Tag Archives: Gold Rush cemetery

Short was My Life, Long is My Rest

Iowa Hill-final013

Apologies for the photos this time around. They are scans of 20-year-old slides. I wonder if there is anywhere that might still make prints of them?

“It is a town that was established in 1853 but has been largely destroyed by a series of major fires, the last in 1920. The town nevertheless produced in excess of $20 million in gold. We are told that prospectors, to this day, continue to find large gold nuggets in the river — the North Fork of the American — just out from town. There is an historic cemetery worth visiting here.” — The Complete Gold Country Guidebook

Our adventure started from that last line of the guidebook listing. How could I possibly pass up any cemetery “worth visiting”?

My husband Mason and I had traded houses with my friend Benjamin and his boyfriend Geraldo. They stayed at our place in San Francisco while we slept at Geraldo’s house in Rocklin. Roughly 20 miles north of Sacramento, Rocklin is basically a bedroom community; at that time, its downtown consisted of a patch of chain restaurants off of I-80. The house, while luxurious, served simply a base of operations for our weekend exploration the Gold Country.

We pointed our van up Highway 80 into the Sierra foothills. It had rained in the night, so the few surviving leaves hung from tree branches like wet rags. The sky glowered, the color of wet concrete. Why had we decided to take a holiday in March?

Following the rudimentary directions in the guidebook — “Iowa Hill is reached on a small side road, east off Interstate 80, six or seven miles in” — we turned off the highway at Colfax. The guidebook didn’t say which road to take, so Iowa Hill Road seemed our best bet. Iowa Hill itself survived as too small a settlement to rate a dot on the guidebook map.

The two-lane blacktop twisted amongst the rising hills. Before long, we reached the American River’s North Fork. A narrow trestle bridge crossed snowmelt boiling over the bare knees of Sierra granite. The water glowed olive green, greener than the threatening sky or skeletal trees.


“More than $20,000,000 in gold was taken from the ridge, mostly by hydraulic mining. An estimated $30,000,000 still remains, but it will probably stay locked in the gravel until the anti-debris laws are repealed.” — Gold Rush Country, published by Sunset in 1964.

I expected a gold mining town to be near its source of water. Instead, a whitewashed boulder beside the river sported a hand-lettered sign that promised “Iowa Hill – Beer – 7 mi.”

The road narrowed to a lane and a half, snaking steeply upward. No guardrail stood between us and the drop to the river below. Mason took the curves cautiously, never knowing when we’d need to share with one of the fast-driving locals coming the other way.

We rounded a hairpin curve to find a Chevy El Dorado rusting on the shoulder. Cracks webbed the windshield. Shotgun pellets had punctured the driver’s door. It looked like a travel advisory: the locals are armed. We joked about hearing the echoes of banjoes between the trees.

Iowa Hill-final011Eventually, we passed a weathered wooden building with an icebox on its porch. The first building we found functioned as both general store and post office.

“Wanna stop for a coke?” I asked.

“Let’s just find the graveyard,” Mason answered tersely. He’s a city boy, born and bred. The wild parts of America make him uncomfortable.

Just past the store on the opposite side of the road rose the Iowa Hill historical marker, a low heap of fieldstone mortared together to support a bronze plaque. It read:

“Gold discovered here in 1853. By 1856 weekly production estimated at one hundred thousand dollars. Total value of gold produced up to 1880 placed at twenty million dollars. Town was destroyed by fire in 1857 and again in 1862 but each time was rebuilt with more substantial buildings. Last big fire 1920 destroyed most of town.” — Tablet placed by California Centennials Commission, originally dedicated in 1950.


Behind the marker stood one of the few remaining historic buildings, the Wells Fargo assayer’s office. An assayer tested the gold to determine its quality and value. The building once protected the weekly fortune. Now it looked as if a strong wind would flatten it. I read in Elliot Koeppel’s The California Gold Country: Highway 49 Revisited that the old iron safe remained inside the shack because it was too heavy to haul away. We didn’t go look.

Instead, Mason continued driving along the ridge. Finally I spotted broken marble monuments jabbing through the red dirt. Oak leaves — the color of parchment and wet leather — drifted against the stones. Gnarled tree branches inhabited by mistletoe contorted under the jumbled gray clouds.

