Wild horses in Skull Valley (photo from wikipedia)

"There must have been 40 of them. At least that's what we figured when we averaged our counts. A pack of 40 wild horses flowing together in a calico streak across the plateau, with a single gray mustang at the lead. We knew we were in wild horse territory, yet still the dusk encounter took us aback.

"John parked the Jeep at a weathered trough and Tyler, Matt, and I got out to stretch and get our bearings. The chilly twilight air punctuated a deep sense of isolation. We leaned on the wooden posts, scanning the quiet hills around us. This neck of the Cedar Mountains was foreign to us, and we wandered the hoof-trodden no-man's-land- free and happy- just like the good old days."

Thanks to Jaromy Jessop [www.greatamericandesert.us] - my go-to guy for Tooele County history and geography- for helping me piece together our route through the Cedar Mountains.

Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.

Labels: American West, BUDS, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

Me, Tyler, and Chan enjoying a late-night snow cave meal
(photo by Chandler Blake)

"Entering the backcountry is like crossing into an alien world. The synapses seem to fire differently and the subconscious mind regresses to the primitive instincts it's been craving, revealing new perspectives on life…and food.

Certainly I'm not the only one who sees the irony in our approach to food when we're roughing it as opposed to our home kitchen. If you've done much camping, you know what I'm talking about. Raw nature has a magic ability to transform powdered drink packets into fine beverages and MRE's into feasts fit for kings. What is it that makes Malt-O-Meal and Cup-O-Soup so amazingly delicious in the mountains? What is it about the open air that turns a culinary novice into an Iron Chef?"

Head over to the Transcript Bulletin's website to read the full article.

Labels: BUDS, Transcript Bulletin

"I'm not much of a fisherman. It's not that I don't like it- it's just that I'm no good at it. I'm the only guy I know that could get skunked in a stock pond. It must have started with my very first cast as a young boy on Electric Lake. I pinched the line to the rod, flipped the bail, and let 'er rip... only to turn around and see my line whipping round and round my grandpa's neck behind me. He and my dad tried hard to keep straight faces, but I think I've been cursed ever since."

Check the full article out at the Tooele Transcript Bulletin.

Oh, and if you like the column, feel free to drop a line to our editor.

Labels: American West, BUDS, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

Following the lead of Jason Hendricks at The Adventurist, I have submitted an article to the first annual Rock and Ice Magazine Blogger's Brawl writing contest. The winner is determined solely by number of votes, and the top 3 authors win some sweet gear and get their stories printed in the magazine.

The article teaser is below, but contest rules don't allow me to publish the complete article to my website. If you like what you read, please click the link below the teaser to read the full article and vote for it.

THE LAST STAND: LEARNING THE HARD WAY IN THE WASATCH

Photo by Chandler Blake

Tyler stood up and removed his coat. In an act of either profound
benevolence or chill-induced madness, he laid it over the flame,
hoping to buy us another ten minutes of warmth.

"WE CALLED IT OUR LAST STAND. Three eager teenagers lugging surplus rucksacks filled with random gear- deep in the Wasatch Mountains in the dead of winter. I've never been colder in my life.

I suppose our biggest mistake was not bringing a vehicle. Maybe Chan's station wagon was broken down again or maybe my sister needed to use our shared Chevy Celebrity- I don't remember. Either way, we found ourselves standing at the back of a ski bus, enjoying the last moments of relative warmth as the flurries began to float outside. Had we known then what we knew later that night, we may not have pulled the 'stop' cable so enthusiastically as we approached the Spruces picnic area."

Labels: BUDS, Trip Reports

Most people keep mental lists of some kind- their favorite TV shows, ice cream flavors, dream vacations. I keep a mental list of my best nights of sleep. Strange, I know. But sleep for me is hard to come by, and when I actually get a good night's sleep, it's memorable.

