Jim Colbert Memorial Road Trip, Part 2 - No One Expects the Unexpected
June 20, 2009 - A Change of Plans…
We start the morning greeted with the aftermath of the overnight storm, one which has left this little corner of Western Nevada feeling just a bit more “crisp” than the day before. While nothing to rival the feeling of a good autumn morning, the weather is a bit cooler, there is fresh smell to the air (the combination of the morning air, a good rain, and the particular mix of minerals that one finds in the desert), and everything seems to be slightly more in focus than it was the night before. Although the clarity may be more the result of a good night’s sleep I choose to give credit to the brief evening shower. Everyone looks and smells a bit better after a good shower, even the desert. Having showered ourselves and almost ready to hit the road, there are a couple more things we need to do before we move on. The first is paying tribute to the soul of the Clown Motel. While they have committed to the general theme around the motel (wooden clowns serve as the room numbers on each door, clown art hangs in the rooms) the pièce de résistance is found in the lobby. Walking in, the first thing you see are shelves full of clowns lining the walls. Crocheted clowns, porcelain clowns, hobo clowns, baby clowns, clowns playing the piano, clown dolls in Green Bay Packer gear, carnival clowns, a clown clock, a clown toy top, any kind of clown you want you can probably find it at the Clown Motel -though none of them are for sale. I guess you don’t get to be the Clown Motel by selling all of your clowns.
A Wall of Clowns…
Standing, taking in this wall of clowns I wonder when they first decided to take this route. Did they model themselves after Circus, Circus in Las Vegas only without the casino? Maybe an old circus clown owned the place and liked to surround himself with reminders of the glory days. It could have once been the stomping grounds of an old traveling circus, the members of which are buried in the cemetery next door, and sometimes, late at night when the moon is full….the longer I allow my imagination to go, the closer I get to the premise of an 80’s horror movie.
I realize that I have failed to mention that the Clown Motel lies right next to the first Tonopah Cemetery. First used in 1901, the cemetery was active for only a short time, until the growth of the town as well as mining in the area made further expansion impossible. Between 1901 and 1911, in excess of 300 people were laid to rest in this cemetery (including 30 men who died from the mysterious “Tonopah Plague” in 1902 and 14 victims of the Tonopah-Belmont mine fire in 1911).
The First Tonopah Cemetery…
The cemetery itself is not that grand, most of the markers are far from original, added when the Central Nevada Historical Society fenced in the cemetery in 1979 - weathered wood posts and crosses with simple tin or plastic signs attached to note who is buried there. However, there are still some gems to be found. A few small wooden markers that look like they could date back much further – all but the faintest hints of writing long since faded in the desert sun, the wood drained of color. A single headstone shattered but kept where it was broken. Dust to dust. The last reminders of those who are long gone, their memories given over to history.
Faded Grave Marker…
Dust to Dust…
I have no connection to those who were laid to rest here, but it is still a place of remembrance for me. I can distinctly picture my father, camera in hand, walking among these graves as I walk among them now. Another connection to our shared past, my history remembered. I pay my respects to the long forgotten and the recently departed and then we move on.
After a filling breakfast at the Tonopah Station, the only hotel/casino in town (roll the dice for a free night at the Tonopah Station), we strike out for our first stop of the day – Coaldale Junction. The last time I had passed through this way, on my first road trip after the passing of my father, I had stumbled across a more modern ghost town. A gas station, bar/restaurant, and motel - a rag tag collection of decrepit buildings sitting right next to the main road where US routes 6 and 95 meet. I’d taken a few photos my first time through but since I’d passed by at the end of the day most of the shots were taken into the sun and were fairly washed out. Only a half hour or so out of Tonopah, I wanted to take advantage of the morning sun for a few more shots before we turned west and made our way back into California. After a short drive, I pull in and am disappointed to see that we are not alone. Someone is parked on the other side of the site, nestled in with the main group of buildings. From a distance it is hard to see who it is or what they are doing there. Based on the mass of stuff scattered around a beat up pick-up truck I assume that this is someone that is trying to fix up the place a bit. Visions of beautiful shots of the isolation of this spot in the lonely desert start to evaporate. I instead start looking for angles of the solitary building that is on our side of the site where I can still showcase the isolation. It isn’t too long before we both notice that there are also some dogs milling about. I’m not thrilled, but they seem to be the kind that you don’t generally have to worry about so I put them to back of my mind and set about to salvaging what shots I can get out of this stop. A decision that I end up regretting.
