Middle of Nowhere

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It's a surprised no one's questioned my earth tone motif from my saddlebags to the leather-bound cover of my journal yet. Besides the adventurous look, my reasons were that it would carry dust well. Chance isn't getting a bath anytime soon so dirt just add to the browns and greens and where I was going there'd be plenty of the stuff.

The old dusty trail I was taking through Nevada on my way to Bonneville has been known as The Loneliest Road in America. Come to a screeching stop at any arbitrary point, look around and anyone could see why. Also known as the Lincoln Highway, we had actually been on it since Sacramento and if we stuck with it, it will terminate in Ocean City, Maryland - the first transcontinental highway, as a matter of fact. It follows the same route as the historical Pony Express but after the development of the telegraph and interstate freeways down the line, it quickly fell into disuse especially in the desert lands of Nevada. Initially, I chose the route for the solitude, however, what I would find was a fascinating landscape that demanded ample time to explore.

But first, we had to get away from the alpine resort that was Lake Tahoe, cross a border into a land named after snow and ride down the other side of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

The air was so cool and crisp that morning. Just the smell of it all was invigorating! All the staff present at the motel were even excited for me just like everyone else who had heard my story. During breakfast and while I was looking around for post cards I met and earnestly conversed with a psychic hobo and a fellow biker from Seattle - both exceptionally kind and thrilled for my venture. I really hated to leave yet another paradise behind but like the end to any traditional western, the hero and horse must ride on.

The one block transition between California and Nevada was amusing with the outdoor reaction theme on one side and nothing but gambling on the other. The off putting casinos only poisoned the scenery momentarily as Chance blazed into bear country. Occasionally the road would catch a glimpse of the lake, tugging at me to turn back so at the last point it would be seen from, we gave Tahoe a quick go-around.

Then it was downhill into the Great Basin we went.

As the road flattened before us and we left behind the state capital of Carson City, the land was starting to look like real old fashion western territory. A sign for Virginia City caught my eye just as our compass steadied east. I pulled over, remembering the one brochure in a rack at the last motel to stand out. The day was young and it didn't hurt to indulge in a little roadside attraction!

The narrow road north hugged the contours of the foothills on our way up to the old mining city. Dotting the hillside were dozens of abandoned mines which piqued my interest. Naturally, I had an affinity with abandoned places which always pointed me towards a career in archaeology at the end of a colorful history of random job experiences. Surely Indy was a stuntman before being tenured.

Speaking of Dr. Jones, stepping on Nevada soil for the first time was a surprisingly unnerving experience. I never had a fear of snakes in all my years until now of all times but I reckon it doesn't go unwarranted seeing as how this territory was home to the most infamously venomous lots in North America. I sorted some of the gear out of my saddlebags, namely the snake bite kit and staged them in my "ready bag" - the satchel that never leaves my side.

So, of course, I explored with caution.

The Silver State, so aptly named for its silver extraction for over 150 years, still serves as a major source for the deposits, but this area's hay day had long since past. There was a diamond in the rough about halfway up the mountain to the town called... Well, I had gone and forgotten its name now but it was an old saloon and inn still in operation. At first, it seemed just as abandoned as the mines since nothing stirred, prompting me to enter carefully...

In the dark room, I fumbled in my satchel for my flashlight only to find the lights suddenly come on. Great, this must be one of those silly haunted houses, I thought with a smirk. Then I actually jumped at a loud disembodied voice! "Mic check!" Seemingly out of the wood works did a couple of well-dressed older gentlemen and a woman in red emerge and greeted me as they continued preparing the place. One of them apologized that the bar wasn't open yet but offered me a tall glass of iced tea with fixings on the house. The other man dragged a table into the middle of the room and pulled out a chair for me. Though I felt I was intruding, I was curious enough to take a break from the road, have a seat and enjoy my drink as I watched on.

After listening to the woman test the microphone on the humble yet classy stage with a sultry jazz melody, I finally asked what was going down here later. She explained that they were part of a performing group and there would be a show for the community tonight. Seemed charming, but I wanted some miles under my belt today and jazz wasn't really my scene. I took my time finishing my tea then bid the hospitable trio adieu.