My third best night's sleep was on an overnight train ride in Europe. My second best night's sleep was on the floor next to a wood-burning stove at Shane's old cabin in Gunnison. My number one best night's sleep, surprisingly, was in a wet sleeping bag under a leaking tarp in the storm-drenched forests of Corner Canyon, Utah.

But let me back up a little.

I was blessed in high school with a group of great friends- buds, if you will- who loved the outdoors as much as I did. Our little circle came together quicky- almost magically- our sophomore year. Never did a full week pass without some combination of us setting off to explore a canyon or bag a peak. Rain, snow, or shine- weather was never more than a side note. Each of us kept a rucksack handy with all the essentials for a night in the wilderness (rarely did those essentials ever include a tent). At the drop of a hat, we'd load into somebody's mom's car and drive west into the desert or east into the mountains to spend the night spinning yarns by a fire.

These trips had a simple structure. We'd start at a grocery store, where we'd stock up on beef jerky, Dr. Pepper, and Twizzlers. We'd drive until we found a good trail, then hike or bushwhack until we found a good place to set up camp. Usually these trips began in the evening (just as they do now), and most hiking was done in darkness. Once we'd settle in for the night, the fire became the central figure of our merriment. We'd roast meat and place various objects in the embers to see if they would explode. If the fire was a big one, John would get a running start and leap over it, just to see if he could (John has leaped over many an obstacle in the wilderness, and looking back on his many stunts, it's a miracle he is still alive). Tyler, and sometimes Richard, would scrawl in their journals by firelight.

This care free nomadic lifestyle had it's humble beginnings on that cloudy spring evening in Corner Canyon. We had packed light, and the sun was setting when we started up the trail toward Ghost Falls.

We felt the first raindrops just as we reached the waterfall, so we decided to create a shelter. We had no tent, but we had a few old tarps, which we frantically and sloppily strung up against a tree as the storm began to drench us. When we finally came up with a crude lean-to that somewhat blocked the downpour, we rushed under it and laid our sleeping pads down in the mud. John was on one end with the tarp hanging about a foot above his sleeping bag. Shane lay on the other end under a higher and sturdier tarp. In between were Chan, Matt, Richard, Tyler and me. It was only a matter of minutes before the water wicked its way through the bottoms of our sleeping bags. To make things worse for Tyler, a can of Dr. Pepper exploded inside his sleeping bag. Huge earthworms were trying to slither into my ears, and it soon became apparent that the bush I had been using as a pillow was, in fact, poison oak.

The situation would have been utterly miserable if we weren't having such a great time. Our soggy predicament soon became a joke and we laughed at ourselves long into the night. The only dry piece of equipment in my possession was a micro cassette recorder, into which we dictated our great wisdom and reveled in our toughness.

I still can't remember how or when I eventually fell asleep. What I do remember is that it was the best sleep of my life. Whether it was the joy of being in the mountains with my buds or the sheer exhaustion from the hike and the weather, I don't know. But when I woke up I was as refreshed as I've ever been. The sky was clear, and the tarp had sunk through the night until it rested on John like a blanket.

We rolled out of our soaked bags and immediately turned our attention to the waterfall, which we could actually hear now that the storm had passed. After an hour or so of swimming and sliding down the waterfall, we wrung out our belongings and packed up. On our way down the to the car we laughed more about the turbulent night we spent in the storm.

I'm amazed at how little we took up, but also at how much we brought back.

Chan, turns out, brought something extra special back with him. While the rest of us were frolicking in Ghost Falls, he quietly slipped away to answer nature's call. It soon became apparent that the tuft of leaves he had used as toilet paper was, in fact, poison oak.

RELATED LINKS
UtahMountainBiking.com's description of Ghost Falls Trail

Labels: BUDS, Trip Reports

MY EARLY RESEARCH ON ORVIL JACK resulted in story after story about an old one-armed coot living in a box car near the old Gold Acres townsite. With a little help from Google, I located Orvil's daughter, Grace Wintle, who still lives in the area. She assured me that her father was no old coot, and that he did indeed have both of his arms. I concluded that there must have been some old one-armed miner that people were confusing with Orvil Jack. Then author/photographer Richard Menzies emailed me the above photograph that he shot in 1975.

