...And Put $30 In The Bible

Friday, 29th March 2013

Map: Ely, Nevada to Springdale, Utah---257 miles

We breakfasted at the Silver State Cafe in Ely, although I really should have known better.  A rather lousy veggie omelet from years ago came to mind, as well as high prices.  I'd stick to a special this time---or it would stick to me, as it turned out.  Our eggs and solitary biscuit came from either Reno or Salt Lake.  The other apparently never made it.  It was a $3.95 Special for $5.49.  Note to self: The Hotel Nevada can't be as mediocre as this

“Out at Silver Valley?” an old man nearby spoke into his cell phone.  I found myself listening to him because unlike most cell phone users he spoke softly.  I took another bite of biscuit with floury sausage gravy.

“Yeah, we’d be better off burning coal,” he continued.

Looking east into Silver Valley on US 50 at US 93 South.  Mt Moriah to the left.

 And here we are, thirty miles east of breakfast---gazing across Silver Valley.  I always found it stirring in the morning light, the grand sweep between 13,000 foot Wheeler Peak and North Schell Peak to the northwest---the valley rising to the north like a wave from the past.  This morning Mother Nature is on a break.  It is still, and a forlorn haze veils the snowy mountains.  There is one new man-made feature in Silver Valley, the only one that stands out besides US 50---America’s Loneliest Highway.  It is a cluster of huge wind turbines, as still as the mountains.

I’ve only been here in the morning, and wind is not part of that memory.  The energy is all in the low light, sweeping in from the east and cutting out the landscape to the west.  But we’ve always taken from this part of the Nevada and moved the goods to supposedly better places.  And so we turn south on US 93, driving into the intolerable haze---an opaque proposition that doesn’t merely stand sentinel or craters the earth but literally sucks it dry.  Vegas, baby.  It’s Manifest Destiny, baby---and it’s thirsty.

What water?  The olive juniper and purple sage are mute---our nasty introduction, cheat grass, feigns a crisp golden silence.  Only a broad swath of burnt skeletons speaks of the present, only the name of the valley we drive into speaks of the past: Lake Valley.  The lake---more of grass than water---has sunk underground, and will continue to sink no matter who signs the damned if you do, damned if you don’t contracts.  Ranchers, ground down by drought, cheap beef and the whir of their pumps will be replaced by bigger pumps---and those who remain face an uncertain future, the water underground migrating to the highest dollar via a 263 mile pipeline.

A sign points to Atlanta that away.  There’s the water, towards the Utah boarder.  Sign here, governor of that state, or forget your rights to a share of it---forget your right to even protest.  It’s all here in print, but the politicians are simply turning the page.  The voters, smug in their sprawl, don't care anyway.

The sun rises higher, and the air slowly stirs.  White clouds start punctuating a bluing sky.  Dutch John Peak rises alone on the horizon, the ribbon of highway undulating over his flanks.  Ruggedly handsome, snow white on top, the old man is both green and burnt.  A photo opportunity, but there’s no shoulder to pull off on.  My eye trains along the edge of the road, searching for width but only finding bottles and cans glinting in the sun.  We pass the old man by.

Looking north into Pioche from old US 93.

Something new shining in the sun.  It is our own past; it is Pioche---the first town in 108 miles.  It was also our first stop in investigating this part of Nevada some dozen years ago.  The only apparent motel in town was full for some reason---who cares if it was a Friday. 

“They’ll have a room at the motel up the road a ways,” said the proprietress.  “You can call them from here.”

Having come from the south, we didn’t realize there was another one the very northern edge of town.  My husband said: “Oh, we’ll just drive there.”

“Oh, you can’t do that,” she explained.  “You must call.  And I’ll tell you what to say.”

She waved him into the lobby, dialed the number and handed over the receiver.  “When she asks if you’ve been there before, just say yes.”

An old lady picked up the call, said she did indeed have a room and took down our address and phone number.  My husband could hear the turning of pages over the line.

“And you’ve stayed with us before?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know the procedure.  The key is under the door mat and leave thirty dollars in the Bible.  You’re room number 3.”

“Thank you.”

My husband handed the receiver back and the proprietress smiled like the Cheshire cat.

The motel was of the 1930s---white clapboard, tidy and tiny.  The rooms sorta grew out from one another, and our double bed practically filled ours.  A defunct 1950s console television stood in the corner, taking up the rest of the room, and a modern television sat on top of that.  I was rather surprised there was even television provided.  The real amenity was out back: a rocky ledge jutting out over the desert---a quiet place to sit and take in the view reflecting the setting sun.

It’s still there, although the cheap 1970s era yellow plastic sign has faded to almost illegible.  A closed sign was tacked up to one corner of the building---closed forever or for the season?  Maybe the closed sign was there even when we stayed there.  The old lady would be ancient now, but the place and adjacent owner’s bungalow still looks tidy.