Rounded river stones outlined the path, so you could tell it from the mud. Rocks outlined a number of plots. Some graves no longer had headstones. I was surprised by the number of wooden monuments still standing. One said simply, “Died” — everything else had weathered away. Another slab of wood bore a large blue question mark.

Here and there heaped piles of ashes, as if the leaves had been raked up and burned on the bare earth. That seemed like dangerous business, given the town’s history of fires. Someone cared for the old graveyard, though. They’d done repairs, lifting the worn marble stones out of the red dirt and standing them upright in new cement jackets.

Among the tilted wooden crosses stood charred wooden poles, survivors of a fire. I found it hard to envision wildfire on the damp March mountainside, but if a forest fire came, there’d be no chance to bring water up from the river seven miles below. There’d also be no way to outrun the flames on that treacherous winding road. Saving historic grave markers would be the last thing on anyone’s mind.

While prospectors from Iowa supposedly founded the town, none of them mentioned their native state on their tombstones. Miners from North Wales, Scotland, Switzerland, and Italy remained in Iowa Hill. Some of them, like thirty-five-year-old Charles Schwab, perished young. His epitaph claimed, “If love and care could death prevent, my days would not be so soon spent.”

An epitaph for Jared S. Sparhawk lamented, “Can’t forget the agonizing hour when those loved eyes closed to wake no more.” A medal adorned his marble tablet, decorated with an eagle, a five-pointed star, and a flag. He died in 1898. I wondered if he’d been a Civil War veteran. Behind him stood a wooden cross remembering Mrs. Jared Sparhawk. She no longer had a first name.

Iowa Hill-final012The saddest graves honored children. The infant twins of G.W. Cross and wife lay under a wooden marker. Born May 16, 1888, the son lived a day. The daughter survived for nine days more. Apparently, both went to their grave unnamed. Another unnamed infant’s epitaph called it, “Happy infant, early blessed.” A third spoke of Dolly: “Her life was like a half-blown rose, closed by the shades of even. Her death the dawn, the blushing hour, that opes (sic) the gates of Heaven.”

Some graves had fascinating offerings. A pretty chunk of rose quartz sat on the bare ground. Ivar Aasen, born 1889 and died in 1977, had a railroad spike lying in front of his headstone. A modern cross, wrapped in a blue bandana, wore the label “GI Joe.” Terry Jo Luthe served in Vietnam before his death in 1987. Most mysteriously, an empty wooden picture frame stood in the middle of the cemetery, propped against two pine trees.

My favorite epitaph remembered Olive, beloved wife of P.T. Brown. Her gravestone instructed, “Dear husband, do not mourn for me. When I am dead and gone, only my body is dead. My spirit rests in the Spiritland and you will meet me soon.” Had she meant that as a promise or a curse?

As we poked among the gravestones, an occasional 4×4 crept past our van, moving slowly enough to run our license plate.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Mason wondered nervously.

“Keeping an eye on us,” I guessed. The scrutiny worried me, too. In the farm country where I grew up, if people thought you were up to no good, they confronted you. They did it with a friendly howdy, but they made your business theirs. They’d rather defuse a situation by being helpful than prowl around and spy.

I wondered why the Iowa Hill locals didn’t just stop and ask what we looked for in their graveyard. I would’ve appreciated the opportunity to speak to someone about this town on the near edge of nowhere. Why had they chosen to live up in the hills? What did they do up here for work? How did they survive? Were any old-timers left?

Iowa Hill-final014I couldn’t imagine they ever had tourists come up from the valley to cause trouble in their graveyard, especially not first thing on a Sunday morning. The scrutiny seemed one more indication of outsiders were unwelcome.


Across the road drowsed Iowa Hill’s Catholic cemetery, dedicated to St. Dominic. Dominic, a medieval priest, was erroneously credited with inventing the rosary. He did, however, found the Dominican order, dedicated to sacred learning and the burning of witches.

The gatepost, lying in the dirt, said the “Cemetary” had been established in 1860. John Fitzpatrick from Ireland rested just beyond. His grave echoed the old warning, “Remember, man, as you pass by, as you are now so once was I. As I am now, so you must be. Then think of death and pray for me.” Marble laurel sprigs and long, twining ivy ornamented his monument. In nature, both stay green year round, so they symbolize immortality and memory evergreen. A pretty wrought iron fence enclosed his plot.

