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| East from the Sierras of the South stretches the Desert of Palms. |
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| East from the Sierras of the South stretches the Desert of Palms. |
East from the Sierras of the South stretches the Desert of Palms. In it are found painted mountains and barren plains, rugged canyons and wastes of sand. Also in it is found a sea of the desert's own, a sea of mystery, "The Sea of Desolation." Here and there on plain and mesaland, in canyon cleft, and by the Sea, are found palm fringed oases, hence the name, "The Desert of Palms." It is a land of mystery and enchantment, a land of painted dawns and purple twilights, of unknown distances, and unexplored wastes. It is a land of gaunt, rugged mountains, veiled in purple, and gray, sunlit solitudes. It is the land of vastness, the land of magnificent, illimitable distances. Parts of it are as green and fruitful as the heart of man could desire, while parts of it belong to no man's land, desolation of desolation, beyond the desert horizon, in the shadow of forbidding, awful mountains. There Echo walks with Silence, watching over more than one lonely grave.
But to those initiate into the secrets of the Sun, this land possesses a charm beyond compare, so let us go, with camp equipment and pack animals, out into the unknown, vanish into the greyness of the desert, and see what lies beyond the purple veil.
Just before dawn the desert's sleep is deepest, and silence overcomes all. The coyotes, night birds, and other prowlers have finished their night wanderings, and the evening breezes that rustle through the palm trees have died long since. The moon has set over the Sierra in the west, and then it is that the sense of mystery is greatest.
It is still the Spring of the year, and on the warm night air the heavy scent of orange blossoms mingles with the wilder fragrance of the sage. At Agua Dulce we are in the bottom of the Salton Basin, and at two hundred and thirty feet below sea level the Spring nights are balmy, and the days are hot. Agua Dulce lies to the east of the little town of Mecca, and near to where the Desert meets its Sea. The Sea of Desolation is as silent as its surroundings, and all that we can make out is the rugged outline of the Santa Rosa Mountains against the Southern sky, and to the north, across the sea, the line where sky meets desert. Mountains, desert, and sea are merged into one by the blackness of the night.
As day rises out of the desert, the sky along the eastern horizon is the scene of a marvelous succession of color changes. While it is yet night, the lower portion of the eastern sky assumes a greenish tone, gradually brightening into pink, then scarlet and orange red. The blackness of the silhouetted mountains gradually changes to a deep, bluish purple of the most exquisite shade. Slowly the sky grows brighter, and as night vanishes, we can make out where the desert ends at the foot of the mountain slope, and to the north, the long, thin strip of "the Sea of Desolation" becomes distinguishable, blue-grey and placid in the early light. Then we are able to make out the clumps of mesquite and sage about us, and distinguish the bunches of carrizo or reeds about the water hole.
The flame in the eastern sky reaches its height just before the sun appears over the low, distant mountains, and is vivid almost beyond belief. While we are still in shadow, the first rays of the sun begin to play upon the topmost pinnacles of the Santa Rosa Range, setting them on fire with purplish red flame. The sky at the zenith still holds that deep, bluish black blue of the departing night, and this makes a striking contrast to the flame at the mountains' top. A few light cirrus clouds float high above the Santa Rosas, and these appear as dashes of blood upon the background of azure.
As the sun's rays reach the plain, we leap from the blankets, and drink in the breath of the desert dawn. Long, blue shadows are now hanging behind every bush anti rock. Gone is mystery and purple silence; the blazing glory of the sun is over all the desert.
Calm and placid at dawn, lies the Sea of Desolation. At once a thing of beauty, a thing of mystery, we are charmed and fascinated by it. The wonder of color effects about it is vivid beyond description, every atmospheric change bringing a new set of colors to play upon sea and sky, desert and mountain.
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| "The Sea of Desolation" |
At Agua Dulce we are not far from the sea, but being nearly on a level with it, the water appears as a long, thin, strip of exquisite, vivid, turquoise blue. When clouds drift over the mountains and the humidity is high, the waters of the sea often appear of a vivid emerald green. Down on the salt crusted shores, little waves play around the bases of white skeletons of Mesquite, whose bony arms reach toward the sky, mute testimony to the poisoned waters of the Salton.
The sense of the past is strong in the Salton Basin. How feathery and green this mesquite must have been! What stories those awful mountains could tell! We look back, past the time when the basin was dry and the wavering mirages drifted over the glaring white of the salt flats, back to the time when the blue waters of the Gulf of California reached from the rocky slopes of the Santa Rosas on the south to the many colored cliffs of the Mud Hills on the north. Then, what tribes of Indians hunted and fished along those shores? Was this land always as desolate as now? Quien Sabe? Only the Desert!
