The Sad Parade

“Thy name is ominous to children.”

The setting for Cook Town was serene, that is... it was, before the mine works started up. Now, the enclosed canyon was stripped of  vegetation and wildlife. Round the clock  a noxious stream belched from the mill stack, to which was added the smoke and soot of countless cooking fires. 

The townsite was at the end of an enclosed canyon, on a rare flat spot. The entire area covering no more than one square mile. In the pre-dawn hours Roosters crowed, fires crackled and the sound of two hundred or so men rousing from their sleep drifted along the denuded canyon walls. Coughing, hacking and spitting, they slowly came to life. 

All the active mines were within walking distance. The men working the night shift would straggle in, as the day shift would head out. Their lanterns and lamps formed opposing trails of light as they worked their way to and from the Contention/American Group of mines, the busiest and most productive. 

Given the proximity of most dwellings to the mines, mills and the toxic poisons they produced. Cook Town was no place for children. The milling process produced large tailing dumps, all which gave off a fine sulfurous dust. The run-off had tainted the water table, the level of lead in the aquifer was dangerously high. Yet, town folk scooped it from the community wells, using the water to boil coffee, cook and most ominously to prepare baby bottles. 

In 1896 about eight years after Cook Town had been established, a concerned group of residents had approached J.H. Pennybacker, one of the mine managers for The Contention/American Group with their concerns. The infant mortality rate was astronomical. Every week more men, women and children fell ill.  Pennybacker, a steadfast man, listened to their voices and promised to deliver the message to the board members.

At the next scheduled board meeting, true to his word Pennybacker raised the issue of conditions at Cook Town. J.A. Mahoney, "The Old Man" President of the Board, responded "Cook Town is not a company town, and we are under no obligation legal or otherwise to address these concerns." Pennybacker started to speak, but The Old Man loudly cut him off  "God Damn it!, this is not a concern of the board" Mahoney rose to his feet "This is not a matter of business for Contention, American or any other group represented at this table." His stare burned into Pennybacker "Report to me only that business that concerns us as businessmen" The Old Man was emphatic "You're done with this, Joseph, I'll not hear of this again!"

The dressing down left Pennybacker flushed with anger. Upon his return to Cook Town, he informed the residents that they would never put him in that position again.  In 1906 as production petered out and the mining companies started to divest their Cooke Canyon holdings, J.H. Pennybacker was unceremoniously sacked. He packed up his belonging and arranged an automobile ride to the train stop at Nutt. When they got to the Cooke Cemetery, Pennybacker asked the driver to stop. Standing in the shadow of Cooke's Peak, he produced a pistol from his coat pocket and took his own life. Thus, adding his name to the roster of Cook Town suicides. 

The Fabricated Narrative of a Cook Town Survivor

The summer of 1899 was hot, the heat within the canyon was stifling, breezes were rare and heavy with the choking devil's mist spewed from the mill. Children were falling ill, "Summer Malady" the visiting doctor from Deming called it. Two young brothers ages 12 and 10 fell victim to it.  The men weren't immune, tempers flared, blood boiled and often simple disagreements would end in bouts of brutal violence. That summer there were two murders, one a miner and the the other a teamster. A pair of  suicides followed, one a well liked widow who would wash and cook for the miners. Something was terribly wrong within our community, a dark sinister force was stalking us.

Once a month, Father would load a wagon with goods and we would travel the winding road through Montezuma Canyon to the mining camp of Jose. The Mexican miners lived there, they weren't allowed to live in Cook Town. Jose drew its water from a different source, the people living there seemed happy and alive, the little kids ran around chasing hoops and lizards.  On the way back, Father read my thoughts "It's the water" he said, "Huh" I was caught off guard, "It's the water and the air, that's killing everyone" I nodded my head in agreement, although I didn't understand "This is not a place meant for life anymore, I need to get you and your brother out of here." I had never heard Father talk about leaving Cook Town before.  

"He was our source of light, our lives revolved around him"

Brother was four years old now, and he always had a twinkle in his blue eyes, his giggles would fill the air like so many soap bubbles. He was a happy boy, who would hook his thumbs on his bib overalls, mimicking the miners.  Mother doted over him with great pride, the tired and weary men of the camp who frequented our modest store would light up at sight of him. He was a fine lad and he was with us for such a short time. 

It just after New Year in 1900, when I saw the first sign of Brother's impending fate. We had trotted down the road to the corral. Brother liked the animals, on the way back he was listless,  without a sound he put both his arms out for me to carry him. The look on Mother's face when I carried him home was one I would never forget. She tucked him into bed, the next morning he awoke, Mother tried to feed him, but he was too fussy. I comforted him, looking into his eyes.. the twinkle was gone, it was as if his life force was being extinguished. I knew then that I would never see him grow to be a man. 

A doctor was called for, but we received word that it would be  days before he could make the journey. It was the scourge of mining camps: influenza, an 8 year old girl had succumbed the day after William fell ill. A pall of gloom and sadness settled in, a group of miners milled around the store holding a vigil. Brother held on for four days, fevered and gasping for oxygen. Mother and I sat by his bedside as he took his last breath, and I swear to you, as I swear to God, we saw his soul ascend to heaven.

Word spread fast, a group of miners in a horse drawn wagon came by the store, they offered to dig the grave. The Cooke Cemetery was located two miles away on a flat spot parallel to Hadley Draw. It was unforgiving soil, with every swing of the pick striking rock. My father and I went out to take the men food and drinks that afternoon "It'll be ready come morning" one miner informed him. By now we were beyond sorrow, the finality of Brother's demise had settled in. One at a time the beautiful things in our lives were being taken from us. The songbirds, butterflies, wild flowers and children, all harvested by the relentless machinery of greed fueled by the desire for gold and silver. 

