The Sad Tale of the Hollywood Sign

I’ve been asked more than once, if I believe in ghosts. Well, what is the definition of a ghost?

Per Merriam-Webster -  A disembodied soul especially: the soul of a dead person believed to be an inhabitant of the unseen world or to appear to the living in bodily likeness.

Well, that wouldn’t be Casper would it? 

So, I’m not sure that I believe or disbelieve in ghosts. I’ve seen, or thought I’d seen, things that I can’t really explain. On a bet, when I was a teenager, I spent the night sleeping in a cemetery in the city of Corona. It was supposed to be haunted by a spectra by the name of Mona. I never saw an apparition, and only learned one thing from that experience. 

Teenage boys are stupid.

But, being a researcher, I do have some gadgets that are quite prevalent on those ghost hunting shows, like The New Reality, Ghost Adventures, The UnXplained, and I’m Frightened Just To Be Here (ok, I made that one up).

And those gadgets the professionals use would be: a digital voice recorder (so there is proof of you screaming hysterically when encountering a ghost), an EMF sensor (no idea, but it sounds cool), Ghost Box (in case you catch a ghost, I guess), camera with night vision (duh), an infrared thermometer, and a box of pampers (just in case you encounter a real ghost).

An activated Ghost Box with a ghost

Now that I was prepared to do some serious ghost hunting – actually ghost locating, since I’m not much into hunting – I had to find the first place.

Ah, with all the mention of television series, why not start in Hollywood? And what better place than the Hollywood Sign?

The Hollywood sign was not intended to be an advertisement for the film industry. Actually, it was an idea to advertise a housing development in the hills above the Hollywood district of Los Angeles. An area less expensive than the homes located closer to the studios.

As the brochure stated, “Hollywoodland, a superb environment without excessive cost on the Hollywood side of the hills.”

The sign went up in 1923, by home builder Harry Chandler, who contracted with the Crescent Sign Company. The original sign read, Hollywoodland, and each letter was 50 feet tall and 30 feet wide. They had to use mules to haul up the steel support beams – wow, mules. How quaint.

Chandler believed the sign would be only up for about a year and a half but after ninety-seven years, it’s still there – just missing the last four letters.

Hollywood had become a household name around the globe by the late twenties, and what better tool to use reminding all cinema fanatics of the flash and dash of movie town then a huge sign. In the early forties, the word ‘land’ was removed from the original sign.

It is by far, one of the most iconic visual advertisements of the film industry anywhere on earth, not just Los Angeles.

Millions of people view it in person, commercials, documentaries, television series, and films yearly. It is one of the most photographed places in the United States, and you can hike to it.

But is it haunted? Supposed to be, and it’s truly a sadly tragic story.

A beautiful young English actress by the name of, Millicent Lillian ‘Peg’ Entwistle, had immigrated to America to find work in New York City. At first, there were some minor roles in the theatre, but soon directors realized how talented this Peg Entwistle truly was.

The beautiful actress, Millicent Lillian 'Peg' Entwistle

In fact, a very young Bette Davis, saw Entwistle perform in the 1925 play, The Wild Duck, and told her mother, that someday she would be as good as the 17 year old Entwistle. For the rest of her life, Davis would often mention that it was watching Entwistle that made her yearn for the acting career which made her so famous.

Entwistle stayed in New York working Broadway until 1932. It was midst of the great depression and theatres were closing down due to lack of audiences. She moved to Hollywood the same year and picked up some roles in theatres here and there.

As with many actors, she was discovered by Radio Pictures (RKO) and soon had a studio contract in hand.

Her first, and sadly, only film credit was a supporting role as Hazel Cousins, in David O. Selznick’s film, Thirteen Women.

However, most of Entwistle’s parts were removed, ending up on the editing floor, and she was devastated. On top of that, the studio cancelled her contract.

At the tender age of twenty-four years – she believed her dreams were gone. And, on September 16th, 1932, Peg Entwistle decided there was nothing left to live for. She climbed the hills above Hollywoodland, climbed a ladder to the top of the ‘H’, and jumped to her death.

A sensational suicide in the tabloids

So, on this 93th anniversary of that tragic day, I decided to see if this young actress still haunted the hillside, as so many people have sworn she does. 

Ghoulish, perhaps, but if I didn’t see her ghost, the least I could do was say a prayer for a young girl who gave up too early.

Getting to the Hollywood sign isn’t that difficult. There are numerous hikes, some moderate and some not so moderate. I chose an easier route and drove through the neighborhood of Hollywoodland – yes, there actually is such a neighborhood, with modestly priced homes for the likes of Saudi princes.

I drove along a winding narrow road up into the hills behind Hollywoodland – there was sign that stated the road was only for locals. Being a native California, now a Nevadan, I believed that still made me a local.

The path leading to the Hollywood sign

After parking, I located an access route to one of the main trails, which was surprisingly crowded with people hiking up that trail. They were huffing and puffing, as well as sweating. I felt great - an air conditioned drive can do that for a person. 

The view was spectacular.

And, when I looked at the large white sign on the hillside, I felt saddened to think a young woman, was so distraught that she felt the only option left was to leap off the letter ‘H’.

I didn’t bother telling the others around me about the history of the sign. They were laughing and taking dozens of selfies and group photos with their phones. 

No reason to spoil their day with the sorrowful story of Peg Entwistle

There is still another twist to Entwistle’s death. The day after she committed suicide, a letter was delivered at her residence, with an offer for an upcoming film. She was to play a young woman driven to suicide.

Spooky! 

For further information: https://www.hollywoodsign.org/history/a-sign-is-born

                                        https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peg_Entwistle

Have a meal with George - the Ghost

 On a recent Saturday, I asked Laureen is she had any specific plans for the day.

She knew what that meant.

“A road trip?” she responded.

And, within forty minutes we were on our way to Big Bear, in the San Bernardino Mountains. It is one of our favorite haunts.

