Pigeon Point

While we still owed a fifth wheel (trailer), we often drove up the coast and park near the Pigeon Point Lighthouse.  The site was frequented by boondocking RVers.  Boondocking is a term used amongst RVers and it means...free camping.  You pull off the road and spend the night in a place where it’s legal to do so, or in a spot where no one really cares.  At Pigeon Point we could park at the edge of the surf under the light from the lighthouse and no one complained.  It was absolutely glorious.  We’d basked in the sun, watch fifty different species of birds hunt for their food in the tide pools, read or just sit and stare out into the ocean.  After enjoying the day, we were lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves.  And then there was the lighthouse itself.  There is something wonderful about lighthouses.  They remind us of the early days of sailing ships and those romantic, adventurous times, of Captain Ahab, pirates, whalers and Long John Silver.  Lighthouses are very much a part of our heritage.  And let us not forget that they are amazing feats of engineering and architectural design, making them both efficient and beautiful.

    Pigeon Point Lighthouse has a rich history, as do most of the lights along the West Coast.  The area was originally named Whale Point because of the migrating grey whales that pass by each year.  In 1853, the clipper ship “Carrier Pigeon” was shipwrecked on the rocks just off the point and so the name was changed.  Three more major wrecks followed, which resulted in the building of the light station in 1870.  Pigeon Point light has the distinction of being one of the tallest lights in the US and still in operation.

    The wedge of land we camped on was across the frontage road from a field of Brussels sprouts.  When the farmer picked his crop, there were always some left behind.  I remember culling some of those leftovers to augment a night’s meal.

    It was exciting to be there when the Pacific storms churned up the water and pounding waves beat against the rocks.  The wind howled and the trailer shook.  It was fine as long as the shaking wasn’t too violent.  We’d just lie there and sleep a little, awaken, snuggle down deeper in the covers, go back to sleep, repeating the whole process ever hour or so.  One particular storm got so bad that we were sure that at any moment the trailer was going to topple over after being hit by what must have been gale force winds.  During that particular storm, we were forced to abandon the site in the middle of the night.  At about 4 am we pulled up stakes and headed inland.

    At another time, my sister, Linda, my sister’s husband and I filled garbage bags with trash left there by careless fools.  We harvested the surroundings, filling up the back of my long bed truck with a dozen or more bags and hauling them to the nearest dumpster.  It was pathetic what some people left behind:  a junk car body, assorted cartons, tin cans, dirty baby diapers and even a pathetic litter of kittens too wild to get near.  Well, finally the day of reckoning arrived.  It was inevitable that someone would complain about freeloaders who were staying on what must have been private property and then as thanks leaving garbage behind.  One evening while we were eating dinner, there was a knock on the door.  It was a Highway Patrolman who politely told us to vacate the premises, which we did.  On the way out of the site while maneuvering over a berm, I misjudged and the trailer hit the rails of the truck and bent them badly.  I guess you could say that was our “punishment” for freeloading on the land.  That bit of bad luck cost several hundred dollars.

    At about the same time, the light station was being transformed into a hostel with lodging for 50 people.  It was never clear to me who actually made the complaint about the boondockers.  Was it the farmer or Hostelling International?  There was a report that the farmer wanted to transform the property into a regular RV park, but the Coastal Commission squashed the plan.  In any regard, I think making the area off limits to boondocking was probably the right thing to do.   Soon after our eviction, signs were posted prohibiting any further camping and the hostel transformation was scaled down.  Our days of boondocking at Pigeon Point were over, but definitely not forgotten.

Q

Scotty's Castle

One of the most famous California conman was one Walter E. Scott, better known as Death Valley Scotty.  During his multi-level career, Scott worked as a surveyor, a stunt rider in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, a fencer of stolen high-grade ore, holder of a cross-country speed record for train travel, an actor appearing in a play about himself, and a prospector, who duped more that one wealthy millionaire. 