Brother was dressed and laid into his casket, which was carried out and placed in a small wagon drawn by a single horse. The procession started out, as we passed through the camp more mourners fell in step. Watching the proceedings from the Desdemona Mine, a manager remarked, "Well! we won't get any work done today" The sad parade of people continued to grow in number, stretching out along the canyon road for almost a mile. No one spoke, the only sound was the shuffling of feet and the creaking wheels of a few odd wagons.

 At the gravesite, a disheveled miner named Cappy came forth with a eulogy, an act he had performed three times for the children of Cook Town. "The memory of this child is the only treasure that endures" he started, the large gathering pulled in closer "Tomorrow will fall again, but he whom we carry to the grave will never more return" Cappy bowed his head  "On and on... down the long road, we move away from you dear child, though one day we shall join you, reunited in heaven" Cappy rubbed his hands across the top of the coffin "William Joseph you are now in the hands of our father, peace be with you... Amen"

As we started back to camp, I made a vow. No matter how short and insignificant his life may have been, he would never be forgotten. I would carry his memory in my heart, I would pass on his name to my children and their children. For his sake and for the sake of those buried and forgotten in that forsaken canyon. 

Mother and Father clung on to Cook Town long after the mines played out and everyone else had moved on. A sister was born, she survived to adulthood as did I. Slowly the mining infrastructure was dismantled and trucked away. The canyon started to heal itself, though the ugly industrial scars would always remain. The songbirds returned and wild flowers and butterflies once again filled the meadow. It's said by some that on occasion you'll find my Brother chasing after them.

Footnotes

*The Grovers were merchants at Cook Town, besides Wm. Joseph they had two daughters. 

*The 1930 census of Luna County, shows them still living there, which by then had fewer than a dozen residents. 

**The young boy's family never did forget him. His is the only grave at The Cooke Cemetery that has a headstone and flowers.

** Shamefully the cemetery has been desecrated, cattle have free range there and have trampled the area, though the outlined graves are clearly visible to those who know the place.

** Cappy's eulogy is taken in part from Chinese Poems: Seventeen Old Poems 

*** The Canyon, which extends for well over 20 miles, north to south, is called Cooke Canyon, the prominent granite monolith that overlooks the park is Cooke's Peak. 

*** It was while referring only to the townsite that the spelling of Cook or Cook's was used.

Bland, N.M.

Gold and silver were discovered in Bland Canyon and nearby Collie Canyon in 1890. The boom town of Bland, located in the Jemez Mountains west of Santa Fe sprung up that same year. Bland was described by The Rocky Mountain News as the "new Cripple Creek" which no doubt enticed any number of miners to pull up stakes and rush to New Mexico.  The fledgling community was called Eagle Township or Eagle City, it wasn't until 1894 when the post office was established that it officially became known as Bland.

It's generally accepted that the town was named after U.S. Sen. Richard Bland of Missouri, who was an advocate against the demonetization of silver coinage. Although, a family of saloon keepers named Bland, who were among the town's earliest residents, may have influenced the choice. The town grew along a narrow stretch of Bland Canyon that was only 60' wide in most places. The tight quarters put building space at a premium, and led to a haphazard layout of homes and businesses.  In a few cases the walls of the canyon were blasted out to make more room for living space. Which led to the quintessential Bland story, of the homeowner who without enough backyard for an outhouse, was forced to build one in front of his home. Some houses were perched on the slopes, giving them a unique vantage point.

Bland was a boom town, the Cochiti Mining District was very productive and miners flooded in looking for work.  The population swelled to over 3,000 residents, combined with nearby Albemarle (3 miles west in Collie Canyon)  this made for a concentration of folks not commonly seen in the Jemez. During those early days, the lack of facilities forced many a jobseeker to sleep on the sidewalk or anywhere he could find a spot not already claimed. The town had a dozen saloons, two banks, a school, an opera house, a hotel, churches, a newspaper (The Herald) and an assortment of stores.  A woman known as "Diamond Queen" ran the town's red light district, which served a steady flow of customers. Both Bland and Albemarle had electricity, with the lines running all the way from Madrid, 30 miles east. The generator was powered by coal from the Hagan Mine, located at Una de Gato Arroyo and served a number of communties in the area.

By 1894 there was an ore mill that ran round the clock and four sawmills in full operation. The industrialization was starting to take its toll on the wilderness area, travelers making the stage coach journey from Santa Fe to Bland were often shocked to see a number of dead birds, coyotes, racoons and other animals along the stream that ran parallel with the road. This was the result of toxic waste run-off (cyanide, chlorine, mercury) from the mills. The milling process had ill effects on the miners as well, the mill at Albemarle gave off noxious fumes that could be smelled a mile away. The millworkers suffered from ulcerous sores on their skin and lung lesions, so many workers fell ill that it became known as the "Albemarle Mankiller"

The outcry that arose over the eviromental mismanagement at Bland and Albemarle, led to the creation of The Santa Fe National Forest shortly after production tailed off. The U.S. government stepped in to claim all unicorporated land around Bland and Ablemarle, leaving only the building rights in private hands. This in spite of the fact that there were still several active mine patents in the Cochiti District. With so many miners crowded in together you would think that Bland was a violent place. That however was not the case, Bland was lively and at times rough, but quite benign. Although, Albemarle did gain a reputation as the place to go to let off steam.

As was the case all over New Mexico, by 1904 production had begun to weaken. By 1906 most production had ceased with miners and merchants moving on to more lucrative surroundings. The town's bread and butter, the silver and gold mines were played out. A few civic minded types held on, in an attempt to keep the community alive. A good indicator of Bland's continued occupation after the mines closed, is that the post office stayed open until 1935.  Many abandoned towns in New Mexico quickly fell prey to opportunistic homebuilders from nearby settlements. Folks looking for cheap or free building materials and vandals dismantled a good portion of this state's history. But, that's where Bland's location saved it from such a fate, the rough road up the canyon kept many would be scavengers at bay. Plus the town was never totally deserted, through the years just enough people lived there, to safeguard a good part of Bland's infrastructure. 

