Photo Essay: Whispers of Madness at a Hilltop Dungeon for the Sick

Today, most tourists find themselves in the remote, rural town of La Rumorosa—part of the Tecate municipality—to visit the nearby cave paintings.



But in the mid-1920s, Governor Abelardo L. Rodríguez traveled to La Rumorosa to escape the blistering heat of Mexicali...



...and he brought the federal headquarters with him.



With its closer proximity to the Pacific Ocean and its high elevation, La Rumorosa was known to be much more temperate than where the Mexican government had been headquartered farther inland.



In fact, La Rumorosa (a.k.a. "The Whisperer," known for its whistling winds) was downright chilly compared to Mexicali—and so, at the highest point of the village, Campo Alaska was established.



Functioning as both a military base and Mexican government administrative offices, barracks and even a school were built and used by federal workers, military staff, and their families—at least, until the mercury dropped enough for them to return to Mexicali.



As much as the cooler temperatures must've been a relief for those who were forced to relocate twice a year...



...you can imagine what a hassle it was to move staff, paperwork, and supplies across the Sierra de Juárez mountain range...

...even if the Camino Nacional toll road supposedly made travel across the Northern Territory of Baja California easier.

Eventually, it made more sense to use the hilltop facility in the tiny village (with no proper border crossing to the U.S., though it's situated at the border across from Jacumba Hot Springs) to house people who wouldn't be going anywhere else—at least, not anytime soon.



So, in 1931, Governor Carlos Trejo Lerdo de Tejada converted Campo Alaska into a facility for patients without much hope: the insane and those infected with TB and other infectious diseases. 

It's unclear whether the whispering wind would have comforted or further maddened the "idiots" and "imbeciles" of the asylum (a.k.a. manicomio, La Casa de los Locos or "House of the Madmen").



The tuberculosis infirmary (Hospital Antituberculoso del Distrito Norte) ran concurrently with the asylum, as both types of patients had been receiving "treatment" in squalor at the nearby Civic Hospital and were subsequently evicted and rehospitalized at Campo Alaska. Nobody wanted to have much of anything to do with the crazy or contagious, so they got lumped in together.



The Rumorosa Hospital, like many facilities at the time, was fraught with corruption and the perceived unfair treatment of its patients—something that's now obvious, given the nickname it was known by and its use of seclusion as treatment of "madness."



In fact, the operation of the hospital didn't differ too much from a military operation, as it was necessary to keep the manicomial patients under constant surveillance.



A local paper published an editorial criticizing the hospital's "terrible conditions," citing famine and theft of blankets and other supplies that made the sanitarium unlivable—particularly during the unseasonable freeze of the winter of 1935-6.



Doctors and nurses weren't held accountable for their actions, and patients were held in corrals that weren't fit for any human being. But then again, at the time, the mentally ill weren't considered deserving of humane treatment because they weren't human.



Of course, all of that negligence only aggravated the patients' suffering—and eventually (though not soon enough), the abuses were denounced.

But there was such a deluge of complaints that pretty much all of them got lost in the shuffle and didn't survive bureaucracy.

So, instead of improving conditions at La Rumorosa, the patients were simply relocated—again—in 1955.

By 1958, the site was completely abandoned.

In 2004, Campo Alaska was designated an important cultural site. The federal building was restored and converted into a museum of local history (though not of local insanity and infection) and the other structures have been preserved in a state of arrested decay.

And despite all of the travelers who head west to Tecate or east to Mexicali over the National Road, most of them don't know that Campo Alaska ever existed—or that the site is open to visitors now.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The Little Valley of Ancient Art and Astronomy
Photo Essay: Lanterman Developmental Center, Pomona, Haunted & Closing
Photo Essay: Rancho Los Amigos, Abandoned County Poor Farm, Downey (Exterior—Updated for 2018)

Another One Bites the Dust: Santa Monica Edition (Updated for 2022)

[Last updated 7/8/22 10:34 PM PT—info on sculpture removal added]

[Last updated 12/13/21 11:04 AM PT—info on stained glass removal added]

The largest of Millard Sheets's mosaic murals commissioned by Home Savings and Loan is was on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica.



