Wild Panamint

WILD PANAMINT

long ago and far away was a town

by The Old Trailmaster

Far removed from today, a distant world still exists in eastern California with secrets to share – for those willing to listen. Remote and rugged, I spent five years exploring its beauty and mystery in my old 4×4 rig and on foot many years ago, but you can’t get there anymore … at least not in a vehicle. Only the most passionate hikers, enthusiasts of nature and history, will make the trek to again behold this most unique backdrop of the wild American west. Called the “toughest, rawest, most hard-boiled little hellhole that ever passed for a civilized town” by observers of the 1870’s mining boom of the Death Valley territory, Panamint was, by all accounts, a flash in the historical pan of inconceivable proportions! Almost overnight, it ensured its place in history, generating one bizarre tale after another, becoming a legend for modern day adventure-seekers to experience … daring us to try to learn the truth, for, as legends always go, there remain many tall tales.

Yet, with Panamint, fact has usually proven stranger than fiction.

The wild ride had its scanty commencement in the waning months of 1872, when snows began to blanket the isolated rocky slopes of the Panamint Range that borders the western side of Death Valley. High up in these steep forested mountains, accessed from the floor of the Panamint Valley via the canyon we now call Surprise, the magic started, as it often did in those times, with the discovery of a precious substance that men believed would make them rich beyond their wildest dreams. Here, it was silver. Elsewhere it would be gold, copper, lead, or borax. Whatever the mineral, the goal was always the same: find it, work it, exploit it, and then live the easy life ever after. That may have been the aim of the thousands who came to Panamint and other promised camps, but precious few even came close to that summit, let alone conquer it. In fact, many lost everything they had, or died trying.

Found at the uppermost reaches of Surprise Canyon is a peaceful wide valley, something that would not be anticipated after the many miles of steep narrow canyon and towering rock walls that lie below it. Far up the precipitous mountain slopes above the valley is where silver was first discovered. Within a year and a half after this unearthing, that unspoiled and tranquil basin had become, for the first time in its history, a magnet for rowdy iron-willed men who often cared for little more than what they could take from the area to further their own gains. The camp of Panamint was quickly growing, with lawlessness rampant, fatal shootings a common occurrence, and merchants the only ones really making any money. Yet the dream wouldn’t die. The frenzy fed upon itself. And while there remained enough of the delusion of riches to feed it, the ride was powerfully fearsome, yet undeniably alluring.

Two Nevada senators, named Stewart and Jones, were the prominent characters who signaled others that there must be massive fortunes to be made here, simply due to their eager financial involvement. They and their mining expert knew the limits of the ore lode however, and like other savvy promoters who recognized how to work the unsuspecting public, plied their trade well. Everyone was sure that Panamint was the next Comstock Lode. Despite contrary evidence, no one, of course, wanted to believe otherwise. And, like the majority of other hopeful camps and towns, the paper value of stocks far and away exceeded the actual worth of the mined land. The trick was to promote and trade the stock, and then sell out at just the right time, before inexperienced investors were any the wiser.

Perhaps the most enduring and widely known trademark of this four-year spectacle called Panamint was the method by which the silver was transported out of camp to market. Wells Fargo, that era’s premier security firm, had refused to transport the shipments, no matter the monetary compensation, because the tight canyon walls were open invitation for the many uncontrollable thieves to obtain their silver fortune the easy way … at gunpoint. The senators’ idea was to cast the silver into ingots of such weight that no thief could make an escape with one. The bandits watched helplessly as a few hundred thousand dollars worth of refined silver made its way down Surprise Canyon on wagons that didn’t even have a guard. Legend takes over from here though, regarding the size of each ingot. Popular lore claims gargantuan silver cannonballs that tipped the scales at 750 pounds. The truth may be closer to one cubed foot and three hundred pounds less.

