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Neal Johns: The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

The Neal Johns Experience is always amazing and memorable, and more often than not, favorable. Here are a few pieces that might help explain our odd friend, how his mind works and what made him the character he is today. More dirt will follow in January ~ Editor

From the Baker Valley News, 1987:

West Edge of the East Mojave


Recently, it has come to my attention (from several sources) that the world should be protected from unknowingly joining my trips into the wilderness. Several areas of concern were men.tioned: my leadership, my appearance; my morals; my intelligence; etc.

No doubt these stories originate from lie-a-beds, rum runners, hot pool sitters and other such degenerates rather than true desert rats and other dedicated explorers of the far edges of the world.

However, in all fairness, I have decided to hold a contest for the best letter defining and discussing my alleged shortcomings. The contest will be judged by an anonymous group of my peers to be selected by the editors of this yellow rag. The winner will be published (anonymous, if desired). Anyone who has been on a trip led by me is eligible to enter. Send your entries to: Baker Valley, Baker, CA.

                                    Neal Johns

– • –– • –– • –– • –– • –


April 6, 1987

I was very shocked at the “West Edge of the East Mojave” article Opportunity which appeared in the March 5, 1987 issue of the BVN. Neal Johns is a perfect leader. Hopefully his intimate lady friends are the only people aware of his “shortcomings.”

This opportunity should be used to discuss Mr. Johns’ many attributes rather than his meek appearance, loose morals or lack of intelligence. The first of Mr. Johns’ many attributes that come to mind is.............

Thank you very much for this opportunity.


  1. H. S. Mangler,

                        Canyon Lake, CA

– • –– • –– • –– • –– • –


Regarding the “Neal Johns Shortcomings” contest ann.ounced in the March 5th issued of BVN. We would like to throw in our modest opinions. First of all, we must establish our eligibility to enter the contest. As veterans of approximately 20 trips led by Mr. Johns, over a span of about 4 years (1978-1982) we feel competent to judge his leadership abilities.

We would like to make several points:

  1. 1. The abstinent Mr. Johns unscrupulously takes advantage of his beer-drinking buddies to con.vince them that he knows better camping places, even though the sun has set hours ago and it means traversing the back roads of Baja in pitch darkness. (This “expert” leadership had pre.dictable results.)
  2. 2. Mr. J. has proven to be a dishonest and conn.iving character. One of his buddies (a veteran of the above-mentioned expedition) has in his possession a sworn statement that Mr. Johns would sell his Land Cruiser and never go off.road again. (This was written after extraction from the predicament outlined above.) Obviously he has not kept his word.
  3. 3. His moral decay and degeneracy have made them.selves clearly evident in his constant leering and ogling, not to mention drooling all over his Indian Guide. She also reported being groped in the middle of the night by an in.truder in her tent. She identified the “groper’ by the Starburst candy and Mountain Dew on his breath. (These items are well know to be Mr. Johns’ dietary staples.)
  4. 4. Along this same line, what more can you say about a man who would sleep with your mother.-in-law?
  5. 5. His utter disregard for human life was made known to us when he lured three unsuspecting novice rock-climbers into a blind canyon and forced us to scale sheer cliffs, laughing maniacally all the while.

We feel that the above statements represent a good cross-section of Mr. Johns’ many shortcomings as a desert guide. It is high time that his displays of lechery and senility be brought to light, and we thank you for this opportunity.

We expect to be returning to California in the future, and look forward eagerly to confronting Mr. Johns and forcing him to lead us on another of his exciting and anything-but-ordinary expeditions!!!

Thank you,



Panama City, Forida

– • –– • –– • –– • –– • –


Move to an up-scale neighborhood necessitates sale:

Wife - used but serviceable, one owner, can ply/fly broom, placid disposition some of the time, answers to Sue, healthy, maintained by professionals at mall, employed, comes with shoes, polished back, some grape juice stains on front which do not affect usability. In original packaging, no instruction book. Best offer.

                        Robert Phillip Jaussaud

– • –– • –– • –– • –– • –

Potential Rendezvous Events:

Ugly spouse contest - This 1s something that everyone can enter! Spouse does not have to be your own. Think of the possibilities! ID of submitting person will not be checked.

Stick Lizard Story Contest - Everyone has run across/over the famous desert dweller, the Stick Lizard. Tell your favorite story about this lizard that carnes a sharp stick around, sticks it in the sand on hot days and then climbs up on it to keep its feet cool.