Here's Richard's description of the picture:

"He (Orvil) was highly regarded as a mechanical genius, the sort of guy who could field strip a D-9 Cat in a sandstorm and put it all back together, single handedly. Literally. Orval lost a hand to a steam shovel in Manassa, Colorado.

I've had people complain about this picture, which they find disgusting. One woman wrote to say she was shocked that I would snap a picture of a man who had just lost his hand and who was bleeding profusely--instead of running for help. Actually, it's not blood. It's degreasing salve. And although he looks pretty intimidating in this picture, Orvil was a genial fellow."

So rather than a one-armed geezer, Orvil Jack was a one-handed mechanical mastermind.

Later, Grace explained to me that "missing a hand is very different from missing an arm." She was clearly frustrated at her father's portrayal in ghost town lore and was grateful that I called her to clarify.

Orvil and his wife, Bessie, founded the Blue Ridge Mine in 1956 while Orvil was working as an assayer in Gold Acres. There he discovered the famous neon green turquoise that now bears his name. Grace and her husband took over the mine when Orvil passed away in 1986. I sensed joy in Grace's voice as she recounted the old days with her father.

"Every day my sisters and I would hear dad's pickup driving home. We would run down the hill to meet him and he'd give us a ride back up to the house."

The Wintle family continues to work the mine, but Grace is suffering from cancer and no longer works the mine herself. Much thanks to this dear lady for her time and her willingness to speak with me.

GOLD ACRES

Grace Wintle told me the old buildings in Gold Acres were bulldozed in the seventies, nearly a couple decades before our visit. She referred me to Steve Bishop, who grew up in Gold Acres and now lives in Elko. Bishop describes Gold Acres as a quaint little town filled with "stick-built" houses. He was educated in a one-room school, where a single teacher taught kindergarten through eighth grade. The town had no gas station, one commissary, a bunkhouse and a cookhouse. Contrary to what I've read in various ghost town books, Bishop says Gold Acres was a dry town. That doesn't mean there weren't any underground booze operations, but no swinging saloon doors creaking in the dusty breeze.

Gold Acres was a company town with most of its residents working for the company. Bishop says one of the very few vehicles in town was the "manwagon," which would pick up and drop off the miners.

Bishop says he has pictures of the old town packed away somewhere in boxes, which he'll scan and send to me as soon as he can dig them up. I will post them at that time.

CORTEZ

Bishop also told me that many of Cortez's residents were Chinese- former railroad workers that turned to mining. These workers were buried in a separate cemetery near town. According to Bishop, all but one body in this cemetery were exhumed at some point and reburied in China.



THE HOLY GRAIL

A short note on that pristine abandoned mining camp that I mentioned in Part 2 of this article: Using a popular satellite imagery program, Tyler and I believe we have located it. And that's all I'm going to say...

Related Links
First Ghost Town Trip - Part I
First Ghost Town Trip - Part II
First Ghost Town Trip - Part III
First Ghost Town Trip - Part IV

* Charles, I've been desperately trying to reach you to ask permission post a couple of your pictures of Cortez. When all attempts to contact you failed, I posted the above two pictures anyway. If you're out there, let me know if you have a problem with that.

Labels: American West, BUDS, First Ghost Town Trip, Ghost Towns, History, Trip Reports

HAMILTON LIES 9 MILES SOUTH OF HIGHWAY 50, a grim stretch of pavement that for me embodies the very essence of the Silver State. Spanning the width of Nevada from Fallon to Ely, the highway crosses 9 mountain ranges and parallels the old Pony Express trail through the most barren part of the state. In it's July, 1986 issue, Life Magazine called it the "Lonliest road in America." The magazine quoted a AAA spokesman, who issued this warning:
Like most worthwhile things in the high desert, the attractions along Highway 50 aren't advertised by billboards or decorated with shiny lights. State parks, historical markers, and numerous ghost towns dot the route and are easily accessed. 70 bumpy miles along that glorified pack trail from Cortez made America's lonliest road look like the 405 in Los Angeles! We were only on Highway 50 for 110 miles or so, but the road is aptly named.