With active mine patents still on the books, several people held on to their property in Bland, just in case there was another boom period. As the years passed by, those deeds were consolidated, leading up to Effie Jenks becoming the sole owner after her husband's death. By the time Effie Jenks arrived in Santa Fe, Bland's heyday was just a distant memory. Effie was the head Harvey Girl at the historic La Fonda on the Santa Fe Plaza. She had married Thomas Jenks, a mining engineer who had plans to revive gold mining at Bland. It was to this end that they purchased the entire townsite of Bland and several mining claims in 1938.

Sadly Thomas Jenks passed away before his dreams could be realized. Effie hired a caretaker to look after the property and continued to live and work in Santa Fe.  In the mid-1960's, Effie retired from La Fonda and moved to Bland. Effie who was a bit eccentric (to say the least) declared herself "The Mayor of Bland." She would hold court  at The Exchange Hotel on the those rare occasions when visitors would venture out from Santa Fe. She wrote and published a weekly newsletter for the inhabitants of the canyon (birds and animals) which she would read aloud under a shade tree, stopping to admonish jays, squirrels or bunnies for not paying attention.

A trio of high school kids from Los Alamos once trespassed onto her property and were promptly marched to The Exchange Hotel by her shotgun wielding caretaker. The juveniles explained that they were researching a story on Bland for the school newspaper. Effie then handed each paper and pencils and proceeded to dictate the history of Bland to them.  A similar story involved two young men who climbed over the gate at the entrance road and were met by Effie's caretaker pointing a shotgun at them. After some fast talking to convince him that they were just curious, he led them to his cabin and lectured them on the history of Bland for a couple of hours. Effie was apparently gone from the property at the time, thus sparing them from having to take notes. 

Effie died in 1983 having lived out her life in the town she owned and loved. Before her death she sold seven acres to Helen Blount (this included most of the town's remaining buildings, the Exchange Hotel, the Doctor's House, the Tavern and the Shadow House) Helen had grown up in Bland, her family having moved there in 1931. The Blount's were self sufficient and Helen enjoyed an idyllic childhood in Bland Canyon. As a young adult, Helen moved to Albuquerque but often returned to Bland to drop in on Effie Jenks.  When Effie was no longer able to care for herself, Helen moved back to Bland and cared for her during her final years. That Bland survived as long as it did is due to the efforts of Helen Blount. After her death in 2005, Helen was buried at the Bland cemetery and ownership of the town was passed down to her daughter Alley Helmer. 

Ghost Town Lamentations

For almost 122 years Bland, N. M. withstood the test of time and man. Situated as it was along  the bottom of a narrow stretch of Bland Canyon, its isolation spared it from the destructive effects that commonly plague ghost towns (vandals, looters, hunters) The town's true saving grace was that since the 1940's, it was privately owned and behind a locked gate.

Bland has always been at the top of my list of New Mexico ghost towns I needed to visit. That will never happen, the huge Las Conchas fire that roared through the Jemez Wilderness, reduced the remnants of that former boom town to a pile of ashes. The Holy Grail of New Mexico's abandoned places (though it was never totally abandoned) is no more, gone with the wind and smoke.

Whenever a major fire would break out in the Jemez, I would think of Bland and although other burns had come close, none had caused any damage to the dozen or so structures that remained. Now, everything including the historic Exchange Hotel has vanished along with their long historical legacy. Only a solitary chicken coop and a couple of picnic tables survived the inferno.

I was once obsessed with Bland, the fact that it was on private property didn't deter me. The more I read about the town and its unique location the more determined I became.  In the spring of 1996, following a trip to the Dixon apple orchard, I took the road into Bland Canyon. Upon reaching the locked gate, I scribbled a quick note with my phone number, requesting permission to enter, I never received a response. *(In all fairness  it was a long distance call, back when those could be expensive)

A few weeks passed, I returned to Bland Canyon, this time I parked near the locked gate and decided to hike along the peripheral. Having heard stories of trespassers being met by a large Native American man armed with a shotgun, I took care to stay out of sight. I poked around, but never found a suitable spot that would afford me a view of the townsite. As my search continued, I found a few prospect pits, some rusted tin cans, but nothing of any significance. 

I sensed that I was close to the dwellings, at one point I  saw smoke curling up into the sky and smelled burning cedar. I also heard dogs barking, and they barked louder as I got closer to the canyon bottom. Knowing that the dogs would alert the caretakers to my presence, I hiked back to my truck. I left a note with my phone number and once again received no response. 

The following month, I went back, this time I took a different route and after some strenuous hiking and climbing I was rewarded with my first glimpse of The Exchange Hotel, or at least the roof. I worked my way towards a higher vantage point and took several photos with a cheap disposable camera. I could make out two vehicles parked in front of one building, but I didn't hear any dogs this time. As I started back to my vehicle, I had to fight off a strong urge to move in even closer.

It would be almost a year before I was back in the area, this time I was determined to find Bland's neighboring mining camp, Albemarle.  The notorious road leading to Bland's neighbor was rough even with four-wheel drive. Reluctant to horsewhip my Toyota pick-up, I hiked in from about two miles out. The remnants of Albemarle did not disappoint as I found several mine portals, a couple of dugout cabins, a scattering of timbers, trash piles and an old wooden trestle bridge. 

On the return trip I stopped at the Bland gate, then on the spur of the moment, I hiked back to my lookout post.  The place was quiet, there were no signs of life, no vehicles, no smoke, no dogs. I sat there debating whether I should go down and look around. However, I couldn't bring myself to do it... bad enough that I was trespassing. For several minutes I allowed the image of Bland to load onto my memory bank, then I shouldered my pack and left.

                                           Bland

I've been to many a ghost town, but I've yet to see a ghost.

That's not to say they don't dwell in those threadbare abodes

or that I doubt their existence. The shadowy apparitions

do linger about... at times announcing their presence 

by causing a tingling sensation ...a static electrical charge, 

this is often followed by a harvest of goosebumps, 

fleeting thoughts of panic and a reassuring sigh of relief.