    Scotty convinced one of Chicago’s millionaires to invest in a gold mine; a mine that of course had no gold.  The millionaire was persuaded to come out West and Scotty showed him around Death Valley, but never once took him near any gold mine. The millionaire really enjoyed the trip, breathing clean air, exercising and laughing at Scotty’s many jokes, so he forgave Scotty for his scheming ways and they became great friends.  On a later trip the millionaire brought his wife along.  She took to Scotty right off and eventually gave him all the credit for her husband’s improved health.  As a result, she encouraged her husband to build a vacation home in Death Valley, one that Scotty could also use.  So in 1927, the millionaire began construction on a million dollar Spanish style mansion.  Work continued off and on for the next four years.  It wasn’t a castle and it didn’t belong to Scotty, but that didn’t stop it from becoming known as Scotty’s Castle, even though the sign at the mansion’s entrance read “Death Valley Ranch.”  Of course Scotty proclaimed that he had financed and built the castle for himself and the millionaire allowed him to get away with the lie.  Actually, Scotty rarely stayed in the mansion; he preferred a bungalow down the road a ways, but he showed up frequently at the millionaire’s dinner parties and regaled the guests with tall tells about his life and about his prosperous phony bologna gold mine.  The millionaire just shrugged his shoulders and regarded it all as harmless fun.  Along about 1935, the millionaire ran into financial problems when his company went into bankruptcy.  He had to cut his losses, so he willed the mansion to a religious organization, but with the stipulation that Scotty could spend the rest of his days living there.  And Scotty did just that.  Up until his death in 1954, he was in residence entertaining paying guests.  He is buried with his dog Windy on a hill overlooking “his” castle.

Note:  The second picture shows part of the enormous swimming pool.  Those three windows are underwater viewing ports.  

Q

Belmont, Nevada

I stood in the middle, right smack in the middle, of the main street of town.  No traffic.  No shoppers.  No sounds.  Once 4,000 people called it home.  Once the mountains teemed with barrel-chested miners blasting and gouging for silver ore.  Once children played amongst the sage.  Once kerosene lanterns burned in the many cabin windows.  Once it was the county seat.  Now, all that remains are a few hardy souls, and the wind whistling through the sage in Belmont, Nevada.

    I had left Tonopah early that morning and ambled my way along U.S. Hwy. 6, passing the back entrance to Nellis Air Force Range, then making a left turn onto State Highway 376, and then several more miles, a right turn onto a small no name road, which eventually became a dirt washboard.  There are two ways to travel washboards, either very slowly feeling every bump, or quickly riding the tops of them, which actually smoothes them out somewhat.  As I sped along, a staccato of knives, cups, and plates rattled in the cupboards.  The road winds its way between two ranges of mountains, the Monitors on the right and the Toquimas on the left.  I traveled alone for the entire seventeen miles, no oncoming cars in sight, just my brown Vanagon kicking up a dusty “contrail” in the desert.  But I noticed in my rearview mirror that there was another dust cloud moving down the roadway way back there.

    I pulled into Belmont and had barely begun my investigation when that other dust cloud arrived.  Darned if it wasn’t the UPS.  I asked the driver, “What’s UPS doing driving so far into nowhere?  There can’t be enough people out here to make it worthwhile.”  His answer was classic and should be a company slogan, “You got an address, we deliver.”

    I left “The Big Brown Machine” to do its job, while I went off to do mine. 

    I couldn’t help but notice the tall cottonwoods growing alongside a spring fed channel, which flowed in front of several houses. The cottonwoods are a sharp contrast to the sage and scrub pine, which dot the surrounding landscape.  Nearby was what must have been the main street, a collection of brick and wood ruins...Belmont’s past glory.  Beyond the cottonwoods stood a building left reasonably intact from those early days.  It’s the imposing two-story brick courthouse now preserved and safeguarded from “ghost town raiders.”  I spent several hours just roaming around making pictures.  I enjoyed this first visit so much so that I’ve gone back there several times.

    Go there today and you’ll find that the road has been paved...darn!  You’ll also find a handful of people still living in this not-quite-a-ghost town. There are few amenities, no phones, no stores, and no gas.  A few new houses and some old ones sit alongside some of the abandoned ones.  At the end of the main street, sits a B&B.  It is opened all year round. 

