Overlanding: The Old Traction Road 4x4 Expedition and History

It was a warm spring afternoon when the search party found John Ryan, his chest pierced by a bullet and gasping his final breath. Nearby lay the lifeless body of the teamster he was traveling with. That morning the two had been tasked with filling a tank wagon for the West End Borax Mine and never returned. On April 10, 1903, the San Francisco Chronicle reported, “Ryan was murdered by Indians,” who were presumably protecting their limited water source. Although the Indian Wars were decades-old history, the West, and the remote reaches of the Mojave Desert, were still a wild and unforgiving place.

A few miles away, entrepreneur Francis Marion “Borax” Smith was forging a new road through the middle of this desert abyss, one that would span 110 miles from his mines near Death Valley to the Santa Fe railhead in Ivanpah. With a progressive mindset and keen focus on economic efficiency, Smith’s goal was to transition from old-school and costly 20-mule teams to a modern contraption called a traction engine. It could run at the breakneck speed of 3.5 miles per hour, cover 20 miles per day, and eliminate the need for hundreds of mules and their teamsters. Rather than using a traditional steam engine, he opted for experimental technology that incorporated three-cylinder gasoline-powered engines that spun a 100-Kw electric generator. Energy was then routed to electric motors that turned drive axles on trailing ore cars.

During construction, the project gained considerable exposure in regional newspapers and caught the eye of the USGS, which surveyed the road and included it in its then-new topographical maps. Smith invested $100,000 in the project ($3.5 million today), and the San Bernardino Daily Times called it “The finest desert road ever constructed.” Unfortunately, the electric traction engine failed miserably, and Smith turned to an old-school Daniel Best steam-powered unit named Old Dinah. Challenges with steam power in the Mojave were the lack of water, expansive distances and scorching summer temperatures.

Old Dinah took no issue with downhill sections, but ascending the road’s nominal two-percent grades was more than the old girl could handle. Her motor blew its boiler just 14 miles into her inaugural run and, ironically, the 20-mule team she was destined to put in the unemployment line towed her home. Cutting his losses, Smith abandoned the project and his traction road faded into the annals of desert lore.

Old Traction Road

More than a century passed before Billy Creech, an avid desert explorer and president of the Mojave Desert Heritage and Cultural Association (MDHCA), learned of the Old Traction Road (OTR) from association founder Dennis Casebier. Through extensive research in the association archives, which includes thousands of newspaper articles, books, photographs and maps, as well as current USGS assets and satellite images, Creech was able to stitch together most of the original track. Unfortunately, the Mojave’s landscape has changed in the last 100 years and is now checkerboarded by areas designated National Monument and Wilderness, as well as swaths of private land.

He reached out to Mike Ahrens, District Manager of the Bureau of Land Management’s (BLM) Needles Field Office, to discuss the possibility of reestablishing the Old Traction Road. In the past 50 years the anti-access crowd has relentlessly lobbied our elected officials and land managers to restrict vehicle access to public lands across the nation. In the Mojave, that equates to millions of acres. Ahrens, who has a long Jeeping background, embraced the idea of putting a trail back ‘on’ the map. But if the BLM were to support the project, it would have to be done by the book. This meant incorporating the ‘ologists, all of them—biologists, geologists, archeologists, etc. It would be a significant undertaking requiring accurate data collection and reports, countless phone calls and meetings, and a significant commitment of time, but the two agreed to put the wheels in motion.

The Explorers Club & Rolex

Founded in 1904, The Explorers Club (TEC) has been at the core of scientific expeditions for more than a century. Their members have been the first to set foot on the poles, summit Mount Everest, descend into the 36,000-foot depths of the Mariana Trench, and view our blue planet from the surface of the moon. Although the Mojave does not quite hit these ‘firsts,’ because of the project’s conservation and geographical research elements, the OTR was sanctioned a TEC Flag Expedition and provided Flag #238 to be carried. Additionally, director of TEC’s Rolex Expedition Watch Program David Concannon, sent one of three Rolex Explorer watches to be worn by Creech. His dream of merely remapping an old mining road had morphed into a bona fide scientific expedition.

Tortoise Subways & Spirit Portals

My copilot Will Corbett and I met up with Billy and Mike at MDHCA headquarters in Goffs, California, and we would collect biologist Nicole Keefner, archaeologist Chris Dalu, and geologist Rose Pettiette the next day. The rendezvous point was Ivanpah 2 railroad depot at the OTR’s southern terminus. Standing above a bed of rusting train rails stamped 1903, Billy briefed us on the general plan, though by the checkerboard nature of the road ahead we would need to be flexible. There would be two fuel stops, but everyone would otherwise need to be self-contained. Keefner shared details on the Desert Tortoise (Gopherus agassizii), an endangered species the BLM has made great efforts to protect. Somewhat rare, we were jazzed when we spotted one catching some rays on the side of the road just 10 miles out of the gate. Keefner measured and examined it for general health, and it moved off into the desert with gloved hands. Another task was to survey tortoise subways—steel conduits designed to allow the little guys to cross under busy roads without the threat of injury—and remove debris if needed.

Doglegging around the 392-megawatt Ivanpah solar-thermal farm, the route took us up a deeply rutted draw toward Stateline Pass along the Nevada border. Over the decades, Mother Nature had played her hand on the OTC, washing away large sections in drainage areas and on the many alluvial fans it crossed.

Billy called out on the radio, “Grab your picks, shovels and gloves.” We assembled near the lead vehicle to assess the situation. The BLM’s goal was to make the trail navigable for a moderately equipped four-wheel drive, and we worked away at the embankment until it looked passable. Given Mike and his team were driving stock Jeep Rubicons, they would be the guinea pigs, and the scene would hit replay dozens of times in the coming days.

