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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