D.E.D. in the Desert

We needed this real bad. Los Angeles traffic worsens by the minute, and our oppressive corporate skyscraper gets taller and taller with every day that they expect us to wear shoes. Asphalt streets and concrete deadlines. The Orwellian world of caller I.D. and red-light cameras is not fit for adventurous four-wheelers. It was time for a D.E.D. tour.

You've seen them before, from that little chingo with the yellow flattie to the North Dakota trek with the army-green Scrambler with that clutch-exploding M715 in between. And remember the time we bought a flatfender sight-unseen, flew to Utah to get it running, and ended up having to buy a $500 truck to haul it home? They're all D.E.D.s, involving little more than a minute or two of planning, a few Southwestern states, a random vehicle of questionable reliability (come to think of it, they've all been Jeeps) and, naturally, Dirt Every Day. It's a Freiburger/Pw tradition, with other guys there mostly to sit mute when nothing needs to be said, to trade off cheatin' death, to admire patina and coolness when it presents itself, and to pass the Corona.

This time, we'd chiseled a week of freedom out of The Man long before we noticed that we had a Jeep that was prime for a trip. It had been rotting for a year after we'd retrieved it from Bob Farnsworth, a reader and Jeeper from way back who had been backhanded one too many times by his 1973 J10 after the gas tank fell out while he was driving it. With 401 power and a four-speed, we weren't passing up the asking price: free. It came less rubber, so we rolled some old 33x13.50 Baja Claws under it and dragged it home.

The year's rest hadn't healed much on the FSJ, and time lost wrenching and sleeping in the shop turned our week into five days. Not enough time to cross the state line at any kind of relaxed pace, but enough to get lost locally. We took the opportunity to find the away-from-home right at home, exploring the local desert and many of the dirt roads we'd often seen from the highway and wondered about. It took a couple days to get relaxed with the routine-evidence of too much cage rest - but by the time we'd been deeply embedded with camp stink over 700 miles of dirt, we had no need to come home. Exploring mine sites, ghost towns, abandoned air bases, backroad pawn shops, and greasy spoons, we'd found our peace at a comfortable distance beyond the fringe of tract homes that separate our world from the real world. Come along and decide for yourself which side of the homeowners-association border that reality falls on.

Bringing the J-truck home was a story in itself, involving two trailer spares and a bunch of washers robbed from the truck and used to space a wheel outboard to compensate for the wrong backspacing. It was a thing of beauty.	A year later, we started to wrench and were appalled that this thing had actually been on the road. In addition to a steering box that was falling off and at least half a pound of sand in the carb, one wheel-bearing race had spun in the hub and eaten a gash in the cast iron. The groove turned out to be exactly the depth of a hacksaw blade, so we cut one to length, bent it in a circle, hosed it with Loctite, and pressed the race back in. It was brilliant trail repair, and that would be brag if it weren't fact.	We also had to replace the lost gas tank, and Pw found a "spark-free" plastic replacement (the original was steel...and maimed from sparking along the concrete) from MTS. It even came with a sending unit and extra straps.
Here's why they sent extra straps, since the stock single strip of steel doesn't cut it. We were at the north end of Johnson Valley, 50 miles from civilization in any direction, when the new tank hit the dirt. Between wedging it back in place with some firewood we'd found, then trying to get the truck started with a questionable carburetor and a near-dead battery, saving ourselves was a full-on Flight of the Phoenix operation.	It's not drinking and driving. It's just shelter, as we camped for one frigid, windy night inside the truck, waiting a 12-pack at a time for the tank to reinstall itself and feeling guilty about the unusual luxury of a hardtop and doors.	With repairs complete, the regular part of the adventure began as we explored the remains of the small town that formerly surrounded the Silver Cliffs mine just outside of the Twentynine Palms Marine Corps Base. The place is remote enough as to not have the shaft openings fenced off; toss a rock and it's a looong time before you hear it splash down.
After two solid days on dirt, we spit out onto the pavement of Old Route 66 in Newberry Springs, California, founded in 1911 as the town of Water. There we found this cool abandoned hotel as well as a neat old gas station, and we ate coconut crme pie at the former Sidewinder Caf, renamed Bagdad Caf for the movie that was filmed there. The place was oddly overrun with French tourists.	Further east on dirt roads adjacent to I-40 we found the 1888 town of Ludlow, now little more than a gas station, abandoned buildings damaged by a 1991 quake, and this ancient cemetery. The newest date we could find on a grave marker was 1925. Note that the flowers only grow on the gravesites: hence, "pushing up daisies."	South of Ludlow is a network of ruins from the Buckeye Mining District, or Stedman Mining District, including the site of the company town of Stedman, the former bar-and-brothel site of Ragtown, and the huge Bagdad-Chase Mine. This is one of the shallow shafts of the Old Pete Mines nearby.
At Bagdad Chase we found this International, and even better, we found its engine, front axle, transmission, and a loose Warn hub - all about a half-mile apart from each other, strewn along the road to Stedman. What went on here? We figured with enough time we could have had it running.	Also south of Ludlow, we found the Red Dog Mine, but have been unable to find any information about it. The masonry and craftsmanship of fabrication is quite impressive, and the no-trespassing sign was the best we've seen: "If you can read this then you need to go have a nice day someplace else."	Near the end of the week, the Desert D.E.D. turned into the airfield D.E.D., as we discovered many abandoned WWII auxiliary fields to nearby Victorville AFB (George AFB). The best was Hawes Field, which became a USAF radio communications site in the 1960s, and the remains include a two-story, creepy, partially underground bunker with lots of neat debris including a giant diesel generator engine. See www.airfields-freeman.com for lots of good adventure opportunities.
A D.E.D. Tour always comes with inevitable Jeep hunting, and in historic Daggett, California, we found this 1963 FJ-3 Fleetvan. These were built on two-wheel-drive CJ-3B chassis (as there was no DJ-3B) with bodies by Highway Products of Kent, Ohio. As far as we know, they all were sold to the Post Office, and this one even had a tag proclaiming it "U.S. Property."	Our airfield hunt ultimately led us to the Aviation Warehouse adjacent to El Mirage Dry Lake. The business rents dead planes for use in the movies, and there's lots to ogle.	Finally we headed for home. Not to go too horticultural on you, but our entire week in the desert was met with more greenery and flowers than any time in memory, a result of the 100-year rains. It made for a unique experience, and one we'll have to hold close until we have a chance to D.E.D. another day.