Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park

A golden eagle perched high in a poplar tree surveys his domain.  He sees something far below.  It’s a wary ground squirrel moving along the lava rocks.  The squirrel stops under the protective cover of a red and green leafed California redbud.  He looks all around; he seems to know he is being watched.  The eagle’s attention is diverted by a noisy flock of Canadian geese flying across Big Lake to the fields beyond.  When the eagle turns back, the squirrel has disappeared.  And so, once again, nature’s drama is played out in Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park.

    Ahjumawi (Ah joo maw we) is a lonely place.  It’s located in northeastern California and is one of that state’s most primitive state parks, and it may be the least visited, as well.  Lassen Peak to the south and Mt. Shasta to the north are visible from many spots within the park.  Think of it, a state park that has no cars, no RVs, no crowded campsites, and for much of the time no humans.  In addition, there are no occupied buildings, only an abandoned farmhouse, a barn, and a 19th century trapper’s cabin. 

    There is a bit of a mystery as to the meaning of the Indian word, ahjumawi.  Some say it means, “where the waters come together,” while others maintain it’s the name the Indians, a band of the Pit River group, gave themselves, “the river people.”  Water was extremely important to the Ahjumawis.   In this area they found a plentiful supply of it from several lakes, ponds and the largest system of fresh water springs in the US.  All this water provided the Ahjumawis with an abundance of fish.  Along the park’s shore one can find ancient prehistoric fish traps.  They were comprised of a succession of increasingly smaller ponds, into which the Ahjumawis literally herded fish until all they had to do was reach down, grab and toss the fish ashore.  They were especially fond of suckerfish, which they smoked and ate head and all.

    As you might imagine, the park is accessible only by boat.  Visitors must bring their own; there are no rental boats available.  At a spot the locals call “The Rat Farm,” located a half-mile north of the town of McArthur, there is a launch site.  The waterway into the park passes over ancient lava flows.   In some places there are narrow channels between the barely submerged rocks.  The water is clear, so obstacles are visible to the watchful boater.  However, anyone not paying attention can easily scrape across a lava flow and do damage to a boat’s hull, or an engine’s prop. 

    Ahjumawi is a haven for nature lovers, photographers, canoeists, and people looking for contemplative solitude.  Some day Ahjumawi may have the kind of facilities that all the other state parks have.  But for now, anyone who enjoys the primitive will find this park ideal.  So load a boat with your fishing gear, your camera equipment, your artist palette, your bird watching binos, or your favorite book and go to Ahjumawi.  Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself there alone.

Q

Lake Tenaya

Lake Tenaya, located within Yosemite National Park, is named for a chief of the Yosemite Valley people, the Ahwahneechee.  Granite monoliths surround the lake and one particular dome stands out.  It’s called Pywiack (PIE wee ack), which was the Indian name for the lake.  (It's there nearest the center of the picture, with a line of trees between it and the lakeshore.)  I’ve always been drawn to that dome because of the magnificent tree that grows from a crack in its surface.  It clings tenaciously to the rock and defies the elements and gravity.  It’s hard to estimate how tall it is, but I’ll hazard a guess, 40 feet??  More than likely I’m off by several feet in either direction.  Imagine its roots that bored their way through a fissure in the rock.  They couldn’t have gone too far.  So how in the Hell does it stay upright?  Every time I go over the Tioga Pass, I pause for a moment and gaze in wonder at that tall pine.  And as I drive by the lake I usually reminisce about the times we camped at this wonderful alpine lake...

    Back in the early days of our marriage Linda and I were not quite as poor as church mice, but our budget was pretty darn tight, so what to do for a vacation became somewhat of a challenge.  Linda, having been a Girl Scout in her youth, was good at primitive camping, so we put her merit badges to good use.  At first all we had was what we could stuff into our Austin Healy Sprite.  Not much room there, so our camping equipment consisted of a large tarp, two sleeping bags, a Dutch oven, and a couple #10 cans, leaving just enough room for some food and a few articles of clothing.  Things got pretty luxurious when Linda’s folks gave us their old White Stag canvas tent.  When rolled up with its wood supports tuck neatly inside, it weighed a “ton,” but it had that elegant musty smell of good canvas.  We needed something bigger than the tiny Sprite, so when we could afford it, we purchased a Volvo station wagon.  It had just enough room for the tent, some extra equipment, food and child paraphernalia.  Our son, Greg, had come along and young kids require a lot of stuff, including a red Flexible Flyer wagon.  The red wagon wasn’t for Greg; it was for hauling all our camping equipment.  The campground at Lake Tenaya was not accessible by car.  You had to pack in your camping gear about a quarter mile.  Our favorite site was located right on the lakeshore.  For a hundred feet out the water was only about a foot deep, perfect for, five-year-old Greg.  He could splash around in it and because it was so shallow it was warmer than the rest of the lake, which is definitely an advantage considering Tenaya is an alpine lake filled with melted snow, in other words...brrrr.

