Finding The Long Lost Moab Burro in Cisco, Utah 2020
In May 2013, I discovered a strange beast resting on a railroad siding at Seven Mile, near the intersection of U.S. Highway 191 and Utah State Route 313. The location was just a few miles north of the infamous Moab Pile, the adjacent Colorado River and the City of Moab itself. The beast was a dusky yellow in color and had an enormously long snout. Since the Moab Giants Dinosaur Park did not yet exist, I knew that the beast could not be from there or the Jurassic Period.
.jpg "The highly radioactive Moab Pile in May 2011 - Click for larger image (https://jamesmcgillis.com)")
Later, I discovered that the beast was not a cold-blooded animal, but a genetically engineered hybrid. In the 1950s, whoever or whatever created the beast had crossed the DNA of a burro and a crane. With its proximity to the highly radioactive Moab Pile, I suspected that radio-nuclides might have enhanced the new animal with enormous strength and power.
After some extensive research, I discovered that the beast now featured a diesel engine and a lattice-boom crane, which could include a powerful electromagnet. Its creators had branded the beast on its stern with the words, “Burro Crane.” This version of the beast was a Model 40, originally created by the Cullen Friestedt Company near Chicago, Illinois. Enthralled by the nature of the beast, I knew that I needed more information.
By 2015, the Moab Burro, as I had dubbed it, had disappeared from its former location on the siding at Seven Mile. Over the following five years, I worked incessantly toward a PhD in Burro Crane Studies at the University of Google. My doctoral thesis hypothesized that Burro Cranes had obtained the ability to shape-shift from large to small and to dematerialize and rematerialize in different locations. Although the Google elite had accepted my concepts as entirely possible, they suggested that I obtain physical evidence before conferring the honor of a PhD on me.
In the year 2020, I embarked on a research expedition to Moab, Utah.There, I was hoping to find the erstwhile and long-lost Moab Burro. If I could find the 
Moab Burro Crane, I could prove my thesis and obtain my long sought after Google PhD. When I pulled into Seven Mile, the siding was still there, but the Moab Burro was, once again, nowhere in sight. Having brought Coney, the Traffic Cone and Plush Kokopelli with me for our long-awaited reunion with the Moab Burro, you can imagine how disappointed each of us were.
With nothing to see at Seven Mile, we decided to return toward Moab on Highway 191. Having heard that various republicans had repeatedly shut down Arches National Park, just for spite, Coney, Kokopelli and I decided to turn in at the Arches National Park entrance and see for ourselves. Once again, uncaring politicians had closed the park for no good reason. When we stopped for a 
photo opportunity, a group of tourists showed up right behind us. With the speed of a flash mob, Kokopelli led them into some Monkey Wrench action, all in the best spirit of Edward Abbey. Before we knew it the tourists had opened Arches National Park... for the people.
Almost immediately, we found ourselves coughing through a nuclear dust cloud emanating from the remnants of the Moab Pile. As the dust cleared, we crossed the river on the “new” Colorado River Bridge. Once we were across the bridge, we turned left at the remnants of Old Lion’s Club Park. The original park stood on the spot where the 1855 Elk Mountain Mission first camped on the Moab-side of what was then called the Grand River. Stately cottonwood trees that may have shaded the Mormon missionaries at their first 
campground disappeared on March 31, 2015. Instead, uncaring souls who gave not a hoot for history or the park had transformed the quaint old park into an overheated series of concrete paths and bunker-shaped buildings. So much for progress, I thought.
Continuing our journey up the Colorado Riverway, I soon came to another historical location, which had signs reading “William Grandstaff Trailhead.” To an uninitiated visitor in 2020, the name was colorless, and not descriptive in any way. For those who know their Moab history, the place had once been known as “Negro Bill Trailhead” for many decades. William Granstaff, AKA Negro Bill was one of the early pioneers at Moab. Bill ran cattle in the box canyon that later bore his name. On September 27, 2016, the all-knowing BLM Moab Field Office “pulled a fast one”. In the grand tradition of destroying old Lion’s Club Park, the BLM made a 
stealthy move. Overnight, and without warning, the BLM changed out the historical “Negro Bill Trailhead” signage and all the road signs referencing the site. Goodbye Negro Bill. Hello William Grandstaff.
