An existential and historical journey into the finer, yet lesser-known quarters of this country.
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Bonneville Mariner Dot Com |
Friday, March 28, 2008,8:47 AM
Hunt for aquatic fossils takes one back to before Utah was
Thanks to Mark Milligan of the Utah Geological Survey. Click here to read the full article.
"The prospect of fossil discovery put an extra spring in his step that day. For some reason, this area is a hot spot for invertebrate fossils -- crinoids, bi-valve seashells, and horn coral in particular. We stopped to rest on a large limestone slab and I scanned the vast desert below, wondering what made this desolate mountainside such a popular final resting place for ancient sea creatures."'It's a combination of a few things,' Mark Milligan told me. He explained that to understand why parts of Utah are so fossil-rich, we must look at ancient geology. Rewind past the great Lake Bonneville, past the formation of the mountain ranges and even the age of the dinosaurs to the Mississippian Period -- roughly 350 million years ago -- when "here" technically wasn't here ... yet."
Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Sunday, March 23, 2008,10:09 PM
Campfire stories: An art form that survives in the TV age of SpongeBob
Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article."No matter your cable or satellite package, there's at least one channel almost exclusively devoted to his screwball undersea exploits. While television probably plays a less-than-average role in our household, I must admit that the SpongeBob Revolution has officially taken the Thomsen family by storm. And as obnoxious as the show is, I must admit that I find it hysterically addicting.
"The simply-drawn 2D characters and their perky ocean world have a way of sucking you in, instantly hypnotizing you. For the adult, it starts with the casual walk past the TV, then a quick sit-down to catch a punch line. Four hours and 37 episodes later, you're peeling yourself off the couch, wondering where the time went.
"Luckily, we had recently purchased a portable fire ring and we decided to fill our evening with an equally mesmerizing, but exponentially more satisfying activity."
*SpongeBob SquarePants and Patrick are trademarks of Viacom International Inc.
Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Thursday, March 13, 2008,9:44 PM
Sometimes worst-laid plans make for best adventures
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
Friday, March 7, 2008,11:03 AM
Drive on Old Lincoln Highway evokes golden age of adventure motoring
"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.
Looking east across Rush Valley from the summit of Johnson's Pass.(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Old wagon at Orr's Ranch, Skull Valley(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Closeup of the log cabin at Orr's Ranch, Skull Valley(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Labels: American West, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Friday, February 29, 2008,10:51 PM
South Willow Canyon provides a quiet snowshoe outing for father and son
Enjoy the pics below and click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article."Boys come prepackaged with three innate characteristics which seem to inevitably express themselves independent of nature or nurture: a love for fire, the urge to climb stuff, and the impulse to throw rocks into bodies of water. In the case of rock-throwing, the larger the better.
"Since I began writing these columns, I've become accustomed to pausing to gather my thoughts on a place and jot them down later. Coulter vocalized my thoughts in toddlerspeak when I set him down to strap on the snow shoes.
"Woo-woo. I love it, my mountains," he said."
Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Friday, February 22, 2008,10:37 AM
First date gone wrong leads to shared love of outdoors
The following originally appeared in yesterday's Tooele Transcript Bulletin. Due to some (I'm sure temporary) formatting glitches on their website that prevent the reader from viewing the whole article, I'm reprinting it in its entirety here this week.
Yeah, that's where I stranded us.
Looking west toward the Salt Lake Valley from Broads Fork Trail in Big Cottonwood Canyon.
(photo by UtahPictures.com)
There's nothing quite like the sound of a mountain stream. Whether it's a spring brook in the high Uintas or a frigid creek in the snowy Oquirrhs, the vibrant white-noise gush of pure water is like nature's ipod. The only thing better than listening to a stream with your friends or your kids is listening to a stream with your sweetheart.
Last week's white-out capped off a grueling winter ruled by freak snow storms that seemed to always blow in right in time for my commute. I hoped to take my wife on a Valentine's hike, but finding a passable back road in the county has been difficult. Luckily, Settlement Canyon Road was plowed for a mile, and we drove up to watch the sunset.
We drove up to the closed gate where the snow plows turn around and a snow-packed road continues deep into the quiet Oquirrhs. The sun was setting over the distant Stansbury Mountains, framed by One O'Clock Peak to the south and Little Mountain to the north. The thermometer in our dash read 29 degrees. We turned the heater on and rolled the windows down to listen to Settlement Creek course into the mostly frozen reservoir below.
We talked about the kids and how we hoped they hadn't burned my mother's house down yet. We talked about the things we needed to buy at Wal-Mart the next morning. We reminisced about the night we first met at a gathering of friends in Skull Valley- how she broke the ice
by offering me a fruit punch Capri Sun- how we sat by the campfire talking until the sun came up, and how that almost a decade later we still can't get enough of the wilderness.
The conversation eventually turned to the disaster that was our first date. We laugh about it now, but at the time it couldn't have been more embarrassing. I'm amazed I ever saw her again after that night. Maybe some things are just meant to be- no matter how hard you try to screw them up. Till the day I die, being in the mountains at night with her will always remind me of that ill-fated night.
Having moved here from the utterly flat state of Texas the day before we met, she had never hiked a mountain trail or watched the Milky Way from an alpine meadow.
"I'll take her hiking," I thought. "One breath of crisp mountain air, one look at the city from a canyon overlook and she'll be mine."
Initially things went well—a nice drive up Big Cottonwood Canyon and a romantic couple-mile hike along the Broad's Fork Twin Peaks trail.
Of course that was before we walked back to the car and I couldn't find my keys. Before we hiked all the way back up and spent an hour looking for them.
Before we got back down again and I realized I must have locked my keys in my trunk.
"We're not too far away from the city, are we?" She asked. "Nah," I reassured her with a faux confidence that could not have hidden my acute awareness that it was now midnight and we were exactly 4.5 miles from the mouth of the canyon.
Plan A: Somehow break into my Dodge Spirit without shattering the windows and before she starts getting cold.
No dice.
Plan B: Start Walking. Stay upbeat. Avoid mountain lions and "helpful" serial-killer-looking guys offering us rides. Pick up the pieces of my shattered pride at the bottom. "Hey, at least it's
downhill."
We joked about our misfortune, but our guarded laughter dwindled as we rounded curve after curve of quiet road. We walked at least a mile before a normal-looking couple in a pickup offered to drive us to a pay phone (my cell phone was with my keys in the trunk). The awkward chitchat made the ride seem much longer than it was, but I was glad to be out of the mountains.
"So what are you going to do now?" The guy driving asked with all the compassion he could muster and still keep a straight face.
"Probably call a friend," I said as we climbed out of his cab at a grocery store, knowing that calling a friend would be even more tragic than locking my keys in my car 4.5 miles up a canyon on a first date. The only thing worse than scaring a girl off is seeing her the next week at Leatherby's, sharing a Rob's Banana Split with your friend that so nobly rescued her from her nightmare first date with you.
No, friends were definitely not an option. I picked up the pay phone and dialed the only person who could look past my idiocy and get me out of this mess. My mother arrived in short order, and we were soon driving back up the canyon with my backup key.
When we retrieved my keys and pulled out of the trailhead parking lot, I looked at the girl I was certain I'd never see again. "I'm at a loss," I blabbered, feeling about an inch tall. "I just don't know what to say. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she assured me, obviously glad the ordeal was finally over. The uneasiness had worn off and her playful sense of humor had resurfaced. "It was a great hike…and this will definitely go down as the most hilarious first date story ever!"
9 years and 4 kids later, we sat at the mouth of Settlement Canyon, laughing about that night and searching the sky for constellations. We got out and hiked past the gate and down to the Dark Trail trailhead. When it was time to walk back, I took my glove off and felt my right front pocket. Oh, good—the keys were there.
Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com
Yeah, that's where I stranded us.Looking west toward the Salt Lake Valley from Broads Fork Trail in Big Cottonwood Canyon.
(photo by UtahPictures.com)
There's nothing quite like the sound of a mountain stream. Whether it's a spring brook in the high Uintas or a frigid creek in the snowy Oquirrhs, the vibrant white-noise gush of pure water is like nature's ipod. The only thing better than listening to a stream with your friends or your kids is listening to a stream with your sweetheart.
Last week's white-out capped off a grueling winter ruled by freak snow storms that seemed to always blow in right in time for my commute. I hoped to take my wife on a Valentine's hike, but finding a passable back road in the county has been difficult. Luckily, Settlement Canyon Road was plowed for a mile, and we drove up to watch the sunset.
We drove up to the closed gate where the snow plows turn around and a snow-packed road continues deep into the quiet Oquirrhs. The sun was setting over the distant Stansbury Mountains, framed by One O'Clock Peak to the south and Little Mountain to the north. The thermometer in our dash read 29 degrees. We turned the heater on and rolled the windows down to listen to Settlement Creek course into the mostly frozen reservoir below.
We talked about the kids and how we hoped they hadn't burned my mother's house down yet. We talked about the things we needed to buy at Wal-Mart the next morning. We reminisced about the night we first met at a gathering of friends in Skull Valley- how she broke the ice
by offering me a fruit punch Capri Sun- how we sat by the campfire talking until the sun came up, and how that almost a decade later we still can't get enough of the wilderness.
The conversation eventually turned to the disaster that was our first date. We laugh about it now, but at the time it couldn't have been more embarrassing. I'm amazed I ever saw her again after that night. Maybe some things are just meant to be- no matter how hard you try to screw them up. Till the day I die, being in the mountains at night with her will always remind me of that ill-fated night.
Having moved here from the utterly flat state of Texas the day before we met, she had never hiked a mountain trail or watched the Milky Way from an alpine meadow.
"I'll take her hiking," I thought. "One breath of crisp mountain air, one look at the city from a canyon overlook and she'll be mine."
Initially things went well—a nice drive up Big Cottonwood Canyon and a romantic couple-mile hike along the Broad's Fork Twin Peaks trail.
Of course that was before we walked back to the car and I couldn't find my keys. Before we hiked all the way back up and spent an hour looking for them.
Before we got back down again and I realized I must have locked my keys in my trunk.
"We're not too far away from the city, are we?" She asked. "Nah," I reassured her with a faux confidence that could not have hidden my acute awareness that it was now midnight and we were exactly 4.5 miles from the mouth of the canyon.
Plan A: Somehow break into my Dodge Spirit without shattering the windows and before she starts getting cold.
No dice.
Plan B: Start Walking. Stay upbeat. Avoid mountain lions and "helpful" serial-killer-looking guys offering us rides. Pick up the pieces of my shattered pride at the bottom. "Hey, at least it's
downhill."
We joked about our misfortune, but our guarded laughter dwindled as we rounded curve after curve of quiet road. We walked at least a mile before a normal-looking couple in a pickup offered to drive us to a pay phone (my cell phone was with my keys in the trunk). The awkward chitchat made the ride seem much longer than it was, but I was glad to be out of the mountains.
"So what are you going to do now?" The guy driving asked with all the compassion he could muster and still keep a straight face.
"Probably call a friend," I said as we climbed out of his cab at a grocery store, knowing that calling a friend would be even more tragic than locking my keys in my car 4.5 miles up a canyon on a first date. The only thing worse than scaring a girl off is seeing her the next week at Leatherby's, sharing a Rob's Banana Split with your friend that so nobly rescued her from her nightmare first date with you.
No, friends were definitely not an option. I picked up the pay phone and dialed the only person who could look past my idiocy and get me out of this mess. My mother arrived in short order, and we were soon driving back up the canyon with my backup key.
When we retrieved my keys and pulled out of the trailhead parking lot, I looked at the girl I was certain I'd never see again. "I'm at a loss," I blabbered, feeling about an inch tall. "I just don't know what to say. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she assured me, obviously glad the ordeal was finally over. The uneasiness had worn off and her playful sense of humor had resurfaced. "It was a great hike…and this will definitely go down as the most hilarious first date story ever!"
9 years and 4 kids later, we sat at the mouth of Settlement Canyon, laughing about that night and searching the sky for constellations. We got out and hiked past the gate and down to the Dark Trail trailhead. When it was time to walk back, I took my glove off and felt my right front pocket. Oh, good—the keys were there.
Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com
Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Monday, February 18, 2008,6:48 PM
Lone Rock climb rewards with views of the past
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."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."
Click here to read the full article.
Labels: American West, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Wednesday, February 13, 2008,5:27 PM
Exploring wild Florida at The Disney Wilderness Preserve
Bonneville Mariner recounts a January, 2008 visit to The Nature Conservancy's central Florida gem, The Disney Wilderness Preserve.
“I don't like formal gardens. I like wild nature.It's just the wilderness instinct in me, I guess.”
-Walt Disney
When one thinks of Disney, “wild nature” isn’t necessarily the first thing that comes to mind. The man-made waterfalls and animatronic animals of Disney’s Jungle Cruise rides certainly evoke thoughts of far-off tropical locales, but the typical Disney adventure doesn’t stray far from carefully manicured walkways and piped-in theme music.
It’s not that Walt Disney sought to “sanitize” reality. He was dissuaded from using real animals in his nature-themed attractions because they would be unsafe, unmanageable, and impractical. Walt’s goal was to give his guests a sampling of places they would likely never experience in real life. He may have painted the human world in a fantastical light, but his goal with nature and wildlife attractions was reality. The very same team that designs the illusions at Walt Disney World have also created the very real The Disney Wilderness Preserve.
While I've climbed real mountains all my life, I can credit Mr. Disney for sparking my fascination with exotic climes. The Sunshine State’s climate ranges from humid subtropical in the north to tropical in the south. Florida’s lifeblood is a 200-mile-long system of lakes, streams, and wetlands that spans the southern length of the peninsula. The network of lakes and streams in the Orlando area are the headwaters of this system, which ebbs south through the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes into the Kissimmee River, which feeds Lake Okeechobee and the Everglades system.
The Disney Wilderness Preserve lies at the heart of this aquatic network and was once a cattle ranch. Disney purchased the bulk of property and donated it to The Nature Conservancy in 1991 as part of a wetlands mitigation plan. The result was a 12,000-acre subtropical wonderland- a timeless snapshot of old-school Florida, and one of the prettiest places I’ve ever seen.
It was mid-morning and cloudy when I started along the 2.5 mile trail that loops through the preserve. The trail winds through a field of saw palmetto before merging onto an old sandy road. After about a mile, a smaller trail branches off into a swampy cypress forest on the shores of Lake Russell, one of the last remaining undeveloped lakes in central Florida.
A school of tiny fish in the rusty shallows scattered as I approached, and small waves lapped at the sandy bank. Beyond the shoreline, strands of Spanish moss clung to bare cypress branches, whisking in gently with the breeze. I hate bugs, and bugs hate me (they bite me any chance they get and I smash them any chance I get). Yet despite our eternal feud, I’m glad they’re there, shrouded in grass, anonymously combing their wings. Their tranquil song awakens primal senses while it calms the soul. Dark clouds inched over the lake, almost mimicking twilight. I realized that like the High Uintas in Utah and the Laura Plantation in Louisiana, this was one of the most peaceful places I had ever been.The clouds broke again as I walked back to the main trail and continued another mile through a young forest and back to the trailhead. I didn't see much wildlife, but there was enough slithering and rustling in the brush to convince me to stay on the trail. The ground in the area is a sandy white clay that turns black when it's saturated. It had rained the night before, and there were plenty of black mud puddles to dodge.