    As I said we were primitive campers in those days, just the bare necessities and a comfortable tent for sleeping.  Linda made fabulous stews and soups in the Dutch oven and boiled water in the cans.  Ah, but the baths for Greg were even more of a tribute to good primitive camp methods.  After a day of playing, he was usually covered head to toe in dust, dirt and grime.  The bath had to be done quickly, the night air was cold, so a good fire, nice warm water in the Dutch oven, Greg standing on a flat rock, a dash of soap, a little scrubbing, a quick rinse, a dry off with the big beach towel and he was as good as new and ready for bed in a matter of moments.

    The lake, the Dutch oven, that tree, Greg getting a sponge bath and tent camping together make for some wonderful memories.  Doesn’t get much better than that. 

Q

Manzanar

The next time you’re traveling down the eastern side of California on US Highway 395, arguably one of this country’s premiere motor trips, stop off at Mazanar.  It’s near Lone Pine and practically next door to the Alabama Hills, where the likes of Hoppy, Gene, and Roy chased the bad guys.  But Manzanar’s saga was not the invention of Hollywood; it was the invention of World War II hysteria.  Shortly after Pearl Harbor, a little over 100,000 Japanese American citizens and Japanese aliens living on the West Coast were summarily rounded up and sent off to ten interment camps.  Manzanar was such a place.  These Japanese were thought to be possible threats to national security.  After the war when the internees had been released, all of Manzanar’s buildings, except for the sentry post and the gymnasium, were torn down, leaving very little testimony as to what took place there.  Fifty-nine years later, the National Park Service has opened an interpretive center on the site and work has begun to restore certain portions of the camp.

     I had a memorable experience there twenty years ago, long before the NPS had arrived.  I drove around Manzanar looking for what might want to be a photograph and wound up at the western boundary of the property.  There sat the cemetery, with a beautiful pristine white obelisk guarding the graves and the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains in the background.  I parked my Vanagon, stepped out and immediately had the feeling I was being watched. There were no other cars, no other people, only open ground, but yet I definitely felt a presence.  Perhaps it was only my imagination working overtime; then again, who knows maybe I wasn't alone.  I pulled out my lawn chair, sat in the peace and quiet and enjoyed my lunch.  I counted six gravesites scattered in amongst sweet smelling sage.  I learned later that the rest were relocated closer to family members.  On top of the sage people had placed handmade origami cranes of all colors and sprinkled coins, and broken pieces of pottery.  Painted on the obelisk were three symbols, which later proved to be kanji.  During this time I had in-laws living in Japan.  When I got home, I sent them a picture of the obelisk and they had the kanji translated.  Years later on one of my return visits I asked the ranger at the interpretive center for a translation.  He said it meant “soul consoling tower.”  The translation I had received from Japan said the symbols meant "spirit comfort station.”  I prefer the latter; somehow it seems more appropriate.

     The picture of the obelisk is a recent one.  The NPS cleared away the sage, placed the origami and the pottery chips on the obelisk's ledges and the coins on a nearby rock.  By cleaning up the cemetery, the NPS has paid homage to those Japanese-American citizens who rest there.  And that was a good thing to do, but I do miss the sweet smelling sage and who knows perhaps the spirits do too.

Q

Laughlin, Nevada

Don Laughlin, the Colorado River casino magnate, was born and raised in Owatonna, Minnesota.  While in high school he earned money as a fur trapper.  He did well and being a born entrepreneur he took the profits and bought slot machines and installed them in hunting lodges, which eventually earned him $500 a week.  His high school principal gave him an ultimatum: get rid of the slots, pay more attention to homework or get out of high school.  Since Laughlin was making about three times what the principal was earning, he got out of school.

