing and now their path seemed less steep. Without warning, his horse stopped. To his left the vaquero could hear the strange horse and rider scrambling up a steep bank but for some reason his horse refused to follow.

As suddenly as it had come the fog lifted. Above them, stars shone brightly in a dark sky and a shaft of silvery light outlined the mountains. The vaquero breathed a sigh of relief for he now recognized the landscape; his home was just over the ridge.

He turned to offer his thanks to his benefactor but the stranger had mysteriously disappeared. The vaquero held his breath so that he could better pick up the sound of the other horse. There was nothing. His own horse seemed more interested in seeking grass and was no longer nervous or anxious to follow another.

Sighing, the vaquero lightly touched spurs to his horse and proceeded homeward just as the moon rose from behind the ridge. The vaquero's horse suddenly stopped, twisted its head to look back and nickered softly. This time there was an answer.

The vaquero turned, looked and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He stiffened. His body felt icy cold.

On the ridge behind them he clearly saw the strange horse and rider. Perhaps it was the moonlight, he said later, but they both appeared to have a strange glow about them.

But this, he admitted, was not what made him feel so weak that he had to grab the saddle to stay on. The rider was neither another vaquero or a settler. Nor was he even of this era.

The grulla was small, with the short ears and slender nostrils of the early Spanish horses. The saddle was a la jineta or Moorish style, and the rider wore the leather armor that the vaquero's grandfather had worn when had been a soldado de cuero (leather-clad soldier) with Portola. And that had been back in 1769!

As the phantom guide raised his arm in a salute the moonlight fully illuminated the strange pair. The vaquero could even see the chin strap of the guide's leather hat. But... the guide had no face!

And then he and the horse were gone.

Someday, if you're so inclined to try exploring one of these small canyons, do so long before the darkness falls. For even in the middle of July and August these canyons may create a chill far more intense than that associated with just a drop in temperature as stones rattle, a rock falls.

Your senses become alerted. You pause and listen.

Is someone, or something, there?

There are rumors that small bands of wild horses still roam these foothills so that could account for what sounded like a horse snorting.

The canyon falls silent. Deathly still. A jay scolds loudly, then with a flash of blue, disappears.

What, or who was it scolding? Why did it fly away so suddenly?

Your questions remain unanswered for many mysteries abide within these canyons and there they will stay. 

by Gloria Hine Gossard

North of Mojave, State Highway 14 crosses a series of dry washes surrounded by multi-hued and sculptured sandstone cliffs. Maintained by the California State Parks system, Red Rock Canyon has been graphically described as a miniature Bryce Canyon. A popular location for geologists, rock-hounds and outdoor enthusiasts, it has also been the site of many motion pictures from westerns to science fiction thrillers.

Since mankind first trod the sands of the Mojave Desert the canyon was a veritable oasis. There was water to quench raving thirsts, hardy cottonwoods and willows to provide shade, firewood for warmth and cooking fires, and grasses to nourish famished animals.

The varied rock formations, including those ranging from soft, pale pink to a rich hue of crimson red were not only the basis for the name Red Rock Canyon but provided a distinctive and familiar landmark for many a crudely drawn map used by travelers.

The original road followed the tracks of settlers and the mule-drawn wagons of freighters. Following the course of least resistance across the desert floor the road consequently received constant alterations from nature including sand storms and flash floods that traveled with the speed and velocity of a runaway locomotive.

Tucked away in a canyon hidden from view off Highway 14 is the Red Rock Canyon Ranger Station. It replaces the weathered wood buildings, sprawling corrals and stockpiles of hay and grain of the original way-station. The refreshing spring and shallow wells continue to provide water as they did for the weary animals and haggard teamsters of the 1800' s who kept a steady stream of freighting; hauling machines and supplies northward to the mines of Cerro Gordo and returning with what investors considered to be the most precious cargo of all, gold and silver bullion from the mines.

