Beatty folk came a 'runnin' because they knew that we were passing through and that this might be their only chance to participate while several cars full of tourists said they 'might' come back to have it done. They must have figured we were from Beatty. I didn't tell them any different.
Larry and Wayne brought their families to meet us that weekend and then met us Monday morning at the third cattle guard as planned to cut a gate for us, and to say "good-bye.” It was the last time we talked with them.
We urged our burros north through Oasis Valley toward the small settlement of Springdale.
We hadn't been on the road long when a middle-age woman pulled up alongside. She was crying and she begged us to stop. I told her I would as soon as I came to a wide spot where we could get off the road. As we came to a stop Carol walked ahead to the woman's car. I waited, thinking it best to let my wife handle the situation.
Carol returned to me after a few minutes and explained, "She's crying because the B.L.M. has taken all the wild burros away from Beatty and Springdale. She has fifty pounds of grain in her car that she wants to give us. She was feeding the wild ones but now has no use for the feed."
We stopped at Bailey's Hot Springs that afternoon and got permission to use soap and really bathe in one of their private spring houses. All the while we were parked there a big black
Burro stood on the top of a hill across the way quietly watching our burros and Bailey's horses.
That evening as we sat on our wooden camp chairs behind the wagon watching our burros munch down their dinner, a middle-aged couple stopped and walked toward us. I got up to welcome them and when they saw me they said, "We didn't think anyone was here because we couldn't see a truck."
I asked, "Why did you stop then?"
They answered, "We wanted to make sure the animals were being cared for."
The next morning more un-looked-for feed arrived. A young lady brought us about two pounds of sweet feed, (corn, and rolled oats with molasses) "for a donkey breakfast,” She said. The same lady showed up again the third morning with two flakes of alfalfa for the same reason!” We quizzed her about the route ahead of us and were assured that between Springdale and Scotty's Junction there was no water.
God provided the water we needed. He sent John Gateman, a jeweler of Beatty, to us with 60 gallons of water while we traversed the stretch of highway between Springdale and Scotty's Junction.
It was about the same time that I told Carol, "I don't want a 'following team,' I want a 'driving team,' please ride beside me or walk behind the wagon when you want to walk."
She agreed and the burros didn't seem to mind the change. I had my driving team!
The donkeys were behaving pretty well but, Carol became a problem. She'd ride for a while and then get tired of sitting and climb off the wagon to walk behind, but the spring wildflowers were blooming and she'd walk off into the desert with our camera to take photos of them, forgetting that I was still moving ahead with no rear-view mirrors.
I wouldn't realize she was missing until she'd come running back, red-faced, hot, and thirsty and she'd declare through her tears, "You left me and I couldn't catch up!" That was the only time I ever saw that woman cry in all the time I knew her.
It happened again and again. I'd apologize and tell her to let me know next time and I'd wait. But, I never could hear her tell me. So, off and on for the next two hundred miles I'd lose my wife and she'd get mad at me.
Scotty's Junction at mile marker 94 proved to be a place of refreshment for us. John Wellborn, a prospector, and his daughter, Vicki, who owns the store there, lent us corral space for our burros and made us a barbecued chicken dinner.
We weren't their only guests. That night, right after dinner two men and a boy rode in on horseback. They were riding on a seven hundred mile fund-raising trip for Lonesome Dove Ranch of Arizona, headed to the Reno Rodeo via Virginia City.
All three were riding high-spirited Arabian horses and one of the men asked us, "Are those turbo-charged burros? We've been trying to catch up to you for four days. Folks back in Lathrup Wells told us you'd be easy to catch 'cause you move so slowly!"
We moved on the next morning while the Lonesome Dove folk stayed behind for a day of rest with the Wellborns. That was not the last time that we would see John unbeknownst to us at that time that years later he would help us find a desert home for my final rest.
Brush was scarce between Scotty’s Junction and Stonewall Pass (elevation 4,686'.) I remember that distinctly because when John Wellborn came out to check on us two days later I had the team stopped and Carol had walked off to find a clump of brush, or a ditch, or something that would give her privacy for a moment.
"What's wrong with Carol?" John demanded, thinking that we had had a fight or something.
I was embarrassed for all three of us, "Oh," I said, "She’s gone off to find a bush where there aren't any."
After John had driven off, Carol returned with her eyes downcast. She climbed into the wagon and hid her face in her hands as she whispered, "I had to give up the search, and just go. I hope no one noticed...” She lifted her head and looked at me, "Won't you help me next time? You could hold up a tarp for me or something."
What could I say? I immediately began thinking over a plan to build a sheepherder wagon, to go behind, a sheepherder wagon with a port-a-potty for Christmas Carol.
That night we had unwelcome visitors. We had gone to bed at dark as usual, but were awakened at 2:00 A.M. by a car pulling over on the other side of the road.
We heard loud voices, both male and female, and then two men got out and walked toward the wagon. My wife leaned out over the seat and said, "This is not a good time for visiting."
The men thinking she was alone quickened their pace toward us.
I spoke from the back. "I wouldn't park there if I were you. It's dangerous!"
Taking my statement for a threat, they turned, ran to their car and scattered gravel on their way out. They were certainly up to no good!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Six miles south of Goldfield we started the climb to Goldfield Summit (elevation 6,087'.) The weather was cold and we were bundled up in as many layers of clothing as we had available. (Our clothing was inadequate because we had expected hot weather all through the spring and summer, and we planned to be back in Death Valley by winter.)
It was obvious that road construction was in progress because there were the usual road signs, i.e. 'Flagman ahead,' but, there were no state workers to be seen so we progressed unhampered by delay.
I wish there had been a flagman for we were about to have a little trouble because the north bound lane we were traveling was newly paved, and was several inches higher than the south bound lane, and the white line was buried beneath the new pavement.
You're probably wondering how such little details could mean trouble. Well, my donks had come to think of the white line as their path and they had trained themselves to go right down it with each of the 'near' animals to the left of the line and all of the 'off' animals on the right.
When the white line disappeared beneath the new pavement my burros balked and refused to be driven