The Jeep was cramped and noisy. John had called shotgun for the return trip, so I was folded like a contortionist in the back seat. We turned north on Highway 93 as the sun set. This leg of the trip was more or less quiet. By about Eureka we had sufficiently discussed our love lives (or in my case at the time, the lack thereof) and solved the world's problems. By about Ely we had finished postulating about the mysteries of Gold Acres, Cortez, and Hamilton. The wheels in my head had spun non-stop for two days and now the only thing keeping me awake was my concern that Tyler would fall asleep at the wheel.

Wendover

Two hours or so later, we were greeted by Wendover Will, a 64 foot tall, neon-light lined mechanized cowboy. Will is the small gambling town's unofficial mascot. For half a century (1952-2002) his wink and wave beckoned travellers to the State Line Casino. The town straddles the Utah-Nevada border and is the most convenient spot for most Utahn's to get their casino fix. The Nugget and Montego Bay resorts sit right on the border, their parking lots on the Utah side and their first slot machines just feet across that imaginary line.

In the 1920's, Bill Smith erected a tall light post in front of his gas station on the border that he kept lit around the clock- a constant beacon for the weary traveller. Bill's gas station became a popular pit stop and later became the State Line Hotel and Casino. Bill's ever-burning light was eventually replaced by Wendover Will (named for Bill Smith). The State Line was sold in 2002 and was renamed the Wendover Nugget. The new owners quickly refurbished the hotel and removed the landmark. After many of letters and donations, the beloved cowboy was deeded to the city in 2005. A newly polished Will again greets visitors to Wendover, now from a a platform in the middle of Old Highway 40.

Memories

Wendover has always been a pleasant sight for me. My parents used to take us there for quick, cheap vacations. To me, Wendover met all the requirements of a vacation- hotels, pools, bright lights, and prime rib buffets. My first trip to Wendover was to see an air show with my Grandpa. I remember the stale cigarette smoke and cheery jingles as we weaved through the maze of slot machines toward the diner at the Red Garter Casino. That's when grandpa gave both my little brother and me a quarter and said "See that machine over there?" For all we knew it was a pinball machine, but for the life of us we couldn't figure out what the scrolling pictures were for.

We also couldn't figure out why those very serious looking guys in security uniforms came and had a chat with grandpa.

We didn't get to play any more "pinball" that day, but the sights and sounds (and smells) of Wendover stayed with me. I was probably the only kid in my elementary school that played pretend casino at recess, or that would excitedly report on my latest family vacation to exotic Wendover, Nevada.

Many years later on my honeymoon in Wendover, I returned to the Red Garter and won $3.83 at the penny slots. When I cashed out, the Red Garter staff looked as unamused as they did the day I pulled that lever and lost grandpa's quarter.

What's interesting is that while Wendover is a gambling town, it's something totally different to me. Except for that brief childhood obsession with casinos, I've never had any interest in gambling. I figure if the winnings were as easy as they're advertised, more people would probably win. I've met many people who've lost big, but never anybody that ever won big. Let's just say Wendover Will isn't grinning for nothing.

The real treasure in Wendover is its landscape and history- from the unspoiled miles of its World War II era airfield to its ancient Indian caves. Look for future articles here about the Wendover area, for there is much to tell. For a good look into Wendover's soul, check out my friend Richard Menzies' book Passing Through.