Red Rock was the oasis where teamsters paused to refresh themselves, repair broken wheels or harness and seek shelter from the scorching heat of summer or the freezing winds of winter.

Here, they gathered around fires of pungent greasewood or sage roots and exchanged stories. Some talked of family left behind while others related incidents that occurred on previous trips. A few freighters were gifted story-tellers, weaving words into a story quilt that each listener had, at one time or another, been able to equate himself with. Some stories were true. Others, in re-telling over and over again as a hedge against the long, lonely hours, were elaborated upon and eventually became legends.

Thereby hangs the tale of lost, silver in Red Rock Canyon.

Teamsters were an unique breed of men. Some called them loners because of their ability to withstand long hauls where their only companions were their. mules and a swamper, or helper. These hauls consisted of prolonged and tedious hours in all types of weather and rough, unfriendly .terrain. Under such adverse conditions tempers often ran thin so it wasn't uncommon for even that pairing to end. But, once the trip was over with the opportunity to rest in the company of other teamsters, the men were ready to socialize. Their capacity for drinking, card playing and story telling was often in itself legendary. It was almost as if they were storing up companionship in preparation for the lonely days and nights ahead.

Perhaps, if this particular teamster had been more like the others this story would never have been told.

It was one of those rare occasions when several teams arrived at the Red Rock station within a short span of each other and the men seized the opportunity as a break in their tedious routines. Unharnessed mules, in all sizes and colors, were tied side by side to the rows of picket lines where they munched contentedly on piles of clean, fresh smelling hay. Flames crackled and sparks shot skyward as another load of mesquite was added to the blazing bonfire surrounded by men warming their backsides and sharing jugs of homebrew.

But not this newcomer. He had arrived just as the others were beginning to gather for the evening. Tall and muscular, swarthy and sullen, he merely shook his head in refusal to the friendly greetings and invitations to "come join in". He was a complete stranger to all. None of the teamsters had ever seen him before, nor had the people running the station where every teamster, at one time or another, would stop.

The fact that he traveled without a swamper didn't strike too many as odd. After all, it was a well known fact that when a teamster and his swamper became at odds with each other the helper became the loser. Either he was 'cut-loose' at some point, meaning he was just abandoned along the route or, as in some cases just out-and-out killed by the irate teamster.

But the sleekness and quality of his mules and the way he handled them, silently told the others that this newcomer was a qualified teamster and in this world that was the bottom line as to the caliber of a man.

Gruffly refusing all invitations to join the group at the bonfire the newcomer proceeded to a location some distance from where the others were settled. Here he unhitched his team and bedded them for the night, built a small fire and fixed his dinner. He ate with his back turned to them all and once finished, curled up in a blanket under his wagon for the night.

Although he avoided any contact with the others, that didn't prevent him from being included in their conversations.

"Anyone know him?" someone asked. Heads shook no in unison. "Gotta good team. Takes care of 'em good too," one commented.

"Yup," the others agreed.

"Sure don't wanna leave that wagon," a man scoffed. "Must think he's the only one here haulin' ore."

A ripple of laughter made the rounds. "Reminds me of the first time I hauled ore," a man began.

A jug was pressed into his hands. "Here. Take a swig," the jug's owner said. "Tell your story and then I'll tell you about my first time."

Another round of laughter and the story swapping began leaving all thoughts and curiosity about the stranger behind.

Long before the sun turned the sandstone ridge into a rosy glow, the stranger was up and graining his team as he buckled on their harness. A brisk wind scuttled the cold ashes of last night' s fire and the awakening teamsters struggled to keep their broad brimmed hats on their heads.

By the time the sky had lightened enough to discern shapes the stranger had his team harnessed. 

The others, however, slowed down their tasks, their attention riveted on the boiling black clouds gathering over the peaks of the distant Sierra Nevadas in the west.

"Time for another cup of joe," one said, nodding his head towards the west. "Won't be any travel today."

