THE LITTLE ENGINE

By Staff
Published on July 1, 1976
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Courtesy of Floyd Perleberg, Rt. 3, Box 154, Willmar, Minnesota 56201.
Courtesy of Floyd Perleberg, Rt. 3, Box 154, Willmar, Minnesota 56201.
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PART I

It was in 1958 that I first laid my eyes on the glorious and old
Sespe Forks area of the Sespe oilfield. Discovered by Union Oil
Company’s Kentuck No. 1 in 1890, this area is still one of
Southern California’s most spectacularly scenic oil areas with
the wells clinging to the precipitously tortured mountains of the
Santa Susana Range. Sespe Forks consists of a cluster of oil wells
above the confluence of Sespe and Little Sespe Creeks; and
stretches from Sespe Creek to the mountains of the Topa Topa area,
and in turn offers an awe inspiring view of the Santa Clara Valley
and the small citrus growing town of Fillmore. Few of the wells are
still pumping today and the production for most is less than a
barrel a day. Several causes contribute to the old still surviving
there. First; the owners of the unchanged areas are of limited
means and making the necessary clean-up and modernization would be
financially an unbearable expense considering the declining oil
production. Secondly; the wells and equipment are virtually
inaccessible. Original equipment for drilling was hauled into place
by teams of horses or mules. To haul machinery up an incline, the
animals would be marched to the top of the incline, a dead man was
set, a pulley fastened to it and the animals went down the slope as
the machinery went up. In later years tramways were installed to
haul supplies and equipment to the wells. Now the original motive
power for the trams is gone, and electric motors are today’s
sentinels for these early forgotten railroads.

My arrival in this historic wonderland was by truck. We, myself
and a fellow by the name of Red, were taking a hydraulic pumping
unit up to one of the wells for installation. Since oil only flowed
very slowly into the old clogged holes, the hydraulic units were of
value since they could operate the deep hole pump very slowly, as
opposed to the old original standard rig in use until our arrival.
It was exciting for me to catch glimpses of the old rigs clutching
the sides of the crumbling, nearly vertical mountains as we wound
our way along the kinky road notched into the steep cliffs high
above Sespe Creek.

I can still remember how, in several spots, the creek had caused
the sheer canyon walls to crumble and nearly destroy the road, and
I held my breath as Red carefully steered the truck across the
dangerous portions. More than once I lifted myself from the seat to
stare helplessly over the edge knowing full well that if the
freshly severed edge crumbled we both would be dashed to death on
the menacing rocks below. It was with some relief to know that we
had reached our destination. But had we? About 200 feet before me
the road stopped at a sheer bluff reaching hundreds of feet into
the cloudless blue shy. To my right, and 50 feet below me was a
rubble and boulder strewn canyon floor rising on the other side
into one of the most tortured examples of vertical earth I have
ever seen. To my left, a medium sized ridge jutted from the massive
mountain wall before me. The wells I would see today were on this
ridge.

We had stopped at the lower tram. The upper tram began where the
road stopped – at the massive bluff. Surrounding the lower tram was
a cluster of ram-shackled tin buildings rotting under the steady
trickle of mountain springs. These buildings once served as repair
shops and storage areas. Fifty feet down the canyon from the tram
base was a winding trail which led up the ridge past a group of oil
storage tanks and eventually led to the resident pampers house (now
abandoned), the burned remains of another house and a small
jack-plant.

Our first task was to manipulate the hydraulic pumping unit onto
the rickety tram car, which we did, with the aid of an old hand
crank winch whose cable threaded its way through pulleys bolted to
a tottering pipe boom. Once this crane might have been suitable,
but time had now had its turn and the skeletal remains were just a
hint of help. After a short battle everything was loaded onto the
tram car and Red started the clumsy converted to electrical,
winching mechanism. As the cable slowly tightened large safety
hooks lifted from the rail ties and the car slowly, very slowly,
moved up the crooked rails. Riding the car was exciting, but
tediously slow. Theirs stop was the second of many landings – maybe
100 feet up. The short trip lasted for nearly ten minutes, and
naturally, Red having operated the winch, had to walk up. The
second landing was little more than some old 3 by 12 wooden
planking which carelessly jutted out from the rear of the engine
house. From here we dragged the equipment over a splintering wooden
floor along side the engine house and down into place at the
wellhead, some 50 to 60 feet distant. After setting the equipment
and making the initial connections, I was set free to explore while
Red completed the job.