Now we have a dead sea, about twelve miles wide and forty long, edged by desert mountains. What a paradox! And yet how suited to its surroundings is the sea. Desert sea and desert mountains. We of the desert are under its spell and love to spend long days by its shores listening to the lapping of its shallow waters upon the salt crusted sand, breathing in the breezes from over the sea and salt flats, anti enjoying the marvelous color effects peculiar to the region.
North of the sea, and parallel to its shore, stand the Mud Hills, in their ghastly desolation like the ramparts of some forgotten Hell.
From the sea to the feet of the Mud Hills is a sandy, rocky, slope, and as we near the hills, the desert about us becomes desolate in the extreme. Here the desert is cut by a wash from the hills, and there the plain is boulder strewn so that the going is difficult. We are entering Rainbow Canyon, one of the most spectacular of the weird gorges of the Mud Hills. These hills are of a soft clay formation, which erodes rapidly into many peculiar and fantastic shapes. The canyons in them have walls that are steep in the extreme, and morning and evening these fill up with shadows of an exquisite, opaque, blue. This gives the hills an unearthly appearance, and as we enter the Rainbow Gorge, we have the feeling that we are passing into the unknown, beyond the edge of the world.
Just as we enter the canyon's mouth, we glance out between the canyon walls, back across the several miles of desert, to where the shallow waters of the Sea of Desolation shimmer in the bottom of the old sea bed. Again we think: "What a paradox," a sea in the desert! But what a view! For a foreground, the red walls of the canyon, for middle distance, gray desert reaching to the turquoise blue waters of the sea, and beyond, those enchanted mountains, the Santa Rosas, standing in purple silence.
Bidding farewell to the open desert, we start up the sandy wash of the canyon floor, following the canyon walls in a general northerly direction. Some distance from the mouth, the canyon walls are stratified in a number of shades of red, from whence comes the name, Rainbow Canyon. From one position in the gorge, a thin strip of the turquoise blue sea is framed by the red walls, making a very striking view. Just above here we come to a fork in the canyon, and following an indistinct trail to the left, are soon shut in by walls so close together that we can hardly get our shoulders through, and in one place it is necessary to proceed on the hands and knees. But suddenly the canyon opens out again, and then, what a surprise! A clump of vivid green palms contrasting against the red walls, and shading a tiny pool of water, which is found to be very good. Thus does the desert provide for its own travellers and those who know where to look for the desert wells and springs.
When we leave Rainbow Canyon, and are once more in the freedom of the open desert, we throw off the oppression of the desert mountains, turn our faces to the west, journeying toward Mesquite Land.
A long day's journey from the mouth of Rainbow Canyon, twelve lone palm trees grow in the desert. These are known as the "Twelve Apostles." No spring or other apparent source of water supply is near, but as this is on the borders of Mesquite Land, we know that water is not very far below the surface.
For a long day we have traveled parallel to the Mud Hills, here and there passing groups of stately palms in crevices of the hills, where there is a slight seepage of alkaline water. From their elevation upon the slopes of the Mud Hills, these palms appear like sentinels standing silent guard over the desert.
At the Twelve Apostles we turn our back upon the desolation of the Mud Hills, to enter Mesquite Land, green and pleasing to the eye. Here every dune is topped with the feathery mesquite, and the forests of it in the flats are greener than the lushest meadow. But beware of this green, feathery, tree, its thorns are as vicious as the sharpest cactus, so keep the pack animals in the open, lest we have to pursue them through this thorny forest. It is Spring, and the fragrance of a sage peculiar to the region is wafted by the desert breeze through the green forests, and quail rustle in the thickets of arrowweed and mesquite.
A wonderful tree is this mesquite of the desert, supplying as it does, wood for the campfire, and shelter from the heat of the Summers day. As the trees grow older, they lose their lower, smaller, branches and as the foliage on the outside reaches down to the ground, the inside is like a house, making an excellent shelter when the sun is hot.
From Mesquite Land we turn toward the Santa Rosas, to explore Deep Canyon, a mighty gorge hewn by the action of water out of solid rock.
But between the green forests of Mesquite Land, and the brown, rigid slopes of the Santa Rosas, lies the most desolate and forbidding part of this whole region. It is a miniature Sahara, the drifting dunes of the Colorado Desert. Thus it is with the desert; the most radically different sections lie the closest together. It is a land of paradoxes.
On the morning of leaving Mesquite Land, clouds hang low over the Santa Rosas, and as the day progresses, they begin to drift out over the desert, casting long, purple shadows on the desert and distant mountains, intensifying color effect, and deceiving us in our sense of distance. The air is very still and clear, the seven miles to the Mud Hills appears as one, and the rocky skeletons of the Santa Rosas look almost as if we could reach out and touch them.
Then, as we are nearing the midst of the sand dunes, the storm breaks over the Santa Rosas. It is in the storm that the splendour of the mountains reaches its climax. The deep purple of the cloud shadows on desert and mountain contrast strikingly with the warmer spots where the sun breaks through. The sand of the dunes appears of a higher key than the dark storm clouds above, giving the whole an ominous cast, and we begin to sense evil, and wish that we were through the dunes.