The remark was made in general and the experienced drivers nodded in agreement. The loner, however, continued his preparations to move on.

One man sauntered over to where the loner was buckling up the last of the six mules. "Nice team," he commented.

The loner, unlike his peers who basked in compliments about their mules, failed to even acknowledge the comment.

The man cleared his throat. "You're new to this run, ain't you?"

After waiting a sufficient time for an answer which didn't come he continued. "Well stranger, let me tell you there's no need for hurrying. That there black cloud over them Sierras means it's stormin' to beat all get-up in the high country. The run-off will be coming through here in 'bout an hour. Right down all them draws this road passes through. Best lay over and wait. Only be two, maybe three hours at most. Ground be bone dry and good travelin' then."

It was the longest bunch of words he had ever strung together at one time. When finished he paused to catch his breath and waited for an answer.

It didn't come.

The stranger finished checking his mules then climbed to the high seat of his wagon.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" the man demanded, his voice reflecting his irritation at being so rudely ignored.

"I heard," the stranger grunted. "Got a schedule. Know what I'm doing and I'm no damned coward. Like you said, gotta good team." His whip whistled over the head of the leaders. "Heeyah mules. Up'n attum."

The man stepped back as the sleek mules leaned into their collars and the wagon rolled forward. "Damn fool," he shouted as the stranger artfully caressed the black bull-whip over the team.

The sun was steadily climbing into the sky as the stranger and his ore-laden wagon were well on the way south following the sandy bottomed road. The wind had died. Now the sun beat down, hot enough to bring out the sweat on the necks and flanks of the mules. The clouds over the Sierras had broken up to resemble flocks of dirty white un-shorn sheep moving across the sky.

Midway through the series of weather-hewn cliffs as the road bed traversed the center of a wide, sandy wash, the mules were the first to sense impending danger. Without any urging from their driver they attempted to hasten their pace.

But, the heavily laden wagon refused to respond. The loosely packed soil was traveled best at a slow, steady pace and could easily hold a wheel prisoner should a driver attempt to speed up his team.

It did so now. The wheels pushed deep into the sand and failed to progress any further.

Angered and frustrated the driver began swearing at his team, the wagon, the canyon and everything in general. A deep, thunderous roar diverted his attention from the mules and looking westward his next oath died on his lips. His face blanched; his anger replaced by cold, hard fear.

Between the walls of the narrow canyons, gaining force with each bend where it was joined by gushing streams, a wall of yellowish brown, muddy water thundered down the wash, aimed directly at the wagon. Trees, uprooted from some far away mountainside, were being tossed about as if mere twigs among the rocks and huge boulders, bouncing and tumbling like deathly giant rubber balls. Down the wash, the mass of debris and muddy water gathered speed and power, boiling and cresting ten feet high.

Yelling and screaming, the teamster frantically cracked his whip over the frenzied mules. The wagon lurched and creaked as it attempted to move forward . It became a futile attempt to outrun the flash flood that had been spawned in the Sierras in the pre-dawn hours.

The wagon went first. Splintered into shreds. The teamster, catapulted from the wagon seat into the tangle of twisted harness and fighting, screaming mules. The neatly stacked cargo, heavy bars of pressed silver, tossed and tumbled as effortlessly as the branches from a nearby shattered chaparral.

As quickly as it had come, the flood had gone on: Running a timeless path towards the distant desert floor, leaving only a channel of shining yellow mud to mark its vicious course.

Later that day the other teamsters came searching. They found nothing but a few splintered boards from the wagon. The driver, his mules, the wagon and the silver ingots had all been carried along with the waters and debris of the flash flood; broken and buried under tons of mud which, even now, was beginning to harden under the intense summer sun.

If any laments were voiced by the teamsters it was for the team of mules; the driver merely considered a "damn fool".

"It was a good team," one man said, shaking his head in disgust.