Haunts – I like that, since it is October. That spooky time of year.

 Big Bear – there is Big Bear City and Big Bear Lake, for those who haven’t travelled Highway 18 to either of those locales. Traveling this road is to witness tall glorious pine trees, a blue lake, hiking trails, off-road trails, eating and shopping in the Village, and so much more.

We love the Big Bear area.

“I love the Big Bear area,” I stated.

“I know,” Laureen responded. “Where are we going to lunch?”

I knew the right spot. A place that is internationally known as a very haunted and goose bumpily place. The Captains Anchorage.

“We haven’t been there in a dozen years,” Laureen stated.

“And the spirits are angry about that,” I said. “The tip you left last time was rather vacuous.”

Laureen ignored that.

Driving by the Mitsubishi cement plant, south of the town of Lucerne Valley on Highway 18, always reminds me of a space colony. Huge round storage buildings with conveyer belts going this way and that way has an out of this world appearance.

“Doesn’t it look like space aliens have captured humans and sent them to work in their factory?” I asked Laureen as we drove by the place.

She shook her head. “Looks like a cement factory.”

“Human, we do not enjoy your remarks – to the mines with you.” I stated.

Laureen ignored me again. 

As we swung around Baldwin Lake, we had some time to kill before the restaurant would be open, and decided to take the scenic route through Holcomb Valley. Actually, I had intended on the drive to snap a photograph of the ‘hanging tree’ in the area where the old mining town of Belleville once stood.

I wrote a column on Holcomb Valley for the Daily Press Newspaper, back in June of 2020, but I won’t go into any detail about that trip now. I don’t like repeating myself – unless it is to our children, and I can go on and on and on about the same subject for weeks.

Since Belleville, like many mining camps, could be a violent place – there had to be some place to punish those who thought killing one another was a perfectly fine way in dealing with personal disputes. 

It was the Wild West, after-all.

So, the townsfolk found a nice big and tall Juniper tree to string up the really bad hombres. Is the tree haunted? Don’t know and never asked – but with its outstretched tree limbs and prominent location in the valley, it could be.

“Almost lunch time,” I said to Laureen.

As we headed out of the valley, we came across a tree that made the hanging tree look downright tame.

There in the middle of a clearing, we were staring at an apparition that film director, Tim Burton would find alluring.

Gnarled leafless branches tweaked in such a way, it appeared as if it was alive and trying to reach and grab any unsuspecting person sauntering by. Not a stich of green on it – only the tall barren trunk hunkered down in the soil. 

The Hanging tree in Holcomb Valley

“That looks as if it’s haunted?” Laureen asked.

“I’ll come back, and pick you up in the morning – let me know about your research.”

We headed out for lunch at that time.

The Captain’s Anchorage, is located in Big Bear Lake, and has been a landmark for the city since 1947, when the owner, Andy Devine opened it. The famous actor turned restaurateur, wanted something special to entertain his Hollywood friends, and thus the restaurant and bar became the center point not only for the locals, but many other famous actors. Roy Rogers, John Wayne, Lee Marvin, Jimmy Stewart, and many more made the long drive from Los Angeles to the mountain community of Big Bear Lake to partake in the extensive menu offerings.

The original name of the place was the Sportsman’s Tavern, and remained that way until 1972, when it was renamed The Captains Anchorage by Woodrow and Charlotte Meier, who had purchased the restaurant from Devine in 1966.

It is a beautiful building full of character and grace – and it is haunted.

Besides being haunted, a great place to eat

As we entered the business, I walked over to the dark wood bar, located in the Andy Devine Room, and snapped some photographs. That’s what I do – don’t look at the menu first – just snap some shots. Perhaps there will be an orb floating somewhere in the photograph when I download it later.

“Have you come to see George?” Natalie asked from behind the bar. Natalie has worked at the Captains Anchorage a long time, and knows a bit about the history.

“George is our local ghost,” she stated. “He likes to hang around the bar, causing some mischief now and then, but doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“You’re a believer then?” I asked.

“I don’t belong to a cult, if that’s what you are asking?”

“No, not that kind of a believer,” I replied. “Have you had any interaction with George?”

Natalie nodded. “Once in a while a light will turn on when no one is here but me, or the glass washer will suddenly light up. Those kinds of things.”

Laureen was standing to the right of the bar, near the kitchen entrance, and I saw a peculiar look on her face.

The main bar at the Captains Anchorage

“You feeling something?”

“Yes, there’s something here between the bar and the fireplace,” she responded. “It’s like someone being anxious. As they are troubled by something – I really can feel the emotions.”

Laureen is so much more sensitive than me, when it comes to practically anything – except those sad mistreated dog commercials – they tear me up. A box of tissues, please.

“Did you feel anything?” she asked me.

I nodded. “Yes, I feel the bar is calling me over for a cold one.”

According to Patti Scriven, the current owner and daughter of the Meier’s, George was Andy Devine’s ‘bookkeeper’. During the time period that Devine was the owner, there was lots and lots of rumors of illegal gambling going on at the Sportsman’s Tavern. In fact, upstairs are small booths which are original to the design of the restaurant, that look like the perfect size for a slot machine placement. Poker games, roulette, and possibly betting on horse races, may have taken place in the establishment.

John R Beyer and Patti Scriven in the Captains Anchorage

Was George just a bookkeeper or perhaps a bookie also?

“Rumor has it that George may have been embezzling profits from the illegal gambling,” stated Patti. “He may had been afraid of getting caught and committed suicide at his house, not far from here."

“Then why would he haunt this place?” Laureen asked.

“We have had numerous of those paranormal investigators out here, and they all say the same thing, he was the most happy here at the restaurant,” Patti replied.

“It is a very nice place to haunt,” I stated. 

Some research I conducted, showed George may have also been killed by some angry gamblers or those who caught him skimming money off the top of the receipts.

Either suicide or murder makes for a possible haunting.