Vacancy…
As I’m focusing on the derelict buildings I hear a cry from Courtney. I’m not aware of any barking (and thinking back on it after the fact I still couldn’t tell you if they were barking or not) but I turn to see Courtney being confronted by two of the dogs, one having already bitten her on the leg. Not sure what I plan on doing other than keeping them from attacking her any more I quickly move between her and the dogs and find myself in a bit of a standoff. Everything becomes a blur as I try to think if there is anything bouncing around in my head that would prepare me for a situation like this. What are you supposed to do? I’m pretty sure you don’t turn and run, but that’s about all I can think of. I’m suddenly aware of how soft and fleshy I am. If they lunge what do I do? Do I use my feet? Try to kick them in the head if they come with fangs bared? Thankfully I don’t have to find out what I would have done as the lady who owns the dogs is now fully aware of our presence. She runs over, calls off the dogs and then turns on us herself. I dislike confrontation but at least I’m fairly sure she isn’t going to bite us and so settle in to the more preferable attack. The explanations flow - we just wanted some pictures, we’re sorry that we disturbed her, yes they did bite Courtney and it did break the skin, no we’re not quite sure which dog it was. She started off angry but after talking to us a bit seemed to calm down. Being very apologetic seems to have transformed us from the a-holes that were trespassing to the flakes from California pretty quickly.
The Last Shot Before the Chaos…
Once she has calmed down a little, and I think realized that we aren’t going to fly off the hook or cause her a lot of grief, she becomes a lot more open. She says that she has some peroxide in the truck and can clean up the bite if we get back in our car and drive over to her truck while she puts the dogs away. Safely back in the car we consider driving away, looking for our own peroxide or just soap and water. The bite isn’t deep. Thankfully Courtney was wearing pants and we aren’t even sure that the bite broke through the pants, though would later find a small hole that lined up with one of the tooth marks on her leg. For the most part the damage seems to have been done through brute force and not by piercing anything. There is a little blood, but it looks like the sort of thing you would shrug off under any other circumstances. Maybe it would be better to just be done with all of this. After a bit of debate we decide that it won’t hurt to go and get a little peroxide on it and so drive slowly over to the woman while she “locks up” the dogs - of which there are considerably more than either of us had previously thought, approaching ten to twelve dogs. Being in the middle of nowhere, locking up consists of putting a few on chains, shutting others inside her truck, and corralling the rest inside a house with no doors or windows, only a sheet of plywood to block the doorway. While I had imagined this woman to be someone in the process of fixing up the place when I looked from a distance, on closer inspection it’s clear that she is someone that doesn’t have anywhere else to go. There are a lot of random possessions strewn about the place and she is quite disheveled herself. Wild and untamed white hair through which a ladybug slowly crawls the entire time we talk to her, a dirty sports bra, large belly sticking out over oversized and well-worn shorts, and blackened/missing teeth - which she claimed her husband had paid her a lot of money to make that way. With the dogs safely tucked away for the time being (several dogs would free themselves while we served as a captive audience) the woman cleans off the bite and proceeds to weave an amazing tale. Standing in the open door of the mini-van, keeping us from closing it and moving on she begins to talk and with each new claim I’m no longer sure what is fact and what is fantasy. Among the believable claims she says that she is renting the space from someone in town, someone who told her that the site was livable and would be fenced off so she could let her dogs run free with no one to bother her. Based on the state of the site she planned to sue this man and wanted our information so she could include us as part of a class action lawsuit. We avoid giving her any address or home phone information, while at the same time getting her name, address (a P.O. box), and license plate number. She claims that the dog that we think was the culprit had already bitten someone else and was supposed to be quarantined per Nevada state law, something that she says she is in the process of trying to do. And then the stories take off in interesting directions. The prior victim…well she was a mafia princess. And that is not the last we hear of the mafia. I am still uncertain of all the connections, but she tells tales of her mother owning land, perhaps inherited, which either had belonged to the mafia, or was coveted by the mafia. We are told that she is planning on taking her dog to someone in Beatty because she has a hit out on her and has been threatened with bodily harm in Tonopah if they see her or her dogs there. She tells us that she is a documentary filmmaker, working on two different features. The first, “The Granddaughter of Ma and Pa Kettle” in which she seems to be claiming to be that granddaughter – amazingly so considering they are fictional characters. The other film, “Down to the Frame” deals with her attempts to free the plantation slaves by stealing the motor homes that they are kept in and striping them down to the frame. Neither Courtney nor I can recall there being many plantation slaves still being kept, nor there being a large plantation industry in Nevada.