Montezuma Bush Race Contest - Contestants will run a 50 yard course, turn around a bush, bury a square of TP and return to Start. Points will be given for style.

– • –– • –– • –– • –– • –

Indian Guides

by Neal Johns

Long time Desert Explorers have heard about my Indian Guide ad nauseum but here it is for you newbies.

I grew up in the desert and explored it via two wheel vehicles but my first 4WD (an FJ-40 Landcruiser) was purchased in 1977. My first wife (a nice lady who understandably got fed up with me after 21 years) had dumped me and I retreated to the sand for healing. The Landcruiser was my only vehicle and it took the same route to work every day. Behold! Three blocks from my house a clone was parked on the curb. Same year, same color It was in front of an apartment house so the identity of the owner was unknown.

One day, there was a pair of feet sticking out from under the clone. Landcruiser owners are a clannish breed who stick together against Jeep People (a lesser breed) so I took the opportunity to meet this kindred soul. First, to get his attention, I kicked the bottom of his foot and said “Sir, this is the ugliest Jeep I have ever seen! Would you mind parking it off the street where people can’t see it?” Well, that got his attention all right , he came boiling out from underneath the vehicle and glared down at me from his six foot three height, so just before he killed me I grinned and pointed over my shoulder at my identical Landcruiser and all was well. It turned out he was new in town (a Southern boy in the Navy) and they (Sam Daniels and his wife Bobbie) were interested in exploring the desert. The Daniels became friends and we indeed saw a lot of desert together.

What does this have to do with Indian Guides? When I got my 4WD m 1977, I was ahead of the rest of the world. There were no 4WD mini-pickups carpeting the desert so it was hard to find someone to go out with. At work when an invitation to go in my passenger seat was given out they would yawn and walk away. But things change.

Bobbie’s mother came out to visit her in California and we all took her to the desert for show and tell. It was a nice sunny day so when Bobbie said “Mr. Johns, (I hate it when young people call me Mr.) would it be alright if I took my top off to get a tan?” Well, everyone knows I’m not one to stand in the way of a good tan, and knowing that she worked her way to her Art Degree by modeling for the Art classes, and her husband and her mother were there and well what could I do but say All Righhtttt!

Being mterested in Photography (note the capital P) I strolled over nonchalantly and asked if it was OK to take her picture sitting there on the rock wearing a headband and panties. OK was the answer and luckily the camera had film in it. Well then, is it OK to show it to the boys at work? “Sure”, came the answer.

Next week an 8x10 Photo (note the capital P) appeared on my desk. It didn’t take long to attract a crowd all askmg who that was. “Oh her? That’s just my Indian Guide; you know I go to the desert a lot and the only way to find the waterholes and scenic spots are to have an Indian Guide.” The cries of “When do we go?” were music to my ears!

My IG is livmg in the desert with Sam near Kingman and still has great lungs.      ~ Neal


Assorted works, critiques and biographical material. Part Two

Part Two: More dirt on and from Neal. As previously noted, the Neal Johns Experience is always amazing and memorable, and more often than not, favorable. Here are a few more pieces that might help explain our odd friend, how his mind works and what made him the character he is today. ~ Editor

Text musings from 1970:

Birth of a Killer

Johns, R. N.

Scientific & Technical Writing

I started my life in the world of missiles about 15 years ago as a young Electronic Technician assigned to the Naval Ordnance Testing Station, China Lake. China Lake was a small pond surrounded by a hundred miles of sand and rock over which (hopefully) missiles would daily fly. A developmental model of a missile system resided among the rocks and was manned by a Navy crew. I was part of a new crew sent to relieve the men who had just put two years into developing the prototype missiles. The old crew gave a quick one-hour briefing for the newly-arrived men and retired to an air conditioned trailer to continue their “Acey-Deucy” game. This entrance into the missile game was somewhat faster than desired.

A special missile firing designed to impress an Admiral was scheduled in two weeks. The need for more money to continue the program and the availability of a large, lumbering B-17 Bomber were two facts that happily coincided at that time. Thought was also given to the assumption that no missile could possibly miss an aircraft large enough to furnish shad to half the jackrabbit population and further, that to an Admiral, one airplane looks like another. Pleas to the old crew to “do their thing” just one more time were lost in the noise of the trailer’s air conditioner. Thus I became an instant expert in the preparation of a missile guidance radar for firing.

