Photo Essay: Hanging Out In 'Hangtown,' Or Maybe Getting Sick in Placerville

Now that I've got some distance from it, I've been thinking a bit about what happened in the days before I came down with COVID-19 last year. 

I'm still not sure where I caught it, or how—but since I was traveling and bopping around to a lot of different spots, I may never know.

 

It was 4th of July weekend, and I was headed up to the Great Western Steam-Up in Carson City, Nevada. But first, I made a pit stop at the tiki bar in Sacramento (a.k.a. The Jungle Bird) and spent the night in the "Gold Rush" town of Placerville, California.

Looking for Gold at Hot Creek Geologic Site, the Eastern Sierra's Volcanic Hot Spring Gorge (Updated)

Update 9/2/23 12:44 AM PT—According to a press release from Friends of the Inyo, a federal appeals court reversed a prior decision from a lower district court and overturned the U.S. Forest Service’s 2021 approval that allowed gold-mining exploration Inyo National Forest’s Long Valley area. This may not be the end—but it's a victory for now.

In Mono County's Hot Creek Gorge in the Eastern Sierra, a colorful display of bright blue, green, and turquoise indicates where boiling water bubbles up—after percolating deep underground in a thermal aquifer near hot, subterranean magma located about 3 miles beneath the surface.

 

At the geological wonder known as Hot Creek Geologic Site, water heats up and is pressurized far beneath the earth in a literal hotbed of geothermal activity.

A Desert Failure, A Desert Victory (Or, A Tale of Two Mines)

The thing that got me really hiking through Joshua Tree National Park back in 2009 was the fact that it was the only way to get to the Wall Street Mill site. 

Back then, I was in shape enough and confident enough—or stupid enough—to trek out there by myself. 

But my hiking abilities have really declined since my car accident in 2014—and so I've had to curtail my adventures and stick to easier hikes, usually with groups. 

   

So I was excited to join the Desert Institute on a field trip back into the park—this time, near the Twentynine Palms entrance—to explore a couple of lesser-known mine sites. 

Photo Essay: Exploring A Little-Known Inland Stretch of the Second Transcontinental Railroad (In a Locomotive Cab)

In the 1880s, Southern Pacific Railroad led the charge in creating the nation's Second Transcontinental Railroad line—the first having been completed between the San Francisco Bay and Omaha, Nebraska in 1869, with the ceremonial "Golden Spike" (or "Last Spike") being driven at Promontory Summit, Utah Territory.

The second one was considered the "southern" one. 

By 1881, it had connected Atchison, Kansas to Los Angeles, California. And by 1883, it had connected Los Angeles to New Orleans. 

Last month, I had the chance to visit a little-known section of the second TCR—and see it from a perspective most passengers never get to experience—in the Inland Empire city of Perris, California. 

 

Photo Essay: A Slice of Arizona's Longest Operating Mining District, Castle Dome

A little over two years ago, a group of us ventured out to Yuma, Arizona for some sightseeing. By then I'd already been wanting to visit the Yuma Territory Prison historic site for a while—but to be honest, the real draw for me for that particular trip was to visit the "Enchanted Cavern" at Castle Dome Mine Museum.

It's become a tourist attraction for sure, but it began as Hull Mine. Its naturally fluorescent mineral walls—sparkling with cobalt blue fluoride crystals—make it a good candidate for a psychedelic spectacle.

There was only one problem.

Our trip didn't overlap with the days of the week that the Enchanted Cavern is actually open. And the Castle Dome Mine Museum wouldn't bend the rules to let us in off-schedule.

The sentiment of the group was that we would just return to Yuma sooner rather than later to cross the Enchanted Cavern off all of our lists. But other sites (and sights) and adventures have taken precedence since 2018—and we haven't made it back yet.

Fortunately, the Castle Dome Mining District—which once encompassed 10 square miles and eventually 300 mines—had plenty to offer to keep us occupied for a few hours.

And as it's only fully open from October to April (call for hours the rest of the year), I'm glad we got there when we did.