Virginia City wasn't much further up the mountain. For a small town, the liveliness of the place came as a shock! It didn't occur to me how many tourists would drive this far out of the way to see this place but once you got here you'd easily find it worth your while. Due to the popularity, parking was difficult to find for once so I turned off the main street and serendipitously found myself at a church.

Like most Catholics it had been a while since I stepped inside a house of God. Typically, I had joined the ranks of the holiday crowds, visiting whenever Jesus did something like be born, get killed, of even be born again. I never inherently regarded myself as a devoutly religious fellow but I did - and still often do - want to be a priest for a spell. Share some of my insights with people hungry for inspiration and what not. My senior yearbook has a huge photo of me under Most Likely to Be a Priest in a clarical shirt eating a bag of hosts that I labeled "Jeezits." I suppose my first sermon would be on religious tolerance.

I stopped on in and meditated a while, thinking how much I had missed this atmosphere. The nostalgia was as intoxicating as the incense. As fun as the high life was, it leaves you groundless and in more ways than one and you often lose your way. Unlike the many church-goers, I sat there without the guilt of how long it had been since I had last sat in a pew. For right now, the road was my temple and the journey had been a spiritual one thus far.

Well, what do you know? I opened the large doors and into the bright day to find that I had left my journal on the bike and no one took it! Call it divine providence or lady luck - I'm sure it goes by many names.

Exploring the town that was "lost in time" was a treat but a bit overwhelming. The western wear store had about a million hats which I wanted to spend all day checking out! The antique shops were just as allluring! Not to mention the simple act of walking the wooden sidewalks in my boots and chaps aided in the frontier immersion. The original false fronts, also known as facades, were genuinely doing their job at embellishing some of the worth of a couple establishments, however. I thought I'd at least grab a bite here and many saloons looked to fit the bill but upon a quick peak in each one revealed the tackiness of slot machines and the gaudy lights and sounds sending me back to the future.

Adios, Virginia City! Not bad but surely there's a piece of pristine history out here! Back to the lonely highway.

Before I hit the road I today I researched some ghost town sites. One happened to be a nationally sanctioned historical site and it wasn't far from the highway. I veered from my heading of 090 again for the day to explore the old Fort Churchill.

I arrived after normal operating hours but at least I got the ruins to myself. I did abide by the honor system and pay deposited an entrance fee mostly an apology for what I may or may not do that isn't normally allowed in the presence of a park ranger.

Before becoming a way station for the Pony Express route, the fort had a less than reputable origin in response to the Paiute natives defending themselves from earlier injustices. It later served as a major supply depot during the American Civil War but immediately became abondoned soon after. All that remains are the adobe ruins dotting the vast perimeter.

Ah, great...

Oh, all right, just this one time in the name of archaeology.

The site was truly sublime especially against the setting sun. Had I a pencil or paint brush and a decent medium to work with, I would've loved to stay and frame the scene with my talented left hand. It's been a long time but I reckon I still have it in me. Besides super heroes, my favorite subject to draw and paint in my youth were abandoned ruins being reclaimed by nature much like the art seen in the 19th century romantic landscape pieces. Oh, how so much of my life's simpler days have been left in the dust.

On that note, dusk approaches and it's time to find a place to crash. I stopped at Fallon for dinner - probably the last major town until Salt Lake City, Utah. Looking over the map it seemed that if I continued east this evening I'd reach a small dot in the featureless beige area in what looks like the middle of nowhere. I opted for Chinese food before riding out there assuming it'd be a long time before I see rice again.

For the record the fortune cookie foretold, "You may attend a party where strange customs prevail." I wonder what kind of shindig awaits!

The sun seemed to rise and set several times as we ascended and descended along with the terrain. At times instead of a going straight up a small summits, the road would wind around and through the narrow valleys between the peaks. Later I would find out these passages were named "gates."

Some of the sandy roadsides were decorated with rocks for miles like personal billboards. I thought about contributing to the roadscape but that warm fuzzy feeling wouldn't be able to contend with the looming cold of a desert night.

The peacefulness of dusk was broken with a sonic boom from overhead and then an explosion in the distant hillside marked by a dust cloud. I was starting to wonder if the greyed out area on my map was labeled properly and indeed there was a naval training zone not far from the highway. I didn't stick around to watch what else would be tested.