Added to the problems of ignorant personnel and equipment with poor reliability, was the existence of practical jokers in the old crew. On firing day, the new computer operator was somewhat unnerved by the appearance of a three-foot gopher snake in the middle of his machinery. There was reason to believe that something more substantial than the wind had placed it there.

Firing day came, the missile flew, the B-17 fell out of the sky and the Admiral showered money onto the sand and rocks. Larger and faster missiles sprang from the ground, and like the old crew, I became familiar with the equipment and started to think of other things.

After marrying one of the “other things,” I succeeded in getting her a job at another part of the base. It therefore became necessary to demonstrate to her what a fine weapons system we had developed by allowing her to attend a firing. The missile left the launcher, immediately turned sideways and broke into two parts. Since I had claimed a major portion of the credit for develping the missile system, it was difficult to convince her that another man had put the missile wing on improperly.

Soon it became apparent to me that the missile system would become effective in spite of my presence in the military, and I left to join the other half of the “military industrial complex.” It was not difficult to convince the missile manufacturer that my many and large mistakes were really the by-product of my vast experience and energy. This led to nine years employment as a civilian in the missile business before the urge to move on became unbearable. I had noticed that the Missile Engineering Station had its fair share of ex- China Lake people. One of the men I had worked for at China Lake was head of the Training Department. It seems likely that observing me in action made it apparent to him that something needed changing. Another ex- China Lake man got himself put in charge of the weapons systems hardware to try to make it idiot-proof. When asked about my fit into his pattern of operation, he was always a little vague.

I joined the team at the Station recently and find it easier to hide my mistakes in the Civil Service morass. Wish me luck.

– • – • – • –

West Edge of the East Mojave

Travel & Books

Travel and Books shall aperiodically appear; Sight down your nose and lend me an ear!

TRAVEL: The Painted Caves of Baja

Our next trip is known as Death by Muleback. Only those of you who carry Senior Citizen Discount cards (as I do) and have not been on a four-legged  beast of any kind for at least 20 years can possibly understand the trepida.tion, no, the abject fear, that beats my heart faster when I am faced with a 15 mile mule ride.

It all started with a jealous old to do anything but pant and stutter, I fell under the spell of a Desert Circe at the last Friends of the Mojave Desert Rendezvous. It was apparent that the Rose of Nipton was ill-matched to her lackluster husband and that, indeed, he even made ME look good. A moderate rapport was established with the lady and things looked good until I suggested maybe we had better put-off consumating this thing of ours until spring when my sap begins to rise. She gave me sort of a funny look and drifted off with her husband. So it was quite a surprise when he called a few weeks ago with an offer to accom.pany them on a trip to Baja California via Van, Mule, and Airplane to visit the ancient cave paintings. Flushed with the thought of being near my Mojave Mousse, without thinking I imnediately said yes. Later, the dreaded word Mule surfaced in my Joyceian stream of consciousness and I knew I had been had. There are many of you out there who have never seen a mule or a horse. Let me explain them. Historically they have been quite important to the West. Before Japanese cars were invented they were the major means of transportation. Their main disadvantage was operator training. You had to know how to dance as a prerequisite to riding them. The explanation for this seeming incongruous statement is simple. You’re affixed to the Mule/Horse (commonly abbreviated, SOB) by a Spanish saddle designed by Torquemada. This device forces your pelvis to move in synchronism with the SOB’s gait which results in a hip motion which is not unlike a frenzied disco dancer’s. Failure to achieve synchronization produces extreme pain and perhaps even death.

I don’t dance.

Her husband knows this. He’s trying to kill me. The cave paintings in the Sierra de San Francisco, many larger than life, will be described when (and if) I return.

– • – • – • –

BOOK: The White Heart of the Mojave, Edna Brush Perkins (1922). Long out of print, this book is a true story about 2 adventurous, self styled middle aged mothers, who, needing a vacation from their work which involved voting rights for women, decided to visit a blank spot on the map; the Mojave Desert and its white heart, Death Valley. It has special significance for Baker, because they used the thriving town of Silver Lake (just 8 miles north, of the then nonexistent Baker) as headquarters for an attempt to penetrate into Death Valley.

Starting from Los Angeles, alone in a 1920 vintage Ford with no previous experience in desert living or driving, they reached the end of the blacktop at Victorville and continued on sand and gravel roads to Silver Lake via Barstow and Johannesburg.