    In the late 1950s, Laughlin migrated to Las Vegas and bought the 101 Club, his first casino.  By 1964 he had sold the club and was looking for a new enterprise.  It always had been his aim to find a place on a state line because as he figured it, “you get much higher play there than anywhere else.”  In his Las Vegas club, he estimated nine out of every ten people were there just to have a drink, but on a state line all ten come to gamble.  One day he motored out to South Pointe, a tiny wide spot in the road located on the banks of the Colorado River at the southern tip of Nevada along the border with Arizona. There sat a run down eight room motel and cafe, so without blinking an eye he bought the place, moved his family into four of the rooms, served all you can eat chicken for 98 cents, installed twelve slot machines and a couple live gaming tables and by so doing hoped he could make some real money and that is exactly what he did!  The little run down motel soon became the high rise Riverside Hotel and Casino.  South Pointe got a name change and became Laughlin.  And the man from Owatonna did indeed make some real money; he made a fortune. 

    Today, there are eight other casinos, with 10,000 rooms, 60 restaurants catering to close to 5 million visitors each year.  You do the math.  

Q

Buckland's Station

Samuel S. Buckland left his home in Ohio in 1850 at age twenty-four.  He traveled south, got on a boat, sailed through the Panama Canal and wound up in California.  Later, he ventured into the western part of the Utah Territory, which would eventually become Nevada, and established a ranch along the Carson River at a logical stopping off place for hundreds of travelers who crossed the Great Basin on their way west.  In 1860 he built a log cabin for his family, a store and saloon for the travelers and corrals for cattle and horses.  He named the property Buckland’s Station. Then the enterprising Buckland constructed a bridge across the Carson River and charged a toll to cross: $.25 for pedestrians, $1.00 for buggies, $1.50 for light wagons and $2.00 for heavy wagons.  Before crossing the river, travelers stopped at the station and replaced their trail weary animals, replenished supplies, and swigged down rotgut whiskey.

    Until 1861 when nearby Fort Churchill was established, Buckland’s cabin served as a Pony Express Station, where riders changed horses.  Two months after beginning operation the station witnessed a remarkable feat of horsemanship.  “Pony Bob” Halsam, one of the most famous Pony Express riders, made the fastest trip ever, galloping 120 miles in 8 hours and 20 minutes - the message Halsam carried, Lincoln’s Inaugural Address.

    The lead picture isn't the original building on the property.  This house was constructed years later when Buckland acquired all of Fort Churchill’s buildings in 1870.  The army abandoned the fort that year and Buckland paid $750 for the privilege of carting away doors, windows, lumber and hardware.  He moved his family into the new building and rented out extra rooms to travelers.  Samuel Buckland, his wife Eliza, and six of their nine children are buried in the cemetery at  Fort Churchill.      

    In 1994, the Nevada Division of State Parks acquired the building.  Not long ago it was jacked up and given a new foundation and paint job.  Today it's all spruced up and is the interpretive center for the Fort Churchill State Historic Park.  Too bad, I liked the old look better, something about aging wood and peeling paint that gets to me.

Q

Fort Churchill

In a small valley nestled alongside the Carson River, in western Nevada, there is what remains of Nevada’s first military post, Fort Churchill.  These adobe ruins stand today in silent testimony to the West’s wild and woolly past.

    It was a time of conflict, a time of change.

    “Go WEST, young man!”

    Thar’s GOLD in them thar hills!”

    “LAND, rich land for the taking!”

    “SILVER!”

    People heeded the cries, packed up their belongings, climbed aboard their covered wagons, and set off west to the “Promise Land.”  Some of the places along the way were so inviting that many of the travelers stopped and put down roots.  At first, there existed a comparatively peaceful coexistence between the Indians, who had occupied the land for hundreds of years, and the settlers.  Beginning with the discovery of gold in California, in 1848, there began a steady increase in the numbers of Americans, passing through northern Nevada, along the Emigrant Trail.  These emigrants, for the most part, saw the Indians as obstacles to be removed.  A bloody conflict, known as the Paiute War was the result.  In 1860, embellished reports of atrocities by Indians at Williams Station, located at the modern-day Lahontan Reservoir, east of Carson City spread throughout the territory.  Talk of killings passed from person to person and with each telling the details grew more gruesome.  The many settlers, miners and travelers along Nevada’s Overland Route demanded protection.  The route went through the Bucklands Ranch.  In addition to the ranch, Sam Bucklands had established a station house from which he sold supplies to the emigrants and a toll bridge across the Carson River.  It was also a Pony Express change station.  It was the logical site for a military post.  A small part of the ranch was set aside and construction began.  The fort was named for the Army’s inspector-general, Brevet Brigadier General Sylvester Churchill.  Churchill’s name has been used several other times in Nevada, to wit: a county, a valley, a canyon, and a US Navy warship, the USS Churchill County.