It's It was the only such work by Sheets (essentially, a bank commission) in Santa Monica.

Photo Essay: Upon the Opening of the 2018 LA County Fair

The Los Angeles County Fair ranks as the country’s fourth-largest and is bigger than many state fairs. This year, it opens on August 31 and runs through September 23.



I've spent the last six years visiting the so-called "Fairplex," and I've discovered that there's more to it than meets the eye.

Photo Essay: A Tale of Two Ghost Towns in Daggett, CA

Daggett first caught my interest as a ghost town along Route 66—one where silver mining had been replaced by solar farms.



But when I went five years ago, I knew I was missing out on something.



I knew there must be something else to see—I just didn't know where to look.



It turns out that Daggett isn't just one ghost town but two—and the other one, a former company town and military base—can be found at the airport.



Barstow-Daggett Airport was officially built in 1933, but its beginnings date back to 1930—when air flight wasn't so common, so it was outfitted with a radio beacon and used as a Desert Airways Communication Station to help pilots navigate. The next year, a 40-foot tower followed; and in 1932, three runways were built as flight activity began to increase.



In the late 1930s, it operated as a municipal airport and civil air field, a "designated landing area" for civilians, and expanded greatly through the end of the decade, thanks to funds supplied by the WPA as part of FDR's New Deal.



In 1942, the War Department chose it as a Modification Center, which Douglas Aircraft Company established as the Daggett Army Air Field later that year. As a tenant, Douglas continued to operate it—and modify as many as 4300 existing aircraft for special military needs (mainly Douglas A-20 Havoc light bombers and C-47 Skytrain transport airplanes)—until 1944.



Fighter pilots received advanced training here in 1944. The flying weather was reportedly excellent.



U.S. Army Air Force operations were suspended in 1945, and the Navy took it over from the Army in 1946. In 1958-9, San Bernardino County took over jurisdiction, and it continues to oversee it today.



But the Army presence didn't disappear completely from Daggett Airport. Its proximity to Barstow (only a dozen or so miles west of the airport) and the Fort Irwin installation makes it a likely candidate for Army-owned UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters and LUH-72 Lakota helicopters to operate out of the airport—especially since the Barstow airport closed in 1961.



Supposedly, there are 46 aircraft based at this field, three-quarters of which are military-owned. The three-sided, redwood hangar sheds were built to accommodate up to 36 aircraft at any given time. (Only Hangar Shed No. 4 remains.)



And Barstow-Daggett Airport has been called "one of the busiest small airports in the country."



But when I visited last November, I didn't see any aircraft at all—neither on the ground nor in the air.

I didn't see any people, either.



Between headquarters and flight operations buildings, hangars, barracks, utilities, storage, and fuel operations, there were about 65 buildings and 20 other structures at one time in what became known as "Douglas Town."

Nearly 1000 people could have been housed in those barracks and family cottages—though since being declared surplus in 1945, many of them are now gone. The few remaining are derelict.

And the residents who once lived in the 1940s-era housing built for civilian crew and military personnel were evicted in 2012.

I think I've now seen most of it, though I didn't really understand what I was looking at while I was there. And although I saw signs for a swimming pool, I didn't find it.

But I know it's there.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Route 66's Daggett, From Silver to Solar
Photo Essay: A Fake Iraq in the Middle of the Mojave Desert
Photo Essay: George Air Force Base, Abandoned & Consumed
Photo Essay: George Air Force Base, Under Blockade & Demolition

Photo Essay: LAPD's Parker Center, Upon Its Imminent Demolition (Updated)

[Last updated 6/14/20 11:33 AM PT—info on completed demolition added]

I guess I'm fortunate enough to have not ever had any legal reason to visit the inside of Parker Center before its closure in 2013.



The Police Administration Building/Police Facilities Building, designed by Welton Beckett in the International Style, has come to symbolize the civil unrest and police abuse of minorities in Los Angeles...



...which came to a head during the Watts Rebellion of 1965, the East LA Walkouts in 1966 (for unfair treatment of Chicano students in the LA Unified School District), and the LA Riots in 1992 (in response to the "Not Guilty" verdict of the Rodney King/LAPD beatings).