In operation from 1864 to 1979 (the longest operating mining district in Arizona), Castle Dome began with 17th-century diggings from Spanish explorers—which eventually gave rise to the state's second patented mine, the Flora Temple Mine, in 1871.

Down there—150 feet deep—they found a half-mile-long vein of galena, an important source of silver (mixed with lead). Galena is formed along earthquake faults, where the earth fractures and is pushed up by seismic and volcanic action.



In fact, most of the mines at Castle Dome produced silver—though occasionally a pocket of gold would be uncovered.

There was enough mining activity at one point to warrant a population explosion of up to 3000 residents, living in cabins...



...and, eventually, bunkhouses (presumably for the bachelors without families).

By the year 1878, Castle Dome City was bigger than Yuma, having gotten 200,000 ounces of silver out of 5000 tons of silver galena ore.

But now it's a ghost town, its only permanent residents the bodies that are buried in the cemetery—including those who died by a knife wound or were beheaded—and those of four miners who got caught in a flash flood in 1887 and never escaped from the 450-foot-deep vertical hole.



Today, the Castle Dome Mining District attraction is a step back in time to an era of machine shops, mercantiles, a blacksmith shop, a saw shop (which sells, literally, saws), and more.



Among the 50+ buildings (seven of which are original to the town), there's a stone cabin, filled with artifacts (many unearthed from surrounding mine shafts)...



...and a church, situated against the backdrop of the Castle Dome Mountains (and the "dome" itself, actually a butte) and the surrounding Kofa National Wildlife Refuge.



Preservation efforts have really benefitted from Castle Dome's remote location.



The church's bell in its tower still rings.



Owned by Pennsylvania-born 49-er Jacob Snively and his brother Connor, Castle Dome Mining District consisted of just a portion of mining claims along the Colorado River—which enabled the ore to be transported by (steam?)boat and ultimately shipped out for smelting.



But those who lived and worked at Castle Dome mostly never left—and the isolated boomtown was a boon for their most basic tendencies.



It was the Wild West, with all the trappings...



...including the town saloon.



A miner's life can be the pinnacle of the "work hard, play hard" ethos...



...and there was plenty of work to be dome at the bank, the assay office...



...the recorder's office...



...and even the barber shop.



The deepest they ever got was 700 feet. Given what a chore it was to separate the silver from the lead, it wasn't really worth it to dig any deeper.

And with the rise and fall in demand for silver over time. so did the success of Castle Dome fluctuate.

During both WWI and WWII, lead actually emerged as the more valuable mining yield—and with the involvement of Arizona Lead Company, bullets were made from millions of pounds of extracted lead.

Still, the war effort wasn't enough to keep the Castle Dome school from being shut down in 1950.

In 1979, the drop in silver prices was a death knell for Castle Dome's mining operations. When the separating process began to cost more than the value of the silver, it dealt a final, fatal blow to legitimate mining on the claim.

In the years that followed, scam artists showed up as scam artists are apt to do. In 1993/4, Allen Armstrong and his wife, Stephanie bought the land that sits atop three of the patented claims of the former mining district—and by 1998, they were able to open it as a museum.

The Hull Mine—the sparkly, colorful, "enchanted" one—is actually a recent acquisition, circa 2016. I hope it sticks around long enough for me to go back and see it in person.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Bodie Ghost Town
Photo Essay: Glimpses of Yuma Territory
Photo Essay: Crossing Over Into Yuma

Shifting Into Low Gear for a Gold Mining Ghost Town Adventure (in a Jeep)

It wasn't until about two and a half years ago that I realized there was any gold-mining history to Big Bear—the mountain community in San Bernardino National Forest probably better known for its ski resorts and, well, bears.



The only problem is that the only way to explore that history first-hand is to either hike to it or drive to it in a vehicle that can handle the unpaved, boulder-littered Forest Service roads.



So I got behind the wheel of a tricked-out, 4WD-equipped Jeep...