No remains were ever found. Decades later, a rumor circulated that during the 1909 survey to find a route for the Los Angeles aqueduct, an engineer discovered a buried silver ingot. But, the rumor soon died. Whether hushed by choice or because of no proof, one will never know. There remained stories told by earlier travelers that whenever storm clouds gathered over the Sierras one could hear a thunderous roar, the sound of screaming mules and a high pitched man's wail echoing through the canyons during the pre-dawn hours. When this occurred, they cautioned others to head to the high ground because a flash flood would soon follow. The superstitious said it was the lone teamster, doomed to atone for his belligerent attitude, by warning others not to get caught as was he.

Should you find yourself driving through Red Rock Canyon best be alert just before the pre-dawn hours. The car radio is on and you hear the weather forecaster talking about the possibility of thunderstorms, especially over the Sierra Nevadas.

The voice is drowned with static, or is that some kind of rumble coming from other than the radio? You turn the volume down but the noise continues. Grows .louder, more intense.

The hairs on the back of your neck bristle as you hear a harsh, high-pitched wailing sound. Could that be a man's death song? Or is that what panicky mules sound like?

You accelerate your speed. Your vehicle responds, whipping down the empty highway that straddles the wide, sandy wash. Sunlight streaks the top of the ridges ahead and just then you see a flicker of light coming your way. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens, the speedometer needle rises.

Suddenly, a big eighteen-wheeler rounds the bend ahead, swinging wide over the center line and blinding you momentarily in its headlights. The raucous blasting from its airhoms echoes throughout the canyon. Then, with a rush of air, the big rig passes on by.

Yes, you assure yourself, that's the sound you heard! Wasn't it? After all legends are only legends and without any merit to them .......... Or ........?

by Gloria Hine Gossard

The mountain ranges surrounding the Antelope Valley are pockmarked with numerous small canyons many of which have become inaccessible due to an occasional flood or seismic activity of the San Andreas fault line. Some of these canyons became alternate routes to the Los Angeles basin instead of the more established trails, especially when one wanted to avoid other travelers; such as when driving contraband livestock or transporting ill-gotten treasures. On occasion, the treasure would be secreted away for intended retrieval at a future date. Not all, however, would be recovered.

Since this region was often traveled by California's famous bandidos it was only natural that there would be legends of lost treasures hidden by either Joaquin Murietta or Tiburcio Vasquez. Take your pick because the legends fit either one. Such as the legend of the Lost Pack Horse Gold.

The sun was bright and the day warm with the promise of a good journey as the bandido and his girl friend followed a faint trail through the canyon. Behind them plodded the third horse, the rawhide paniards (pack boxes) concealing buckskin bags filled with gold pieces· the loot from a recent stage robbery.

The pair had taken the less-traveled canyon for obvious reasons. They wanted no one to know of their whereabouts as they pushed their horses south-west to where the girl had relatives and the assurance of safe anonymity. For several days there had been no signs of any pursuers. Now their speed was merely that of two riders anxious for the comforts of a bed and a hot meal.

But- they were not totally alone. Several pairs of eyes were watching their progress and a plan for their capture was silently being formulated.

Prior to the coming of the white man the land had been populated by several tribal branches of the Shoshone Nation. Over the years the natives had been baptized, forced into slavery and ultimately Just plain detested by all those who laid claim to the land. Several years of such genocide ultimately forced lean times upon those remaining. Small, out-of-the-way canyons such as this became their refuge.

Now the word had been passed that intruders had invaded their sanctuary. They lay in wait for the unsuspecting pair.

So swift was the bloodless attack that the man did not have time to draw his firearm; he and his companion were simply overwhelmed by the group of determined natives.

The pair were brought before the chieftain to determine their fate. This elder one, his hair flocked with strands of gray, announced that his people did not war on women and because of-this their lives would be spared.

“But," he added; pointing to his band, "my people are starving." The lean bodies of the men and women and the darkly circled, haunting eyes of the children testified to this fact.

