7/4/2016
Topic:
Pinto Canyon Overnighter
RobertMarcos
|
Stay Away From Pinto Canyon
First of two related articles by Robert Marcos. This hike took place in February 2008
http://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2009/jun/03/cover/
"There’s some petroglyphs over in Pinto Canyon," Frank said as he passed me on the trail. Frank Johnson, a handsome 75-year-old man, with flowing white hair and a superb knowledge of hiking trails, is something of a Sierra Club celebrity, and he was leading our hike into Fossil Canyon — just south of the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. I was frustrated that a man of his age could outpace me, but I’d never hiked ten miles in the sand before. Frank’s words about petroglyphs startled me because during 20 years of hiking I had never seen one. Now here I was with a dozen tough old Sierra Club hikers who had seen so many as to not give a damn. I knew that they’d protect these historic sites by not giving out their exact locations, so when I finally caught up to Frank again, I was cautious about asking him where Pinto Canyon was.
“Get yourself a USGS map for In-Koh-Pah Gorge,” he said. “Then follow the international border east from Jacumba until you reach Pinto Canyon. The pictographs are located directly under the letter P, where the word Pinto is printed on the map.”
Grateful for the information, the next day I bought the map at Adventure 16 in Solana Beach. That evening, my friend Michael and I examined it. Pinto Canyon was right where Frank had said, about eight miles south of Interstate 8, between the Jacumba Mountains and the Yuma Desert. The small canyon meandered from inside the United States down toward the town of La Rumorosa, in Mexico.
I wanted to get a couple of sturdy friends and hike to the canyon immediately, but a closer look at the map revealed some very rugged terrain. Furthermore, there’d be no water or emergency assistance of any kind available during the hike. We’d have to carry everything we’d need. We’d need at least a gallon of water per person, per day, and more in case of emergency. That meant about 20 pounds of water sloshing around in our backpacks in addition to the camping gear.
Out in the desert, if you run out of water, you’re going to die. The notion that you can satisfy your thirst by cutting into a cactus is mostly fiction. Cacti are tough, covered with stiff needles, and filled with nothing more than warm pulp. So your time out hiking in the desert is strictly limited by the amount of water you can carry. A hiker who gets lost and runs out of water is going to perish. Besides being as dry as a bone, the area around Pinto Canyon has other dangers. Because of the canyon’s proximity to the international border there’s the risk of running banditos, “mules” carrying drugs, or “coyotes” leading groups of migrants into the United States. My hiking buddies and I were capable of traversing difficult terrain, but we weren’t accustomed to running into armed men, or desperate, perhaps even starving people.
But my desire to see these petroglyphs was stronger than my fear, so I prepared for the Pinto Canyon hike by making a dozen or more day hikes in the nearby Jacumba Mountains. As both my confidence and that of my hiking partners increased, we allowed ourselves to hike farther and farther out into the desert.
Patrick Brady accompanied me on one of the early hikes. We met on a Sunday morning at the Coffee Bean in Del Mar, where he and his brothers Raymond and Noel hang out. The Bradys are Irish. Patrick is an artist who runs an apple orchard up in Julian. Raymond and Noel work in construction. They’re tough — the kind of men a little guy like me needs to accompany him in rough country. I was a little worried because it was September and it was going to be hot. But the heat didn’t dissuade Patrick. He and his brothers worshipped the sun. They often drove out to Borrego just to escape the fog along the coast. So a hike out near Ocotillo Wells would be right up their alley.
Patrick and I climbed into the car and got started. We had a long drive. From Del Mar we took the I–5 south to the I–8 east. We drove through El Cajon, Alpine, Pine Valley, Descanso, and Jacumba. Then just past the San Diego county line, we exited the freeway at Mountain Springs Road. The Mountain Springs exit doesn’t go anywhere, but it gives drivers a place to turn around if they have to. The border patrol agents who watch this sector lay a wary eye on anybody who gets off the freeway here. This is a popular place at night, when coyotes load their trail-weary customers into cars for transportation north to Los Angeles and elsewhere.
Patrick and I drove under the freeway and onto a dirt road, which leads to the remnants of old Highway 80. Built in 1926, the foot-thick steel-reinforced road looks as though it was built yesterday. We parked at the end of the highway and put our backpacks on. There was a dangerous descent onto Interstate 8, then a mad dash across it, after which we entered a sandy wash — pristine except for the footprints of a dozen people headed northward. Patrick and I stopped to explore an old abandoned stone structure, which may have been the Mountain Springs stagecoach stop. Inside the old building, we found rusty mattress springs, empty tins, an old cast-iron stove, and lots of mouse droppings. There was absolutely no trash or graffiti inside the old building — a surprise, since we were only 200 yards from a major freeway. On the other hand, it is a testament to just how empty and desolate this country is.
