The Rocks and the Hounds: Nevada, Part 2

The rock hounds: Harry and Marley

Do you hear the rocks singing? You've heard of whisperers to dogs and horses, who not only speak those tongues, but listen---my sisters and brothers and I hear the songs of the rock and stone. I don't know if I understand why but each of us has some affinity for the children of the earth, the bits cast off, eroded, wave polished or mined from ancient veins. They talk to us, ask to be picked up, admired and chosen, tell us where they'd like to be placed to merge into a growing rock wall, and they sing with the memory of places visited. If you visit any of the homes of the Krantz sisters, you will find many displays much like this:

One of many stone displays in Gena's house

alters to nature, this one appointed uniquely Gena by the marine theme. Rebecca's would be of the woods (although she has collections of rocks from all over, gifted to her by traveling friends) and Lisa is, of course, our desert sister. My brother, Richard, designs great stone houses, agonizing over each stone from its quarry to the integrity of its placement. Steven treasures the witness rocks of the great historic places---they hold the secrets of  battles from the glory of victory to the loneliest death. When I hold a rock I can feel the pulse of the earth from a time before we can even imagine, beating within. They are not dead, no.

The hunt for any treasure you might like to find in Nevada (other than from a slot machine) is likely to take you down bumpy, unpaved roads to remote places, destinations better attained on one of the ancestors to the wild burros that haunt the sagebrush around the old mines.  A borrowed guide to rock hounding in Nevada and a highway stretching out beyond the vanishing point is our source of inspiration.

Feral burros no longer serve man outside of Goldfield, NV

Gabbs-Poleline Road: sandstone fossils

Lisa and I test out out rock hunting skills on a mound of slippery sandstone scree in the shadow of the solar reserve, just 20 minutes from our home base at Eden. Finding the location based on directions in our guide, is easy. What we realize for the first time on this, our most remedial of excursions, is that we have no idea what we are looking for. The rocks may speak to us, you see, but we are amateurs when it comes to the science of geology and even the skills of rock hounding, and our search for the fossils promised in the guide seems like the proverbial hunt for a needle in a haystack. And we don't know what a needle looks like.

The Crescent Dunes solar reserve is not yet fully operational.
It looms with a bizarrely futuristic presence in the desert.

Several hours of searching produced a few likely fossils, probably seeds of some kind, although a close look reveals segments which I like to think nudges them at least in the direction of animal kingdom. I really want them to be ancient worms, suffocated in a desiccating mud puddle of long ago.

Organismal ghosts in the sandstone

Lisa and our vehicle of exploration, the stalwart red Jeep
near Gabbs-Poleline Road

We were unsure, on this, our first excursion, how two beagles would fair as partners and companions. Marley, Lisa's rescued beagle is fond of self guided walks in search of rabbits, and Harry can become impatient with walks that circle around and around, not necessarily ever reaching the next bend of the trail. As it turned out, they were both stellar rock hounding companions, with Marley keeping his mind and attention on task, and Harry, as always, keeping a sharp eye on his mom. 

Harry keeps tabs

As always, there were other treasures among the stones.
Pygmy blue butterfly

Crow Springs: Apache Tears

There is an Apache legend that says that after their warriors were pursued over a cliff by the Calvary in the 1870s, the wives and mothers of the tribe cried, their tears turning to black stones as they hit the ground: Apache tears. Crystal lore says to hold one in your pocket will protect you are heal you from sorrow. You will not cry---the Apache women have cried all the tears for you. If water meets an obsidian lava flow, the obsidian may foam and crack into perlite. If the core remains untouched and nests smooth and dark, it becomes an obsidian nodule or Apache tear. We know as we approach the inactive Crow Springs perlite mine, that we are hunting for its debris---Apache tears---and while our guidebook has hinted at great piles, we are unprepared for the mountains of tailings (the debris of mining) that are great mounds of black nodules. They cover the ground like glossy black tile. The dilemma switches away from finding and into choosing.

The view from Crow Springs mine. The black mound next to the
old mine shaft entrance is entirely Apache tears.

Everywhere the ground is glossy black

Imagine the great reaction as obsidian lava met water
in a combination that turned liquid glass into foamy perlite.

