tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11836299369253865832024-03-17T16:42:12.280-07:00J and L Research and ExplorationJ and L Research and Exploration is a blog for travelers and curiosity seekers desiring to see and know about the world. From our own backyard to destinations far and wide, J and L seek to research, explore, and share the discoveries we make. Whether it's about people or places, near or remote, we hope you find something of interest to you here.J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-75549372115213751572024-03-17T16:41:00.000-07:002024-03-17T16:41:32.092-07:00The Not so Ghost Town of Ransburg<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurzeeS9DfONqx0AYCfX27r4qgHTHZRTH7DlnIGjOr3aYvRypUIWduz2RSSwj5tf1cbNib-Dk-QIyYlLcP3rgkBgLvtRlV7pSdJ3t3iHGVzCbNXtmWrG6kDtT_7kwdf8PmULFBLKT29iZjml7fN4awZZc968gYs4g8s-hml8C1pI6u6OEShjclmFol5xQS/s4851/Randsburg20.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2939" data-original-width="4851" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurzeeS9DfONqx0AYCfX27r4qgHTHZRTH7DlnIGjOr3aYvRypUIWduz2RSSwj5tf1cbNib-Dk-QIyYlLcP3rgkBgLvtRlV7pSdJ3t3iHGVzCbNXtmWrG6kDtT_7kwdf8PmULFBLKT29iZjml7fN4awZZc968gYs4g8s-hml8C1pI6u6OEShjclmFol5xQS/w400-h243/Randsburg20.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to Randsburg, CA</td></tr></tbody></table>Standing midway down Butte Ave, I believed I was in a new filming for the hundredth Mad Max series.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidElhRRyixCjCbus361zU2xniTTIvGTR2qedZfXkdBqEYNAbXyZ5YPR5cXeGKa1WPretmj61NQ4uADI_NiGaOWIuuLG8HBrq3tKBvNL3CQ06powjUJ3i0iPWMudCecluAHBC8vw2km82YJ4PfdH-U_IJ3RL7Ht6QJ28saO9HBNI_2KHz6-YaWdkygXvZlv/s1280/randsburg7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidElhRRyixCjCbus361zU2xniTTIvGTR2qedZfXkdBqEYNAbXyZ5YPR5cXeGKa1WPretmj61NQ4uADI_NiGaOWIuuLG8HBrq3tKBvNL3CQ06powjUJ3i0iPWMudCecluAHBC8vw2km82YJ4PfdH-U_IJ3RL7Ht6QJ28saO9HBNI_2KHz6-YaWdkygXvZlv/w400-h225/randsburg7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Run for your lives - nope, everything is safe</td></tr></tbody></table>Dozens of RZRs, dune-buggies, dirt bikes, off road golf carts, and gyrocopters came screaming out of the northwest through this tiny burg.<p>Folks dressed head to toe in leathers, cottons, tree bark, and stretched out leggings barreling through this living ghost town one mile south of Highway 395 made a person pause.</p><p>There were mullets on helmets. Sideburns on helmets. Mohawks on helmets, and helmets on helmets.</p><p>It was surreal, but I did not stand in the middle of the road for long, not wanting to end up as roadkill, which was being served for lunch I was told at the local park. </p><p>“It’s really good if it is fresh, with not too many tread marks,” a grizzled miner may have uttered.</p><p>I was in Randsburg, a supposed ghost town that seemed pretty alive.</p><p>“Fall, winter, and spring are our busiest times of year,” noted Neil, the owner of The Joint. “People love camping out in the desert nearby and then rolling in here for lunch and perhaps a cold beverage.”</p><p>Sort of funny, “rolling in here” by the owner of ‘The Joint.’ Just saying.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizty4Tn77bUC9FyllAeyzF9SZuvs6JnS4pSe8VS6qO3pbt3t_ZjsD9asLvHMGgaMHibbITmob_9q1D8la0s3AQl1uZ3HNc_dbaBwIDKe5gdZnFwREZqoKvtNO5_99pN4HniJGX4oM_It1u-Wx_6fLiE87xr0X9K6N-MwlCprXLXvhgLiR8bPNu0wZc7iYc/s4862/Randsburg21.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3584" data-original-width="4862" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizty4Tn77bUC9FyllAeyzF9SZuvs6JnS4pSe8VS6qO3pbt3t_ZjsD9asLvHMGgaMHibbITmob_9q1D8la0s3AQl1uZ3HNc_dbaBwIDKe5gdZnFwREZqoKvtNO5_99pN4HniJGX4oM_It1u-Wx_6fLiE87xr0X9K6N-MwlCprXLXvhgLiR8bPNu0wZc7iYc/w400-h295/Randsburg21.