THE M A G A Z I N E - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

Qy OME time ago—a matter of a
j hundred and fifty years or so—
there tramped wearily through the
sand dunes of what is now the Colorado
Desert a gentleman bent on covering himself
with dust and glory. That he nobly
succeeded in both purposes is forever to
his credit, but not to the interest of this
particular story. The adventurer was the
illustrious Captain Juan Bautista de Anza
in the service of Charles of Spain, and he
was on his way to Monterey, on the coast
of California.
Juan has no legitimate place in this
tale; we mention him merely because he
was the first white man to appear in even
the remote vicinity of Palm Springs.
Whether or not he actually honored the
desert oasis with his presence is a matter
over which historians disagree. The
log records the fact that he found the Indians
of the district not particularly
chummy. This in itself is significant.
Even then those simple souls were aware
of their particular place in the scheme of
Destiny, and they just couldn't be
bothered with a lot of colored beads and
second-rate hardware.
In the ponderous course of events Don
Juan has passed on to a well-earned reward
and a place in history's stuffy obscurity,
but the little palm-fringed waterhole
on the desert has shown the world
it held a much livelier fate in store. De
Anza had neither the time nor the inclination
to tarry, due to the pressing nature
of his business, but the palefaces to
come were under no such compulsion.
They moved in, bag and baggage, like a
flock of long-lost relatives. To their surprise,
they found they liked the place,
and a few of the farthest-sighted decided
that in all probability others would like
PALM SPRINGS
aa5i5
By JAMES L. CARLING
Art Sketches by Bee Nicoll
it. With this thought in mind they appropriated
all land visible to the naked
eye, and the boom was on. Lo! (the poor
Indian) found himself hustled unceremoniously
over on a small portion of his
own back yard, where he was allowed to
sit and simmer, meditating on the magnanimity
of the white brother.
Thus, say the wise ones, was born the
incredible village of Palm Springs, America's
Foremost—if one is to believe the
further assertions of these sages—Desert
Resort.
As a resort, it must be admitted that
Palm Springs is a strictly seasonal proposition.
During the summer there is no
one there but the lizards, snakes, and
scorpions, and their contemporaries, the
few year-round villagers. The thermometer
soars joyously, now and again ringing
the bell at a 115 degrees or so. Indian
ponies roam the streets, houses and
mansions alike lie stark and brooding
under the sun. The stores, except for groceries
and drugs, present the blank sur-
Palm
Photograph reproduced on opposite
page taken by Frank
Bogert of El Mirador Hotel.
faces of boarded-up windows, and all is
peace and quiet and heat.
But along about September first the
annual minor miracle takes place. The
thermometer begins to have sinking spells,
the scorpions look at one another in consternation,
and with one accord start to
hunt up nice cozy hibernating places for
the winter. The hardiest of the desert
fanatics come creeping back, and the
town, revitalized by the infusion of new
blood, pulls itself together and knocks
the sand out of its jeans. There is something
about the ceremony of opening a
house after a three or four months' vacancy
on the desert that is reminiscent of
the unsealing of a Pharaoh's tomb. The
intrepid adventurer opens his front door
with a grinding of gritty hinges and
blinks in the semi-gloom of the shuttered
interior. The accumulated heat of the
summer slaps him in the face. After his
eyes have grown accustomed enough to
the dingy room so that he can walk without
risk of annoying any of the black
widows which have taken up residence
during his absence, he staggers to a window
and throws open the shutters, admitting
the blessed light of a brand new
season. From then on, it's merely a matter
of elbow grease.
After a period devoted to renovation,
actual business begins again at the old
stands and a few new ones. Goods are
ordered and things prepared generally for
those wariest of birds, the Tourists. And
when the first of the species arrives, the
scout preceding the mass flight, what a
prodigious rejoicing is heard! He is the
harbinger of winter, lovely, lovely Winter,
and the season is on.
Make no mistake, eager as the local
merchant may be to "sell" the tourist, and
N O V E M B E R , 1938 17