After 45 minutes or so we finally manage to get the door closed and make our escape. Each mile we get away from the scene the enormity of the story that we’ve just heard sinks in a little more. I can’t help but think that my father would have been fascinated by this woman. He liked people and I can remember a previous road trip where he listened attentively to a man with a much taller tale than what this woman told (his tale included Buddhist monks, Angkor Wat, UFO’s, Area 51, and watching recordings of the American Revolution shot from orbit). Back to the present it is no longer business as usual and we decide that we should do our own triage, which requires a split from the plans we had started the day with. While the original plan would have taken us back into California through Benton Hot Springs, it would also take us over two hours to get to the next town of any size. So we head further north, along US-95. We pass through towns, but nothing of any size, nowhere that we can properly tend to the bite. Tonopah Junction – a fork in the road. Mina – population 250 at last count. Luning – population 87, often listed as a ghost town. Sodaville and Kinkaid, two ghost towns with little more than ghosts to be found. I only know that we pass through them because they are on the map. Through it all Courtney keeps consulting her phone, reading up on dog bites and I feel generally guilty for having put us in this situation in the first place. I know she doesn’t need protecting, but pre-historic instinct tells me that I’ve failed in my role as the protector. I also feel like I’ve failed in my role as master of the road. I think again how much easier it was when my father was in charge. Things like this didn’t happen when he led the way.
Our Original Route - Day 2…
Finally 63 miles and one hour later we roll into Hawthorne, Nevada. Stopping at a gas station Courtney pops into the bathroom to wash off her leg again and I get some Neosporin. Wound treated as best as we can we take a brief detour north of town to Walker Lake to take account of the situation. Standing at the side of this large body of water, which looks out of place after the expanse of desert that we have been driving through since yesterday, the adrenaline wears off and the events of the past couple of hours really start to sink in. Even if it’s not a serious wound, Courtney has been bitten by a dog. An unfamiliar dog. A dog that belongs to a crazy woman. A crazy woman who lives in an abandoned motel at the side of the road in the middle of the Nevada desert. The old adage “better safe than sorry” has never felt more appropriate. It’s time to consult a professional.
I have a new theory, that one doesn’t really know the soul of a place until they have spent some time in the emergency room there and our visit to the Hawthorne emergency room did a great deal to form our final impression of the great state of Nevada. Hawthorne’s hospital is a small single story building located toward the outskirts of town. On this lazy Saturday afternoon we are one of the few cars to be found in the lot, and I expect that most of the others belong to the doctors and nurses. If it weren’t for the fact that it was a hospital I may have wondered whether or not they were even open. Walking in we find what seems to be the bulk of the staff of nurses and a doctor sitting around the nurse’s station. We tell them our tale (only hinting at the level of crazy that we’ve dealt with) and are directed to the waiting room. It’s a small room, a few chairs along each wall, a TV in the corner. Clearly signaling that we aren’t in Los Angeles any more there is a sign advising that if you’ve been waiting longer than 15 minutes you should go and tell someone. After awhile we are joined by a very large man and an older woman with an oxygen tank who are loaded up with McDonalds. Eventually Courtney is called into the emergency room itself – hardly more than the size of any examination room I’ve seen in a Los Angeles doctor’s office. She gets a tetanus shot, is asked many questions, and asked to scrub off the wound herself (since it isn’t deep enough to require irrigation they figure she knows her own pain threshold and won’t scrub too hard). Comfortingly, no one aside from Courtney and I seem to be too concerned about the possibility of rabies. They write a prescription for antibiotics and I’m sent to pick it up from the Safeway while Courtney finishes up with the doctor. When I return Courtney is at the tail end of her dealings with the sheriff. State law demands that she files a report and through the process she learns what a delight it can be to deal with small town law enforcement.