Another Irish grave, marked with a Celtic cross, remembered the Gleasons. Their epitaph described, “Another form in the churchyard sod. Another soul gone to meet its God.”

The last photo we took captured the wooden marker for John Henry, native of Lorenne (probably Lorraine misspelled), France. He died in 1890. Beside him stood the marble marker for his son Louis F., who died in 1887, age twelve. Louis’ epitaph provided the title of this story and seemed to sum up the boom and bust of Iowa Hill.

Cautiously, we crossed the road back to where we’d parked the van. We escaped Iowa Hill without incident, never so glad to see suburbia as when we returned to Rocklin. Strangely enough, though, I still craved exploring more of the Gold Country. That would have to wait for a sunnier day.


For the next year, I’m planning to put a cemetery essay up every Friday.  If there is a cemetery that has touched your life, I would love to hear from you.  The submissions guidelines are here.

Death Salon is coming to San Francisco

The Jewish cemeteries in  what is now Dolores Park, San Francisco

The Jewish cemeteries in what is now Dolores Park, San Francisco

I’m going to miss another Cemetery of the Week tonight because I’ve been working on my speech for next weekend’s Death Salon here in my hometown.  Want to come and hear it in person?  There are still some tickets left.  Here’s the link.

The line up of speakers varies from my historical view of cemeteries in San Francisco to Jill Tracy talking about writing music in the Mutter Museum after hours to Caitlin Doughty (Ask a Mortician) talking about her new book Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.  There will be talks about working as a death doula, postmortem facial reconstruction, Santa Muerte, and funeral food traditions — and much, much more.

I missed the Death Salon in London earlier this year, but I was lucky enough to attend the initial Death Salon in Los Angeles last October.  I blogged about it for days on Morbid Is as Morbid Does.  Check it out here, if you’re interested.

In the meantime, the thought of the day as I researched my lecture:  the first “official” city graveyard in San Francisco was really small.  Bounded by what we now call Filbert and Greenwich Streets and bisected by what is now Powell Street, the graveyard had as many as 900 people buried in it between 1846 and 1850.  They must have been packed in pretty tight.

Shop window above the old graveyard

Shop window above the old graveyard

To call the space a cemetery is to be generous.  It had no fence. Sheep grazed on the property.  Without laws regarding the depths of graves, many were shallow and, unsurprisingly, the smell was bad. In 1850, the Daily Alta California reported, “A visit to this place of sepulture is sufficient to shock the sensibilities of men inured even to the battlefield rude burial of the dead.”

After the Gold Rush began in earnest in 1849, the graveyard’s land was suddenly more valuable.  Its owner stepped forward and demanded the bodies be cleared away so that he could develop his property.  It has been commercial ever since.

Cemetery of the Week #66: Sacramento City Cemetery

Old City Cemetery muse

a.k.a. Old City Cemetery
1000 Broadway
Sacramento, California 95818
Telephone: (916) 448-0811
Founded: December 1849
Size: 44 acres
Number of interments: more than 25,000
Open: Summer hours are 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Saturday & Sunday.
Due to city budget constraints, the City Cemetery will be closed every Wednesday and Thursday until further notice.

Approximately 90 miles northeast of San Francisco, Sacramento became capitol of California in 1854.  More recently, Sacramento hosted governors Ronald Reagan and Arnold Schwartzenegger.

Prior to that, Sacramento became the first California boomtown in 1849. The former frontier outpost benefitted immensely as the last provisioning point for the forty-niners on their way up to the Sierra Gold Fields. Between 1848 and 1853, over half a million people passed through Sacramento on the way to seek their fortunes.

Sacramento City Cemetery was founded by a city ordinance in December 1849 to be a “public grave yard” unaffiliated with any religious organization. It wasn’t the first public graveyard in town: New Helvetia Cemetery, now Sutter Middle School, preceded it. Still, the Old City Cemetery remains as the oldest original (non-rebuilt) historical site in Sacramento.

Sacramento mourner

It’s an incredibly beautiful place. Beneath the arching branches of oaks and the fronts of palms, white marble markers stand against the flawless blue Californian sky. Ornamentation varies from Egyptian Revival to little lambs, from hands clutching each other throughout eternity to angels and muses standing upright against their grief. The Grand Army of the Republic has a noble monument. Enormous antique rosebushes sparkle with vivid blossoms. Squirrels chase over the gravestones, followed by low-slinking cats.