Pioche seems tidier than before.  The little Gem Theater with its 1940s neon marquee is closed---now playing is simply a thank you.  The other shops on Main Street look to be in business, although in all the town seems quieter this Friday than the one a dozen years ago.  There are some interesting houses, but none on the fancy side.  This was strictly a miner's---with shot gun cottages, bungalows, trailers and discordant modern vacation/retirement homes clinging to the hillsides.  The view to the north is spectacular.

Faux granite block house in Caliente.

We glided past Cathedral Gorge and on down to Panaca, but instead of turning left to head to Utah we took a 15 mile detour down to Caliente to see a faux granite block bungalow for sale for $53,000.  We saw it on the internet, of course, and since we have an affinity for vintage block houses we made the trip.  

Caliente is definitely desert.  It's about two thousand feet lower than Pioche, with colored canyon walls rising all around it.  It’s the only place with city services outside of Cedar City, Utah, a hundred miles distance.  There’s a newish small hospital on the north side of town and a supermarket of sorts on the very forlorn and ancient business block along the railroad tracks.  A large and beautiful mission style Union Pacific depot appears to be used now to house city business.  The town seems to be inhabited by folks who haven’t the money to get out of town and those who moved there so they retire to permanent Weekend Warrior status---meaning raising some desert hell with their motorized toys.

Some of this new concrete has got to go...

The block bungalow was charming, particularly since it appeared neither neighbor had dogs.  Keeping your eye above street level avoided the drab trailer across the street and offered a view of the colored canyon walls.  Although the ad said it was a two bedroom house, it really was only one.  From a few uncovered windows we could see the living room across the front of the house, a dining room and kitchen, and an alcove hall with bath and bedroom.  It had a full daylight basement with vestiges of a second bathroom.  It appeared someone did a lot of work to it, such as rewiring, and then lost it.  The large back yard was a major asset.

Touring around the neighborhood, we saw another great house for sale---a tan baked brick bungalow on a very large corner lot.  The porch featured two front doors---one to the front bedroom, a common feature in railroad towns, where homeowners often rented out a room to railroad workers.  It appeared very original, but online consultation revealed some interior desecration---particularly an offensive 1980s kitchen with Formica Island.  It was a much larger house than it appeared: 3 bedrooms/2 baths/1600 square feet.  Built in 1935, it was in the Craftsman style with some Deco touches---such as the three banner style to the glass on the front doors.  Price reduced to $110,000.

We returned north to the crossroads to Panaca, a dessicated once Mormon oasis, and seeing a late Victorian block house wandered around the few streets, looking for others.  We found two.

Nevada 319 climbs to the Utah border through a lush, short juniper forest.  The views to the north are expansive.  Dropping over into Utah, the landscape thins, the highway joins the Union Pacfic and a few foundations and an imploded vintage trailer mark the site of Uvada.  Eight miles further northwest is the living ghost/railroad town of Modena.  The modern highway skirts the to bridge the railroad, giving the passerby a overlook at a handsome stone school, a fire house that appears to be remodeled into a residence, an abandoned hotel and a few old houses.  I rather regret not backtracking on Main Street once we crossed over the tracks.

Utah 56 veers east southeast across broad high plains dotted with old ranches and newer and rarely more successful ranchettes.  The number of buildings gives the impression of considerable population, but I doubt many are year around residents.  Spotting vintage trailers is one form of entertainment---they seemed to be the first form of homesteading, and sometimes more substantial than the buildings that replaced them.  Failed irrigation is marked by half dead fence rows.  At Beryl Junction the c. 1950 schoolhouse long ago turned into a general store which long ago closed.  Vintage cars and trailers fill the playground.

It's another ten miles to a modern gas station/mini mart at the cross roads to Newcastle, another thirty miles to Cedar City.  A swath of vivid red on the spectacular mountains that rise above town is the first impression of the basin, but then there are endless huge warehouses and finally the towering signs of commerce vying for attention.  I found sudden civilization irritating, as I do most of the I-15 corridor in Utah.  Rapid development in the last twenty years has pretty much destroyed a sense of individualism to the area.  Cedar City sharing a newspaper with St. George fifty miles south and three thousand feet lower is a perfect example of this modern homogeneity.

Cougar Mountain north of Highway 9, Rockville

Springdale.  The Sentinel to the left, Twin Brothers to the right.

Somewhat soothed by a Dairy Queen Blizzard (flavor: Heath Bar), we continued south on that mad rush that is I-15 past the beautiful Hurricane Cliffs and then a fast drop into the heat at Toquerville.  There are some cute old homes in town, and redbud trees flared like hot pink torches in the yards,  but the whole surrounding locale is being subdivided into lots and developments.  Only the red, broken landscape makes this tolerable; It is impossible to have  unbroken sprawl in Utah's Dixie.

