Where’s Chuckawalla Bill’s Cabin?: A True Tale of Being Lost in the Hi-Desert by Kevin Heaton
Finally, having descended into the wash at the canyon bottom, I began to follow its drunkard’s weave for a good 100 yards. I was comforted by the fact that there were still a goodly number of boot prints in the deep, loose sand ahead of me.
Then, just ahead, there appeared what seemed to be the mouth of a fairly large cave with an elongated private entry corridor leading all the way up to it. I thought nothing highly unusual of it as these types of formations are quite common in this terrain. But as I drew nearer, something of a hoarder’s cache of colorful knickknacks began to emerge strategically, almost lovingly placed at exact intervals all along both sides of the corridor. There were: nineteenth century, long-necked cobalt bottles, naked lady brass and nickel hood ornaments, and Voodoo dolls with Bourbon Street Mardis Gras beads around their necks. There were both wooden Santa Clause and wooden snowman front yard Christmas figurines, “no parking”, “keep out”, and “no trespassing” signs, and on and on.
Had all this appeared abandoned would have been one thing, but this creation was extraordinarily well maintained. I remember thinking that the odds against seeing something like this would be greater than seeing a registered Poland China boar hog with female breasts on an Oklahoma pig farm. Needless to say, I became apprehensive at my prospects, and then… downright disoriented. Quietly tiptoeing, I climbed out of the wash bed onto a long, gradually upward-sloping sandstone ridge with excellent footing, all the while rubbernecking and keeping both eyes fixated on the mouth of that cave. At any moment, I expected some kind of Jed Clampett throwback to come bolting out the entrance yelling “Wee Doggies,” flailing the air withdouble-ought deer shot.