I was still inspecting well number 8 when Red finished hooking
up the electrical and started the little hydraulic unit. Above me
the cables hanging in the stately wooden derrick swayed as they
danced in the cool breeze sweeping up from the rugged canyon floor.
The rig floor breached the mountain on one side and the whole
affair, derrick, belt hall and engine house were supported on the
other by stilts. I remember walking on the ‘scenic’ side to
admire the view. Below me was a small house built right out on the
point of the ridge. Nearer, I recall the sights of a freshly burned
building, but straight below lay an interesting looking green
painted, tin building with a belt hall leading to a small geared
eccentric – a jack-plant! Behind the building, nearly ready to
topple into the canyon, was a tall metal water tank filled with
tulies. Well now! I had been around the oilfields enough to know
that this conspicuous tank usually meant a gas engine. I eagerly
climbed down a ladder descending through the derrick floor, to the
ground 15 feet below. My heart pounded with excitement as I located
the engine house door, opened it and peered in. In the dark gloom I
could see the magnificent outline of a beautiful little gas engine.
I walked completely around it and I admiringly brushed my hand over
its dull dusty metal. I had never seen one like it before and it
intrigued me. Cast into the base was: Western Gas Engine Corp’n
-Los Angeles. It was beautiful, and it was sad. Once proud, it now
sat neglected and rusting. Its exhaust stack shot straight up
collecting any rain that fell. I tugged at the flywheels, and they
were stubborn and did not yield. I jumped on the spokes and still
the little engine could not move – it was dead. Its time had run
out, and no one cared for it.

For years I remembered that little engine and thought of it
setting still. I often wondered if it still existed, but I had
forgotten just where it lived.

I had been quite busy with business for a number of years and
thought little of engines and the oilfields, when it came to pass
that my business was sold and with some time on my hands, I felt
the desire to go visit some of the memories I once knew. To my
disappointment, I found that much had changed and the engines I
knew as a lad and in my formative years, were now gone. I drove to
all the old places I had known, but none of the things I loved were
there. It is at this point in my life that several things happened
to change my direction and in the process I decided that I should
like to have with me in my remaining journey a sampling of material
that made up my heritage. Part of this was to locate several
engines, a representation of the mechanical friends I had known.
Curiously, my search led me to Al Morey, a man I shall always
appreciate, as it was through Al that I eventually came to rescue
the dusty little Western on the top of the hill.

PART II

The alarm clock screamed relentlessly as I fumbled through the
dark to relieve its anquished cries. It was 5 o’clock and only
the dimmest of light filtered through the open window. The time had
come! The time to rescue the dusty little Western on the top of the
hill.

Last night I had tossed and turned until exhaustion had taken me
into sleep. I had been thinking for several days of the fun and
excitement we would have today. Little did I know what the day
would bring.

Having spent the night in the home of Don and Lisa Barr, Lisa
prepared a picnic lunch and after a hasty snack of a breakfast,
Noel, a fellow that works for me, joined the party at precisely 6
o’clock. We finished loading Don’s Dodge van and the four
of us began our journey. Later that day we were to be joined by my
brother-in-law, Don Weber, Don’s one-ton truck and a helper. I
later discovered that the helper was to be my other brother-in-law,
Pat Park. In all, there were to be five men to snatch the little
Western off the mountain, piecemeal.

