Rivers in the Desert Read online

  Rivers In the Desert

  Maggie Davis

  For Dr. Brian Young Mclean

  When nature has work to be done,

  she creates a genius to do it.

  EMERSON

  Prologue

  IT WAS JULY 26, 1935. Tens of thousands came to the Los Angeles City Hall to pay their respects to William Mulholland. Scores of black limousines circled the streets as mourners lined the sidewalks waiting to bid farewell to the retired chief engineer of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. At exactly 10:00 A.M., City Hall’s huge bronze doors swung wide, and the waiting crowd streamed inside the building’s massive, four-story rotunda.

  Elaborate funeral wreaths of chrysanthemums, gladioli, and red and white roses surrounded the body, which lay in a flag-draped, blue steel coffin. Gifts, hand-written notes, personal tributes, framed photographs, mementos, and garden bouquets had been lovingly placed beside his funeral bier; a myrtle wreath from President Franklin D. Roosevelt and a hand-penned note of condolence from former President Herbert Hoover were among the offerings.

  City officials, celebrities, working men, and families silently queued toward Mulholland’s coffin. Among the mourners were publisher Harry Chandler, banker Joseph Sartori, philanthropist George L. Eastman, humorist Will Rogers, University Chancellor Ernest C. Moore, six United States senators, four state governors, scientists, millionaires, engineering associates, and men who had worked with him in the tunnels and in the field.

  As mourners passed the open casket, they stopped briefly to stare at the waxen features of “The Chief,” now finally at peace in death. Some placed tokens and gifts inside his coffin or near the pyre. Others gently touched the brow of their beloved Chief, or whispered a prayer, then awkwardly moved on.

  Meanwhile, throughout the city, eulogies praised William Mulholland for his honesty, modesty, valor, intellect, humanity, and, above all, his spectacular achievements for the city of Los Angeles. At 2:00 P.M., for ten minutes, two million residents of Los Angeles halted commerce to pay homage. Flags at all schools and public buildings were lowered to half-mast. Water in the Los Angeles Aqueduct was stopped for one minute as it flowed from the river in the Owens Valley. One thousand miles across the desert, ten thousand men working on the Colorado River Aqueduct paused with reverence to stand bareheaded, their steam shovels, drills, and tractors silenced in tribute.

  “We are a forgetful generation,” declared Los Angeles Mayor Frank L. Shaw, “but pray God that this community will never forget the everlasting debt of gratitude it owes this human diamond. His like we may never see again.”

  IT HAS BEEN SAID of heroes that for every devoted admirer won on the precarious climb to glory, two enemies are incurred. William Mulholland was no exception. Coupled with the outpouring of tribute was enough hatred, both within the city of Los Angeles and in Owens Valley, 250 miles to the north, to prove he had labored and struggled in the world. There had been many among the mourning crowd who had come not to revere but to damn; some even blamed him for the violent deaths of their kin.

  They, too, had left gifts among the tribute offerings. Placed inconspicuously amid the rose petals of a huge funeral wreath draped across the foot of Mulholland’s casket was a small glass vial tied with a ragged fragment of red cotton, now faded and stained. Many would have recognized it as a commemorative from the opening of the Los Angeles Aqueduct. The tiny vial had been saved all those years by someone who had been in the crowd that day. When opened, the vial emitted the unmistakable, acrid odor of urine.

  Yet even this dismaying commentary was lost amid the tributes and praise. Like Moses, William Mulholland had gone to the mountain and had brought back life–in the form of water–to a city dying of thirst. He transformed a land that could not support 250,000 souls into a flourishing oasis harboring millions.

  ONCE THE PROCESSION at City Hall ended and the last bereaved were gone, the bronze doors of City Hall were closed. Now William Mulholland would be transported to his eternal place of rest, a mausoleum situated upon a sunlit rise overlooking the city for which he had accomplished and sacrificed so much.

  Requiescat in pace great dreamer, great builder,

  great friend of our fair and prospering city.

  Acknowledgments

  William Mulholland’s office files during his tenure as Chief Engineer and General Manager are part of the collections of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power’s Historical Records Program. The correspondence and other papers proved invaluable in chronicling the career of William Mulholland. I am especially indebted to Dr. Paul Soifer, project manager for the Historical Records Program, and consulting archivist Thomas Connors, both of the Bancroft Group, for their generous assistance.