Once again we move on, leaving another town in the rearview mirror, and head west. As I drive Courtney fills me in on what I missed at the hospital. Back in the waiting room she had talked with the large man and oxygenated woman. They told her that Coaldale Junction used to be a nice place. They had a good restaurant. But now people were burning down the buildings to spite the man who owned it. When they discovered the nature of our road trip they offered suggestions for stops. There were tales of ATV riding, bobcat shooting, and the revelation that apparently California is dumping its problem bears in Nevada. They may have also let slip the fact that everyone in this part of Nevada thinks those folks back Tonopah way aren’t quite all there. I’m sorry that I missed talking to them. As with the crazy lady, I think that my dad would have enjoyed talking to them as well. I can hear him asking them questions about their ghost town suggestions, picking out details of their stories. While it wasn’t how I would have chosen to spend the day, in the end it was interesting to be able to see a glimpse of what regular people are like in this part of the country. To experience a more local side. Too often we pass through cities and towns without really seeing them. We as tourists see only the surface, the façade that every town puts up for those passing through. We don’t see the normal day-to-day grind, the gears that keep the city in motion. Though I’m sorry that Courtney had to be bitten by a dog for us to have this experience. Otherwise, the impact on our itinerary was negligible. While we lost five or six hours in taking care of the situation our plans for the day were fairly light. I won’t lose any sleep over skipping Benton Hot Springs as it only severed as a way to break up an otherwise lengthy drive and had no connection to previous road trips. No memories of my father. Our only other destination could be reworked into our Sunday schedule and so, ultimately, nothing was missed.
Our Final Route - Day 2…
A little more banged up than we started the day we say goodbye to Nevada and in doing so also say goodbye to the desert. Sagebrush gives way to pinion and juniper pine, the endless flat expanse of the desert is replaced at first by hills and then mountains. Through the Toiyabe National Forest we crest Anchorite Pass and descend into California. The road straightens and levels out for a bit, taking us past Mono Lake. Courtney begins to nod off again and I declare myself ready to be done with the day, but still we must drive. North on US-395, back into the winding roads. We pass by the exit for Bodie, our first stop of the day tomorrow. We pass by several quaint motels where we could stop if I hadn’t made reservations somewhere further on – a choice that I am currently regretting. The sun has started to take on the golden hue of the evening magic hour. I wish that my desire to be done wasn’t overriding my desire to stop and take advantage of the gorgeous light by snapping a few photos. Through Willow Springs and into the ranching area around Bridgeport. Hundreds, if not thousands of cows and sheep watch as we drive by. Once again back into winding mountain roads until, at last, we reach our final destination for the day – the Toiyabe Motel in Walker, California. We’ve earned a little rest.
Continue to Part 3…
Click on photos for larger views.
For more photos, visit my flickr page…
For other shots of Tonopah or Coaldale Junction please follow the links…
Jim Colbert Memorial Road Trip, Part 1 - Is It Time for Bed Yet?
June 18/19, 2009 – It begins….