The chief then ordered the bandido and his woman to leave on only one horse; his people would keep the other two which were promptly slaughtered for food.

The bandit did not argue for the return of his gold; more could be acquired at another time or he would later return with his men and retrieve the bags. But the chief had other ideas.

When the bandit and his woman were reported to be many miles away the chief ordered that the buckskin sacks of gold be buried.

"I have lived a long time", he said. "I have seen the virtuous become wicked. I have seen good replaced by greed and wretchedness. And all this .. because of gold. It brings evil."

And so he ordered the bags of coins to be buried deeply and covered by rocks and boulders so that there would be no sign of the hiding place.

In time the old chief and his band left the canyon and were never seen or heard from again. The bandit often attempted to return to the site but so well had it been hidden that he could not find the gold.

Nature had also helped obliterate the location. The coyotes and mountain lions had so scattered the remains of the slaughtered horses that there was no way to determine where the Indian camp had been. Heavy rains and snows also altered the landscape enough to remove any familiar landmarks.

The gold was never found.

But then this, after all, is only a legend without any truth or merit to it. ....... Or ..........?

by Gloria Hine Gossard

The lore of the Southwest abounds with tales of lost gold mines and the Antelope Valley is no exception to this tradition.

The Slate and El Paso Mountains were best known for mining operations but some small-time ventures took place in the western ranges, in particular Mint and Bouquet Canyons and the Sawmill Mountain areas. Some were never successful; others produced enough color to encourage many to continue their quest.

Many were not just looking for a mine but for the legendary Lost Padre Mine.

The plan behind the Spanish colonization of California was to empower the Franciscan monks with the task of civilizing the wilderness and making Christians out of the natives. They were also charged with the responsible of being self-supportive. Toa point, livestock and agricultural crops helped achieve this but there was always a need for other supplies and these had to be purchased. From time to time the natives would mention areas where they had found nuggets as bright as the sun. Among those listening were the brown flocked custodians of the missions.

Three padres persuaded a neophyte from the Mission de San Fernando to lead them to such a site and were elated with what they found. Gold nuggets not only lay scattered about the surface but preliminary digging in the hillside produced a thick rich vein of ore.

The padres realized they could not entrust this secret to the poorly paid soldiers garrisoned near the mission so relied instead upon the native chief, now baptized and avowing his loyalty to the church.

The chief selected a handful of converted tribesmen to live at the site and work the mine. The rock was crushed using an arrastra, a stationary stone slab and a moving stone slab that was drawn in a circle by man power. The gold dust was separated from the crushed rock, placed inside leather bags and secreted nearby. Each padre took turns overseeing the work under the guise of being on a mission amongst the heathen. To avoid any suspicion among the soldiers they brought back only enough gold dust to purchase needed supplies. The remainder was saved to later send to the mother church.

The newly created Mexican government assumed control over the former Spanish holdings in California, including the missions. These they soon secularized and all monks were ordered back to the home church.

The orders came swiftly. The three monks had no time to gather their secreted gold and take it with them.

At the mine the natives ceased to work. The chief reminded them that gold was the cause of evil and corruptness in man and cautioned them they would be killed should they take any ore with them. He ordered them to leave the mine immediately, forbidden to ever return or disclose the location to anyone.

To a man, they obeyed. The secret of the padre's mine went with them to their graves.

At various times the Lost Padre Mine was said to be in the Lebec/ Frazier Park area and became part of the legends surrounding Fort Tejon. And then again it was said to be in the Sawmill Mountain area near Lake Hughes and Three Points.

During the late 1870's a report was circulated that a vein of chocolate-red quartz, extremely rich in gold ore was discovered near Sawmill Mountain and from all indications was the Lost Padre Mine. Considering the alleged discovery was by a man named Dr. B. F. Bragg and the proclivity for practical jokes during that era, one is today prone to question the validity of this story.

