Way, way, back, there was a fearless wagonmaster who would speak of an unknown shortcut between the towns of El Mirage and Adelanto through the rugged hills to the north. Most of those overhearing his claim dismissed it as the addled mutterings of a man consumed with too much distilled mescal.
One day, a shipment of ice arrived in Adelanto, and it needed to be moved to El Mirage as quickly as possible. A teamster who had overheard the story the night before in the tavern quickly raised the hung-over wagonmaster, and cajoled him into leading them over this shortcut. The agreed payment was a number of bottles of choice mescal, paid in advance.
They departed immediately, heading for the hills. Hither and yon they travelled, stopping now and then to repair broken axles, yokes, and wheels. At every junction, the fearless wagonmaster confidently pointed the way. Up rocky gulches, down steep hilsides, through clutching thorny flora in the desert heat they went.
Two days later, they arrived at the town of El Mirage, bruised, scratched, battered wagons full of wet canvas and empty mescal bottles, the precious ice long melted.
The secret shortcut was never mentioned again. The route was believed lost to history.