By the time our first mile rolls onto the odometer it is well past midnight and I haven’t slept since the night before. Courtney had been called into action along with her house which was serving as a movie set for the day, keeping us from getting started any earlier. Given the circumstances, with the anniversary of my father’s passing falling on that night, I did not want to set out any later. I wanted to be away from the city, I wanted to be somewhere where I had a stronger connection with him and his memory, and for me that meant the open road, having taken so many road trips with him in these later years. My original plans had called for a nap between getting off of work and hitting the road, recharging the batteries just a bit before undertaking 500 miles worth of driving in two states with at least five different sightseeing stops, but as they say about the best laid plans…and so it was, having been awake for the last 18 hours with the next opportunity to sleep being at least 15 hours away that we struck out on the second annual Jim Colbert Memorial Road Trip.
Our Route - Day 1…
The excitement to once again be out on the open road, heeding the call, is enough to keep me going for a bit. Courtney fills me in on the events of the movie filming day, we chat about the plans for the trip, and then she begins to fade. I make it a little further on the Coke that I’ve been drinking and then it hits me how long a night I am actually in for, my eyelids start to get a bit heavy. As the miles roll beneath our wheels, I grow increasingly jealous of Courtney, curled up in the seat next to me. She’s offered to take over any time I need it and I know she would do it, but I couldn’t ask her to. This is my ridiculous schedule, my irrational need to be away from the city that night, my ritual of remembrance. I am thrilled that I am not doing this alone, but in my mind this is my cross to bear and so I yawn, and fidget, and do what it takes to remain awake.
We’re heading east out of Los Angeles, through Barstow and on to Baker, California – home to the world’s largest thermometer. Having begun its history as a stop on the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad just over a century ago it is fitting that this small town now serves mainly as a way station on the route to Las Vegas. Baker marks our departure from the Interstate Highway System and serves as a good opportunity to get out and stretch the legs (and eyelids) a bit. Despite not needing it yet, I also decide to stop for gas as well. I’m still a bit anxious over a previous road trip that found me driving on a very quiet and infrequently traveled back road in the middle of the Mohave desert with my gas light on and absolutely no cell phone reception hoping beyond all hope that I wouldn’t fall prey to the unforgiving desert. After several agonizing miles with not so much as a glimmer of civilization I thankfully managed to make it back onto a highway and eventually to gas while vowing to never to do that again. Since we were about to head north on Death Valley Road, I figured that this would be a good time to ensure that I kept my promise to myself.
Gas topped off and legs stretched we head north, still in the dark of night. We’ve got a ways to go before we start seeing seriously daylight, but thankfully it isn’t too long before I begin to notice a bit of definition on the horizon, the sky starting to distinguish itself from the land. It’s not often that I get to watch the sunrise in the desert and I am looking forward to seeing it come up. As an added bonus, more light makes it a lot easier to stay awake. As the landscape slowly gains more detail I am reminded of other road trips. This is familiar terrain. While we never traveled this particular road, I spent a lot of time in this desert with my father. Through countless hours of watching the desert pass by I have come to love it, to want to seek out the few remaining treasures that it holds. I’ve said before how in my childhood the trip was a necessary evil to get to the destination and I can’t help but think I would have found the desert more evil than other byways. Now I find the landscape incredibly beautiful and while I believe that the beauty is always there it is a lot more difficult to see when the midday sun is beating down and washing all color out, muting the scenery to drab shades of gray and brown. As the sun continues to rise I get to see the desert in all of its glory, in the gorgeous magic hour just after sunrise when the light is at its most golden coaxing the desert to offer up vibrant oranges, reds, yellows, and even greens to complement the ever-present grays and browns. I know this appreciation comes from my father and that makes me miss him even more. I pull over to throw my full attention onto the dawning day. The rising sun marks the beginning of my third year without him.
The Sky Separates From the Land…
Desert Morning…
Crossing into Nevada we stumble across the first unexpected sight of the trip. A magnificently large cow. I am tickled as I slow down enough to turn around and head into the parking lot of the Longstreet Casino of Amargosa Valley. I had researched potential roadside attractions along our planned route and somehow managed to overlook this beauty. Having passed up the opportunity to document my stop at the world’s largest thermometer, I figure it would not be very fitting of me to also neglect the world’s not quite largest but still pretty big cow (a little research tells me that there is a 38 foot tall cow in North Dakota – this little Bessie was maybe 12 feet on a good day). Driving away I’m glad that I hadn’t turned this attraction up in my research. The unexpected find was much more delightful.