Once an illegal gambling booth now a nice place to sit and eat

It seems as though George does truly like haunting the restaurant, its patrons and staff. He, according to Patti, has never caused any harm to anyone personally.

“There’s been some liquor bottles shattering behind the bar when no one was present, some tromping of heavy footsteps up and down the stairs, blowing out some candles, and the like. Pretty harmless – more like pranks.”

Shattering an expensive bottle of spirits is not a prank. That would be a felony in any ghostly realm.

“Listen, Mr. Ghost man – I don’t care if it was a prank – that was an expensive bottle of Dalmore sixty-two, there you decided to shatter. Who is going to pay for it?”

Patti entertained us with more tales of the mischievous George, but stated she had never had a true other-worldly experience with the ghost from the Captains Anchorage.

“I wish Rita were here,” Patti stated. “She really has had some recent experiences with George.”

“Please, go on,” I asked.

“Well, recently Rita was near the kitchen when she suddenly saw a dark shadow sweep right beside Hugo, our chef, who was busy cooking. She was scared to death and screamed. When I asked Hugo if he saw or felt anything, he replied just before Rita screamed, he had felt a presence swoosh by him, almost touching him. But, there was nothing there when he glanced around.”

One of the kitchens at the Captains Anchorage

“Yes, Rita won’t even go upstairs to get a bottle of wine,” Patti said. “I tease her that a customer wants a certain vintage and will she go up and get it, she just tells me no.”

“I don’t blame her,” Laureen stated.

“Neither do I,” Pattie stated. “I just like to tease her that way.”

Is the Captains Anchorage haunted? I don’t know, but I do know they have great food and a greater tale for their customers.

For further information: https://captainsanchorage.com/

A Haunting we will go in Two Guns, Arizona

It is that time of year that brings communities together. To laugh, to share, and to just find the joy in being alive.

It is October – and that can only mean one thing – Halloween.

Ghosts, goblins, witches, and cryptids do their best to scare us to an unpleasant place.

It is the month to mutilate the pumpkin and paint the cat black.

One of my favorite seasons.

As Laureen and I were driving west along Route 66, after visiting Winslow, Arizona – we decided to stop by a place that is so haunted, so scary, so unnaturally spooky that most humans would not dare to tread there.

Laureen Beyer standing on a street corner in Winslow, Arizona

Not being like most humans, we knew it was an experience we just had to visit on our very own.

Laureen is not that fancy on these spectral sorts of sites but since I was driving . . .

After pulling south off Route 66 by the ruins of the town of Two Guns, I was busy scanning my hand-held GPS looking for the scariest area near Two Guns.

“I don’t think this thing is working,” I told Laureen. “If I’m holding it correctly, we’re somewhere between Vienna and Salzburg.”

No reply from Laureen.

Suddenly I heard her from about 50 feet away. “It’s right here, I can feel it.”

The reason Laureen does not like to travel to many supposedly haunted places is due to the fact she actually ‘feels’ something. A sense or foreboding of what may have occurred in the past at such a place.

Me, I usually feel hungry or thirsty. 

As in earlier articles concerning ‘haunted places’ I tend to be a bit of a skeptic. Don’t really think folks from the afterlife are lingering around waiting for me to invade their space.

“Hey, you are now in my personal ghost space. So rude of you that I will throw this antique rocking chair at your head.”

Of course, I do have to admit I have heard or seen things that I can not explain while traveling here and there.

I once saw a boy scout escort an elderly woman across the street in Houston, and I thought that only happened in Hallmark films.

“What is right here that you can feel it?” I asked Laureen, finally giving up on the hand-held GPS which had me now somewhere east of Moscow.

“The cave, it’s right here,” she replied.

The Apache Death Cave in Two Guns, Arizona

The cave, Laureen was mentioning, was the famed Apache Death Cave located about 12 miles west of Meteor Crater in Arizona along Route 66.

The legend is terrifically sad.

In the late 19th century, the two dominate native tribes residing in the area were the Apache and the Navajo. These two groups did not get a long well together and often raided and killed each other over territory or perhaps because they did not like each other.

But in 1878 it is rumored that some Apaches entered two Navajo camps and killed everyone except three young girls whom they kidnapped.

Other Navajo warriors hearing of this diabolical action started to chase the Apache to seek their revenge and get the girls back.

The Navajo were closing the gap of the fleeing Apache but suddenly lost sight of them near the edge of the Canyon Diablo, a long arroyo that meanders through the territory.

Getting off their horses, the Navajo looked high and low and low and high but could not locate the Apache.

Just then, as the story goes, one of the Navajo thought he heard voices coming from somewhere below him and then found a deep cave carved into the Kaibab Limestone.

Sure enough, the Apache had ridden into the large cave with their horses and captives hoping to trick the tracking Navajo.

The ruse did not work.

Grabbing a lot of sagebrush, the Navajo decided to smoke the Apache out of the cave by lighting the bushes on fire.

Moments later, a few Apache ran from the cave but were immediately killed by the waiting Navajo.

It only took a few minutes to realize the captives had been murdered by the Apache, so the rest of the Navajo posse decided to finish the job and continued to throw large amounts of burning sagebrush into the mouth of the cave.

There was no chance for escape for any of the Apache trapped within the walls of the cave. 42 Apache succumbed to the smoke and fire.

Perhaps a memorial for the Apache who tragically died here

I wandered over to where Laureen was standing by a small rock border, and she pointed downward. Sure enough, there was a cave which seemed as though the walls may have been smoke damaged sometime in the past.

“The hairs are standing up on head,” she stated.

Looking at her perfectly quaffed hair, I did not know what to say. So, I said nothing.

An old wooden ladder type of bridge ran across the width of the cave allowing the visitor a chance to get closer into the cave.

The ladder was not truly stable looking

“You first,” I said.

“Me never,” Laureen replied.

