... a visit to Randsburg, CA

In years past, when my vision was good enough for driving, I would often take excursions, mini road trips to visit this or that. In 2008, I had been living with my grandparents in Apple Valley, so I sometimes would take long drives such as follow Route 66 from Victorville to Barstow and back, stopping briefly at small towns along the way.

One day, I decided to take a random drive north along Route 395, and take a look around. The area here is the Mojave Desert, occupied in part by Death Valley.

As I drove along, it was all desert, with hills and the moutains in the distance. Little towns here and there. I passed through one small town named Red Mountain, and then I saw a sign saying "Left to Randsburg". Curious, I made the left turn and fallowed the two-laned blacktop into the hills. Here is a brief history of Randsburg from Wikipedia:

Randsburg (formerly, Rand Camp) is a census-designated place (CDP) in Kern County, California, United States. Randsburg is located 17 miles (27 km) south of Ridgecrest, at an elevation of 3,504 feet (1,068 m). The population was 69 at the 2010 census, down from 77 at the 2000 census.

I figured it was small enough. Many people stopped there because there is an OHV area nearby, so when I drove into the town proper, passing clusters of trailers and small homes, there is a parking area for off-road vehicles ONLY, with dune buggies and dirt bikes neatly parked in rows. 


The town is only 1.9 sqare miles small. Another small town is Johannesburg, on the other side of the ridge that separates the two. It wouldn't take me long to see this place.

Gold was discovered in Rand Mine, near the site and a mining camp was quickly built in 1895, as Rand Camp. The post office ws established in 896. The town has tourists visit for Western Days Celebration, which starts the 3rd weekend of September. I had visited during the summer, so some places were closed.

I got out and walked around the small town. About 97 houses of mixed design are scattered around the town. I stopped in front of the Yellow Aster Saloon, and saw a sign that boasted "We have a 100-year old shake machine!" Intrigued, I went in. About three other people were there and the man behind the counter hailed me. I took a seat among the tourists, who were chatting, and ordered a milkshake. I expected to hear an ancient machine fire up and chatter away as it produced the shake. It wasn't so loud.

When he put the glass, an old-fashioned milk shake glass, I looked at it. I drank it, and it didn't taste different or feel different from any other milkshakes. Hmm, I said to myself, I thought it would be really flavorful, maybe more chunky. It was good though, so I did enjoy it.

Outside, done with my milky milkshake, I stood there in the shad and the very slight breeze. I heard a clattering to my right, coming down the street. I looked to see a vintage, 1920s era Model T Ford clunking down the street on its thin, knobby tires. It was half-rusted, in the original black. The headlight bulbs were missing. The back seat passenger had his arm out the window, holding the driver's door closed. It pulled into a spot in front of the saloon and three burly men hopped out and went in.

Kind of enthused, I walked until I saw a sign for a museum. So, I went there. It was closed. The building had originally been the Randsburg Opera House.

I continued on. Seeing the General Store and noting that the doors were open, I ventured that way. As I approached, I saw a large sign standing by the door. It proclaimed "Hopen for business". On a bench was an ancient old man and who seemed to be his granddaughter (or maybe great-granddaughter). I said hello and asked how they were doing. They nodded and said they were good. I addressed the old man, "So, how long have you lived here?" "A hunner years," he replied. Looking at the shape he was in, I was afraid to ask his age, as he might have said, "A hunner years". He had no teeth and was working his mouth, which was sunken and etched with so many wrinkles, he did not have a smooth line anywhere on his face. The young girl smiled and invited me in to look around. The inside of the store was stocked full of tourist-y stuff, like coffee mugs with "Randsburg, CA" and t-shirts and other things people tend to buy when they travel. I didn't want to buy anything, but looked at the architecture of the store and then without buying anything, walked out. I walked along the main road to see rusted out hunks of different cars: a Dodge pickup with a weird cherry-picker attachment. Another Model T that had no tired and propped up on cement blocks. At the edge of town, I look at the two-cell jail that was no longer operating, but everything was still there, the cot, the toilet, the bars.

My wife and I visited once, when we were on our way to Death Valley and it was a little cooler, but still no one around. We drover around more of the town and explored the area in the mountains, and saw that the two mines they have there appear to still be operating.

I'm a suker for history. Ghost towns, or those nearly there have always interested me. Calico is the most famous one, but there are many others around, if we take the time to explore and look at the past, and imagine people living there without ht eomforts of air conditioning and cell phones.