I never knew about the preserve prior to this trip, but I'm glad I chanced upon a mention of it somewhere in my research. I'll definitely be returning to this place.--
Check out The Nature Conservancy's TDWP website for more information.
Thanks to TNC's Jill Austin for answering all my questions.
Labels: American South, Trip Reports
Sunday, February 10, 2008,4:20 AM
Exploring White Rock brings peril aplenty
"I turned onto what I thought was my planned return route, but was baffled when it veered in the wrong direction and petered off into a faint trail, eventually disappearing altogether in the brush. I got out of the Trooper and looked at the trail in disbelief. It was at that moment that I realized just how dark the night was. The crisp, juniper-scented air I normally relished now only heightened an already acute sense of aloneness.
"Solitude is bliss, but only when you know where you are and how to get back.
"I was lost -- a phenomenon I pride myself on having rarely experienced. But at that moment, my sense of direction was more wrecked than my pride. Roads looked like ATV trails, and ATV trails like roads. Nothing behind me looked like where I thought I had come from, and nothing ahead of me looked like where I thought I should go. Yearning for some sense of civilization, I turned on the radio. I spent the next two hours following trail after trail, listening to KSL host Clark Howard talk about how dollar store batteries are just as good as the name brands."
The boys and I drove out to Skull Valley last Saturday hoping to climb White Rock, a domed igneous anomoly reminiscent of Moab. Unfortunately, the road was covered with at least 2 feet of snow in some places. No matter, though. I realized a story from years past would probably make for a better article anyway.
Click here for to read the full article. If- for whatever reason- you like what you read, feel free to drop my editor a note. If you think it's just the nonsensical babblings of an inexperienced writer, feel free to refrain from dropping him a note!
Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Sunday, February 3, 2008,10:25 PM
Ice fishing at Grantsville reservoir chills the body, warms the soul
Ice over Grantsville Reservoir (photos by Clint Thomsen)
"'That's a male.' Ben pulled his hook and laid the pink-banded fish on the ice. 'You can tell because he's a little bit darker and his lower jaw has that hook shape.'
Ben has plucked fish from frozen lakes for 10 years now, but has been a die-hard fisherman since he picked up a spinning rod at age 3. When he's not wading rivers with a fly rod or casting at Hyrum Dam, he's home tying his own flies. 'I think it is programmed into my DNA,' he says about his favorite hobby. Listening to him discuss lures, flies, and fish species the excited way my boys talk about Disney World, I think he's probably right."
Ironically, I wrote the bulk of this article last week while sitting under a palm tree in Orlando, Florida.
Special thanks to fishing guru extraordinaire Dr. Todd Larsen for his insight into the "jigging stick" method. Dr. Larsen writes about fishing history at fishinghistory.blogspot.com. It's a really interesting read.
Thanks also to my pal Ben for showing me the ropes of ice fishing. Ben cringed a bit at my mention of his Subaru Outback. Let's just say that Ben's more a Cabelas fella than an REI guy. He pretends it's an F-150.
Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.
Ben's RainbowLabels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Tuesday, January 29, 2008,2:22 AM
Kickin' it on Cocoa Beach
I'm just back from a week in central Florida. I was there for work, so most of the daylight hours were spent indoors at a convention, but I used the time before and after meetings the best I could. I'd have to check the weather almanac, but it seems like this winter in Utah has been one of the coldest we've had in a while. And after months of scraping ice off my car windows and walking the streets of downtown Salt Lake City in sub-zero temps, this trip to the Sunshine State was a godsend.I flew into Orlando in the evening, and my first order of business was to find some good barbecue- something unfortunately Utah lacks completely. After checking in, I drove over to the Orange Blossom Trail and had dinner at Sonny's Barbecue on the recommendation of my brother, who served an LDS mission there for two years. I had the pork trio- ribs, pulled pork, and sliced pork, with coleslaw and beans on the side. It doesn't beat any of my favorite BBQ joints in Texas, but it was still extremely delicious. Once nice touch that brought joy to my soul- when they brought me my check, they gave me a 32 oz. Diet Coke to go.
It was too late to make the 46 mile drive to Cocoa Beach, so I went to Walt Disney World and walked around Downtown Disney for a few hours.
The next morning I left my hotel at 4 AM and drove to Cocoa Beach. Heavy rain had drenched the little surf town and was still falling strong when I pulled into the parking lot of the famed Ron Jon Surf Shop, which is open 24/7. The Cocoa Beach store wasn't the first Ron Jon's, but it is arguably the chain's most popular location.
The rain had left most of the beach area parking lots with 3-4 inches of water.I have a lot of Ron Jon t-shirts- all of which I bought for $3 or less at the Valley Fair Mall in West Valley City, Utah. The manufacturer that Ron Jon contracts with for their clothing also has a contract with this little store to sell their "damaged" goods. So whenever a Ron Jon t-shirt or hoodie comes out of the factory with an ink stain or a logo that's misplaced by a few millimeters, it ends up in this little Utah store for next to nothing.
Shirts in the actual store go for about $25.
I'm not sure where surf bums get their money, but they must be buying this outrageously priced clothing or companies like Quicksilver and Hurley would be going out of business. I was a little disappointed that all I could justify there was a bumper sticker (sorry, Hurley, as much as I dig your style and the "freedom company" tagline, what fool pays $45 for a mediocre quality shirt?).
When the rain stopped and the sun rose I walked to the Cocoa Beach Pier, a rustic combination of gift shops and restaurants- all of which were still closed. The pier itself was open, so I walked out and watched the waves, which seemed higher than usual- maybe because of the storm. A group of surfers were paddling the waves just off the pier, and the morning was so quiet that I could clearly hear all of their conversations.
Further in the distance a school of dolphins was surfing and hopping waves less than 50 yards from the shore. Aside from the dolphins, the surfers, some pelicans and myself, the beach was completely empty.
After strolling the pier, I returned to the sand and walked south for about a mile and back, picking up a few of the morning's best seashells to take home for the boys. After a few hours on the beach I drove to the Kennedy Space Center, stopping along the way at a private orange orchard to buy and chug a pint of freshly squeezed OJ. I don't know how I'll ever drink Minute Maid again.
Labels: American South, Trip Reports
Thursday, January 24, 2008,11:39 PM
Winter camp on Pony Express trail full of history and adventure for all ages
Cold, cold night, awesome morning.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."
Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.
Dugway Pass looking eastward (photo by Clint Thomsen)
Stairs to nowhere: remains of the CCC camp at Simpson Springs(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Labels: American West, Ghost Towns, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Monday, January 21, 2008,10:54 PM
Remote geode beds allow rockhounds to search for buried treasure
A drink of Lake Bonneville, anyone?"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."
Head over to the Transcript Bulletin's website to read the full article.
Labels: American West, History, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Thursday, January 10, 2008,5:45 PM
Floating Island: Chasing the Mirage
"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
Sunday, January 6, 2008,9:40 PM
Swords & Ukuleles: A visit to Davy Jones' locker
"For certain, you have to be lost to find a place as can't be found,
elseways everyone would know where it was."
Click over to the Transcript Bulletin to read the full article.
Incidentally, the pirate sword Coulter is holding (below) is one of those nifty sound/light effects swords. The thing worked great when it was still in Santa's sleigh, but for some reason quit working once he opened it up. We were going to see if we could send it back or trade it somewhere, but decided to let him take the broken sword on this trip.
When we parked the car in Davy Jones' locker, I went to open the trunk and heard the sword inside just clanking and swiping away. It's worked fine ever since.
Coulter in Davy Jones' locker
This would make a good album cover. Reminds me of U2's The Joshua Tree.
Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Tuesday, January 1, 2008,11:09 AM
Winter camping can quickly become an exercise in survival
"I've never felt closer to death than I felt that night. My extremities were numb and the rest of my body stung like a second-degree burn. We talked as much as we could, trying to laugh about our predicament. After a while, Chan and Tyler were silent. The psychological trauma was almost worse than the cold itself. I didn't want to fall asleep for fear my life would slip away, but the thought of laying awake and counting the seconds until morning was almost a more horrifying prospect. I slipped in and out, checking my watch sometimes several times per minute."
This week's article is a refined version of the story I submitted to Rock and Ice Magazine's writing contest, adapted for newspaper format. If you've already read that one, don't worry. This version is different enough to be interesting.
Go to the Tooele Transcript Bulletin's website to read the full story.
Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Wednesday, December 26, 2007,9:59 AM
Ophir is a treat for history, nature lovers
"'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.
The road to Ophir (photo by Clint Thomsen)
A group of mule deer at the mouth of the canyon(photo by Clint Thomsen)
A small cabin on the east end of the town(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Old ore cars along old Main Street(photo by Clint Thomsen)
Labels: American West, Ghost Towns, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Monday, December 17, 2007,2:36 PM
Snorkling on outskirts of Grantsville makes for excellent wintertime sport
A 9-foot nurse shark surfaces near the bank of
White Rocks Bay for a breakfast of whiting fish.
(Photo by Clint Thomsen)
"I've always loved the ocean and everything associated with it. My sea gene became manifest one day as a young boy at SeaWorld, when I was selected from the audience to meet Shamu the killer whale. The moment I ran my hand over that slick orca skin I fell in love. I hugged the whale and fed him some squid and the sea has coursed through my veins ever since.But ocean addiction is rough for a landlocked desert rat -- especially when the nearest coast is two states and hundreds of gas dollars away. And Discovery Channel specials and repeated viewings of "Finding Nemo" just don't cut it. So I was stoked to jump into the salty waters at Seabase. Linda handed me a head of romaine lettuce to coax fish within visual range and I descended the ladder into the spring. The water was chilly at first, but the neoprene wetsuit warmed me back up quickly. With lettuce in hand, I swam toward the center of the pool to make some tropical friends."
Click here to read the rest of the article. Much thanks to Linda Nelson for a great day out at Seabase!
RELATED LINKS
Bonneville Seabase
Labels: Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Thursday, December 6, 2007,8:36 PM
Early morning drive proves Great Salt Lake is more than a big, dead pool
Looking north toward Antelope Island
(photo by Clint Thomsen)
"The huge spiders that spin their menacing webs in these rocks had abandoned them for the winter, and the top of Black Rock in the distance was still lightly dusted with last Saturday's first snow. This I wouldn't have traded for 10 more minutes of sleep.
It seems strange -- an enormous saltwater lake in the middle of the desert. Famed Western writer Wallace Stegner called it "a desert of water in a desert of salt and mud and rock." But the apparent anomaly of the lake is more psychological than physical. The existence and disappearance of ancient Lake Bonneville literally shaped the topography of western Utah. Its signature is prolifically etched throughout the eastern Great Basin. Where else can one look up at a landlocked mountain and see rock formations carved by great waves?"
Ancient Lake Bonneville was the chief shaper of western Utah's topography and is the inspiration for my nickname (Bonneville Mariner) and this website.
Check out the full article over at the Transcript Bulletin. If it makes for good reading, drop by and tell my editor what you think!
Labels: American West, Transcript Bulletin, Trip Reports
Thursday, November 15, 2007,10:03 PM
If You Can't Beat the Fish, You Can join Them at Horseshoe Springs
"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
Thursday, November 8, 2007,9:03 PM
My First Published Article in the Tooele Transcript Bulletin
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
Thursday, October 18, 2007,1:41 PM
BonnevilleMariner Enters Blogger's Brawl
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 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 WASATCHPhoto 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
Monday, October 1, 2007,11:41 PM
The White Lady: Ghostly Encounter in Spring Canyon
Liberty Fuel Coal mining office in Latuda
(used with permission from the Western Mining & Railroad Museum)
(used with permission from the Western Mining & Railroad Museum)
In honor of the Halloween season that is upon us, Bonneville Mariner investigates the legendary "White Lady of Latuda" and recalls an eerie trip to the ghost towns in Spring Canyon near Helper, UT.
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.
The town of Rains in its heyday.(used with permission from the Western Mining & Railroad Museum)
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.
Entrance to the Liberty Fuel coal mine in Latuda(photograph by Bonneville Mariner)
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.
The wash below the Latuda townsite (photograph by Bonneville Mariner)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
Wednesday, September 5, 2007,11:37 PM
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast: Waveland to Pensacola
Bonneville Mariner visited the Gulf Coast in September, 2006. Continuing with hisGulfCoast series, he describes the sights and people along the coast
between New Orleans and the Florida panhandle.
THE LAST THING WE HAD TO EAT WAS POPEYE'S FRIED CHICKEN in Slidell. We had vowed to limit our meals to food we couldn't find back home. Yes, Popeye's is fast food, but it's gourmet fast food in my book. In Utah we have Kentucky Fried Chicken, but KFC doesn't hold a candle to Popeye's juicy goodness. We bought some extra biscuits for the road, but they were rock-hard by the time Neil Benson dropped us off at our car after our swamp adventure. The next closest towns were Waveland and Bay St. Louis, and we headed eastward on the quest to fill our bellies with authentic southern cuisine. We stopped at a little place called Catfish One at the edge of Waveland. I'm not a catfish nut, but the very thought of the platter I ordered makes my mouth water to this day.
This small fish stand is run out of a trailer several yards from a crumbling foundation, presumably the former home of its owners. The owners now live in a smaller trailer that sits behind the ramshackle stand. There were no standing homes in the area that I could see, only makeshift trailer parks filled with row after row of white FEMA trailers. A year after the storm, residents were making the best of trailer life by planting little gardens and manicuring small unofficial yards. Hurricane Katrina made her final land fall at the mouth of the Pearl River near Bay St. Louis. And although the town is the highest point along the entire Gulf Coast (12 feet above sea level), much of it was swept away by a 30 foot storm tide.
The lonely highway approaching St. Louis Bay is lined with downed timber, huge piles of debris, and gutted buildings. The lack of signage or visible landmarks rendered our map useless. We stopped to ask a gas station attendant if we were close to Bay St. Louis. "You are in Bay St. Louis," he replied.
We never made it to Pass Christian, a small historic town across St. Louis Bay. Of Pass Christian's 8,000 homes, all but 500 were decimated by Katrina. We had hoped to drive across St. Louis Bay on the U.S. 90 bridge, and on to Biloxi, but the bridge was destroyed and had not yet been rebuilt. We had to backtrack to I-10 to head further east. We made our way back down to the coast at Gulfport, a fishing town in a lot better shape than Bay St. Louis where we bought some sand dollars and a bottled dead shark. We then continued along the coast to Biloxi where we hoped to stay the night.
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
In the West we drink "pop." Northeasterners sip "soda." Bostonians order "tonic." In the South they just drink Coke- Dr. Pepper Coke, Pepsi Coke, Shasta Coke, Sam's Choice Coke, even regular Coke Coke. Thankfully there are still different cultural dialects to add spice to an increasingly homogenized nation. Food names aren't the only differing designations for things. Geographical perception differs from region to region as well.
In the West we think we have rivers. In reality, Western rivers are more like large streams. Easterners laugh at our "rivers." That's ok, because we laugh at their "mountains." Northern lakes tend to be small to moderate sized bodies of freshwater . Deep South folk probably see northern lakes as over sized puddles, while I see their lakes as small seas or large bays. In fact, I'm not quite sure how most lakes in the Deep South actually fit the definition. The least sea-like lake in the Deep South is most similar to Utah's most sea-like lake. Lake Pontchartrain is the second largest saltwater lake in the United States, after our Great Salt Lake. But where Utah's inland sea has no outlet, Lake Pontchartrain drains into Lake Borgne, which drains into the Gulf of Mexico- which, going by the Deep South's geographical definitions, could arguably be called a really big lake.