No civilian ever wanted to go past any of Parker Center's 12 blue, tiled isolated columns and into the eight-story, reinforced concrete structure on official business.



But the post-war facility has probably attracted more than a few looky-loos who've identified its exterior from episodes of Dragnet, Perry Mason, or Columbo. And when it first opened in 1955, it sparked such interest among the public that the LAPD had to hire a full-time police officer just to give daily tours of the facility.

circa 2008 (Photo: jericl cat via Flickr, CC By 2.0)

I do wish I'd seen the Joseph Young mosaic mural, "Architectural History of Los Angeles" (a.k.a. "Theme Mural of Los Angeles") up close and in person, not just from pressing my face against the glass front doors last summer, when everything was locked up and the building had been denied status as a Historic-Cultural Landmark.

circa 2008 (Photo: jericl cat via Flickr, CC By 2.0)

And now, with demolition seeming imminent (save some last minute Hail Mary), that 36-foot-long, six-foot-wide mosaic of 250,000 pieces in 50 different colors has been relocated from the reverse side of a pay telephone bank to off-site storage.



Some people would gladly see Parker Center bulldozed.



Its construction, which necessitated the eviction of a commercial district of Little Tokyo by eminent domain less than a decade after the Japanese internment camps of WWII, left a bitter taste in more than just the Japanese-Angeleno community.



And besides rioting and protests, Parker Center's ugly history includes its role in the OJ Simpson interrogations and its namesake, notorious hard-ass police chief William Parker. Though Chief Parker worked to abolish other forms of corruption within the force, if he didn't order it directly, he was at least complicit with the racist behavior of the officers under his charge.



Those who wish to preserve Parker Center—despite its gnarly associations—cite its exemplary Southern California Modernism style, it's towering presence in the open air, its influence over the civic center plaza layouts that would subsequently follow suit, and its public art.



In addition to the bronze sculpture on Parker Center's front facade and the lobby mosaic mural, there's also Sook Jin Jo's adjacent sculpture from 2009, "Wishing Bells / To Protect and To Serve."



The Korean-born artist has contributed pretty much the only reference to Japanese culture at the Parker Center plaza, with her tribute to the Japanese Buddhist tradition of ringing bells to dispel the desires that cause human suffering.

In this case, 108 bells and ribbons—featuring words contributed by the community—hang suspended from a central trellis, which is supported by nine cedar columns.

Technically, the sculpture is part of the LAPD Metropolitan Detention Center next door and not Parker Center, though the line of demarcation between the two isn't clear. Hopefully, this nod to the lost section of Little Tokyo will remain, despite what the wrecking ball does to Parker Center.

The plan right now is to replace the former police headquarters—which is considered outdated, reportedly having reached the "end of its service period" in the 1990s, though it was once so ultra-modern that Popular Mechanics called it "the most scientific building ever used by a law enforcement group."

In its place? A spanking new, exorbitantly priced office tower—a proposal that stings, particularly in a time when we've got homeless encampments a stone's throw away and more people in need of housing than we know what to do with.

Unfortunately, the arguments of whether to save or destroy Parker Center—and the resulting decision—have been emotional rather than pragmatic. 

And all that the Los Angeles Conservancy says it can hope for now is a delay of the destruction of the historic structure until the plans for the new building are approved—so as not to leave us with a gaping hole in the landscape. [Update: Demolition was completed July 2019 and we now have a gaping hole in the landscape.]

For more perspective on this issue, read "Should We Preserve Places We Would Rather Forget?" by Jonathan Haeber here.

And here's that Popular Mechanics article from 1956 in full:

Popular Mechanics, July 1956 via Google Books

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: LA's Oldest Standing Police Station
Photo Essay: The Triforium, A Disco Spaceship Gone Dark
Photo Essay: City Hall at Sunset (Updated for 2017)
Photo Essay: Lincoln Heights Jail, Closed to Public (Updated for 2017)

Photo Essay: To Know An Alpaca Is To Love An Alpaca

Screenshot from KCET.org/SoCalWanderer

I love animals, but I don't love all animals equally. I feel like I should, but I don't.