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Joint in Randsburg</td></tr></tbody></table>Actually, in all transparency stopping by any saloon usually makes my day. It gets mighty thirsty on the road.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkzhXfuZ8rH5h0FY8f76gxGrQFPoQ4v_MZLQ0MpqOsN1G_JyWjKwcVcsRApFHqEz579RkQ5QliealE4L9dkyB0xPIDhUV60m2G2i1wYdj7KVrhDHUWoiQ9APa5xKQCv0x3GYzFOjv05MP2a6GCGWxEbc66YVDQU-vzha2QMi7GgW0WvWlNfrMYof6KLzC/s6000/Randsburg17.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkzhXfuZ8rH5h0FY8f76gxGrQFPoQ4v_MZLQ0MpqOsN1G_JyWjKwcVcsRApFHqEz579RkQ5QliealE4L9dkyB0xPIDhUV60m2G2i1wYdj7KVrhDHUWoiQ9APa5xKQCv0x3GYzFOjv05MP2a6GCGWxEbc66YVDQU-vzha2QMi7GgW0WvWlNfrMYof6KLzC/w400-h266/Randsburg17.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior view of The Joint in Randsburg, CA</td></tr></tbody></table>I had traveled through Randsburg many times on my way here and there along Highway 395. It’s a quaint locale with friendly folks, an interesting history, and clean free public restrooms in the town’s city park.<div><p>A must for a traveler.</p><p>The definition of a ghost town, according to Dictionary.com, is a town that was once thriving that has been completely abandoned. According to Geotab.com a ghost town was once a thriving community that has dwindled over the decades. According to Oregon.gov, ghost towns are abandoned villages or cities, often with substantial visible remains.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfEgxvb2DUgxZdbWR_6mCgRUkj4g0CIEgsxK9SnWDd_iWIxwd1IHnp0jN6WB7HWi6aCRpXzpVLiJvY1RFXcQTT5G_5pDVd7Kq93W9fogo_521hPJ58KRKaBhLrpDC5DoD03exE4y5u_3pCReKvIKsAtxna1g5ZJXz5TIO55k8Jvl3VLZ_0ESZvlEgooEo/s4152/Randsburg15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3141" data-original-width="4152" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfEgxvb2DUgxZdbWR_6mCgRUkj4g0CIEgsxK9SnWDd_iWIxwd1IHnp0jN6WB7HWi6aCRpXzpVLiJvY1RFXcQTT5G_5pDVd7Kq93W9fogo_521hPJ58KRKaBhLrpDC5DoD03exE4y5u_3pCReKvIKsAtxna1g5ZJXz5TIO55k8Jvl3VLZ_0ESZvlEgooEo/w400-h303/Randsburg15.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Well, that last one could mean a whole lot of towns and cities now in California.</p><p>“You know, Neil,” I said. “You live in a ghost town according to what I’ve read.”</p><p>He just looked at me and wandered back into The Joint.</p><p>I should have stuck with the one definition I knew had to be accurate from theydon’tknowwhattheyaretalkingabout.com which stated that a ghost town is what people call places they have not traveled to.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJeOB-5rSWP91E8czTZFv1Q8hyphenhyphengA6K2uMckrN8c5a3TIoBkoEV_ryJ4gBgHDpGsy-ci3UCafRttu3eRXqe42rviWef1yTWcx_PBr5D7g05eyqp-Wec3x8lbj6YtZnU7I5zzgpw7ya37-jjhIfu3PWySwXXowKANv03FjBol6cE4oD9yKRDIl7Wt-TOxPc/s4783/Randsburg18.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3381" data-original-width="4783" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJeOB-5rSWP91E8czTZFv1Q8hyphenhyphengA6K2uMckrN8c5a3TIoBkoEV_ryJ4gBgHDpGsy-ci3UCafRttu3eRXqe42rviWef1yTWcx_PBr5D7g05eyqp-Wec3x8lbj6YtZnU7I5zzgpw7ya37-jjhIfu3PWySwXXowKANv03FjBol6cE4oD9yKRDIl7Wt-TOxPc/w400-h283/Randsburg18.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Randsburg</td></tr></tbody></table>Randsburg is not a ghost town. Sure, there are ghosts, according to the paranormal folks, locals, and a few miners who told me they have shared bottles of whiskey with the ghosts - okay, but it is not a ghost town in any sense of common sense.