Stories, Tales and Legends

Fact or Fiction?
Man through all the ages has recorded his history, his achievements and his
moments of despair, for those who followed him to learn and to remember.
The spoken word has passed from father to son through the years and the
“written” word has been engraved, carved, written or drawn on every possible object
from the walls of prehistoric caves, to the papyrus scrolls of the ancient Egyptians, to the
electronic “books” of the modern day.
Each story can usually be traced to some kernel of truth upon which the story is
based. It is never easy to determine just how much, if any, of an ancient tale we should
believe, for they are enlarged and embellished with each retelling. So it is with many of
the stories of the early days in the Arrowhead area. A few of those fanciful tales are
recorded here, all in abbreviated form, and we leave it to you, the reader, to decide if they
are fact – or fiction.

The Arrowhead7
enerations of people have wondered about the formation of the
marvelous prehistoric landmark known as The Arrowhead, so clearly
pictured upon the mountain side, six miles northeast of San
Bernardino and visible, on a clear day, from fifteen or more miles
away. Although the exact origin of The Arrowhead is undetermined,
numerous legends dealing with its supernatural creation, combining
the fancy of superstition with the romance of fiction, have been
extant among the Indian tribes and early settlers for many generations
By actual measurement The Arrowhead is 1,375 feet long and 449 feet wide, comprising
an area of roughly 7 ½ acres. The material of which it is composed is very different from
the adjacent formation of the mountains. The Arrowhead is made chiefly of disintegrated
white quartz and light grey granite and supports a growth of short white sage and various
non-native weeds. This lighter material and vegetation shows in sharp contrast to the
darker granite around it and dark green growth of the surrounding chaparral and
greasewood. Not a few believe that this natural mark was made by a mountain
cloudburst. A great volume of water was supposed to have struck the earth at the top of
the arrow, and, rushing down, formed the shank, then obstructed by some mass of
accumulated debris, it overflowed on each side and advanced with terrific force until the
overflow was confined by entering the wedge-shaped configuration upon the mountain
side, and the point of the arrow was shaped. The wonderfully formed symbol, so
distinctive a feature of the locality, is plainly visible to travelers on their way to the
mountain resorts.

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The Arrow On The Tree
I only saw it once, and I was a young lad of 10 at the time. My Great Uncle
Elwood, an amateur prospector who lived next door to my family, had taken me on a trip
into Holcomb Valley on a search for a legendary lost gold mine. We made camp in a
clump of trees near the stream, and while my uncle was fixing dinner, I went off to
explore the area. That was when I saw it.
The old black oak was gnarled and rough, its limbs like long bony arms reaching
out over a quiet pool. I climbed up the trunk and out on one of the bigger limbs until I
could look down into the water and watch small fish swimming lazily in the pool. Then
uncle called me to eat, and as I slid down the trunk I saw a rough shape of an arrowhead
carved into the crusty bark. I thought nothing of it at the time and hurried off to have
dinner.
Several times in the next few years we went back to Holcomb Valley, most of the
time with my folks and other families, but we never found the old mine. As I grew older
I became more interested in school and Scouting; later with football and girls, than in
some old lost mine, so for several of my teen years my uncle and his buddies made the
trip without me. Eventually they abandoned their unsuccessful search.
It was years later when I next heard of the lost mine. Uncle Elwood’s health was
failing and he spent hours talking to himself, almost as if he were hypnotized about the
things he had done as a young man. As I listened to one of these wild stories he
mentioned the mine and called it the Lost Arrowhead Oak Mine. He related a tale of two
miners, brothers actually, who had come to California way too late for the big rush up
north in ’49 so they had struck on the idea of looking in the southern mountain ranges.
After months of arduous labor the men actually found some gold along a creek bed in
what is now called Holcomb Valley. Following the trail upstream they stumbled on a rich
outcropping of ore. Digging for a few days yielded some high grade material and they
decided to hightail it back to San Bernardino and record their claim. One brother was to
stay on guard while the other went to town. When his brother failed to return, the one on
guard duty carved an arrow on a large oak nearby, as a signpost for their return. He
found his brother and a burro dead in an arroyo about 15 miles from town. Seems both
had tumbled off the trail. He made it to town the next afternoon, on a Sunday. After a
brief time explaining the situation to the Sheriff, and, talking about the claim he was
going to file on Monday, he buried his brother and hit the bottle. He was found dead
early Sunday morning of a self inflicted gunshot. The ore assayed out as high grade but
neither brother had apparently made anything of a map or notation of where the mine
was. Locals gave up looking after a few weeks and the whole thing lapsed into the status
of an old legend.
I listened entranced, my memory reaching back to that day long ago, when I had
seen the arrowhead carved on that ancient black oak. I tried hard to recall where we had
been on that trip. Then one night he passed away quietly in his sleep and took the secret
with him. Since that time, each year when I came up to Scout camp, I hiked in the area to