...outfitted with a two-way radio so my guide, Desi, could talk me through the tough parts.



We turned off of Big Bear's North Shore Drive and onto Polique Canyon Road—which is where things get interesting. The sign said we wouldn't be "off-roading" per se, but that's because we would be staying on the designated trails.



Those trails are not the types of roads that you're used to when driving a Honda.



And because it's winter, there was some snow, slush, ice, and iced-over water crossings to tackle.



It's hard to believe that the now remote area of Holcomb Valley was once bigger than Big Bear, with its gold-mining operations. Not only were there the miners themselves—often housed in temporary dwellings—but also the requisite saloon, bordello, supply shops, and what have you.



They had mules and donkeys to transport themselves and their supplies through this rugged terrain—where most of the structures are gone, having been razed or relocated. The visible signs of its mining history consist of a couple of gravesites, prospecting holes, and leftover tailings (or big mounds of excavated dirt).



Now, it's a wonderland of rocks and alpine forest marked more by its natural obstacles than its manmade landmarks.



On a Jeep excursion like this, you can't just try to avoid the boulders. You've got to set your tires squarely in their path so you can crawl over them.



You can't accelerate too much or your tires will just spin. When you're in 4 Low, the Jeep wants to move forward. You have to brake to keep it from going too fast.



It's probably the most fun—and most nerve-wracking time—you can have going just 1 mph.



There's another adjustment you've got to make to conquer this terrain—let some air out of the tires. By deflating them from, say, 40 PSI to 12 PSI, you increase the amount of surface area that can grab onto the rocks. On a paved road, it feels like you're driving on pillows.



When driving through water (sometimes deeper than 2 feet), it feels almost like you're swimming. And no matter how slow you go, you still get covered in mud.



Although mining claims are still allowed in Holcomb Valley, most visitors come out here to either crawl or climb the granite rocks—particularly in an area known as the Holcomb Valley Pinnacles.



We, however, trudged on—as my driving leg started to get a little sore and my neck and shoulders tired of craning to see where my driver's side front tire would land.




Fortunately, the tires on my borrowed Jeep were wider than the body itself—so in an area known as "The Squeeze," I just had to rub the tire below me against the boulder to my left and I'd surely clear the right-hand side, despite not having a passenger to help spot me.



For me, that was the mildest of all the white-knuckling moments along the Gold Fever Trail. I was much more worried about rolling over or even just having any of my tires spinning in mid-air.



Bt as we reached the final stretch of our excursion, I was negotiating all the obstacles without instruction. The radio had gone silent—and I was on my own.



The silence was a fitting soundtrack for rumbling through the burn area of the 2017 Holcomb Fire, which scorched the East Valley hillsides above Baldwin Lake just over a month after my last trip to Big Bear.



It's going to take a while for the landscape to recover. But it eventually will.



Fortunately, the 2017 wildfire didn't destroy what's left of the circa 1875 stamp mill of the Doble Mine (a.k.a. the Lucky Baldwin Mine), situated above the former town of Doble (known before that as Bairdstown, sometimes called Gold Mountain City).



But I'm guessing most visitors to Holcomb Valley aren't there for the mining history.



And even though I was, I found myself discovering it in a fascinating way—behind the wheel of a vehicle I never thought I could control (or would even want to). Desi says he never worried about the safety of his Jeep. And that's really saying something.



The irony of this excursion is not lost on me. When we emerged from the Forest Service Road 3N16, we were a 5-minute drive or about a mile and a half as the crow flies from where I got my Honda Fit stuck on Cactus Road, trying to get to Big Bear after accidentally winding up on Forest Service Road 3N03.

But this time, I was prepared. I could shift into low gear. I had a pace car leading the way and a radio to call for help.

And I wasn't scared—at least, not most of the time.

I was, however, kind of relieved to give the Jeep back to Desi after more than two hours.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: A Summer Visit to a Gold-Mining Ghost Town Destroyed By Winter
Photo Essay: A Watery Surprise Near Death Valley