By that time, Coney, Plush Kokopelli and I were all feeling uneasy. If the authorities in and around Moab could hide, disguise, or make history disappear so easily, how might we ever find the missing Moab Burro? Although Coney has uttered a few words, Plush Kokopelli has never said a word in all his 2,000 years of existence. Respecting that tradition, we drove silently, with Cisco, Utah as our destination.
Along the way, we spotted the remains of the old Dewey Bridge, once the longest continuous single span between St. Louis and San Francisco. Although replaced with a newer concrete bridge over the river, the historic Dewey Bridge stood proud for over a century, until it was destroyed by fire in April 2008. That happened during a classic case of a child playing with matches nearby. His “science project” got away from him and rapidly burned the wooden bridge-deck of the old suspension bridge. Once a treasure on the National Register of Historic Places, passing by we could see the support cables dangling in the sky, with no bridge-deck to support.
After traversing that long and winding road known as Highway 128, we transitioned to The Old Cisco Highway and into Cisco, itself. We were not prepared for what had happened in town since our last visit in 2008. In those 
days, Cisco was a ghost town, without a single operating business and only a few aging cottages showing signs of life. Derelict mining and drilling equipment, some dating back to the uranium boom days of the 1950s lay abandoned all around the place. The shell of a long-abandoned aluminum house trailer still shone in the desert sun.
And then we saw it. There before us was the Moab Burro, with the number B-47 painted on its fading yellow sides. In shock, we saw that the Moab Burro was chained to an unused railroad siding near the old highway. Immediately, we jumped out of my truck and ran for a visit with our old friend, the Moab Burro. From its former resting place on the Potash Branch at Seven Mile to its 2020 home was a rail journey of about forty miles. How long had the Moab 
Burro been at the old Cisco siding, we wondered? How long would it be in Cisco until it rode the rails to a new destination or transported itself through other dimensions to wherever it pleased?
Now, in August 2024, having achieved my Google PhD in Burro Crane studies, I am planning another visit to Moab and Cisco, Utah in October 2024. Recently, I used the powers of Google maps to look at that railroad siding in Cisco. According to the most rent aerial mapping of the area, the Moab Burro is gone. Only its tender car remained on the siding where the Moab Burro lay in 2020. Stay tuned to find out if and where we might soon find the elusive Moab Burro.
To read the full story of the Moab Burro, click HERE.
By
James McGillis
at 05:15 PM |
| Link
A Time of Solace and Solitude in the Panamint Valley
In May of 2020, at the height of the pandemic, there were no vaccines in the immediate offing. Tired of sitting at home, I headed out with my RV to Panamint Springs Resort, which is a private enclave surrounded by Death Valley National Park. As seen in the adjacent photo, Death Valley National Park was closed to all visitors. Highway 190 was still open through the park, but even stopping along the way to take a picture could have netted you a $1,000 fine. No one understood how, when or where the virus could be transmitted, but the National Park Service was not taking any chances, one way or the other.
Since the resort is private and needed to stay in business, they were open for camping and cabin accommodations. Taking advantage of that and being completely self-contained, I booked a full hookup RV spot for several days. When I arrived, the clerk in the general store wore no mask. He indicated that they would be barbecuing ribs at the restaurant that night and that I should attend. "Not on your life," I thought to myself. Although I was largely confined to the resort property, I went on to enjoy the solitude and splendor of spending time in the Panamint Valley.