Utah 17 took us to La Verkin, and then Utah 9 climbs over the cliffs to follow the Virgin River to its headwaters in Zion.  White thunderheads and deep blue sky accentuated the ruddy landscape.  An occasional small patch of purple verbena shone on the road's shoulder and ancient trees of the Prunus family were in full bloom around old homesteads.  Traffic was heavy.

The Sentinel from the Zion Park Shuttle.

We checked into the Pioneer Lodge, and the clerk apologized, saying that the room wouldn't be ready for another half hour:  "People around here don't like to come to work."  So we strolled midst the tourists on Zion Park Boulevard for awhile, the strip between the narrow sidewalk and street filled with grape hyacinths and daffodils.  A small leaved lilac that I'm not familiar with was in bloom in front of an old bungalow; I was disappointed in not being able to get close enough to it for inspection and sniffing.

After getting settled into our room (very nice), we walked down to a shuttle stop to go into Zion Park.  Although we've been to Zion before, we've never used them---being content to drive in during the morning and walk along the trails opposite the visitor's center.  Once understood, the system is great---being both convenient and free.  At least theoretically.  A driver told my husband he needed his [senior] pass to proceed to the inner park shuttle, so he trotted back to Patsy for it.  By the time we got onto a Springdale shuttle and disembarked to catch a park shuttle the kiosk and visitor's center was closed for the day---so one can get into Zion and be transported around for free after five pm.  Judging by the mob moving from the park to city shuttle, it's a good time to go, too.

Walking west along the Zion Canyon Scenic Drive

The shuttle takes about an hour and a half to make a complete circuit up and down Zion Canyon Scenic Drive---a drive closed to all other vehicular traffic.  Some stops are close enough together to make a great walk on to the next.  We did this twice, from Zion Lodge to Weeping Rock, and from the Grotto to Big Bend.  Although everyone takes the trails along the canyon walls, we found walking along the road offered the best all around vistas.

Virgin River

The hanging garden of flowers at Weeping Rock wasn't in season yet, but the view from there is worth the short, steep climb.  As the canyon fell into shadow, frogs started a strange song in the natural amphitheater that seemed to mimic the sound of water percolating through the rock.  The same shadows are a challenge for a rank amateur photographer such as myself.

A recorded tour guide drones along the way, telling us of the geographic landmarks in the vicinity.  After awhile, their campy names sound like a tour with Yma Sumac in The Secret of the Incas.  As the shuttle returns, the summary is thankfully silenced, leaving the passengers to the murmurs of tired hikers in several languages.

At Big Bend on the Virgin River

Having been in Yosemite just six weeks before, I felt a similarity between the two---surely more of spirit than geography.

Our shuttle returned to the Springdale at dusk---after giving us some three hours of both physical and spiritual exercise.

America's Loneliest Highway

Thursday, 28th March 2013

Map---Cherokee, CA to Ely, NV: 462 miles

We begin our trip by crossing over Lake Oroville, looking reassuringly full this terribly dry year---not that this has any affect on our well. Yet Mother Nature insists on celebrating early, putting Spring on all at once---a blast of bright gold green oak leaves, a generous dose of fragrant silver bush lupine, swaths of pale lavender iris---a sprinkling of orange poppies.  The Sacramento Valley appears below and to the west as we climb Yankee Hill, a mosaic of shadows under passing clouds---a rice elevator catching the sun and shining like a white monument a thirty miles distance.  Beyond, the Coast Range tumbles towards the southwest, ahead of the cold front, growing clearer at a hundred miles and beyond.

Clematis, left and redbud above the Feather River

At Jarbo Gap we drop into the namesake of this highway---the Feather River Canyon.  The wildflowers are usually prime on these rugged south facing walls, but the drought has blooms socializing in hasty disarray, the white plumes of ceanothous waving midst the pink redbud.  Clematis drapes over all, yet the show has just begun if April showers arrive.

The Feather River Highway opened in 1937 as the All Year Route over the Sierras.  The railroad had preceded in 1910, trading avalanches for rock slides and floods. However, the beauty and recreational opportunities of the route could not be denied and resorts from modest to grand sprang up at most every siding.  The opening of the highway gave these places new life, as well as new attractions specifically built for highway traffic.  It was once a very popular vacation destination, but changing tastes in recreation and relaxation made them all more or less obsolete.  Quaint little cabins nestle in lush oak woodlands at Tobin, while a Craftsman lodge stands sentinel above the pines on a granite outcropping at Paxton.  At the latter, dogs deter and warn the renters of any intrusion.

An exception of this fate lies east of the canyon and Quincy---in an area already well-known for expensive vacation homes and attending recreations.  The Feather River Inn was built in 1914 in a quasi Bavarian-Craftsman style and like all the others had fallen into shabbiness, if not abandonment.  However, due to the monied locals, investors saw the potential in restoration---which has turned into a long process due to the general economy and attention required to bring back a lodge akin to those at Crater Lake or Yellowstone.  The end is in sight, however, and the golf course has been restored and reopened---surely the best way to start drawing interest again.

