After a fun morning finding an abandoned tractor high above Snow Canyon, we tucked ourselves into the Tacoma and set off for what I knew would be a much harder hike. As the crow flies, our jumping off point in Thompson canyon was less than a mile from where we'd found the tractor, but constrained to the unmaintained road system that reaches into the Argus Range, we had upwards of 15 miles to reach the trailhead in a way that didn't entail jumping off a cliff.
Our departing view from Snow Canyon was pretty nice.
As we entered Thompson Canyon, Lookout Mountain towered overhead.
After eating a quick lunch at the trailhead and setting up the solar panels on the windshield - mostly to keep the sun from beating down on the interior while we were gone - we slathered ourselves in sunscreen and began our trek up the canyon.
Past the end of the road, Thompson Canyon quickly turned into a tight V, with steeply inclined walls rising over 1,000 feet. This place is rarely visited, not only because one must walk, but because the walking is not easy. Thompson Spring - not just one spring but a mile-long series of closely spaced seeps - surfaces water here and there, spawning random bits of creek, muddy puddles, and even a few cascades. And all that water means that most of the canyon is choked with thick vegetation. Our only hope was to follow a series of burro trails, trusting that they would eventually lead us to drier shores.
Etched into a rocky alcove, the numbers "83-02" were a complete mystery.
After an hour of bushwhacking our way through rabbit brush, boulder hopping, and squeezing our way along the canyon's rocky edges, we were finally through the worst of the spring. We'd finally reached the hardest part of our hike!
As if the bottom of the canyon hadn't been tiring enough, the remainder of the journey to the Rhonda Ray would take us up a steep miner's trail, bypassing a series of falls that culminated in a monster more than 60 feet high.
Out of the wash. Up we go.
Trail chukar.
Fourteen switchbacks constituted our first major push "up." Climbing just more than 300 feet over 850 feet of trail, it was just another in a long list of mining trails that had us wondering, "what on earth were these guys thinking?"
Halfway up, we found the initials R F carved into a boulder at the apex of one of the switchbacks.
Perhaps R F stopped here for the same reason we did. He wasn't tired, he was just admiring the view!
Reaching the top of the switchbacks, we caught our first glimpse of the mine. Still nearly half a mile away, it was 400 feet above our precarious position, our bodies on heightened alert as 25mph winds buffeted us as we navigated the narrow trail.
If only the long lens could shorten the hike!
Constantly trying to evaluate whether we were making the right decision to push on, the trail turned out to be in reasonable shape in all but a few short stretches. @mrs.turbodb tackled these like a champ - even as she invented several new words - "schnapadoo" - to describe her displeasure with the terrain - and even with a couple of stops to inspect artifacts along the way, we soon found ourselves poised outside the main working of the Rhonda Ray.
I've never found a part of an arrowhead in the Mojave before, and this definitely isn't where I'd have expected to find one! (left) | We had no idea what this small hook anchored to the rock was for. (right)
This old Ingersoll Rand compressor guarded the entrance to the lower adit.
Another wheelbarrow! And this one is full of steel balls for the mill.
It was fun to find this old pick and shovel near the adit entrance. (left) | Even a mine has an entry table where all the junk in pockets ends up. 
(right)
A little further in the adit, a storage shelf was full of canned veggies. Corn and beans seemed to be favorites.
Pushing further into the darkness, it was quickly becoming clear that this lower adit - after being mined out - had become the storage area for the mine. After passing through the pantry - and perhaps bedroom, given the requisite bed frame - we entered the workshop.
So much good stuff. (If you're a miner, otherwise, it's worthless.)
Bucket of balls. (left) | Where else would you store your spare belt than on an old drill shaft? (right)
Behind the workshop, the adit forked a few times but piles of packrat nesting material and feces kept us from wandering too much further. No matter, we still had more to see outside, since the most interesting aspect of the entire situation here at the Rhonda Ray - at least to us - was the intricate old mill that clung to the steep wall of the canyon.