  Many people have made this book possible. I am deeply grateful to Joyce Purcell, Senior Librarian, Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, Craig G. St. Clair, company historian for the Los Angeles Times,Charles Johnson of the Ventura County Museum of History and Art, Kathy Barnes of the Eastern California Museum, and Thomas M. Coyle of the Los Angeles County Medical Association Library. I also thank the librarians at the University of California, Berkeley, Water Resources Center Archives, the Henry Huntington Library, the Moses H. Sherman Foundation, and the University of California, Los Angeles, Special Collections.

  Special thanks to Jim Allen, Karen Chappelle,Michael Dougherty, Sandy Ferguson, Bob Feinberg, Jeffrey Forer, Louise Fraboni, Lee Harris, Burt Kennedy, Shelly Lowenkopf, Keith Lehrer, Steve Paymer, Roger S. Roney, Robin Shapiro, Rick Solomon, Richard Somers, Jean Stine, Paul Ward, David Williams, and Digby Wolfe.

  Enough appreciation cannot be expressed to Catherine Davis and James H. Davis, Noel Riley Fitch, Dr. James Ragan, Susan Vaughn, and the late Tommy Thompson.

  My heartfelt thanks are due my editor, Scott Waxman, and literary agent, Richard Curtis. Finally, I am especially indebted to Larry Ashmead at HarperCollins, who graciously gave his support to this biography.

  MARGARET LESLIE DAVIS

  Brentwood, CaliforniaFebruary 1993

  1

  Genesis

  The good works of some are

  manifest beforehand.

  1 TIM 5:25

  WILLIAM MULHOLLAND and Fred Eaton set out for the Owens Valley from Los Angeles on September 4, 1904, in a two-horse buckboard. Their trek to Inyo County would take five grueling days, and the two friends decided to camp out along the way, living on a miner’s diet of bacon, beans, and hard liquor. They later joked that their route could be easily traced by following the trail of empty whiskey bottles—dead soldiers—left in their wake.

  The first twenty-five miles out of Los Angeles were uneventful. Eaton managed to negotiate the buckboard through the familiar dry washes of the Big and Little Tujunga Rivers without difficulty. The going got rough when they reached the notorious Newhall Grade where the narrow, unpaved road climbed forty-two degrees. The adventurers, one the chief of the Los Angeles Water Department and the other a former mayor, had to unload three weeks supply of food, water, horse feed, and bedding and push the buckboard behind the horses to get to the top, then trudge back down the grade to retrieve the supplies.

  At the town of Newhall, in the Santa Clara Valley, Mulholland and Eaton spent the evening drinking at the local saloon. The next morning they traveled northwest to Saugus and east into the Soledad Canyon, where for thirty-five miles they struggled through a narrow and difficult mountain pass, and unexpectedly struck water. Their wagon sunk miserably into the soggy earth. The two civic dignitaries removed their boots and waded in, pushing, shoving, and cursing at the wagon and horses for two hours until the vehicle’s wheels finally lifted to solid ground. After passing through the town of Acton—stopping at a small brick hote
l where they liberally refreshed themselves at the bar—they journeyed fifteen more miles to the tiny, weather-beaten desert town of Palmdale, population twenty-five.

  There, Mulholland guided the wagon across the summit of the Tehachapi mountains, altitude 3,800 feet, where he could see for a distance of 150 pollution-free miles the desert terrain that lay further ahead, a staggering vista of mountain peaks and dry lakes.

  Entering the Mojave Desert after traveling through the junctions of Del Sur, Elizabeth Lake, Fairmont, and Willow Springs, Mulholland and his friend reached the sunbaked town of Mojave. After a night’s drinking and rest in a deep featherbed at a Mojave hotel, the men departed shortly after sunrise. They had traveled a distance of ninety miles in two days.

  Pushing forward across the baked desert floor, Mulholland heard the wheels of the buckboard crunch over miles of hard gravel and dry rocky washes. He saw the rock and boxwood headstones of men who had died in the desert, alongside the bleached skeletons of stage horses, their harnesses scattered along the isolated trails.