The sacred site of the Western was a safe distance past a locked
gate, so we drove expeditiously to meet Al, the man in charge, by
the appointed time. The Fillmore Area is beautifully scenic and the
rugged landscape is dotted with lush green orange groves, so our
trip through the early sunrise hour was quite beautiful. Even
though Fillmore and the surrounding region is known for being dry
and very hot during the summer months, the deep canyons and the
mountains behind are a refuge for lush foilage and beautiful oak
trees. And, to our pleasure, the Sespe Forks area still heard the
musical trickle of a few lingering mountain springs. An early
morning chill still persisted in the air, and we were filled with
energy and expectations as we marched up the twisting trail leading
to the little engine.

We strode into the large engine house-workshop, with tools in
hand, and in a moment of silence we all stared at the little 20HP
marvel. There it set, silent, waiting. Eagerly we encircled the
prey. To carry it out we must disassemble it and carry it out piece
by piece. Off came the dirt-caked lubricator, the crank-oil guard
and a host of small parts. The flywheel bolts were loosened and
then a wedge driven to split the hubs. By using a chain around a
couple of the spokes, a handy section of 6 by 6 timber, and an
automotive jack between the timber and the end of the crankshaft,
the wheels easily slid off into the soft dirt floor. It was at this
very moment we began to suspect there was going to be trouble in
paradise. It was also about this same time the sun had sufficiently
warmed our mountain retreat to awaken hoards of small, almost
invisible, stinging little insects. They swarmed about us in great
shimmering grey clouds, and swatting at them was useless. They were
virile and hungry, so they dove at us relentlessly like miniature
dive bombers.

Cast iron isn’t very helpful. No cooperation from it at all!
As long as we kept the flywheels vertical three of us could manage
to roll them, but it was a frantic fight for every inch. First, the
soft dirt of the engine house. Next, the trail outside where every
pebble was like a rock, and every rock might as well have been a
boulder. We got the first wheel out of the shed, down the path and
up against a post. A ten minute struggle to go but 25 feet. The
second wheel was more resistant than the first. We did not get it
as far as the other when it began to lean to one side. Our most
heroic efforts failed to win over gravity, and there it lay in a
pool of dust, at our feet; and there it would stay until our
afternoon help arrived.

By now the time was roughly 11 o’clock, and we were worrying
about being ready to load the engine right after lunch – when our
‘auxiliary’ help and the truck were to arrive. The cylinder
was still buttoned up tight, and the piston was stuck. To remove
the remainder it had to be dismantled completely. After exercising
with a long thin chisel, we were finally able to remove the stuck
valve cage from the cylinder side, but we were absolutely unable to
budge the cylinder head. Earlier, before we removed the flywheels,
I had tried to bump the piston forward in the hopes of knocking the
cylinder head off. Before I started ‘bumping,’ the piston
was stuck, but now it was securely wedged an inch further into the
cylinder. In desperation I chained the connecting rod to the
band-wheel shaft of the jack-plant – some 20 feet away. The
band-wheel was wooden and the supporting bearings rested on rotting
wooden sills. The whole ensemble was a large bulky intertwined pile
of 12 by 12 timber, and we prayed it would stand still long enough
to pluck the piston.

We had three chain binders and I used one of them to take up the
slack in the loose chain. With the binder still in place, I used
another binder around the first to still further tighten the chain.
Nothing happened except the chain drooped less. After tightening it
several times it appeared to me that the chain could not be much
tighter unless something happened, so throwing caution to the wind,
and using a 6 foot length of 2 inch pipe as a snipe, I tugged
fearlessly until the binder snapped into the locked position. Still
nothing seemed to be moving, although the wooden band-wheel seemed
to be inclined at a slightly greater angle. Further tugging
produced little result except to change the position of the
band-wheel and its associated timber structure. Finally, in what
was to have been a last desperate try, the piston popped loose with
a terrifying thud as the jack-plant dropped several inches with a
loud splintering crunch.

With the piston out the head knocked off easily by bumping it
with a piece of timber. Next we unbolted the cylinder from the
base. With some lumber through the cylinder we managed to lift the
cylinder off, but we knew we would not be able to just carry it off
the hill! The base posed a still worse threat as we could barely
manage to pry it off the concrete foundation. By now the parts were
strewn everywhere, and this is where my two brothers-in-law, Don
and Pat, enter the crusade. They just looked about as if ‘well
what is taking you so long?’

