Scot's Shady Court

Every year during March I go on what I call My Walkabout.  It’s off first to Winnemucca and Shooting the West, an unfortunate title for a symposium, especially one conducted in the Wild West where most trucks come equipped with gun racks and some of the folks may be packing heat.  Nevertheless it’s a fantastic opportunity to listen to the luminaries of the photography world and to renew friendships with a bunch of truly nice people from all over the West, as far away as Illinois. 

I always stay at Scott’s Shady Court Motel, a throwback to a much earlier time.  Well, let’s face it so am I.  I love these funky relics and search them out wherever I travel.  The funkier the better.   Just as long as the linen and towels are clean, the rug reasonably stain free, and the bathroom scrubbed I’m happy.  I don’t even mind that Shady Court has no artwork on the walls.  Tis better to have no art then some of the stuff you see in motels.  The rooms are small, about the smallest you’ll find on the open road.  How small are they?  So small you have to step outside just to change your mind.   Ah, but there’s a swimming pool.  It’s indoor, which means winter or summer and all the times in between swimming’s a possibility.  Don’t expect a continental breakfast, instead Louise, the owner, has a large jar of penny candy on the front desk.  It’s a mystery to me how heat is delivered to the rooms.  I have yet to find any controls and vents are not apparent.  Luckily I like to sleep on the cool side.  Run the hot water in the shower a few minutes and the bathroom heats up.  The picture is from a few years ago when I was assigned to Room 58, Santa Catalina.

The motel got its start in the early 1930s.  It was used to house not only travelers, but World Progress Administration (WPA) workers as well.  The dual purpose continues today; it's not uncommon to find seasonal workers in residence alongside the weary I-80 traveler.

I made a survey of reviews posted on the web....7 travelers gave the motel 5 stars, 7-4 stars, 2-3 stars, 4-2 stars and one 1 star.   That averages out to 3.7 stars, which is pretty good for a funky motel.  One person summed up their stay this way. “I rather sleep in my car.  What a dump.”  Another said, “...stayed at this place 8 times, it’s perfect for people who like charming rooms with really cool 1960s furniture.”  Isn’t it amazing how opinions differ.  And then there was this, “We might stay there again if we absolutely must, but we hope to not have to return to Winnemucca for anything.”  Now that’s gone too far.  It’s one thing to run down the Shady Court, but when you malign Winnemucca, them’s fighting words.

And that’s the way it is at Shady Court.

Oh, there’s been a FOR SALE sign out front for the past few years.  No one seems to want to take on this millstone of a motel.  I can understand why, there’s a whole lot of deferred maintenance that would reach deep into a new owner’s pockets.  A friend tells me that he thinks whoever buys it will tear it down.  I hope not.  Would be a shame to lose this link to a time when the roads where less crowded and a cheap motel room cost under $5.

PS...If you go to http://www.rdmenzies.com/blog you can read my good friend Richard Menzies report on Shady Court.

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Sheep Ranch

Many years ago I attended a photography workshop in Sheep Ranch located in the Sierra foothills, not far from the historic town of Murphys.  I turned off State Route 4, the Ebbetts Pass National Scenic Byway, and headed into the center of Murphys and was surprised by the change.  I used to come to Murphys in the old days when it was just a tired out reminder of a time when people rushed in for gold.  It always appeared to be barely alive, but in recent years it has had a new birth and is now called the “Queen of the Sierra, One of the Ten Coolest Small Towns in America.”

   I drove down the main street passed boutiques, gift shops, cafes and wineries searching for Sheep Ranch Road.  The first time through, I passed right by it; I thought it was an alley. The road was narrow and wound its way up, over and around many mountains.  These mountains showed the scars of a recent devastating fire.  The Mother Lode country has had a long tradition of burning out its inhabitants, but still they come.

   Sheep Ranch got its name because of the sheep corrals that surrounded it.  In 1860, the place quickly changed to a mining town when gold was discovered in those corrals.  In a quick gold rush minute it went from corrals to fifteen saloons and five flourishing gold mines.

    Today it’s a mixture of old dilapidated shacks and a few newer homes.  When I arrived some children had placed a small bicycle ramp in the middle of “Main Street” and were noisily enjoying themselves.  The heart of what’s left of downtown with its one building was just a mere twenty feet from where they played.  Part of the old building was the post office, which appeared to be alive and well, the other part looked like it might have been at one time a grocery store.  Outside an old Texaco pump with a glass top sat rusting.  Everywhere paint was peeling, creating rich patterns of age and neglect. 