Historical markers stand before several of the plots, describing the lives and times of Sacramento’s most permanent residents. Senators, governors, and a Supreme Court Justice share the ground with 2000 pioneers from around the globe. Among the historic dead lies Mark Hopkins, one of the men responsible fro the transcontinental railroad. His monument cost $80,000 in 1879. John Sutter Jr. was the son of the man on whose property gold was discovered. The Tilden family descended from settlers who came over on the Mayflower. The son of Alexander Hamilton was buried in three places before finally coming to rest in the Sacramento City Cemetery. 600 Sacramentans buried in a mass grave during the cholera epidemic of 1850 testify to the hardships of pioneer life.

The Old City Cemetery Committee formed in 1987 to combat neglect in the cemetery and repair broken tombstones. Volunteers continue to research the cemetery, raise funds for repair, tend the garden plots, and lead tours. Their extensive tour schedule is here.  This weekend’s tour focuses on Close Calls and Calamities. The theme of next week’s evening fundraiser is Beer, Babes, and Brawls, for an audience 21 and over, since it includes a beer-tasting. A .pdf flyer is here.

Useful links:

The Old City Cemetery homepage

Map of the cemetery

The Old City Cemetery Facebook page

California Native Plant Demonstration Garden in the cemetery

Cemetery Registry page on the cemetery

Other Old City Cemetery links on Cemetery Travel:

My visit to Cora’s grave

Behind the Scenes at the Old City Cemetery

Child’s grave in Sacramento


How to be Safe in the Cemetery

California rattlesnake warning

Earlier this month I explored the historic cemeteries of Pescadero. The grass was ankle-high on the Protestant side, but over my knees on the Catholic side. Holes the size of juice glasses riddled the ground, but I never saw a mouse or gopher poke his head out.

Where there is prey, however, there will be predators. I kept an eye open for snakes. When I could, I walked on the graves’ curbs and watched my feet in the grass.

I’d nearly finished my exploration and was headed cross-country down the grassy slope when something caught my eye. In the grass lay the longest snakeskin I’ve ever seen shed in the wild. I should have thrown my notebook down for scale when I took the photo. Trust me, this skin was as long as my leg.

It’s hard to see, but there’s a snakeskin in there.  It’s the thing that looks like a stick, diagonal across the photo.

Which got me thinking: I’ve explored American graveyards from inner-city Detroit to ghost towns in the Sierra Gold Country. So far I’ve been lucky and nothing dire has happened to me, but it’s time to think about how to keep safe in the cemetery.

When dressing for a cemetery excursion, think about where you’re going. If it’s a nice manicured place, dress respectfully. A polite hat and sunscreen are always a good idea. If you’re going further afield, always wear long pants. They’ll protect you from bugs, thorns, and poison oak or ivy. If you expect to meet snakes, wear boots that protect your ankles.

If you can, ask the locals about their graveyard before you go. They’ll know if it’s not safe to walk alone in St. Louis #1 or if you have to watch out for pickpockets in St. Peter’s. They’ll tell you if there’s been a mountain lion in the area or if it’s fire ant season.

Always let someone know where you’re going and when to expect you back. Lock anything you can’t afford to lose in the trunk of your car.

A fully charged cell phone is a smart thing to carry with you, but many cemeteries — especially those off the beaten track — get no reception. Keep aware of your surroundings so you won’t need your phone. In case of emergency, I wear a RoadID bracelet that warns EMTs of the medications I’m on and also lists my contact numbers. You can get your own bracelet here.

Deer in Mount Olivet Cemetery, Salt Lake City

Be wary of wildlife. Deer look sweet in Disney movies, but they are actually big, nervous creatures. If they feel threatened, they will go through you to escape. Never get between an animal and its exit, even if that animal is only a raccoon.

Pay attention to the signs of heatstroke. If you feel lightheaded or your skin begins to feel clammy, pour water over your clothing and move to the coolest place you can, either the shade, a chapel, or an air-conditioned car.

Always take more water along that you think you will want to drink. You can’t count on water in cemeteries being potable.

You will want to familiarize yourself with how to recognize poison oak, poison ivy, and poison sumac, depending what grows in your area. If you stumble into some by mistake, wash your exposed skin with soap as soon as possible.

