Simpson Springs Pony Express Station
(photo by Clint Thomsen)

"It was 10-something in the evening and 20-something Fahrenheit in the high desert. Several hours of side road exploration had taken its toll, and the cold was sapping the day's remaining energy. Tired and happy, we stared into the flames in content silence the way campers have for millennia. It's difficult to translate into words the deep, intrinsic bond between man and fire. The pop and flicker of dancing flames zero in on any rightly constructed boy like a hypnotist's watch, warming the soul and sparking the mind as it mesmerizes.

Tyler opened cans of chili and Spaghettios with a hammer and screwdriver, as I had forgotten my Leatherman.

'I can't wait to see what this place looks like in the day,' he said."

Cold, cold night, awesome morning.

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

Labels: American West, Ghost Towns, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

"'Are ghosts shadows?' asked 4-year-old Weston, as we turned southeast onto SR-73 just south of Stockton. 'Actually, West,' 6-year-old Bridger said, beating me to the punch with his own explanation, 'Ghost are the spirits inside people and that's who live in ghost towns.'

With its weathered buildings surrounded by snow-frocked evergreens, Ophir in winter reminds me of the Christmas town on top of my grandma's piano. The modern houses are quaint and blend near seamlessly with the many charming original structures. A string of old ore cars lines a rickety part of rusted track near the old mine entrance and venerable edifices like the old town hall stand against an almost overwhelming backdrop of giant staircase-like mountains."

Something about this "living" ghost town draws me there more often than time allows. I've been visiting Ophir ever since the government trusted me to operate a motor vehicle. Comparatively, its original structures and mines are in much better condition than other semi-populated ghost towns, thanks to preservation-minded landowners and an attitude conveyed best by Ophir's mayor:

"We welcome people up here but tell them not to think of staying."

Enjoy the pictures below, and head to the Transcript Bulletin's website to read the full article.

Labels: American West, Ghost Towns, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

SALT MOUNTAIN HIKE PROVES THE JOURNEY IS WORTH
MORE THAN THE DESTINATION

"I scrambled through a rubble slope and scaled a rock face to take in the view. Skull Valley looks much like I imagine Tooele Valley would look without the marks of civilization. In the spring, the valley is blanketed in a lush green. By late summer, it is khaki interspersed with juniper and the occasional groomed field. This wilderness is harsh, and the journals of many an explorer attest to that fact. Yet something about it lures me in and drives me with an uncontrollable urge to keep hiking further and climbing higher."

I'm pleased to announce my first ever published (in print, anyway) work. A few weeks ago I was asked by the Tooele Transcript Bulletin to write a weekly outdoor adventure column. My first offering appeared in today's edition.

I wasn't born in Tooele County, but I got here as soon as I could. It's the second largest county in Utah but still has a very small population, comparatively. With an area of over 7,000 square miles, the county spans at least a dozen mountain ranges, hundreds of canyons, and over 44,000 acres of salt flats. It’s an explorer’s paradise. The Transcript Bulletin is the county's major newspaper, and I hope I can continue to come up with interesting articles for its readers. I'll post teasers here each week after the column is published.

Click here to read today's full article at the Transcript Bulletin's' website.

Labels: American West, Ghost Towns, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports

FORGET WHAT YOU'VE READ ABOUT THE HISTORY OF HALLOWEEN. The holiday was invented specifically for those of us depressed that summer has ended. It's funny how September makes me forget August's searing heat and lament summer's end. The leaves are turning brown and I've already had to scrape the ice off of my car windows one morning this week.

They say that fall signifies summer's day fading into winter's wilted dusk. What makes sense is mankind's association of fall with the melancholy. What baffles me is mankind's warped fascination with it. Humans are the only species on earth that seeks out fear for fun. Jumping into autumn for me is like gritting your teeth and diving into a mountain lake. Sure, there's the momentary loss consciousness, but once you're in it's not so bad. Once fall begins something wonderful happens. For one month- one beautiful month- nostalgia for summer softly subsides and gives way to eager thoughts of eerie woods and jack-o-lanterns.

