"As the popularity of automobile travel increased, so did the already growing demand for more car-friendly routes. Entrepreneur Carl Fisher dreamed of building a continuous transcontinental highway, and began promoting the idea in 1912. In 1913, the Lincoln Highway Association was formed and the first section of the highway was completed. By 1919, the "improved" dirt highway connecting Times Square in New York City and Lincoln Park in San Francisco had cut a highly anticipated auto route through nearly 3,400 miles of rugged America.

"Much of the eastern half of the Utah stretch is now a combination of major freeways and highly-traveled roads. But Utah favored the more practical Victory Highway (present I-80) for travel through the western half of the state, and civilization gravitated northward. Thus, like the Pony Express Route, much of the Tooele County stretch of the Lincoln Highway has preserved its historic, middle-of-nowhere uniqueness."

Enjoy the pictures below, and click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.

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

"Friends and relatives affectionately poke fun at my near pious affinity for Skull Valley. Whether its name derives from scattered buffalo skulls or the discovery of numerous Indian skulls in the valley -- the historical debate remains unsettled -- Skull Valley has always been my happy place.

"Perhaps it's the mysterious mountains and the miles of empty space between them, or the colorful histories of the pioneers, outlaws, and Indians who wandered its paths so long ago. Even before I met my wife in Skull Valley, I spent my teenage years tracing forgotten roads and playing tackle football on the mud flats."

Whatever the adventure, it's hard to drive south on Skull Valley Road and not stop to admire the valley's defining landmark, an aptly named mountain pillar that rises to an elevation of 4,285 feet 3 miles south of I-80. The rock is easily climbed, but watch your step when you reach the top.

Click here to read the full article.

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

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

"Even if you're not familiar with the word "geode," you probably know exactly what they look like after they've been cut and polished. They're the rough rounded rocks with hollow, crystal-lined cavities that you see in abundance at museum gift shops and on bosses' desks at work. These spherical wonders began as gas-filled lava bubbles produced by ancient volcanoes and formed over millions of years. Large deposits of geodes are located along the old Pony Express route that winds through Tooele and Juab counties.

My friend Dave had invited Tyler and I down to the Dugway geode beds, and we decided to bring our kids along for the adventure. I jump at any chance to drive the Pony Express route because it's a history-paved road through some of the most desolately beautiful terrain in the state. The 133-mile-long byway passes strange geological phenomena, station house ruins, and the only real pet cemetery I've ever heard of or seen. Whether you're a trail-weary express rider in 1860 or a Mountain Dew-sipping road-tripper in 2008, the landscape along most of the route looks exactly the same."

A drink of Lake Bonneville, anyone?

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

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

Regular readers of this website know of my fascination with the American South. I'm a 5th generation Utahn on both sides, and before marrying my Texas belle I had never set foot in a southern state. Yet every time I visit the South, I feel like I'm coming home. The South is an essential element of Americana. It's more than just the food, the music, and culture. It's the underlying roots of these things- a unique blend of nature, peoples, and history- that have fused together in time's crucible to form a rich and enduring character.

I'm not sure, as an outsider, that I can ever truly understand the South. Author/Guide/Blogger/History buff Debra Goodrich does. Deb was born in Mt. Airy, NC- Andy Griffith's home town and the real-life model for the fictional "Mayberry". She grew up in the nearby Blue Ridge foothills and is a southern girl to the core. She has spent much of her life researching the historic figures and events that shaped the South. I recently asked her for some insight on the South, and the following is the first half of our cyber interview:

BONNEVILLEMARINER: If you could travel back in time only once to any point in southern history, where would you go and which event would you witness?

DEB GOODRICH: I would go back to about 1850, to Ararat, Virginia, and Mount Airy, North Carolina, where I grew up. The communities--The Hollow, Doe Run, My great-grandparents and great-great grandparents would have been children, and when I read the census reports from that year it awakens so much curiosity in me about the families that would intermarry, the roads that would be built, the men who would go off to war. Jeb Stuart's family was still in the neighborhood, and I would like to hang out at the post office and watch the families stopping to get their mail. I'd like to go to Galax and Fries and Independence, over to Indian Valley, up to Roanoke, down to Winston and Salem and Boone and Yadkinville across the state line. So there is no real event I'd choose to see, just the daily lives of my ancestors.

BM: If you could have dinner with one historical southern figure, who would it be and why?

