492 



The National Geographic Magazine 



mile upon mile. A sign painted upon a 

 box lid stuck into a pile of stones gives us 

 the cheerful assurance that we may be 

 well provided for if we are found; it 

 reads : "Rhyolite Undertaking Company, 

 funeral directors and embalmers." 



The canyon walls rise above us, not 

 high, but sharp and steep, and it is only 

 by turning and looking backward that we 

 appreciate the greatness of the range we 

 have crossed. The grade is easy, the road 

 wide, sandy and gravelly, our horses 

 grow weary and move with deliberation ; 

 all are oppressed with the feeling of 

 weariness and lassitude. 



We ride from the canyon mouth to the 

 edge of a sandy plain, and here, 115 feet 

 below sea-level, find a couple of holes, 5 

 feet in diameter and about as deep, with 

 two feet of water in them. This is the 

 "Stovepipe" Spring, so named from the 

 fact that it was long marked by a section 

 or two of that useful flue, placed up- 

 right, to inform the wayfarer where to 

 dig when the holes had been filled by 

 drifting sands hurled forward by the fu- 

 rious gales, burying deeper and deeper all 

 vestiges of the water so necessary to life 

 itself. We are indeed in the Valley ; 

 around us the sand drifts in little sheets ; 

 here and there a surface of broken and 

 ragged saline material, hard and as rough 

 as though made of giant saws set with 

 teeth edge up. 



We turn to the eastward ; in the fore- 

 ground the gritty beds of conglomerate 

 and hard clays show as low hills backed 

 by the ragged cliffs of the Grapevine, 

 banded, rugged and grim. To the north- 

 ward the cliffs and peaks guard this val- 

 ley of desolation, the long delta fans of 

 drift material spreading like great hands 

 from the mouth of each canyon, burying 

 from sight all vestige of the underlying 

 rock, each a silent witness of the cloud- 

 bursts, which sometimes come roaring 

 down the rock-bound clefts, to spread 

 and evaporate like magic in the fierce 

 rays of the sun. The farthest fan marks 

 the mouth of Titus Canyon, named for 

 the young Coloradan who left Bullfrog 

 about the time we reached Goldfield, and 



perished in its lower reaches seeking life, 

 as attested by the message penciled upon 

 a sliver of stick broken from a provision 

 box and left sticking in the sand for the 

 guidance of his companion : "Have gone 

 down canyon looking for the spring; 

 have been waiting for you. — Titus/' His 

 remains were found ; those of the friend 

 are still resting undiscovered. 



Across the flat we journey, our light 

 vehicle loaded to its limit with food, 

 forage, and water, the mules weary be- 

 fore starting. 



Dunes surround us, 20 to 30 feet high, 

 representing the struggle of plant life to 

 keep its branches above the accumulating 

 drift and its roots near enough water. 

 The victory is eventually with the sand, 

 into which wheels and hoofs sink nearly 

 a foot, or when a harder surface is found 

 it breaks like crusted snow, letting the 

 beasts into a soft substance which they 

 dislike exceedingly. Through such 

 ground we can move but a few yards 

 without stopping. 



In places great boulders obstruct the 

 trail, among them the wagon must twist 

 and turn through the fickle and shifting 

 sands which often hide all signs of previ- 

 ous travel. 



About 25 miles southward from the 

 Stovepipe Spring, Furnace Creek flows 

 from the lower part of a large wash 

 which heads in the Grapevine Range. 

 Here is one of the properties of the Pa- 

 cific Coast Borax Company, which years 

 ago constructed small irrigating ditches, 

 sowed hay and planted trees, built houses, 

 and established a plant for the treat- 

 ment of the salts in the flat near by. 



At 225 feet below sea-level are about 

 100 acres of emerald-like fields, long 

 rows of fig trees, and abundant running 

 water, while behind the frowning cliffs 

 and sharp peaks of the Funeral Range 

 guard the valley from the advance of the 

 treasure-hunter from the east. 



The borax plant is now idle, though 

 the valuable beds are still owned by the 

 company, which maintains a resident 

 superintendent or foreman. The white 

 flat which we saw from the mountain is 