We left the old house and climbed the high, boulder-covered hill behind it. This was my favorite kind of hiking — diverse terrain, places of historical interest, and the possibility of discovery. It was about 90 degrees and I was baking. I was a little worried since Patrick hadn’t drunk any of his water. He was more interested in smoking American Spirit cigarettes. Maybe the nicotine dulled his thirst. Anyway, up near the top of the hill, we saw three huge boulders pressed together. There was a sandy patch between them, with a thin shaft of sunlight streaming down into the center. I wanted to go inside to get out of the sun, but the opening to the room was small. So I got down on my stomach and crawled in like a snake. Inside, I was shocked at what I saw. Sitting near the edge of the room was a huge Indian pot, maybe 16 inches high and a foot in diameter. It had a lateral crack but was otherwise in good shape. I scanned the rest of the room but saw nothing else. Lying there in the sand, I felt as if I had just gone back 500 years. I almost expected a old Indian to pop out. Patrick crawled in after me and gasped. In hushed voices we talked about the irony of finding this old pot here — just a couple hundred yards above Interstate 8. On the busy freeway below, carloads of people raced toward El Centro. But here inside this small cave, we sat with the ghosts of the area’s first inhabitants, a Native American culture that struggled to survive in this rugged and unforgiving country. I finally bummed one of Patrick’s cigarettes and lit up. The two of us blew smoke rings out to the Great Spirit.
I returned to the area a month later with my friend Michael. I had piqued his interest with the news that Patrick and I had discovered the big pot. Michael had been taking a wilderness-survival course with the Sierra Club, so he was in perfect physical shape for an afternoon of exploration. During the drive out, we decided not to climb the same hill as Patrick and I had, but to hike around its base, which would be about six miles around. We started by entering a beautiful palm-filled canyon on the south side of I–8. Even though the canyon’s sandy floor was dry, we felt a sudden drop in temperature from the moisture in the air. This shady environment was a welcome contrast to the heat and blazing sunshine on the hillsides around us.
While Michael checked out some Indian grinding holes, or “morteros,” I inspected a single set of tracks leading ahead of us in the sand. The impressions reminded me of the combat boots I had worn in the military. That, plus the fact that the person wearing them was headed south, led me to conclude that either a hunter or a border patrol agent was ahead of us in the canyon. I knew that agents were skilled at following tracks left by other people. An experienced agent can ascertain many useful things, such as the walker’s gender and weight, their speed and direction, mental clarity, and whether or not they’re trying to avoid detection. I’ve also read that an agent can tell from the depth of a person’s tracks if they’re wearing a heavy backpack, as might someone who was carrying drugs.
We continued up the canyon, and within minutes we saw the man ahead of us. It was a lone U.S. Border Patrol agent in a green uniform, with a radio and a handgun on his belt. I knew that he wouldn’t like being followed, so I called out a greeting. He was startled, and I saw him move his hand over his holstered pistol. We walked on up and made small talk. The agent’s last name was Ramirez, and he was very polite. I thought it ironic that a Latino would be out here trying to keep other Latinos from illegally entering the United States. Anyway, I told Ramirez about the terrific pot we’d seen up on the hill, and how we hoped to hike to Pinto Canyon later in the season to see its petroglyphs. Ramirez shook his head and grimaced. He said that Pinto Canyon was a dangerous area, more of a war zone than a hiking destination. He said that for safety we should hike with a larger group and try to stay up north, inside Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. We thanked him but ignored his advice.
The canyon Michael and I were in eventually petered out onto a wide flat plain. After about a mile, I bent down to get some cactus needles out of my boot. I was surprised to see dozens of pottery fragments on the ground, most the size of a quarter or smaller. Further examination revealed that the whole area contained fragments. It looked like the area might have supported a large tribe — as opposed to just a place where a few individuals came for fresh water, as the stagecoach obviously had.
As we hiked on, we became more aware of footprints in the sand. Where before only a few had trod now there were groups of 20 or more. As always, the footprints led northward, toward the freeway. We also found hundreds of empty plastic water bottles from Mexican supermarkets. Michael and I really wanted to recycle all that ugly plastic, but we would’ve needed a dump truck to haul it. We walked another mile or so and came to something we should’ve expected. Sitting in the middle of nowhere was a big red Samsonite suitcase. It looked so out of place there in the desert that both of us just stood and stared. Finally, I gave in an opened it up. As I unzipped the cover, I thought about the movie White Sands. In it, a small town sheriff finds a half-million dollars in cash on top of a desolate butte. Unfortunately, our red Samsonite didn’t have any cash, only a new pair of Nikes, various articles of female clothing, an address book, and airline tickets — from Guadalajara to Mexicali — dated five days before.
The feeling you have while looking through someone else’s suitcase must be similar to what a detective feels while they investigate a crime scene. You’re trying to solve a puzzle using clues provided by the victim. The clues in this case showed that a Mexican woman had abandoned her suitcase while crossing into the United States. She was desperate, and judging by the red suitcase with its tiny wheels stuck in the sand, she was ill prepared. But we were grateful to have found only the suitcase and not its owner. The daylight was fading and neither of us wanted to be out here at night. So instead of finishing our hike around the hills, we cut directly over them and hiked straight to the car. In all we had spent five hours outdoors in 90 degree weather, and we were both very tired.