The rumor, however, stayed around for seven decades. In 1941 there was still enough interest to create a well-funded organization to find the Lost Padre Gold Mine. The members, contrary to the secrecy which generally surrounded such ventures, announced they had found an eleven-foot vein of gold near Sawmill Mountain answering Dr. Bragg's description of the Lost Padre Mine.

The partners encouraged others to join them in developing the find. However, the outbreak of World War II put a cap on any further activities and the Lost Padre Mining Company simply faded away.

History contains many records of frauds perpetuated under the guise of the discovery of lost gold mines. Was the Lost Padre Gold Mine just another one of these deceptive schemes? Or, has seismic activity, snow storms and floods all served to forever keep the Indian's pledge of secrecy?

During the latter part of the 1950's an old miner, working the Sespe Creek/ Alamo Mountain area, claimed to have found the remains of a stone arrastra. He said that enough gold had been found in the cracks of the stones to fill several vials.

Alas, he related, fortune hunters had also learned the whereabouts of the site. They had completely demolished the arrestra in order to extract the last gram of dust and even dug up the surrounding ground in search of additional color. The following year a flood so completed the destruction and altered the landscape that he could not find it again.

Had he been telling the truth? Had he found not just an arrestra but other gold as well? Could this have been the site of the Lost Padre Mine?

The old miner preferred not to answer any of these questions even though he kept searching until the very end.

The Lost Padre Mine, if indeed it had been found, remained a secret with him to his grave; again as the old chief had vowed it would be.

by Gloria Hine Gossard

For many years the Antelope Valley was long ignored by archaeologists. This was due, in part, to the lack of any productive major archaeological site or any significant ethnographic references; the natives of this region victimized by a genocide so complete that today there is no surviving member of the local Kitanemuks.

Consequently, little is known regarding the original, earlier inhabitants and only recently have archaeological digs even verified their existence. What has since been discovered is that the valley was populated well over 2,500 years ago. Additional studies have also indicated that some early developments in the high desert may have been present about 10,000 years ago.*

Geologists have concluded that this upper portion of the Mojave was once a verdant valley with a chain of deep water lakes and streams, dense groves of trees and numerous native plants and grasses.

In addition, the very location of the area, a rough tangent to the San Joaquin Valley on the north and the inland coastal valleys to the west, made this a centralized location to the separate cultural areas of Central and Southern California and, as such, an ideal trading area.

Today, the lakes have become beds of glistening white hardened layers of salt. The creeks have become sandy arroyos and a lowering water table has all but put an end to the artesian springs. Creosote, yucca bushes and Joshua trees are the few remaining flora of the ancient landscape.

What caused this change? How did the landscape become so altered? And, what happened to the original inhabitants? Had they all disappeared before the genocide of local tribes completed the annihilation?

I am old. My voice is like that of dry leaves rustling in the wind. I do not know just how old I am for when one reaches a certain stage in life each day blends into another until there is no measure of time. It is said that even now I look like the mummy that I someday will be. I do not doubt these words.

I think life has stayed with me so that I may pass along my tale for when I am gone my story is forever lost. No. I am not one of these Kawaiisu who treat me with honor even though I am no longer able to walk, feed myself or tend to my needs. I have been with them for many generations. Long ago their grandfathers found me. I was then a very young child and the last of my people. I am glad you have come for I am tired. I am old and soon will leave this shriveled body. But first, I must tell you my story.

For many generations my people were of a very high civilization and lived in the valley so bountiful it was called the Valley of Perpetual Bloom. We had farmers, and craftsmen and our shamans. We worshipped many different gods. Away, at the farthest stretch of the eye lay our city called The Mojave. It had walls of solid stone with towers and turrets for many were jealous and often would attack and try to overpower us.

My family was honored to be chosen to man one of the outposts that kept watch against intruders. Ours was on a mountain guarding the pass leading over these Tehachapis and overlooking our valley. I, the last of my family, also became the last of my people for when the ventarron (whirlwind) swept down my family were the only survivors. And here is where we stayed, until I alone was the last.