DG: I've thought often about this and posed the question to several folks myself, and the answer is difficult. Since I've been working for so long on the life of Varina Davis, I would most enjoy sitting down with her, but at what point in her life and in what context? Varina, like most Southern society, or society of any part of the world, was conscious of class. Would she accept me as a reporter? Since she was a writer, I think so, but I'm not sure. As an author, I might be acceptable on her social level, but as just a "Common White," as my former professor put it, Varina might not feel free to open up to me. Would I want to interview the First Lady of the Confederacy, a woman shuffling children and national diplomacy? Or would I choose to speak with the elderly Varina who had suffered the deaths of five children and her husband who could reflect on her extraordinary life? Would she be insulted, embarrassed, exposed to know I had read the private letters between her and her husband or closest friends? She possessed a tremendous heart, which grew as she grew older, but had been so wounded. A part of my desire to talk with her is simply woman to woman, not as a journalist or historian, but simply as someone who has been inspired by her courage and compassion. I would very much like to take her hand between mine and tell her how often I have thought of her and wished her peace.

BM: A southern-based travel agent once told me "When you come here, the South will get in your blood. Doesn't matter if you go to Louisiana, Kentucky, or North Carolina. It's all the same. It'll be in your blood for the rest of your life." What is it about the American South that makes it so distinct? What makes it bleed so deep into the American psyche?

DG: Many people have tried to answer this, and I understand it more deeply and believe it more strongly as I travel, but find it more difficult to put into words. Perhaps watching Paula Deen on the Food Channel explains it best. People perceive Southerners as having more fun. I hate to make it sound that trivial, but I believe at the heart of the matter, that is it. There's all this hype about storytelling and Southern hospitality, and the pace of life's being slower in the South, but I think what this all boils down to is "We're having more fun!" That's why people visit the South, move to the South, won't leave the South. Church and Family and Society translate to getting together-for food, for music, for drink. Even for the Baptists who don't drink in public, the ultimate goal is always a party. People are forever planning how to get together, where to get together, when to get together, and who's going to bring the potato salad. That is the focus of Southern life. Some folks manage a job or some major accomplishments along the way, but that's pretty much it--getting together.

Stay tuned for part II. You can check out Deb's musings at her blog, Mason-Dixon Wild West. For information on tours, books, and talks, visit www.tomanddeb.com.

Labels: American South, History, Weekly Run-Down

"At about mile marker 20, the Silver Island Mountains appear to part like Moses' Red Sea, with one mountain drifting eastward until it seems to float a good distance from the rest of the solid range.

Floating Island is the king of optical illusions. The "floating" effect is created by a combination of empty distance and flat land nearly perfectly aligned with the curvature of the planet. From the vantage point of highway, Floating Island's base is behind the curve and thus is not visible. Once I learned the secret behind this geographic magic trick, I vowed to someday chase the mirage."

Mountains? Check. History-drenched trails? Check. Big caves? Check. This was a great trip.

Perfectionists and deadlines don't mix very well, so I'm rarely completely satisfied with how these Transcript Bulletin articles turn out. But if there's one I'm most satisfied with so far, it's this one.

Surprisingly, this is also the one article so far that I've had to write by hand on paper. Which is a big thing for me because I'm not a paper and pen guy. I don't buy paper. I don't print stuff. For a guy who's always longing for the good old days, I am completely immersed in the digital age (my way of living a balanced life I guess). When my wife compiles a "honey-do" list, she knows the only way I'll pay attention to it is if she emails it to me. Other than some Christmas cards last month, I can't remember the last time I actually mailed a physical letter, and I haven't actually handwritten anything since college.

So without a PC or an Internet connection that day I was forced to break out the pen and paper, scribble it out, then try to read my own handwriting when I typed it up later.

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

Oh, in case you might wonder after reading the article, we did eventually find some Mormon tea, and it tastes horrible- no matter how much sugar and honey you stir in. It definitely falls under that don't-try-it-at-home category I wrote about in November.

Labels: American West, History, 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

I FOLLOWED THE NEWS CLOSELY WHEN NEW ORLEANS FLOODED, but was still relatively clueless when we arrived. I expected to walk off the jetway into a flood-ravaged terminal with visible water lines on the walls. I was anxious to see what this place was really like. Getting there, however, was no short trip. Our flight was set to leave Salt Lake City early in the morning, getting us into New Orleans early in the afternoon after a short layover in Denver. We planned on picking up a rental car and spending the evening in New Orleans before making our way to Pensacola. But a ten-minute delay on the tarmac in Salt Lake made us miss our Denver connection and the next available flight into New Orleans was much later in the evening. It was 9 AM in Denver and we were already frazzled.