Tempers were beginning to boil inside us. The hot noonday sun
had enraged the swirling torrents of savage flies, and the air was
sticky and hot. No breeze swept up from the canyon floor today, the
air was dead still, except for the constant moaning of buzzing
insects. We cursed loudly as we stumbled down the rock strewn path
laden with our precious cargo of small cast iron parts. At the
bottom we nestled our load against the hillside in a neat pile
close to the truck. Only a few of the light pieces were down now
and the summer heat was becoming intense.

Caterpillar High 10 PT4150 model. Owned by Rev. Arthur J.
Johnson and Floyd Perleberg, both of Willmar, Minnesota. H.P.-14,
weight 4,480 tons.

Pictured above is a 1916-17 Fairbanks Morse Oil Engine displayed
at the 1974 Cookstown Steam Show in Ontario, Canada. Don McVittie
is shown at left making adjustments to some of his display
engines.

Shown to the left are 1915 to 1922 Vintage engines.

Dripping in our own sweat, we struggled to pull other parts from
the building. I was struggling over the piston and connecting rod
with someone else, I’ve forgotten who, and no sooner had I
reached the beginning of the down hill path when I collapsed to my
knees with stomach cramps. Only after a shady rest of several
minutes could I regain standing, and they only for a short while. I
had become virtually useless. Don and Pat, who were fresh on the
job, were already beginning to show symptoms of weariness so we
broke for lunch, but even lunch was a miserable experience. There
was no haven from the clouds of gnats and flies or the broiling
sun. Lisa spent most of her time sitting in the hot van, since it
offered some refuge from the grey clouds of insects. The rest of us
suffered, and swore that never again shall we ever do this!

Imagination and ingenuity were in order to finish, so after
lunch we scoured the lease to discover any means of assistance in
removing the remaining heavy parts. After a futile search at the
base of the canyon, I followed the tramway up to the wooden derrick
and rig (number 8) standing majestically on the hill just above the
jack-plant. A nice spot to survey our plight! There I found an old
homemade wagon with large cast-iron wheels and a bed quite
satisfactory for carrying the engine. Naturally, the wagon was
heavy and it was also high above where we needed it. So I tied a
rope to it, catheaded the rope around a steel pipe, and pushed the
wagon over the edge. Below a waiting team grappled with the husky
bulk leading it over to the flywheel leaning against the post. It
was easy loading this wheel as we simply let it fall onto the
wagon. Unfortunately, the trail down was winding and super steep.
We didn’t want to lose control of the wagon, so we tied ropes
to its rear and dallied them around trees, or anything else sturdy
enough to keep the wagon from careening out of control into the
rugged canyon below. Losing control was the least of our problems,
it turned out. The wagon wheels sunk into the hard dry earth. While
one person controlled the ropes, just in case, the rest of us
performed like slaves just to budge the little cart. Even on the
steepest part of the trail the wagon would not roll on its own. We
fought to steer it over the rocky path, and we fought even harder
to get it to move. Worse yet, once we were down we had to get the
wagon back up. We used the rope as a sling and with five of us
straining at the empty wagon it was all we could manage to get it
up the slope.

We considered rolling the other flywheel down the hill, but if
we lost it I could see it splashing into the middle of an oil tank
farm and a gooey black wall of oil cascading down the canyon, or
having it crash into the boulders below breaking the wheel into a
thousand fragments. Because of the mean task of returning the wagon
to the site again, we tried another method. Better, we hoped! Using
a length of galvanized iron from the building, we improvised a
‘stone boat’ and loaded it with the other flywheel. To the
front of the ‘boat’ we made a rope sling. To the rear was
another rope to help guide and control the ‘boat.’ Four of
us became the forward motive power; and the new ‘stone
boat’ moved just as easily as the wagon. It wouldn’t even
roll over the small round rocks on the steepest part of the path.
So once again, we took up our role as slaves. At least once at the
bottom, the ‘stone boat’ didn’t have to be taken back
to the top. A good thing too, since the ‘stone boat’ idea
had proved a major disaster. The ‘boat’ had destroyed
itself on the smooth round rocks. Large chunks of metal were curled
back as if attacked by a gigantic can opener and the thing was
crumpled and misshapen.