Restoration of the Feather River Inn

Beyond Portola the landscape turns to high desert rimmed by snowy peaks.  The highway crests at 5,221 feet at Beckworth Pass, the lowest pass over the Sierras.  Almost two thousand feet lower than Donner Pass, it's easy see why this was the 'All Year Route'---and why the route was taken over for a time in the 1950s by the US highway system as US 40A, the alternate of US 40 over Donner Pass. 

We arrived in Reno at noon, just in time to see the crowds moving along the gritty sidewalks towards the St. Vincent de Paul Dining Room.  We always frequent the classiest parts of town, you know.  Our interest was not in a meal but St. Vinnie's thrift store, where we usually find something of interest.  This time Roland found a noisy brass dinner triangle for $3, which ought to be handy in getting his attention while he's out on 'the back four' at our Rancho Notorious.

A billboard for Golden Gate Gas at $3.59 a gallon drew us off I-80 between Sparks and Fernley.  I forced as much gasoline as I could into our dowager Patsy Prius, knowing that would be the cheapest we'd see for the next 500 miles or so.  She managed 47.7 MPG---very respectable for some 150 miles of modest climbing.

The saline flats on US 50A between Fernley and Fallon is a good place to take a nap, which I did---in the passenger seat, of course.  And one must stop at the Dairy Queen in Fallon because there isn't another for the aforementioned 500 miles.  Our shared Blizzard of the Day was Tropical: Banana, coconut and pecans.  You'll notice a pattern to this in the coming days...

And so now we commence on the titular highway, America's Loneliest.  Don't you believe it.  If you want Nevada lonely, try US 6 between Tonopah and Ely: 168 miles of nothing except one tiny gas station that might be open.  "America's Loneliest Highway", US 50, has two towns and two gas station/cafe/motels in 257 miles.  There is always enough traffic to feel less than alone, although occasionally it strangely disappears for some dozen miles at a time.

The Loneliest Road in America was named by Life magazine in July 1986. Meant as an insult, Nevada and the towns along the route have been capitalizing on it ever since---with oxymoronic results, of course.  But when one's eyes wander from the pavement this is truly a vast, empty land---a land where modernity drops away and history vibrates: The Pony Express, the Lincoln Highway.  More people lived here a hundred and fifty years ago than today, which says both a little and a lot.  For the folks passing us at 75 MPH, it says little except for they can't get through it fast enough.  At our prescribed 60 MPH, time is swallowed up in this immense panorama---vacillating between inertia and hoof dust---flat tires and rumble seats. 

At Middlegate Station, one of the eat here and get gas places, there is a decision to be made.  The city ahead, Austin, thought it worthwhile to erect a huge billboard to direct you to the right on the old Lincoln Highway, now celebrating its hundredth anniversary.   This route, now Nevada 722, is only 1.2 miles longer than the modern highway, but an entirely different driving experience as it curls over alpine Carroll Summit and then along a lush creek side landscape before reentering the desert.  Along the way one passes the quaint stone ranch house at Eastgate.  I suppose the refreshing scenery would make for happier tourists once they reach Austin, and having traveled on it before I agree it should be done---but both routes offer history.

Lincoln Highway Association
 

Looking east from Mt. Airy Summit---North Toyiabe Peak

We stay on the newer alignment US 50, like most everyone else does.  This follows the Pony Express (1860-61) route, passing adobe remains of their stations along the way.  The change in the landscape in this direction is negligible: The desert greens slightly, particularly around Cold Springs Station---another gas 'n' eat place as well as a Pony Express stop.  The locale has an interesting vibe in the afternoon light, as if it's a natural place to stop and rest in spite of the tundra-like landscape.  More adobe ruins are found to the west of Mount Airy, but it's likely these date to just after the days of the Pony Express.


Austin is a quaint little town perched on the steep sides of Pony Canyon.  For all its ghostly shabbiness there are surprises, such as a good salad with avocado at the historic International Cafe & Bar.  Its population hovers around 340, a far cry from 10,000 during the summer of silver in 1863.

US 50 makes a steep, serpentine climb out of Austin and then descends into another broad valley---this one called Smoky.  There are only four more passes to climb and descend and as many valleys to cross before we reach Ely. Mother Nature pulls a veil of verga over her face and one's focus adjusts to the foreground, where a lone white wild stallion poses in the sagebrush.  Miles on there's a whole heard of wild horses, or antelope mooning you with their white rears.

Roberts Creek Mountain at 60 MPH---out the driver's side window and north of US 50

Eureka is a larger town with more interesting architecture, but the locals seem far scruffier.  A whole herd of them is rushing across Main Street and into the Opera House, as if Sarah Bernhardt just came into town for a surprise performance.  I espied a cute Victorian cottage down a side street, which starts us on a circular tour of the residential neighborhoods.  At close range the cottage is abandoned and sinking into the ground, which seems the fate of most of the older homes.  This one is spending its golden years in a slump of a funk, having to stare at the ugly tan trailer across the street.