It's a good thing I'd hauled along our little flying buddy. Without it, there would've been no great way to photograph this beast.
Hope no one drops anything!
They just left the good stuff sitting in buckets for us!
Final processing. At least this canyon seemed to have plenty of water.
Already thrilled with what we'd found so far, I knew - or at least, suspected - that the canyon held even more secrets for us to uncover. I wasn't sure exactly how we'd get there, but if we could find a way up the extremely precipitous and loose terrain beyond the mill, around a few more bends in the canyon, and back down into the wash, we might find ourselves one of the rarer mining artifacts hidden in the hills: an arrastra.
An arrastra is one of the desert's most primitive yet enduring monuments to human ingenuity. Reduced to its essentials, it is nothing more than a circular pit of stone, perhaps ten or twelve feet across, in which heavy drag stones were pulled round and round over crushed ore by a plodding burro or, in later years, powered by a steam engine. The grinding action slowly pulverized the rock, freeing the fine particles of gold or silver locked within. Mercury was then introduced into the slurry, bonding with the precious metal through amalgamation and separating it from the worthless gangue.
Simple as the concept was, an arrastra demanded patience - a single day's labor might yield no more than a ton of processed ore. It was the mill of last resort, chosen not for its efficiency but for the one virtue that mattered most in the remote desert ranges: it could be built by hand, from materials found on the spot, by a lone prospector with nothing but ambition and time.
Where you find an arrastra today, moss-rimmed and half-buried in the wash, you can be certain that water was once nearby, and with it the quiet, stubborn hope of men who believed the mountains owed them something.
After a bit of searching - and luck - we found an old trail leading higher and worked our way deeper into the canyon.
Found it!
Not only was there an arrastra, but there was an entire mining camp. I've no idea if it had any relation to the Rhonda Ray, or whether it was still in operation as the ball mill churned away in the canyon below, but it was fun to see all the workings and components associated with this primitive operation.
A small, worn pinion gear. (left) | Spare drive gear and pulley. (right)
Nearby, a concrete holding pond still supplied water to the arrastra through some rather modern looking rubber hoses.
Processing of the fines.
Overlooking it all, a well-constructed stone cabin - and an expansive earthen platform, likely a workspace or sleeping area on extra-hot nights - was built into one side of the wash. Whether this little camp was used in the 1920s or earlier is unclear, but at a century or more in age, it's held up remarkably well, and even shows signs of much more recent visitation.
Work-life balance.
Found these painted rocks of someone who still treasures this location today.
Seems like some guy with Jeeps - and probably a map - made it up here as well.
I found two of these "pokey" tools lying outside of the cabin, not sure what they're for. (left) | An old anvil - made from a mill stamp? - lay in the grass in front of the cabin. (right)
There are no log books in places like this, they are too rarely visited. Photographs and memories are the way these places are remembered, and before we started back down the canyon, I spent a few minutes admiring the site from above. It was surely a hard life up here. Remote. Alone. Struggling against stone. And yet, the sense of determination, and of pride in workmanship was obvious. A good reminder, even today, of what's important.
Telescope view out the front door.
Working our way down the canyon was considerably easier than the grueling trek up. Sure, there were steep, narrow grades to negotiate, and the rabbit brush would leave our shins covered in scratches, but our spirits were high after accomplishing everything we'd hoped for and more.
Not only that, but even with all the time we spent poking around the upper reaches of the canyon, we still reached the trailhead a well before sunset, giving us plenty of time to find a spot a little lower in the canyon that we could call home for the night.
Last light on the Panamints.
Barry wasn't too happy that we'd occupied his canyon.
As the sun dropped below the horizon, we fell into a familiar routine. Nothing tastes better after a long day hiking than beef, rice, cheese, guac, and lettuce, all wrapped up in a warm flour tortilla. Top that off with a bit of sweet lemon cake from the bakery and a refreshing face wash, and it's the perfect way to end another magical day in the desert.
Against pastel skies, bright white snow still dusted the top of Telescope Peak.
The Whole Story