Three and one half years later, I was in the process of finishing up another trip to Death Valley and Panamint Springs. On December 10, 2023, there were high winds predicted for the southern Mojave Desert. With the stress of having recently spent time entertaining my friends in the desert, I was too tired to break camp and head home in 
a windstorm. Instead, I opted for a quiet day in camp at the Panamint Springs Resort. As I have often said, there usually are no crowds in Death Valley National Park between Thanksgiving and New Years. This year was no exception.
When I travel with my fifth wheel, I always bring provisions for several extra days. If I experience a breakdown or any other form of delay, my fridge and freezer always have enough food to get me by. In this case, my full RV hookup made it easy to extend my stay for one more day. Access to water, propane, electricity and sewer allowed for luxury camping in one of the most remote and previously inhospitable places in all of the United States.
On December 11, 2023 I broke camp and prepared to leave for home. On my return trip I was able to avoid the delays associated with road repair between Panamint Springs and Lone Pine. As it turned out, the Panamint Valley Road to Trona and Mojave beyond was fully open and free of construction delays. If I had known that on my way into Panamint Springs at the beginning of my journey, I could have saved hours of detours and delays. As it stood, my return trip home to Simi Valley took less than five hours. That reminded me of why I like to visit Panamint Springs every fall, winter, and spring. In less than a day, I can transport myself from the city to life in the nearby wilderness.
Panamint Valley may not be as famous as its sister, Death Valley, but it has trails to explore, sand dunes to climb, off-road tracks for four-wheeling and a sense of solitude that you will not find at Furnace Creek, Stovepipe Wells or Badwater. In the off-season, it is my favorite place for kicking back and 
enjoying life, just as it might have been almost one hundred years ago. For those who require instant and constant connectivity, either bring your Starlink satellite system or just enjoy being beyond the fringe of connection to the smartphone world. I do suggest bringing a Zoleo satellite communicator, but that device is for text messaging only.
Although I do everything I can to promote visiting the Panamint Valley during its extreme off season, I do not expect there to be big crowds in early December 2024, when once again, I shall seek solace in the Panamint Valley. If enough people read this blog and decide to visit, perhaps I will see one or two of you there at that time of year.
This is Part Seven of a Seven Part article. To return to Part One, click HERE.
By
James McGillis
at 12:25 PM |
Mojave Desert | Link
A Polestar 3 Electric Vehicle at Panamint Springs Resort - December 2023
On December 9, 2023, I walked from the RV Park to the Panamint Springs General Store to call home. The evening before, there had been a lot of commotion at the Panamint Springs Resort. The owner and his helping hand had repaired the RV sewer line, which connects the ten RV spaces to the leach field, farther downhill. Weeks earlier, at the beginning of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, it became clogged by Tamarisk tree roots.
.jpg "In December 2023, a film shoot was ongoing at the Panamint Springs Resort - Click for larger image (https://jamesmcgillis.com)")
Early that evening, a taco truck had pulled into the RV Park and plugged into one of the RV shore-power pedestals. The truck, with its crossed up wiring immediately shut down the electrical to that pedestal. Next the truck owner ran an extension cord to another pedestal and shut down the electricity to the entire RV portion of the resort. To complete the chaos, the resort owner was in his backhoe, dragging away the ancient derelict airplane from its spot near the fuel station.
What was a taco truck was doing in Panamint Springs? Why was the resort owner dragging an airplane away from the scene? After I reported the electrical issue, the exasperated owner drove to the taco truck scene and his helping hand roared up in a pickup truck. After admonishing the taco truck driver to unplug 
his ersatz rig from the pedestal, the power miraculously came back on at my coach. That was enough excitement for one evening, so I chalked it up to another strange happening in the desert.
In the morning, I limped over to the general store, nursing my injured left hip. There, while making my Wi-Fi call home I discovered a full Hollywood-style film shoot wrapping up after three days in the desert. Rumors, which were later confirmed by several people, indicated that it was a Swedish film crew associated with the car maker Volvo. So that it would not be in the photo shoot of an electric vehicle approaching the gas pumps, the owner of the Panamint Springs Resort had dragged the old airplane away and behind the general store.
