Here we go again. Grab your Rand McNally and ride along as we do the field research for Vol. 6 of our series—The Lincoln Highway: California.

Like the books for Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada, the new book will consist of a narrative history of the Lincoln Highway through the state, coupled with a driving guide, which will give directions for following the historic highway wherever possible. As in the first five volumes, this one will follow the Lincoln from east to west. Included will be more than 100 photographs, most taken by travelers from 1915 through 1927, but many taken on the research adventure.

The second half of the book will consist of a portfolio of maps, showing the route of the Lincoln Highway superimposed over 7½ minute quadrangles—a scale of about 2-5/8 inches to the mile.

Okay, here we go…

With our trusty old Town Car now enjoying life with somebody who can afford to fix it (with 300,009 miles on the odometer, things were starting to go on the fritz), we rolled out of  our Tucson driveway at 7 AM in a new Hyundai Tucson, a baby SUV. The odometer showed 2,680 miles. It was a brilliant morning, sun already above the Rincon Mountains, and our acre of saguaros already sporting their white flowers. Kathy at the helm—she loves to drive, and her Old Man loves to look out the winders.

The “way-back” is loaded with books to drop off in Reno and to sell at the Lincoln Highway Association conference in Ely, in addition to luggage, files, and Ginger the cat—one sick cat I might add. (Butch, the other cat, had died in early April at age 17, and there was no way Kathy was going to leave Ginger, age 15, behind.)

Some five miles to the east we joined the westbound lanes of I-10 and let her rip. Rolling into Phoenix (Los Angeles-East) we had the option of driving on US 60 for a beeline to Wickenburg; or mounting I-17 in the city and heading north to Arizona 74, then west to Wickenburg and US 93. US 60 is the hypotenuse of the right triangle we drove, but the traffic light salesman is related to the Phoenix City Council—there are dozens of them on 60, all rigged to automatically turn red when approached by people from Tucson.

AZ 74, which passes just south of the Hieroglyphic Mountains, is cited as scenic on the Arizona map It is fast, but it isn’t scenic. The diagonal northwest from Wickenburg on US 93 is indeed scenic, the kind you get when you pass several dozen miles without a single habitation, let alone a town. The road is signed as "Joshua Tree Forest Parkway,” and there are hundreds of them in sight.

Even the latest AAA or state maps don’t show it, but there is a long stretch of four-lane highway about halfway to I-40, which reverts to two-lane about twenty miles south of the interstate. After a long drive on lesser roads, a super slab looks purty good.

As we approached I-40 from the southwest we would see the semis in the distance speeding along. Merging onto the interstate, we headed west for twenty-three miles and pulled into Kingman for lunch and a tank of gas. (The Hyundai got 23.5 mpg on that leg. The old Town Car regularly got 24!)

Kingman’s Whataburger got a little richer because of us, then we continued northwest on US 93.Trucks are no longer allowed to cross Hoover Dam, but we are not a truck. The traffic inched over the massive structure.

When in the Las Vegas area, our goal has always been to get the hell out of town as quickly as possible. Finding US 95, we headed west along the south edge of the infamous Nevada Test Site. Utter desolation for more than 100 miles until we arrived in Beatty, pop. 1,623. We’d stayed there before, and decided to push on through historic Goldfield and on up to Tonopah.

We checked in at the Hi-Desert Inn, a Best Western and a nice place, although at $77.50 overpriced for that location. A charming Mexican restaurant, El Marques, was nearby, and that was well wroth the chips, if you will pardon the expression. Gassing up here, the mileage dropped too 22.5, and the old Town Car was looking better all the time.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Overpriced it was, but the motel served a good complimentary breakfast, and we would have dropped twenty bucks had we stayed in a fleabag. We were headed toward Reno before 7 A.M., but that wonderful city is only five hours away. We needed something else to do on the way. Turning to Stan Paher’s wonderful Nevada Ghost Towns and Mining Camps, we found the answer, Candelaria. US 95 heads west from Tonopah, then north. Candelaria is on the Nevada state map, and there’s a sign for Candelaria on 95. We turned west there and drove for about seven miles on old concrete, which deteriorated rapidly to graded dirt. And there it was—relics of just three or four stone or wood structures where there was once a booming city. The $7 million in silver brought several thousand people to the town, but when the Northern Belle mine played out, so did the population. Not a soul remains in Candelaria.