Racing the impending cold, I nearly missed my pitstop! At a junction between nowhere and the distant past was a small oasis called Middlegate Station.

I moseyed up into the bar, instantly made friends with what appeared to be a functioning drunk, also known as the one and only maintenance guy, a sweetheart of a cook, and a patron whose thick country accent was reminiscent of Boomhauer from King of the Hill. "Two bottles of water and a room, por favor!"

All of my senses were in overdrive. I don't even know here to begin describing the place.

Upon retiring to a room nothing short of quaint I turned on the swamp cooler and my bed and I were enveloped in sand. I spat the grit from my mouth and erupted in laughter. I then turned on the old tube television to find each channel featuring the nostalgic blizzard of static. Seeing the familiar rectangular slot, I checked around for the keys to a theatrical past. Huzzah!

A treasure trove of VHSs with some serious classics! We're going to be here a while. Just then the lights fickered and all the electricity shut off completely. This place is the real McCoy! Just look at my bathroom!

I jest; my room has indoor plumbing, which honestly baffles my mind. I marched right back into the bar and exclaimed to the cook, Carolyn, that I liked the joint and to put me down for another night! I'll have all day tomorrow to take it all in.

7 cold hours later...

Howdy! Let's take a tour of the place... After a history lesson, of course, courtesy of the back of the bar menu:

"Named by James Simpson in 1850, commisioned by the government to define the route west, he identified the cuts in the mountains as "gates." The Gold Rush increased traffic across the great desert, and in 1859 the Overland Stage built Middlegate Statino to service the stage and freight lines traveling across the country. The Pony Express used Middlegate Station as a changing station during their short eighteen month history.

At the end of the Gold Rush, Middlegate fell into disuse and the ranchers and miners carried off many of the zeolite blocks used in the original construction. In 1942, Ida Ferguson bought the station at a BLM land auction and started restoration. Ten years later, she opened a bar and cafe, and enjoyed a bustling business on the historic Lincoln Highway, the first Transcontinental highway across America. But in 1962 the state re-routed the highway and business suffered. Lacking the funds to complete her dreams of resotoration, Ida sold Middlegate and retired. The business changed hands several times. There were no phones, still no electricity, and fifty miles to town- a pretty rugged existance for most people.

Then in 1984 the Stevenson's purchased the property and with the help of the Churchill County Museum, restoration again resumed. It is still a work in progress. The artifacts were all found in the area, but nothing is for sale."

This restaurant, bar, gas station, mini-mart, and motel of a cowboy's oasis would be my base of operations for two nights while I explored the surrounding desert. While riding hard to the station last night I saw a couple of points of interest that had to be investigated under the summer sun. So for the first time in the journey we would backtrack about 60 miles or so.

The first was just outside of Middlegate - a sign indicating earthquake faults "6 miles that way." I looked down that way and saw a dirt road and another sign warning "Minimally Maintained" which normally wouldn't deter me but having two flat tires just last year made me a little paranoid about even veering onto a shoulder. Chance and I baked in the sun a while as I looked around to make a decision and the glint of something metallic in the dirt caught my eye.

Looked like nails were to be the least of my concerns. I wasn't sure if there were hunting grounds around but I had already seen and heard a handful of corn-fed Americans exercising their 2nd Amendment rights in the hills off the main road. Tossing the used cartridge into the grass, I put Manifest Destiny in the satchel, carrying armed for the first time. I had no intentions of looking for trouble but just as the given name implied, I had to be ready in case I needed to pacify any local savages in this untamed wilderness. I kicked Chance into gear and rode steadily into the hills.

After what seemed like a long six miles in second gear, constantly maneuvering the terrain, a sign finally pointed where to continue to see these supposed earthquake faults.

Bullocks, I thought, and I'm sure the bike agreed. The path only looked worse from there and it seemed only suitable to all-terrain vehicles. The Bonneville's manual stressed it wasn't an off-roading motorcycle and if that's what I wanted to do, I'd need her less-aesthetically pleasing cousin, the Triumph Scrambler. The journey was far too young to suffer from mechanical issues so we turned right back around to fight another day. Into neutral she went and not a drop of gas was wasted on the way back down to the highway.