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try to find that old oak tree - with no luck. Oh, yes, the two brothers; they were my great
uncle Elwood and his older brother Bill.

The Vision at Gorgeous Gorge

Gorgeous Gorge is located downstream from the Camp Road on Cedar Creek, a
deep, impressive and beautiful crease cut deep in the granite by the rampaging creek
sometime in the distant past. Here is a spot surrounded by mystery for it is here that
ancient legends say the daughter of an Indian chief who was mourning the death of her
lover in battle jumped to her death into the gorge. The legend says that on a moon filled
night her spirit in the form of a mourning dove returns to be joined again with the young
man for moments of tender reunion.
There are many who have traveled to the gorge in hope of seeing the lovely bird,
but none has yet seen it. Others have searched in vain for the grave of the young warrior
buried nearby, but it too has remained undisturbed.
One night I hiked in the light of a bright full moon down the narrow trail to the
edge of the gorge. Light breezes stirred the leaves of the spreading oaks that line the
canyon. The moonlight skipped lightly from leaf to leaf finally falling on a deep pool
below filling it with a heavenly brilliance. In this scene of peace and tranquility I sat for
hours, but no ghostly visions appeared and after a while I dropped off to sleep.
Later I seemed to be awake but without the power to move or speak. It was like a
dream and I watched in awe as a lovely dove glided into the clearing and lit on the very
edge of the precipice. It made a cooing sound, seemed to call quietly for something – or
someone- on the far side, then a soft glow seemed to consume the little bird and suddenly,
there where the dove had been, was the figure of an Indian girl clothed in beaded white
doeskin, her arms extended across the gorge. Then from behind a fir tree on the other
side there appeared a figure of a handsome young Indian brave, the war paint still bright
on his face. With a graceful leap he jumped the gorge and in a moment the two were
caught in a lingering embrace. I held my breath in wonder.
The moon slipped behind a cloud as the young couple stood there, then without a
sound the young man turned, jumped back across the gorge and disappeared into the deep
shadows of the forest. The girl stood quietly, following his departure with a long loving
gaze of her eyes. That same soft glaze appeared again and when it had subsided there
was the dainty dove. After a few minutes it spread its wings and soared off into the night.
Then I was awake, wide awake. It was full daylight and I was still there by the
open gorge. I made my way carefully to the edge where in my dream I had seen the
tender moment of reunion, seeking some evidence that it had really taken place. To my
amazement I found in the dust at the top of the rocks the imprint of moccasined feet and a
single gray-white feather from the breast of a dove.
I turned and made my way back to camp determined to return again on some
enchanted moonlit night to the mysterious banks of Gorgeous Gorge.