After a few tense moments of rock scrambling and teetering on the wooden bridge, I found myself at the bottom of the cave. 

Laureen Beyer going very slowly toward the cave

It was dark inside the cave. 

“Do you feel anything?” 

“Yes,” I replied.

“Wow, what?”

“I think I dislocated my right shoulder.”

The cave was longer than I had thought it would be. I wandered a bit bumping into this wall or that wall, once nearly knocking off the top of my head on a low ceiling and thought that if the ghosts of the murdered Apache were not going to talk to me, it was time to call this adventure off.

Besides, it did seem rather spooky in that dark hole in the ground alone.

One needs to very careful exploring such places

“You want to come down, and see?”

“Nope.”

After dusting myself off and making sure my forehead was not bleeding, I noticed that Laureen was not looking quite herself.

She told me that there was something in the immediate surroundings she could sense. A sense of doom, of tragedy, of unmistakable horror.

“They were afraid to die in such a way.”

I do not question her feelings. I may do it inwardly but not outwardly.

But there was something different in that cave – I am not saying I felt what Laureen did, but it was rather oppressive in the cave. Almost suffocating, but that could be the close quarters and wandering around in a dark place by yourself.

New Reality paranormal investigators, Shawn and Cody, had visited the Apache Death Cave in the past and recorded their investigation for their hit series.

They felt and heard things while pulling their stint within that cave.

We spent time with them when they investigated a haunted ranch house in Lucerne. We all heard and experienced things that long haunting night.

These guys are experts in this paranormal field.

But I am still a skeptic. I am waiting for Casper to come sit next to me on the sofa and explain clearly why he is a ghost and why I need to believe.

In 1881, a bridge was built across Canyon Diablo by the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad and a small tent city, named Canyon Diablo was constructed for the workers.

But that little tent city grew up to be a rootin’-tootin’ full-time town which made Tombstone look like a children’s nursery school.

The population boomed to 2,000 folks overnight and there was at least one killing in the streets near the dozen saloons, gambling halls, and brothels each day.

Some of the ruins at Two Guns, Arizona

In fact, the first Marshall hired to protect the town was shot dead three hours later. It was a lawless town.

Boot Hill became so full that the undertaker ran out of room for any new customers.

One problem with this tale, according to the Republic Newspaper out of Arizona, is that this town probably never existed.

In an article written by Scott Craven, the town had been created by a fictional writer by the name of Gladwell Richardson who passed away in 1980 who had written nearly 300 western novels under various pseudonyms.

When the bridge was completed, the tent city moved on.

It was also Richardson who first wrote about the Apache Death Cave in his only non-fiction book about the town of Two Guns, Arizona. Prior to him writing about it in his book the tragic event had never seen print.

Seems, that both a town so wild Doc Holiday would have circumvented it and a horrific story such as the Apache Death Cave had occurred there should be more mention of it in the history books.

But, as with many historical records, things may get a bit exaggerated by those writing those histories.

Those silly writers. Who do they think they are embellishing here and there?

We walked around studying the layout, checking this out and checking that out and Laureen said she could still feel that something tragic had occurred here in the past.

Perhaps something had happened to the Apache and Navajo in the 19th century and perhaps not.

A town may have been here that was totally lawless but perhaps not.

That is the way with myths and legends, they grow stronger as the decades slip by.

Are they true or does it really matter?

For further information: https://azdot.gov/adot-blog/two-guns-sordid-history-i-40  

Folklife Festival and the Artisans

The White House - summer of 2025

“People are often curious about what it’s like to be different in the trade, but honestly, once you’re on site, it all comes down to what gets the job done,” Brianna said. “The stone doesn’t care who you are, as long as you show up, care about what you’re doing, and put in the effort.”

To be honest, I had no idea there were still stone masons in existence. I was under the mistaken belief that they had been phased out during the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. But here I was being schooled by a modern-day stone mason.

Actually, Brianna Castelli is known as a Restoration and Conservation Mason or Heritage Stonemason, and she is very good at her trade.

Brianna Castelli taking questions from the audience

These are the craftsmen who focus their attention on repairing, preserving, and restoring historic or damaged stone structures. Their knowledge and expertise are not just in handling the various tools needed in stone masonry, but they have to understand the original construction techniques and methods used during the time of the structure they are repairing. It is as though they have to utilize their equipment as if that building were being built in the present day to exact specifications.

Lots of hands-on activities for guests at the Folklife Festival

My lovely wife, Laureen, and I had been walking through the Folklife Festival on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., during the week-long 4th of July celebration when we entered an area featuring the Building Trades. There were large exhibits discussing the history and current state of various hands-on trades, and it was fascinating.

Brianna was busy discussing her trade with a group of visitors. With a gentle nudge of a wooden mallet, she easily and cleanly chipped off a rough edge from a large piece of granite with a medium-sized chisel. The cut was perfect, and she talked the entire time.

Brianna Castelli showing off her skills at the Folklife Festival

I can’t talk while I shave, or Laureen may have to phone for the paramedics.

Not only did we find Brianna a very talented artist, but also an inspiration for anyone looking to go into the building trades.

It turns out that Brianna had never thought of going into a construction trade. No, her focus was on going to college.

“I was always told to go to college,” Brianna said. “I had no idea what I wanted as a career, but I knew college was the way to go.”

That did not turn out the way this young lady had planned. She moved to Philadelphia, where her brother was living, and took a job as a barista at a coffee shop. Then she learned that because she was from out of state, the college tuition was going to be based on that fact.

“When I found out that my tuition was going to be more expensive because I was not a resident of Pennsylvania, college was not a possibility,” she said. “Though I still had no idea what I wanted to do for a career.”

Working as a barista, Brianna came into a myriad of customers, and one day a fellow told her she should contact the Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers union. She did and learned they had openings for an earn as you learn apprenticeship.