Most abandoned places have an aura, an invisible emanation

of supernatural energy, that seems to arise and surround me

as I break through the continuum of solitude and silence

that became the norm with the departure of commerce.

How drastic the transformation, once a beehive of activity,  

alive with the action of drilling, blasting, ripping and sawing 

now bird calls and foot steps echo off the canyon walls.

May they rest in peace the ghostly legions of Bland, 

for they've patiently waited for this day to arrive,

now with their earthly home no longer anchoring them down

they're free to move about the ethereal regions unbound.

Do Not Forsake Us!

"Courage is a quality God has seen fit to dispense with utmost care. The men of Bataan were His chosen favorites."
Major General Edward P. King, Jr., USA, Commanding General, Luzon Forces, 1942

"Brothers and Compadres"

The roots of the New Mexico National Guard go back to the militias assembled by early colonists in the 1600's to fend off Indian attacks. After New Mexico came under U.S. occupation, those militias served the same purpose. During the Civil War, New Mexico's homegrown soldiers joined up with Union troops from California and Colorado to fight invading Confederates. 

After  World War I, the New Mexico National Guard consisted of The 111th Cavalry Unit, one of the few that still used horses. It appealed to young outdoors men who wanted to ride horseback, shoot weapons and soldier like their forefathers had.

The troops trained yearly at Camp Luna in Northern New Mexico, the only time that the entire regiment would gather. They used horse-drawn wagons, while learning combat tactics and firing their artillery pieces.  Their equipment was a motley collection of World War I hand-me downs and regular Army castoffs.

The men of the 111th Cavalry were a microcosm of New Mexican society, Anglos, Hispanics and Native Americans alike. They came from varied economic and educational backgrounds, some felt obligated to serve, while others were simply trying to make ends meet during the great depression.

"That Mexican outfit."

By 1940, America was starting to mobilize. Changes came fast for The New Mexico National Guard, The 111th Cavalry was designated as the 200th Coast Artillery (Anti-Aircraft). The horses and wagons were replaced by  trucks, generators, 3-inch guns, spotlights, 37-millimeter guns and radio equipment.

The 200th Coast Artillery's regimental headquarters was in Deming, Headquarters Battery was also based in Deming, other batteries came from Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Gallup, Clovis, Carlsbad, Silver City and Taos. The regimental band was based in Albuquerque, as was the medical detachment. They shipped out  to Ft. Bliss, Tx. late that summer to begin training for a war that was yet undeclared. 

On January 6th. 1941, the 200th. were federalized and integrated into the regular Army. The unit's racial make-up didn't go without notice, "that Mexican outfit" as they were called, rated above average with Army brass. Considered the top ranked anti-aircraft unit in the Army, they were selected for deployment overseas.

In the late summer of 1941 The 200th sailed from San Francisco to Honolulu. There they learned that their destination would be the Philippines, some 8,000 miles away from their homes in New Mexico. Most were slated for a six month tour of duty, but for the survivors it would five years before they returned home.

 "An easy post for a soldier"

The 200th was stationed at Fort Stotsenberg, north of Manila, there they served as anti-aircraft defense for Clark Field and its fleet of bombers and fighter planes. To their chagrin, they were forced to do so with the same outdated and now busted-up equipment that they had trained on back in the states. The men set out with grim determination to repair or replace what they could.
The  200th Coast Artillery's stay in the Philippines had been idyllic. Days were spent training and fixing their antiquated guns and equipment. The work day would usually end after their lunch break. The rest of the day was filled with athletic events, siestas or evening trips into Manila to savor the nightlife.
On Dec. 8th, 1941 (Dec. 7th. across the International Dateline) The Japanese launched attacks, first on Pearl Harbor and then on the Philippines. The soldiers braced themselves knowing that the American garrison was a trip wire, a speed bump set in place, not to fend off the attack, but to slow it down. 

"First in spite of hell"

Since the first reports of the attack on Pearl Harbor, American fighter planes had been flying  holding patterns above Clark Field. The plan was for U.S. bombers escorted by fighters to launch an attack on Japanese forces at Formosa. The fighters running low on fuel, landed for refueling, it was an ill timed move.

Jim Lujan was the first to hear the airplanes coming, like the other Native American's serving in the 200th Coast, he had the knack for picking up the sounds of the engines from a distance. As he scanned the horizon he quickly realized that those were not American planes that he heard. Within minutes air raid sirens sounded, a nervous rush of activity quickly followed, the men of the 200th Coast Artillery, manned their guns and looked to the sky. The New Mexico National Guard, activated into federal service nearly one year prior, found itself at the doorstep of hell.

"First to Fire"

Japanese aircraft swooped in dropping bombs and raining bullets, for the first time the men of the 200th fired their guns with live rounds. The American fighter planes were caught on the ground along with the Bomber squadron, all were decimated. At the end of the first day of battle, the 200th had downed five enemy planes, however two New Mexico soldiers lost theirs lives that day.

That night as Japanese attacks continued, the men of the 200th were split up, creating the 515th Coast Artillery, which was rapidly deployed to Manilla where intense Japanese air attacks were taking place. Born in combat, the 515th would be forged in fire.

For almost a month, the 200th defended Clark Field, on Jan. 1st. 1942 a retreat  to the more defensible Bataan Peninsula was ordered. Bringing their big guns along, they became infantry soldiers. The 200th was assigned to secure the bridges at Calumpit, once the retreat was complete they blew the bridges and took up defensive positions. The 515th, also found itself on the move, retreating from Manilla, towards Corregidor where they would be part of the force that came under siege after Gen. King's surrender.

"All For Country"

By April of 1942, American forces were in dire straits. They had held back the Japanese, but with many suffering from malaria and surviving on half rations or less with almost no medical care, they were at the end of their rope. Slowly they were being funneled south, they would soon have their backs against the ocean.  As casualties mounted, the men of the 200th and 515th found themselves thrown in with other units in the desperate fight for survival.