<p>Prior to Neil abandoning me in the street, he did state there is a ghost of a miner that sits atop the roof of The Joint. The ghost is supposedly a disgruntled ex-customer who was told eons ago that he was no longer welcome due to his bad behavior. I glanced up to ensure no wily bearded miner was lingering atop the building and dashed inside in case I may end up with a dropped pickaxe on my noggin.</p><p>No, this tiny town 68 miles northwest of Victorville and 138 miles northeast of Los Angeles has a lot of life to it and a wonderfully interesting history.</p><p>Randsburg is known as one of the small towns within the gold and silver mining belt of Kern County.</p><p> Randsburg, as well as Red Mountain and Johannesburg - other so-called ghost towns, that were once hustling and bustling jurisdictions where gold and silver could just be picked off the desert floor.</p><p>“Looky, Maxwell,” a dandy of a miner may have shouted after picking up a three ton solid gold nugget. “I be rich!”</p><p>That is not true. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJZI_yYyBDiJVfBrEbEpa8cGZhom2c3pZOs9MLF3o_dK9WLIk9Bo0oy762p30xwfcsuRqLJ5KA3y2RPtvrzKnUQl70Qdiq_DCKcVGYeoYNXU6InZWGnwwtFJ5Bx6m8bARBlNAn2gVcY6a_P8Er80SsWpA_MRciV2C_StqQGUSB_ArRg-eoXuxKYDpfQia/s3660/Randsburg16.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3143" data-original-width="3660" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJZI_yYyBDiJVfBrEbEpa8cGZhom2c3pZOs9MLF3o_dK9WLIk9Bo0oy762p30xwfcsuRqLJ5KA3y2RPtvrzKnUQl70Qdiq_DCKcVGYeoYNXU6InZWGnwwtFJ5Bx6m8bARBlNAn2gVcY6a_P8Er80SsWpA_MRciV2C_StqQGUSB_ArRg-eoXuxKYDpfQia/w400-h344/Randsburg16.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Community church in Randsburg, CA<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Randsburg is located in the Rand Mining District, named after the Rand Mountains where it is located along with Red Mountain and Johannesburg.<p>According to the Los Angeles Daily News, three down-and-out miners wandered the Rand Mountains in 1895 and stumbled across a huge gold bonanza southwest of Ridgecrest - later to become Randsburg.</p><p>The miners who had been down-and-out were Frederic Mooers, John Singleton, and Charles Burcham and rumor has it that Frederic smiled at his two buddies and said, “Guess we are no longer down-and-outers.”</p><p>Where Singleton may have replied, “I can’t wait to see the face on my mother-in-law now.”</p><p>But with all history things can become a bit wonky. According to other research it was actually Frederic Mooers and William Langdon who actually found solid traces of gold in the Rand Mountains in 1894. It was in 1895 that Singleton and Burcham were brought into the partnership, along with Dr Rose. </p><p>Whatever be the case, the Rand Mining District was created in December of 1895 and a gold rush began. Some reports state that it was one of, if not, the largest gold rushes in California history with the Yellow Aster mine being the centerpoint of gold discovery.</p><p>Starting with just a few folks mining for riches soon turned into a boom and by 1896 more than 1,500 people were calling the area home.</p><p>Of course, where there is one mine, soon many more started opening up as more and more deposits were located. King Solomon, Jolly Girls, Monkey Wrench, Bully Boy, and Look What I Found were just some of the mines that soon opened.</p><p>By the end of 1897, folks were getting very rich working the various mines in the Rand Mining District, especially the Yellow Aster which produced more than $600,000 in gold, which is about $22,000,000 today.</p><p>Another rumor is that when Singleton’s mother-in-law heard the news, she simply said, “You call that money?”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhog2utLgqpomzzS-zbn7RaaJb1PglQ1aKsNDuRADPsYRWUFVHuBlPquv7pyLaKX9DSKHnseQNNNUSPFnhEkO12mcvw5_02gvCRufP4SkcQdMFFWeI2yM_ko9bdh327SBGUaIRf6y_0isYo5wrQkM9SB8pL_YL_3qeldcOeGilhQFvtWK_UDJgrlUwRpvUz/s4014/Randsburg19.