I've already established that I'm a crazy cat lady and that I go gaga for goats and cuckoo for camels—but I also go bonkers for baby alpacas.

Oh, let's face it, I lose it for pretty much any alpaca.

I'd previously encountered them at Malibu Wine Safaris, Wildlife Waystation, and maybe another sanctuary or zoo or two—but in my deepening alpaca adventures, I'd found it much better to get the full immersive experience at a dedicated alpaca farm or ranch like Sweet Water Alpaca Ranch or Alpacas at Windy Hill.

I knew there must be more alpaca ranches around SoCal to visit, but I hadn't focused on crossing them off my list.

And then, I had the opportunity to write about them for KCET, an assignment that sent me on three more alpaca adventures.

I've already written about one of them here: William S. Hart Park, which includes five alpacas in its barnyard, though that's not necessarily the focus of the place (or of my piece).

And since the nature of my articles for KCET's SoCal Wanderer column doesn't allow enough room to publish all the good photos I submit from any given place, I frequently use my blog to fill in the gaps.

After all, every story has a story behind it. 

I almost didn't get to go to The Alpaca Hacienda at all, given my lack of transportation over the last month (that's a whole other story) and the wildfire that had been raging just off the 15 freeway, which we'd have to drive right past (though fortunately not exactly through).



And that would've been a real shame, because The Alpaca Hacienda in Temecula is a really magical place.



Of course, I already loved Temecula and have frequently fantasized about moving there.



But what Beth Osborne has done with her sprawling, hillside ranch and her herd of fluffy animals is really a dream come true.



Her story is a familiar one to me and most of my friends of a certain age—at some point, you wonder whether this (whatever "this" is) is really what you want to be doing for the rest of your life.



Isn't there something more? Or better?



Yes, there is. There are alpacas.



Raising alpacas on a ranch in Riverside County isn't an easy life, per se.



There are feedings and shearings and breedings and birthings. And in a climate with hot days and potentially cold nights, anything could go wrong at any time.



But you get to look at those sweet faces every day.



And if you've got the right snack, they'll eat right out of your hand, using their lips to grab whatever pellet or feed you've got in your outstretched palm.



They've only got four bottom teeth, which get filed down yearly, so there's not much risk of getting nibbled.



And because each alpaca has its own personality—like goats, cats, and dogs, they're incredibly individualistic—one of them might not want to eat out of your hand but will be perfectly happy to let you watch him feed out of a trough.



At The Alpaca Hacienda, the animals are used for their fiber, which is either sent out for spinning into yarn or felting or spun right there on site. At Canzelle Alpacas in Carpinteria, however, these camelids are bred to be prize-winning, ribbon-wearing beauty queens and breed stock.



Though it’s literally three quarters of a mile away from the 101, it couldn’t feel farther from civilization. Located in the foothills of Los Padres National Forest in Carpinteria, over 50 alpacas reside on the 20 acres here.



Since you can actually get into the enclosures of the two different female herds, there’s nothing separating you from being mobbed by hungry alpacas all at once while you clutch a fistful of baby carrots.



It can get a little intense.



But I found the shy ones...



...the cautiously inquisitive ones...



...and the ones that let me pet them on the neck and scratch into the lower part of their head locks.



And when I headed over to the other herd of ladies, lazing in the shade...



...I managed to not get spat on (though one of the girls was not so lucky, as evidenced by her hanging lower lip)...



...despite being up close and face-to-face with these magnificent creatures.



At Canzelle, I was able to literally wrap my arms around and nuzzle right up into the furry cheeks of some of the alpacas...



...and I was lucky enough to encounter one of the kissy ones, too.



For me, that was enough to find myself falling in alpaca-love.



Then again, I've always fallen in love too easily. I'm too good at loving the one I'm with.

And I'm rarely with the same alpaca twice.

One day, maybe I'll have a herd of my own. That's the dream: a tiny house, with lots of land for livestock to roam.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: A Ranch of Sweet Alpacas
The Threshold of Fright and Flight: Lessons From An Alpaca