It took all of an hour to explore Candelaria and the site of the “sin city” two mile west, Metallica, which provided “services” to the Candelaria miners. We still had time on our hands, so we continued north on US 95, for some twenty miles on the west shore of Walker Lake. Turning onto Alt. 95 at Schurz, we followed it for a short distance to Yerington, then looped to the southwest over several numbered highways through ranchlands to Genoa.

Our interest in Genoa was kindled by Paher’s story about Nevada’s oldest settlement—Genoa or Dayton—and Genoa won that battle. It was founded in 1851 as Mormon Station, a name soon changed to Genoa. A large log cabin was built on the site, which burned decades later. The state of Nevada has erected a replica of that cabin which serves as the visitor center.

We found the place to be charming, but this Old Man wanted to see something else. Driving north a mile or so, we came to the Genoa cemetery, and way in back is the grave I was looking for—John A. Thompson, died May 15, 1876, age 49. This, friends, is the last resting place of the famous “Snowshoe” Thompson, who for a dozen years carried the mail over the Sierra Nevada, from Genoa to Sacramento. Not on snowshoes, but on skis.

One more stop before hanging it up for the day. We drove north to downtown Reno. Just a block from the heart of the city, on the corner of Liberty and Sierra Streets, John Ton, a local painter, is completing a mural of a 1909 Maxwell, carrying Alice Ramsey and her three companions over the Nevada desert. He still has to finish the heads, but the depiction of the car is accurate. (See the review of our newest book, Alice’s Drive, in the last issue of folio.)

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Our hosts for the entire California project were Bob and Adrienne Dieterich, who live in Fair Oaks, just east of Sacramento. We met Bob and his friend, Lloyd Johnson, of Carmichael, at the Truckee Diner in Truckee, Calif. The diner is on West River Street, backing up to the busy Union Pacific main line, and only a block from the rushing Truckee River.

Many California Lincoln Highway aficionados will agree that in the Dog Valley-Donner Pass area, there is no sharper guy than Lloyd Johnson. Dieterich also has a thorough knowledge of the geography of the road and its variants in the state. We were in good hands.

We had laid out the fieldwork weeks earlier. There are four legs to the Lincoln in the state: from the Nevada line through Dog Valley and over Donner Pass to Sacramento; from South Lake Tahoe to Sacramento; and the main road to San Francisco, Sacramento south through Stockton and west through Hayward. A fourth route is a beeline from Sacramento to the Carquinez Bridge, then ferrying to San Francisco from the Berkeley Pier. The legitimacy of that route as a variant of t he Lincoln Highway has been seriously questioned but we covered it anyway.

The four of us plus the cat drove east form Truckee on I-80, heading for Dog Valley, but we left the highway at the Floriston exit, crossed to the north, and there before our very eyes was the old concrete and dirt Lincoln Highway, the road that followed the route of I-80 after the Dog Valley road was abandoned in the late 1920’s.

That’s the only part of this leg that was covered—the Lincoln Highway was considerably torn up by construction of I-80, and earlier by US 40. We drove a mile or so along the old Lincoln Highway until it joined westbound I-80, and at the first opportunity exited the interstate then remounted it to head east to the Dog Valley Road, west of Verdi, Nev. Passing over the Truckee River bridge, we pulled up at a grove on the left, supposedly the California state line. A crummy marker protected by a beat-up chain link fence testifies that this is the California border. There is a different texture to the blacktop, where the Cal-Trans and the N-Dot crews met. Dieterich’s GPS thinks somebody goofed. The state line was supposed to have been located on the 120^th meridian, 546 feet east of there!

We drove some three miles northwest to First Summit—OCTA’s Carsonite markers are along the way on the right. Marking an old lumber road, not the emigrant trial at all. Dirt roads intersected up there. Now the road coincided with the Henness Pass Road, developed in the later years of the gold rush migration.

We followed the road as it turned to the south and looked down to the right—there is the idyllic Dog Valley, where the Donner Party spent several fateful days recruiting their stock.