The discovery of Indian burial grounds, artifacts, or other evidence of First Nation Americans can literally shut down a new highway or building project. While culturally and historically fascinating, this could also put the brakes on the OTR project. At each stop, archaeologist Chris Dalu would quietly wander off into the desert. With an eagle’s eye for the minutiae, he found several previously undocumented sites. He referred to one, a ring of rocks resting on an elevated knoll, as a spirit portal or place of meditation. Another consisted of a group of small caves, possible shelters carved out of a sedimentary layer of the mountain. Dalu recorded the sites, and although they were of interest, it didn’t seem they would jeopardize our efforts.

Tarantulas & Boy Scouts

The sun was heading for the horizon when my check engine and charge lights came on. Grabbing a multimeter, I popped the hood and probed a few things. Alternator output reading was normal, but nothing was getting to the batteries. We determined the voltage regulator on my welder had gone AWOL. I shut down all electrical accessories and we quickly found a creek bed to set camp for the night.

I wasn’t a Boy Scout, but after decades exploring the backcountry I’ve learned to run with a good assortment of tools, fluids and spare parts. This was the second regulator to fail, and I’ve since carried a spare alternator. I thought Billy was going to slap a big wet one on my lips when I pulled it out of my parts kit. An hour later I fired up the engine, re-checked voltages and all was right with the world.

Few things bring a bigger smile to my face than a great sunrise, and the Mojave delivers in spades. Fiery hues of carroty orange ricocheting off low stratocumulus lit up camp as we sipped a piping hot cuppa joe. While taking care of my morning business, a tarantula crawled out from under a bush to join me. Although the furry little guys do have toxic venom in their fangs and hair, after countless times playing with them as a kid, I learned they rarely bite. I invited it to crawl up my arm and brought it back to camp for a show-n-tell.

Due to numerous Wilderness areas on the California side of the border, and private farmland near the town of Sandy Valley, much of the day was spent reviewing GIS data and establishing a zigzaggy path around the fray. Above town the OTR ran north by northwest, hugging the Nevada state line for about 40 miles over alluvial plains and sedimentary basins, then up a short section of highway to where the original track turned west.

This is where we were stonewalled by a deep drainage culvert cut by the transportation department. We could see the OTR disappearing around the mountain, we just couldn’t find a legally compliant way to access it. A crusty old guy in a clapped-out pickup stopped to see what we were up to, and when learning our intentions exclaimed, “I know that way…go through that rock quarry, but the road is gone, 15-foot washouts…you’ll never make it.” Legally compliant was the operative term. If the BLM is to sign off on the OTR, we couldn’t cut through someone’s private quarry. With 30 minutes of daylight left, we opted to make camp and sort out Plan B in the morning.

Lila C. by the Backdoor

Plan B was to take the pavement to Death Valley Junction, head southwest in search of the old track to the Lila C. Mine, and then backtrack toward our current impasse. The Lila C. was developed and operated by the Pacific Coast Borax Company from 1903 to 1915. Its colemanite, or borax, veins were so rich they shipped tens of thousands of tons to processing facilities, pushing the cost of commercial grade borate down by 40 percent.

We explored its concrete footings and rummaged through the dump where thousands of rusting lead-sealed tin cans revealed much about the miners’ diets. Our resident geologist Rose Pettiette inspected the mining operation and Dalu commented on the lack of tobacco tins; the result of either poaching by treasure hunters or a ‘very’ unlikely ban on smoking in the camp.

Back on track, we headed east to hopefully close the missing link. While the original road had been elusive in many places, looking across the valley there was a well-developed gravel grade leading straight to the Armargosa sink, where it disappeared amongst 100 yards of gutted gullies. Alkali flats and their drainage basins can be deceptive, and an apparently dry crust concealing a bottomless abyss of muck can put you in a pickle. Scouting it on foot first, Sean Holeman (our comms specialist and MDHCA BOD member), guided everyone through sans a glop of mud.

This final 15-mile section could make or break the project, as it, at least on maps, ran precariously close to the Resting Springs Ranch Wilderness. We immediately found a brown carbonite ‘wilderness closed’ marker indicating it was illegal to proceed. After an intense review of multiple GIS reference maps, it was determined whoever installed this sign needed to go back to school. We took appropriate measures to make sure the next traveler knew they were on a legal route.

From that point forward, it seemed the Wilderness Boundary followed the OTR precisely. The area to the northwest was open for camping and vehicle travel on established tracks, but 20 feet southeast of the trail’s centerline was Wilderness and closed to all but foot traffic. The next bit of good news was the discovery of a rock cairn supporting a brass USGS survey marker stamped 1933. Rose jumped out with her computer to enter the data and confirm its location.

Old Guys & Scotch

Back to the old guy in the clapped-out truck and “15-foot washouts.” He was correct on the washouts, but with the BLM team’s blessing we established bypasses, always on the non-wilderness side of the trail. On the home stretch and nearing our previous night’s culvert debacle, the radio came to life with Billy’s enthusiastic voice, “We made it!” Though unseen from the highway, he’d found a faint track up the embankment to the tarmac and closed the loop.

That night a smorgasbord of steaks, chicken and brats covered the grill, and Billy uncorked a bottle of Shackleton’s Scotch in celebration. Regarding Mike and his ‘ologists,’ what we learned after four days on the trail swinging picks, sharing morning coffee and coming together to create solutions for a shared cause, is that we have much more in common than we expected. These are the kind of land managers we need in our corner.

There was still much to be done, reports to be filed, data to be updated, and big-boss signatures to obtain, but after years of research and hard work, Marion ‘Borax’ Smith’s Old Traction Road just might make it back on the map. As for Old Dinah, she is enjoying a peaceful retirement in Furnace Creek with a great view of Death Valley.

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