            After only eleven years of operation the fort was abandoned and its materials auctioned off.  The adobe walls have since crumbled, roofs have deteriorated, and sage has covered the parade field.  Wind and rain have sculptured the adobe surfaces, rounding and smoothing them, creating interesting shapes, which makes Fort Churchill a great place to spend an afternoon photographing.  

 Q

Gold Point, Nevada

As I cruised down US 95, I played a travel CD that I picked up free for the taking in Tonopah.  John Tyson got my full attention when he began talking about a gold mining ghost town.  Love those ghost towns!  So I followed Tyson’s directions, turned off 95 onto State Hwy 266, made a left turn onto State Hwy 774 and a little while later arrived in Gold Point, Nevada.  It’s a collection of ramshackle buildings, miner’s shacks, rusting metal, and abandoned equipment strewn over a big piece of high desert real estate.  Normally there are only seven people living in this relic, sixty miles from the nearest grocery store.  The jackrabbits and chukars outnumber the humans by as much as twenty to one.

    Herb Robbins, or as he calls himself, Sheriff Stone, owns practically all of Gold Point.  Robbins won a big casino jackpot and used the money to buy most of the land and then began restoring some of the buildings.  According to what I read on the Internet, he’s hoping to make Gold Point a tourist attraction.  Every Memorial Day weekend during the annual Chili Cook-Off, several hundred people show up.  The High Desert Drifters Western Historical Society routinely performs western reenactments in the town plaza.  His wife runs a bed and breakfast, renting out four old miner’s cabins and a house.  In addition, there are seven RV spaces available.

    I was sitting in my truck munching on a snack, when across the way several people came out of a small house.  Parked in the driveway was what must have been the family Suzuki.  A boy who looked to be eleven or twelve climbed into the car, got behind the wheel, fired up the engine, smoothly engaged a gear, and instantly popped the clutch.  The car lurched forward and died.  One of the adults walked over and said something to the boy.  Whatever he said worked because the next attempt was successful.  The adults watched as the kid zoomed off in a cloud of dust and disappeared over a low hill.  Off in the distance, I could hear the kid gunning the four cylinders making them do his bidding.  It reminded me of my first attempts at driving my family’s 1954 Dodge sedan with the semi-automatic transmission.  My first try was on the sly when my folks were away.  But this kid did it in full view of his family.  Only in a rural town can a kid drive off in the family car and do it with parents gleefully watching. 

    Gold Point has had good times, bad times and two other names: Lime Camp and Hornsilver.  It’s been open for business and closed often; the success or failure depended on the price of first, silver then gold.  During the down times, the town was always occupied with a few people.  Together, they watch out for each other and that is why there has never been any major problems or vandalism, as is the case with many other old mining towns.  It’s considered by many to be one of the best ghost towns in Nevada and a living history lesson of the best kind.  For me the fact that it has a whole lot of funk, junk and rust, well, that makes it just about perfect. 

Q

Cathedral Gorge, Nevada

Cathedral Gorge in Southeastern Nevada is an unusual place.  The tan, clay walls surrounding the gorge are weathered and shaped into mysterious spires and hidden caves.  I went into the gorge just ahead of sunset when shadows were beginning to give definition to the spires.  My first reaction was, “What a wonderful set this would have made for the Star Trek TV series.”  There were places where the landscape definitely could pass for an alien planet.  My next reaction was to look for something that wanted to be a photograph.  Then I looked up and there just peaking over the edge was a full moon.