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| "It is in the storm that the splendour of the mountains reaches its climax." |
The going is up and down over the dunes, and is necessarily slow as the burros must pick their way around spots where the sand is honey-combed by the tunnels of small animals. Now we are down in the trough between two dunes, and nothing is visible in any direction, except the rolling sand hills. Now we are on top of one of the shifting hills, and can look in every direction, east, toward the sea, south, to the storm playing on the Santa Rosas, north to the Mud Hills, and west, to the San Gorgonio Pass, which leads to civilization and green fields. The Pass, yes, but wait! Look again, what is that greyish cloud, close to the ground, and hiding the lower spurs of Mount San Jacinto? We have not long to wait, to learn what it is. With a swish and roar the sand storm is upon us, cutting our flesh, and almost choking and blinding us with its fury. All is blotted out, and we stagger along, eyes half closed, only now and then catching a glimpse of a familiar point on the Santa Rosa range. Only those who have crossed the great barrens in a sand storm can understand its fury. Lucky it is that the dunes are narrow at this point.
At last we leave the dunes, and cross a flat where low brush grows, keeping the sand from leaving the ground. The wind is as strong as ever, but we are out of range of the sand, and thankfully press on toward Deep Canyon and the shelter of the Santa Rosas.
Where Deep Canyon opens out to the desert, a tremendous wash of sand, boulders, and other debris is spread away from its mouth, fan like, covering the bases of the foothills and lomas, separating some of them from the main range. Up this slope we go, toward the mouth of the canyon. Just as the spur of the mountain cuts us off from the desert plain, we come upon a stream of clear, cold water. This is Deep Canyon's offering to the desert, and by its side we stop to slake our burning thirst, and wash the sand from our eyes. The exhausted animals wade into it and lap the water up as though they would never stop.
Deep Canyon runs southwest from the desert, to the watershed of Toro, or Santa Rosa Mountain. It is extremely narrow and precipitous, to get through in some places it being necessary to walk in the stream itself. Here and there, high upon the canyon wall the green leaves of palms contrast strangely with the iron stained granite. The farther we proceed up the canyon, the narrower it becomes, until we wonder at every turn if that will be the last. Finally we reach a low waterfall that dashes down at the roots of a lone palm tree. High above us on the canyon wall a tiny spring sends down a spray on our heads, and as we look up at the walls, they seem to tower out of sight, so we conclude that only by scaling the rocks, can we go on.
Camping that evening at the mouth of Deep Canyon, the next morning we resume the journey, back across the desert, toward the Devils Playground or Great Dune, but keeping west of the end of the sand waste.
By noon we are across the desolation of the plain, and have entered Sand Canyon, which leads us directly to Willow Holes.
At Willow Holes, clear, cold water bubbles from under the roots of lovely, green willows, a few palms wave in the breeze, and we are surrounded on all sides by mesquite topped hills, where the quail may be heard calling.
Filling our canteens at the spring, the journey is resumed, and we camp that evening at Two Bunch Palms, an oasis under the shelter of the San Bernardino Mountains. From here San Jacinto, mountain of the desert, presents itself to full advantage. As day sinks into evening, the light clouds of the afternoon die over its summit, and the snow, in its crevices holds the afterglow.
We are upon a slight eminence, and the immensity of it all is clearly impressed upon us. The sand waste of the flat desert sweeps down from the San Gorgonio Pass on our right, passes below Mt. San Jacinto, and sweeps off along where the Santa Rosas lie asleep under a mantle of violet, off into the desert horizon, and is lost in lilac haze. All is calm, and the hush that lies over the desert impresses us with its awful majesty, its awful silence.
The next day circling the foothills of the San Bernardino range, we come at length to the mouth of a narrow canyon, the Dry Morongo, which leads us up and out into a high valley, the Little Morongo. Here are several ranches, noteworthy among which is the old Warrens Ranch, whose old adobe ranch house has housed many a desert traveller.
From the Little Morongo, we head up a gradually sloping valley toward the top of the Morongo Pass. Nearing the top of the pass, we enter the land of the giant yucca.
From the top of the Morongo Pass a magnificent view is had, back toward Mount San Gorgonio, and across the canyon of the Whitewater River. Range rises behind range, with San Gorgonio as a climax, and the whole bathed in the exquisite lilac haze of the desert.
From the Little Morongo to Twenty-nine Palms, the only true oasis in the Big Morongo, is a good two days with pack animals. For miles from the top of the pass we go through the forest of yucca. A weird tree is this desert yucca, and we travel one whole day within its realm, The Big Morongo is a true land of the free. Thousands upon thousands of acres of land, fertile, and level as a floor, but not a drop of water to render it tillable. Here and there we pass the deserted abode of some homesteader who had found the struggle too hard.
