Looking for Yesterday in the Cerbats

GHOST TOWN

The boom long ago turned bust for the mining towns in the Cerbat Mountains, but one is still kicking

Text by William Hafford * Photographs by John Drew

I've always had an affinity for ghost towns, hoping to hear a whisper from the past as I strolled by the crumbling adobe walls and tilting roofs. Or a sigh as I discovered the half-buried remains of an old rusted implement. Maybe a sob as I stopped to read the faint epitaph on a moldering headstone.

But ghost towns by their very nature disappear quickly, subject as they are to the elements and man's insensitivity, both good reasons for my being on lonely U.S. Route 93 this spring morning.

I'm heading north from Kingman along the west side of the Cerbat Mountains, returning to this range for the first time in many years to once more listen for whispers in lonely canyons.

These are not impressively high mountains, only 6,900 feet at the crest of Mount Tipton, but they are rugged with wrinkled ridges, precipitous canyons, and boulder-choked gullies. Dry, too. Most of the vegetation in the foothills is knee-high sage and patches of sunburnt grass; at higher elevations, juniper and pine. On the uppermost ridges, ponderosas struggle to survive in the rocky soil.

At one time, the Cerbats comprised one of the most active mining regions in the Southwest. Shanties, tents, and mine shafts were all over the mountains. In the 1870s, permanent mining camps with schools, stores, and saloons appeared. Eventually, places like Chloride, Cerbat, Stockton Hill, and Mineral Park qualified as full-fledged communities. The mines, themselves, had colorful names: Golcon-da, Redemption, Old Commanche, Samoa, Morning Star, Nighthawk. Many of them were good producers. No records of mine production were kept prior to the turn of the century, but it is believed that the Cerbats yielded more than $40 million in gold, silver, and other metals before the veins played out. When this occurred, after the first decade of the 20th century, the towns began to die, until only a few persistent souls were left, clinging tenaciously to the (PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 4 AND 5) The beadframe of an old mine still stands at Cerbat, recalling the heyday of the once bustling mining camp.

(LEFT) Remnants of an adobe structure cling to a hillside near Mineral Park.

(ABOVE) Among the memorabilia stashed in the Chloride Historical Society building are three-dimensional plaster masks made about 1969 by a man remembered now only by his first name, Fred. The place is kept locked, but visitors can usually find someone nearby to let them inside.

dream. The ghosts moved in, and Nature began erasing most of what remained.

The last time I saw the Cerbats I was a seventh-grader in Kingman in the early 1940s. Except for boulders, brush, and tough uphill walking, my recollection of the area is vague at best.

But about nine miles north of Kingman, and shortly after I leave the highway and take dirt tracks into the mountains, I get a comfortable feeling that I'm entering familiar territory.

I bounce on toward the foothills and make my way into the maw of Cerbat Canyon. The road is narrow, winding, and continuously uphill. Then, rounding a hairpin turn, I see what remains of the town of Cerbat.

Canyon. The road is narrow, winding, and continuously uphill. Then, rounding a hairpin turn, I see what remains of the town of Cerbat.

On the side of the hill are the twisted hulk of a mill and a sprawling mine dump below it. There is no sign of the post office that closed in 1909. Here and there are a few rock walls and foundations, the rusted tin roof of a house that collapsed long ago.

Up canyon at a fork, an eroded set of tracks angles upward in an easterly direction. If I'm reading my map correctly, this is one of the roads to the town of Stockton Hill at the crest of the Cerbats. I'm not entirely sure of the route because the canyons are laced with the dim remains of early mine roads. In the 1870s, more than 50 mines operated in this vicinity. The town once boasted stores, saloons, and a restaurant, vegetable gardens, and fruit orchards.

After the first decade of the 20th century, the towns began to die, until only a few persistent souls were left, clinging tenaciously to the dream. The ghosts moved in, and Nature began erasing most of what remained.

After about a quarter of a mile, it makes no difference whether I'm on the right road. Heavy boulders have fallen across the ruts. The road is narrow and drops off steeply to the canyon below. There is no place to turn around. Slowly, I back down to the fork. So much for Stockton Hill. It is eight miles farther north to Mineral Park. A long white streak of tailings dumps extends out of a deep canyon.

Farther back in the Cerbat range is what's left of Ithaca Peak. The top half was long ago cut away by copper mining operations. The area, also rich in turquoise, was mined by Native Americans long before. Hundreds of ancient stone hammers and grinding stones have been found hereabouts.

Mineral Park is the only place in the Cerbats where a substantial mining operation is under way. At the site of the old Duval installation, the Cyprus Mineral Park Corporation produces copper through an extensive leaching operation. But the huge mill at Mineral Park stands idle, and most of the offices in the administration building are empty. Less than two dozen people are employed at the mine nowadays. Long ago, when Mineral Park was the county seat and had its own newspaper, the mine had more than 400 workers.