Bessie…
Back on the road we make our way toward the first official stop on the itinerary – Carrara, Nevada – and I find it’s time for more reflection. I’ve been down these roads before, having passed this way on the last road trip I took with my father. On that trip we stopped at a sight that I thought was Carrrara, but which I later learned was an old cement plant built and abandoned in the 1930’s, never used due to the Great Depression. I’m not sure whether or not my father knew that it wasn’t the town site of Carrara when he took us there. This time around I intended to remedy having missed the town, having found better directions to the site. Pulling off the main road I head up a fairly rough dirt road, considering not for the first time the absurdity of off roading in a Dodge Caravan. We pass some small ruins in the distance but based on what I’ve read I believe that there is more further up the road and so press on. The road narrows, gets rougher and rockier and still I push forward, foolishly passing spots that would make a good point to turn around, spots that are becoming fewer and further in-between. I finally stop for a long moment of internal debate – I want to press forward, knowing that my father would have, but not knowing how much further there is to go and becoming ever more aware of the limitations of my car. What would my dad do? Eventually I call it quits and can’t help but feel a little disappointed in myself. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help but feel that this in someway dishonors the memory of my father. Never mind that he did the same thing many times on our road trips, this is somehow different in my mind. Having passed the last widening of the road some time ago we end up having to reverse down the hill, something I have never been all that good at but which I manage to do without much trouble. We finally make it to a slightly wider section of the road and after a five or six point turn we are able to proceed without my having to strain my neck looking over my shoulder. So as to not leave completely empty handed I make a quick stop to check out the small ruins we had passed earlier. Courtney is still not quite awake so I make the short trek off the road over to the structure and am once again reminded of my father – many was the time that he would strike off to check something out while my sister and I milled about the car. I reach the structure, which turns out to be a chimney, snap a few photos and head back to the car. There’s really not much to see.
Lonely Chimney…
Still being fairly early in the morning and not quite time for breakfast I figure we should pop over to the cement factory, which is less than a mile up the road. Even though it’s not the town site I was looking for, it is still an impressive bit of abandonment and worth another look. Plus it falls into a theme that these trips have taken on, connecting with my father across time – reliving experiences that we had shared as a way to remember him. A way to pay homage, revisiting sites that I never would have been to the first time had it not been for him. Little has changed at the fake Carrara since I was last there almost three years ago. A long expanse of crumbling grey concrete with a few supporting structures spread around the perimeter. Knowing nothing of the cement making process, I don’t have an inkling of what the purpose of each structure would have been. Obviously, and sadly, it is a popular spot for gun enthusiasts and graffiti artists – as many of these abandoned sites are. Since the last time new graffiti has proclaimed it to be both Hell and “a little slice of home,” neither of which I feel are accurate descriptions. Too fascinating to be Hell and to industrial to be home. My mind wanders back, trying to imagine the site in its prime, remembering my last visit….I shoot a few more pictures and proclaim that it is now time for breakfast.
The Cement Factory…
Hell “a little slice of home”…
Hell “a little slice of home” Detail…
A few more miles and we are in Beatty, Nevada. I can’t remember specifically having been here before when we first drive into town, though I know I have since it lies directly between Carrara and Rhyolite, both of which were visited the last time I had come this way. As we drive around, looking for a place to eat breakfast I catch glimpses of buildings that slowly stir up some memories. The motel that we stayed at, the now defunct casino where I won $80 on a nickel slot machine. We find a little greasy spoon restaurant and have breakfast with the locals. The food is nothing to write home about but the natives are entertaining. I feel very out of place as I take in the three old men sitting at the next table, obviously hardened by life in the desert, clearly cut from a different cloth than I am. I am very much a city boy who could in no way pass as a local. We contemplate what makes a person live in a place like this and I wonder whether I could survive as a hardened desert dweller. What would my life have been like had I been born into this environment. Like many of the smaller towns in the Nevada desert it feels a little dead, like the desert is winning out, reclaiming the land. Everywhere you look you see more abandoned buildings, more signs of the passing of a way of life. If I lived here what would I be doing now, what would my dreams be, what would I think of the big city tourists wandering through town and staring at me while I ate my breakfast. In the end I’m glad that I didn’t have to find out.