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Coahuia Legend7
The Indians invariably associate the Great Spirit with the production of any
unusual natural phenomena, hence from the descendants of the Coahuia Indian
inhabitants of the San Bernardino Valley comes this explanation of The Arrowhead.
In the days of long ago, the Coahuia dwelt across the mountains to the eastward,
near the San Luis Rey Mission. Now, although of a peace loving disposition, they were
continually harassed by their warlike neighbors who stole their horses, devastated their
fields and burned their jacales. Thus for many years they lived unhappy and in constant
fear until, at last, the persecutions could no longer be endured, and at the command of
their chief the tribe gathered in council for the purpose of calling upon the God of Peace
to assist and direct them to another country where they might acquire a quiet homeland.
Rites and songs of peace were performed under the direction of the medicine man. Now
being a gentle people they found special favor with the Great Spirit, by whom they were
directed to travel westward, and instructed that they would be guided to their new home
by a fiery arrow, for which they must be constantly watching. Accordingly, the tribe
started upon the journey, and one moonless night, when the camp sentries had been
posted with the usual instructions to be watchful, there appeared across the vault of the
heavens a blazing arrow, which took a course westward, settling upon the mountain,
where the shaft was consumed in flame, but the head imbedded itself, clear-cut, in the
mountainside. The camp was aroused, and while yet the morning star hung in the east
heralded the approach of day, they resumed their journey to the promised land, under the
shadow of the mountain, where they located, and lived in peaceful contentment.

The Second Coahuia Legend7

Long ago, when the Evil Spirit dwelt in these mountains, the Coahuia were a race
of giants. Now the Evil One took supreme delight in making life miserable for them. His
favorite form of amusement was to roll down from the mountains huge boulders upon
their rancheria, and to pour drenching floods of water over the valley. The Indians,
naturally enough, became weary of these mischievous attentions and wishing to arrange
some sort of truce, one autumn day after the Evil One had been especially active they
decided to seek council with him. So the giant Indian chief called the sacred Eagle, after
first placing a white dove’s feather in its beak, to ascertain if the time was propitious.
That revered bird having so signified by soaring far aloft to the mountain stronghold of
the Evil Spirit and returning with the white feather of the dove, a score of the most
powerful Indians scaled the mountain side and the council occurred. After some
discussion it was agreed to play a game of cards for entire possession of the valley. The
Indians, chanting a good luck gambling song, were fast winning when the Evil One,

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becoming enraged, seized the ace of spades and dashed it against the mountain side with
such force that the mountain opened, received him sputtering in its depths, and when the
mountain closed back up the mark of the arrowhead turned from black to white. The
sulphurous hot springs at the mountain’s base and the occasional earthquake bear
evidence of the Evil One’s continued presence beneath the rocks.

The Guachina Indian Legend7

Ages and ages ago, so the legend
runs, the Indians inhabiting the beautiful San
Bernardino Valley, called by them
“Guachina,” meaning “a place of plenty,”
waxed strong and prosperous because of the
fertility of the soil and the abundance of the
streams that watered it. They were mighty
in the land, and becoming selfish and proud

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 in their arrogance, forgot the Great Spirit, the bestower of
their abundance and power. Then was the Great Father
displeased at their ingratitude, and thereupon sent down
among this people a hot, fierce spirit from the Sun-land, who
blighted their vegetation, drank of their streams until only the
sand beds were left, and drained their lakelets till only salt
and bitter waters remained. Then did the people gather in
council, building huge fast fires and make offerings to
appease the anger of the Great Spirit. But the scorching blast
continued, parching the land, and all green things shriveled,
the hot earth baked and cracked, the herds and flocks
perished, the Sun monster leaving only heaps of bleaching
bones. Then were the people visited by pestilence and
famine. Although they constantly prayed and made peace
offerings for the abatement of the fury of this consuming heat
monster, their supplications were unanswered. The wailing
Indians at length, driven to dire extremity, knelt with
outstretched arms and bowing to the ground offered to make

any sacrifice – even the forfeiture of the most precious life in the tribe – if only relief
might be granted them from the deadly visitation of this devouring pest.
Now, the chief is alleged to have been the father to an only daughter, Ne-wah-na,
by name, maiden of the new moon – the fairest and most beloved of all tribeswomen.
Finally, in answer to his last appeal, a voice floating from out of the broad expanse of the
skies bore this message: “Give Ne-wah-na as an offering to heaven.” Silence fell upon
the stricken Indians as their chief, rising above his devotions, slowly went to his wickiup.
There he carefully wrapped his daughter in her richest robes and adorning her with
golden trinkets, obedient to the mysterious voice, led her forth, leaving her alone to meet
the fiery wrath of the destroyer. When the sacrifice was completed Ne-wah-na was
consumed, the heavens opened up and immediately a white arrow of light shot out and
struck down the heat monster; others followed, until one struck the mountain side and
there left its mark. Then the blessed rain poured from above, the water once again
cooling the parched earth and running in the empty beds of the streams. The heat
monster writhed in agony under the copious, cooling downpour until the earth opened up
to swallow him. As it closed again, streams of boiling water bubbled from the rock
crevices and the famine and pestilence-ridden people, drinking deep of the steaming
waters, and bathing in them were healed. Thenceforth the humbled dwellers of the valley
lived for generation in peace and plenty at the foot of the arrow-marked mountain.