You could mistake it for a lake, too. Much of the Gulf Coast is lined with a chain of barrier islands- long, linear landforms that are technically large sandbars. These islands serve as the mainland's primary protection from storms. They also break strong waves, which is why there are no Beach Boys songs about surfing Pascagoula. The coastal waters here are calm and the beaches short.
BILOXI
Biloxi looked a lot better than it did in pictures right after the storm, but it still easily qualified as a class B/C/D hybrid ghost town (rubble and/or roofless building ruins, standing abandoned buildings , and a small resident population). There was a small carnival in the center of the city, but elsewhere people were nowhere to be seen.
Souvenir shop in Biloxi, a year after Katrina (NOAA photo)It was getting dark, and we passed many abandoned resorts and hotels as we looked for somewhere to stay. Since the storm, many new properties have sprung up between the abandoned ones- the new and modern juxtaposed with the old and deteriorating. Handsome new buildings with empty parking lots stood waiting for somebody- anybody to stop in and spend the night. We prepared for our usual small town motel routine: I stay in the car while my wife goes in (she's much more persuasive than I am, not to mention better looking) and drives a hard bargain. Once they're convinced your really going to walk out of their lobbies and look elsewhere, most roadside motels will make you the offer you were looking for. This method has worked for us from coast to coast for many years.
Not in Biloxi.
The prices at these new establishments were outrageous. They all looked clean enough, but none of them were anything to write home about. I would have had no problem paying full price at a hotel recovering from Katrina. The least we could do is pump a few dollars into these local economies. But the only working hotels were the new ones, who for some reason would rather turn away customers and sit empty than settle for a slightly lower fee. I was torn between the desire to help out a struggling city and very real budget constraints. One brand new place almost convinced us to stay until they mentioned they had no bedsheets, pillows, or hot water. "Well we just barely opened. There's still some things we don't have."
So how much were they be willing to knock off the price for lack of these essentials? Nothing. Suddenly the Garden Center at Wal-Mart didn't sound half bad.
Somewhere between Biloxi and Pascagoula I reluctantly had to stop for a Red Bull. Normally I don't drop $2.50 for a small can of something that tastes like brake fluid, but I hadn't slept since Salt Lake and it was either that or fall asleep at the wheel. I gagged it down and we continued eastward along the quiet coast. We were hoping the motel entrepreneurs in Pascagoula would be more reasonable than their Biloxi counterparts. Thankfully they were, and we were soon sleeping soundly at the Best Western.
PENSACOLA
I've always dreamed of walking along an endless white sand beach dotted with palm trees, crystal clear waves lapping against it- the kind of beach you see on desktop wallpapers and in frames hanging on the walls of travel agencies. The Great Salt Lake is ok to look at, but no way am I taking off my shoes on those alkali shores, and no way would I ever dive in. The Pacific ocean is the closest to home, but the water is cold and murky, and if you go in after a rainstorm, you might just come out with a few extra bacteria in your system thanks to Mexico's pipe-free sewer system.
That's why I was so excited to finally reach Pensacola, the first European settlement in what would be come the U.S., and home to the whitest beaches I've ever seen pictures of. We would only have one day there, so we woke up early and got on the road. It was about time we checked some email and payed a few bills, so we drove to the Krystal, a hamburger chain whose claims to fame are its Krystal burgers and its free wireless Internet access.
After sitting for a while in the parking lot, I figured I better go in and at least buy something to repay the good owners for letting us jump on the net for free. I wanted a breakfast combo and I wanted to try the Krystal, a mini hamburger served in bulk quantities. Not wanting a sack full of hamburgers with my grits, I made the mistake of asking if it was possible to buy just one.
"A single Krystal?" the lady asked, causing the other cashier and the cook to glance at me in total confusion, the same way the servers at Mexican restaurants look at me when I ask for no lettuce on my combo plate.
"This guy wants a single Krystal. Do we even sell a single Krystal?"
"He wants what? Just one Krystal? Are you kidding?"
"Nobody ever asked us for a single Krystal," the baffled cashier informed me. "I don't even know how we'd sell you just one."
They were either completely annoyed with me or trying not to fall on the floor laughing- I'm not sure which. They definitely thought I was some kind of idiot- a white boy in flip flops and a car with California plates trying to order a single Krystal. One customer had been sitting in a booth with her face buried in her hands. The conversation perked her up and she added in a just-woke-up voice, "You realize the Krystals are very small, don't you sir?"
"She's right, they are extremely small."
"Ok, ok," I said. "Just give me how ever many you normally give. I didn't realize-"
"Oh now he wants a whole order."
Finally a managerial-looking woman walked up from the back with a single Krystal all wrapped up special for me.
"Here is your single Krystal, sir," she smirked, on the verge of laughing uncontrollably. "On the house."
I was too flustered to remember the breakfast combo, and I can't imagine the laugh they had at my expense when I walked out of there.
Moral of the story: If you want to liven up your trip to Mississippi, walk into a Krystal and order just one.
BEACH BUDDIES
My single Krystal down the gullet, we drove straight through Alabama and over the Florida border to Santa Rosa Island, a 40 mile barrier island off of Pensacola Bay. I spent so much time looking at that island on Google Earth that I could have driven there with my eyes closed.
My wife hates the ocean. Hates it. She's scared to death of it. Probably from watching Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. She has no desire to set foot on a beach, let alone swim in the ocean. She was perfectly content to drop Coulter and I off at one end of the island and drive back to explore the city. I strapped the boy onto my back and made a beeline to the water. It was clear that the beaches had been damaged by Katrina, which washed some sand away and increased the beach's slope. But it was nice nonetheless. The sand was a brilliant white and it crunched under my feet. The water was warm- somewhere between the temperature of a heated pool and a hot tub.
Pensacola Beach (Photo by Bonneville Mariner)And it was crystal clear. The geography of the Gulf Coast changes significantly between southern Louisiana and the Florida panhandle. At the waterline, beaches in the panhandle gradually slope for about 20 yards before suddenly dropping off to depths of up to 200 feet. The drop is very visible on the surface, where a turquoise morphs abruptly into a deep blue. Since the water is so clear, you know exactly when you swim past the drop off. This is where swimming off the California Coast has it's advantages. You have no idea how deep the water is or what creatures may be swimming beneath you. Here various sharks and rays were clearly visible from the surface, so Coulter and I stayed shallow. We strolled for miles along the beach, watching dolphins, playing in the sand and picking up shells along the way until we reached the pier, where we watched the sunset. It was then that I realized just what good buddies Coulter and I were. And while I initially had reservations about bringing him on this trip, I wouldn't have traded this day with him for the world.
Coulter (photo by Bonneville Mariner)Labels: American South, Dispatches From the Gulf Coast, Trip Reports
Tuesday, August 28, 2007,10:45 AM
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast: The Honey Island Swamp
Bonneville Mariner visited the Gulf Coast in September, 2006. Continuing with his Gulf Coast series, the author recounts a visit to the Honey Island Swamp along the Pearl River."Everybody who lives out here is running from something-
either the law or the voices in their heads."