    Twelve thousand years ago ancient Lake Lahontan covered this gorge, along with much of eastern Nevada.  An aerial view would have shown a huge fresh water lake with multiple islands that are today mountain ranges.  Many streams flowed into the portion of the lake that would eventually become Cathedral Gorge, bringing with them tons of silt and clay that slowly, ever so slowly covered the floor with an estimated 1500 feet of sediment.  Lake Lahontan eventually dried up, exposing the sediment to the elements.  Wind, rain, ice and snow carved and shaped inch by inch, forming the badlands, the spires and caves we see today.  Just like the gorge is not really a gorge, well, the caves aren’t really caves.  Actually they are narrow passageways between spires.  Local people seeing the spires thought of cathedrals, thus the name. 

    I explored several “corridors” walking between the towering spires and winding my way through mazes.  I began to feel like the proverbial mouse trying to find the cheese.  There were places that if I had had an extra pancake for breakfast, I wouldn’t have been able to squeeze through.  If you’re a little claustrophobic, as I am, you won’t want to spend too much time exploring.

    I have it on good authority that according to the strictest definition Cathedral Gorge is not deep enough to be a gorge and that’s where I always get confused.  When does a ditch become a trench, a trench become a gully, a gully become a ravine, a ravine become a gorge and a gorge become a canyon?  Then I find out that a canyon is nothing but a steep gorge?!  Then on top of all that there’s a barranca, a wash and a wadi to have to deal with!  Tis a puzzlement!

Q

Travels with Richard

Introduction: When I heard that my friend Richard Menzies, an accomplished photographer and one helluva good writer, was to have a one-man show in his hometown, Price, Utah, I emailed him and told him I’d be there. His response, “Why would you want to do something as dumb as that?” I answered, “Cause, I like your work.” “But you’ve already seen what I’m showing.” “So what?” “Well then, so it won’t be a total loss, I guess I could show you some of Utah’s backcountry?” “Fantastic!” Richard rattled off places he thought I might enjoy seeing. The only one I recognized was Green River. I met him at his home in Salt Lake City and the next day we headed for Price where we attended a reception for his show at the local college. The following morning we left Price and spent a couple days bouncing along dirt roads. We made stops at a wall of 2,000-year-old primitive drawings, a not so swinging bridge, an amazing canyon, a valley of hoodoos and at a geyser that lost its fizz.

Pictographs... We traveled down through the Buckhorn Wash along the San Rafael Swell, a giant bulge in the earth’s surface. We passed by towering Navajo Sandstone cliffs that have been eroded into incredible formations. We stopped where ancient people created rock art called pictographs and petroglyphs. The pictographs were painted onto the surface of the sandstone as apposed to being carved or pecked onto the rock as in the case of petrogyphs. Did the images have a purpose? Were the symbols some sort of primitive language and if that’s the case, what was being said? Researchers who study such things don’t really know; however, they do agree that the rock art probably had a deep cultural and religious significance to the people who created it. As for me, it points out that mankind has always had the need to express thoughts symbolically and then pass on the thoughts to those who follow. “I was here, I existed and this is what I did.”

Swinging Bridge... Not far from the pictographs we crossed the San Rafael River at the site of the old “Swinging Bridge,” which is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. This 160’ span, built by the CCC in 1937, doesn’t really swing and I haven’t been able to find out just why it’s called “Swinging Bridge.” I suspect it has something to do with the cables that stretch between the towers. In my need to know, I did find a website that lists 27 different kinds of bridges and Swinging Bridge fits the description of two of them: a suspension bridge, or possibly a cable-stayed bridge. But that still doesn’t answer my burning question...tis a puzzlement? For a long time, 53 years to be exact, Swinging Bridge was the only bridge across the San Rafael River. Today, it’s no longer used for vehicular traffic, however there’s a modern bridge just a few feet farther down stream. If anybody out there knows why the name, please pass it on...curious minds need to know!

The Wedge...When is the Grand Canyon not the Grand Canyon? When it’s the Wedge. Huh?
   Ok, perhaps you’ve never heard of what some people refer to as Utah’s Little Grand Canyon, which just happens to be a beautiful piece of Mother Nature’s handiwork. To get to the Wedge, we continued along the San Rafael Swell and eventually drove through a pinyon and juniper forest, right up to the edge of the canyon. Another few inches and we would have been airborne. We jumped out of the truck and began firing away, me with my Sony a100, Richard with his big ole Mamiya. Standing on the Wedge Overlook and peering 1,000 feet down into this sculptured wonder, I couldn’t help but marvel at how incredibly long it took the San Rafael River to dig it’s way inch by inch and pebble by pebble through the soft sandstone. From here the river continues on, finally melding into the much larger Green River, which eventually joins the mighty Colorado and we all know what canyon it dug.
   Someday I want to go back to the Wedge Overlook, camp on the rim and at sunset ease back in my folding chair, smoke an expensive cigar and drink a fine single malt Scotch while the setting sun makes all that red rock glow. Now that’s what I call luxury.

