196006 Desert Magazine 1960 June

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JUNE,

1960

40

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the

OUTDOORSOUTHWEST

"THE GOLDRUSH"

BY

CLYDE FORSYTHE(see page

2)

ON THIS MONTH'S COVER:

The Gold Rush

This month's cover

The Mining Camp

July cover

The Mining Town

August cover

THE GOLD RUSH

THE FIRST IN A FAMOUS SERIES OF PAINTINGSBY THE DISTINGUISHEDWESTERN ARTIST

1 P

^mii?

The Ghost Town

September cover

A GRAPHIC RECORD OF THE SHORT-LIVED

Wahmonie, Nevada

GOLD STRIKE

The paintings, shown in black-and-white at the left,will be reproduced in full color on the forthcomingcovers of Desert Magazine, as indicated in the captions.

Clyde Forsythe was born in Orange, California, in 1885.He attended military school where he "blew the bugle, flunkedin algebra, learned Spanish . . ."Forsythe went to New York in 1904 to study art at the ArtStudent's League. The following year he got a job drawingcartoons for the "New York Journal." "I was canned in 1909,which was dismal, having married in '06," he writes. "Wentto work for the 'Evening World,' took to illustrating magazinestories on the side, and painted covers for 'Colliers,' 'American,''Redbook' and others. During World War I I painted posters."In 1920, "fed up with snow and ice," Forsythe "came hometo be a real painter of the desert."Of Clyde Forsythe's work, "Widening Horizons" had thisto say:"In the pioneering era Mr. Forsythe saw and paintedmainly the forbidding aspects of the desert, instilling into hisportrayals the atmosphere of blight and desolation . . ."Many of his canvases today tell another story. Intothese he manages to infuse that subtle something which be-speaks life and purposeful activity, charm and invitation. Thewealth of sunshine and floral beauty is recognized and sug-gested; towering mountains and vast distances are shornof their erstwhile tragic aspects and made to blend with thesand dunes . . ."Clyde Forsythe is one Western artist whose paintings ofthe desert partake alike of the spirit of the Old West and thatof modern times ..."In the April, 1942, "Desert Magazine," Artist John Hilton hadthis to say about Forsythe's Gold Strike series:"Clyde Forsythe . . . has done a series of paintings whichhe calls 'Gold Strike.' These will live in the annals of Ameri-can art long after the richest gold mines have played out."They depict the development of a boom town, from thefirst hectic rush, through the tent city period, to the opulent eraof false fronts and crowded dance halls. There is only onelast scene yet to be completed—the old town in its desertedstate. Then he will have added to the art treasures of the Westa living story in paint such as has never been attempted."

A

N ARTIST'S reasons for painting a picture are inmost instances apparent—he selects his material inthe studio or goes to nature; follows his own inclina-tion, filled with ambition and hope. He is free and inde-pendent, and perhaps successful.In painting "The Gold Rush," and the three picturesthat follow, I am inclined to think that the material selected

me.

They were born of an adventure!In the last week of February, 1926, my wife Cotta andI loaded our "covered wagon," a Franklin sedan, with ourcamping outfit and sketching materials and headed for thewilds of Nevada. The plan was the usual one—to find newdesert landscapes to paint.That first afternoon we stopped for gas at a wide placein the road—Las Vegas. As the tank was being filled, Isaw a shabby little man sitting on a box near the station."That," I said to Cotta, "looks like a desert rat and I'mgoing to ask him if he knows where I can find some burros."And here it began. Said the little man, "If there's anyburros around, they'll all be out to Wahmonie at thestrike . . . you ain't heard of the strike? Big strike, twoweeks old, got a camp, miners stakin' out claims. Me andmy partners got two staked out; we're in for grub andheadin' back t'night." He was George Davis, age 72.That was all I needed to hear. All we had to do wasto follow the Beatty road for 90 miles, look for a whiterag on a stick in a bush, and follow a sandy wash for 20miles. Wheel tracks would lead us to the camp in the hills.We made the 90 miles at sundown, camped by someroadside rocks, and had our supper—beans, eggs, bacon.The back of our front seat was on hinges and folded downto make a good bed in the car. We turned in for a muchneeded rest.A few yards farther along was the "rag on a stick" andthe wheel tracks. Nextmorning I put her intosecond gear and step-ped on the gas. Wewere off for Wahmonie,but we didn't go far.The landscape was puresand. In the middle ofthe wash stood a two-room house atop asteaming old truck. Wecame to a stop. Thetruck was in sand upto the hub caps—stuck.Since a Franklin carcould not tow anythingwithout pulling itsdrive - shaft out, wecould not help. Thethree men with the out-fit were digging sandand piling in brush asI passed out useless ad-vice.In this way I gotto know the "boss."Seldom have I seen atougher, rougher look-ing character — and sohelp me, his name wasForsythe!The little house washeaded for the camp toserve as a mess-housefor the miners whowere working the "bigstrike." I learned frommy new friends that the

THE COLD RUSH

WAHMONIE

PARTNERS JIM

RYAN,LEFT,

AND GEORGE DAVIS

mine had been bought from the finders by George Wing-field, Nevada's top mining and cattle operator.We managed to crawl around the big roadblock, andcontinued up the wash, passing a few sad-looking jalopiesalong the way. The going was all up a slope. Finally wesaw tents and plumes of smoke from burning piles ofcreosote bush.There, in a shallow two-mile-wide valley, lay the newcamp. A few streets had been dragged out and a dozentents lined the main drag. A grocery tent, a cafe tent, andother tents.We parked in the greasewood a couple of hundredyards from the camp and walked back to look for ourlittle man, George Davis. He was there with his partner,Jim Ryan—two desert rats with several weeks of stubbleon their tanned faces.Some of the men had come into camp on foot, fromall directions. A few wagons and jalopies were scatteredabout. One man came into camp dragging a wheelbarrow.We watched the straggling hopefuls, as hours apart, theylimped into camp and looked about for campsites.Davis and Ryan had a shabby little pup-tent in thecenter of "town." They had a pot of mulligan stew on thefire.Human pride is where you find it—like gold. Dried-uplittle George Davis was the oldest man in camp. He hadbeen honored by the men who knew how to honor a man.They had named the highest peak in the range, "MountDavis." We found that we were with a man of distinction!Ryan, the partner, was just a young punk of my own age, 41.We supplied some of the camps with water. Underthe car we had a ten-gallon tank of camping water, witha faucet behind the rear fender. There was a well twomiles from camp and we went there to fill up, and foundseveral wild burros atthe trough. They ranoff and refused to bephotographed.Back to camp andthe cafe. A 1x12 plankabout 10 feet longserved as a table. Hamand eggs and coffee atone dollar per person—but this was better thanslavery over a campfire.Liquor too! A five gal-lon demijohn of gin,and one tumbler for allcustomers.We sat with Davisand Ryan at theircampfire as the cold ofdesert night drew about

us,

and learned aboutGeorge's daughter, whow a s a fine schoolteacher far away in theEast.By the last faint lightof evening we saw inthe west a strange sightin the desert—a two-room house camesnorting and groaningagainst the gray sky.They had made it!And so to bed inour private

car.—END

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