We reached the second summit, still on gravel, some five miles from the state line, and again, OCTA and Trails West markers can be seen all along this road. We started down, and less than four miles to the south the Lincoln Highway ducks beneath the waters of the Stampede Reservoir. We circled around the lake, crossed over the dam, and found the spot where the highway had once emerged—no trace now.

A few miles south there is a second interruption to the 1913 Lincoln Highway—Prosser Creek Reservoir. It was approached by a long, narrow gravel Lincoln, certainly one of the prettiest stretches in California.

By this time the exploration was on Donner Pass Road, which carried the old Lincoln Highway over the Sierra Nevadas. But first we have to get back to Truckee. Passing through the picturesque town, we stayed on Donner Pass Road across I-80. Some two miles west of town we passed Donner State Park—a fine museum focusing on the emigrant experience in crossing the Sierra Nevada.

Just past the park we were on the north shore of beautiful Donner Lake. Far to the left towers Schallenberger Ridge, named for Mose Schallenberger, the youngster who survived the winter of 1844-45 in his cabin near the east shore of the lake, just out the door of the museum.

Another two miles ahead and we stopped at the corner of Old Highway Drive. That is the site of the Pollard Hotel. On the dirt 1913 Lincoln Highway up in Donner Pass there is a fading ghost sign advertising the Pollard.

Then we twisted on up Donner Pass Road. We stopped, and Lloyd unfolded a large map of the Dutch Flat Donner Lake Wagon Road, spread it out on the hood of the car, and showed how the old Lincoln Highway rose above the most difficult challenge in its 3,389 miles from New York to San Francisco. He led us on short hikes up toward the summit, several dozen yards away, as well as down the slope. Icy snowmelt coursed down on both sides of the historic road. Across the draw are the snow sheds that replaced those which sheltered the railroad from the frequent avalanches. The new book will give directions for hiking the entire old road over the pass. Deep snow precluded that adventure this time, but we had done it twice before. The summit is exactly 3.4 miles west of Old Highway Drive.

Heading west, the Lincoln Highway travels close to the south fork of the Yuba River—whitewater as far as we can see, upstream or downstream. We had to leave the 1913 road for a later track, which once was US40. Stopping to look at the river, we looked up to see where I-80 crossed above us, as well as the 1913 LH, cutting the old road off. The stonework bordering the old highway on the left side of the Yuba was still there. And that angry little river simply roared at the outrage.

Somehow we ended up on the Hampshire Rocks Road, and a little over a mile from the last stop we pulled up at a couple of picturesque little buildings—Lloyd Johnson says one was a flower shop along the historic Lincoln Highway. They are definitely permanent buildings with slate roofs, in terrific shape, but they probably have been vacant for a half-century.

It had been a long day. Twilight was approaching and stomachs were rumbling. We sped back to Sacramento, picked up Adrienne Dieterich, and drove a few blocks to Marie Callender's before settling in at the Dieterich home.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Adrienne Dieterich and Ginger accompanied us on the second day of our Lincoln Highway adventure. We left their home in Fair Oaks and mounted I-80 eastbound  a few miles north. Adrienne had not seen the two little stone shops, so we exited I-80 at Cisco Grove and turned right. With the better light Kathy got a more crisp shot of the buildings.

We turned around and continued west, past the Cisco Grove git-on for I-80, and into Cisco Grove Camp Ground. With permission from the owners, we continued west through their property for a half-mile, on what was the 1913 Lincoln Highway. There we could see that it had been truncated by I-80. That is the most idyllic campground I’ve ever seen, with towering ponderosa pines over the rushing south fork of the Yuba River

We had a late start this morning, so we decided to stop at a nice-looking restaurant near Cisco Grove. We parked, walked to the door, and saw workmen inside. “Closed For Remodeling,” read the sign. On to the east, we found another little restaurant, parked, and walked to the door. “Closed Wednesdays” read the sign. That happened once more as we continued east. At Soda Springs, just a short distance from the Donner Pass Ski Ranch, we finally found a roadhouse that was open. No tables or benches, but we were able to buy sandwiches and sodas to go.