Mormon Legend7
From the Mormons has likewise developed a solution of the mystery of The
Arrowhead. It is related that when in the year 1851, Brigham Young desired to found a
colony which was to be a resting place to the saints coming to this, his city of Zion, from

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Europe and Australia, he sent a party to select a location. Before his band of disciples
started on their quest however, he told the two leading elders of a vision that had
appeared to him and which was substantiated by a Mormon seeress. He had beheld upon
the side of a mountain the head of an arrow, pointing down to a rich and fertile valley.
When the party should come upon this sign of the arrowhead, there in the valley to which
it pointed, he enjoined them to stop and found a new branch of Zion. After long,
wearisome plodding through Utah, Nevada the travelers came to the dreary stretch of the
Mojave Desert. Nearly perishing from the lack of water, thoroughly discouraged, they
were on the point of turning back when an angel appeared, admonishing them to be of
good cheer, continue their pilgrimage, and soon they would reach the land of their
reward. The following day they came to the Cajon Pass and from there viewed the
beautiful San Bernardino Valley. The elders, beholding the great white arrowhead
defined against the deep green background, recognized this as the valley of their leader’s
vision. So here they settled, founding in San Bernardino one of the most healthy and
prosperous offshoots Mormonism ever put forth, until in 1857, they were recalled by
Brigham Young to the City of Zion.

Dr. Smith’s Story7

Doctor D. N. Smith, who about 1858 sought to improve the boiling sulphurous
springs at the base of the mountain, had his own Arrowhead story to tell. According to
the good doctor when he was a young lad, at a time when his father was suffering from
consumption and lay sick unto death, an angel appeared to him in a vision and pictured a
place at the foot of a mountain side designated by an arrow pointing downward, a place
where his father might be cured. Some years later when Dr. Smith came to the San
Bernardino Valley and saw the sign upon the mountain he remembered the vision.
Visiting the foot of the mountain he found the hot springs which he discovered to be
possessed of valuable medicinal properties and great curative powers. The springs are
thirty-six in number and vary both in character and temperature.

The Legend of Juan Pablo

Prologue
This story was kept to the last pages because of the unbelievable mixing of fact and
fiction that surround it. Some of these are detailed in the notes following the story. The
Legend of Juan Pablo was first told, as such, at the closing campfire of the first week of
organized camping at The Arrowhead Scout Camps on July 22, 1950. It was told as a tale
of pure fiction from the imagination of George A. Aunger with no thought of his that any
part of it might be true or actually based on events at they really happened. Perhaps
George heard bit and pieces of the story in his youth and his subconscious wove the
pieces together, or perhaps he had a vision, or …. Read it and be amazed.

The Legend
It was hot on the desert as the little band of Spanish adventurers made their way
across the unending sands beset with a shortage of food, forage and water for themselves
and their animals, and to Juan Pablo this was torture in every way. The teenager had