And let's not forget- ghost towns.

SPRING CANYON

On a gray October evening I find myself driving along Spring Canyon Road, the crumbling narrow byway that begins at the outskirts of Helper, Utah, and winds its way up the mountains and back in time.

The sleepy town of Helper is nestled at the mouth of Price Canyon and the gateway to Castle Country. A former mining hub, Helper was so named for the "helper" engines needed to assist westbound trains up the long, steep grade to Soldier Summit. It's a classic Old Western town with it's Main Street lined with century old buildings.

No sooner do I enter the canyon than I spot the ruins of old Peerless with its stone staircases leading to a collage of rocky foundations. The sun begins to set and shadows dance on the canyon walls. I've been listening to a local radio station but reception is cutting out so I turn it off. I roll down my window despite the chilly air. As I drive I listen to my tires roll over small rocks as I weave between potholes along this forgotten road.

Spring Canyon is home to several small ghost towns and abandoned mining camps. The remains of these towns are readily visible on both sides of the canyon from the road. Wooden shanties still stand on eroding ledges and strange buildings built right into rock faces blend into the cliffs like optical illusions. Time has taken its toll on Ghost Town Row, but many buildings remain impressively intact. The overgrowth makes it difficult to trace the old street routes, but it's still possible to map out the towns using stone foundations and heaps of wooden planks as landmarks. One could spend weeks on end exploring these towns and the history that lurks behind half-standing walls and beneath weathered grave markers.

It's getting dark now, and that's important. That's when my naturally skeptical mind starts to wander, and I find my eyes cautiously avoiding the old roadside wash.


Tyler and I discovered this place several years ago, about the same time of year. After failing to locate the ghost town of National, we had driven up into this ghost towner's paradise. Just above the ghost town of Latuda, the road was gated and a brand new homestead- the only modern building in the canyon- sat on the hill beside it. Knowing there were several more townsites past the gate and taking seriously our commitment to enter sites legally, we parked the car and approached a woman walking a horse. She met us with immediate suspicion, which seemed to abate once we told her we were just there to explore ghost towns. The land above the gate was her property, but she'd be willing to let us explore it for $20 each. We didn't have $20 each, but the two of us emptied our pockets and pulled together about $15 total plus a Starburst wrapper and some pocket lint. That was good enough.

She invited us in and showed us maps and old pictures of the area. She told us her place was a bed and breakfast and insisted on giving us a tour. We had no interest in anything but driving through that gate, but we politely followed our hostess as she led us down a stairwell and through a corridor lined with themed rooms. These weren't your regular mom and pop bed and breakfast rooms. Each had its own "horror" theme- mummies, skeletons, ghouls, black lights, life-sized horror movie figures- the works. It was a spook house on steroids. I'm a Halloween nut but this lady took the cake. She was downright giddy as she showed us a ghoul that screeched and a shower head that sprayed fake blood. There's fun Halloween and then there's psycho Halloween. This place oozed the latter.

When she finally let us back out of her haunted mansion, she gave us some quick instructions- "Don't drive off the road and don't take anything. Oh, and see that mountain right there? Stay away from it. It's burning."

THE WHITE LADY

Like most ghost towns, the Spring Canyon towns have their spooky lore. An old miner's ghost here, a graveyard apparition there- people want a good story, and ghost towns are the perfect places to spark the imagination. The creepy cowgirl mentioned something about the "White Lady of Latuda," a story well known in these parts. After that trip I read that the story has several variations, but all conclude that the ghost of a woman wearing a white dress haunts the canyon- specifically the canyon wash.

One version of the story- the best sourced version- was told by Claude Lambert, an old miner who lived in a rock house in the canyon. Mr. Lambert knew the woman in question and worked with her husband. In the early 50's he laid out the facts as he knew them.

The couple lived next to a store in Peerless with their infant child. Like many wives of the day, the woman lost her husband in the mine. But her husband met his end from blood poisoning caused by an infected tooth, not a mining accident. Thus, the company had no obligation to pay her any compensation or benefits, and she was turned away at the mine office in Latuda. Desperate and without recourse, the woman took her baby down to the wash and drowned it, so as to spare it from starvation.