On April 9, 1942, the Luzon forces, under the command of Gen. Edward King  surrendered to the Japanese. These men, who numbered in the tens of thousands were herded by the Japanese to a central collection point at Balanga, from there they were marched 31 miles to San Fernando, where they were packed onto rail cars and shipped to Capas. Their final destination would be Camp O'Donnell, an abandoned American post that would serve as their prison.

Some of the first Americans captured were transported by trucks to San Fernando, but as the number of prisoners grew, the Japanese who were running low on fuel, resorted to a forced march.The Japanese command had calculated that it would take three day to cover the 70 miles on foot. Under orders to maintain this schedule Japanese officers drove the malnourished and dehydrated men relentlessly through the heat. That set the stage for an onslaught of inexcusable brutality by the Japanese.

"The Death March"

The Bataan Death March was not one long continuous march, it was a series of marches. The Japanese would gather men at Balanga and start them down the road in groups of a thousand or so. It would take over a week to move all the men from Balanga to Camp O'Donnell.  Some of the men in 200th & 515th were not subjected to the Death March. At least 100 arrived at Camp O'Donnell by truck. Some were held at Bilibid Prison in  Manila, others were assigned to details in other parts of the Philippines, some even escaped to join up with guerrilla groups in the mountains. 107 made their way to Corregidor, after Wainwright's surrender they were force marched through Manila, loaded on boxcars and shipped to Cabanatuan prison camp.

The Japanese had the option of being humane to their captives, but they chose not to do so. Their excuse that a soldier who surrenders is less than human, did not wash. Their officers and soldiers were the bi-product of a brutal society that placed little value on human life, their own or that of others. Even with the passage of time, Americans...New Mexicans must never forget this.

During the march, the men were beaten, they were denied water even when marching alongside flowing streams. Instead, they were made to drink out of maggot infested puddles, the penalty for stopping to fill a canteen was death. The fatigued and starving men had to keep moving, those who fell were bayoneted or run over by trucks. They were forbidden to talk or even look at their captors. Japanese officers rode through the men on horseback practicing with their samurai swords, killing a number of soldiers. Clean-up crews of Japanese soldiers followed behind the march, clubbing, stabbing or shooting any stragglers.

At San Fernando they were loaded into sweltering boxcars, packed like sardines. The men who succumbed  while in the cars, died on their feet.  Once the prisoners arrived at Camp O'Donnell, conditions weren't much improved, there was little food, water and no medicine to speak of.  Men were dying at the rate of 30-50 per day, thousands would eventually die at O'Donnell and Cabanatuan.

"The Measure of a Man"

They said Miguel "Moppy" Chaires was crazy, but to his fellow soldiers, especially those of the 200th Headquarters Battery, he was crazy as a fox. He was a little odd, but no one thought him insane, least of all the U.S. Army. Did some internal coping mechanism kick in that allowed him to survive his captivity or did he feint his condition?  The Japanese seemed to regard mental illness as being contagious, so when Moppy started running around on all fours barking at the top of his lungs, they gave him wide berth. At Cabanatuan, the guards took little interest in his comings and goings, he was no different than a dog.  Moppy took advantage of this oversight to wander out  of the camp and scavenge for food and medicine. Through his efforts several men who might otherwise be dead, lived to see their loved ones again.  Miguel Chaires survived the war and captivity, returning to his home in Deming. He was welcomed as a hero, Moppy never had to buy another drink again, it was the worse thing that could've happened to him. It wasn't long before he was wandering the streets of Deming in a drunken stupor. As the years went by, Demingites forgot about the incredible risks he had taken for his fellow soldiers. His brothers in arms of the 200th & 515th never forgot and when he passed away in 1975, he was laid to rest with full honors. 

 As the war wound down, it became apparent that the Americans would re-take the Phillippines. The Japanese started shipping the pows off to Japan or Manchuria aboard ships. These vessels were no better than the boxcars the men had been packed into at San Fernando. Many died during the journey, while others died when the unmarked ships were sunk by American bombs. The survivors were forced to work in mines and factories while suffering every form of depravity imagined.

Thousands of the men who survived combat, the death march, imprisonment, torture, the death ships and slave labor died within a year of returning to the states after the war. The prolonged hardships had compromised their health beyond repair. Most other survivors, although they would suffer from lifelong ailments related to their captivity, went on to live long and productive lives.  

"We are the battling bastards of Bataan,
No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam;
No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces;
No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces;
And nobody gives a damn."

"They were the first to fire and the last to lay down their arms and only reluctantly doing so after being given a direct order."  
(Lt. Gen. Jonathan M. Wainwright, commander of the North Luzon Corps, praising the 200th and 515th Coast Artillery units.)

The Rage of Dust Devils

As another dust storm rages and the spring winds pick up, I'm reminded of the question that so many people from out of state ask me "Why do you live here?" I always reply  "Misery loves company" not that I'm a big fan of the dust and wind, but I have learned to more or less accept it as a fact of life.  "Why isn't your pool open yet?" they ask, "Well, because the wind blows around here, this time of year" I tell them, outdoor pools are a bad idea in New Mexico. The fact that we're in the grip of a sustained drought hasn't helped things any. Whenever the winds pick up, the tumbleweeds get to moving, it really is a losing battle, but I finally figured out that they can't roll if you smash them up. It seems like I've spent most of my life either in the midst of a dust storm or fighting to keep something from flying away (hats, papers, money etc.) I recall playing in a junior high basketball game while an especially persistent dust storm raged on. The dust filtered through any and every opening as it floated onto the court in layers. A dusty fog filled the gym, the game was stopped every few minutes, in order to sweep the floor with push brooms and wet towels. Breathing became harder as the physical exertion combined with the intake of fine silica left everyone hacking and spitting.  Back then we had a sticky substance that you could spray on your hands or shoes for better grip, those of us who sprayed it on our shoes soon found ourselves sliding across the tile floor like ice skaters.  At least we were at home, our opponents had to brave the weather  back to Lordsburg.  