We drove back west and stopped at the Big Bend Ranger Station, “Closed for the Winter.” Well hell, the picnic table wasn’t closed, so we commandeered it. After lunch, somebody noticed a side door was open. There was the head cheese, our old pal, Phil Sexton, a ranger with Tahoe National Forest. Nice guy. Bob crossed the road for a short hike on the Dutch Flat and Donner Lake Wagon Road, opened first to serve the miners at Virginia City and later as a haul road for supplies for the builders of the Central Pacific Railroad.

Returning to I-80, we drove west to leave the road at the Drum Forebay exit. Funny name—“forebay” is a catch basin of some sort, as I understand it. The name may be funny, but the Lincoln Highway on the north side of the interstate is simply spectacular. It’s still dirt, winding through the coniferous forests. A half-mile east there is a sign, “End of County Maintained Road.” Who cares? We drove that magnificent piece of transportation history until we reached a gate about four miles ahead. Had we continued, we would have dropped several dozen yards onto I-80.

Returning to the interstate, we drove two miles west, left it there, and turned west on the old Lincoln Highway, on the north side of I-80. There is a concrete block building a couple blocks ahead—nothing else. But this is the site of Baxter, a thriving little roadside area during the heyday of the Lincoln Highway.

We proceeded ahead, remounted I-80, left it at the next interchange, and drove the historic road to the tiny town of Gold Run—a post office and a general store, not much else. Back to I-80, we proceeded west to the Magra Road interchange. Crossing over the freeway, we headed south and turned right onto Magra Road, and just one mile ahead this Old man was able to point something out to his companions, for a change. Off to the south about a quarter-mile is the famous Cape Horn of the Central Pacific Railroad, where the noted “historian” Stephen Ambrose told us all about the Chinese who were suspended in wicker baskets to blast away the mountain. Not.

Approaching the town of Colfax on the Lincoln Highway, we stopped at  the Cape Horn overlook, where an expensive bronze plaque repeats the old wicker basket canard. The local historical society has been told of the error. They aren’t about to change the plaque.

On down the sunset slope we traveled, on I-80, back on the Lincoln, several times, until we reached Auburn. I don’t think any Lincoln Highway town has done as much as Auburn to commemorate the route of the historic road through their city. Named “Lincoln Way” most of the way, it is carefully marked all the way through town.

Leaving Auburn on Ophir Road (old US 40) we proceeded about a mile and slanted off to the left onto the 1913 LH. We stopped at a turnout on the left where the old road was partially blocked from the later road by a chain link fence. A deep hole just inside the fence held slabs of the old highway.

As we were looking the place over a Jeep drove up, and a kindly-looking fella climbed out to retrieve his mail. Possibly the landowner, we were about to approach him, but he had the same idea and walked over to meet us. He was Bob Van der Volgen.

He was indeed the owner of the spot, and pointed out the site of a long-gone filling station (the concrete for the pump island is still there as well as a mossy concrete water trough for filling radiators),a  flower shop, and other buildings from the early 1930s that once stood in the turnout. He fenced in the old road to keep vandals from his property.

Dieterich, president of the California Chapter of the Lincoln Highway Association, had an idea. “Sir,” he said, “I would like to have that broken piece of road that is down in the hole. I’d like to mount it upright and put a bronze plaque on it, to tell people about the Lincoln Highway.”

“You can sure have it, and put it right here on my property,” the owner answered. As this piece is being written, Dieterich is wondering how the hell he can get that half-ton 4’ x 5’ slab of concrete, 4” thick, out of the hole.

Continuing down the slope, we drove on Sisley Road, where Placer County wisely declined to top the narrow original 1916 concrete paving. It could not have looked much different than it did when the pavement was new.

Then through the lovely downtown of Roseville, which today looks much as it would have looked in Lincoln Highway days. Dinner that night was at Roseville’s Cattlemen’s Restaurant. Man, that’s livin’.

And with that, dear friends, we are going to have to go on to other things, to resume our exploration in the November issue. This will take us on the 1913-1927 Lincoln Highway, Sacramento through Stockton and Hayward to San Francisco. Who knows, there may be enough room to include the third leg, from Lake Tahoe through Placerville to Sacramento. By this time the book will be well on the way to completion, so stick with us—weze gonna have some FUN!