    A word of caution, be careful poking around the skeletons of the old town, because the residents protect them with a passion.  Look, but don’t touch.  And there is plenty to look at in this picturesque hidden gem with a silver history.

Q

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

White Mountains of California

When I tell people about the White Mountains of California, they usually give me a puzzled look and respond, “Never heard of them, where are they?”  “Well, you go down 395 to Big Pine and turn left.”  “Where’s Big Pine?”

    Ok, get out your California map.  Find Bishop.  It’s almost to the Nevada border on a straight line from Santa Clara and the Bay Area.   Bishop sits in a huge caldera called Owens Valley.  On the western side you have the majestic Sierra Nevada Range and on the eastern side, there’s the White Mountains.  So, if you didn’t know where they were before, you should know now.

    I began going to this mystical mountain range when a friend and I attended a UCSC Extension photography workshop in 1996, held at Crooked Creek Station. 

   We left my house bright and early and headed over the Sierra and then gassed up in Big Pine.  Turning off 395 we started climbing up the Westgard Pass and I mean “up” literally.  There’s a difference of 6,000’ between Big Pine and our destination.   We arrived at the sign announcing the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, turned in and climbed some more.  At Schulman Grove, the pavement ended and a jarring rut filled dirt road began.  Occasionally my friend had to swerve to miss what looked to be sharp pointed rocks.  As we bounced along, I began wondering if we hadn’t made a serious mistake.  I thought, “This can’t be good, we’re going to get a flat, and if that doesn’t happen there’s a good chance a rock will fly up and punch a hole in the oil pan.  Were doomed.”  Nothing bad happened and finally nine miles later, we turned off the main road, came around a bend, crested a small hill and there they were: log buildings (!!) clustered together at 10,150 feet and nestled in a beautiful remote valley and looking so out of place.  I was completely blown away (more about those buildings later). 

   Who would have thought that out of this trip, I would go back over and over again, not as a participant in a workshop, but as one of the instructor’s assistants?

Landscape...The White Mountains have a rich mixture of scenery.  There is the land above timberline that is like a moonscape.  There are the lovely forests of bristlecone and limber pine.  There are the fertile areas where aspen grow.  There are the rugged outcroppings of shale, granite and dolomite.  And there are the several places where cattle graze. 

   And speaking of cattle, while at Crooked Creek, it was not uncommon to see cowboys pushing a herd of cattle pass the station.  They were probably heading up from Deep Springs Cow Camp.  We went down there often to photograph.  The bull skull hangs over the door of one of the cowboy huts and the outhouse is located in the middle of granite rocks.   In the picture below, there's a corral in amongst those rocks where the cowboys park their horses while they're at the camp.

Climate...  Most of the time the air is pretty dry, so dry that a ringing wet cloth will dry out in a couple hours.  In fact on a typical summer day the amount of precipitous moisture in the air is lower than any other place on earth.  That’s hard to believe, but apparently it’s true.  The water that does fall on the Whites comes in the winter as snow.  The Sierra Nevada, the next-door neighbor, causes the dry conditions.  That range steals most of the moisture before it ever gets to the Whites.  However the range is not entirely dry, there are some places where springs flow and trees like the aspen grow.

Speaking of Trees...I have four favorites: aspen, cottonwood, mountain mahogany, and bristlecone pine.  Three of the four can be found in the Whites.

Picture #1  Bristlecone pine... The combination of dry climate, the altitude and outcroppings of dolomite make for ideal conditions for the beautiful, ancient bristlecone pines that have been growing in these mountains for thousands of years.  That’s right.  The oldest one, called “Methuselah,” is over 4800 years old.  The U.S. Forest Service keeps its location a secret, fearing that some vandal might do harm to it.

Picture #2  Aspen... At all times of the year there is magic in the aspen.  The green leaves twist and turn in the breeze making them “flash,” which gives rise to their name, “quaking aspen.”  Then in the autumn the trees do their magic and the leaves turn gold, red or amber and when they’re backlight, they glow.  The leaves all by themselves are wonderful, but there’s something about that white bark that puts a crowning touch on these beauties.