Why an electric vehicle would need to approach gas pumps implies that there will be some form of irony in the TV commercial that results from this shoot. The current scene included the film crew, support trucks, a high-tech Pursuit Systems camera car, passenger cars and three California Highway Patrol vehicles. When I arrived on the scene, everyone in the crew was finishing their lunch. That, at least explained what a taco truck was doing in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
According to one low ranking crew member, many of the crew came here from Sweden. “We spent three days filming near Badwater in Death Valley and here in the Panamint Valley today. It was amazing to be escorted across the desert at dawn by Highway Patrol with lights flashing.” About then, the crew boss came up and broke up our conversation. Lunch was over and the crew 
member said the whole encampment would be gone in three hours.
As I watched, two California Highway Patrol vehicles, the camera car and a white Polestar 3 prototype, which was sporting Swedish license plates headed out on to Highway 190. They had planned for some “B-Roll” filming on their way back toward Los Angeles.
As of this writing, the Polestar 3 is open for orders, but is yet undelivered. U.S. prices on the Volvo-created vehicle range from $83,995 to over $100,000, if fully optioned. In February 2024, just two months after this expensive international junket from Sweden to Death Valley, Volvo announced that it was selling the majority of its stake in Polestar to its Chinese partner, Geely. Already Volvo's largest shareholder, Geely's takeover of Polestar is a complex international transfer of ownership, benefiting many of the respective companies legacy shareholders.
As the striking white vehicle pull soundlessly away, I wondered how the Polestar crew was able to keep such a high-performance electric vehicle charged up and ready to roll across three days of desert driving. Was it the “long range” version, or did it secretly sport an internal combustion engine in addition to an electric drive motor? With collapsing sales of pure EV power-trains, perhaps it was an unannounced hybrid or plugin hybrid electric vehicle. My guess is that we will never know. The Polestar 3, designed in Sweden, manufactured in Chengdu, China and then plying the desolate roads of Death Valley National Park certainly was an oddity.
Just after the Polestar 3 entourage hit the highway, about a dozen Harley Davidson motorcycles roared past the remaining CHP car and prepared to pump gas for their rides. The scene was one of controlled chaos, reminiscent of 
Marlin Brando leading an outlaw motorcycle gang in the takeover of a small town in the 1953 movie, The Wild One. Now, seventy years later, there was lots of noise and fury, but I saw no lawlessness or destruction.
By then, the Pursuit Camera vehicle and the Polestar 3 were well down the highway. That camera car can follow the live action of any vehicle within its viewfinder. If the subject vehicle passes the camera, the camera boom and lens will follow it and keep it within the frame. The camera system itself was like nothing I had ever seen. It was installed on a long, fully gimballed boom and was computer controlled from inside the Pursuit vehicle.
All of this strangeness reminded me of several early Twilight Zone television episodes filmed in or around Death Valley. The whole scene raised several questions in my mind. As mentioned before, how did they charge the battery pack on an electric vehicle in the middle of nowhere? Why would a Swedish crew 
spend so much money filming a commercial in the unforgiving Mojave Desert? Why would a Polestar 3 television commercial feature a lonely gas station in the desert? I can hardly wait to find out the answers to my questions, if I ever will.
True to the old Twilight Zone conceit, when I returned to the area three hours later there was no trace of the film crew or their temporary encampment. There is an old adage that goes, "If a tree fell in a forest and no one was there, did it make a sound?" Likewise, "If a Polestar 3 drove in the desert and no one saw it, was it really there?"
This is Part Six of a Seven Part article. To read Part Seven, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.