The agent’s description of Pinto Canyon being something of a war zone was confirmed in the news. Operation Gatekeeper had fortified the border areas at Tijuana, Mexicali, and El Paso so effectively that thousands of illegal immigrants were now choosing to cross the open desert — often with deadly results.
While I was in Maui photographing a wedding, my friend Michael went on another Sierra Club hike. Their group made a quick one-day trip from Mountain Springs Road to the top of Pinto Canyon, a 12-mile hike. They didn’t hike far enough down the canyon to see the petroglyphs, but they stumbled upon something quite horrible. Michael told me that he was about 100 feet ahead of the group when he saw something in the sand. What at first appeared to be a pile of clothing turned out to be a dead girl of approximately 12. She was wearing a small backpack, and judging by the mummified look of her skin, it appeared that she’d been there for several weeks. The rest of the group caught up with Michael, and a couple of them got sick. Someone guessed that the girl might have died suddenly from heat stroke. Later in the afternoon, the leader of the group reported the body and its location to the Border Patrol.
Despite that terrible news, I returned to the area a few weeks later with my friend Tom. Tom is a professional photographer and a veteran of many rugged adventures. He’d hiked to Havasu Falls in the Grand Canyon and had just come back from a weeklong backpacking trip in Utah’s Escalante Canyon. Regardless of Tom’s experience, I knew that he was absent-minded and often forgot to bring essential things. Like the one time when he was three hours late meeting me for a hike. When he finally arrived at the Pacific Crest Trailhead, he had forgotten to bring his hiking boots and water.
But Tom had jumped at my invitation to accompany me to the petroglyphs, and I was glad to have him along. At the car we divided things up. We got two gallons of water each. I got the tent and he got the ground cloth. Tom insisted on bringing a professional four-by-five camera and tripod, so he could take some highly detailed pictures of the petroglyphs when we found them. To accommodate the big camera, he chose to leave his sleeping bag in the car. Tom was older, stronger, and more experienced than me, so I was not in a position to second-guess him about leaving his sleeping bag. But I didn’t understand why he couldn’t just bring a regular 35mm camera.
I felt well prepared. I’d spent the previous evening pouring over my USGS map, penciling in compass headings both in and out of Pinto Canyon. I’d noted some obvious geographic references, like pointy volcanic peaks and dry lakes, so we could judge our position visually. The only thing we didn’t have was a handgun, which would have increased my sense of security. Tom and I had talked about it, but we decided that stealth would be the best defense.
We crossed the freeway and headed directly up the ridge. I was mortified by the weight of my backpack. I carried 60 additional pounds with each step and balancing was difficult. It took us an hour just to reach the 100-foot-high ridge above the freeway. It was back breaking, but at least it wasn’t hot. In fact, it was cloudy and there was a chill in the air. The cold weather and the discovery of the child’s dead body had cast an ominous shadow over this outing. As I walked, I had the acute feeling that something bad was going to happen and that we had better get in and get out as quickly as possible. I felt as if we might walk around a bend and right into a dozen desperate immigrants, either lost or being led by an armed coyote. Neither of us had any idea how we’d react if this happened. But as we continued, the land opened up, and it was obvious that we were very much alone.
We stopped often to examine the country ahead of us. There was no trail to where we were going, and the geography changed constantly. We couldn’t follow the compass headings I’d charted because the terrain simply wouldn’t allow it. A high cliff or a mile of high boulders would impede us. Therefore, we used the visual references I’d established. We’d hike toward a tall cinder cone for an hour, then when we reached it, we’d hike toward another landmark farther on. Surprisingly, this vague system worked.
We reached the upper part of Pinto Canyon about five hours after we left the car. We wanted our campsite to be hidden, so we set the tent up in a low area surrounded by mesquite. Once the tent was up and the packs were stowed inside, we hiked on down into the canyon. I had waited over a year for this moment. The inherent danger only increased the rich sense of discovery I felt. The canyon was narrower than I expected, but it was very pretty. There was a rich contrast between the nearly vertical rock walls and the soft, almost sensual sandy floor. The canyon turned so frequently that you never knew what lay ahead. Occasionally, we found small pools of water, and there was evidence that at times much of it had flowed. Tom was carrying his large camera and tripod, and we scanned the canyon walls for the petroglyphs. About an hour later, we came upon them. There were three flat rocks covered with crude drawings, right at eye level. The marks had been made by scratching the top layer of rock off, revealing a lighter colored layer underneath. The drawings were stick figures of men, rectangular grids, and most notably, a tall sailing ship, complete with a mast and furled sail. It sounds stupid, but after waiting a lifetime to see a petroglyph I was unhappy to find a drawing of a sailing ship. Damn! Where were the woolly mammoths and saber-toothed tigers? A crudely drawn picture of a sailing ship meant that the drawings weren’t more than 400 years old. The artist may have spent time at the San Diego mission and had seen a Spanish supply ship sail into port. It was interesting but not the least bit ancient. Tom shot some photographs, then we headed back to camp.