Johannesburg was included due to an aborted attempt to enter Death Valley via Wingate Pass on the western side. It was 116 miles from Joburg to Silver Lake  “...over and around dry lakes. Often there was no sign of a road, at least no sign that was apparent to us.” Fortunately they had a miner’s truck to follow, piloted by two kindly miners whose appearance led them to be referred to as “Bandits.” Arriving at the last crest overlooking the dry Silver Lake bed, (where the power line road goes now) they looked out over the lake and “At the far side of the lake stood a group of 10 portable houses, bright orange beside the purple darkness of the baked mud lake.” A kindly resident, Mr. Brauer greeted their announcement about going to Death Valley with a simple “Mein Gott!” Silver lake was served by the Tonapah and Tidewater Railroad; two tratns a week came by.

The ladies accompanied by the local Sheriff explored to the north and got a few miles beyond Saratoga Spring where no track was visible and their car could go no farther. “The pool at Saratoga was full of little darting fish, strange to see in the silent, lifeless waste.” The Sheriff fed the Pupfish part of his lunch much as Doc Springer must have done at Zzyzx.

Disappointed, they made arrangements to go into Death Valley via wagon next winter with the Sheriff as a guide. Riding the T and T to Beatty, they acquired a wagon, supplies, a mule, a horse and some much needed desert lore: “the Mexican cook... told us that it was so hot in Death Valley the lizards had to turn over on their backs and wave their feet in the air to cool them...”

They went past Rhyolite and over Daylight Pass (now Highway 374), down hill to the deserted Keane Wonder Mine, and onto Furnace Creek Ranch.

The fresh eyes of these two women continually saw what so many of us pass by in the desert without conment: “The long line of sultry red rock that had smoldered and smoked all day slowly turned blue in the twilight. Unfamiliar green and purple stones lie around, and bright red stones, and a stone of a strange orange-color likeflame.” “Each... a color or texture more) alluring than the last until our pockets became unbearably heavy.” “...trying to decide which ones to throw away, but... could not possibly throw one away on the same day.”

Retracing some of their steps northwest, they went to Stovepipe Wells and up Emigrant Canyon to Skidoo. From Skidoo, then to Wildrose Spring where they hiked to the snow on the summit of Bennett Peak next to Telescope Peak.

Returning to Beatty they were caught in a violent, but exciting, sandstorm. At the close of the book they make an observation regarding the Mojave that many Baker residents from their unique perspective can agree with even now: “some travelers look at her curiously, some look longingly, some shudder, some pass with the window shades pulled down.”

                                    Van Gogh


Desert Rats I Have Known

Desert Rats I have Known

by Jerry Dupree

I have lived in the desert for 45 years and in that time I have met some very interesting people. Most folks who come to the desert only see its splendor and majesty from the road. Most don’t see past a golf course. I moved here because my friends and I from high school would often drive out to the desert. We liked to explore, hunt, and shoot, and people thought us weird even then. Others were “into” surfing and other things. Each of us had a .22 rifle and some of our dads owned shotguns. We frequented various parts of the desert hunting rabbits, doves, quail, and an occasional duck. We were outdoorsmen, and we’re still avid about the desert, mountains, and wetlands. It has been said that the only constant is change. I thought of the desert as timeless and that my discovery would always be here as I remembered it. Much of where I used to roam freely is now developed in golf courses and condos, and it is in the city limits, or posted, gated, fenced, or we are legislated out. I hunted literally across the street from my house and saw every kind of living creature that lives in the desert.

There is a subspecies of the human race known as the “desert rat.” He’s not a true rodent, but no one knows much about them, where they’re from, what they live on, or what they do every day, He is not the same as what is now referred to as “homeless.” The desert is their home and they have adapted to it.

 Such a man was “Andy the Donkey Man.” Andy owned about a dozen burros and lived in a tiny trailer near Highway 111 in Palm Desert. He had no car, no family, or visible means of support. People who befriended him brought feed for his donkey. People would bring their kids to feed the donkeys by hand and make donations to Andy. He was small, didn’t talk much or move very fast, and wore a large cowboy hat. At night he would walk along the highway to a bar and have a beer, and then walk home to his trailer. I don’t know exactly how long Andy lived here but he was a fixture in Palm Desert and everyone knew him. He was what they have in many resort communities. Laguna Beach had “the Greeter” who waved at all the cars driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. Andy was losing his eye sight and it was learned that he had cataracts. Some people took up a collection for an operation to restore his vision. Before long they had enough money for the operation and had volunteers to care for his donkeys during his recovery. Andy lived there for a few more years and continued his nightly ritual. Sadly one night while he was walking home from his favorite beer joint, he was struck from behind by a car and was instantly killed. The driver wasn’t charged as it was very dark and Andy was on the highway. The donkeys were given up for care by the Humane Society.