Mosquitoes aren’t a worry in desert graveyards, but if the grounds crew has been watering or rainwater may be standing in urns, birdbaths, or statuary, mosquitoes can breed. You can avoid them in the heat of the day, but if you prefer more dramatic lighting for your photos, wear something to ward off the bugs. West Nile virus is no fun.

Anywhere that there are deer, there can be ticks. If you’ll be poking around long grass, you should wear light-colored clothing and long light-colored socks. Before you get in the car, check yourself over for moving black spots. Ticks can ride around on you for hours before they embed their heads under your skin. Lyme disease is also no fun.

I asked members of Facebook’s The Cemetery Club and Find A Cemetery groups what they carry in their cemetery-visiting kits:

  • Walking stick, for poking around underbrush and avoiding holes, as well as not stumbling over fallen tombstones.
  • First Aid Kit, including painkillers & band-aids and a sting stick, in case you’re stung by a bee.
  • Wasp spray. The internet continues to debate whether this can also double as defense spray. Since the key ingredient in many of these sprays is not tested on humans or animals, it may not be effective as a deterrent.
  • Defense spray, like pepper spray or mace. I’ve read several stories of adventurers being attacked by wild dogs in abandoned cemeteries. Other people mentioned wild hogs in Florida or bears in Tennessee. Out here in California, we have to worry about mountain lions. I haven’t seen any good evidence that mace would deter a puma attack. Maybe a baseball bat makes a good walking stick? Somebody recommended a shovel as a defensive weapon.
  • Clear nail polish for chiggers. Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work on ticks.  They just hold their breath.
  • A shaker of ground cinnamon: if you dust your shoes with it, ants won’t bother you.
  • PowerBars or equivalent, to fend off low blood sugar.
  • Hand-held clippers or a good strong pocket knife, in case you get tangled in something.
  • A flashlight with fresh batteries, if there’s any chance you’ll get caught in the dark.
  • A survival strap.

I had no idea cemetery exploration could be so risky. As I said, I’ve poked around hundreds of graveyards and the only negative experience I’ve ever had came from security guards who were driving way too fast. Just be smart and keep safe!

ETA: A Grave Interest has some good points about visiting cemeteries, too.

Cemetery of the Week #25: Wards Cemetery

Bodie, as seen from the graveyard

Bodie State Historic Park
Information: P.O. Box 515; Bridgeport, California 93517
(760) 647-6445
Established: 1860s
Number of interments: 77 marked
Open: 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. in summer; 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. in winter. Closed for inclement weather.
Entry fee: $7 for adults 17 and up, $5 for children ages 6 to 16. Under 5: free. Cash or personal/travelers checks are accepted at park entrance station. No credit cards.

Bodie State Historic Park is a ghost town on the eastern edge of California, over the Sierra Mountains and past the tufa spires of Mono Lake. The desert is excruciatingly hot in the summer and difficult to reach in winter, when the pass through Yosemite snows closed.

In its brief heyday, 10,000 people lived and worked in over 2,000 structures in Bodie. Miners who’d chosen to take stock rather than wages brought home $880 a week. One month in the 1880s, miners dug out $600,000 in gold and silver. The total haul reached $30 million in gold, $1 million in silver.

Between the time the last working mine closed in 1947 and the ghost town’s induction into the state park system in 1962, Bodie effectively vanished from the map like Bonny Doon. Despite the rage for Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and the cowboys of early television, Bodie survived in a west too wild to be inviting. Though it had once been fabulously wealthy, Bodie offered no amenities to middle-class families traveling in the Eisenhower years. It stands a long way from anywhere. The road into town continues to be passable only to motor vehicles traveling at five miles per hour. Bodie still boasts no lodging or working restaurants.

Currently, Bodie has been designated the best-preserved ghost town in America. Up to 200,000 people visit it annually. Its 170 surviving buildings stand in a state of arrested decay. Nothing is being restored; at the same time, nothing is allowed to tumble to the ground. Overseen by the California Park Service, Bodie State Historic Park’s highlights include an undertaker’s parlor, complete with fully stocked coffin showroom; the last standing church, scoured of whitewash by the gritty winds; several gambling houses, still furnished with roulette wheels and billiard tables; and one of the gold mills which day and night pounded the city’s wealth from the hard quartz.

