Dale Mining District, California

Devil Dogs of Dale & a Baby Buzzworm

Rattlesnake Gary

IT began at 6 A.M. on one of those “Hey-Mable-let's-pack-up-the-old- Edsel-and-move-to-Californy-and-all-that-sunshine” type day. With temperatures heading for the low-80s, glittering snow frosting the local mountains, and the desert looking like the ever-blooming stock of a commercial nursery, Ghost Town USA was heading towards the Dale Mining District, in the “back-forty” of California’s Mojave Desert.

In all the years of exploring the desert, I still hadn't visited the Dale Mining District, which is located in the northeast corner of Joshua Tree National Park, about 20 miles southeast of Twentynine Palms.

Past Twentynine Palms, the state highway heads east into an infinity of Joshua Trees, past occupied and abandoned, crumbling "jackrabbit homesteads". At mile 14.3 east of the National Park Visitor Center turnoff, a well graded dirt road angles to the southeast. On the north side of the intersection, a downed water tank and a concrete foundation are all that remains of Old Dale, which dates to the 1880s when it was the base for placer mining prospectors. Bottle collectors and treasure hunters have dug here for years, many times with mixed results.

I grabbed my camera, plopped my hat on my head and stepped out of the van twenty feet in front of an onrushing, churning dog tsunami coming from an occupied cabin across the street.

Surprise!

The ferocious, four-legged furballs could have at least wagged their tails in greeting to let me know they wanted my company! But nooo!

I nimbly jumped back in the van and smiled inanely to three of the ugliest, snarlingist canines I've ever had the displeasure to meet. They skidded to a stop, not caring whether I smiled or not. They took up their macho “I dare you to come out” stance. With the van window rolled up, my three friends realized they weren't going to have Speck for breakfast, so they stopped barking and started sniffing the van's rims. Probably smelling my cat, they each took turns hoisting a leg, washing off the desert dust.

Since getting photos was out of the question, I started the engine, flipped on the air-conditioning, and crossed the road, heading southeast on the Gold Crown Mine Road with my ugly, snarling canine escort. Putting the pedal to the metal, the Devil Dogs disappeared in a plume of white dust.

The first 3.7 miles are easily traveled in a passenger vehicle with reasonable road clearance, but a truck or 4X4 would be better. At that point the road swings slightly east, and a small pullout is on the left. Park there, and a couple hundred yards up the wash are the remains of the Virginia Dale Mine. All that is left are five large rusted cyanide vats, three battered tanks, a ball mill drum, concrete foundations, rock retaining walls and scattered rubble. All lie scattered across the sides of a steep-walled draw that flows from the black rocks of the sunburned hill.

The Virginia Dale Mine dates to the early 1900s and was home for 50-60 people. The gold was rich, but it played out.

Don't go beyond this point unless you have a properly equipped vehicle, and off-road driving skill. The road rapidly deteriorates, becoming a four-wheel drive trail until it slips through a small pass and descends down the east side. Here it is fairly smooth, but within a half mile, sand is encountered. Since it had rained recently, the sand had been compacted by a vehicle with wider tires than mine, and it was easy running for me. (A week later, I would not have considered the road drivable in my mini-van.)

At a point 1.8 miles from the Virginia Dale Mine, the road deteriorates into a pair of sandy wheel tracks as it makes an acute turn to the right. Just a half-mile down that road (which continues straight ahead), faint tracks lead to the east along the south face of the big black hill.

It took me about 15 minutes to traverse the 0.9 miles of rough rocky trail to the site of New Dale. Here in the early 1900s a town of 1000 supposedly squatted here. There is room, and different sources claim different things. If there was anything, it’s long gone. Absolutely nothing remains of the old town, except rusty cans, scattered broken glass and a couple square holes surrounded by scrub-covered rock piles that look like they may have been cabins. After metal detecting for all of 30 minutes and finding nothing but junk, I packed up my trusty old White's Coinmaster 5000, popped off a couple pictures of the site, and hoisted myself aboard the Ghost Town Express.

I returned to the state highway and the site of Old Dale. Not spotting my flea-bitten friends. I quickly drove across the street, grabbed my camera and swung the van around. I opened my window and shot several pictures just as the Devil Dogs caught sight of me, and the canine tsunami headed towards me for round two.

To heck with them. I dropped the tranny into drive, punched the accelerator and gave my furry, four-legged friends a gravel shower!

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Three weeks earlier my family and I camped at Joshua Tree for our annual Spring Break camping trip. As always we explored a number of mining camps and old ranch sites, both remote and close to campgrounds and roads. Each year we search out different locations in the park, and over the years have found many sites unknown to most of the Park's casual visitors.

On that camping trip, it was at a remote site that my "24 exposure" roll of film slipped past 30 exposures. At number 36 I swallowed hard and opened the camera...NO FILM! Thankfully I had an extra roll in my pocket, so I loaded it.

Well, that really made my day. Of course by that time we were clear at the southeast end of the park, and all the sites I had previously shot were behind us.

Oh well. I knew I'd return a few weeks later.

So on this fine April afternoon with high cirrus clouds drifting over the sun, muting its brightness, but highlighting the brilliant colors, I returned to the Park to reshoot photos at the old Ryan Ranch site. Since the ranch is only a couple hundred yards from a campground, I figured I’d run in, shoot a roll of film and leave, all in a thirty-minute time frame. Then I could head home.

So here I was, alone, in a hurry, wearing tennis shoes, and not watching where I was walking. Actually all I was interested in was camera angles. I spotted a perfect spot to record a “Kodak Moment” on a flat rock, across a small wash. I jumped over the wash, landing on top of the rock. It faced the adobe-walled ruin of the old ranch house. The sun peeked through the clouds highlighting the weathered adobe brick. It was the "ultimate shot," so I pressed the button and quickly sidestepped to the right to get a slightly different angle. I felt a light thump and a stabbing pain on the inside of my right foot. I jumped and limped over to a large, round, sitable rock a dozen feet to the right. I slipped my shoe and sock off, figuring I'd kicked one of the area's plentiful small barrel cacti. When I got my sock off, there was a swollen spot like a big mosquito bite with a little hole in the center that oozed blood. Looks like a cactus prick. I shrugged my shoulders, put my shoe back on and tried to take more pictures. My foot started throbbing worse, and it began to burn like a bee or wasp sting does. After a few minutes of slow limpy walking it began to feel better, so I walked back to the car and drove home.

An hour and a half later I was home and I'd forgotten about it. After unloading the van, I had pizza and a cold beer. I told my wife Julie about the explorations, then I took off my shoes and socks. When the right shoe came off the shoe's pressure was released and pain raced through my foot. I looked at the wound, and realized right then and there, that it was not caused by kicking a cactus. My entire instep had become a huge, swollen, angry red and purple mess.

Four hours later, the emergency room doctor checked out my foot and told me it was a rattlesnake bite, but I "was lucky because it didn't inject any venom". Even so, my foot was swollen and badly bruised.

I missed three days of work, and my foot hurt to walk on for about two weeks, but all is OK now. I'm glad it only “one-fanged” me, and that it was a whimpy one at that!

If it would only have rattled!

Needless to say, everybody at work now calls me Rattlesnake Gary.

Rattlesnake bites can be very serious. For all my life I've always been careful when in the field, but this time I was in a hurry, not paying attention, yet was VERY LUCKY!

Please be careful when you are in the field. WATCH WHERE YOU WALK!

This was our GHOST TOWN OF THE MONTH for April 1999.

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FIRST POSTED: Apr 01, 1999

LAST UPDATED: Mar 06, 2007

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