Les Chadoin was a prospector, artifact collector, and gold miner who had a pickup and camper, and a lot of stories. He would invite me to go with him to show me springs, oasis, Indian petroglyphs, and all kinds of wonderful things he had discovered and that only he knew about. Les was a tall man with very large ears. When he found out I liked hiking and exploring he was ready to have me join him. I accompanied Les on a few day trips, but never very far out in the wilderness where he would have liked to show me more. I always had other things to do, my family needed me more, and I always thought there would be more opportunities. Les died of a heart attack and it is one of my deep regrets that I didn’t learn more from him.

Ross was a hermit who lived on top of a sand dune in a teeny little concrete building. He owned his sand dune and the ten acres around it. One of his very few friends owned the adjacent ten acres and they devised a plan to irrigate it and raise hay. Ross leveled, plowed planted, watered, and cut his hay and got a yield of eighty bales the first year. It was his last year and he didn’t bother with it the next year. He acquired the adjacent ten acres of sand and tumble weeds. Ross didn’t own anything because it would get stolen. He had a very old four wheel drive truck that he used to go to the beer joint every night so he could watch television. One of his quirks was that if you started him talking about any subject, he would give you the whole history from beginning to the end of whatever that subject was. Such was the story of his hay growing venture. Eventually, progress made its way to Ross’ front door and he was paid a visit from a man who wanted to buy his sand dune, tumble weeds and all. Ross was paid $50,000 per acre for his little piece of paradise and it is now a part of the El Dorado Polo Club.

There was another Les. He was Les Shockley. He lived out in the canyons and rocks and drove a Jeep. I used to see him and talk to him about the old days, when the Army moved in to the desert to train for desert warfare in North Africa during World War ll. He told me about General Patton’s headquarters at what is now Palm Desert. He knew everything about every part of the desert and all of its animal life. One thing curious about these old desert rats is that they are very friendly and willing to open up to anyone willing to listen. They don’t seem to be afraid of strangers. Years later Les learned he had cancer and he drove his Jeep off of Vista Point where the hang gliders launched from. A witness said he made several passes before he took his final run.

Harry Oliver was a weird old guy who lived in Thousand Palms. He built himself a fort from adobe and called it Fort Oliver. He published a newspaper and printed it on a cardboard much like a restaurant menu. He said it was the only newspaper in the world you could read in the wind. He died and was cremated and his ashes were placed in an ammo can and buried in his “fort.” The fort is no longer there, but there is a street named “Harry Oliver Road.”

There is so much charm in the desert and I have many fond memories of life as it was before it turned to so many cities. These are things you see and learn when you hunt and explore the canyons and rocks out here. I’m beginning to feel a kinship to those men and somehow envy their slow pace and worry free lives. Who knows...                                                                  ~ Jerry

"Wasteland" by Debbie Miller Marschke

Steve and I were enroute back from a trip and we ran into a group of creative folks headed to “Wasteland.” The gathering occurred this year on September 22-25, 2016 in the desert near California City. This started as an annual gathering in 2010. According to their website:

“Join over a thousand attendees coming from all over the the United States (and beyond) to gather in the Southern California desert for a four-day post-apocalyptic festival. Set up camp at our wasteland compound, surrounded by specially-built sets. Costumes are required and post-apocalyptic campsites and vehicles are encouraged. Live for four days in a world pulled straight out of the Mad Max movies and other post-apocalyptic films and games, beyond the grip of so-called civilization.

Top DJs and bands from all over will provide the soundtrack, fire dancers and bonfires will light up the night, and modified vehicles will shake the earth with their engines. Don’t miss it!

This is an ADULTS ONLY event.

            • Live bands &top DJs from California, Nevada, Arizona and beyond

            • Combat and stunt performers, fire dancers, wasteland burlesque, post-apocalyptic-style sideshow and circus acts and more

            •           An armada of post-apocalyptic vehicles from all over the country

            •           Wasteland merchants vending their wares and services in “Bartertown”

            •           Jugger – The post-apocalyptic bloodsport of the future

            •           Vehicle cruises, themed games, contests, and activities

 I asked if the event was similar to Burning Man and after hearing a few expletives, I was informed that this “full immersion” event should never be associated with Burning Man. The group had traveled all the way from Montana.