After dark, we made a small fire, and I made tuna macaroni. I’d been making tuna macaroni since I was in the Boy Scouts. It’s easy to make, and it’s filling. Since Tom had left his sleeping bag behind, he tried to form a bed by using my down jacket and other loose articles of clothing. He took what would have been my pillow and put it under his back. It was bitter cold, and our cheap tent flapped in the wind constantly. As though there wasn’t enough noise, at about 2:00 in the morning a Border Patrol helicopter flew overhead. The agents onboard used a loudspeaker to tell a group of immigrants to stay where they were. Then they landed nearby and held the people until agents with vehicles could arrive. The result of all that activity, combined with Tom’s constant twisting and turning, was that neither of us got a wink of sleep.
In the morning, we were both irritable. I used a precious quart of my water to make us some hot oatmeal for breakfast. Tom accepted the bowl I gave to him, and then he added some of my brown sugar and soymilk. He ate a single spoonful then immediately spit it out. Then he emptied the rest of his bowl in the dirt. I was furious. Tom made a face and said it tasted horrible. I took a spoonful from the pan, and it was horrible. I’d accidentally brought rye flakes instead of oatmeal. Tom was grouchy and ate a granola bar. We were miserable — exhausted from the previous day’s hike and total lack of sleep. It looked like it was going to rain, so we decided to hightail it out of there. We ditched the lousy tent, sleeping bag, and ground cloth, leaving them for some lucky passerby. Then we threw on our lightened packs and started back.
For the first couple of miles, we followed our route from the previous day, but after that it was a crapshoot. We argued about the quickest way back to the car and wound up taking separate routes. This was reckless, since we had only each other for protection in this wild country, but sometimes a divorce is just what the relationship needs. I had chosen to follow an old jeep trail, even though it wasn’t headed toward our car. I figured it would be easier to walk on an established trail than to struggle through the same labyrinth of broken boulders that we’d struggled through the day before. It turned out that my trail was quicker, but after two hours the sun came out, and I found myself hot and delirious. I had to sit down often, take my compass out, and confirm my heading. The jeep trail I’d followed had brought me miles off course, and I was in unfamiliar territory. I had a sense of what it might feel like to be an immigrant, separated from his group. Confusion from low blood sugar, compounded by fear. But at least I didn’t have to try to evade the authorities.
I was hot and tired, so I sat down in the shade of an overhanging cliff. I ate an apple and drank a little from my last quart of water. I had become quite desperate. I was weak, and the fear I felt was paralyzing me. I was very aware that I could die out there if I didn’t find a direct route back to our car. So I opened my map and laid the compass on top of it. I aligned the map toward the north. On the map I found the old jeep trail I had hiked on, and I used it to approximate where I was. I drew a line on the map from that point to the place we’d parked our car, and I used the compass to give me a heading to it. Then I picked my stuff up and started walking in that direction. Instead of deviating around hills, I climbed over them, so I could stay on course. Another hour went by, but then, as I reached the top of a hill, I saw something strange off in the distance. It was a tractor trailer headed east on Interstate 8. I still remember the big Walmart logo printed on the side. I’d been saved. I reached the car an hour later and met up with Tom. We hugged each other and washed our faces with the last of our water.
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/5/2016
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/5/2016 |
7/4/2016
Topic:
What Is This??
RobertMarcos
|
It's gotta be old, because it's made from actual metal and there's no "Made in China" printed on it. |
7/4/2016
Topic:
The Superstition Mountains
RobertMarcos
|
THE SPANISH SHIP WAS LOADED WITH PEARLS when it ran aground in the spring of 1615. According to two witnesses, (off-roaders who’d seen the skeletal remains of the ship as recently as 1978), the shipwreck lies sixteen miles northwest of El Centro, in dunes on the southeastern edge of the Superstition Mountains. Most-often buried under the sand, the vessel has remained there for over four hundred years. How did it get there?
In 1610 King Phillip of Spain ordered the construction of three ships to be built in Acapulco. They were to be used for the harvesting of pearls along the Pacific coast of Mexico. These vessels, called caravels, were much smaller than the 200-ton galleons which had transported the first conquistadors from Cuba to Veracruz. The caravels would have a shallow-draft, square-sails, and thirteen-rows of oars on each side - allowing them to manuever in shallow water.
The ships were completed in 1612 and they immediately set sail under the command of Captains Alvarez de Cordone, Pedro de Rosales, and Juan de Iturbe. Between them they had sixty experienced pearl divers, who were slaves brought over from the Portuguese colony of Sierra Leone.
It was no accident that the ships immediately headed north. Nearly eighty years earlier Hernando Cortez had sailed up to the tip of Baja and had found that the large bay next to present-day La Paz was full of oyster beds. In Europe pearls were in great demand and at the time even more valuable than gold. But the natives around La Paz were very hostile and the Spanish had been unable to establish a settlement there.