And many folks still tell of a massive flash flood that roared down from the mountainsides in July 1876, washing the settlement into the canyon lock stock and barrel, thereby bringing to an end the town that was based on one spectacle after another. You’ll even read it today in some pamphlets and books. Some historians say otherwise however, but who listens to the researchers when the lore is so much more romantic? This place was so wild in so many respects, that the lines between fact and fiction willingly remain blurred. A ready suspension of disbelief keeps the legend going, and keeps our fascinations stirred.

After all, aren’t the legends part of what continue to draw us modern-day explorers to the area? Doesn’t what happened in the Death Valley territory, in times of yore, arouse our interests just a little bit? These wild stories acted as additional catalysts in my own growing passion for this region, and fueled my imagination as I carefully maneuvered my 1975 multi-purpose 4wd vehicle up Surprise Canyon for the first time to that huge chimney that was supposed to still be standing in that once-wild, but now again peaceful, high country valley.

One hundred years after Panamint had pretty much fulfilled its destiny as yet another dream gone awry, I picked up Roger Mitchell’s 1968 book, Death Valley Jeep Trails. In it, I read for the first time of this canyon, this town, this remote challenge that existed there for any bold backroad explorer who wished to risk passage of Surprise Canyon. I was twenty-five, already involved in a love affair with Death Valley from early childhood, and I certainly had to go see for myself this cauldron that brewed such astonishing legends. I explored the backroads of other local areas also, but none to the extent that I pursued Panamint. Over the course of five years, I made many trips to the lost legend, becoming well acquainted with the roads and scenery. My enthusiasm spilled over onto others of my acquaintance who also owned four wheel drive rigs and sought the challenge of the road not taken and the call of the wild. During my visits, I would guide a number of them up there with me, and to the person, everyone came away in awe, wanting to return again.

So return we did.

In the early eighties however, I moved to the high country of southwestern Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, knowing that someday I would return to visit Panamint City (the popular name). Although it remains to be enjoyed, I won’t be driving there anymore. A series of powerful floods washed down Surprise Canyon one year not long after I had left the state, removing the roadbed that a few straggling modern miners had been maintaining in the seventies with a Caterpillar. Since there wasn’t any profitable ore even for the diehards, the road was not repaired, leaving seven massive rock precipices, some much larger than a vehicle on end, that could only be ascended by four-wheelers who lived on the edge of sanity … only the use of a winch, with extreme potential for vehicular destruction and personal injury allowed anyone the hope of ever “driving” to Panamint again. It developed into the ultimate 4×4 challenge for daring males willing to risk life and limb. Of course, this didn’t help the image of backroad explorers any, and local folks concerned with environmental integrity successfully ended any further vehicular usage of the canyon. Access by motorcar is now unlawful, and most likely will remain so.

I was fortunate to have been able to use my backcountry exploration vehicle to explore the many miles of roads in that hidden world, for once the main road terminated at the former townsite, there were others that branched off even higher, with spectacular views of the Panamint Valley thousands of feet below. On the north side was the road that ended at, what we called, Mary’s Cabin. On more than one visit, I made this lonely outpost my overnight because few dared take the unnerving drive along the steep mountainside to get here. The solitude that saturated this extraordinary place, along with sunset vistas suited for postcards, etched it in my mind forever.

Just to the east of Panamint’s huge smelter chimney, and on the south mountainside, was another road that I’ll always remember. It switchbacked up to dizzying heights, and ultimately to the upper mines from the 1870s. The tramway supports still stood, largely unaffected by time or vandals, and on one particular mine tailing, a group of us made our camp one sunny and pleasant afternoon with landscape panoramas that would satisfy the most demanding backcountry connoisseur. On another occasion, in a December that would become known for it’s unusually abundant precipitation, my group of explorers and our four vehicles paused for reconnoitering at the smelter in the valley as we gazed upon the same road. This trip, the road had a visible white layer on it about 500 feet above us, and eventually disappeared into the blanket of clouds. Being younger and full of bravado, we wanted to travel the road once again to our previous camp, despite the snow.