Lisa, the hounds and I spread out, wandering the paths between the mine shafts, among the great shiny black mounds, heads bent for treasures of the human or canine predilection. Our approaches are opposite: I am filling my bag with handfuls of nodular treasure and Lisa, so overwhelmed by the abundance, picks up nothing until we are loading back into the jeep. Harry, who has grown attached to the near genetic duplicate of me my sister provides, is perplexed as we separate---who to follow? Clearly distressed, he runs back to check on Lisa as she moves out of view, finally lying down in a spot in the middle from which he can keep an eye on us both. Marley, the more independent beagle, is content to accompany whomever is taking the most interesting path.

Goldfield: Ghosts, Graves and Jasper

I've written before of my love of ghosts and haunted places. Our way to the next rock hunting site takes us near Goldfield, an almost ghost town that boomed in the first decades of 1900 and, by the time it was nearly destroyed by fire in 1923, was already well on its way to bust. The once grand Goldfield Hotel survived the fire and is now rumored to be deliciously haunted. It is currently abandoned and in need of restoration, apparently a few have tried and failed to bring it to its former glory. Its "sister" hotel, the Mitzpah in Tonopah, was designed by the same architect and has been fully restored. Anyone have $10-20 million to restore a haunted hotel?

It stands much as it did when it was completed in 1908

There are sister ghosts in there!

Goldfield has many historic places to visit, including this shack built with bottles. It caught my eye not just because I am an avid collector of vintage bottles, but because my nephew Sky is currently stockpiling bottles with a project like this in mind. I like the idea, particularly when the bottles provide tiny, round colored portals between inside and out.

The Goldfield Cemetery bears the graves of many who came to untimely ends. The epitaphs were simple and to the point in those days, it seems many men were shot to death during the gold boom years. Seems a lonely final resting place.

Sacred Hear Cemetery in Goldfield

Many of the headstones have been restored to preserve
the writing.

Ever the rock hunter, Lisa eyes some nice rocks and glass on one
particular grave site. No, we would not be grave robbers.

In the hills just outside of Goldfield we find, not gold, but the massive vein of jasper that was our next rock hunting destination. This great vein of blood red and ochre pushes up to the surface here and erodes and flakes into candy-striped rivers of sharp-edged scree. The prizes are bull's-eyes and turkey tails and peppermints with a gold dusting of pyrite and each footstep carries the sound of wind chimes as the stones clink together. There are rumors of petrified wood but they are lost in the sea of ox blood. On this, our third rock hunting excursion, Harry begins to tire of the slow pace and sits down with an exasperated sigh and a stare when I linger too long at one spot. Why we don't follow the burro trails to the end is a mystery to him.

Bachelor burro and Joshua tree form a perfect Old West tableau

Jasper flakes

Dyer: Moonscape

For this excursion in search of the elusive petrified wood, Lisa left directions to our destination on a post-it at home for my brother-in-law, Dave, in the event that we don't come home. As an extra precaution as we surveyed the crumbly dry wash we were intending to ascend, she called and took on one of the cell phone's most treacherous scenarios: the transmission of important safety information over a bad connection. I think Dave may have understood where we were by the end of the call, but I'm glad we didn't have to find out. The skies were clear blue with no flash floods likely to revoke the dry status of our route, and our handbook promised great stumps of petrified trees at its end. So we bumped up the wash and into another planet.

Dyer sandstone towers

Sandstone towers, topped with hard stone caps, have been worn into spiraling figures by thousands of years of waxing and waning flood waters. We drive and then walk once the walls narrow, the hounds are only too happy to make the trip with noses to the ground. We are seeking the stumps of a long ago forest that are rumored to crown some of these mounds at the head of the wash. Colored rocks are scattered across the sandy floor and sprouting from some of the more worn bumps, but we never really find anything as mythical as an ancient forest.  When I search for pictures later to help with my search image, I find sites like this selling forests of trunks and I wonder how many have come hunting and pillaging before us. There are so many humans, wanting so much, it is no longer reasonable to believe that our own small footprint, even if it is mindful, does no damage to the world. I am no angel, I have my boxes of rocks that almost certainly would have been more usefully left where I found them. And yet that need to covet that which we find beautiful is fundamental. What evolutionary need does that fulfill I wonder?

Dyer finds collected in a rusty old ham tin---stolen treasure?