During the boom times, gunfights broke out weekly, if not daily. Mine accidents occurred repeatedly. Childhood could be brutal. With life so uncertain in Bodie, the extensive graveyard that overlooks the town is in fact five cemeteries adjacent to one another. The first is Wards Cemetery, the main city graveyard. Directly behind that lies the Masonic Cemetery, followed by the Miners Union Cemetery.

West of the perimeter fence remain the Chinese, excluded from the proper graveyards. Whenever Chinese immigrants died in California, they wanted to be buried only long enough for their remains to become skeletonized. The surviving Chinese in the area were supposed to open the graves, collect the bones, and return them to their homeland, where they could rest with their ancestors. Unfortunately, because of violent prejudice and the transient nature of the Gold Rush boomtowns, many Chinese linger in their original graves. The Friends of Bodie’s cemetery brochure estimates that several hundred Chinese were — and are — buried in Bodie.

The final cemetery on the hill shelters the outcasts: gunmen, illegitimate children, and prostitutes, all those shunned by “respectable” folk. Only wooden posts or heaps of rocks ever marked most of those graves. Now the only marker visible is fairly modern. A cement tablet, stamped with a rough cross and her name handwritten in shaky letters, remembers Rosa May, a prostitute who died while nursing miners during a pneumonia epidemic.

Inside the proper cemeteries, a surprising amount endures. Some of the plots still sport split-rail fences. Beautiful ironwork, imported from as far away as Terre Haute, Indiana surrounds others. The lonely fences, like the frames of vacant beds, punctuate the sagebrush-covered hills and underscore the vast, silent isolation of the dead who’ve been left behind.

One of the most beautiful monuments has a child-sized marble angel leaning against a scroll to the memory of Evelyn Myers. A month shy of her fourth birthday, Evelyn’s folks had a drainage ditch dug around their home. Curious little Evelyn leaned over the railing on the porch to watch the workman. Without looking over his shoulder, he brought his pick back and crushed her skull.

Bodie’s museum in the former Miners Union Hall displays a clipping from the Bridgeport Chronicle, which reported, “A sad accident occurred in Bodie…which has enlisted the sympathies of the people of the entire county for the bereaved parents…. The funeral took place on Wednesday, the attendance showing the deep sympathy of the people, with whom she was a great favorite, being a most beautiful and lovable child.” Although her name wasn’t mentioned in the story, her father Albert K. Myers operated the general store, according to a bookmark I picked up in the museum’s gift shop. Everyone in town must have known him.

If Evelyn’s parents lie in the graveyard, they’re in unmarked graves. More likely, they moved away and left their beloved child behind.

Bodie’s namesake has only been shown proper deference in later years, although confusion lingers over his real name. When “Bill Body” made his initial discovery in 1859, richer diggings in Virginia City and elsewhere overshadowed it. In the winter of 1860, Body (or Bodey) got caught outside his cabin by a snowstorm and froze to death. Coyotes stripped his flesh before his partner found him in the spring. Not until 1879 did the city fathers reclaim his body from its shallow grave and transfer it to Wards Cemetery. Townsfolk ordered a granite monument to celebrate him, but before it could be placed on his grave, U.S. President James A. Garfield was assassinated. Swept up in the national mourning, Bodie’s citizens co-opted Body’s monument and rededicated it as a cenotaph to the slain president.

In 1976, Boone’s Memorials placed a large black granite marker on the gravesite. On it, the founding father is referred to as “Waterman S. Bodey,” but the other details of his story remain the same. In that monument’s shadow stands a cement wall erected by the historical society E Clampus Vitus to “William S. Bodey,” which prays, “Let him repose in peace amid these everlasting hills.”

Useful Links:

August 13, 2011 is Friends of Bodie Day: special tours, BBQ, live music and horseless carriages. Tickets are available here.

Information on visiting Bodie

Map to Bodie

Books about Bodie

The Angel of Bodie story

GPS information from CemeteryRegistry.us

Other California pioneer cemeteries on Cemetery Travel:

Cemetery of the Week #13: Mission Dolores Cemetery

Cemetery of the Week #37: Calistoga Pioneer Cemetery

Cemetery of the Week #60: Yosemite Pioneer Cemetery

Cemetery of the Week #64: Coloma Pioneer Cemetery