We move on, heading a short way out of town to our next stop, Rhyolite, Nevada. I had been there before but not having been in the drivers seat I couldn’t remember exactly how we got there. I seemed to remember a bit of off roading so didn’t think anything of taking the dirt road I had found on Google maps - though several forks in the road later I was fairly certain that we were no longer traveling in the right direction. Once again I had to decide – press on or turn back. Once again I wished that my dad was in the drivers seat. He always seemed to make the right decision. Weighing my options and feeling pretty certain that we weren’t going to reach Rhyolite I turned back. On the main road I decided to head just a little further down and not two miles on we passed a road sign pointing the way to Rhyolite, right down a nicely paved road. …it always seemed so effortless when my father was in charge. Driving up that road it was what I remembered. The town had begun as a mining camp in early 1905 and reached an estimated population of 3,500 to 5,000 souls two to three years later. Its rapid rise was equaled by its rapid decline with the population dwindling to less than 1,000 in 1911 and down to zero by 1920. Since then it has been given over to time and tourism. The now abandoned train depot was converted into a casino and then a museum, which ran up into the 1970’s. It now sits behind a fence – tantalizingly close, but oh so out of reach. Several less intact structures dot the side of the main road through “town”. The skeletal remains of the bank and schoolhouse.
The Cook Bank Building…
The Rhyolite School…
More lie off the road, further down a small hill. Some efforts to restore and maintain the town have been undertaken, the most notable being Tom Kelly’s Bottle House (old bottles were used to make the walls) which has been rebuilt and restored several times. There are other people around, which is to be expected with a site so close to the main road, so easy to reach, but I wish they weren’t there. They remind me how much of a tourist that I am in these places. I have no illusions that I belong here, but when we are alone, I feel more connected, more like I can blend in with the landscape. Seeing other people stick out like a sore thumb and I realize that I do the same. Plus I don’t want to share the site. I want the site to be mine. I want to be able to look out at the ruins uninterrupted by reminders of our modern world, try to imagine the site in its heyday as I had done with the cement factory. As we head back out of town we stop on the outskirts at the Goldwell Open Air Museum, an outdoor sculpture park with sculptures that stand in stark contrast to the decay of the town, yet at the same time managing to work with the town, especially the eerie spectral shrouds which form an interpretation of the last supper or one who is preparing to ride a bike.
Biking Shroud…
More road, more miles, more desert. We are into the heat of the day, which thankfully is not nearly as bad as it could have been. It wasn’t crisp, cool, autumn weather by any stretch of the imagination, but we aren’t sweltering either. The next stop, Bonnie Claire, Nevada, was new to me. Like pretty much all of the ghost towns in the area, Bonnie Claire grew as support to a mining operation. A mill was built around 1904 and later rebuilt in 1913, which is the main structure left standing today. Unfortunately on arrival we are greeted with a one of the ubiquitous barbed wire fences and a fairly prominent “No Trespassing” sign. Still being fairly close to the road and with a structure which looked lived in just across the small road that we came in on I’m weary of venturing in beyond the fence, despite a gaping hole that would have allowed me to drive through if I wanted. We take some pictures, and sit contemplating the mill ruins from a distance.