So Captain Cordone’s floatilla bypassed La Paz but traded for pearls at other coastal villages on their way north. But at one village things went awry. When Captain Cordone promised to trade a basket of their (Spanish style) clothing for a basket of pearls, the native chief was surprised to find his basket filled with worm-eaten cloth. The chief had expected clothing like that worn by the officers. The angered chief shot Cordone in the chest with an arrow. While he wasn’t killed, the captain was forced to return to Acapulco for medical treatment. He ordered his two fellow captains to sail their ships further up the Sea of Cortez.
At present-day Mulege the men hit the jackpot. A big storm had washed thousands of oysters up onto the beach and men quickly filled their baskets. But upon their departure, Captain Rosales' boat struck a reef and began to take on water. Captain Iturbe’s pulled up next to the sinking ship and quickly moved its cargo and crew into his ship.
Now Iturbe had a decision to make. Return to Acapulco early, or continue north and load up with even more pearls? He chose the latter. For a week he sailed farther north until his ship entered a large shallow estuary. The men noticed ducks and other animals commonly seen around fresh water. Gradually the route became narrower and narrower and then opened up into what he described as a great "inland sea". This would have been the ancient Lake Cahuilla, (or today’s much smaller Salton Sea). The captain sailed along the eastern edge of the inland sea and continued up the (Colorado) river until they reached the 34th degree of latitude. The Spanish sailors had rowed north to the area where the City of Blythe is located today.
It was here that Captain Iturbe turned his ship around. He sailed back down the river and back into the inland sea. But in the weeks since their arrival the water level had fallen tremendously. A miles-long sand bar now completely blocked their exit to the Sea of Cortez. They were trapped. Iturbe and his men circled around the inland sea for three more days and then finally grounded their ship. The crew gathered as much of their precious cargo as they could and then they abandoned their ship.
Most of the men survived the long and miserable walk back to the Spanish settlement of Guaymas, and a few months later they were transported back to Acapulco on a Spanish galleon. But their ship and the majority of its precious cargo were to remain forever stuck on the edge of that great inland sea, and would eventually be covered by sand dunes.
Over the next two hundred years a variety of travelers passing between Yuma and Los Angeles reported seeing a large ship marooned on sand dunes. Three of these accounts were published in local newspapers. The native Americans in the region also had legends about a lost ship, which one old man described as a “huge white bird”, after seeing the sails flying in the wind.
In June of 2009 the San Diego Reader published a story I wrote titled, "Stay Away From Pinto Canyon". The story was about a dangerous trek a friend and I made to a remote canyon in order to photograph petroglyphs - prehistoric rock art. When we reached the petroglyphs they were not what we expected. There were no woolley mammoths or sabre-toothed cats. Instead we found a crude collection of anthropomorphic stick figures, next to what looked like a large sailing vessel with square sails and oars protruding from it. In the article I surmised that the artist "could've spent time at Mission Alcala in San Diego and may have seen a Spanish supply ship sitting in the harbor".
When the folks at the Maritime Museum of San Diego read my article they were electrified. An woman named Maggie Platt called and asked if I would lead them back to the petroglyph so they could see it for themselves. A few days later I met Maggie and her husband Ted at the Texaco gas station in Ocotillo, about a hundred miles east of San Diego. Using an old map I'd found a jeep road that would take us from Ocotillo into to Davies Valley, and bring us within two miles of Pinto Canyon. We set off confidently in a pair of off-road vehicles but in less than an hour we had to stop. The Bureau of Land Management had erected a big steel barrier across the dirt road to stop drug runners who'd been using the same route. We had no choice but to turn around and go home.
But a steel barrier was not going to deter the folks at the Maritime Museum. Through proper channels they requested and obtained the combined assistance of the U.S. Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Customs and Border Patrol, and the National Park Service. Using their resources, Ray Ashley, the museum's president, assembled a crack team of archaeologists, historians, historic site managers, and photographers. Just a few weeks later this team of experts returned to Pinto Canyon - with the protection of federal agents armed with automatic weapons.
After viewing the petroglyphs in person and analyzing their data afterward, the experts presented their findings. They said while there was no solid proof, the ships depicted in the rock carvings could be from "the expedition of Francisco Ulloa in 1539, the expedition of Sebastian Vizcaino in 1602, or the expedition of Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo in 1542." They followed with a sensational propostion: "If the objects in the petroglyphs are indeed Spanish ships from one of the earlier expeditions, then it constitutes the earliest primary-source graphic representation of a historic event in American history. (Or you might say, the first record of Europeans landing in what is now the United States Of America).
At San Diego's Spanish Landing volunteers were putting the final touches on a replica of the San Salvador, the 200-ton galleon which Juan Cabrillo sailed into San Diego harbor in 1542. The harbor side installation also includes a replica of the petroglyph that I found in Pinto Canyon. Since the replica of the ship and the replica of the petroglyph are sitting next to each other you could assume that the petroglyph is a depiction of the galleon. However it’s much more likely that the petroglyph is a depiction of Juan Iturbe’s caravel - stuck in the sand just a few miles from Pinto Canyon. History is fraught with omission and conclusions not always supported by the most obvious factual evidence.