The last major load was the engine base, and the wagon was
reserved for this. In a near state of exhaustion, three of us
titled up one end of the engine base while another backed the cart
under it, and this was no easy job in the soft dirt of the engine
house floor. Once loaded, two men stood at the rear and pried on
the wagon with timber while the others pulled on the tongue. We
nearly jerked our guts out getting that thing out of the house and
over the door sill; and once outside life wasn’t any easier
either. The small ‘pebbles’ lining our way blocked every
move of the heavily laden cart, and we jacked the wagon along inch
by inch for what seemed an interminable time just to reach the
twisted path down. By now the wagon was tiring as much as we were.
Its frame, loosened from the incessant twisting and brutal bunting,
spread sideways under the stress, and the rear wheels fell off.
Rocks, scraps of lumber, tree limb parts, anything, was used to
shore up the broken wagon so we could shove the wheels back in
place. Using some timber as a battering ram, we fought to keep the
wheels from sliding off their shaft, but every few feet we paused
to elevate the cart again and push the wheels back into place. This
time the end of the trail was greeted with shouts of joy as the
wagon jolted to a stop in front of a make-shift loading ramp. Made
from three planks of a nearby abandoned 3 by 12 rig flooring, the
shaky ramp was the last step in loading our cargo on the truck.

Loading the truck was not fun. At best it was interesting. The
narrow plank loading ramp swayed under foot, and fast juggling was
needed to stay balanced. We shoved, pulled and heaved the heavy
engine base up the steep incline first. The tormented timber
cracked in pain. To keep it from folding up we used broken segments
of scrap lumber to prop up its middle. The flywheels we tried
rolling, but the five of us could not manage the steep grade. We
dragged them up using rope slings, while one lucky person pried
against the lower edge. The cylinder we stabbed with a length of 2
inch pipe, and two hustlers on either end trampled each other as
they balanced themselves up the shaking ramp. I helped carry the
greasy piston and connecting rod assembly. The grease lubricated my
gloves and several times the heavy piston slipped from my grip. The
other smaller parts were easy. We were tired, so the trips up the
ramp left us dragging.

Sparingly, the sun had decided that the day had been long and
hot enough, and that we had suffered enough, so it dipped behind a
distant ridge. The canyon was filling with deep dark shadows; and
the longer the shadows became the more Don’s truck seemed to
sink under the gathering load. The tires appeared to spread a
little more widely and I remember Don worrying that his poor truck
might fall under the tremendous burden. Finally, when we thought
everything was loaded, and only a faint glimmer of light invaded
the valley, I remembered I had forgotten the engine’s exhaust
fitting. Still screwed to the exhaust stack, removal would require
two pipe wrenches, and there were only two available of large
enough size. 48 inch Rigids! Now, I have seen several of these and
usually they are in very good condition. Many times with the
original paint bright and new looking. The reason is simply that
they are heavy enough that no one likes to work with them. So, with
this in mind, Pat and myself hauled two of these back up the hill.
I remember pondering part way up whether or not to go through this,
but rather than come back another time we marched forward dragging
the wrenches and resting every few feet. The engine house was
virtually pitch black now, but fortunately the rusty exhaust pipe
broke free without much effort. The only thing that had gone right
all day! Still I wondered, as we dragged the wrenches and the
single pipe fitting down the hill, if it was all worth it.

I remember we rejoiced in the pure ecstasy of being finished and
snuggled in our vehicles. The purring of their engines was a
refreshing new sound as we lurched forward out of the deep abyss
that sheltered us. Overhead, diamond like pin-points of light
pierced the black canopy of sky, while below headlights searched
the darkness to find the narrow road ahead. We were set free and we
reveled at the passing silhouettes. Then we came to the gate. It
was locked, Al was gone, and we were alone.

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