    The inn where I stayed was also a relic from a time when stagecoaches were the mode of transportation and passengers stopped for the night.  The parlor was filled with overstuffed furniture and a large steel barrel stove.  The green and red walls were a mosaic of pictures, deer heads, tools, a stuffed badger and a stuffed squirrel, the Mona Lisa and an assortment of treasures that one might find in an antique store.  Downstairs also contained a bar complete with a barber chair and spittoon, a small poker room just big enough for one table, a kitchen confused with old and new, two bedrooms with marvelous period furniture, and a large dining room with a buckboard hanging from the ceiling.  Upstairs there were more bedrooms, creaking floors and lumpy beds.  Bathrooms came late in the life of this old relic.  Several years ago a tower was added on the backside of the building.  It housed two bathrooms down and two up.

    Next-door, George Hearst made his fortune.  From the 3600-foot shaft George and his miners coaxed, sweated, and blasted millions of dollars worth of gold.  While nosing around I discovered a small mountain of tailings.  It gave mute testimony to their efforts.  While I stood on the pile of rocks, I imagined the following scene.  George Hearst and his son, perhaps on that very spot were deep in conversation.  George wanted his son to continue the family business. 

   “No, Father I have other plans, besides I rather live in an enormous castle on a mountain top overlooking the Pacific.”

    “Ok, my son here’s a couple million.  Go peddle your papers.”

    And so William Randolph Hearst did precisely that.

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Coeur d'Alene

Ah beautiful Coeur d"Alene!  We arrived during a drizzling rain and an unseasonable cold snap.  The thermometer should have read 75-80 degrees, but instead it only had been in the high 50s for days.  According to local weather forecasts, it would continue to be stuck there for a while.  I overheard a local man ask a sales clerk, "Well, did you enjoy your summer?"  He was joking about the brief warm spell they had had a week ago.  Enough about the weather, what is it about this wonderful place that makes me like it so?

    The lake, the marina, the many shops, the shoreline park, the high-rise condominiums, and the downtown work together perfectly to make this a great destination.  There had been a few changes since our first trip fifteen years earlier.  I guess it's inevitable that strip malls have to be built when a city grows.  But Coeur d'Alene has done a pretty good job of keeping theirs to a minimum.

    We strolled through the pleasant downtown and the nearby city park situated at water's edge. Nearby, dominating the waterfront, is the very posh, eighteen story resort simply called Coeur d'Alene Resort.  Linda remarked that the modern interior reminded her of a Las Vegas casino, without the slots.  People were gathered around a huge wood-burning fireplace while others window-shopped at the several boutiques.  Outside, the resort’s marina was filled with speedboats of every description.  Blue canopies cover each slip adding nicely to the ambience.  We strolled the pier and watched a seaplane land and then take off again.  I’ve got to hand it to the pilot; from what I understand landing on water can be tricky.  This guy made it look easy.  Two young boys were swimming in the lake.  "Egad! Don't they know it's cold?"  Then I remembered my own youth.  At that age when you feel like swimming, and there's no one around to say, "Don't you dare, you'll catch pneumonia," you swim.  Cause and effect is something a young swimmer doesn’t worry about.

    We took a trip around the northern part of the lake in one of the tour boats.  There were some really nice summer homes on the western shore.  In one section, the owners chose to have no roads, so the only way in is by boat, not bad if you ask me.

    So what does Coeur d'Alene mean?  You just knew I would eventually have to tell you, didn't you?  It is of course French.  The early trappers who traded with the local Indians found the tribe to be sharp, hard hearted traders.  "They have pointed hearts the size of an awl's point," the trappers declared.  So instead of calling the Indians by their rightful name, which was Schee-Chu-Umsh, they called them Coeur d'Alene, "heart of an awl."  The name stuck and there you have it.

    I think Coeur d’Alene is almost perfect, not too big, not too small, about 34,000 people, enough to have a decent infrastructure.  And then there’s the waterfront setting, snow, forests all around, beautiful scenery and a really nice downtown.  How could anyone ask for anything more?

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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.

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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.  

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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.

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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.

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