Picture #3  Mountain mahogany...If you’re looking for hard wood it doesn’t get much harder that the wood from these trees.  Cut through a large branch and look at the ends.  The wood is so dense that it’s almost impossible to detect any grain.  It looks like chocolate fudge.

White Mountain Research Station (WMRS)... For over 60 years WMRS has used the White Mountains as an ideal place for scientific research, such as high altitude effects on human physiology.   WMRS is actually a group of facilities.  They are part of the University of California-wide network of field stations.  Under the aegis of the university, laboratories were established at elevation 10,150’ (Crooked Creek Station), 12,470’ (Barcoft Station), 14,250’ (Summit Laboratory) and a base station in Bishop (4,050’), the biggest city in Owens Valley.  At these stations scientists conduct field studies in botany, physiology, biology, and whole bunch of other ologies.

Crooked Creek Station...The station’s history began with the U.S. Navy.  In 1948, the Navy built a small frame building and began conducting classified and unclassified research in such areas as; astronomy, atmospheric physics, cosmic rays, and the field testing of heat seeking missiles.  Two years later the Navy finished their research and agreed to transfer the facility to UC.  In addition to scientific research, UC allows educational groups to use the facility.

   Crooked Creek has been my summer home-away-from-home for fifteen trips.  I went there knowing about the scientific research, so I naturally thought, “The facilities probably have drafty old buildings that smell like high school chemistry labs.”  Well, they’re far from that.  The history of these buildings is one where Yankee ingenuity, luck, and a whole lot of sweat came together.  One of the directors happened to be in downtown Los Angeles when the city was about to tear down a hamburger stand and a small office building.  The director jumped in, bargained with the city and instead of blowing them up, he arranged to have them dismantled and truck up to Crooked Creek.  No easy job!  They were reassembled and today serve at the core of the facility.  They are the two story buildings in the picture seen above.  Over time other buildings have been added that serve as labs and dormitories. 

(Note: Here’s one of our groups hard at work on a photography exercise.)

Campito...There is a wild horse that spends the summer near Crooked Creek.  At one time there was two of them, but many years ago the wild horse’s companion disappeared.  It’s unusual for a horse, a herd animal, to live a solitary life, but it seems this one is a devout bachelor, or perhaps a maverick rogue stallion who was driven out of the herd by an alpha male.  That’s a little on the dramatic side, but I guess it’s possible.  He’s been christened “Campito,” which is the name of a nearby mountain peak.  My colleagues who have taught at Crooked Creek for years told me of their encounters with this lone stallion, so it was with great anticipation that I awaited my turn.  That came when I spotted him one day in his favorite spot, a meadow at the base of Campito Peak.  He was quietly chomping grass that grows between the sagebrush.  I parked my truck and the moment I stepped into his meadow, he never took his eyes off me.  I got just as close to him as he would allow.  With my every step he’d moved farther away.  It became obvious Campito had played this game before.  He finally grew tired of it and with what I imagined to be disgust, Campito tossed his head and galloped off.  Being a loner must agree with him because he looked very healthy.  In 2008 his age was estimated to be somewhere around 15 years.  I haven’t been back since 2008 and I can’t help thinking that Campito has died or perhaps he’s too old to climb the mountain from his winter home somewhere at lower elevation.  In any case, it was a privilege to have known him and the White Mountain experience won’t be quite the same without him.

Conclusion...I’ve come to look upon my trips to the Whites as pilgrimages.  To be there is a profound experience.  When I sit on a rock and listen to the silence, or walk among the ancient bristlecone pine, that grow under such harsh conditions, or view the majestic snowcapped Sierra Crest on the other side of Owens Valley, I marvel at the awesome power that created these mountains and those trees and I am dumbfounded by it all.

Q

Rhyolite Ghost Town

Outside the eastern boundary of Death Valley and nine miles west of Beatty, Nevada sits a ghost town that has appeared in eight movies, two newsreels, three travelogues, one music video and one documentary. Pick up any Nevada oriented magazine and you’ll more than likely find pictures of the “skeletons” of what was once a thriving mining town.  Rhyolite is probably the best known and most photographed ghost town in Nevada.  But even so, it’s a place about which only a few people outside of Nevada know.   