Looking west across Long Valley on US 50

The verga lifts at Huntington Valley and Roberts Creek Mountain shines to the north.  Pancake Summit, then Little Antelope Summit.  The sun lowers behind a bank of black clouds and headlights play in the distance across Long Valley.  One last summit, Robinson, and it's the highest at 7,588 feet.  Patsy starts to roar and her synergy monitor shows her in a state of purple angina.  I release her from cruise control and let her little gasoline motor hum along at 50 MPH.

We crest and descend at close to coasting, passing through the ghost town of Lane City and its abandoned concrete block school standing in the blue dusk.  The Loneliest Highway curves and the government grant light standards of Ely appear, coming close together a mile on down Altman Street.  They cast a bright coral glow, and the green and red neon signs add a busy, nostalgic note to otherwise empty streets.  Here and there a crowd appears---at the starkly Deco Central Theater, at the Silver State Cafe---but the size of the city belies the fact that it contains only 4,250 residents.  The mid-2000s boom in copper is off, and once again a cottage can be bought for $25,000.

For all her strain and electric coasting, Patsy averaged 53.3 MPG from Clark (east of Sparks) to Ely.

Beware of Trailerites

Trailer Show at the headquarters of the Automobile Club of Southern California, c. 1936.  The many-portholed Good Ship Lollipop in the foreground is an Airfloat, the menacing trailer to the left is an Airstream.

In this Age of McMansions it's hard to believe that our government once feared trailerites---people who take to the travel trailer life---but that's exactly what happened in 1937.  Although trailers were not a new phenomenon, they suddenly burst forth onto our pop culture that year---featured in anything from radio shows to movies---from novels to social commentary.  Trailer manufacturing had grown exponentially since 1935, and suddenly it seemed everyone was considering selling everything and hitting the road---or for the first time owning their 'home' outright, albeit one clad in leatherette that had be waxed regularly.  Surveys were taken and it was concluded that there was a potential that half of the United States would be living in trailers by 1950.  The degradation of our social mores was duly trotted out, but the real concern was the bottom dropping out on the property tax base.

A much used trailer, possibly a small and once elegant Kauneel of Kauneel & Son, Bay City Michigan.

The likely ignition for the explosive interest in trailers was the passage of the Social Security Act in 1935.  Now empty-nesters of modest means had an income to augment the sale or renting out of their home---enough to winter in Florida or the desert Southwest and summer at some sylvan retreat.  Itinerant workers had long been trailerites, and that only increased as the economy recovered enough to offer sporadic good employment around the country.  By the end of the decade even some transitory farm workers had scraped together enough money for a used trailer, and the term 'trailer trash' was firmly  placed in the popular lexicon.

"Mr And Mrs H.F. Trumpbour live in a travel trailer." 1941

Despite the often heard sales pitch of a modern three room apartment on wheels! trailer life in the 1930s was generally short of one modern ideal: a bathroom.  Only the most luxurious trailers had bathing facilities, and if equipped with a toilet is was likely to be a chemical john---in need of being taken out as regularly as the garbage.  Communal showers and laundry tubs made the trailering life best suited for the relaxed and gregarious.  Heating and cooking was by oil, refrigeration was usually by ice or occasionally household current or kerosene.  'Bottled gas' (propane) didn't become a common trailer utility until after World War II.  The upside was a certain doll-house-like convenience, low heating costs and often beautifully paneled interiors---not to mention that all-important mobility.  New job prospects in far away places?  Hate your neighbors?  Move.

Trailer courts and motor courts often joined forces in the late 1930s

By the late 1930s, gracefully banked pavement coast to coast and four lane boulevards between some cities eased the tension new trailerites had over dragging their homes around with them.  Places to park for the night or the month were popping up everywhere---anything from resorts to kitsch to local eyesores.  A lag in popular interest was momentary, for once Europe fell into war and America was called on to supply the Allies, trailers became important housing for suddenly burgeoning industry.  The demand increased dramatically after Pearl Harbor when trailer manufacturing became a critical war industry as the government tried to ease a now-acute housing shortage that continued to plague America throughout the 1940s.  Trailers, for better or for worse, were now a permanent part of America's social and physical landscape.

Let's Go Terraplaning!

A 1934 Terraplane.  Professional driver on closed course; Do not attempt to run over your spouse.

When Hudson invited us to go 'Terraplaning' in their new lightweight yet fast 1932 Terraplane, the American highway system was well on its way to being what we expect today.  Pavement made leaps and bounds every year and the oldest paved alignments---barely ten to fifteen years old---were being bypassed for speed and safety.  In many cities, routing was moved from downtown and out onto new boulevards soon lined with businesses that predominately catered to the motorist.  Unlike the rest of America, the oil industry only suffered a slight dip in profits during the Depression.  People were on the move more than ever.