When we finally made it through the line at the United customer service counter, we begged them to somehow get us on an earlier flight. "Sorry," the United rep told us, "That's the only flight. Not a lot of people flying to New Orleans these days."

10 hours later we walked up a jetway into a nearly empty Louis Armstrong International Airport. A lonely jazz tune piped through its vacant terminals, echoing off the bare walls. This airport looks straight out of the 1980's. The seats, the TV's, the cigarette smoke-saturated carpet- I could have sworn I was walking through the set of the 1980 movie "Airplane." Not that I minded. I used to spend hours as a kid running through Salt Lake City International back in the days when, if you were nice enough to the gate agent, she'd let you tour the plane and give you a pair of pin-on wings. I miss those days, and Armstrong International's retro look reminded me of simpler times.

My first meeting with a true New Orleanian set the tone for the rest of our trip. With all the flight changes our luggage had not yet arrived, so we waited our turn at the customer service desk, where we greeted by a burly man in a white t-shirt waiting in line in front of us. Talking to him was like talking to an old buddy and we shot the breeze for a good while. He was a luggage courier who was waiting for his next run. He seemed to take an interest in the baby on my back. "My wife just had a baby," he said in a noticeably sad tone that made me hesitant to ask about it.

I didn't have to. He opened up to us like an old friend and explained that their baby had died shortly after her birth, cause unknown. That was two days before. Suddenly my flight woes didn't seem so bad, and even after a frustrating day, I didn't mind waiting in that line.

In the months prior to our trip I read everything I could find about driving the Gulf Coast. Of all the pieces on Katrina I read, one BBC article caught my eye. It was an account written by freelance writer Rhonda Buie from Slidell, a town just east of New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain. Ms. Buie recounts her first trip back to the Slidell area post-Katrina through a combination of prose and video clips. What struck me most was that it was different than the New Orleans stories. With Katrina coverage decidedly concentrated on flooded New Orleans, those of us who relied on cable news and the national press hardly knew the rest of the Gulf Coast existed. Buie's narration of her drive through a region less-known to us westerners really resonated with me.

I contacted Ms. Buie and asked her to give me some tips on visiting the area. We talked for a long time about the South and Katrina, and by the time our conversation ended I had made a good friend. Rhonda's parents' home was badly damaged by the hurricane and they had spent the entire year rebuilding. I re-watched her video clips to prepare myself for the trip.

"There's people coming down to look at everything...they just come to look and then leave and probably never think about it again. For some people from out of state I guess this would be some kind of strange monstrosity to look at. But when you realize it's not just Slidell; it's not just Bay St. Louis; it's not just Picayune, Mississippi; it's not just New Orleans...This is what our part of the country looks like right now."

It wasn't a monstrosity, but it was strange on several levels. When I walked out of our Kenner motel room that first morning, the suffocating humidity reminded me I wasn't in Salt Lake any more. It had been a hard night. Having arrived in New Orleans late in the evening we were forced to settle on a motel that looked a lot like one of those "after" pictures in a pre versus post Katrina comparison. We normally travel cheap (we have four kids), and usually prefer lower-end motels anyway. But this one took the cake. Maybe it was the blackened carpet or the semen-stained love seat, or my sneaking suspicion that this motel served as the local brothel. I don't know. It was here that I made my first ignorant tourist statement to the night clerk, a perky young woman that seemed rather amused by my naivety:

"So how goes the Katrina cleanup here?"

"Sir, this area didn't have any hurricane damage. This is what we look like all the time."

Oops.

She didn't seem to take offense, but I was embarrassed, which only made me more cantankerous.

See, United had promised to deliver our luggage within a few hours after our arrival in New Orleans, but I spent the entire night waiting for them to deliver it. No fresh clothes, no toothbrush, no deodorant, no bottle for the restless baby. The motel didn't provide soap (the lobby did sell various soaps labeled with the names of other nearby hotels). The baby eventually fell asleep and I walked over to the lobby so my wife could rest as well. I've never seen so many Halloween decorations in my life. The place was adorned with every cheesy dollar store decoration one can imagine. Somebody at this fine establishment was a very big fan of Halloween. A stack of job applications laid next to a help wanted sign, and I took the opportunity to fill one out for my brother, because that's what brothers are for.