Goblin Valley... It’s a place that I swear Walt Disney must have designed. Well, it’s not a cartoon set; it’s a real place and along with the Wildebeest it’s also proof Mother Nature had a sense of humor. As I stood in the midst of this strange natural anomaly, I tried to image Mickey and Goofy and all the other Toons scampering through the field of rust colored mushrooms, but alas, I had to force myself to get real.
   When Richard was rattling off all those place names he mentioned Goblin Valley, but it didn’t register other than being an odd name. When I asked him for some detail, he shrugged his shoulders and said I should wait and be surprised and I was.
  
Do you know what hoodoos are? They’re also called tent rocks, fairy chimneys, earth pyramids, or goblins. Probably the most spectacular hoodoos are in Bryce Canyon, but hoodoos can be found wherever there is a dry region composed of rock that easily erodes, such as sandstone. None of the hoodoos I’ve ever seen look like the ones in Goblin Valley. These comical formations are the result of what happens when there’s hard rock on top of soft sandstone. The rock resists erosion, but the sandstone doesn’t. In this valley there is precisely that combination. You add in wind, rain, ice and snow and the result is...mushroom shaped hoodoos. As I walked among them making pictures, I found faces and animals in the rocks. OK, I confess, I can’t help but notice that certain inanimate objects look like animals or people. It’s distracting to some of my photography friends, who take great pleasure in reminding me that they really are just rocks. But thank goodness Richard isn’t one of them. It was he who discovered the duck; I found ET.
   OK, Walt Disney didn’t design this place, but Goblin Valley was used in the sci-fi movie, “Galaxy Quest,” starring Tim Allen and Sigourney Weaver. I enjoyed the movie, as did most eight-to-11-year olds.

Crystal Geyser...When one approaches a geyser, one expects to see a spectacular display when heat from molten lava beneath the surface of the Earth elevates the temperature of surface water to a fever pitch, which forces the boiling water and steam to spew into the atmosphere creating a show like that which happens ever hour when Old Faithful blows its top. So as Richard and I approached Crystal Geyser we held our breaths (briefly) and waited patiently for the geyser’s spectacular climax. So did several other people and one very friendly dog. Did we get a show? No, cause there was no blow. It’s a dud as geysers go.

   Crystal Geyser was created in 1935 on the banks of the Green River when an oil crew was making an exploration. As it turned out there was no oil, so a pipe was installed to prevent anyone from falling into the well and the pipe made a perfect conduit. The geyser was once predictable, going off about every 8 hours. But on the day we were there, nada. Well, I guess I can’t say absolutamente nada. Water did meekly rise up the pipe about 2 feet in a puny attempt to impress us. What happen, no huge plume? How disappointing!
   But wait... When I got home I did some research and found out Crystal Geyser is not your classic geothermal geyser; in fact heat has nothing to do with it. It’s a coldwater geyser and it sits on a confined aquifer saturated with CO2. That’s what creates the pressure that forces the groundwater to blow, so you see it really is capable of having a fizz, just like soda pop. The bubbling I saw is normal and what I captured in the picture is not a puny eruption at all; it evidently was part of the build up of pressure that eventually gets large enough to shoot water into the air. SO, next time...stick around longer, relax, have a beer and maybe even camp for the night.

Conclusion...Traveling through Richard’s backyard was a good trek: wonderful scenery, a great travel companion and big laughs along the way. I look forward to other trips, only next time I suggest we skip the chicken fried steak in Green River, but definitely stop again for a beer at that wonderful brewery outside of Price.

Beatty, Nevada

One of the very small Nevada towns where nothing much happens and where I often lay over is Beatty (BAIT ee). I usually forget and say BEE tee because that’s how it's spelled, but the locals don’t see it that way. 

   Beatty sits on a lonely stretch of Nevada State Highway 95 at a 90^o turn 115 miles north of Las Vegas.  It's a convenient spot for travelers to gas up and grab a bite to eat.  I like it because it’s near photogenic Rhyolite, close to Death Valley and it has a great candy store.  The Death Valley Nut and Candy Company is part of what they shamelessly call “the most beautiful gas station in the world!”  Well, not quite, but I’m not going to argue with them.

