...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.