A couple of years ago, the entire town of Deming, froze in it's tracks as a huge pinkish brown wall  of sand swept in from the west and deposited a good portion of Arizona across the landscape. People who had never seen such a sight, were actually in fear for their lives. I had seen it before, but it was still awe inspiring and you really need to experience it at least once. My parents caught the tail end of the dust bowl era when they first arrived in Southern New Mexico, my mom would tell us stories of pink snow and dust storms that would last for days on end. It's a wind swept and sun bleached landscape for sure, but I wouldn't live anywhere else. Here I can sit on a hilltop and watch one dancing dervish after another grow to full size, wreak their havoc and then dissipate. In some strange and surreal way you feel totally connected with nature when you actually see the birth of a dust devil and feel the sting of the elements. I think our state motto "It grows as it goes" describes the plume of dust that our pick-up trucks kick up along our many dirt roads and it does suit us well.  However, our state mantra seems to be "It's gonna blow again today" said in that hoarse drawl, that those of us down here know and love so well.  Ah Hell! just give me my zero visibility and a long stretch of country road, so I can wind my truck up to 70mph and sail off into the sunset.  I won't wax poetic, the land speaks for itself, welcome to New Mexico, we've been around longer than anybody else.

Descansos

("Introduction/Dios da y Dios quita", from "Descansos: An Interrupted Journey", by Rudolfo Anaya)"

I remember very well the impact of the car on the people of the llano and the villages of my river valley.

I remember because I had a glimpse of the old way, the way of my grandfather,

and as a child I saw the entry of the automobile."

"Time has transformed the way we die, but time cannot transform the shadow of death." Rudolfo Anaya

A large early 70's sedan barrels down a two lane road, the passengers are all teenage boys, the driver is under the influence of horsepower and drugs, seduced by this new found power, he opens up the big V-8. Death rises from slumber upon hearing the roar of the engine, it's time to attend to matters at hand. The driver, his reflexes dulled by marijuana and alcohol and for reasons known only to him and God, suddenly swerves off the path. The heavy machine hits the raised bed of a rail spur, it goes airborne for maybe 3 seconds, before it slams head-on into the trunk of a large cottonwood tree. The fourteen year old front seat passenger is flung headfirst into the windshield, his neck is broken and he dies instantly. Death, ever so ruthless and efficient has taken another soul, in a matter of days a cross will go up to mark the place where the young man paid his toll.  

 New Mexico has a long legacy of such tales and its roadsides are dotted by crosses and memorials. Although, the tradition dates back to the days of the first Spanish colonists, with the coming of the automotive age it took on a new meaning.  New Mexico author Rudolfo Anaya explains: "One word describes the change for me: violence. The cuentos of the people became filled with tales of car wrecks, someone burned by gasoline while cleaning a carburetor, someone crippled for life in an accident. The crosses along the country roads increased. Violent death had come with the new age. Yes, there was utility, the ease of transportation, but at a price. Pause and look at the cross on the side of the road, dear traveler, and remember the price we pay".  ("Introduction/Dios da y Dios quita", from "Descansos: An Interrupted Journey", by Rudolfo Anaya)

The word descanso comes from the Spanish word meaning "rest."  The tradition of descansos in New Mexico has been traced back to the early 1700's. Originally they were meant to mark the places where pallbearers stopped to rest as they carried a casket to the nearest cemetery. The memorials range from simple wooden crosses to elaborate wrought-iron creations set in concrete. Often, handwritten notes, stones, toys, rosaries and photographs of the victims are placed beside them.  Over the years, the modern practice of descansos has evolved into memorials that mark the spot of a person's last moments of life. Besides fatal car accidents, similar memorials have sprung up to honor the victims of shootings, industrial accidents or drownings. The highway memorials, apart from their personal significance, serve as a warning to other road users of the dangers of driving. For years the Arizona State Highway Patrol would post white crosses to mark the site of fatal car accidents, a practice that has since been taken up by the public. The practice of "ghost bikes" is a newer variation of the practice, bicycles are painted white and left at the site where someone was killed in an accident involving a bicycle.  Roadside memorials have become a worldwide phenomena, in Australia it is estimated that one in five road deaths is marked by a memorial.

 The memorials are not without controversy, some people see them as an intrusion on their personal beliefs. The 10th. U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that "A reasonable observer would conclude that the state of Utah and the Utah Highway Patrol were endorsing Christianity by allowing and maintaining cross memorials."  In New Mexico the descansos are recognized as rooted in folk traditions and therefore generally outside of the control or jurisdiction of state or local authorities. Nonetheless, in 2007 the Legislature of New Mexico passed and former Gov. Richardson signed a law making it illegal to desecrate descansos. Though state highway crews are not required to preserve the memorials, by custom, road workers work around them during construction projects. New Mexico DOT spokesperson Phil Gallegos said they do it as a courtesy "We find them on the front end of the project and know what we are going to do with them," Gallegos said. "I've seen it on project notes specifically telling a contractor you will protect these." "Crews have to maneuver around these memorials often because they are so common in New Mexico", he added. Those who feel the need to memorialize their loved ones near the roadways where they died will continue to do so, regardless of legislation and other attempts at control.