She spent some time at a Provo Mental facility before escaping and returning to Peerless to look for her baby. Her restless search did not end when she died. Some miners claimed the White Lady would appear in front of the mine, luring miners inside. To follow her, they said, was suicide. Other sightings have her walking in the direction of the mining office. Most people see her near the wash.


Time passed and the boom towns died out, leaving only tailings piles, vacant buildings, and the White Lady. To this day, the stories go, the woman wanders the canyon, dejected and vengeful. She wears a beautiful white dress. Her face is pale and empty and she floats several feet off the ground. The sightings increased as the legend grew, and the old ghost town of Latuda became a popular destination for teenagers looking for a few thrills. In 1969, one disturbed young man, Delmont Gentry of Price, acquired a blasting cap and blew up the old mining office in Latuda in an attempt to "kill the ghost of the White Lady."

Though I believe they exist, I've never seen a ghost. I think most ghost stories are nonsense. That said, I've been in eerie places. Places where I've felt watched. Places I won't go at night. This is my first time in Spring Canyon after sunset.

DRIFTING SPIRIT

The sun has set and dark begins to fall in Spring Canyon. It's much cooler now and my first reaction is to roll up the window, but I don't. I want to experience this place in the raw. As I drive toward Latuda something catches my eye in the distance. I think I should stop here, but my foot remains steady on the gas pedal, almost uncontrollably. It's a figure- light in color but not illuminated. It doesn't react to my approach, but it does seem to drift from side to side. As the road curves I lose sight of it in the trees. I'm a little spooked but I'm not scared. The figure seems to beckon me, and I comply. I slow down and turn the car so that the headlights shine into the woods just above the wash. Then I get out and walk toward where I saw it last.

As I walk, a slight breeze blows something into my view from behind a tree. It appears again and I notice that it is the skirt of a faded white dress hovering about 3 feet from the ground. I walk around the tree, and there she is...

Well, maybe not her. Maybe "it."

A long, old fashioned white dress hangs by a rope from the tree, waving softly in the breeze. My caution turns to laughter and my laughter turns to amazement. Whoever hung this dress here placed it so expertly so that you see it from afar, but lose it in the trees as you get closer. The trees blocked the dress from the roadside, and I never would have found it had I not set into the woods on foot. Who knows how many wary travelers this ghostly frock has frightened?

I look up at the rope from which the White Lady hangs and notice that the knot is coming loose. One more stiff gust will tear her free; the effect will be ruined and the dress will blow away. I stand on the branch of a nearby tree and secure the knot.

"Sorry," I tell her. "You're staying put tonight."

I decide to follow the road further up the canyon toward the ghost towns of Rains and Mutual. The bed and breakfast from hell looks abandoned. Has for about 2 years now. I'm amazed how fast the structure has deteriorated. The gate is open and I continue to Mutual. I turn around at the impressive remains of the old Mutual Store and drive back toward Helper. As I pass Standardville, a Jeep passes me heading up the canyon and I wave. I can't help but smile as I think about how it's passengers will react to the floating specter just around the bend. I'm glad I tightened that knot. --


ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS: Most of the land on both sides of Spring Canyon Road is privately owned. If you plan a trip to these ghost towns, please seek out the land owners and get permission first. Trespassers will be picked up and charged. Ownership of the bed and breakfast from hell has changed at least once since Tyler and I took our tour of it and I trust the new owners did some house cleaning. My information about the ghost story comes from histories compiled by Frankie Hathaway and Richard Davies. Additional thanks to Kathy Hamaker and Michael Francis.

Oh, and the burning mountain... The good people at the Western Mining & Railroad Museum in Helper tell me the mountain is indeed on fire. The McClean Mine caught fire in the 1950's and the mountain has been burning internally ever since. Stay tuned for several more articles about the Spring Canyon ghost towns.

RELATED LINKS

Western Mining & Railroad Museum
Carbon County UTGenWeb

Labels: Ghost Towns, History, 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