    Because it’s tucked back in between mountains, it’s not visible from the highway.  If you’ve driven from Death Valley to Beatty, or the other way round and you are a heavy-footed driver, you’ve probably whizzed on by and never knew that you missed a wonderful ghost town.

    The first time I visited Rhyolite it was while on a vacation trip in 1990.  We were camped out in Death Valley and the friends we were traveling with suggested we go see the old ghost town.  Since that time, I’ve gone back for an encore several times.  Its history is typical of many boomtowns...rags to riches to rags.  The rise to glory was quick and the descent into the history books even quicker, but it didn’t go down without a fight.

    The year was 1904 when two men, Shorty Harris and Eddie Cross discovered gold in the area.  Their Bullfrog Mine and Charles M. Schwab’s Montgomery Shoshone Mine brought several thousand people into what was first a gathering of tents and makeshift huts. The site spread itself out along an alluvial plain between two mountain ranges, not far from the original gold strike.  It wasn’t long before a thriving town emerged, gaining its name from the rocks that contained the gold.  At its height an estimated 10,000 people lived within the town limits.  It was heralded as “the town that would last.”  By 1907, it had electricity and the future looked rosy and then along came the financial crisis known as the “Panic of 1907” and as quickly as it rose, Rhyolite began to fall.

    The diehards refused to give up, hoping for a new boom, but unfortunately it never happened and the downward slide continued.  The population eventually shrunk to under 700.   In 1916 the power was turned off.  Three years later the post office closed and most of the folks left, leaving only a few holdouts, but even they finally gave up.  In 1924 Rhyolite, the town built to last, was left alone to wither in the hot desert sun and with the help of vandals it eroded to it present state, a mixture of “skeletons,” a fenced off depot and shacks loosing their battle with gravity.

    Even though Rhyolite lost its battle, modern technology helped to keep the search for gold alive.  From 1991 until 2001 the (new) Bullfrog Mine was in full operation, extracting gold that the previous miners had missed, most of it microscopic and located in the tailings.  There was enough gold left behind to produce over 2,000,000 ounces.  Even that petered out and the last time I was there the Bullfrog had closed and the building were torn down and carted away.

    Driving into Rhyolite it would be almost impossible to miss a rather bizarre display of statuary.  Belgian artist Albert Szukalski along with a business partner owned a small piece of property on the outskirts of the ghost town.  In 1984 he opened what he called the Gold Well Open Air Museum on his land.  Then he and a small band of artists created weird and wonderful sculptures.  There’s a version of  “the Last Supper,” a “Ghost Rider” preparing to ride his bicycle, a miner and his penguin, a mosaic couch and several others.  Some have called the work offensive and others have laughed at such an unkind criticism.  As for me, I am not offended and they do make me smile.  But most of all they’re fun to photograph.

    Finally, you can’t write about Rhyolite without mentioning the bottle house.  I’m not going to say much about it here.  Go to Google and type in "bottle house rhyolite" and see for yourself.  The first hit has a lot a information and the second one is fun to watch.

Q

Calistoga, California

When you’re driving a nineteen-ton, 30-foot motor home, it’s always a little nerve racking if you don’t know the road.  Several years ago, we turned off I-5 at Williams and headed for Calistoga down roads that seemed fine on the map, but turned out to be not so fine.  The last part was a steep, no shoulder, very curvy descent that had Linda nervous and me sweating, but we made it, even it was Friday the 13^th. 

    Calistoga is one of our favorite motorhome sleep over places.  You can find us most mornings at the Café Sarafornia.  It a friendly place, where the servers and the manager are actually glad to see you.  We usually sit at the counter and strike up a conversation with the people sitting next to us.  The counter is also a good place to encounter the “local characters.”   On one occasion, the little old lady next to me seemed a bit addlepated and way too occupied to talk to me.  She spent most of the time making weird sounds and talking gibberish to invisible people.  At one point while I was looking at a pamphlet she announced to me, “I want to see that.”  Before I could hand it to her, she grabbed it away from me.  Three minutes later she tossed it back, and once again made the strange jerking motions, fidgeted with a pile of newspapers and barked words at no one in particular.  At first I was amused by her antics and then feeling ashamed of myself, I felt sorry for this grandma who had obviously gone “over the top.”

