Goldfield, Nevada - land of funk, junk and rust

Goldfield, Nevada typifies the saga of so many mining towns in the West.  Man finds gold; gold brings a rush of people; the people prosper; the gold peters out; the people leave; fire destroys most of their trace. 

    Today a little over 400 people live in Goldfield.  It’s one of the smallest county seats in one of the smallest counties in the US.  In all of Esmeralda County there are barely 1300 folks.  It wasn’t always that way. 

    The gold strike in Goldfield, discovered after the one in the Klondike, could be considered North America’s last great strike.  It was the last time men and women swarmed by the hundreds to the promise of riches.  Some of these gold seekers might have been the ones that rushed to the Sierras when Marshall first sighted yellow rocks at the mill.  Some of them rushed to the Klondike to do the same.  Some rushed to Virginia City for silver, hoping to share in the Comstock Lode.  Finally, some old and tired, some fresh and new rushed to Goldfield.  Their numbers created a fifty-four square block metropolis.  At one time, Goldfield was Nevada’s largest city, with 20,000 people.  All those people and the gold caused Goldfield’s leaders to think big.  They said to the rest of the state, “This here city rightfully should be the state capital.”  And it might have been, but the gold petered out before the issue could be resolved.  People abandoned their claims, vacated their buildings, and moved on to greener pastures.  The crowning blow came in 1923.  A raging fire disintegrated most of the city.

   I saw on the wall of the Glory Hole Antique Store a panoramic view of the 1909 Goldfield and there they were all those blocks and a whole lot of buildings.  But when I stepped back outside, there was a stark contrast.  Only a few old buildings were left.  They were the ones spared destruction simply because the firestorm blew to the north away from them.  Among them: the Southern Nevada Consolidated Telephone Company building, looking for telephones to service once again; not far away is the very solid Esmeralda County Courthouse, looking very much like some desert king’s fortress and still being used; around the corner is the old two-story brick and stone schoolhouse, looking forlorn and void of students; and farther up the block is an imposing four-story, brick Goldfield Hotel, looking for a rescuer.

    In 1908 when the hotel opened, it had cost the owner $450,000, a whole lot of money then.  It was reported to be the most spectacular hotel in Nevada.  It even had twenty-four carat gold ceilings.  The Goldfield Hotel saw good times and bad, and for a brief moment served in WWII, as temporary home to soldiers stationed nearby.  Abandoned in 1946, it’s been that way ever since.  There have been many owners and each time they talk of renovation.  The locals yawn and look on with a “wait and see, but don’t hold your breath” attitude.  One such owner was a San Francisco lawyer who was loaded with ideas and, of course, money.  With paint bush and hammer in hand he began to build a dream.  He dreamt of bus loads of tourist and gamblers coming to his hotel and casino, enjoying tours of the local mines, going on hayrides, feasting at his restaurant, wagering at his tables, and telling their friends what a wonderful time they had in a new out of the way Nevada resort.  Perhaps this lawyer thought he could do what Don Laughlin did along the Colorado River in southern Nevada.  Unfortunately, it seemed the good lawyer had too many ideas for the size of his pocketbook.  He experienced a very large cash flow problem.  And so this modern day gold seeker was forced to declare bankruptcy.  Others have wanted to do the same as the lawyer from San Francisco.  Ten entrepreneurs tried, but for some reason the bankruptcy court blocked them all from going forward with their plans.

    Standing outside studying the old building, I thought I saw where the paint contractor probably discovered he wasn’t going to get paid.  The top two floors had bright white paint on their eaves, but on the bottom floor the brightness only goes part way.  Peering in the windows, I saw stacks of furniture and plasterboard, waiting for someone to continue on with the remodeling.  

    A local storeowner told me the old hotel is haunted.  Shirley Porter bought the place in 1976 and later wrote a book, entitled But You Can’t Leave, Shirley.  Her book tells of a ghost who hangs around room 109.  In her introduction, she wrote, It is difficult for me to accept what took place in the hotel and I realize that others will find it equally difficult but this is a true and actual account of what happened.  Virginia Ridgeway, who sometimes gives tours of the building and is the owner of the antique store across the street told me the haunting is true.  Several years ago, a new owner, who planned to renovate the hotel, invited the TV show “Ghost Hunters” to investigate for paranormal activity.  They observed weird shadows and recorded voices in room 109 and in the basement. “You Tube” has an interesting three part video, which shows their investigation.  Is it the truth or can it be explained away?  You be the judge.

   Finally, Goldfield had two very famous residents, lawmen Wyatt and Virgil Earp.  Virgil was hired as a deputy sheriff in January of 1905 and died of pneumonia in December of the same year.  Wyatt moved away shortly thereafter.

   P.S. In March 2010 I revisited Goldfield for the umpteenth time, because I love to photograph what I call funk, junk and rust and Goldfield is a rich depository of such.  I was happy to see that the 1939 Studebaker is still sitting where I photographed it so many times before.  On this visit I gave it a digital treatment.  The brick hotel was still abandoned and it looked as if the Glory Hole was under new ownership.  I didn’t go in to see if Virginia Ridgeway was still there; she most likely retired anyway.  The old motel that I was hoping might still be in operation was closed, which looked to be permanent.  Goldfield hasn’t changed much it would seem.  At first glance it still looks forlorn, has the same junk scattered about, and has the same abandoned cars out in the field.  But looking closer...down Columbia Street someone has opened a small motel and someone has started what looks to be the beginnings of an open air museum and the Glory Hole has had a fresh coat of paint.  Some folks just don’t give up.  I’m glad.

Q