“Stone masonry,” Brianna said, “I never even heard of such a thing, but once I got into the union, which they paid for all my training, minus dues, I knew I was hooked. Forty-five hundred hours of internship taught me everything I needed to know about this wonderful craft of maintaining and repairing historical structures here and around the country.”

Turns out that the union that took Brianna on as an apprentice may not have known at the time that their pupil would soon be working on restoring the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., after the devastating earthquake that shook the nation’s capital to its knees in 2011.

National Cathedral currently under reconstruction

“I have a five-year job here,” Brianna said. “What an honor to assist in repairing such an iconic structure. It is a privilege just to be climbing the scaffolds on a daily basis and using the skills I learned from my instructors to ensure this building will be here for many generations in the future.”

Scaffolds? I asked her about that.

“I have no fear of heights, and when I’m on top overlooking the gorgeous scenery surrounding our capital, I feel as though I have the best job in the world.”

Brianna, along with all the rest of the craftsmen working on the National Cathedral, deserves our respect and admiration.

There are a lot of various crafts on display at the Folklife Festival

It is these artists who will allow the rest of us to enjoy for decades what was built in the far past to remind us of our present.

For more information:

https://www.si.edu/250

https://nwfolklife.org/programs/

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Mrs. Orcutt's looong Driveway

 I have driven Interstate 40 east of Barstow more times than I can count, even using all my toes and fingers, but I had never heard of the longest personal driveway in the United States being just a few hundred feet north of the roadway.

Just a short section of the longest driveway in America 

While attending an event at Roy’s Hotel and Cafe in Amboy a few months ago, a gentleman asked me if I had ever visited Mrs. Orcutt’s driveway. I thought it was a personal question, but since I did not know any Mrs. Orcutt, I told him no.

He then went on to explain that in Newberry Springs, there is a four-mile-long driveway that runs parallel to Interstate 40 all the way to the remains of Mrs. Orcutt’s home.

This sounded intriguing, and I knew that it was a place to investigate - I like finding places to investigate.

According to author C.V. Wooster’s book, Mrs. Orcutt’s Driveway, recently published in June of 2025, Margaret ‘Bonnie’ Orcutt was not a woman to mess around with.

Born on September 7th, 1909, in Boone County, Indiana, to Wolford and Fern McMains, Bonnie would stay there until she was three years old and then moved with her family to Indianapolis, where her father owned a car dealership. In 1927, the family moved again to Richmond, Indiana, where her father’s new dealership was really taking off. This era was the true birth of America’s love affair with the automobile.

Watching her father’s work ethic made Bonnie realize that to be successful, she had to search out and go after things of interest for her. She was eclectic in those areas - botany, music, faith, science, and many other avenues.

In fact, she attended numerous schools of higher learning, including Earlham College, Butler University, DePauw University, and the Arthur Jordan Conservatory of Music. She was such a dedicated student of music that it was said she had reached a concert-level proficiency as a harpist.

And it was that harp playing in 1948 that introduced Bonnie to her future husband, Kenneth Orcutt.

He heard her play, and it was all over for him except for the church bells. Their courtship lasted just a short time, and they were married.

This research was going along well until I read that Kenneth had been killed in an air crash in 1953 in the state of Iowa at the young age of 33.

Margaret ‘Bonnie’ Orcutt was now a widow. And she moved west all the way to Newberry Springs the same year her husband had died.

She purchased a hundred acres just northeast of Newberry Springs, built a small but comfortable adobe home, and even hand-dug a 14-foot-deep, quarter-mile pond with a small island in the middle and filled it with fish.

A section of the adobe wall of Mrs. Orcutt's home

It was a quiet life, and that was the way she wanted it. Time to learn all the desert had to offer her.

Then, in 1964, government surveyors - yeah, the government - started putting boundary stakes across the southern end of her property.

“Interstate 40 is coming, Bonnie, and you'd better get out of the way,” one of the surveyors may have said.

So, Bonnie had a conundrum; the stakes for the new highway indicated that the road she used to drive into Newberry Springs would no longer be there. Lanes of newly poured asphalt would block her only exit from her home.

She did not want to sell, and she said so, but the stakes kept getting pounded into her beloved desert soil.

A typewriter seemed to always be clicking away inside Bonnie’s house, as she contacted this person and that person, demanding that the interstate not cut through her property. She wrote letter after letter and supposedly even wrote to President Lyndon Johnson and then Mrs. President Lady Bird Johnson - a rumor is she sent a few to Santa Claus.

It paid off, and the government agreed to pay $100,000 to build a four-mile private driveway from the new offramp at National’s Trails Highway to her house. Of course, the government men insisted that it was actually their driveway, but since Bonnie’s home was the only one at the end of the long black asphalt, she only nodded and smiled.

It was such a straight and wide road, and still is, that people started coming out and drag-racing on it - in the 1970s and 1980s, the magazine, Car and Driver, wrote about this driveway and folks started using it to test for speed.

In 1984, the magazine conducted the last test on the roadway with a modified Pontiac Trans Am, which reached the speed of 204 mph.

That is fast.

In 1986, Bonnie Orcutt passed away, and the property has fallen onto some pretty hard times with the sun beating down, and the winds blowing through sometimes with nearly hurricane force.

What is left of Mrs. Orcutt's home in Newberry Springs

After learning of the history of the property and the feisty, government-fighting woman, I knew a trip was needed to check things out.

No GPS is needed - head east on Interstate 40, take the National Trails Highway exit for Newberry Springs, make a stop at the end of the ramp, turn left, go around the Chevron Station to Pioneer Road, and there you are. Opposite if you are heading west, obviously.

The road, no matter the reports, is in pretty good shape and straight as an arrow for the whole four miles.

At the end is a large circular cul-de-sac, and to the right is what remains of Mrs. Orcutt’s adobe home. Not much, but with imagination, as you walk about the property, images of better days come to mind.