For miles and miles we cross sage covered flats, and skirt the feet of burned up mountains. At last we round the edge of a long, low, gravelly dune, and see green palms in the desert ahead of us. A true Arabian Oasis is Twentynine Palms, and in a place where one would least expect to find it. A grove of stately, picturesque palms, in the midst of a desert flat, miles in every direction. On the south rise the San Bernardino mountains. To the west the low dune cuts off the view, and to the north, low, sand eroded lava hills hold death to him who ventures in unprepared. To the east stretches the Big Morongo. It is a lean land, and hostile, this Big Morongo, but nevertheless it is the joy of the prospectors heart, and many are the "rich veins" that have been staked in the lava hills.
Back tracking through the Morongo Pass, and Warrens Ranch, we decide to go around by way of Devils Garden and Whitewater, to Palm Valley.
The Devils Garden is a few miles west of the mouth of the Dry Morongo, and is one of the most remarkable cactus gardens found in the desert. The great barrel cactus predominates, and is found in all sizes, from head high down to the baby cactus, the size of a baseball. Here and there may be seen where the large cacti have been cut open to obtain the watery liquid, of which each plant holds about a quart.
As we near the Whitewater River, we are again treated to a windstorm from the San Gorgonio Pass. When we descend into the canyon of the Whitewater, we try to find shelter for our camp under the wind bent cottonwoods that grow near the river, but can find no place where the wind does not reach us, so we make the best of a windy, sandy night, consoling ourselves with the fact that we are not in the direct path of the sandstorm, and that ere another sun sets over the brown hills in the west, we will be in the shelter of the rock rimmed walls of Palm Valley.
By
dawn the storm has ceased to blow upon the desert, and the great
Whitewater Wash is crossed with ease, just below the spur of Mount
San Jacinto known as The Indians Head.
In the afternoon we pass through Palm Springs, green and lovely, going on up toward the Santa Rosas a mile or two, camp beneath a blossoming palo verde tree, beside a cool stream of water. The afternoon is well advanced by the time our camp is arranged, the animals cared for, and the purple shadow of Mount San Jacinto is well out over the gray desert. Bees are droning in the palo verde over our heads, the air is quiet, and the whole atmosphere is one of peace-and contentment. Thus it always is at Palm Springs and in Palm Valley; no matter how the storms rage upon the open desert, within the valley it is always peaceful, hence I always think of it as the "Valley of Peace;"
As day dies over plain and mesaland, that part of the desert: and distant mountain range visible from the valley is the scene of amazing color changes, even surpassing those at dawn over the Sea of Desolation.
To the north, and across the sandy desert, stretch the low San Bernardino Mountains, the highest point visible from our location, being the Mission Peaks. As the cool shadow of San Jacinto reaches out over the desert and blots out the glaring light on the sand, the canyons in the distant mountains fill up with opaque shadows of an indescribable blue. The Devils Playground, nearer to us, begins to glow with yellow light. As day nears its close, the ridges, and prominent parts of the distant mountains take fire with reddish purple light, contrasting with the blue in the canyons, and producing an effect almost beyond belief. Then the Mission Peaks take fire, and hold their glow until at last the desert and all its mountains are the same in the purple-gray mystery of desolation. The mountains and sand wastes that only moments ago were supreme in their glory of color, have faded, and are now soft and gray in the distance, for the glory of the desert is from the heart of the sun.
The hush over the desert, and the peace of the warm spring night dominates the entire valley, and all we care for is to rest and enjoy it all. The moon is rising over the distant mountains, and we know that down in the village, the white fluff from the cottonwoods is drifting in the air like snowflakes. We drop into the perfect sleep of the tired traveller, thanking the Creator for making these wonders of nature for us to enjoy.
The Desert! Away from it we long to be again in the land of the mesquite, the palm, and the cottonwood, beside the turquoise blue of the Sea of Desolation, or out in the freedom of the Big Morongo. We yearn for the long, long days in the open, under burning skies, or the deep peace of the sleep beneath the cottonwoods of Palm Valley.
But why do we prefer the sun burned mesas, and wastes of sand, to green, lush, meadows, and clear, blue, lakes?
Because we know that the desert breeze is in the palm trees, and out there in the open, the sun still shines on plain and mesaland, and all day long, in purple sleep the mountains lie. We know that the lilac hazes still cover the hills, filling the valleys and canyons, and the scent of sage still floats on the desert breeze. We know that the fire still burns at the mountains' top as the sun sinks to its home in the west, and the coyote, outlaw of the desert, still cries at nighttime. We know that the desert's secret is never given up, and so its spell is never broken.
This is a reprint of a dog-eared paper-covered work with no publication date. All we know is that it was written after the Salton Sea formed early in this century.
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