-Captain Neil Benson, Pearl River Eco-tours
FOR ME, EXPLORATION HAS ALWAYS BEGUN AT CIVILIZATION'S END. In most places, one must retreat from the neon signs and golden arches and fully exit the concrete jungle to find wilderness. Generally, if I have even one bar of reception on my cell phone, I haven't wandered far enough. Most populated places in America attempt to integrate wilderness into civilization in the form of "green spaces" - finely manicured plots of lawn and picnic benches that are supposed to convey a sense of nature and openness. In the Deep South, it's the other way around. Here, small towns carve a sense of civilization into immense, untamed wilds. Even larger suburbs seem strained to keep a creeping wilderness at bay.
Slidell is a New Orleans suburb that lies under a canopy of loblolly pine on the northeast shore of Lake Pontchartrain. It's an area saturated with rivers and bayous, where small gravel roads lead to stilted home neighborhoods deep in the marshes where you wouldn't think neighborhoods would or could be. It's a lowland so low (3 feet, to be exact) that the term "terra firma" doesn't really apply. And unlike most places in the country, here one can simultaneously be deep in the wilderness and a stone's throw from a Waffle House.
Slidell is bordered to the east by the West Pearl River, which flows from it's headwaters in the area of the Nanih Waiya Indian Mounds in central Mississippi and drains into the Rigolets and eventually into the Gulf of Mexico. The Pearl is home to the Honey Island Swamp, one of the most beautiful and least-altered river swamps in the United States. It takes it's name from tales of abundant wild honey made by renegade bees that had escaped their beekeepers.
SWAMP BOUND
We had made no hotel reservations. There was nothing on the itinerary. We had no plan other than to drive lonely roads and explore forgotten corners of this subtropical wonderland. We drove slowly along Hwy 190, trying to take everything in. I soon saw that tombs weren't the only objects stolen away by Katrina's flood waters. A large tugboat loomed just off the highway, miles from any open water. I got out to take some pictures and was instantly attacked by swarms of what looked like over-sized flying ants. These little monsters came in mating pairs, and I was amazed that they would take the time out of their procreative rite to sink their teeth (or fangs, or pokers, or whatever) into my forearms. My only option was to run until I got close enough to snap a couple pictures, then sprint back to the car. It's amazing how fast an out-of-shape thirty-year-old can run when being chased by hordes of two-headed devil bugs. So enjoy these pictures of the runaway tugboat- I paid dearly to get them.
A few miles and several more beached boats later, we pulled into a clamshell lot fronting a swamp museum on the banks of the Pearl. A wooden walkway led out to the bank where we met two swamp tour captains, both with heavy Cajun accents. It was early afternoon and both captains had ended their tours for the day. The swamp tour business was good before Katrina, they told me. Honey Island Swamp guides are now lucky to have one full boat per day, and it would have been a waste of gas and time to take only us on an after-hours tour. As we were turning to walk back to our car, another tour boat floated by and offered to take us aboard.Ah, the swamp. Something I've seen in many a movie but never experienced for myself. It was amazingly quiet for an area so rich with wildlife. The setting was right out of the boat launch scene on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland- except that particular ride scene was probably taken straight from here. Old ramshackle boathouses lined the bank across from the launch, and I half expected to pass a fisherman strumming 'O Susanna' on his banjo before plunging down a waterfall into the world of swashbuckling pirates. But this was the real deal. It was obvious that Katrina had been here. Lines of boathouses floated abandoned along the shore. Across from the launch one medium-sized boathouse rested atop a much smaller outhouse. A smaller boathouse floated beside the first, seemingly untouched by the storm.
DEAD RIVER"I'm going to turn on a little AC," said Captain Neil Benson, owner of Pearl River Eco-tours. "Oh good," I thought. "I'm dying out here!" Turns out he just meant he was going to drive the boat really fast. It did feel good though. After speeding along the main waterway for a mile or so, Captain Neil stopped to turn into a narrow channel leading into a slough he called Dead River. A slough is a shallow backwater lake system that parallels the main bayou waterway. The Honey Island Swamp is a 70,000 acre maze of these sloughs.
"Watch out for the giant cutgrass as we go," Neil warned as he pointed to thick patches of tall, broad-leafed grass that brushed the sides of the boat as we drifted past. "That'll cut your fingers pretty good."
Neil Benson grew up in the swamp. He first set out alone in a pirogue at age 10 and owned his first motorized flat boat at 12. "I know some people out here that are pretty strange. Everybody who lives in the swamp is running from something- either the law or the voices in their heads."
This caught my interest. I asked him later to elaborate.
"The swamp is a place to lose yourself- sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally. If you are running away from life, the swamp will easily accommodate your request and take whatever past you had and hide it in its waters and beneath its canopy of trees."
We were about a mile into Dead River's labyrinth before I realized I hadn't been bitten by any bugs since we left the car. Not even one mosquito, which surprised me, given we were on an open boat deep in the swamp. In fact, other than our toddler's repeated attempts to leap from the vessel, this was the most peaceful boat ride I've ever been on. The swamp is an eerily beautiful place. Knobby knees of bald cypresses seem to float on the murky surface. The still, dark waters combine with the impenetrable fauna and moss-hung tupelos to cast a haunting, yet enchanting spell. Wikipedia defines a swamp as "a wetland that features temporary or permanent inundation of large areas of land by shallow bodies of water." Neil defines it as as an "underwater forest."
CRITTERS
Neil killed the engine as the slough opened into an oxbow lake or billabong, created when a wide meander of the river is cut off. I noticed a small green tree frog perched on the handrail next to my elbow. Though the swamp is densely populated with wildlife, it takes a trained eye to actually spot most of it. Once I saw that frog, I began noticing them everywhere. The swamp is like a 3-D Where's Waldo book. The best way spot wildlife is to think of one type of animal and scan the banks until you see it.
We don't have a lot of critters in Utah. I sleep on forest floors and dive into lakes and rivers without a second thought. My Texas-bred wife nearly went into cardiac arrest the first time she saw me wade out into the Provo River for a swim. In Utah there is a notable lack of animals that can hurt/maim/kill you compared to the Deep South. The most dangerous creature to hikers in Utah is the rattlesnake- and even he will give you fair warning before striking.What's unsettling to me in this bog is the wildlife you can't see- the critters that lurk beneath the rusty surface of the water. Neil says swimming in the swamp is no more dangerous than swimming in any other river. "Yes, we have alligators, snakes and the occasional bull shark in the river. Yet, like most animals in their natural ecosystem, the animals are more scared of humans than humans are scared of them."
Well, I guess if it's only an occasional bull shark mixed in with the alligators and snakes. I feel so reassured!
SWAMP RATS AND GATORS
Somewhat of a political anomaly, Neil is a serious environmentalist who drives a pickup with an NRA bumper sticker. His love for exploration and adventure evolved into a passion for this delicate ecosystem, and he's been guiding swamp tours for over a decade. A few days after hurricane Katrina nearly stripped life from the swamp by ripping off its canopy and flooding it with salt water, Neil ventured out to inspect the damage with reporter Ben Montgomery of the Tampa Tribune.
"This is unbelievable," he told Montgomery. "For the life of me, I would have never guessed it. It's gone. All of it."
"It was my first time back in the swamp after the storm," Neil tells me over the phone two years later on the second anniversary of Katrina's landfall. "It was heart breaking. I'm not an emotional person, but I have to tell you I was in tears." A couple hours on a boat with Captain Neil reveals his zeal for this place.
Back in open water, we saw our first gator. Once we spotted one, we started seeing them everywhere. As we passed, alligators would swim toward the boat angling for the marshmallows Neil would toss to them. He even reached out to pet the one he calls Big Al.