Another profitable business during the Depression was the Mo-Tel, that snappy abbrivation for Motor Hotel. The first one in the modern sense opened in San Luis Obispo, California in 1925 but the concept really took off in the 1930s, when construction costs lowered while traffic increased.  Tourist camps and cabins had existed since the 1910s, but these often involved bringing your own sheets and an outhouse, while the motel or 'motor court' was meant to be in the class of a modern hotel, but without the pesky bellboy and remote parking.  There was always a race to keep up with the place down the road: kitchenettes, 'Cooled By Refrigeration', Beautyrest mattresses. In fact, a number of 1930s motels were named Beauty Rest, trying to sell the motorist on a good night's sleep from the get-go.  Associations were formed to assure motorists beforehand of a standard of amenities and cleanliness---a harbinger of today's homogenized if not altogether reliable corporate motels.

The proverbial motor mouth had new competition, too: the car radio.  Radio's move from the living room to the dashboard was not without concerns over distracted driving, but once simplified and perfected in 1935 it became a popular accessory.  Soon another table was added to the free road maps handed out by service stations besides ones for point to point mileage and towns: the radio log.  As a station faded into static, one had to simply consult the table for the next station down the road, or chose the correct network station so they wouldn't miss their favorite show, such as NBC Blue for The Jell-O Program Starring Jack Benny.  The oil industry sponsored many radio programs, too---particularly news and sports---so it was in their interest to have the motorist's ear just as the gasoline tank was going on empty.

Terraplaning became too much of a good thing by 1938---at least as far as Hudson was concerned.  The model that pulled the company up and out of the Depression was now seen as a major sales distraction from their larger cars, so the Terraplane was hyphenated back into the Hudson family. Slightly upscaled out of its previous market niche, sales were dismal and the name Terraplane was happily abandoned in 1939.

See The USA!

I'm about finished as I ever will be plotting out our next ginormous back roads cross country trip.  As mapping has gone from tracing and calculating mileage to Google maps, one naturally adds more to the process---that's the way computing always goes, isn't it?  My latest layer of plotting is subscribing to roadfood.com and seeing what regional eats are along our route.  We've found that in spite of all the back road glories of California, dining isn't apparent among them, so it's a treat to stop and have a local taste in the Midwest or on the Atlantic Seaboard.  Accommodations are accounted for but not fully booked---after all, April is pretty slow tourism-wise and we could be stalled somewhere because of foul weather.  Normally we travel in May or September into October, but this coming May has too many schedule conflicts---and who wants to wait until fall?

If memory serves me right, my husband and I have been on six or seven cross country trips in our fifteen year relationship/marriage.  We've been to every state but Alaska, Hawaii and Florida---and we're checking Iowa off our list on this trip.  Canada has been covered in general, but on this trip we'll search out a vein of Quebec we haven't been through before.

 

Why, yes---we did start off seeing the USA in our Chevrolet, albeit it was just a '97 Metro named Melvina.  Observers were strangely incredulous about our mode of transportation, like the man who approached us at a road block on an old US highway in Pennsylvania.  He got out of his car, walked up to my open window and exclaimed You drove all the way from California in that?! as if Melvina was a clown car from a three ring circus.  Fortunately he recovered and offered his first intention---to tell us he was late for work and to follow him on a detour around the road block.  The word was passed along to several other motorists, so he ended up with a little convoy following him.  He drove at a very familiar speed, even after the road lost its pavement and wound along the banks of a creek through a broadleaf forest.  People rushed out onto the porches of their cabins, gawking at us racing by in a cloud of dust.

These days we travel by Prius---an '04 dowager named Patsy with almost 300,000 miles on her.  Again people are growing incredulous, this time for taking such a high mileage car on such an ambitious trip.  There is a perennial discussion between us of purchasing a slightly used Chevrolet Spark a year or so from now, so once again the incredulity will shift to our car's déclassé size, not her advanced mileage.  Him, I mean---since he'll have the very unoriginal name of Sparky and be in the hue they call Lemonade.  I nixed Techno Pink after real life revealed it to be a very timid lavender gray with a relentlessly gray interior.

Road trips didn't used to be so easy, no matter the size or mileage racked up on an automobile.  At the turn of the 20th Century, road maps were merely suggestions---ambiguous lines for unmarked routes where locals could lead a motorist on to their own diversions.  I love this 1890s map of central and southern California for bicyclists.  The route from Los Angeles to the San Joaquin Valley is totally terra incognita today outside of the avid hiker and trespasser.  From the vicinity of Fillmore one was supposed to ride a bicycle up or aside of Sespe Canyon and over the mountains to Lockwood Valley---and then around Pine Mountain and down San Emidigo Canyon and onto the valley floor---but not directly to Bakersfield, but west to Asphalto, the land of There Will Be Blood.  There were once vast wetlands one had to bicycle around to get to Bakersfield.