    Near the end of the 19^th century, Montillus Murray “Old Man” Beatty settled on a ranch in the area.  He had a Pauite wife and not much else.  Beatty was crazy about heat and liked to camp in Death Valley in the middle of the summer, therefore underline the word crazy.  The ranch he owned had plenty of water and it expanded into an oasis where travelers stopped to rest as they made their way from Las Vegas to Goldfield.  The town simply grew up around the oasis.  Montillus became the first postmaster and the town was named in his honor.  In 1905, the Bullfrog Mining District was in full swing and Beatty became a central supply hub, with three railroads serving the mining district during the boom years.  The townspeople considered themselves the “Chicago of the West.”  As has happened frequently in mineral rich Nevada, the boom didn’t last forever.  Consequently, Beatty stopped comparing itself to Chicago.  So much for hubris 

    There are three things about Beatty I don’t like: it’s sweltering in the summer with temperatures reaching well over 110^o, probably the “hottest” town in Nevada; it’s very close to the Air Force’s Tonopah Test Range and you never know what might stray from the target; and then there’s that big hole in the earth they’ve dug in Yucca Mountain, a site they’re still arguing about, which might possibly store atomic waste.  Well, the mountain's practically next door.  So, I doubt I’ll be moving to Beatty any time soon, but I do like to stop and buy a bag of penny candy from time to time.

Devils Tower

In the rolling Black Hills of Wyoming twenty-eight miles from Sundance a tall rock monolith rises 1267 ft. It's Devils Tower.

According to six tribes of Plains Indians: the Arapaho, Crow, Lakota, Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Shoshone, it's a giant rock steeped in legends and considered a holy place.


According to some of the Indians, it’s called Mato Tapila (Bear Lodge).

According to geologists, its origin is still a mystery and a source of debate.


According to rockhounds, it's made up of phonolite porphyry.

According to Teddy Roosevelt, it’s the first National Monument (1906).

According to the proclamation signed by Roosevelt, its apostrophe was omitted and the misspelling was never corrected.

According to publicity hound George Hopkins, its top was a place to which he parachuted (1941).

According to a geometry teacher, its columns are three-dimensional polygons made up of 4, 5, 6, or 7 sides.

According to thousands of climbers, it's a challenge.

According to a poet, it’s a mighty oak stump turned to stone.

According to Hollywood, it's the place where the world had an encounter of a third kind and Richard Dreyfuss boarded a giant mother ship.

And according to Sam Hipkins, it’s a wondrous thing, kind of like the Devil’s Postpone at Mammoth Lakes, but a whole lot more dramatic.

Ward Charcoal Ovens

Many years ago, I drove up Wildrose Canyon (Death Valley) and photographed the ten charcoal kilns. When I found out there are many sites like that in Nevada, I had to investigate. Well, it so happens the Ward Charcoal Ovens, the best-preserved ovens in Nevada, are just fifteen miles south of Ely, a place I head for every March. It turns out the six parabolic shaped ovens are just like the ones in Wildrose Canyon. Call them kilns or call them ovens they still do the same job. And as far as I’m concerned, they’re masonry masterpieces.

Parabolic is just a fancy way of saying beehive. Swiss-Italian masons called “Carbonari” built the Ward Charcoal Ovens in the late 1800’s. And that is why they look so good, he says with just a hint of Italian national pride.

Long before these ovens were built someone discovered that if wood is burned slowly in an oxygen-starved environment, the end result is charcoal. Place thirty-five cords of wood, in this case pinion and juniper pine which grew in abundance nearby, into each oven, heat the wood sufficiently for about twelve days, and the ovens will do their magic, which is called pyrolysis, the chemical decomposition of condensed organic substances by heating. I like calling it magic better. Vents located at the bottom of each oven were used to regulate the temperature inside. The beehive shape allowed heat to be reflected back onto the wood as it slowly cooked, thus making the whole process more efficient. The heat removes water from the wood, leaving behind blackish chunks...voila, charcoal.