In recent years Wendover has seen a slight boom- at least on the Nevada side. But it was still pretty quaint when Tyler, John and I passed through on that quiet night. The lights of the town meant we had reached an oasis of civilization. It also meant our trip was coming to an end. Normally we would have stopped at the Rainbow Casino to get our fill of meat and cheesecake, but we were out of time and cash, so we made do with a tray of truck stop nachos. From there it would be another two hour trip over the earth's curvature back to the Salt Lake Valley.

I often think about that first ghost town trip. Since then I've visited most ghost towns in Utah, and several others in the greater Southwest- each of which I will detail in this space. I also did my homework on Gold Acres, Cortez, and Hamilton and I've learned a lot about them. Next week's article will be a follow-up on those ghost towns and a conclusion of this series.

Related Links
First Ghost Town Trip - Part I
First Ghost Town Trip - Part II
First Ghost Town Trip - Part III
American Heritage Magazine article on Wendover Will

-Wendover Will photo by Doug Pappas.

Labels: American West, BUDS, First Ghost Town Trip, Ghost Towns, History, Trip Reports

CORTEZ? I didn't remember seeing a Cortez on Chris Case's map, but our collective euphoria spiked again and we were off. The mining woman's instructions led us up a winding canyon past a modern-ish mining operation. We stopped on a sandy knoll and got out of the Jeep to do what men do after they've just downed a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper. That's when we noticed remains of foundations in the distance and old wood strewn on the ground.

That's also when we noticed the flames under the Jeep.

We frantically tossed handfuls of sand until we extinguished the fire. Turns out the Jeep's undercarriage had collected some brush during earlier bushwhacking. Unfortunately, the Jeep also leaked oil. Oil plus brush plus engine heat makes for a scary situation, and we were happy once the flames were doused. We were even happier when the Jeep still worked.

Ghosts

"Ghost town." What is there not to love about that title? Such places are aptly named. Whether or not you believe in ghosts, these deserted places have a haunting aura. Though now a just desolate collection of ancient stone and timber, a ghost town was once a living, breathing place. Every wooden plank was hewn from area trees or delivered by industrious people who built this town from scratch. Children were born here. People spent their lives here. They died here and their bones still lie here under the sand. What was once a bustling center of life is now a skeleton of rock and wood, still standing only because it's so far isolated from modern life.

The way the headlights shone on the ruins made it appear as if light was coming from inside the structures. We parked (making sure to take good note of where we left the Jeep this time) and walked down the streets of old Cortez, peering through glassless windows and circling crumbling foundations. We quickly recognized the mill, a massive rock structure, which we would have explored closer if not for Mine Lady's warning about rattlesnakes.

Curiosity got the better of us though, and we did climb a 20 foot high rock barrier surrounding a large oval of cleared ground. In the center of the oval was a large "X" marked with some kind of plastic.

Silver Boom

Cortez, we later learned, was founded in 1862. It's claim to fame was silver- $300,000 worth per year in its heyday. With a population of 400, Cortez was home to three mining companies, two mills, a post office, a leaching plant, and an intricate labrynth of tunnels. The Garrison mine was 4,500 feet long and 1,270 feet deep, with ten levels and more than fifteen miles of workings. It connected on the fifth level to the St. Louis Mine and on the sixth level to the Fitzgerald Mine.

While mining in the area continued, the town itself died out. Silver prices dropped and operations slowed until Cortez faded into history. The property today is owned by Barrick Gold Corporation (which I assume also mines silver), and it conducts its operations without disturbing the townsite.

My first ghost town was also my eeriest one. Maybe it was simply our pre-conceptions that made it seem spooky. It could been the darkness of that night. It was probably the Fifth Element soundtrack. Whatever it was, each of us had the distinct impression that we were not welcome in this place. Though we had been given permission to access the site, we didn't stay in town too long.

Our dream had been to sleep under the stars in downtown Gold Acres. But it was 4:00 am. Gold Acres no longer existed, and we were too exhausted to even look for a suitable campsite. We pulled off the highway, layed a large tarp on the ground, and were out cold in seconds.