The Mill Ruins - From a Distance…
While we sit there a couple of German tourists roll up and I am amazed at how far someone will come to see what seems to be such an insignificant site. I’m not sure why this is so odd to me, knowing full well that if I were to ever find myself in Southern Spain I would make every effort to track down and visit the still standing sets where they shot many of Leone’s spaghetti westerns…but still, for some reason, I was surprised to see them. After getting their own photos they move on. Once again by ourselves and before we also move on I take a few tentative steps inside the fence and take some shots of a structure just inside. It’s nowhere near the mill, which is what I really wanted to see, but having a very low guilt threshold and knowing that I would be a mess the entire time I was in there I settle for these shots.
No Trespassing…
Tantalizingly close to being able to shut my eyes for a bit and done with the small out of the way sites we turn toward our next stop. Another hour through the desert and we end up in Goldfield, Nevada. Despite being the Esmeralda County seat, Goldfield houses only 200 or so people and feels more like a ghost town than an active one. Driving through town every other building seems to be vacant, some empty long enough that they are falling apart, crumbling to the ground.
Nobody is Home…
Old Buiding, New Bench…
The scale of decay is also larger than it was in Beatty. The Municipal High School – vacant since the 1950’s – sits fenced off and looking ready to collapse in on itself. A plea for restoration funds is posted nearby, and has been there since at least six years ago when I first passed through town. The large four story Goldfield Hotel sitting on the main street has been vacant since the 1940’s, though remains in much better condition than the high school. Every way you look you are confronted with more decay, more reminders of a glory that is long gone. We have a picnic lunch sitting on the steps of the hotel, watching the occasional car pass by. It is a dead town but not without charm and whether due to having been here before with my father or some unknown reason, I am a little smitten with it. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I sure do like passing through. Before moving on we stop in a small market to pick up some ice for the cooler. Two old men are sitting and smoking out front and we pause to have a few words. They seem to fit well in the town, two old relics in an old relic. More examples of the hardened folk who make their home in the middle of the desert. They ask us how we like the town, note what wonderful photo opportunities there are, and hint at some real ghosts they believe are in some of the abandoned buildings. I would love to have the time to sit and listen to them for hours, hear what they had to say about the town and their history there, but I know if I were to sit long enough my brain would shut down and I would be lost to sleep.
School’s Out Forever…
The Goldfield Hotel…
Another half hour up the road and we reach our final destination of the day – Tonopah, Nevada. In contrast to Goldfield, Tonopah is still relatively lively. Sharing common backgrounds, both cities having sprung up around gold and silver mines, both serving as county seats, Tonopah has managed to remain a more active town, thanks in part to the nearby Tonopah Test Range (also known as Area 52 and neighbor to the infamous Area 51) which has served as a more constant source of employment for the denizens of the town. While there are a handful of abandoned buildings, and one large old and empty hotel/casino, Tonopah is home to several active casinos, more than a handful of motels, and a modern high school (not to mention their very own McDonalds). We take a short drive through town, weighing our lodging options but knowing that the only choice is the Clown Motel, both due to past road trips and its proximity to the restaurant and casino that will serve as the choice for the memorial dinner and nickel slot gambling which will occur later in the evening. Happy to finally be off the road we get our room and I finally kick up my feet a mere 33 hours and nearly 500 miles since I last slept. While the day is not done, for the moment I am as I let the events of the day and those of this day two years ago wash over me. Much more is coming, but for now I rest.
Our Host for the Evening…
After a brief rest - knowing that to allow myself any more will be to abandon myself to sleep for the night - and phone calls of remembrance to the rest of my family, Courtney and I venture out into the world one more time. The weather has turned and we are blessed with a little rain, a spectacular horizon burning sunset, and a heat lightning show. I breathe deep and enjoy the smell of the desert rain, a very enticing fragrance.
Sunset or Deadly Fire?…
Our evening’s entertainment had been decided for us many years ago, when dinner at El Marques Mexican restaurant and a few goes on the slots at the Ban¢ Club became a Colbert road trip tradition when passing through Tonopah. After margaritas and slots, we head back to the motel. Drained from the drive as well as the emotions of the day the time has finally come for me to close my eyes and surrender to the sandman.
Continue to Part 2…
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For more photos, visit my flickr page…
For earlier shots of Carrara or Goldfield please follow the links…
