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.

Q

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.

Q

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.

Q

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