What did they do with the charcoal? One way to separate silver from ore is to heat the ore with none other than, everyone say it together......charcoal. I wondered why charcoal, why not burn plain old wood? Well, it seems charcoal burns hotter and cleaner than wood and it heats the ore at just the right temperature. Smelting by this method is technically called pyrometallurgy and it happens to be the oldest extractive process.

These ovens were an important supplier to the various mines in the area. Eventually coke from coal was substituted for the charcoal, so the ovens closed somewhere around 1879. But new and more enterprising, and in some cases nefarious uses were devised for the ovens. They sheltered stockmen and prospectors during nasty weather and had the reputation as a hideout for stagecoach banditos. I’m happy to report I didn’t find any bandits hiding out the day I was there.

Hope Valley

I know precisely where I want to spend eternity, not in a crypt in some cold, dank mausoleum or in a fancy urn on the mantle or even six-feet underground.  I want my ashes spread under a grove of aspens on a gentle slope overlooking Hope Valley, located on the Carson Pass (Highway 88) about thirty minutes from Lake Tahoe.  Note: The second picture shows the aspen grove.

    I have always considered a mountain meadow to be one of the most beautiful sights in the entire natural world.  Hope Valley is not technically a meadow, it’s more accurate to refer to it as a subalpine valley, but nevertheless I prefer to call it a meadow, so there.  It may be not as majestic as that famous valley east of Fresno, but Hope has all the natural ingredients I love; the glorious aspens, a rich grassy bottom, a meandering stream, and snow capped mountains all around.  What could be better?

    A bit of history...In 1844 none other than those two famous adventurers, John C. Fremont and Kit Carson made the first winter crossing of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.  It appears they must have slogged their way through Hope Valley attempting to find a pass across the Sierra, which wound up being just a little south of the route Highway 88 takes today.  On top of that, the intrepid Norwegian skier, Snowshoe Thompson, traversed Hope Valley in 1856 as he delivered mail to the other side of the Sierra.

    In the spring and early summer Hope Valley is all green and lush and the mountains still have snow on them.  Long about October, the aspens do their thing.  They’re ablaze in yellow, orange and even red, while the meadow turns a tawny color.  In the winter all is covered in a blanket of snow.

    I was there this past October and as you can see in the first picture there is still a thin layer of snow on what must be north-facing slopes.  I ambled out into the meadow, visited the stream, saw a beaver’s dam and soon a sublime peacefulness enveloped me.  I walked over to the aspens and sat amongst them on one of the many boulders.  Up above the ridge a half moon set.  It all felt so marvelously comfortable, so perfect.  And you know what, for me it just doesn’t get much better than that.

Jerome, Arizona

Jerome, Arizona located southwest of Sedona was once a rich mining town where miners carved, dynamited and carted away millions of tons of earth from the surrounding mountains. Mainly it was copper that they were after. The first miners attracted to the area came there during prehistoric times and they were after colored stones. Later on the Spanish searched for gold, but only found copper and they moved on. It wasn’t until 1876 that the first mining claims were filed. Then Jerome quickly went from a tent city to a prosperous company town. It was built on the side a mountain they called Cleopatra. Jerome became a wild, wide-open town, notorious for its prostitution, gambling and vice. It was Jerome’s mixture of ethnic groups, American, Mexican, Croatian, Irish, Spanish, Italian and Chinese, that added a rich flavor to the excitement of its early days. The New York Sun called it “the wickedest town in the West.”
    Jerome was the talk of the Arizona Territory. It made millionaires out of promoters and investors. At first burro pack trains and freight wagons pulled by mules and horses carried supplies in and the copper out. Later, steam engines and trucks replaced them. Fires swept through the boomtown, destroying large sections, but always Jerome was rebuilt. Sometime in the early 1950s, all the mines closed after producing well over a billion dollars in copper, gold, silver, and zinc. The town went from a peek population of 15,000 to a mere 50 people.

    As we drove around, I noticed that many of the buildings cling desperately to Cleopatra Hill and a few of them have actually slid off their foundations. You would too if you were sitting on the 30-degree slope. Gravity and aging is a constant companion in this “village on the move,” (pun intended).
    In 1967 Jerome was designated a Historic District, and a National Historic Landmark in 1976. Today the funky little village is alive, attracting a steady flow of tourists. It’s a place where one can buy works of art and pottery in the more than thirty galleries and working studios and where two travelers from Capitola had a nice lunch, while clinging to a 30-degree slope.