It was determined that I would lead in my little rig because I was the only one with four traction control devices if they became necessary. My job was to blaze the trail, pack down the snow, and allow my less-prepared companions to follow on our journey to the farthest reaches of the remote Panamint Range. The first 500 feet was typical four wheel drive, steep, narrow, and just clinging onto the hillside. Then, the road entered a moderately wide valley that was still quite steep, but at least there was no danger of sliding off the side. It was at this point that the snow became deep enough that we decided to install added traction apparatus to the tires. I put the metal devices on all four tires, the vehicle behind me prepared two, and the trailing two rigs planned on just making it without traction aids in our tracks, primarily because they had nothing with which to cover their tires.

It was a wild ride. The snow began to fall again, my front bumper was now beginning to push snow, and the road’s steepness had us all reconsidering the wisdom of our decision to attempt this challenge. In low-range, and first gear, I finally got to the point that the effort necessary for my rig to plow the snow to maintain forward motion was not worth the cost, not only in terms of engine wear, but also in the potential to damage the roadbed if we broke through to the mud underneath. I could have hiked faster. We decided to call it a day, and began our tedious backing down the road to the last turnout area to get faced the right way.

That night, we camped in the valley where the wild town of Panamint existed a hundred years earlier. The next day, which was sunny, we walked the ruins of the old millsite and refining machinery, staring up in awe at the chimney that seemed to touch the clouds. We imagined ourselves on the main street of town, and what it must have been like during those exhilarating days of the fortune-seekers. We stood on the same ground that had given birth to a mining legend, a wild spot, both in nature and in human drama, and still wild even that day as we breathed in more history than our minds could ever comprehend. We were but the most recent of people who dared pit themselves against all that this land had to offer, and, as it turned out, we were to be among the last people ever to experience this place first-hand.

Wild Panamint’s fate was sealed not long after that trip. Panamint’s flash in the pan existence roughly equaled my existence in the area with regard to time. In more recent years, when I discovered to my chagrin that the road to my feral sanctuary was no longer drivable, a flood of emotions engulfed me. Could I no longer escape to this place, my mystical time machine back to the untamed days of yore? Was that last trip I made at thirty my final passage? After all, I had matured to a point where the history was even more important to me than it was then, and the beauties and mysteries of the land itself were even more valuable. I knew I had to somehow return.

There used to be a roadbed here.

The road’s destruction by nature was a sign that people weren’t meant to access the high hidden valley by wheel, whether it be a wagon’s wheel or an all-terrain tire. It was only usable as a road when men seeking a quick route to fortune took the time and intense effort necessary to build up the narrows for travel by vehicle. It has since been returning to a natural state, but those roads on the mountainside, the ones that took us up to the edge of forever, will remain for many more lifetimes until natural forces eventually reclaim dominance over the land. As for Surprise Canyon and the alluvium, feral forces will bring them back to pre-vehicular status much faster, as flood waters waste no time with their redesign process.

So, where am I left? Well, I already have determined that I will return to Wild Panamint, at least once more … I stand firm in that resolution. I know the two remaining foot routes. The natural closure, followed by the environmental court closure, have only served, in my mind at least, to further deepen the mystery and illusion of this once grand stage of life. Even back when I was younger and visiting every year, few, if any, people did I ever see up there. Death Valley and environs still alarm the masses far too much to do anything more than learn the legends in a book . And only passionate lovers of nature and history would even consider the attempt anyway, with that elite group further narrowed to those who either had a four wheel drive rig or could hike conditions thought unwise by most.

Now, that only the most athletic distance hikers have been chosen as the ones who will ever know Panamint personally and enjoy this little-known corner of the natural world, the indomitable individuals who do make it all the way to that “most hard-boiled little hellhole” will truly know that they are the privileged who will live the legend yet again, standing there on Main Street, beholding the remaining structures, and wondering, as the wind comes up the canyon, if they really did hear the creaking cadence of wooden wheels, the rapid tapping of the mill stamps, and the laughter of men about to strike it rich.