By
James McGillis
at 04:49 PM |
| Link
Four-Wheeling Thompson Canyon and Stony Canyon in Death Valley National Park
On December 8, 2023 at 10 AM, Don and Natala Goodman were at my door, ready for a four-wheeling adventure. We headed out on the Panamint Valley Road to Minietta Road. There, we took a left turn on an unsigned portion of the road that leads to the very heart of the Panamint Valley. Less than a mile from the highway, we paused and exited my vehicle. When there are no military planes flying over, the loudest sounds in 
Panamint Valley are the braying of a lonesome burro or the rustling of the breeze. Today, it was the silence and desolation that impressed the three of us.
Returning to the Panamint Valley Road, we crossed the highway and took Minietta Road west, up and over some hills. The road is rough and rocky, so the going was slow. Once we crested the hills, we could see Thompson Canyon ahead of us. The portion we could see featured a wide and deep alluvial fan. On a previous visit, I had traveled up Thompson Canyon Road towards Minnietta Mine, which is an abandoned miner’s cabin on a nearby hill. The mine’s name has two N’s, but the road name has only one N.
At the bottom of the first hill, we transitioned on to Nadeau Road, which was as 
rough as Minietta Road. The name Nadeau is rich within the history of Death Valley and the entire Mojave Desert. It was French-Canadian pioneer Remi Nadeau who first used mule teams to haul supplies, ore, and bullion to and from the Cerro Gordo silver mine and other mines nearby. Nadeau Road, or Nadeau Trail as it is also known, still exists as a 28-mile-long part of America’s national system of trails. Nadeau’s concept was to use twenty or more mules to haul heavily laden wooden wagons over inhospitable trails throughout the desert and adjacent mountain passes. His pioneering work continues its lineage in the laundry product known as Twenty Mule Team Borax and the historic radio and television show Death Valley Days.
As we entered Nadeau Road, Don Goodman, the airplane pilot pointed out a faded 
orange windsock by the side of the road. He had identified a wide spot in that road that served as a remote landing strip. With no airplanes in sight, we rocked on down the road. I had hoped to find a wreck of a car that I had found on a previous trip, but navigating in the desert can be tricky. One trail can look just like another. The wreck, which we did not find on this trip consisted of a sports car that had blown a tire in extravagant fashion, flipped over many times and came to rest as a flattened heap of rusty metal and rubber. Could it possibly been going so fast as to wreck right on that spot? With its total devastation, I assumed that it had crashed on Panamint Valley Road and been hauled here, to its final resting place.
Traveling on at a very slow pace, the trail consisted of stones, varying in size 
form pebbles to boulders. To the north, we observed rock abutments that once held a mining road leading out of our lost valley. With their size and fitment, they looked a bit like the stone abutments of Machu Pichu in Peru. The scene appeared long abandoned and the road which they once supported had washed away in several places. The fitment of the shaped boulders still intrigues me.
With the Nadeau Trail being so much easier to traverse, why would anyone take the time and effort to support a dirt road up a steep incline out of Stony Canyon, which was the place where we now found ourselves? After reviewing the area on Google Maps, the rock revetments are even more mysterious. The road that they once supported paralleled the track we were on, but reconnected to Minietta Road closer to our point of entry. Someone had spent a huge amount of time and effort to create a road that was much more difficult .jpg "Telescope Peak, as viewed from Minietta Road in Thompson Canyon, Death Valley National Park - Click for larger image (https://jamesmcgillis.com)")
to drive and maintain.
On we traveled into what one might call the valley of the shadow of death. The going was so rough that Don had to exit the cab of my truck and move sharp rocks from our path. Often leaning out the passenger side window, he would call out “Left” or “right” to miss the most severe obstacles. As we progressed, the rocky terrain became almost devoid of any soil. Boulders and rocks rounded by their journey from the upper canyons to the lower valley were everywhere. After traversing two small washouts, we came across a washout that was too deep to transit.
Stopping for a picnic lunch, we marveled at the mountain and desert scenery. Don walked up the road beyond the washout and discovered an earthwork with wooden cribbing. Apparently, it was designed to load ore into wagons for the 
transit away from the local mines. Looking back on the scene now, I wonder if it was one of Remi Nadeau’s original wagon-loading points. Later, after consulting a map, we discovered that we had stopped only five hard miles in from where we had departed the pavement of Panamint Valley Road.