Researched and written by Robert Marcos
robertmarcos2@gmail.com
References -
San Diego State University http://www.sci.sdsu.edu/salton/AncientLakeCahuilla.html
http://ncep.amnh.org/colorado_simulation/colorado_river/index.html
Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caravel
SpittalStreet.com http://spittalstreet.com/?p=969
San Diego History Center http://www.sandiegohistory.org
Institute of Maritime http://www.maritimehistory.org/content/search-second-three-pearl-ships
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/4/2016
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/5/2016
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/5/2016 |
7/5/2016
Topic:
Pinto Canyon Overnighter
RobertMarcos
|
Hi Tommy. I apologize for using your photos without your permission. Back on our 2008 hike, my partner Tom and I split up the cargo - he carried a 4 x 5-inch field camera and tripod, (which I thought was unnecessary), and I carried 3 gallons of water - plus all the normal equipment. We're both professional photographers and as such we always put our paying client's projects ahead of our own. So it was months before I saw one of his 4 x 5" images, (very dull since it was taken at twilight and the wall of petroglyphs was in shadow). I did however provide that image, (sharpened and with added contrast) to the archaeological team which was assembled by Dr. Raymond Ashley prior to the Maritime Museum's trip to the Pinto Canyon petroglyph site. I lost track of the image after that. So I hope that helps to explain my lack of photos from that trip. Thanks and best wishes - robert
edited by RobertMarcos on 7/5/2016 |
7/5/2016
Topic:
Pinto Canyon Overnighter
RobertMarcos
|
I visited that "pot" site a couple of times afterward, but then forgot exactly which hillside it's on. I will mention one more thing, there was trash nearby left by illegal aliens - empty water bottles and some of those sexy cartoon books. It was apparent that the migrants were hiding in the rocks waiting for nightfall. I was once warned by a US Border Patrol agent that I would not want to be out there at night... |
7/5/2016
Topic:
Salton Sea Documentary "Breaking Point"
RobertMarcos
|
Thanks for sharing that terrific movie. As a kid I used to swim in the Salton Sea. I even went waterskiing once. More recently it's a smelly mess. Hard to believe that any fish can survive at all, yet more continue to wash up every week.
Although the sea has filled and then dried-up countless times over the centuries, the pollutants we've added to it would wreak havoc on the residents of the Coachella Valley, if the sea is allowed to completely dry up. As a resident of La Quinta, (near Indio), I can tell you that the wind brings the smell of the Salton Sea westward, about once or twice a year. Two years ago the smell travelled all the way to Los Angeles, where it was reported on the front page of the LA Times.
Coincidentally a similar thing occurred in Russia, when the Aral Sea dried up...
http://www.columbia.edu/~tmt2120/introduction.htm
best wishes - robert |
7/5/2016
Topic:
Moving to the desert
RobertMarcos
|
Hi Mark -
I bought a house in La Quinta back in 2004 but just moved into it a few years ago. Yeah the summers are deadly here - (it was 123 degrees at my house on Father's Day). Anyway good luck in Borrego Springs, I hope to meet up sometime - after all our towns are only separated by one 8,717-foot high mountain!
Robert Marcos |
10/15/2016
Topic:
In Ko Pah Explorations and Monitoring
RobertMarcos
|
Great story Larry - thanks for writing about it. That's the largest collection of native American artifacts I've ever seen from a single hike. Amazing also that you found several pottery "lips" with markings. I've found (and left in place) hundreds of pottery shards but rarely a lip, and only once in my life have I found artwork remaining on a large piece of pottery.
By the way - how was the weather out there? Still hot??
Best wishes - Robert |
10/15/2016
Topic:
Spanish sword found at Fish Creek Wash?
RobertMarcos
|
Forgive me but does anyone recall hearing a story about two gentlemen who found a 400-year old Spanish sword buried in the sand at Fish Creek Wash? The details would be very helpful. Some researchers are looking into the "lost ship of the desert" story, and the location of that sword might be a vital detail.
Thanks & best wishes...
Robert Marcos
http://www.robertmarcos.com/lost-ship-of-the-desert/ |
10/16/2016
Topic:
In Ko Pah Explorations and Monitoring
RobertMarcos
|
Regarding the "diamond chain" petroglyph you mentioned. That sounds like the rattlesnake patterned petroglyph I found on a rock at Joshua Tree. The rock had a large vertical crack in it. I was told that the native Americans used that symbol to indicate a pathway into the underworld. |
10/18/2016
Topic:
Spanish sword found at Fish Creek Wash?
RobertMarcos
|
Thank you very much. I appreciate your comments. I had no idea that National Geographic had researched these lost ships... |
10/23/2016
Topic:
The Santa Rosas Sawmill Trail (Sort Of)
RobertMarcos
|
A powerful effort and accomplishment. I've ridding my mountain bike about halfway up the Sawmill Trail. Not easy at all, especially when you consider that the parking lot at Cactus Spring Trail is 3,600-feet elevation, while the summit of Toro Peak is 8,717, meaning that you hiked about 5,000 up, (and back down). |
10/23/2016
Topic:
Hike Near Torres-Martinez Indian Reservation
RobertMarcos
|
I drove 30-minutes south of my house in La Quinta today, parked at the end of Jackson, then did a three-hour hike south of the Torres-Martinez Indian Reservation. The canyon I chose has an interesting attribute, it has a mile-wide row of coral-covered rocks that mark the shoreline of Ancient Lake Cahuilla, (which you might imagine as a giant Salton Sea). Anyway the natives lived off the fish and dug for clams - up until the sea dried up in about 1600 AD. Today I was looking for petroglyphs or their discarded piles of white clam shells, but instead I found this ancient fish trap...(I assume, since there are other types of "rock dam" fish traps nearby). The circle of rocks was exactly at the waterline, and was about eight-feet in diameter.