Cortez may or may not be haunted by the ghosts of old miners. I'll leave that for the Art Bell crowd to determine. It is surely haunted by the memories of those who walked its streets, mined its silver, and lie in its graveyard.


Click here for Part 3 of this story

Related Links
www.nevadadventures.com
Cortez pictures at Shawn Hall's website

Labels: American West, BUDS, First Ghost Town Trip, Ghost Towns, History, Trip Reports

MY PASSION FOR GHOST TOWNS was sparked in my college American History class. My professor, a quirky 1970’s holdover that had a knack for storytelling, told the class about a ghost town he’d found somewhere in the Nevada desert. Ghost towns are the stuff of legends and my mind filled with images of dusty roads and saloon doors creaking in the wind. I stayed after class that day and asked him to tell me more.

Later, Tyler, John, and I sat around Professor Case’s kitchen table as he unfolded an old map of Nevada. He made some recommendations and we ultimately decided to make the mining town of Gold Acres our initiation into ghost-towning. Armed with wide-eyed excitement and a topo map (these were the pre-Google Earth and GPS days), we hopped in Tyler’s Jeep and drove into the sunset.

Two U2 CD’s, The Fifth Element Soundtrack, and 300 miles later, we found ourselves in the middle of Lander County, Nevada. It was late and our headlights were the only illumination, it seemed, in the world. There was only one highway on the map, so we were pretty certain we were on it. A web of dirt roads branched off each side, each surely leading to something mysterious and spectacular.

The small town of Gold Acres was born more recently than most ghost towns, which probably explains why it was so intact when Case visited. The Gold Acres mine opened in 1936 and was worked by the Consolidated Mining Company. By 1940 it had produced $213,000. The London Extension Company purchased the mine in 1942 and the population of the town swelled to 300. Structures included various businesses, two mills, two stores, and a school.

The company folded in 1961 and the town was abandoned. The only remaining settlers were Orvil Jack and his family. Orvil didn't live in town proper, but he and his family lived nearby on a turquoise claim, one of several mines that he owned and worked until the day he died. Turqoise buffs (no, I'm not one) and bolo tie enthusiasts everywhere no doubt are familiar with the vibrant green variety widely known as Orvil Jack turquoise.

Lost

Of course we knew none of this at the time. With no information to go on, we pulled off onto the road that kinda, sorta seemed like it would get us to the old townsite. The further we drove, the narrower the road became until it was impassable. Confident this overgrown path would eventually become Main Street Gold Acres, we left the Jeep and continued on foot. Still fueled by sheer enthusiasm, the hours passed as we walked into the darkness. We hit a fork, so we took the side that looked most like it would lead to a ghost town. Before we knew it, we were no longer on a path at all. By about 2 AM the excitement had given way to disappointment, and we accepted the fact that we were lost. Pretty dang lost.

Our only reference point was a flashing beacon atop a distant hill. This story has a lot of morals, all subjects for other posts. But with a few prayers and some good luck, we eventually located our vehicle and drove back to the highway. We had seen a current mining operation a few miles back and we decided to backtrack and see if we could find another human being to help us get our bearings.

Dreams Dashed

The lady in the mining office was startled when we walked into the reception area. I would be too. It was 3:00 in the morning, after all, in an endless desertscape that could be easily mistaken for the surface of Mars. We assured her that we were not escaped prisoners or murderers- just inexperienced city boys looking for a ghost town.

"You've found Gold Acres," she said. "You're standing in it." Then in one sentence she both dashed our dreams and sparked a new adventure.

“All the buildings were bulldozed a few months ago," she told us.

"But Cortez is still standing and it's just down the road.”

Click here for Part 2 of this story

Related Links
www.nevadadventures.com
Shawn Hall's Nevada Ghost Towns

Labels: American West, BUDS, First Ghost Town Trip, Ghost Towns, History, Trip Reports