The end of the driveway in front of Mrs. Orcutt's home

It must have been a comfortable home with sidewalks, what looks like the possible remains of a front yard fountain, a couple of outbuildings, and, of course, the huge empty pool in the back yard.

As cars and trucks streaked by on Interstate 40 less than a hundred yards away, I wondered what it must have been like for this strong woman to live alone in what could be referred to as a pretty desolate stretch of desert.

Remains of Mrs. Orcutt's home showing the rear yard

Did she still play the harp? Did she write letters on her typewriter to friends and family back east? Did she have a fulfilling social life in the Mojave Desert?

I wandered and pondered - and hoped she had.

For further information:

https://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Orcutts-Driveway-Legendary-Unstoppable-ebook/dp/B0DN9R8KVN

John can be reached at beyersbyways@gmail.com

              

Amargosa Opera House

According to Fred Conboy, the Amargosa Opera House located in Death Valley Junction, there is a lot to see in this little berg besides open desert.

“When guests arrive to the opera house, they are amazed by the miracle of seeing Marta’s murals in the legendary Amargosa Opera House which took six years to paint. They were competed by Marta herself.”

I would say that endeavor took patience. Patience is not one of my best virtues. Even if patience is supposed to be a virtue. That concept was probably made up by someone with a lot of patience.

“Marta was a ceaseless fountain of creativity,” Conboy continued. “With her dancing, composing, and painting, which in itself was astonishing.”

Marta performing at the opera house - Getty Image

So, who is this Marta whom Conboy was speaking about with such reverence?

Well, just so happens Laureen and I met her in Death Valley Junction, in the very Amargosa Opera House nearly two decades ago.

Marta Becket was born in New York City in 1924, and at the age of fourteen began ballet lessons. In a documentary entitled, Dust Devil, Marta stated that even before that age, she wanted to dance. And dance she did.

Performing at the Radio City Music Hall and on Broadway, she soon found fame and fortune. She appeared in such famous plays and musicals as Show Boat, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Wonderful Town.

She had it all in the Big Apple – but it was not what she wanted. She desired to do what she wanted to on stage without being directed about what she would do.

“I wanted the freedom to express myself,” Marta explained in Dust Devil.

Just one of many of Marta's dresses

If that wasn’t a direct quote, then I am blaming my editor – sorry, Jim.

Marta started touring the United States with her one-woman show. Performing all the great ballets in small theatres across this great country.

In 1962, she met the man who would become her husband, Thomas Williams. Five years later, on the way to a ballet gig, the travel trailer they were towing blew a tire out in Death Valley, and the only place where it could be repaired was in Death Valley Junction.

Turns out, while Thomas was seeing to the repair, Marta wandered – and don’t we love wandering – saw a bunch of buildings, which included a hotel built in the 1920s by the Pacific Coast Borax mining company, and a large structure which miners had used as a gathering place called Corkhill Hall.

It was love at first sight.

“By now I had forgotten the tire,” she wrote in her autobiography, To Dance on Sands: The Life and Art of Death Valley’s Marta Becket, published in 2006. “I walked over to the building, afraid to take my eyes off it, lest it should disappear.”

Marta working on her beloved Armargosa Opera house - Getty Image

It did not disappear. She and her husband bought the property and put the small community of Death Valley Junction on the map as a destination for those wanting to witness beautiful and creative performances delivered by a masterful ballerina.

John R Beyer in Death Valley Junction

Many years ago, when Laureen and I met Marta, we were cruising into Death Valley and stopped by the iconic Opera House for a looky-loo.

We like to do that – to see what we can see.

The doors to the Opera House were open and we took that as a sign we were supposed to enter. It was hot outside, the month of May can be like that so close to Death Valley, and we enjoyed the coolness of the interior.

When our eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, we were amazed by the marvelous murals on the interior walls. I mean all the interior walls of the theatre. Brightly colored creations of folks from the past looking down on us and toward the center stage at the front of the theatre.

“You folks traveling?” I recall this woman, who later introduced herself as Marta, asking. 

We explained our current journey and spent the next twenty minutes or so, visiting with Marta, as she told us of her past, her present, and her future.

She was graceful and polite. A few questions and a lot of interesting answers. What we took away from that brief encounter was she was one wonderfully strong woman who knew what she wanted out of life.

Simply, to perform her art without dictation by anyone but herself. She ruled in her Opera House. The plays, the music, the costumes, and the times of performances. She was in charge.

Museum across the street with some of Marta's costumes

Unfortunately, there were no shows for Laureen and me to witness that trip. Marta smiled and said perhaps the next time we drove through we could see her perform.

We smiled and said that would be great.

“I should write a story about her,” I told Laureen, as we left Death Valley Junction and headed into Death Valley.

“Perhaps you should in the future,” Laureen replied.

Marta passed away at the age of ninety-two, on January thirtieth, 2017.

We never did see her perform.

Death Valley Junction came into being in 1907, when the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad was built through the Amargosa Valley. The rails were used to transport borax from nearby mines.

Originally owned by Robert Tubb, the town boasted a saloon, a store and one of those adult entertainment centers. The local miners loved the place, and it grew.

In 1914, the Death Valley Railroad started using the spot to move borax from the valley up into Amargosa Valley for shipment. Business was booming, to the point that a few years later the Pacific Coast Borax Company constructed Spanish Colonial Revival buildings in the town.

I am not sure exactly what that is, but the architect Alexander Hamilton McCulloch did and that is what Marta Becket fell in love with.

The motel and opera house are beautiful. 

The opera house and adjoining hotel

A year after Marta and her husband bought the property, the name of the locale was changed to Death Valley Junction.

In 1980, the town was placed on the National Register of Historic Places, as the Death Valley Junction Historic District.

Though, Marta is no longer with us, thousands of visitors still visit Death Valley Junction yearly.

According to Conboy, “We get at least one hundred and fifty to two hundred people per week stopping by. Many spend a night or two in the motel.”