The story of the ventarron was passed on to my great-grandfather by his father and in turn, passed on to my grandfather until I was the last to hear the story from my father. This is their story.

One day a great wind swept out of the west. It was far more violent than any that had ever come before. For three days it blew with a violence so fierce that it even toppled some oak trees on the pass. On the fourth day it was followed by yet another fierce wind; this from the north and with as much violence as the others. This too blew for three days, then immediately followed by another great force corning from the east.

After three days of fierce blowing, the wind changed and came from the south. Trees that had withstood the nine days of previous wind now broke in two from the force of the gales which continued for three more days.

My father said he was told of the family's great fright as they fled the trembling tower and sought refuge from the strong winds.

"The ground even shook with the force of such fury" we were told. "And there was a constant noise like that of teeth rattling in an ancient skull."

At the end of the twelfth day the south wind died only to be immediately replaced by the ventarron. The whirlwind came from all four directions at once, roaring and screaming like so many demons.

Great rocks were lifted into the air where they were ground into dust by the force of the wind. Huge hunks of granite were shorn off cliffs and crumbled into pebbles.

The air was so filled with dust that it hid the sun. The noise and destruction continued in total darkness. Loud peals of thunder rumbled through the dark sky and the sound of mountains being torn apart added to the roar of the ventarron.

My family was convinced that the world was ending. They huddled together and prayed to the gods that this evil happening would soon end.

There was no way of knowing how long the winds continued for there is no sense of time when surrounded by noise and total darkness. And then rain began to fall. It was as if the world had turned up-side down and a lake was above, emptying itself on the world below. Rain fell like it was pouring out of a tall waterfall. The whirling dust turned to mud and fell back to the earth.

As suddenly as the destruction began it now ended. My family slowly came out of their hiding place and their voices rose in loud lamenting for all about them it looked like many huge and angry bears had been on a rampage.

Stacks of felled trees littered the ground and great slabs of earth had been sheared from the mountain sides. The tower at the pass was gone. In its place just a pile of rubble.

My people stared with tearful disbelief at the damage, but when looking eastward they stiffened with fear. Their hearts became like heavy rocks; their mouths felt dried and tasted as vile as though filled with thick mud.

The Valley of Perpetual Bloom was gone; replaced by a broad, blackened and hideous corpse. Mountain slopes were a rubble of jagged rocks and crushed stones; the bright clean water of the numerous lakes were now playas of drying, glistening yellow mud. Sand covered the verdant grasslands and groves of trees lay shattered and splintered. Far to the east the walls and towers of the Mojave reared themselves in splintered ruins, banked and covered with layers of settling sand.

The people of the Mojave lay buried under tons of mud. Their culture forever lost to the world. The fury of nature had performed what warlike tribes had so often failed to do in the past; it had destroyed not only a people but an entire valley.

My story is told. I am now free to leave and join with my people in the other world. It has been lonely for me here even though the Kawaiisu have been good to me. They say they recognize that I come from another period of time and am very old and, for this, they honor and revere me.

I have been waiting this long in order to recite what my people told me. Think on what I have said and pray that it may never happen again.

Two major seismic faults join together at the western tip of the Antelope Valley. The Garlock fault follows the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevadas and the Tehachapis. The larger San Andreas fault meets the Garlock and follows the northern foothills of the San Gabriels. Cones of ancient volcanoes dot much of the Mojave Desert from the vicinity of Mono Lake to Barstow and then east to the Nevada border.

Could man actually have been present when these volcanoes and earthquake faults were at the peak of activity? And was the ventarron only a natural phenomenon associated with such upheavals?

Only time and further archaeological quests will decide whether the old one had waited in vain to tell his story.

* Antelope Valley Archaeological Society, 1987

by Gloria Hine Gossard