Still feeling stupid from my earlier goof, I tried to redeem myself with the night clerk by chatting with her between rage-filled phone calls to United's staff in New Delhi. She would be getting off at 5:00, but she offered to wait around for our luggage because another clerk wouldn't be in until later that morning. When our luggage finally arrived at 10 am, we drove right through New Orleans and headed toward Slidell. Honestly, I made no memorable observation between Kenner and Slidell. I did get a phone call from United, though. Somehow my complaints made their way back to the States. They gave me a $25 gift certificate for my troubles. How thoughtful of them.


ALWAYS LOW PRICES!

Once in Slidell, we needed to regroup- and that meant we needed to find a Wal-Mart. Say what you want about Wal-Mart, but when you're there, you're home. There's something comforting about that big open space, the down-home elderly door greeter, and aisles virtually indistinguishable from those at home. We had counted on finding a wireless network somewhere so I could use my laptop to get our bearings. But the motel we stayed in barely had electricity, let alone an Internet connection. I called Rhonda and asked her to guide us to a Wal-Mart, where we stocked up on water, maps, diapers, and snacks.

After the night we had, those yellow smiley faces were indeed a welcome sight. I think a person could almost live at Wal-Mart. I once read a story about a kid who actually did for a while. For a high school class experiment, he set out to see if Wal-Mart could provide all living essentials. He spent spring break at his local supercenter, dining on McDonald's fries and sleeping on patio furniture in the garden center.

We had no need to stay that long. After all, this was the first official day of our great Gulf Coast adventure. With some directions from Rhonda, we drove to two cemeteries along Highway 190. As we pulled into the drive I got my first taste of Katrina's wrath. For an outsider, seeing Louisiana's above-ground tombs for the first time is shocking enough. But these particular tombs were not only above ground- they were cracked open, tipped over, and scattered. I hopped out of the car in my shorts and flip-flops and was immediately assaulted by an army of biting ants.

I should take a moment to mention that bugs love me- especially southern bugs. I don't know what it is about me that appeals so much to them. But I can hardly take a step outside before I'm eaten alive by something. It's almost like the little fiends just wait for me to walk out a door. As the ants began tearing into my right foot, I scrambled back to the car to scrape them off and put on socks and shoes before setting out again into the heavily-wooded graveyards.

CITIES OF THE DEAD

Much of New Orleans lies one to ten feet below sea level and the Slidell area isn't much higher. The high water table in this region is the main reason for the above-ground cemeteries, which are often referred to as "cities of the dead." Early settlers found themselves in a macabre dilemma when it came to burials. They had to dig shallow graves because of the high water table, which would rise after rainstorms and pop the airtight coffins out of the ground. Bodies floating around after rainstorms was a common occurrence. When weighing coffins with heavy rocks and boring holes in the caskets failed to keep the deceased at rest, above-ground tombs were the solution. Southern Louisiana cemeteries are like mini cities- little Main Streets lined with sun-bleached facades in various stages of decay. It's an almost overwhelming scene. Grandiose New Orleans cemeteries are the stuff of legend, but these two Slidell graveyards were small and humble. No doubt this was a very peaceful place until just over a year ago.

Now it looked like something out of a horror movie. This entire area flooded during Katrina. A good portion of Slidell was literally washed away. The floods respected nobody- not even the dead. Local newspapers recounted reports of multiple dislodged coffins in Slidell cemeteries, some revealing visible human remains. One body floated into a man's front yard. In these cases the coroner's office acted promptly, removing the remains to a makeshift morgue. Many bodies were never found. Lacking the resources to move displaced coffins back to their original sites, the city left them right where they washed up, and they remain there to this day.

It's hard to believe that a several ton concrete vault can float. The scattered coffins were yet another testament to the unbridled power of nature. Some were upright but filled with water- no lid in sight. One was slightly tipped, its lid upside-down and halfway off. Another vault laid slightly open with a crushed wooden casket visible inside. Yet another lay several yards away in the marsh. Most of the shelf vaults were simply vacant. To say this was disturbing would be an understatement. These were not ancient tombs filled with unknown people of civilizations past. These were family cemeteries with many tombs only recently populated. I was grateful these coffins were empty and sad for the families unable to pay to put their loved ones back to rest.

All photos by Bonneville Mariner.

Dispatches from the Gulf Coast- Part 1, Part 2

RELATED LINKS
Rhonda Buie's Gulf Coast Diary (BBC) Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Bonneville Mariner's post-Katrina photos on flickr
In Katrina's Path- a Slidell blogger's webpage full of pictures and links

Labels: American South, Dispatches From the Gulf Coast, 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