In the swamp, you see a lot of things out of the corner of your eye. A frog or a snake here, an alligator or a wild boar there. Stories abound about an elusive creature affectionately called "The Thing." Of the numerous reported sightings, no intelligible photo has ever been taken of the beast. But there are plenty of believers. The Honey Island Swamp monster is more than a myth to fisherman and swamp-dwellers. Over the years several investigators have produced plaster casts of the monster's supposed footprints. Neil owns one of these casts. He preferred not to discuss it during the tour, "because I'd like to have some credibility." His official position? "I believe in the Honey Island Swamp Monster and therefore, it exists. If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him."We did not witness this mythical creature that day. But then again maybe we were only taken to the "tourist-friendly" areas of the swamp where the beast is less likely to skulk. Looking at a satellite image of the swamp I'm amazed at how little of it we saw. Next time I'm down that way I plan to convince Neil to introduce me to the more secreted grottoes of this mysterious and wonderful place.
Neil tells me he does take people out on extended private excursions, but he requires customers to sign a "sign your life away" waiver.
"Because when you get that far out in the middle of nowhere, no one can predict what may happen."
Sign me up, Neil!
All photos by Bonneville Mariner. Article content exclusively owned by article author Clint Thomsen (Bonneville Mariner).
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast- Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
RELATED LINKS
Pearl River Eco-Tours
A word about tours in the Honey Island Swamp- I've spoken with people from most of the other swamp tour companies on the West Pearl River and I've found Neil Benson to be the friendliest and most knowledgeable among them. The rest of the companies wanted nothing to do with me once they found out I was calling from Utah and not calling to reserve a ticket. Neil has spent a lot of time answering my dumb questions and helping this desert rat understand the humid subtropical ecosystem and its environs.
If you visit New Orleans, your trip will be incomplete without a swamp tour. When you make your plans, please give Neil a call (866-59-SWAMP).
Labels: American South, Dispatches From the Gulf Coast, Trip Reports
Tuesday, July 10, 2007,12:34 PM
My Best Night's Sleep: Ghost Falls
Taking a short break from his Gulf Coast series, the author pauses to remembera memorable trip to Ghost Falls in Corner Canyon, Utah.
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
Wednesday, June 6, 2007,11:43 PM
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast: First Night in NOLA and Slidell Cemeteries
A boardwalk on the banks of the West Pearl River near Slidell, LAThis is part 3 of my series on the Gulf Coast. Scroll
down or click here for part 1, here for part 2.
down or click here for part 1, here for part 2.
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."
This chimney is all that remains of this Slidell home.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.
Old Town Slidell, LAALWAYS 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
Tuesday, June 5, 2007,8:48 PM
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast: Palm Trees and the South
WE HADN'T PLANNED TO VISIT NEW ORLEANS. The spring prior, my wife and I had given up our seats on an overbooked United flight out of San Diego in exchange for two free tickets to anywhere in the Lower 48. I love being a landlocked desert rat, but it has its drawbacks. Specifically, the high desert lacks two very important things: palm trees and the sea.Sure, we have the Great Salt Lake. But there are no waves, no fish, and believe me- you don't want to swim in it. This could be easily remedied though: Dike off a section of the lake, dilute it with fresh water until you hit ocean salinity, construct a couple faux coral reefs, and throw in some dolphins. Voile! Ocean! Take note, Utah Tourism Board- I'm giving you this idea for free.
As a boy, I vowed to grow up and biologically engineer a palm tree that could thrive in Utah's harsh bipolar climate. There's just something about exotic evergreen leaves perched atop a thatched trunk that just plain makes me happy. Palm trees = tropical paradise. Tropical paradise = zero stress. Zero stress = happy.
I realize this is a very simplistic train of thought that by no means reflects reality. But that's how it works in my mind. When I'm driving south on I-15 and pass that invisible line, below which the beloved palm tree grows, my inner surf bum compels me to don flip-flops and blast Jack Johnson tunes. The decision on the tickets was a no-brainer- we're going somewhere with palm trees and salt water.
Since airline tickets don't come easily for us, we decided to kill two birds with one stone. A nice jaunt to Pensacola, Florida, would satisfy my beach craving and we'd be able to see a corner of the Deep South. It turns out United doesn't fly to Pensacola. But they do fly to New Orleans, and a drive along the Gulf Coast sounded nice.
We arranged to leave our two oldest kids with family, but the one-year-old was going with us, frankly because he's nuts. Not mental nuts- maniac nuts. Tasmanian devil nuts. He'll have a room in shambles before you even notice he's crawled off. When my mom watches him, she knows to take the knobs off the stove and lock up the cat's litter. From what we'd seen in the media about the Big not-so-Easy post Katrina, we were worried about taking our baby there. But we were more worried about the boy burning down mom's house. So we bought a snazzy baby backpack at the baby store were on our way.
THE SOUTH
I've always been interested in the South, partly because it's so different from Utah, but mostly because it seems to me that a great deal of American culture originates there. Each region of the United States contributes in its own way to the collective American experience. But the South makes a special contribution. A rich history fused with a unique landscape has produced an area lush in character that bleeds deep into the American psyche. Of course there are the tangibles- the food, tradition, architecture, music. With those, the South has certainly made its mark. But there is also a profound, non-corporeal component, for which those tangibles merely act as a vehicle. It is that component which interests me the most. In short, the South is the soul of this nation- America's cultural heartland.I got my first taste of the South when I met my wife and spent some time in Texas. Some argue that Texas is more West than South. To me, eastern Texas is much more South than West. Driving through the green-draped corridors of east Texas, I might as well be driving through central Alabama. My wife is definitely more southern belle than cowgirl. My friends on the Gulf Coast would argue that the Deep South is much different from the Appalachian South. My friends in the Appalachian South would no doubt agree.
But from my vantage point- and historically speaking- the South as a whole is a very distinct region unto itself, and many characteristics are shared between its sub-regions. As a representative of one South-based travel agency 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."
All Photos by Bonneville Mariner
Scroll down or click here for part 1 of this series.
Labels: American South, Dispatches From the Gulf Coast, Trip Reports
Friday, June 1, 2007,12:25 AM
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast: Introduction
I REMEMBER WATCHING AN OLD EPISODE OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE late at night when I was a kid, where a man wakes up alone in the world. The city is still there- cars parked along streets, papers blowing in the wind- but there's no sign of any other living person. I remember thinking how eerie that must have felt.Last fall I was that man. Walking alone along a street with no name in the city that time forgot. A street paved with black sludge, littered with abandoned cars, fallen trees, and stairways leading to nowhere. It had been a full year since the flood waters receded, leaving piles of bricks and waterlogged timber. It might as well have been yesterday.
My wife stops the car and I get out to look around. As she drives on, I realize the the only detectable sound is the car's engine. She's just as interested as I am, but our baby is sleeping in the back seat, and from the looks, smells, and feel of this place, she is happy to explore the area behind the wheel of our air-conditioned rental car.
Stairway to nowhere, Lower Ninth Ward
House on truck, Lower Ninth WardWe're in the famed Ninth Ward- the New Orleans neighborhood that made a name for itself long before Hurricane Katrina. The region lies east of the French Quarter between the Mississippi River and Lake Ponchartrain, and is bisected by the Industrial Canal. Katrina made its second landfall in southeast Louisiana as a category 3 storm on August 29, 2005. The first levee breach at the Industrial Canal occurred at 9:00 am that morning, sending floodwaters spilling into this low-lying neighborhood. Another floodwall breach near North Johnson Street stripped houses from their foundations, leaving a wake of clamshell-speckled silt. The floodwall is rebuilt but the silt trail remains. I pick up a clamshell and put it in my pocket. This is where I begin my walk through the Lower Nine.
I pass a house whose exterior walls are gone but the interior ones still stand. There are children's drawings and a portrait of Jesus hanging on one of the walls. I climb up a pile of rubble to get a closer look, but the boards break under my feet and I jump down as I start to fall through. Walking along the remains of Derbigny Street, I stop to look at a rusty child’s wagon and a bunch of cassette tapes scattered in what used to be somebody’s front yard. The silence is awkward and I am consumed with emotions that range from awe to sadness. Houses that still stand bare common marks- spray-painted symbols on the doors and holes in the roofs.