    Speaking of being addlepated, sometimes people who have had one two many can also get a little confused.  That may have been the problem with a Calistoga’s pioneer, one Sam Brannan, a rich San Francisco businessman, who named the town.  He was fascinated by the area’s natural hot springs, so he reached into his back pocket and bought 2,000 acres in order to develop a spa.  He wanted to make it just like the famous spas in Saratoga, New York.  Legend has it that one night after throwing back a few too many, Sam declared, “I will make this place the Calistoga of Sarafornia.”  The name stuck and now you know how the town and our favorite café got their names.  Some historians, not buying into the legend, insist the name was more a calculation by shrewd Sam Brannan, than it was spontaneous.

    Our time in Calistoga always has been well spent.  We love going there, parking the motor home at the fair grounds, having breakfast at Sarafornia’s, walking the main street, sipping wine at the many wineries, eating dinner out and just enjoying the RV life.  Would I ever consider moving to Calistoga?  You betcha!  But like all things, the thrill of wanting something is often dulled when you finally actually have it, so maybe it’s best that it remains just a dream.

    P.S.  Does anyone know anything about this colorful breed of cow?  Strange, the whole time I was photographing it, it never moved.

Q

Caliente, Nevada, once a railroad company town

The locals speak Caliente as (cally ANT ee).  So when in Caliente, Nevada do as the Calientans do. 

    It began as a railroad company town.  In 1905, the copper king, William Clark ordered a town to be laid out somewhere along the railroad line he had established connecting Los Angeles and Salt Lake City.  The site had to have plenty of water, not only for the town, but also for the trains.  They chose a site located near Rainbow Canyon, which afforded a perfect route through the mountains to Utah and there was plenty of water in the canyon.  Because the site was also near hot springs, it was named Calientes, which is a variation of the Spanish verb to heat.  Later on the “s” was dropped.

    Arriving in town I drove pass a line of “company row” houses.  Across the street from them stood my kind of funky motel, so I rented a room.  The motel was operated by a kindly, little old lady with long, stringy, white hair, who reminded me of Gravel Gertie, BO Plenty’s wife, minus the bulging eyes.  Those of you who followed the old Dick Tracy cartoon will know just exactly how she looked.  I’ve included a picture of my room, complete with a bedspread I suspect “Gertie” made.     

    I proceeded to make the obligatory photographs of the often-photographed railroad station, which is a lovely mission-style building.  With a broad open space out in front, the station is prominently located, making it the focal point of the town.  The bottom floor was once the station offices, ticket booth and passenger waiting room and the second floor was a hotel.  But that was back in the days when travel by train was the thing to do.  Today it’s houses the city hall, a library and an art gallery.

    Caliente takes on an extra special meaning for me, because it was while drinking a beer in the local saloon, I met the mult-tattooed Talen, who was fresh out of jail after having served an eight year sentence.  He had an engaging personality and we spent a great deal of time in conversation.  He told me what he did that cause him to do time.  It was a bar fight.  If that wasn't bad enough, the other man turned out to be a plain-clothed deputy sheriff.  I suspected that there was more to the story, you don't get eight years for a simple bar fight.  I didn't press him for the details.  He simply said, "He started it and I finished it."  Now he was thumbing his way to Moab in hopes a getting reacquainted with his son who had recently turned eighteen.  "I left him when he was a boy and now that he's a man I don't know how he'll react to his jailbird dad."  His was a heartfelt story of a life gone wrong and of a man not sure of his future.

    And finally this, I have read claims that Caliente was Zane Grey’s favorite place in which to write and that Butch Cassidy once hid out there.  Well, don’t believe everything you read on a website, because according to the Nevada State Archivist, there’s no truth to either claim.

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Rogue River Jet Boat Ride

If you’re ever in Gold Beach, Oregon do yourself a favor and take a jet boat ride on the Rogue River.  We rode on the Blossom Bar; a sleek affair equipped with twin V-8 engines producing 1200 horsepower, capable of 30 mph and needing only 7 inches of draft.  The engines provide power to pumps that draw in water near the bow, compress it, and then forced it out the stern…voila, for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction and away she goes.

