The old green Toyota
4Runner headed up modern highways that vaguely traced the
routes of freight wagons heavy laden with bullion and
supplies that helped to waken a sleepy Los Angeles and turn
it into a thriving metropolis. The way was quick and easy
with light to moderate traffic and warm breeze, as the
couple reached the almost halfway point of Mojave. Street
names of Belshaw, Cerro Gordo, Nadeau and Panamint stood in
tribute to the people and places that bridged modern city
and the forgotten mining camps that built it. Gas stations,
sit down and fast food restaurants and railroad tracks
blocked the view of most of the historic named street signs.
Fourteen and one half
months had passed since their last visit to the mountain
that was once so rich in silver the bars sat stacked up
waiting to be transported around the now dry lake bed and
down the same paths they had just come up. Obligations at
home, and in the mining town several hours further up the
highway than the one they were headed to, had stalled
intended visits. But the old camp high on the Fat Hill
called to them, and at last they were at the intersection of
the highway, and the dirt road getting ready for the ascend
up the famous Yellow Grade Road.
They made the turn onto
the dirt and went up it a short way, then paused for a brief
moment as the dust kicked up ahead of them and muffled the
sounds and view of the long train of mules with their
jingle-belled collars, and thunderous hoofs, pulling blue
painted wagons. Within a blink of an eye the dust cleared,
and there was nothing there but empty shale covered dirt
road. They started the 4Runner, two or three times, with no
luck and realized they were stalled. A look under the hood,
and several more attempts, and they managed to turn around
and go back to the highway. The 4Runner stalled again, and
then suddenly found new life once they hit the pavement and
headed towards the nearest semblance of a town where they
wound up waiting four hours for parts to be delivered before
they could turn around and attempt the Yellow Grade again.
The second turn up the
dirt road from the pavement five hours later was successful.
They paused at the spot the dirt had kicked up and brought
history to them earlier in the day. But the portal to the
past had closed, and they continued up the steep and often
rocky and winding road. At the top of the mountain, the Fat
Hill, Cerro Gordo, awaited them, the handful of struggled
architectures standing much as they had left them so many
months before.
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Panoramic view of Cerro Gordo townsite (center) and
Union Mine (right) looking northeast. |
The days were long and
quiet with only few four wheel drive vehicles daring to
wander up to hear the stories the couple had to offer. They
puttered around, dusting and sweeping the old hotel and
museum, scavenging for more histories as they did so. The
time past slowly, with an occasional hike and a good cooked
meal and lots of speculative conversations between them. A
collection of old pictures from a little known era,
entertained them. It was well and good, in spite of the
lonesomeness.
It was the last evening
of their stay, and their bellies were full of his cooking.
They cleaned up the dishes and left over food, then pulled
up chairs on the long narrow porch of the red painted
building said to be the home of one of the mining moguls
during the big
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The
4Runner parked in front of the red painted Belshaw
House. |
heyday. The warmth of
the day had chilled with the setting of the sun and the wind
kick up. A mouse played peek-a-boo on the porch steps as the
darkness set in. A heaven full of stars provided all the
light they needed, as they sat there. It was so quiet, you
could almost hear the entire population of 1872 in their
nighttime activities, laughter, singing, angry shouting, a
gun shot or two, and the tinny sounds of saloon pianos. An
occasional shooting star lit the town all the more, and the
breeze would still for a moment, proving it was all just a
dream of by gone days, and the mountain echo playing games
with their own voices.
He looked at the watch
on his wrist, and announced he was ready to call it a night.
She nodded her head and stood up as he did. He headed
straight for the bedroom and was soon snoring. She tended
to closing down the old house for the night, then joined him
under the patchwork quilt that covered the canopied bed. She
laid awake, her head on the pillow face up, and her thoughts
to keep her company.
The minutes slowly went
by turning to hours, and she was surely not having any luck
with the histories and tales that kept going through her
mind keeping her from slumber. Something compelled her to
get up, and look out the oval pane of the front door. The
moon had come round giving the town an eerie glow, and
shadows swayed with the still going breeze. One particular
shadow appeared to have four legs and two heads, and was
fast coming up the hill and thundering past the house
rattling the floorboards underneath her bare feet, and
shaking the windows. A whirlwind, she thought.
The whirlwind laughed
wickedly at her as she turned to go back to bed. The house
jolted with a loud noise, and the windows of the house lit
up like daylight for a brief moment, then she swore she
heard more laughter and shouts…and gunshots. “An
earthquake!” she screamed, waking her husband. The house
jolted again mildly, and her husband now awake, replied,
“Mine cave-in!”
He grabbed his clothes
and scrambled outside with her. A red glow appeared at the
north end of town lighting the broken down tramway trestle.
He was out on the street and headed towards it up the hill,
when he heard her scream behind him. In her haste, she had
tripped on the old wooden porch steps, and was flat on her
face.
He turned back to offer
her hand. She was sitting up in a mild state of shock, her
face smudged here and there with blood. “I’ve broken my
noise…” she said, then wiped her lip with her tongue and
tasted blood. Her jaw felt as if it had slammed into her
brain. He laughed at her, and wiped her up with his shirt.