"We say that the hour of death is uncertain, but when we say this we think of that hour as situated in an obscure and distant future. It does not occur to us that it can have any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon."
Marcel Proust, In Search Of Lost Time

Name Change and New Home

Argonauts and 40 Niners had its origins on Blogger, before I happened upon Webs.Com and signed up for that service.  It has been almost one year since I started Argonauts and 40 Niners.  After weighing the option of renewing my account with Webs.Com, I have chosen instead to return to Blogger.  To say that Webs.Com has been disappointing would be an understatement, they've come up short in many aspects...lack of traffic, poor customer service, limited formatting features.. just to name a few. I thank the readers who stumbled upon my blog and signed up as members or left comments. I hope you follow me over to Blogger, I will continue to document the history of abandoned mines and other places of interest in Luna County, New Mexico, U.S.A.  It's a part of the American West with a long legacy of historic events and sites. I'm in the process of copying and transferring my articles and pictures from Web.Com to Blogger.  Luna Explorer is the new name of my blog and it should be up and running on Blogger by the end of March.  I'm currently preparing a  feature story about New Mexico's Descansos, the roadside memorials found alongside the state's roads and highways. In addition to the other projects I have in the works; Fluorite Ridge, Old Hadley, Cooke's Canyon (Ft. Cumming, Massacre Peak, Starvation Draw) The Cook Mining District (Cooks Town) and of course my never ending efforts to document the many mines in The Florida Mountain Mining District. Thank You all for your support.  Ernest D. Aguirre

Lobo Draw-Atir Mine Redux

I returned the following Sunday, with a goal of 1. finding my phone and 2. finding the Atir mine.  As I drove into the Floridas I was greeted by a chorus of rifle fire from scattered hunters, most seemingly too close to the road for comfort.  As I drove away from this haphazard gathering of outdoors men, I had to ask, why after taking the first shot and missing, would you immediately follow with 7-8 more shots in rapid succession?  Any game that was in the vicinity, was making tracks, for safety's sake, as did I.  Driving towards  Lobo Draw with gunfire echoing off the hills, I had to fight the urge to cringe or duck down the entire way. At English Well I found a group of hunters had set up camp,  after driving past them, I put the truck in reverse and went back to their camp.  Having seen the trigger happy yahoos down below, I thought it would be wise to let these gentlemen know that I was in the vicinity.  The group was from Albuquerque, quail hunters, which would explain the birds I had seen blown to bits alongside the road.  I gingerly walked up to their camp, and introduced myself "Good Morning, I'll be hiking along the draw towards the box canyon" they were neither friendly nor unfriendly, slightly bothered, as I expected them to be, that I had walked up on their camp.  I talked to one gentleman, who asked about a white feature on the mountainside, he asked "Is that a camping trailer up there?"  I had asked myself the same question earlier in the week, while peering at it with binoculars. "I don't know" I told him  "But I'll be up there later this morning to find out"  he then asked me "What are you hunting?" to which I answered "My Cell phone" which got a laugh from the group, one man then added "Good luck with that one."  I then continued on to the trail, I re-traced my steps, knowing the phone wasn't in the finger draw. When I got to the clearing I did a quick sweep of that area, nothing, I then started up the slope towards  a large tailing dump, nothing, I found the game trail I had followed up the slope, as I went along, something caught my eye, and just like that, there it was, my phone still in its black case, no worse for wear.

 From my vantage point, I realized that just below me was the trail that follows the draw from English Well, I worked my way down and found it was actually an abandoned road.   Conveniently, this path led to  the white object  that had intrigued us earlier, as I approached, I saw that it wasn't a travel trailer, it looked like a small dwelling.  Just below me, the draw had grown to a canyon dropping off steeply.  Then as I came around the last turn, A massive head-frame and timber hoist came into view, the white building was actually a concrete holding tank, painted white, below it, hanging precariously was a long abandoned privy.  The site was quite build-up with  a ranch house (parts of which were still under roof) work shops, foundations and a large scattering of debris. The mine works were layed out on a fairly level spot near the head of the draw, to the west the rock cliffs rise towards the sky, to the north the draw drops down a couple hundred feet.  The tin metal buildings stepped up the slope from the ranch house, judging from the infrastructure you would expect a large mine opening with an extensive network of shafts or tunnels.  However all I found was one modest opening that was back-filled. The task of hauling the large timbers up the mountain was monumental, all that work and expense for so few results, it didn't add up.  I found conflicting information regarding the name of the mine, the longitude and latitude coordinates, identify it as The Lobo mine, however The Anniversary mine has very similar coordinates.   Information scrawled on the ranch house walls dates the mine's start-up at 1943. Below a long list of names, someone wrote: Target mine Anniversary. I'm not sure if this refers to the name of the mine or if these people gathered here to mark some sort of anniversary.  Debris and materials found at the sight would indicate that work took place up until the mid- 1970's. The years of production, recorded for both the Lobo & Anniversary mines are very similar, while I've found no mention of a Target mine. With sunlight fading, I started back down the trail, I had not found the Atir mine, I had found my phone and I had solved the mystery on the mountainside.

The Florida Mountains are rugged, too often people underestimate just how rough the terrain is and find themselves in trouble. The range doesn't give up it's secrets easily, it can test the vigor and skills of anyone.   In 2010, two search and rescue missions were necessary to pull injured or stranded hikers out of the Spring Canyon area. Hiking in the Floridas should be accompanied by a healthy amount of respect and apprehension. There are days that we just don't have it, on my third trip into Lobo Draw, I didn't have it, my legs felt heavy as I started up the trail. I pushed on telling myself that it would be Ok as long as I didn't burn energy  needlessly.  When I got to the head of the trail, I had the option of working my way slowly along the ridge of a nearby hill or plowing straight ahead. I made the wrong choice and quickly found myself funneled into a draw, where I had to fight through a tangle of brush.  After a thirty minute struggle to reach a nearby crest, I realized it was a dead end.  Returning to the trail, I decided that if I can't climb over, I'll climb around the mountain.  I worked my way south, finally reaching another crest, that was also a dead end.  While retracing my steps, I stepped on some loose dirt and went down, landing on my seat. The mountain was winning,  I sat there for awhile, allowing the futility of my efforts to sink in.  They had dug a 775ft. long adit into the mountain, they got up there somehow, yet I could not find a road or path leading to the elevated slopes above me.  After a lunch break, I worked my way across two draws and up another hill, from there I could search for Ibex along the high slopes.  I did not spot the elusive mountain goats, but something did catch my eyes.  High on the mountain, I saw two tailing dumps, they were about 100 yards apart, the small one being the Atir Mine and the large one The Waddell Prospect.  I had finally spotted the mines, however my heart sank as I realized how hard the climb would be.  Both mines sit at about 6200 ft., climbing up on a smooth slope, it would be possible. In the Floridas nothing is that easy, as ravines, brush and cactus impede your progress.  I sat there with my binoculars trained on the mountain side when it dawned on me, I can't get up there.  I don't know how they got the equipment to the two mines, maybe they flew the larger pieces in by helicopter.  Did the miners camp at the site, did they commute, if they did, where is the damn road?  As the most isolated and hard to reach place in Luna County, Atir could just as well be Kashmir.