  Some distance further, the desert melded into a gorgeous shade-mirage of turquoise and deep maroon, softening the hellish atmosphere of heat. When the wind blew, dust devils bounced wildly among the sage and greasewood; Joshua trees rose in the midst of nothing and stretched forth their twisted arms, as though warning travelers that the land’s legacy was death.

  The next day, Mulholland and Eaton reached a beautiful sandstone canyon called Red Rock, and came to the only sign of habitation within twenty miles—a shack of unpainted boards owned by an old Irish oxcart builder. The enterprising old desert rat had dug a water well and mounted a hand pump on it, and in front of the shack waiting for the travelers he had filled pails with water. A sign in lead pencil cautioned: WATER 10 CENTS A PAIL.

  Drinking his fill, Mulholland joked, “Fred, there’s no use traveling further—we’ve found the water for Los Angeles.”

  “The only problem,” Eaton laughed, “is it’s just too damn expensive.”

  Next, the two men reached the summit of the canyon, at last climbing to an altitude of 4,400 feet above sea level. As they progressed, the desert’s floor rose higher and higher, in step with the peaks of the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains looming alongside them. After four days and nights, the two men approached Mt. Whitney. They ventured another twenty-two miles on the high plateau, crossing a number of small canyons. More than once, Mulholland and Eaton were forced to unload their packs and put their shoulders to the wheel to get the buckboard up the steep walls of rocky, dry creek beds. Finally, after passing through the desert town of Olancha, they reached their destination.

  Standing bareheaded in the chill, William Mulholland beheld for the first time the breathtaking, spectacular body of water called the Owens River. Gleaming too brilliantly to look at directly in the morning sun, the vast expanse appeared in the distance like a great, silvered mirror. It meandered down the length of the valley where it discharged its waters into a large alkaline lake at the lower end. Bordered by lush salt grass, reeds, water birch, and willows, the banks of the roaring river were fined in red columbine, orchids, and tiger lilies.

  Mulholland’s engineering mind could not help calculating—even amidst all this beauty—that within the Owens River were flowing at least four hundred cubic feet of water per second, enough water to provide for a city not of two hundred thousand, but of two million people. The distance to Los Angeles was overwhelming, but Mulholland knew the Owens River sat at an elevation of four thousand feet, whereas Los Angeles lay only a few feet above sea level. The water, carried in open and closed aqueducts and siphons, could arrive at Los Angeles 250 miles south by power of gravity alone. As Eaton had told Mulholland earlier, costly pumping plants would not be necessary, and not one watt of pumping power would be required. Without a doubt, Eaton had discovered the resource that, once tapped, would free their city from stagnation.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Mulholland shouted to his friend over the noise of the rapidly moving water. “But our supply of water is indeed in the Owens Valley.” It was one of the supreme moments of his life, and his thoughts would return to it many times, especially during his later years, after tragedy had struck.

  William Mulholland had been taken to the top of the mountain; and like Moses he had been granted a vision of his people’s deliverance. His miracle was not to part the sea, but to part the sands; not to keep the waters back, but to bring them forth and create rivers in the desert.

  Mulholland and Eaton bathed in the cold, clear water, washing away the grime and sweat of their long journey. “Cleansing powers,” Mulholland exuberantly called to his buck-naked friend, commenting on the water’s purity, over the river’s roar. “And with no equal.” Mulholland, the former lumber camp stevedore, happily went unshaven, while the elegant Eaton peered at his reflection in the mirror like water and shaved with a porcelain whisker brush.

  In the midst of the vast Mojave, as coyotes yapped at the moon in the inky blackness, Mulholland and Eaton huddled in the flickering glow of their campfire in the shivering cold desert night. They fondly talked about the Los Angeles which had so effectively shaped each of them and supported their careers, and about the vision they had for it once the precious water was delivered. Although only two weeks apart in age, the relationship between the sophisticated Eaton and the unleavened Mulholland had initially been that of father and son. Eaton had groomed the industrious immigrant for promotion at the Los Angeles City Water Company, and Mulholland had paid dutiful respect and allegiance to his mentor.