By 1920 the proliferation of pavement and the legions of motorists traveling at some 35 MPH and often much faster demanded a uniform system of highway designation.  At first an abbreviation of the names bestowed on the highways by various promotional groups was used.  Official and regular signposts of any type were a major improvement, but the signs lacked uniformity, leading to confusion---which obviously would only get worse as more highways were routed and named.  Note that both the Pikes Peak Highway and National Park to Park Highway both used two Ps prominently, and it was likely at some point they crossed one another or even shared the same roadbed.  Their official designation was switched to a numeral in 1926, but some of these names have persisted in pop culture. Tourists may still see or read the term Redwood Highway along the Northern California coast, and the transcontinental Lincoln Highway is getting its fair share of attention this year due to its hundredth anniversary.  The Pacific Highway still runs through many towns in the Northwest.  Most of the other names soon sank into obscurity.

Unfortunately, the pavement still didn't reach most of these designations.  Of all the possibilities on our old highways/back roads trip, I think this scene is one we'll safely bypass.  Note that the motorist is a member of the National Park to Park Tour---via the National Park to Park Highway, of course.

I'm looking forward to sharing a daily travelog of our trip with you.

The Pleasure of Pushbuttons

The pleasure of push buttons no longer lies within their convenience but in the story they tell.  Unless their cardboard tabs have been devoured by silverfish or shrunk and displaced by time, they leave behind an accurate accounting of the original habitat of a vintage radio.

In the late 1930s, the Federal Communications Commission had a very firm, paternal grip on the airwaves.  They ruled that the ether was public domain, therefore what was broadcast through it was to be ultimately for the public good.  In order for the 'good' to come through clearly, there had to be minimal interference between broadcasters.  Therefore, three types of frequency allotments were set aside: Clear for high powered stations meant to be heard a thousand miles or more at night, regional for stations meant to cover several hundred miles and locals---which operated at very low wattage at night or not at all.  This regulation particularly favored rural residents, whose news and entertainment could otherwise be limited to going to town Saturday night and church on Sunday morning.

The push buttons on this 1939 Montgomery Wards Airline radio features most of the clear stations of the West, south to north.  That the stations aren't arranged 'professionally' in progressive frequency fashion suggests that the buttons could have been set by a mail order customer, another indication of rural residency.  Perhaps this person simply started with the station they most listened to on the left and progressed downward along their own scale of interest:  1160 kc, 680 kc, 590 kc, 1050 kc, 860 kc and 1110 kc.  On a map this would be represented left to right by Salt Lake City, San Francisco, Spokane, Los Angeles, Tijuana, Tijuana.

1939 Airline Radio Reception Map

Plotted out thus, the cross hairs come together somewhere in Nevada.  Since the sole radio station in Nevada at the time was in Reno and is not represented on the push buttons, the set was likely located well east or perhaps north or south of there.  The Elko area is as good a guess as any, since KSL Salt Lake City seems to be favored.


A precursor of push button tuning was telephone dial tuning, as featured on this 1937 Troy---a radio manufacturer in Los Angeles.  From left to right we have the frequencies of 750kc (KXL), 1190kc (KEX), 1080kc (KWJJ), 970kc and 620kc (KGW). All these being Portland, Oregon stations assures us this radio was originally resided in the Portland/Vancouver area.

Mammoth radio manufacturer Philco had a similar idea with their 1938 Cone-Centric automatic tuning.  However, the selections on the dial were not simply those deemed interesting by the new owner but printed at the factory for the 'radio market' the set was to be sold in.  The dial would be installed by the shop and the stations set---the latter being a more complicated procedure than most.  Still it is interesting in what Philco decided what was to be received locally---especially in the rural Far West, where stations were few and far between.  How this information was verified is a mystery, but Philco wasn't the only radio manufacturer that did it.

This Philco was sold in Reno, Nevada market, for the one local station is KOH Reno---the only radio station in Nevada at the time.  Perhaps they had a different dial for Las Vegas, but it would be harder to discern that market now for the lack of local stations.  At the most there would been a third dial for Eastern Nevada.  California could have had a couple dozen different dials.

The stations represented left to right broadcasted from: San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Francisco, Denver, Seattle, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City and Reno.  On a map, we get a nice 'X' marks the spot over Reno from the various points of reception.

Reception map for 1938 Philco for Reno

Gilfillan, a Los Angeles radio manufacturer, also marketed their little Plastikon radios with regional dials.  Since no automatic tuning was involved, it was likely they were shipped directly from the factory equipped for broader markets.  The 'S' in the lower left hand corner and the stations listed suggest Seattle---but it appears the dial stood in for all of the Washington and Idaho market.