Harry and Marley lead the way

Finding no great trunks at the head of the wash, we break off to explore some of the interesting formations, dug deep by floodwaters. There are times when my heart swells with emotion to look ahead, or back to see my companion in adventure. He is nearly always game to see what lies beyond, asking only for an occasional boost up the steeper steps.

The payoff is a beautiful view down the wash into the Basin where the wind is churning the dust into a desert fog. I think one of the compelling reasons for bringing that pocketful of stones home, is that they will sing to me the memory of such a place.

View from above the Dyer arroyo

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Leaving Las Vegas: Nevada, Part 1

To the west at sunset

I have never been to Las Vegas beyond a layover at the airport on my way to somewhere else. In all of my memory I cannot recall even the slightest desire for it as a destination. Based on what I believe, from my distant observation, there is nothing there for me. Since I am pretty game to try new things, were I to find myself with time on my hands in Vegas, I could probably find things to enjoy: a concert, a magic act (Penn and Teller?), but in terms of planning a getaway, there will always be a long list of places I want to go ahead of it. I had to pass right through Las Vegas to make the transition onto highway 95 to Tonopah. Like a soul submitting to a right of passage, I navigated the gauntlet of casinos and pawn shops, all using every available resource and strategy to pull me through their doors. I remained steadfast in my goal: to tap this pocket of civilization for supplies and go. For Vegas, with no less than three Trader Joe's and three Whole Foods, is an oasis for the California palate in the long, bleak grocery desert that is the journey from east to west. And I have news for you: the parking lot for Trader Joe's in LV is just as tortuous and fraught with danger as those in California, and in fact, every TJs I visited from Seattle to Madison and beyond has the same bad parking lot. I don't know how to specifically describe the problem with TJs parking lots, but I'm willing to bet that you know what I'm talking about. Even a former Navy SEAL can't deal.

With Trader Joe's successfully navigated and a camper full of avocados, organic cheese, spicy hummus and kale salad (and, in the interest of full disclosure, a giant chocolate bar and a bottle of cheap wine), I fled Sin City. I left nothing in Vegas that needed to stay in Vegas (well, Harry left something they can keep). The view as I merged Pagoo onto the freeway was eerily reminiscent of Los Angeles. I passed through interchanges, strip malls, rushing cars and distracted people all enveloped in a shroud of smog, all the while nursing an urging from the depth of my soul to be elsewhere. Yup, just like LA.

I had a 200 mile journey remaining on a trek of 8,500 miles. Of all the highways in all the states I had traversed, this last 200 miles would be the most desolate. There were few oases of service on this route, limited cell phone service and, for the chugging Pagoo, no passing lane for the impatient drivers traveling from Vegas. For the entirety of my travels, Emmy, the 2002 Toyota Tacoma (and bearer of Pagoo) who started this journey with > 217,000 miles on her, had performed unfailingly. She had not so much as an under-inflated tire nor a skip of the engine for 8,500 miles---would she fail me on this last, most desperate stretch of road?

Tonopah, Nevada as you might have seen in from an airplane.
The green hay field circles to the northwest mark Eden.

Murphy's Law would seem to dictate engine failure or a flattened tire along highway 95 but we passed unscathed the burros of Indian Springs, the speed trap of Beatty and the ghost town of Goldfield. We did a u-turn in Tonopah to avoid buying gas at the fuel company from which my sister had joyfully and with much relief, retired from managing last year. I peered in the fading light at her emailed directions and hand-drawn map, one does not want to miss a turn out here: LEFT after the solar reserve or you will be taking the long way around! The second right and look for the big grey building (my brother-in-law's shop)---don't take any turns or you'll be spending the night with the polygamists down the road! Harry's paws are on the dashboard as we  arrive at my sister's house at dusk as the sun flamed orange behind the western mountains. We are both smiling. Lisa is there at the gate waving us in. The lights are on inside and a pack of tail wagging dogs tumbles out to meet our weary company. There's a shop for Emmy, a power cord for Pagoo, a frying pan full of bacon for Harry and a soft bed for me. Eden indeed.

This would be my home for the next month as I prepared for the final journey home to California. To many, the high desert of the Great Basin is stark and devoid of interesting features. In my weeks there, I became immersed in it's brave and persistent loveliness. Nevada finesses the details in fall, as the showy wildflower season has faded leaving hidden treasures of late bloomers. As the flora of the sagebrush community fades, the discovery of color among the grays and browns is joyful.