Another stop that I wanted to explore was a seemingly random, towering sand dune colloquially known as Sand Mountain. When we pulled up, however, it became apparent that the little ants running up and down the slopes were ATVs and just to enter the area required a $40 fee. Just as well; there didn't seem to be any room to hike it without getting mowed down. It made me think of that special place on the Oregon Coast, though, where my first visit almost lead to mummification. But that's another story.

We got as close as we could, took a tourist shot, and in juvenile fashion, I urinated on the entrance sign. What? You have to drink a lot out here and it's not like there's a rest stop every five miles!

Just before getting back onto the highway a sign indicating an archaeological site beckoned us around the dune. It was down a dirt road at first... Which became sandy and Chance had a hard time keeping traction. Damn!

 

Two out of three of the places I wanted to check out were a bust so far. All that was left was the Grimes Point archaeolgical grounds and hopefully it would salvage the day.

It's a trail that exhibited several petroglyphs said to be at least 8000 years old, created by the local natives.

Oh boy. That was my attempt at recreating a scene from the second National Treasure movie. To my embarrassment, pouring water on the rock did not lead to the fabled El Dorado. Apologies to the archaeological community... Yet again!

What a strange feeling to know for certain that someone thousands of years ago sat exactly where you were and chipped away at this very spot on this time-defying medium. Like the old redwoods, it was amazing to think of all the events that transpired since and how seemingly indifferent these monuments to the past have been.

Compared to the last stop, this one was desolate. You couldn't hear anything besides the wind, really. Tranquil - that's the word.

But still always looking out for those damn snakes.

Getting ready to hit the dusty trail again, a van actually pulled in and a couple hopped out, excited to visit the petroglyphs. It was a nice change of pace to run into someone interested in the past. On that note, they even managed to butter me up by expressing fascination with the "time machine" I was riding.

On my way out I saw a sign that pointed down another dirt road. Third time is a charm, perhaps?

About a mile in, the fair road came to an end and what came into view was a cave. I would later find out it was a bat cave so it's a good thing I didn't bother to research beforehand or else I would've missed out on a spectacular natural feature! I stocked my satchel with the survival essentials and began the hike!

It was magestic! The photos just could't capture the depth and massiveness of it all! The view was just as stunning for one could see the stratification of sediments as portrayed by the bold lines in the mountains across the plain for this desert once was a lake and those lines indicated the original surface of the water.

The magnificent cave was like a giant ear cannal. I could hear all sorts of sounds occurring down in the valley. In the distance, I saw an older couple returning to their car from a hike and was flattered to eavesdrop on their conversation. The woman was surprised to see Washington plates on my bike and the gentleman commented on the sleeping bag attached and commended it's owner for seeing America on nothing but two wheels.

If there was a switch that would lead to a chamber of gold, it was in that small but deep hole. Unfortunately, I needed both hands to ride my bike.

The shade and natural wind tunnel that the cave provided was enjoyed just long enough for the sun to start coming down. We zipped right over back to Fallon to fuel up the both of us and make our way back to the watering hole of Middlegate.

This windmill was no monster, for it served the remote area well to provide fresh water from deep underground.

Home, sweet home.

I pulled up a rickety old chair on the bar's porch and enjoyed a refreshingly cold iced tea. Reflecting on the day, I was bummed I didn't get to see everything I wanted to see on the Loneliest Road thus far but it was still a good day. I noticed the wooden table I placed the camera on to take photos was labeled "The Shoe Tree" and my eyes lit up!

I nearly forgot! The famous Shoe Tree I had read about! More about its story later but it had been chopped by pranksters years ago. This makeshift table must've been salvaged from the tree's trunk. Looks like I missed out on a lot of Route 50! Ah well, at least this station was still here - in my opinion, the crown jewel in the middle of nowhere.

As I journaled to some old VHSs back in my room, I got so wrapped up in writing I hadn't noticed the last movie I was watching had long finished. Nevertheless, it didn't stop to automatically rewind itself! Apparently the movie was recorded off a personal tape which was showcasing some old news from the early 90s or even late 80s. I kept it on out of fascination and then...

 

And I can attest, besides resurrecting the motel, nothing has changed at all in the last 20 years or so!