From left to right, stations represented are: Wenatchee, Spokane, Portland, Los Angeles, San Francsico, Seattle, Portland, Spokane, Seattle, Seattle, Calgary, Los Angeles, Vancouver BC, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, Tacoma, Boise, Los Angeles and Spokane.  The resulting lines of travel crisscross Washington state.

Reception map for 1938 Gilfillan

Today the FCC appears to equate the public good with cramming 'choice' in our ear, with no concern if it's actually discernible or unduly repetitive---such as the same chattering Pez head at eight points across the AM dial.  Most of the clear channel allocations are now in name only, a jumble of language and music every night due to multiple stations allowed to broadcast at low power under the high powered stations.  There are exceptions, but it's no wonder radio's audience grows older by the day.

It is interesting that CFCN 1010 Calgary is on the Gilfillan dial above.  It is still under a Canadian Clear allocation, and we listen to it quite often way down here in Northern California while driving back to the ranch on winter nights.  A few years ago I noticed that the FCC had allowed a Salt Lake City NPR station to use the frequency at considerable power---perhaps 50,000 watts daytime, since we could receive it during some winter days.  Surely directional antennas were supposed to control the signal into an east west pattern, but obviously there were problems---and not just a personal annoyance over a jumble where there used to be something to listen to.  The fact that CFCN is part of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation network---a government entity---made sure there would be swift diplomacy in the matter, and now Mother Nature is once again the only true arbitrator of that frequency.

Although I was born way after the Golden Age of Radio, I still have great respect for its potential.  One good reason is that most of my childhood was without television, and although greatly diminished, radio was still more varied and entertaining then than now.  From repeats of classic radio dramas and mysteries on KNX to Dr. Demento on KMET, from the San Francisco news on KGO to some South Carolina station caught at four in the morning---it all seemed somehow magical, that dial in the dark.  That ghostly sense of space, so close and yet so far---the voices carrying over the deserts and mountains.

There are still places in this world where radio is an honest form of news and entertainment.  In Great Britain, it's still big enough to demand a weekly glossy magazine, Radio Times.  Most of the programming is provided by the BBC---and so I ask, if we can have BBC America on cable television, why can't we have the apparently more lively BBC radio over the air?  With an allowance for advertising, it seems the perfect alternative feed for our stolidly automated American broadcasting system, barking its way into oblivion.

Overloaded

The Nash, cut down into a truck of sorts and overloaded, rolled along on three tires and a rim that wailed a constant complaint.  Each expansion joint in the concrete punctuated the protestation with sharp metallic blows.  For all the noise there was not quite enough to fill the big quiet caused by a motor silenced by the lack of gas.  A hot breeze sanded over the sunburned faces of those passengers perched on the patched canvas covered remains of their lives.  Their dirty hands gripped the canvas tightly, their fate on the downgrade, brakes burning.

Al looked over at Floyd, but they were strangers again.  Their night on the Colorado River was a couple of hundred miles ago, and the Mojave had since sucked all the juiciness out of the memory.  Floyd looked resolutely ahead, knowing he was being watched.  The increasing wind whipped at his open shirt and the sunlight counted his ribs.  He was as dark as an Indian, except for his knuckles.

These mountains offered no reviving waters, no reliving the recent past.  They passed into them easy enough, but now they were being pitched forward---not into the green garden below, but off into eternity.   This family was not Al’s but something he bought with his canteen of water somewhere before Peach Springs.  At the river they had all given thanks but asked for more and so they were given this.  Al looked away from the curve looming ahead.

A flash of color registered out of the corner of his eye, and a sweet scent just barely broke though the stench.  The taste of Nu-Grape filled his dry mouth, and Al looked down to see a large shrub waving wands of lavender and white, like a frothy freshly opened bottle of pop.  These shrubs dotted the steep barren slope below, increasing in number as quickly as the pitch of the wail of the naked rim.  And then he saw why the stench had been momentarily replaced:  The brake beneath him had burst into flames.

Floyd screamed for his father, dead for several years.  Al knew it was Floyd, for it was the same strangled passion that rang in his ears that river night.  Time to let go.  Al’s hands relaxed and he started to float as the Nash dived.  For a split second he watched the car hurtle ahead of him, and then he dropped into the sweetness.

Al bubbled back to conciousness, smelling Nu-Grape and tasting blood.  Bees buzzed around him.  He could see the swath his body had cut through the shrubs and hear voices above him and then around and below him.  Slowly he turned his head, feeling twigs poke and comb his scalp.  Blossoms waved over his face, between him and the deep blue sky---and then, a wisp of smoke.  His head, unbroken, completed the radius and took in the view of shattered remains strewn far below him.  There was nothing left of the back of the Nash, only the differential remained, wicking a small dull orange flame and greasy thread of black smoke.  Only a few brittle branches held him back.