Orange globe mallow (Sphaeralcea munroana) next to the road

Unidentified Asteraceae

Western pygmy blues (Brephidium exilis)
on Sierra arnica (Arnica nevadensis)

Unidentified Onagraceae, and evening primrose, blooming
in the most inhospitable of places.

From Eden, the view is 360°. From east to west, dawn to dusk, there is always something to admire.While I favor the search and discovery of beauty at a small scale, Nevada also knows how to put on a grand show.

Storm over the mountains

The gateway to Peavine after a dusting of snow

The Super Moon sets at dawn

Lisa and I, accompanied by our pack (ranging anywhere from two to four jocular dogs), would spend the nearly four weeks of my stay there exploring as much of the area as possible.  When your starting point in 20 miles outside of Tonopah, everywhere you wish to explore is remote. It is rarely prudent to drive deep into dry washes or investigate abandoned mines without a partner, and so partners we became. We would leave Eden in the morning with GPS coordinates, water and (when we remembered) enough snacks to get us through the day. We would return with a Jeep full of rocks, salvaged finds and exhausted dogs. These are the stories of discovery, not only of the land, but the deep bonds of family. This was how I left the false glow of Las Vegas behind and found Nevada's light.

Eden in this distance as we are coming home

Into the West: Oklahoma to Arizona

Santa Rosa Lake, New Mexico

As we awoke in our camp in Red Rock Canyon, the sun stretched a warm arm down our canyon, reflecting hot off the red walls and coaxing the first scent of the sycamore into the air. While my skin would later be plagued by the arid high desert, on this morning the dryness was welcome after the humidity of the south. Several campsites had been vacated before breakfast and I let Harry out for a quick untethered run in one of the grassy vacant sites before we broke camp. Like a homing beacon he shot away as I unclipped the leash---I had a moment of pleasure watching him run---straight as an arrow to a discarded pile of hotdog buns. "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Harreeeeeeeeee!" No dog can gobble forbidden food quite like my beagle, and the buns were gone in seconds. I didn't even have time to count. I was grateful they didn't reemerge in the car once we were on the road.

Today we would pass through Texas into New Mexico. Steinbeck famously wrote of the passion of Texans (for Texas) in Travels with Charley, but what I remember from my last reading of the book is despair at the sheer expanse of the state. Our new itinerary dealt with the latter by crossing at the narrowest part---the Panhandle. As far as the pride of Texans, we got a taste of that at the most epic rest stop of the journey, just across the Oklahoma/Texas border.

Monument to Texas Passion overlooks overgrazed rangeland. Seems right.

Aside from the rest stop of Texan Passion, my only stop in the Panhandle was Amarillo, the single smelliest armpit of a city I've encountered. Admittedly, my travels likely took me through the worst the city has to offer. Neither of my road trip guides noted the Cadillac Ranch, and somehow I missed it on the side of I-40. I'd probably have enjoyed spray painting some old cars. As it was, the best thing I found in Amarillo was a thick 10 pack of freshly made tortillas (for $2.99!), that redeemed the otherwise dismal Fiesta Foods market. Maybe it was because their arrival in my pantry was unexpected, but those were the best tortillas I've ever had. When the last of them turned up moldy, I shed a tear. Here's the Yelp review that steered me there---the claim regarding the freshness of the produce is highly questionable but you can see pictures of the tortilleria.

Searching for the best campsite for each night on the road throughout my journey has been a challenge and a pleasure. I planned very little more than a few days in advance. By the time I reached New Mexico, I had taken the search to a place of high art. Some discoveries seemed miraculous in that had many of the elements that I look for (natural features, beauty, wildlife viewing, nearby trails, uncrowded, etc...) in a location where one might not expect to find such things. A road weary Pagoo and crew arrived at one such place at Santa Rosa Lake, in the middle of the New Mexico desert off I-40. The camp host ushered us into a cushy spot with electricity (exciting only because I could charge my laptop and use my sorely neglected toaster oven), near the access point to a trail down to the lake (and the camp host's site, I would later realize). The view of the moon rising over the lake provided extra motivation to get camp set up and hit the trail before the light waned. 