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2468" data-original-width="4014" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhog2utLgqpomzzS-zbn7RaaJb1PglQ1aKsNDuRADPsYRWUFVHuBlPquv7pyLaKX9DSKHnseQNNNUSPFnhEkO12mcvw5_02gvCRufP4SkcQdMFFWeI2yM_ko9bdh327SBGUaIRf6y_0isYo5wrQkM9SB8pL_YL_3qeldcOeGilhQFvtWK_UDJgrlUwRpvUz/w400-h246/Randsburg19.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the old mines located in Randsburg, CA</td></tr></tbody></table>So much ore was coming out of the earth that it was hard to transport to various locations for processing; Garlock and Barstow. Shipping the ore over the newly built Randsburg Railways was slow due to the extent of the output, so a thirty-stamp mill was built in 1899 in Randsburg. Soon a much larger one hundred stamp mill was called for to handle all the ore being taken from the various mines in the area.<p>By 1901 the Yellow Aster mine was kicking out $120,000 worth of gold each month, well over four million dollars today. Silver was also being mined with huge profits from adjourning mines that covered the Rand Mountains.</p><p>Like all boom towns, it wasn’t just miners that got into action. Nope, plenty of saloons, gambling halls, and brothels showed up to ensure the miners did not walk away with all that cash in their pockets alone.</p><p>To save the souls of the now nearly 2,500 citizens of Randsburg in 1897, churches began to sprout up along the narrow and congested streets. Since some of the miners were married, as well as the shopkeepers, schools also were constructed.</p><p>It was a good time for all.</p><p>In 1898 two devastating fires erupted and nearly destroyed the entire town of Randsburg, but some quick thinking individuals used dynamite to blow up structures creating a break where the fire could not spread from block to block.</p><p>With the tough spirit of these pioneers, the town was rebuilt even better than before.</p><p>An interesting side note concerns neighboring Red Mountain, where numerous accounts state that during prohibition, folks all the way from Los Angeles would travel there during the weekends to partake in the over 30 saloons and brothels located in the area.</p><p>A tidbit here, Dr. Rose Burcham is not only considered one of the first pioneer female physicians in Southern California but in 1904, the Los Angeles Times honored her with, ‘Men of Achievement in The Great Southwest Mining’. - the only successful woman mine operator in the southwest.</p><p>A hardy and smart woman, she outlived her mining partners, dying in 1944 after retiring to the state of Alabama.</p><p>By 1934, with the depression and the ore not producing as much gold or silver as in the past, the town started to dry up. Folks moved on to the next boomtown but today Randsburg is still very much alive with shops, restaurants, saloons, and places to stay for the night.</p><p>The small town offers wonderful events throughout the year, including; Old West Day, Bluegrass Jamboree, Mohave Dirt Bike Rally, Don’t Fall Into An Empty Mineshaft Day, and so much more for the visitor. </p><p>And if camping in the wide open desert isn’t your cup of Joe, then there are places to stay for the night in Randsburg, from the Cottage Hotel Bed and Breakfast, to numerous Airbnbs - some supposedly used as cribs utilized by the soiled doves in the day. May have to use the Old West Dictionary for that description.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzsRzEjj7_XmRyMuRXwDV7hH8CQrK4UBE4gZ7O5C_9Pro_InLE2bmWMnmPOVtgWTSzcKNtS9GR2GZFGHWTMiLzTuX6yFWghDpvJzOqzBQN5rSlvF1BlfJiTPwV_JK5wlQZCRgFV9x5X9vvDVsIxCORotX7vyKDu2WWHA3Z2oxDbjqgeeWRK1qbbKkLilk/s4668/Randsburg22.