* Ghost Towns * Gho

Across the creek, where a few crumbling structures still cling to the mountainside, the Palace Hotel once advertised “large well-furnished rooms and clean beds.” E.W. Fehr had a shoemaking shop where he crafted custom-made footwear. Watkins Brothers maintained a frontier supermarket with everything from groceries Across the creek, where a few crumbling structures still cling to the mountainside, the Palace Hotel once advertised “large well-furnished rooms and clean beds.” E.W. Fehr had a shoemaking shop where he crafted custom-made footwear. Watkins Brothers maintained a frontier supermarket with everything from groceries and patent medicines to tobacco products and assayer's supplies. There also were a bathhouse and a Chinese laundry. Only a hint of those early stores remains in the canyon. Minerai Park's supervisor, Joe Matthews, escorts me to the old cemetery, located on mine property not routinely open to visitors. The cemetery is preserved behind a cyclone fence erected by the mining company. I walk slowly among the scattered graves, looking for one in particular. I find it and squat down in front of the headstone as I did on a summer day nearly 50 years ago. “Eva” is the name on the marker. She died in September, 1877, three months before her first birthday. When I saw that inscription as a kid, it disturbed me. Apparently my dad sensed my distress. “Times were tough back then,” he explained, “no hospitals, not much medicine.” Even today, I am moved by this frontier tragedy and young Eva's lonely burial site. After a few moments, we continue. “Erosion is cutting into the place,” Matthews tells me. I had taken note of gullies carved

ur station's been closed since 1939, but we're going to start restoring it next month. Turn it into a period restaurant. Gonna' put tracks in and run a minimine train for the guests. Buckboard rides, too. * Ghost Towns

Chloride's old houses. "Down the street from the saloon," Foss tells me. "Sided with dark-red tar paper. Lots of old rusty stuff in the yard. I might haul it away, but I might leave it there." I ask Foss what brought him to Chloride. "There's no time clocks here," he replies. Then, as if well-rehearsed, the other customers respond in unison, "Amen!" Gilmer takes me up canyon past the dumps and headframes of the abandoned Tennessee-Schuykill Mine. Once a big producer in the Cerbats, its shafts go down more than 1,600 feet. We are on our way to see Roy Purcel's rock murals. "People from all over stop here to see them," Gilmer says. In a deep gully we encounter the murals. Painted on the faces of a soaring jumble of massive boulders are a giant snake which twines itself through the rocks, a huge eagle talon emerging from clouds, an Egyptian princess holding her arms aloft. There also are revolving planets, mysterious symbols, a giant spider, and much more. "Pretty colorful," Gilmer comments. I agree. "Some folks think it's bizarre." I agree. "Kind of mystical." I agree. "But it makes you think." I'm not sure about what, but again I agree. Gilmer points across the gully. "Purcel lived in a cave in those rocks back in the '60s while he was painting the murals. He was a hippie back then, searching for his inner self." Back in town, we pass Aggie's Art Shack, Creative Chaos, and a number of other gift and antique shops. "We have our own melodrama group that puts on shows [two Saturdays each month] for the tourists," Gilmer informs me. "Big doin's, too, during Old Miner's Day [in June]. Parades, gunfights, country music, dances.

He stops his pickup at the old railroad station. "Been closed since 1939, but we're going to start restoring it next month. Turn it into a period restaurant." He points. "Gonna' put tracks in and run a minimine train for the guests. Buckboard rides, too." Later we visit a protected site where the bodies of two soldiers, killed in an Indian fight, are buried. The graves are nearly 130 years old.

* Ghost Towns

train for the guests. Buckboard rides, too." Later we visit a protected site where the bodies of two soldiers, killed in an Indian fight, are buried. The graves are nearly 130 years old.

Then we stop at the old jail: two iron-barred cells and an office small enough to make any sheriff surly. Up the road, we pass a yellow frame house. "New folks moved in there recently," he tells me. "Paid $12,000 for the place."

I'm not sure I heard him right. The roof looks like it could hold back the elements, and the place has a covered porch and pretty good paint. "Twelve thousand?" I query.

"Yep," says Gilmer, "and the payments are so low the bank wouldn't notice if they missed a couple."

Back at the Chuckwagon Cafe, Gilmer's wife, Shirley, serves me a slice of pie and a cup of coffee on the house. I say goodbye and head south through the sagebrush.

Did I find out what draws live bodies to the ghost town of Chloride? I think so. Dirt-cheap housing, no crime, a lot of sunshine, lingering quiet, laid-back neighbors. And no time clocks.

"Amen!" whispers a ghostly voice.

Travel Guides: For detailed information about the great variety of places to travel in Arizona, we recommend the guidebooks Travel Arizona and Travel Arizona: The Back Roads. Both will direct you to exciting destinations and out-of-the-way attractions. Our Arizona Road Atlas, featuring maps of 27 cities, mileage charts, and points of interest, also is very useful to travelers. To order, telephone toll-free 1 (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area, call 258-1000, William Hafford died last November. His unpublished stories will continue to appear in the magazine. Also in this issue are Bill's story about traveling the back roads of the Navajo Indian Reservation and a preview of his last book, Arizona Mileposts Travel Guide.

John Drew's fascination for ghost towns began years ago among the abandoned communities of the Sierra Nevadas.

WHEN YOU GO.

Getting there: From Phoenix, take U.S. Route 93 northwest to Interstate 40, then west on 1-40 to Kingman. In Kingman, pick up Route 93 again and proceed nine miles north to a large wooden historical marker and a dirt road to the right (east). This road leads into the Cerbat Mountains and to the ghost towns and old mine sites. Directional signs on the dirt roads are sufficient to guide you to Cerbat, Mineral Park, and Chloride. Old and often indistinct roads in the area are so numerous that trips to other areas in the mountain range are best done on a purely exploratory basis. Detailed plat maps are helpful but not entirely dependable. To go directly to Chloride, drive 18 miles north on U.S. 93 from the intersection of U.S. 93 and 1-40 to a signed paved road to the right (east). Chloride is four miles down this road.

1993 Where to stay: The city of Kingman on 1-40 has numerous motels, including most of the major chains. There is a small motel in Chloride, but it is generally filled with people renting on a weekly or monthly basis.

Chloride has a commercial RV park as well as free overnight RV parking at the old school grounds.

For more information: Call the Tennessee Saloon and Social Club in Chloride, (602) 565-2225. Or contact the Mohave County Historical Society, P.O. Box 390, Kingman, AZ 86402; telephone (602) 753-3195.