Moonrise over Santa Rosa Lake

My neighbors at the next site were a friendly couple my age who fawned over Harry and lamented leaving their dog at home. Many, many campers I encountered in my travels had left their dogs at home. Perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that I find this incomprehensible. As Harry and I took our leave and headed for the trailhead, the camp host (toothless I should add, why are they always toothless?) intercepted us.

"I'm having a fire later. Folks might stop by.You're welcome to come too."

"OK, maybe."

"I have beer..."

"We'll see."

Dammit. I hadn't had liquor since leaving New Jersey. How much company is a beer worth?

The trail through pinon pines and shrubby cedars wiped all consideration of campfire social time out of my head. Some late season wildflowers were still blooming. Birds and butterflies were strangely scarce, but beetles were plentiful.

Epicauta sp. beetle on unknown Asteraceae

Pencil cactus, Cylindropuntia leptocaulis with
bordered plant bug, Largus sp. 

Not a great picture, but these big carrot beetles (Tomarus gibbosus) were abundant and charming 

 Lakeside, we found a warm rock ledge from which to meditate on the poetry of twig and water. There is perfect quiet but for the bump and click of a quarter-sized carrot beetle that collides with my leg and drops to the rock. He's up and away after a stunned instant. I sometimes envy the simplicity of that primitive tangle of ganglia, designed to navigate the most basic tasks of survival: live, eat, mate. But were that my unencumbered brain, I would not be now contemplating the utter masterpiece of that glossy brown elytra. Perhaps none are fit to comment on the capacity of a beetle to recognize beauty?

Harry is game for a good ponder

Refreshed, our route back to camp took us past the camp host, who was quick to point out his fire and hold a cold beer aloft. I looked up the road to my campsite and saw my neighbors, sitting in their camp chairs, grinning. 

"I'm afraid I'm quite exhausted, but thank-you," I declined.

When I got within earshot, Mrs. Neighbor whispered, "Good choice. No one else was invited..."
There would be no beer for Gena that night.

The next morning, I was lured by abundant road signs to this spot, an odd natural well known as the the Blue Hole. It's a draw for tourists but we arrived at 8:00 AM to find it empty.

Apparently a diving destination

I had not really intended to swim, but the water was so blue and inviting and I was so dry and dusty. The quiet and solitude so bewitched me that morning, I gave more than a passing thought to just stripping down and jumping in. When the tourists started arriving just minutes after I dove in (in my swimsuit), I was heartily glad I had been prudent, although it would have made a much more interesting story had I not. Being the only swimmer, I was apparently assigned the role of Blue Hole expert by the crowd who peppered me with questions as I emerged. If you plan to visit and prefer privacy, consider arriving at 7.

Only 80 feet in diameter at the surface, the pool fans out to
130 feet at the bottom. It is over 80 feet deep in places.

Blue water beckons

Risking an iPhone dunking for a selfie

I was feeling cheerful and optimistic as I left the cleansing artesian waters of the Blue Hole for Arizona. A free campsite (I know, I do go on about the campsites) was awaiting exploration at the Naval Observatory near Flagstaff. But I knew my travels today would take me heartbreakingly close to the Grand Canyon, one of the most desired destinations on my original route. I wrestled with the notion of veering off the current course just to stand for the first time on the rim. I told myself then, as I still tell myself today, I will be back when I can do it unburdened. This road trip will remain unfinished until that day.

Near dark I arrive at the observatory unofficial campground in a grove of ponderosa pines. It's dispersed camping and we may park wherever we choose. There are two other campers, but they are dark and seemingly unoccupied. As we set up Pagoo for the night in the pines, I am tired and saddened by the cross county rush. But even as I plod the path to Acceptance, I know one good thing about myself: even in my darkest moments, I look for beauty. And I find it. Everywhere.

Ponderosa pine woods, northwest of Flagstaff

Toadflax, Linaria dalmatica

Wooly mullein heart

The full moon in the pines

I call my sister, Lisa, that night---I will be in Tonopah, and her Eden, tomorrow. The moon is rising. The universe shines it's spotlight in my window but I am only a speck. I will need to pass through this tomorrow:

Photograph by Bob Krist/Corbis

...and it seems like a final test of my endurance.