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2172" data-original-width="4668" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLzsRzEjj7_XmRyMuRXwDV7hH8CQrK4UBE4gZ7O5C_9Pro_InLE2bmWMnmPOVtgWTSzcKNtS9GR2GZFGHWTMiLzTuX6yFWghDpvJzOqzBQN5rSlvF1BlfJiTPwV_JK5wlQZCRgFV9x5X9vvDVsIxCORotX7vyKDu2WWHA3Z2oxDbjqgeeWRK1qbbKkLilk/w400-h186/Randsburg22.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cottage Hotel, one of many places to stay at Randsburg, CA</td></tr></tbody></table>Though I’ve traveled through Randsburg for years, I learn something new with each visit, and isn’t that the way adventures go?<p>Daniel, a bartender at the Joint, poured me a drink. “Are you coming back?”</p><p>I may be there already.</p><div><br /></div></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Randsburg, CA, USA35.3685739 -117.65811617.0583400638211558 -152.8143661 63.678807736178847 -82.5018661tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-64270329932108039982024-03-05T06:00:00.000-08:002024-03-05T06:00:00.364-08:00The Trial of the ENGWE L20 2.0<p>Having a travel blog and writing a weekly travel column, Beyer's Byways for USA Network, folks sometimes ask us to visit a certain place to experience what travelers may experience, or offer us a product to review (not buy or given) that may make certain types of travel a little easier.</p><p>One such thing was the new ENGWE L20 2.0 peddle assist electric utility Ebike - John agreed to put it to through some tests and then review it.</p><p>Again, in all transparency, we do not receive any remunerations from ENGWE and just agreed to review their new mode of transportation. </p><p>And here is that review.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTIFsU0lrQv_mf9b_BwAYAVUB8MwB33FdlKAANhI7Q0-YloivOOI-ynK4j-2MgItmrfd-CwwBmm6JmHivDhevpPne-qiPQcdFMC2EFW4v9npqCJs_G1xldsbR3WHA0D7ZWCroJiiq7K0QEwbzAzPvFM6QVILMWp-s070CAawkCE44dBnB4iDCH2qnReteN/s1982/engwebike1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1522" data-original-width="1982" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTIFsU0lrQv_mf9b_BwAYAVUB8MwB33FdlKAANhI7Q0-YloivOOI-ynK4j-2MgItmrfd-CwwBmm6JmHivDhevpPne-qiPQcdFMC2EFW4v9npqCJs_G1xldsbR3WHA0D7ZWCroJiiq7K0QEwbzAzPvFM6QVILMWp-s070CAawkCE44dBnB4iDCH2qnReteN/w400-h308/engwebike1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ENGWE L20 2.0</td></tr></tbody></table><p>When receiving anything via land delivery, the first concern is how the item was packaged by the manufacturer, especially if assembly is required. Thus with the receipt of the new ENGWE L20 2.0 peddle assist electric utility Ebike, it was comforting to see how well-secured every aspect of the bike, in the carton. Styrofoam surrounded all essential parts with all parts were wrapped tightly with plastic bands and cardboard boxes – there have been times in the past when we have had to return parcels due to incorrect packing techniques which quickly sours a buyer on the purchase.</p><p>With the easy-to-read instructions and all tools needed supplied by ENGWE, the actual time from removing the bike to full assemblage is less than 45 minutes. And one of the unexpected features on this specific Ebike, was that a handle is placed on top of the battery pack below the seat post. With any foldable Ebike, and with the weight of the L20 2.0 hovering at nearly 69 pounds, this handle made if far easier to hoist the Ebike into the rear of an SUV.</p><p>I was interested in trying out this new Ebike on the road and knew with its 750W motor (peak delivery at an estimated 1125w) it should be fast enough to serve any cyclist’s needs. Also, with the adjustable front suspension forks, the ride can be adjusted for most terrain and for the comfort of each individual rider’s weight.