“Your bruised, and your tooth is chipped, but your fine…” he
assessed to her dismay. She whimpered a little, then took
his hand for help up. Her knees shook so she couldn’t stop
them. But it wasn’t her knees, it was the ground again, and
there were more loud noises and light coming from the
buildings under that tram. “Let’s go!” he said, and held her
hand as they made way up the hill towards the commotion.
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A warm
glow emanates from the
site of Lola's "cribs" under a starry sky at Cerro
Gordo. |
The assay office and the
whore house cribs stood beneath the broken tramway. The
shaking and the noise had stopped, and the bright glare was
gone. The only sign that anything had gone on was a faint
red light bleeding out the back of the two cribs. The wind
kicked up around them, the dust flew, and the two headed
four legged shadow turned into a horse with an elegantly
dressed Hispanic woman. Her laughter echoed as she hopped
off her horse, tethered it, and stood before them.
“Welcome to Lola’s,” she
said.
They rubbed their eyes
and tried to wish the view away. Surely, it wasn’t
possible. “C’mon,” Lola said, “Join me inside.”
They followed her past
the cribs and to buildings that were non-existent in the
light of day. She opened the door and took them inside,
pointing each of them to seats at a long bar. She went
behind it, grabbed a bottle and took a swig, then offered
them each one.
“Haven’t been here in
years, but the place doesn’t look too bad,” she laughed. “A
little dusty, and lonely, but the liquor is still stocked
and well aged. Looks like you modern caretakers have been
doing your job.”
They each took their
swigs, not to offend, and sat there with eyes affixed on
Lola Travis, the infamous proprietor of the Palace of
Pleasure. A million questions ran through their heads,
but their tongues wouldn’t cooperate to ask them. Lola’s
deep brown eyes twinkled, and there was a glimmer of a
smile, contrary to the mean demeanor that she was notorious
for. She threw back her full of head of black curls.
Her accent was thick,
but understandable as she began her tale. “I was thirteen
years old when I arrived in Sonora, on the western side of
the Sierras. Came all the way from Chihuahua, Mexico with my
little brothers. It was 1850. I left Florentino and Martin
with a young woman at the boarding house I found to live in,
and found work in one of the colorful Fandango halls and
managed to keep my siblings fed and clothed. Florentino was
4, and Martin was 3. Florentino had a taste for the gold
and silver, and we followed it. I met Granillo and married
him, and he gave me three children, two girls and a boy, and
then he died. So we followed Florentino to the mines.”
“I had some financial
backing thanks to a shrewd business sense, and many hours in
the Fandango halls. While Florentino tried his hand at
prospecting, I bought property and put up a saloon and a
house in Lone Pine on the Eastern side of the Sierras.”
Lola paused and took
another swig from the bottle, then passed it around to the
couple. As they took their turns with the bottle she began
again. ”The money was good, but not good enough. The silver
coming out of the mountain looked more promising. So I
followed Florentino to the mining camp high on the mountain.
As quick as the miners could make their wages in the mines
of Mr. Beaudry and Mr. Belshaw and I drained them of it
right here with my fine whiskeys and my beautiful girls.”
The light from a lamp on
the bar flickered as Lola spoke, occasionally shimmering on
the many chains of gold jewelry she wore on her neck and on
her wrists. He fingers fumbled with the fine bracelets. “It
was a hard life, but I was tough. I raised my siblings and
my children with a hard hand. They didn’t understand at the
time, but as they grew older it made sense to them, and they
grew up well. The camp was rowdy, and the men and my girls
could be bad.
There were fights, and
bloodshed, but I kept the children away from it, as best I
could, and managed a good reputation in a bad sort of way.”
Her deep voice segued to a wicked laugh that haunted the
night. Another swig, and a wipe of her face, “I made my
riches, moved on and eventually retiring respectable in
Bakersfield well into my 70’s.” She laughed again, ”And my
legacy lived on-few knowing what my past really was.”
The bottle was passed
across the bar once again. As the man reached to take it,
the wind kicked up, and a bolt of lightening lit up the tram
in the distance. Everything shook violently and they held on
to the bar. The fire went out on the lamp, and Lola began to
fade before them. Suddenly it was morning, and the sun was
in their faces, shining through the bedroom window of the
house they called theirs during their visits to the
mountain. Between them on the quilt was a copy of “The Life
and Times of Cerro Gordo’s Lola Travis” by Robin Flinchum.
Lola’s elderly portrait on the cover seemed to snicker at
them, as they noticed it lying there.
Editor's note: While we
can't promise any visits from mule teams or long dead
madams, Cerro Gordo is an interesting destination for a day
visit. The townsite is located in the Inyo Mountains, eight
miles east of Keeler off Highway 136 in Inyo County,
California, near Lone Pine. Visiting hours are daily from 9
a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission, including a town tour and history
is $10 per person. Cerro Gordo is privately owned and
a caretaker is there 24/7. Please phone (760) 876-5030
additional information and road conditions.