A few people with shovels and the desire to move some rocks and sand could reopen that stretch of Nadeau Road, but we were not prepared to take on that task. Looking at maps from the comfort of my home office, I now realize that Nadeau Road connects back to Panamint Valley Road a few miles beyond the washout. It also connects further on to Highway 190 Near Panamint Springs. In fact, the portion of Highway 190 between Panamint Springs and Panamint Valley Road is also identified as Nadeau Trail. My hope is that some volunteers from local off-road clubs will caravan to that washout and reopen one of the truly historic roads within Death Valley National Park.
After returning to our base camp at Panamint Springs Resort, we rested and met again early in the evening. Don and Natala had offered to take me to dinner at the Panamint Springs Restaurant & Bar. In all my recent visits to Panamint Springs, either the pandemic or lack of someone to share a meal with had kept me away from the restaurant. How good could a roadhouse originally built in the 1930’s be as a place to dine? I was soon to find out.
As we settled into our table by a roaring fire, I perused the menu. Natala ordered the Cardiac Arrest Burger and Don had another selection. I ordered the half-rack of spare ribs, fries, and coleslaw, for $31.50. While waiting for our dinner, I explored the bar area. There, I discovered a massive redwood bar designed by renowned American architect Hugh Newell Jacobsen (1929-2021). 
It consisted of a single slab of California Coastal Redwood, which was over four inches thick and at least twenty feet long. The root structure from the same tree trunk became the support for the iconic bar. Jacobsen had owned property in the nearby mining town of Darwin, California. The bar arrived sometime in the early 1990’s, but the story became clouded by the passage of time and changes in the resort’s ownership. It is a work of art unlike anything else I have ever seen. If you pass through Panamint Springs, you must visit the restaurant and sit at that amazing bar.
Never judge a book by its cover and never misjudge a bar & grill in the middle of nowhere. The fries were sublime, and the ribs were a culinary perfection. According to the menu, the ribs pair well with a Pedroncelli Sonoma Petite Sarah. Next time I am at Panamint Springs, I will certainly order that pairing.
This is Part Five of a Seven Part article. To read Part Six, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.
By
James McGillis
at 04:55 PM |
Mojave Desert | Link
<< Later Stories ||
Earlier Stories >>
Later, I discovered that the beast was not a cold-blooded animal, but a genetically engineered hybrid. In the 1950s, whoever or whatever created the beast had crossed the DNA of a burro and a crane. With its proximity to the highly radioactive Moab Pile, I suspected that radio-nuclides might have enhanced the new animal with enormous strength and power.
photo opportunity, a group of tourists showed up right behind us. With the speed of a flash mob, Kokopelli led them into some Monkey Wrench action, all in the best spirit of Edward Abbey. Before we knew it the tourists had opened Arches National Park... for the people. 
Along the way, we spotted the remains of the old Dewey Bridge, once the longest continuous single span between St. Louis and San Francisco. Although replaced with a newer concrete bridge over the river, the historic Dewey Bridge stood proud for over a century, until it was destroyed by fire in April 2008. That happened during a classic case of a child playing with matches nearby. His “science project” got away from him and rapidly burned the wooden bridge-deck of the old suspension bridge. Once a treasure on the National Register of Historic Places, passing by we could see the support cables dangling in the sky, with no bridge-deck to support.
days, Cisco was a ghost town, without a single operating business and only a few aging cottages showing signs of life. Derelict mining and drilling equipment, some dating back to the uranium boom days of the 1950s lay abandoned all around the place. The shell of a long-abandoned aluminum house trailer still shone in the desert sun.
Burro been at the old Cisco siding, we wondered? How long would it be in Cisco until it rode the rails to a new destination or transported itself through other dimensions to wherever it pleased?