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joined the party in that year of 1719 in hopes of finding his fortune but so far he had only
found disappointment.
Suddenly from the outrider came a cry, “Agua, agua … water, water,” and the
entire band surged on with a new ray of hope in their hearts. As they topped a rise they
saw not far away a small stream making its way through the desert and along its banks a
growth of small trees and green, lush grass. They drove their animals to the edge,
unpacked them and led them to the cooling stream, then tethered them to graze
contentedly in the shade. Only then did these hard men disrobe and plunge into the
water, bathing, drinking and refreshing themselves. Then, still naked, they took jerky
beef and parched corn from the packs and spread themselves in small groups to eat and
talk in the shade of the trees. All that is but Juan Pablo, who having bathed, took his food
to a shaded spot some distance from his fellows and sat thinking of home and family.
Soon he dozed off.
He woke to the sound of wild cries of pain and fear and he looked carefully over
the grass to see, to his horror, a band of Indians riding rampant among his friends,
hacking and killing as they rode. Even as he looked, the last of the Indians immediately
stripped every body of whatever it had and then took the packs and animals and rode off
into the desert. Juan Pablo waited a moment then made his way to each man finding
them all dead. As he looked, a lone Indian boy, no older than himself, rode through the
scene of death, saw Juan Pablo and struck him one hard blow with his lance to Juan’s
shoulder, and then he too rode off after leaving Juan Pablo unconscious on the hot sands.
It was night when Juan regained his senses. The sun was gone behind the distant
hills and he was alone among the bodies of his companions. He searched in vain for
something with which to sustain himself finding only the blade of a broken knife and a
tattered blanket in the ruins. He was weak from the loss of blood but his wound was
sealed and he was alive. He knelt and prayed for guidance and then he sat quietly and
made his plan.
He would sleep in the day and travel towards the hills in the distant west. There
was water aplenty and some berries on the bushes that lined the stream. He would find
crayfish in the stream as well; perhaps he might reach safety; he would try.
For many days and nights he followed the stream, the hills coming nearer, and
beyond them a mountain range. Then one night the stream divided, one branch
continuing through the desert and the other reaching into the mountains just ahead. He
chose the latter way. There was more wildlife now and his diet was made better by the
small birds and rodents he was able to kill along the way. He ate these raw rather than
attracting the savage Indians who might see the glow or smell the smoke from even a
small fire.
He traveled in the daytime now and one morning came to a spot where one branch
of the stream made its way in a cascade down through the rocky canyon, the other
winding sleepily from a narrow valley just above.
He followed the easier route and in a short time stood in a lovely open area lined
with towering trees and a wealth of wildlife totally unafraid of him, making the valley
ring with their cries and song. He looked about him and soon found on the banks of a dry
stream bed a small cave carved from the rocks by rampaging water in some long past
storm. Here he made his home, building a wall of rocks in front of the shallow cavern for
greater safety.

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 He knew he must plan his departure from this lovely place for soon the winter and
its snows would make life unbearable. One night as he said his beads, he heard the
footsteps of a large animal approaching his cave. He looked out and to his delight saw
the figure of a mountain sheep, its great horns curving down nearly to its knees, moving
toward him. Using all his strength he raised a great rock over his head, then as the sheep
came into the narrow clearing, crashed the rock down between the horns, and the Big
Horn Sheep lay dead at his feet.
Here was the means of his salvation for from this great animal he could make all
of the things he would need. The skin with its shaggy hair was carefully removed and
crudely tanned to make a warming robe. The bladder was removed and cured to make a
water container. The inner skin of the stomach was stretched and dried and formed into a
pouch and the flesh was cut into strips and some was dried in the sun; some smoked over
the fire; some salted with salt from the salt lick he had found upstream. Then he was
ready, and on the morning the first soft flakes of snow began to fall in the Valley of the
Big Horn sheep Juan Pablo started up the canyon on his way out of the mountains. His
trail led through heavy timber, upwards, always upwards, and after an hour of hard
climbing he found himself standing literally on the rim of the world for there, before him,
was a great canyon and far below the spreading areas of a broad valley with mountains all
around. Juan Pablo fell to his knees in a prayer of thanks.
He pushed on, following game trails and always with his eyes on the distant
valley. The trails led him down and with the nightfall he made his bed on a ledge
overlooking the vast plains below. Early the next day he was up again, and by noon
could see many signs of human life in the valley; smoke from fires and huts or shelters of
some kind. He rushed on, and then it happened.
His foot hit a loose stone and he fell hard on the rocky ground. His packet of
meat bounced into the canyon below, his water bag was crushed and the precious fluid
was seeping into the dry ground; and his shoulder which had been sore and red for
several days, was torn open and an angry matter ran freely from the wound. Still he
pushed on in the relentless sun, becoming weaker with each step.
It was dusk when his faltering steps brought him to the opening of a narrow
valley. Just ahead he saw the figures of a man and a woman and children going about the
chores of the end of another day. He stumbled on and with the last of his strength cried
out as he fell senseless to the ground.
When Juan Pablo awoke this time he found himself lying on a bed of skins in a
brush covered hut. He was looking into the friendly dark eyes of men whose hair was
long and matted but who gave him cool water and the warm broth of some kind of meat.
His shoulder was bandaged and no longer gave him pain and he felt secure and safe.
During the weeks of his convalescence, Juan found these natives to be kind and
friendly. They gave him every care and he slowly learned the words of their language so
he could ask for what he wanted. When he was well he became part of the tribe and
because of his knowledge he was soon looked upon as a wise man and was made a chief.
He married the daughter of one of the chief’s and by her had three sons who grew strong
and tall and their family was a happy one.
Then one day, as it must come to every man, Juan Pablo lay on his final couch.
The grim figure of Old Man Death stood just outside the Hogan waiting for his spirit to
lead it to the happy hunting grounds, but Juan Pablo did not despair. In all these years he

