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BOULEVARD by Ken Marquiss During his 50-odd years Ken Marquiss has packed into his life most of the adventures we dream about—and he is still going strong! He will soon leave for a gold project in Ecuador. He spent his childhood in India where his father was a missionary; led hunting parties in Africa; searched for hidden fortunes in South America, and prospected throughout the western United States—and he still found time to obtain a degree from the University of Redlands and raise a family. A former contributor to DESERT Magazine, he has once again resumed writing about his adventures. A VIRULENT infection of the lost mine fever is particularly hard on anyone of a scientific or analytical bend, because there is no logic, rhyme or reason to the course of events in the mining game. Any prospector who woos Lady Luck (or tries "hanky panky with Miss Fortune" as my practical minded wife flippantly refers to it) had better be prepared for anything; for Fate seems in her most capricious mood when dealing the cards that cover the gold bets. The richest, most luscious gold ore I ever saw in my whole life was found "within spitting distance" — and just above the present smog line — of what is now one of the major traffic arteries out of California's San Bernardino valley. It was a big, heavy hunk of rock— so it didn't drop out of some prospector's pocket—and it was found in thick manzanita near a mountain top by an old Kansas wheat farmer out hunting deer. I got cut into the deal because of fig jam. If that isn't whimsical, fatalistic hanky panky, I don't know what is. The sequence of events started about the time of the birth of the "alphabet" syndrome of bureaucracy — C. C. C, N. R. A., T. V. A, W. P. A. ad nauseum. A couple of years prior to that we had moved to Redlands, California, and Dad had bought a big old white square house with plenty of shade and conveniently located to schools and stores. It also had another prerequisite demanded by my mother—" a nice chicken yard"—for which we were mighty grateful when the misery fog of the depression later settled over us. In this chicken yard grew a great big Mission fig tree. In season it bore literally buckets of big, black-skinned, sweet, luscious fruit. Out of this fruit my little Irish mother—who didn't take her apron off to anyone when it came to cooking— used to concoct great quantities of an ambrosia she called "figgy jam." This nee-
BONANZA! tar contained various tasty spicy components; but its prime ingredient was stirring (to keep it from scorching) as it bubbled in the big flat cauldron she used. Being the oldest of the offspring I invariably got stuck with the job— since my younger sisters always developed "sore hands" from peeling the fruit! From a slab of clear white pine Dad had carved out a wide stirring paddle with a short handle, sort of like an elongated hoe, and I had to work that contraption until I used to think my arms would fall off before the batch was done to my mom's satisfaction. It was really worth the work, however, because when it was done that mouth-watering goody enhanced anything from breakfast hot cakes to Sunday supper ice cream. Just prior to the midwest tribulations of the Dust Bowl, new neighbors moved in across the back fence. My mother watched from the kitchen window and promptly sized them up as "nice people" —so I was immediately dispatched over there carrying a jar of her jam in each hand as welcome to the neighborhood gifts. The head of the house was a wiry, sunbrowned crusty individual well past middle age whom I'll call Old Man Dunnaway. We soon became very good friends—helped no doubt by his frank fondness for fig jam! He had been a lifelong Kansas wheat farmer, and sensing that "something was wrong with the weather" he had sold out just ahead of the drought for enough to retire in modest comfort in California. He told me that all his life he had had to work in the flat lands of Kansas —and all his life he had dreamed of hunting deer in forested mountains. So as soon as the family was settled and deer season opened, he went hunting with zest, zeal and total disregard of boot leather. He wasn't spectacularly successful as a hunter—his idea of stalking was to go look in the next canyon—but he sure covered a lot of ground and spooked a lot of deer. So the per pound ratio of venison was about par with fig jam. One bright Saturday afternoon in late fall I was in the back yard working on what was then known in adolescent vernacular as my "woo-wagon"—a rig of which I was vastly proud. It was a Model T roadster, modified with a Ruxtle axle, and with the turtle back and rear frame cut off. The drive shaft was shortened so that the rear wheels were up under the front seat. It required extensive maintenance—but it could turn on a dime, go almost anywhere, and made impressive inroads into the campus date hunting grounds supposedly reserved for the rich undergrads who had shiny Franklins, Packards, and Willys Knights. Back in the 1930s the author made the forerunner of the modern dune buggy. Used for dates, he called it his "woo-wagon." 13
Page 2 and 3: Desert Magazine Book Shop ANZA-BORR
Page 4 and 5: Book Reviews by Jack Pepper BOTTLES
Page 6 and 7: BODIE'S GREAT BONANZA LEDGE by Mari
Page 8 and 9: MUCHO FUN ALONG THE BORDER OF Tijua
Page 10 and 11: the most interesting exhibits south
Page 12 and 13: New HIGH by Elizabeth Beeb \ . *-
Page 14 and 15: a few miles to a designated turnoff
Page 16 and 17: Although less than an inch long, th
Page 18 and 19: LOCAL RESIDENTS refer to them as "T
Page 20 and 21: FORT ROSS... a russian stronghold b
Page 22: The beauty of Canyon de Chelly is s
Page 25 and 26: the 16th century. While the driver
Page 27 and 28: changing desert and mountain scener
Page 29 and 30: BACK ISSUE SPECIALS The back issues
Page 31: ote Flat, a long grassy area where
Page 35 and 36: ceeded up the barely passable track
Page 37 and 38: THERE'S MUCHO FUN ALONG THE BORDER
Page 39 and 40: Little Litter is Less Bitter A new
Page 41 and 42: • MAPS • TRAVEL • MISCELLANEO
Page 43: A Tick-lish Situation ... Where in

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