Signs scrawled out in marker or spray painted on any surface available reveal the desperation of a people trapped in their own neighborhoods, most with no food or water. That desperation lingers here still, long after the waters receded and the people disappeared.
I've never been here before, so there's no way for me to realize what has been lost. And yet I feel a profound sense of loss as I survey endless miles of utter destruction.I remember all the footage from last fall. I remember the Superdome, waves of desperate people making their way to higher ground, flooded streets, floating bodies. The storm came and went, and the nation watched as the levees broke and Crescent City drowned. Those who had boats or rafts gathered their loved ones and paddled toward the French Quarter. Some swam, some floated on mattresses. Those who couldn't get out went up, first into their attics, then onto their roofs. Those that were rescued in the days following the flood were shipped en mass to places like Houston and Salt Lake City. Now the famous neighborhood with a very loud history is still, the silence broken only by cicada song and the occasional rumble of a National Guard Hummer.
This is my first trip to the Deep South. And it is one I won't soon forget.
All photos by Bonneville Mariner
Dispatches from the Gulf Coast- Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Labels: American South, Trip Reports
Thursday, May 24, 2007,11:38 PM
My First Ghost Town Trip, Part V: Conclusion
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.
Old wooden buildings in Cortez (Photo by Charles Hall)*
A grave in the Cortez Cemetery (Photo by Charles Hall)*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
Monday, May 14, 2007,2:19 PM
My First Ghost Town Trip, Part IV: The Lonliest Road and Wendover
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.
"It's totally empty. There are no points of interest. We don't recommend it. We warn all motorists not to drive there unless they're confident of their survival skills."
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
Tuesday, May 1, 2007,9:59 AM
My First Ghost Town Trip, Part III: Holy Grail, Eureka and Hamilton
IT’S AMAZING HOW DIFFERENT THE DESERT LOOKS IN THE DAYLIGHT. After spending the night driving and trekking a labyrinth of dirt roads, we thought we had a pretty good lay of the land. But we awakened on the side of SR-306 to a whole new world. We couldn’t find where we had been lost the night before, but we did find an interesting cluster of abandoned mines near the current Gold Acres operation, complete with relics and infrastructure. These shafts were still open- many with rickety ladders leading down into the darkness. We could only imagine the historical treasure that lay below.As the years have passed I’ve learned to take notes and log waypoints when adventuring. I took only mental note of the location of Tyler’s favorite part of our journey- an abandoned mining camp- completely intact. But by midday every road looked the same to me, and it seemed like we had been exploring in circles. It was definitely in Lander County and definitely off the beaten path, but I’m not sure we’ll ever find it again. The compound included converted mobile homes, offices, dormitories, various equipment, and broken-down vehicles. From the look of the place, I estimated the site had had seen its last human in the ‘80s.
The buildings were filled with animal dung, as most abandoned buildings in the desert tend to be. Most doors were hanging open and many were simply missing. Claim maps hung on the walls of what must have been the mining offices. Desks, chairs, filing cabinets, and shelves filled with scrolls and core samples stood frozen in time. Other than the slight toll the years had taken on this property, it looked untouched. I can only assume that the mines dried up and the camp was abandoned, just like Gold Acres and Cortez.
What blows my mind is that whoever lived here left absolutely everything- tools, books, pots, pans, utensils. The holy grail of ghost-towning is to discover an unknown town so secluded and intact that you could walk into a house and spend the night in a bed. The bunkhouse in this mining camp had beds and chairs, which were strewn with clothing and papers. If not for the animal droppings, a person could stay there quite comfortably. We touched nothing, took nothing, and were quite pleased that nobody else had either. Someday we will return and identify the site. Hopefully it will be in the same pristine condition we left it in.
Ghost Town Defined
The term “ghost town” is defined loosely. When most people think of ghost towns, they think of a western movie set, complete with false front buildings, horse troughs, and spooky cemeteries. Indeed, that Hollywood image is based in truth, and most Old West towns did more or less fit that mold. Some were railroad towns- glorified pit stops on along travel and shipping routes. Many were company-owned mining camps like Gold Acres and Cortez. Some of these towns cheated fate (Dodge City and Hayes in Kansas come to mind). Others died but were preserved, like Bodie and Calico in California. Some coded but were revived, like Park City in Utah. Most, however, died and were long forgotten.
The generally accepted definition of a ghost town is any place that is a shadow of its past glory. Under this definition, a town could have an active population and still be considered a ghost town. Such towns are often classified by ghost town buffs as “almost ghosts,” while towns completely abandoned are called “true ghosts.”
Eureka and Hamilton
It was still early, so we pulled out the map and decided to check out Eureka, a former “almost ghost,” and Hamilton, a “true ghost” before looping back up to Wendover. The most direct route to Eureka was an unnamed (at least on our map) road leading south about 70 miles to U.S. 50. There is a reason that dirt road had no name, and we were glad we were in a Jeep (I was even gladder that it was Tyler’s Jeep and not mine). It was slow going, but that was ok. We were traversing through country rarely seen and we considered ourselves lucky. Every bump in that road was part of the adventure.
Eureka is a sleepy ex-boom town with a long, rich history. It’s Main Street actually does resemble a movie set, lined with original buildings and set against a mountain backdrop. We only spent enough time in Eureka to fill the gas tank and stock up on Gatorade and Slim Jims. After all, we came for true ghosts. And as long as there was still somewhere in town I could buy Gatorade and Slim Jims, there was no reason to stick around.
Hamilton is a true ghost 37 miles west of Ely at the base of Treasure Hill in White Pine County. Hamilton began life in 1868 as Cave City, named so because the earliest settlers lived in caves and dugouts in the nearby hills. The town was eventually renamed after W.H. Hamilton, one of the town fathers. Stories of the great riches discovered in Treasure Hill sparked “White Pine fever” and prospectors flocked to the district.
Between June of 1868 and spring of 1869, the town’s population grew from 30 to over 10,000. Stage lines kept the goods and people flowing in, and Hamilton became the county seat. Soon the valley was dotted with businesses, restaurants, a post office, a newspaper, theaters, and saloons. At its peak, Hamilton was home to 60 general stores and 100 saloons!
But, like most other boom towns, mines ran dry, companies folded, and speculators left for greener pastures. By 1870, the population had shrunk to 3,915. An 1873 fire ripped through the business district, destroying both the buildings and the town’s economy. Only 500 people remained by the end of that year. The county seat was eventually moved to Ely, the post office closed, and Hamilton became a ghost in 1931.That would have been the perfect time to explore this ghost town- before several mining companies returned to Hamilton in the 1980’s and built large aluminum buildings- only to later abandon them. The most prominent ruins at the town site are those of the Wirthington Hotel and a few scattered wooden buildings.
It’s remarkable to consider the scale of this once bustling mining town compared to today’s remains. Like most true ghosts, little remains of Hamilton. But the beauty of a ghost town lies not just in what buildings remain, but in the history that saturates the crumbling foundations and scattered wooden planks.
Click here for part 4 of this story
Related Links
www.nevadadventures.com
-Hamilton photos used with permission from the White Pine Historical and Archaeology Society. Any reprint or unauthorized use of these photos is prohibited.
Labels: American West, BUDS, First Ghost Town Trip, Ghost Towns, History, Trip Reports
Thursday, April 26, 2007,12:22 PM
My First Ghost Town Trip, Part II: Cortez, NV
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
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
Wednesday, April 25, 2007,1:09 PM
My First Ghost Town Trip, Part I: The Search for Gold Acres
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.
A building in Gold Acres, Summer, 1980. Photo by Shawn HallThe 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