  Eaton’s upper-class pedigree as the son of a prominent citizen and his dapper appearance contrasted sharply with Mulholland’s poor Irish beginnings and his peasant’s physique. While Mulholland’s crude repertoire of ribald jokes at times embarrassed Eaton, he still appreciated Mulholland’s disarming honesty and his simple love for literature and classical music.

  In turn, Mulholland was intrigued that the smooth-mannered Eaton could guzzle hard whiskey in a smoke-filled poker game as easily as he could sip English tea at a political fundraiser. The friendship may have seemed curious, but it would prove to be the most important relationship between two men in Los Angeles’s early history.

  For the next ten days, Mulholland charted the valley and the river’s course. His key problem was determining where the water could be diverted from the soda-filled Owens Lake, at a point before the river’s water gathered, then wastefully evaporated—”doing nobody any good,” except for the flocks of gathering lake birds that had adapted to its bitter salinity. He studied the problem in detail, tracing the proposed route of the aqueduct in improvised sketches and making rough surveys with an aneroid barometer and pocket level. Eaton and Mulholland calculated, measured, and debated every detail until they reached a rough agreement.

  The region’s beauty continued to fascinate Mulholland. The Owens River was bordered by lush salt-grass meadows, willow trees and cottonwoods. Reeds, rushes, aster, marigolds, desert buttercups, and floral colors of pink, lavender, white, and gold thrived along its banks. The river’s waters ran the valley’s full length, and were so clear, so pure, and so cold that they offered a haven for a wide variety of trout and wildlife. The Owens Lake brimmed with fowl, from swift-flying teal to honker geese, and as Mulholland and Eaton approached the lakeshore, thousands of them lifted en masse, taking flight.

  Mulholland realized that without the Owens River running through the middle of the valley, fed by the eternally melting snows from the High Sierras, the area would be as arid as the Mojave Desert and its only life would be cactus, sagebrush, and chaparral. At the lower end of the valley, the river emptied into the 73,000-acre Owens Lake, an inland alkaline sea; its high soda content rendered it useless for irrigation.

  At Owens Lake, Mulholland and Eaton camped overnight, cooking a goose in an open campfire, drinking whiskey, and smoking cigars. Mulholland lay face down in the luxuriant grasses, enjoying their coolness and velvety caress against his cheek.<
br />
  “How wondrous are the works of the Almighty … and man is one of them,” Mulholland murmured.

  At daybreak, the two wanderers were off again. Mulholland maneuvered the buckboard through the placid valley. Eaton pointed to the abundant orchards loaded with peaches, pears, plums, and apples, and vines heavy with ripening grapes. Each ranch they passed straddled a stream from the rich river’s waters. Their irrigated acres were loaded with bountiful crops of hay, alfalfa, and cereal grasses. First settled in 1861 by hearty pioneers who arrived in covered wagons, and later by successful livestock and mining companies, the lovely valley Mulholland was now exploring had grown into a network of farm communities.

  When the first pioneers entered the valley, they settled along the river banks and dug irrigation ditches with hand tools, gradually diverting the river’s adjoining streams of water onto the parched land, an acre or so at a time. For years the isolated, determined pioneers waged battle against heat, disease, famine, and floods. Slowly the desert bloomed with vegetation, and the canals were extended farther and farther from the river.

  Finally, valley inhabitants constructed flood diversion canals to run down from the hills. Irrigation ditches traveled five miles or more from the river now to reach the secluded homesteaders. It was a water system that engineer Mulholland stopped to inspect and admire. Along the river, Mulholland also observed a series of small, prospering villages—Lone Pine, Independence, Big Pine, and Bishop. Unproductive land had been transformed into prosperous ranches; desert shacks had evolved into fine farmhouses, flanked by barns, silos, shade trees, and flowers. Settlers had built roads and schoolhouses. Now eight thousand people were living in the valley.

  But all this wonder and bounty, wrought so tenaciously by the blistered hands of the valley natives, was virtually unknown to the far-off, troubled inhabitants of Los Angeles. Like conquering heroes, William Mulholland and Fred Eaton had discovered its beautiful secret, and as others would soon say, like thieves in the night, they were now conspiring to claim the valley’s watery lifeblood as their own—no matter what the price.