Since there are no longer performances, the opera house is used for special events or for private venues, then what would make someone want to stop at this path to Death Valley?

“Guests frequently say they love stepping back in time by spending time walking around the historical complex, staying in the hotel and enjoying Marta’s painted guest rooms, or enjoying her tromp l’oeil painting in the dining room or lobby.”

I had no idea what a l’oeil painting is, I could have asked Laureen but didn’t want to sound ignorant in front of my wife.

“We have no TVs or phones in the motel rooms. In this stillness, you can hear your own heartbeat, and be awed by the total silence which the desert has to offer.”

No internet to check emails, Instagram, Facebook, play video games or listen to the latest music on Spotify. How gauche!

Conboy was not done. “Many of our guests remark how much they enjoy spending time having conversations and interactions with the children, their spouse, or friends instead of sitting together in isolation staring at their devices. Imagine that humans having interpersonal communication with each other.”

Was this guy from the twenty-first century?

Guests are often greeted by wild horses who scamper, if horses scamper, into their own personal bar behind the hotel, where hay and water are available year-round.

“I’ll take a bale of hay and a glass of cool water, if you don’t mind,” one wild Mustang was once heard ordering at the horse bar.

“Why certainly, Mr. Ed,” replied the horse bartender.

Death Valley Junction is also known for its dark skies. That is scientific lingo which means at night there are billions and billions of stars to take a gander at instead of the three which lurk about in a city. And one of those is probably a streetlamp.

Is there a lot to see at Death Valley Junction? Yes, there is. It is not a place to drive through on the way to some other place, but a locale to stop, breathe the clean air, and marvel at what one person can do who had the gumption to do it.

That was who Marta Becket was.

We only wish we could have seen her perform on stage, just once.

For further information: http://amargosaoperahouse.org/

Route 66 at the Smithsonian

Laureen Beyer pointing out where she is in Washington D.C.

A piece of Route 66 history is located 697 miles southeast from where this iconic roadway began back in 1926 in downtown Chicago.

“But I thought the Mother Road went from Chicago to Santa Monica?” little Jimmy may ask.

Well, that is correct but when my lovely wife, Laureen, and I returned to Washington D.C. recently, we were thrilled to see a beautiful exhibit about Route 66 at the National Museum of American History.

Towns along Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica

“Are you thrilled?” Laureen asked.

“Thrilled to be thrilled.”

It is not a large exhibit, but all the information a person visiting this Smithsonian Museum is there to garner a taste of how important Route 66 was for early travelers across the United States.

Stretching an impressive 2,448 miles through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and finally arriving in California.

It took six years to build this road, from 1926 until 1932, but it was not fully paved until 12 years later in 1938.

Cyrus Avery, a businessman in Tulsa, Oklahoma stated, “I challenge anyone to show a road of equal length that traverses more scenery, more agricultural wealth, and more mineral wealth than does U.S. 66.”

Avery founded the U.S. 66 Highway Association and first called Route 66 the ‘Main Street of America.’

I have traveled quite a bit along Route 66 getting research for this or that story and I never tire of driving the long stretches of usually empty roadway. Passing through towns that are still here like Newberry Springs, Ludlow, Seligman, Winslow, and towns that are simply ghosts of what they once were, Bagdad, Siberia, Two Guns, and many more that dot the long stretches of roadway.

Each time I stop, it’s hard not to imagine hearing the voices, the laughter, the tears, that once could be heard in these once vibrant spots.

What were the hopes of dreams of these folks along Route 66

It’s not a quick trip taking the byways, but that is the reason - to enjoy and understand the history of this wonderful highway that stretches for so many miles.

The Smithsonian’s were something that was top on our list as we landed at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

Actually, making sure our bags arrived on the same plane as we did, getting to our hotel and having an adult libation were my top priorities. 

But during our trip to the city planned by George Washington, we hoofed it to some of the most famous museums in the world.

The Smithsonian’s.

I had only traveled to our nation’s capital once before and knew there was so much to see that numerous trips may not cover all it had to offer. 

I learned there was a lot this large berg had to show a visitor - and one previous trip was not enough.

We like getting up early, having a sip of coffee and hitting places before the crowds show up - and in Washington D.C. the crowds were always present, especially during the 4th of July week.

And as usual, we headed out before most people had tumbled from their beds to a place which was on both of our radars.

The Route 66 experience at the National Museum of American History.

The exhibit is inundated with memorabilia commemorating this masterpiece of a highway.

Some travelers provisions on display

Four outstanding women who braved early Route 66

There are some of the original vehicles on display which drove across Route 66. Along with those displays there are sculptures of men and women standing or sitting in those very same vehicles - it was rather surreal since the area the exhibit is located is rather dark and lights shine on each exhibit.

Often, Route 66 was not for the weak of heart

“Rather ghostly,” Laureen said.

“Yes, it's as though the mannequins may turn and talk to us,” I replied.

“Wonder what they would say?”

I shrugged. “Hey, I get tired standing on my feet twenty-four-seven. But then again, perhaps all these inanimate objects come alive once the museum closes at night and have a monster gala.”

Laureen ignored me, she’s good at that.

An open aired two seat car from 1903 is on display showing two men and a dog trying to pull it out of a sandy patch using block and tackle.

Another shows a family sedan loaded down with everything they would need while crossing the nation along Route 66. Spare tires, spare water, sleeping bags, lanterns, tents, and the like.

Everything a family may need during the Route 66 journey

Stories of folks who made the adventure are there for visitors to read. Stories about the Hamons, the Shorts, the Haggards, and four young women who ventured out on their own in 1947 from New York to Los Angeles, utilizing Route 66 once they reached Chicago.

In fact, in 1946, an up-and-coming musician, Bobby Troup, drove the route from Pennsylvania to Los Angeles. During the trip his wife suggested he write a song about it - the rest is history. Nat King Cole took the song and made it a gigantic hit, ‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66’.