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had prayed to his own God of Hosts while accepting the religious ways of his family and
adopted tribe. He knew that his eternal spirit would soon rest in the heaven he had loved
as a child.
He called his sons to his side and to them he spoke thus, “My sons, through all
your lives you have heard the story of how I came through the deserts to the east, making
my way through the high mountains to this tribe. You have heard how I stayed and lived
in the canyon I called the Valley of the Big Horn, finding shelter in a shallow cave along
the stream, but I have never told of finding in that cave a vein of the yellow metal that my
people call ‘oro … gold’ – a metal they prize above all others for the good it can do for
those who own it.”
“We have just heard that a band of light skinned men dressed in cassocks of
brown and bearing a cross like that which I wear about my neck are approaching here
from the great bay to the south. These are men of my religion of my youth and they
come bearing the promise of eternal life for all men. These are good men and though I
will be with the spirits in the great tomorrow I would that you greet them and help them
as you can. Lead them to my cave in the Valley of the Big Horn that they may find the
metal which will help them carry out their great mission of mercy. Then will my spirit
roam in peace among the verdant hills of the hereafter.” With these words Juan Pablo
closed his eyes for the last time, and so our story ends, or just begins.

Epilogue
The teller of this story had been well known for his tall tales of the old southwest
while acting as the Program Director at old Camp Pepperdine on Jackson Lake, even
when that camp was known by its Indian name of Camp Siwinis, Big Pine Tree. When
the Lake Arrowhead Scout Camps were opened in 1950 many of the campers had shared
previous summers in camp with him, and they asked if there would be a legend about the
new camp at the final Campfire of the first week, and so it was that the Legend of Juan
Pablo was told.
Although he admitted that he knew a little of the history of the vast area
surrounding the camps, he insisted that he did not know enough to influence the telling of
this story, yet there are many facts that make this story, as it evolved over the weeks of
the summer of 1950, a maze of coincidence!
There are historical records of a number of Indian massacres of bands of explorers
in the deserts near present day Barstow and Victorville, California, thus the first trial of
Juan Pablo is established as fact.
There are stories told in the Indian tribes in the San Bernardino Valley of a light
skinned boy who came to the tribes from the mountains after escaping from the hostiles
in the desert. The Franciscan missionaries who explored the area in the 1770’s were
amazed to find a strain of light skinned Indians when they arrived in the San Bernardino
Valley and even more amazed to find many Spanish words and phrases in common use in
this tribe! So amazed, that they made record of it in their diaries, which came to light in
the 1960s. Thus another piece of the story falls into place and is upheld by
documentation.
In the summer of 1954, four years after the first telling of this story, a shallow
cave fronted by a wall of rocks was found along the old stream bed of Sheep Creek along

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with a set of horns from the head of a Big Horn sheep. Yet another coincidence –
perhaps.
How much of this story is coincidence and how much of it is true, I for one cannot
say. I do know that to me this story and its many corollaries in history prove, again, that
the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

May the Great Master of all Scouts be with us

until we meet again.

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