 

 

Lobo Draw- Atir Mine

When I started to document  the history and locale of Luna County's many abandoned mines,  I put  three sites at the top of my wish list 1. Cooks, which I finally found and was able to do some preliminary poking around  2. The Mahoney Mines in the Floridas, these mines sit on the eastern slope of the Florida Mountains just below the ridge at 6600 ft. in elevation.  I made one attempt at reaching them, last spring and I'm preparing for another try this winter.  3.  Waddel Prospect/Atir  mine, located right in the midst of Ibex country on the eastern side of the range.  The Atir mine was first prospected in  1910, this resulted in a 90' adit  that produced minimal results.  The prospect of a big pay off, kept luring miners back to Atir over the years, however no production or tonnage extracted from the mine was ever recorded.  In 1980, The Barite Corporation of America bought the holdings and using modern equipment drove a 775' long adit to intersect the elusive vein, but did not find enough ore to produce. This project known as The Waddell Prospect did discover a vein that consists primarily of barite and fluorite, the ore proved to be low grade and did not warrant further prospecting.  Over the years the mine became known as a white elephant, which only added to its legend, making it the best known prospect mine in the Florida Mining District.

Lobo Draw, is in the heart of the Florida Mountains.  The Tres Lomitas are to the Southeast, the San-Tex Mines are just south of those three hills.  It is beautiful country, wild and rough.  The draws are thick with brush and boulders, the slopes are covered in wild grass, there is an abundance of cactus and yuccas. There is wildlife all around and  although isolated, on my first two visits it was crawling with hunters.  The trail into the mountain starts at English Well, here a windmill, scattered debris and stock tanks remind us of the area's ranching heritage. At first glance, Lobo Draw looks innocuous, but it tends to get rougher, especially as you start to gain in elevation.  One thing I've learned is to stay out of the draws whenever possible. In the draws you either get bushwhacked or find yourself  climbing up and down boulders without gaining much ground,  the going is easier along the top.  While the trail starts at the windmill, you can also drive  appox. 1/2 mile to the end of the road where there's another trail.  This trail follows a draw up the slope to a clearing, there I found the remnants of a particularly large mine, it's most prominent feature is a number of support rods driven into the rock, held in place by metal plates and bolts. The mines are back-filled and the site has returned to a natural state with the exception of two large tailing dumps.  I would've fooled myself into thinking this was the Atir Mine, as I found part of a pipe clamp that was of recent vintage.  However, I knew getting to Atir was not going to be as easy as following a trail to its portals.   

It was then that I had a rare encounter, as I sat on top of a debris pile, examining bore holes, I sensed that I wasn't alone.  Upon standing, I saw an ibex ram standing on the ridge just above the mine opening, appox 50 yards away. It was a fully grown adult, its massive horns curling back, probably 36-40" long, with a full dark beard.  Throughout the day I had been serenaded by rifle fire coming from the northeast, the billy it seems had been driven south by the presence of the hunters and right onto my path.  The ram stopped, looked at me without spooking and then slowly ambled up the ridge, stopping again to look my way.  I quickly reached for my camera, only to realize that I had left it in my pack, back on the trail, opportunity lost!  I stood there looking at him, then not knowing what else to do, I whistled, he stopped, reared his head back and slowly continued over the ridge and out of my sight.  These animals are elusive, you seldom spot them with binoculars, much less, within eyesight.  The Ibex, is a species of wild goat was brought to New Mexico from Iran in 1970,  originally 42 Persian ibex were released in the Florida range.  One of two exotic game animals transplanted to New Mexico (Oryx or gemsbock were released at the White Sands Missile Range in the late 1960's) The ibex have flourished in the Florida Mountains, The BLM and the Dept. of Game & Fish manage the population, with 400 animals designated as the maximum number the range can sustain.  Annual hunts are held to keep the ibex population in check, with hunters selected by lottery. The Ibex have filled an ecological niche in the Florida wilderness ,  feeding on mountain mahogany, oak, grasses and forbs.  In Lobo draw they seem to favor the prickly pear and cholla cactus, as evidence of their feeding on both can be found everywhere on the trails and ravines.

I left the clearing and traversed the slope in a southeastern direction until I came to a finger draw, I followed the draw down (failing to heed my own advice) and promptly found myself fighting my way through a tangle of brush.  I worked my way back to the trail and hiked back to my truck, where to my dismay, I discovered my cell phone missing.  I had covered about 3 miles total during my hike and the thought of re-tracing my steps this late in the day was not something I wanted to do.  I started this blog less than a year ago, but I've been hiking into the mountains around New Mexico much longer than that.  I have found cellphones to be very comforting, a lifeline to the world, when I'm out there by myself, knowing that there are no other people nearby (there may not be anyone around for days, weeks or months)  The cellphone helps ease my mind, if I get hurt, I'll at least have a chance of calling for help (if there's a signal and  I remembered to re-charge the battery)  So, I've grown fond of my cell phone, it's a vital part of my pack, I won't hike without one.  So now I faced the task of finding my phone, which normally I would tuck into my back pack, but on this day, out of haste and laziness, I had clipped it on my belt, a bad decision as it turned out.  Reasoning that the phone had fallen off while making my way through the finger draw, I started from there,  when I got back to the tailing pile where I had seen the ibex ram, I called off my search.  With my pack and water back at the truck and no means of communication, I decided to return home.