There is a lot to see and experience at the Route 66 exhibit, but there is a lot more to see while taking the time and wandering at this and the other Smithsonian Museums in Washington D.C.

Actually, visiting our nation’s capital should be on any traveler's ultimate destination list.

Though I would suggest Fall or Spring, summer is brutal with the humidity hitting at least 1,000 percent.

For further information: https://www.si.edu/object/route-66-pavement-1932%3Anmah_1276320

Welcome to D.C.

The new big beautiful flag pole in front of the White House

Washington D.C. is a big place with a small town feel. The seat of power in the United States revolves around certain buildings along the National Mall and blocks on either side. It may seem large but the locals don’t view the capital as such.

“We’re really a city of small neighborhoods,” Tony, a bartender at the Dubliner, told us. “The capital seems large and bustling to many tourists, but to us locals, it’s just home.”

Laureen and I had walked about a hundred miles during the first four hours on the day of our arrival in our nation's capital and I was parched - from the walking and the two hundred percent humidity.

Since this was only the second time I’d traveled to Washington, D.C., I asked myself why I had come during the summer again. Wasn’t the first time enough to warn me off future summer trips where a shower in the morning wouldn’t last for the first three minutes when exiting the hotel?

“I need a shower and a towel,” I said. “And not sure in that order.”

We had stopped by the Dubliner, located on ‘F’ Street, not far from Columbus Circle, for a bite of lunch and a respite from Mother Nature.

The Dubliner - a fine Irish pub in the heart of Washington D.C.

“Tony,” I said. “How do you folks deal with the humidity?”

He simply smiled at me while passing over a pint of Smithwick’s. Did I mention Tony was a saint?

“We think cool,” he responded, and then went to wait on other patrons.

I looked at Laureen, “Does that work?”

Even my lovely bride had shiny beads of sweat upon her brow. Women don’t perspire, she once told me. They glisten. “No. It does not.”

Washington, D.C., is a city laid out by the founding fathers in a rather neat mathematical way. Four quadrants - northwest, northeast, southwest, and southeast. Rather mundane but easy to understand, compared to many places I have encountered in my travels.

“Well,” someone would say to me with a piece of straw hanging out of their mouth. “You go down until you see a red-spotted cow and then turn right, but not before waving at old widow Wilson. Then you move on for a stretch until …”

The point is made.

Each of the supposedly 130 various neighborhoods in D.C. revolve around their own culture and vibes.

“Do you want to visit all the neighborhoods?” Laureen asked me as our lunch arrived. A light pub salad for Laureen and a heavy dose of Shepherd’s pie for me - I had to gain my strength back to continue walking the streets of D.C. later.

 “Nope,” I said. “That’s why there is Uber, Lyft, the Metro, or Flip.”

“Flip?”                                                                                                                                                             

I nodded. “Flip a coin to see if we head back to the hotel after lunch and take a nap.”

We ended up, after a wonderful time at the Dubliner Restaurant, heading out into the steamy afternoon. It got even steamier when a sudden thunder storm eased over the east and blanketed the capital with what seemed like ten inches of rain in two minutes.

I knew it was coming, since I had insisted that we would not need an umbrella - my albatross.

“Why an umbrella?” I once posed to Laureen in the hinterlands of Northern Ireland. Fifteen minutes later the Irish Coast Guard showed up.  

As we walked back toward the National Mall to take in the sights, Laureen said, “I wish we had brought an umbrella.”

Which in her world actually meant, you should have listened to me and taken the umbrella from the Watergate Hotel like I suggested.

There really should be two dictionaries - one for smart women and one for the rest of us.

With soaking shoes and smiles, we meandered our way to the White House to see the two new big beautiful flag poles that were recently erected.

It is awe inspiring to stand across the street from where the President and First Lady reside, no matter what political party, and contemplate the importance of such a building.

The current residence has housed every president since John Adams. But George Washington chose the spot and supervised its construction - so his spirit is still there. It is a venue where world leaders come and discuss worldly issues on a constant basis.

But, being tourists, we could only gawk through the tall black wrought iron fencing and ponder what goes on inside those special walls.

“Do I really need to meet with him this afternoon?” a president may ask his Chief of Staff.

“Sir, he’s the Prime Minister of England.”

“But he sounds so Scottish.”

The White House is located in an area known as Foggy Bottom. And yes, Laureen asked me not to write immature statements about the name. So, in bygone days the area was often covered by a blinding low-lying fog along the marshy area of the Potomac River, and with the smoke from and soot from nearby industrial complexes, the  name stuck.

This is also where the Kennedy Center is located, along with the Department of State and other high-affluence entities. D.C. is full of such places.

Standing across from the White House was special and allowed us to see America at its best. There were lots of tourists snapping selfies, asking for others to take their photos, selfies taking selfies, and others trying to steal their cameras. There were also a bunch of protesters waving posters and flags, wearing masks, and singing songs out-of-tune.

John R Beyer right before asking protestors what they were upset about

“What are you protesting?” I asked, being a journalist and all.

“Not sure,” a lime green-haired woman told me. “But it’s probably something about the government.”

“That is an awesome answer,” I replied.

Laureen shook her head, “She has green hair and a nose ring that hangs to her belly-button.”

“The First Amendment covers poor fashion choices, I believe,” I said. 

Our first day back in the nation’s capital after two years was interesting, sweaty, and overall great. This D.C. is a place to visit time and again. The week we had planned was not nearly long enough to see everything. We knew that but also realized we would pack as much into this adventure as possible.

I have always said to our children - if you are not exhausted by the time you return from a vacation, then you haven’t been on vacation.

Our Founding Fathers wondered if this great American dream would work out in the long run -  at this point, for nearly 250 years it’s done okay. A few bumps and hiccups but overall, not a bad experiment in the concept of a nation being self-governing.

For further information:

https://washington.org/visitors-guide

https://www.dublinerdc.com/