" ", " "
edited by RobertMarcos on 10/23/2016
edited by RobertMarcos on 10/23/2016 |
12/23/2016
Topic:
Travertine Point - West of the Salton Sea
RobertMarcos
|
Earlier this year I had a terrific hike to a place that I found on Google Earth. I found it while I was scouring the desert floor searching for the lost Spanish pearl ship of Juan De Iturbe. (see photo #1)
Instead of the 400-year old ship I found a lovely palm oasis tucked in a small canyon about four miles west of Travertine Point. Travertine Point is a prominent hill covered with coral and graffiti. It’s at the intersection of Highway 86 and 86th Avenue - a mile north of the town of Desert Shores, just west of the Salton Sea. (See photo #2)
My first attempt to reach the hidden oasis was in April 2016. The weather was borderline hot, about 90-degrees by midday. I got a late start that day and didn’t arrive until about 3 pm. I turned off highway 86 at 86th Avenue and parked my car in the dirt. I got my mountain bike out and rode a mile down the dirt road past two huge vineyards. At that point you can see the small mountain range about 3 miles to your left, (south). I rode at most another mile before the packed sand turned to small boulders, and then into large boulders. I hid my bike, (too well as it turned out because it took me 40-minutes to find it afterward), then took off on foot.
I personally have never had a problem with coyotes, but that day I got really spooked because at about 5pm about twenty of them started howling, and the packs seemed to surround me. I couldn’t see any of them but being out by yourself, without any protection whatsoever, while the sun is sinking…etc., etc. I called it a day.
We had a cool snap about two weeks later and I arrived much earlier. This time I left my bike and parked beside a power substation in Coolidge Springs. I set off on foot towards the southern boundary of the vineyard. Their fence ends at the hillside so you can hike around it. Note - very likely you’ll be trespassing at this point. But by hiking along the vineyard’s southern border you’ll make double time, as opposed to hiking over the mountains to the oasis.
I don’t have a GPS so I used a compass to follow headings that I’d written out in advance. It took me about two hours to reach the palm oasis, and it was worth it. There was evidence of Native American use - a large fire ring and several large shards of pottery laying in plain sight. The only evidence of a “non-native” visitor was the initials “JD” and the date “January 1941” carved on a round stone along the trail.
Now here’s the great part. On the way out I found what appeared to be an ancient indian trail. When I say “ancient” I mean that the stones laying on the narrow trail had a heavy brown patina, (desert varnish), and shrubs had grown over parts of the trail. Not a single rock had been overturned for maybe 300 years. (When I make an estimate like that its based on archaeological research I read. Scientists had carbon dated the remains of a cooked fish that they uncovered in a fire ring near the shoreline of Ancient Lake Cahuilla. The test showed that the fish had been cooked in 1740, plus or minus 30 years. After that the ancient lake completely dried up, and the indians didn't catch any more fish until the Trader Joes opened in 2014.
Anyway the old indian trail carried me most of the way back with barely any trespassing required. Walking along that trail, the sun low on the horizon, I felt a historic connection to the ancient people and to the mountains they inhabited.
edited by RobertMarcos on 12/23/2016
edited by RobertMarcos on 12/23/2016 |
12/23/2016
Topic:
Coyote Creek 0.92", Borrego Springs 1.14". 24hr
RobertMarcos
|
It was a really good soaking rain, (not a flood), here in La Quinta. With rain like this we can expect a lot of wildflowers this year! |
12/23/2016
Topic:
rock circles, rock alignments
RobertMarcos
|
What I've seen are circular fish traps along the shore of Ancient Lake Cahuilla, and the circular foundations of the Native American's hovels. Did they call them "hovels" out here or is that just the Navajo? Anyway I found three circular foundations today, in the canyons west of the Salton Sea. I'll post a photo if I can figure out how... |
12/24/2016
Topic:
Travertine Point - West of the Salton Sea
RobertMarcos
|
Hi Jim - I'm very sorry to learn that I didn't discover that place, dang it. There's no sign of water there, or anywhere else in that small range. And it does very much resemble an "overnight rest stop" as opposed to a long-term habitat. There's LOTS of old trails and sleeping circles but very few pottery shards and no morteros, petroglyphs, or old bones leftover from dinner. I assume that when the Ancient Lake Cahuilla dried up the natives had to abandon the area altogether. |
12/24/2016
Topic:
Travertine Palms Oasis and Caves
RobertMarcos
|
A great and productive tour. Thanks for the photos. |
12/24/2016
Topic:
Travertine Point - West of the Salton Sea
RobertMarcos
|
I just saw Rockhopper's (much better) article about this same place. It's called Travertine Palms. He has great photos...