    On the day of our ride there were two crewmembers: Jeff, the driver and his yellow Lab, Sadie.  Jeff engaged the throttle, Sadie braced herself, and with that we went skimming across the water.

    I’ve ridden in normal powerboats before.  When you encounter an object that blocks your way, you simply turn the wheel and go around it.  Jeff had a different technique.  A large rock loomed up in the middle of the river and we continued to head straight for it.  At the last minute, Jeff turned the wheel, adjusted the engines and the boat, with a great sure-footedness, simple side-slipped past the rock, all the time still facing the rock.  Another turn of the wheel and we were back on a straight line.

    So as not to cause a wake that would seriously rock passing boats and at the same time not have to slow down, Jeff put the boat into a fast sideslip, which sent most of the wake away from the other crafts.  “Think of the jet boat as a ski,” Jeff said.  “When you turn on water skis, the wake goes out the side.”  Jeff used the maneuver effectively going upstream, but going down stream, he simply eased back on the throttle.

   But that wasn’t all Jeff had in his bag of tricks.  There were two other maneuvers that got our adrenalin rushing, the “quick stop” and the “pirouette.”  The quick stop is just what the name implies accomplished when Jeff reversed the engines.  Down went the bow, up went a wall of water forward of the boat and in an instant we were at a complete stop.  But the greatest thrill was the pirouette.  At cruising speed Jeff warned us and then caused the Blossom Bar to do a 360.  In the tight turn the boat spun as a huge wave came up over the bow soaking all, especially those up front.

    It was funny, when we first left the dock and hit the open water and Jeff made those fancy maneuvers, people hung on for dear life, wives reached for their husbands and husbands reached for anything they could hang onto.  But by the time we had done a few, everyone felt like “old salts.”  Nobody reached for anything!  We cheered and whooped instead.  Ok, so Jeff was a bit of a show off, but he made that ride a whole bunch of fun.

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Death Valley 2005

The spring of 2005 in Death Valley was memorable.   I traveled there, along with three fellow photographers, simply to look at flowers.  Flowers in Death Valley!!?  You betcha!  It was one of those blooms that comes along only when conditions are absolutely perfect and that's why it’s called a hundred year bloom, which is more of a description of the rarity than a strict adherence to the calendar.

    In the valley seeds lay dormant in soil that can reach temperatures of 190 degrees.  Indeed, this is the hottest place in North America, and one of the hottest in the world.  The seeds patiently rest waiting for the right moment.  That moment came in 2005.  Back in November of 2004 the hot winds of autumn turned cold in the valley.  It snowed before Thanksgiving.  Then the skies opened up and it rain for the rest of the winter.  That record-breaking rainfall of 6-1/2 inches set the stage for a truly amazing show.  That amount of rain may seem like not a big deal, but it takes on a different meaning when one considers that the average rainfall in the Death Valley is only a little over 1-1/2 inches, which means it hardly ever rains there.  

    When we arrived at Stovepipe Wells, the show was in full swing.  We quickly set up camp and drove to a good vantage point, parked alongside the road and while I remained in my truck, the others walked out into a sea of yellow desert gold sunflowers.  They are by far the most abundant flower in the valley.  I sat there thunderstruck, admiring the way the sunflowers changed the color of the Black Mountains.  But it would have been impossible to see the extent of the bloom in the comfort of my truck, so I got out and stood in the midst of all that yellow.  At my feet were tiny flowers lost to distant viewers.  They ranged through all the colors of the rainbow.  Some were as small as my fingertips.  Most of them are rarely seen, but their seeds were there all the time, just waiting for the right moment.  I don’t know the names of most of what I saw and at the time it really wasn’t important for me to be on a first name basis with them.  It was enough just to bask in their glory.

     It has been reported that more than 1,000 native plant species grow within the boundaries of Death Valley National Park.  I’m sure that most of them were showing their stuff that spring in 2005.  It was an occurrence of such rarity that it has been called “the bloom of the century.”  I only wish I could stick around to see if that holds true.

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