How To Get A Good Night's Sleep

by Betty Wallin

Tom Church and I decided to sell TipTop houses. There were some sample houses in Nevada. The agent that contacted us was rather strange. Managing the house sales was a side business. His main occupation was making crocheted tassels for the chorus girls in Las Vegas shows. I don’t know if he custom fitted them, but didn’t doubt it. We drove up and looked at the houses, then stopped in Tecopa for dinner on the way back. During dinner, a terrific windstorm came up and we drove across the street to a heavy cluster of tamarisk to get our vehicles out of the wind for the night. It looked like the trees grew metal babies as the area was filled with cars whose drivers obviously had the same idea. Where to go?

I had the bright idea to drive down to Afton Canyon campground along the Mojave River. The wind and blowing sand were blinding but at least the wind was blowing from behind us. We made it down to the campground about midnight. It was empty, a gentle breeze was blowing and it was beautiful and quiet. I chose to sleep in the back of my truck with Buster (the club mascot). Tom put his sleeping bag on top of a picnic table, then we crashed, so tired.

Not long after I went to sleep, I woke up with a start at the sound of a siren, and a truck going in circles all over the campground with red and blue flashing lights. After about five minutes of this frightening display, the truck stopped by our vehicles. The sheriff got out and explained that they had been chasing a murderer from Las Vegas and he stopped on the Freeway, jumped out, and ran down the dirt road toward the campground. He asked, “Have you seen him?” Of course we hadn’t. The sheriff then said in a confident tone, “Well, let us know if you do as we are sure he is around here somewhere.” Leaving us with that cheerful thought they drove away.

Too tired to pick up and drive anywhere else, we decided to take our chances. Buster and I retired back in the truck and Tom stayed in his sleeping bag on the table. At first I could not hear a soda can shifting in the breeze, but Buster could and would growl at it. Sure it was the murderer, I was on full alert, but nothing happened. After about the third time, I heard the noise and realized that if it was the murderer he had shrunk into the size of a soda can and donned an aluminum suit labeled 7-UP. By morning, Tom said he did not fare much better. The breeze would lift the sleeping bag up off his back a little and he was sure the murderer was lfting it off his neck and looking down at him.

We did not linger that morning and promptly got ready to drive home. No sign of another human being which made our leaving much more pleasant. It’s amazing how scared a person can be who has such courage tackling obstacles with a 4x4 in the company of the Desert Explorers and bright sunshine.

PS We never sold any houses.

In Memory of

  • Tom White 
  • Gene Olsen
  • Walt Wheelock
  • Tom Church
  • Bill Ott - passed July 10, 2004
  • Bill "Shortfuse" Mann -Passed August 2006
  • Dwight Stroud - passed January 19, 2007
  • Lorene Crawford - Passed August 2009
  • Alan Romspert - Passed August 19, 2009
  • Don Putnam - November 5, 1916 to August 14, 2012
  • Jim Proffitt - March 21, 1941 to September 1, 2012
  • Reda Anderson - passed October 25, 2012
  • Rick Cords - May 1944 to February 1, 2014
  • "Sir" Bob Rodemeyer - December 1950 to November 11, 2014
  • John Fulton - July 5, 1937 to February 15, 2015
  • Marilyn Martin - November 19, 1929 -  June 20, 2015
  • John Page - passed September 8, 2015
  • Gary Preston - passed February 24, 2016
  • Ted Kalil - passed in 2016
  • Jerry Etchison - passed in December 2016
  • Jerry Harada - passed on August 6, 2017
  • Gene Stoops - passed on Sept 2, 2017
  • Graham "Coop" Cooper - March 31,1944 to November 22, 2017

" Happy Trails To You, Until We Meet Again..."

Coming Up

Fri Feb 23 @12:00AM
Heritage Trail
Sat Mar 03 @11:00AM - 01:30PM
General Meeting & Potluck
Wed Mar 07 @12:00AM
Anza Borrego Overland


January 2018

  • David & Lois Hess - Bakersfield CA
  • Paul & Marlene Vermette - La Mesa CA
  • Beth & Jack Mika - La Verne CA
  • Paul Paulsen - Anaheim CA