http://www.anzaborrego.net/AnzaBorrego/forum/topic455-travertine-palms-oasis-and-caves.aspx |
12/24/2016
Topic:
Travertine Point - West of the Salton Sea
RobertMarcos
|
I would love to participate...thank you. |
12/26/2016
Topic:
Travertine Point - West of the Salton Sea
RobertMarcos
|
No, I did not see that sign. And I had a very "investigative" visit, like Columbo arriving at a crime scene...except without the cigar.
dsefcik wrote:
rockhopper wrote:
Btw , way the sign still there?
It was there last November 2015, we stopped by Travertine on our way out of Martinez.
edited by dsefcik on 12/26/2016 |
12/27/2016
Topic:
Mt. Tule, Rozzie, Groan and Gasp
RobertMarcos
|
Gorgeous photos. May I ask what kind of camera? I need something lightweight... |
1/31/2017
Topic:
Hayfield Springs and the Joy of Discovery
RobertMarcos
|
Last year I got a tip about possible Native American petroglyphs located just east of the Hinds pumping station of the Colorado River Aqueduct Project. As I studied Google Earth I chose a canyon adjacent to Hayfield Spring. Hayfield Spring is on BLM land just outside the southern border of Joshua Tree National Monument. It's five miles east of the Hinds pumping station.
Starting in Indio, I drove 31 miles east on the I-10 to Chiriaco Summit - home of the General Patton Museum. I got gas and a large coffee then returned to the I-10 east. I drove another 9 miles to Red Cloud road. I exited then circled around to the right under the freeway, then parked my little car and unloaded my bike. Truck owners can drive across the old railroad tracks and enter a dirt access road that curves north then east. Drive 2-1/2 miles then park off the road, (this road is used by trucks maintaining the aqueduct but it's basically open to use). You should not approach the Hinds Pumping station which is surrounded by "No Trespassing" signs, nor swim in the aqueduct itself, (although it's very refreshing).
The combination of the scenic drive, the caffeine from the large coffee, the mountain bike ride, and the two mile hike to the mouth of the canyon forged a deep and memorable sense of adventure. The weather was warm but tolerable. Here in the desert if the weather is tolerable you're already happy, regardless of the outcome of your hike.
At noon I parked my little car and took off on my bike. I had my heavy Canon 60D, lunch, and water in my small backpack. I ditched my bike about 20 minutes later and hiked across one of the “land bridges” that pass over the aqueduct about once every quarter-mile. Then I encountered a 15-foot high dike - designed to protect the aqueduct by redirecting the occasional flash flood. They dikes are visible on Google Earth as a series of intersecting quarter-mile long berms.
North of the berms the wilderness begins. Burrows from desert tortoises are everywhere so you have to watch your step. I walked past a light-gray colored snake that was soaking up some rays. And there are the ubiquitous coyote tracks. But upon approaching the mouth of the canyon I was struck by the smell of death. I had an immediate adrenaline reaction and I stopped in my tracks. I did a slow 360 and saw a good sized branch which I picked up and carried for defense, then I sought the source of the stink. About a minute later I found the corpse of a full-grown bighorn sheep. It was in the middle of a hundred prints, all of which appeared to be coyotes. I did not see any mountain lion tracks but I held onto my big stick anyway.
It’s a times like these that you regret being out in the middle of nowhere by yourself. But the fact that the majority of the bighorn had already been eaten, and the lack of lion tracks helped me to relax a bit and begin my CSI investigation. The sheep had no radio collar, and was not tagged. The dried grass from its belly were lying nearby. But everything else had been eaten.
I continued into the canyon. It was marvelous to scale the huge boulders and get out of the heat. I quickly identified some ancient trails and followed them a half-mile deeper into the canyon. I was watching very closely for any physical evidence of the ancient habitants - arrowheads, pottery, or petroglyphs. Not a single thing. And yet there were a dozen flat, circular areas where you fully expected to find something, plus there were trails that led to these places. The absolute lack of native American items reminded me of areas that had been "swept" by archaeologists. They're left sterile.
I exited the canyon an hour later, somewhere depressed. I stuck to the western edge of the canyon’s mouth and climbed up out of the sandy wash. Then BAM! There facing me was a classic symbol carved into a boulder - a vertical chain of linked diamonds - a rattlesnake, which the Indians used to indicate the entrance to the “underworld”. Generally these symbols exist on rocks near a large crack or at the entrance to a cave.
The next day I called the state biologist at Joshua Tree and reported the dead bighorn. She politely referred me to the BLM. They took all my information and asked me to email my photos to them, which I did. The day after that a friend called me and offered me $200 for the bighorn’s horns. I declined.
edited by RobertMarcos on 1/31/2017
edited by dsefcik on 1/31/2017
edited by RobertMarcos on 2/1/2017 |