</p><p>The range for the L20 2.0 is stated at 80 miles in peddle-assist mode but this would probably be under a perfectly paved flat land with a rider not tipping the scales too high. This range though would be suitable for the majority of people who desire an Ebike with a distance which would carry them around town, off-road adventures, or simply cruising down a beach boardwalk.</p><p>There are two metal racks on the L20 2.0 – one over the rear fender and one over the front fender allowing this utility bike to be just that, an all-around Ebike for grocery shopping, or packing items for a day’s outing.</p><p>Living in a rural community in the Southern California desert, I took this Ebike through some pretty challenging roads, paths, and steep sandy terrain. Impressive was the quick electric assist when needed as I peddled through a rather deep dry sand wash – in fact, I stopped peddling and allowed the electric motor do the job of getting through the deep inches of fine, silty ground. With the throttle located strategically on the right handle, adjusting the speed was simply accomplished by a slight turn of the wrist. Also, with the large knobby fat tires the L20 2.0 had no issue accomplishing the feat and soon a harder packed road was found. A few days after a rare heavy rain, the path was marked by multiple deep hardened ruts, but the front suspension seemed to handle it well with just a slight pounding which would be expected from such a surface, no matter the mode of transportation involved.</p><p>On a relatively flat asphalt roadway the Ebike ride was comfortable, especially with the wide, fully adjustable ergonomic cushioned seat, front suspension and fat tires. Shifting gears was smooth with a flick of the left thumb and I did not notice any hesitation from one gear either shifting from low to high or high to low. With the standard Disc brake system, the stopping distance was clean, straight, and quick. With the peddle assist and geared up, the L20 2.0 matched the 28 mph that is advertised.</p><p>The easy-to-read 2 ½ by 3 ½ LCD display allowed me to visualize the speed, distance traveled, and battery level at a quick glance.</p><p>One small negative was the placement of the headlight which is attached to the front rack. This would take some getting used to when turning in the dark with the light not focused where the front wheel was turning. </p><p>Overall, the new ENGWE L20 2.0 seemed a well-constructed, sturdy peddle-assisted electric utility bike for the average rider. And with many electric bikes tipping the scales in the thousands of dollars, the starting price of $799.00 puts this Ebike as a very reasonable choice for the consumer.</p><p>Again, we are not promoting ENGWE but just wanted to post the review. </p><p>For more information: https://engwe-bikes.com/products/l20-2-0</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Phelan, CA 92371, USA34.426288 -117.57256286.1160541638211541 -152.72881280000001 62.736521836178845 -82.4163128tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-77813393291925795832024-02-23T12:29:00.000-08:002024-02-23T12:29:25.397-08:00Hoover Dam, a dam good tour<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTGTLjKbum2jqm0FZAFqMLLM81wB_S-CoGgFjj3Hz11YfKhUzsCueXqgkWpLrPmq6wySgkXfRTyySblPDtqEMvhpqqR8-jTK3K0ku0oVlgdvFbEfEKs4h7w15i-sPqozyJKFyPOnIWLbi07HWbe80lDWFNDmj5XirjaO3V6zok9hp8YAY6NCIgYzTGoqw/s4199/hoover8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2627" data-original-width="4199" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTGTLjKbum2jqm0FZAFqMLLM81wB_S-CoGgFjj3Hz11YfKhUzsCueXqgkWpLrPmq6wySgkXfRTyySblPDtqEMvhpqqR8-jTK3K0ku0oVlgdvFbEfEKs4h7w15i-sPqozyJKFyPOnIWLbi07HWbe80lDWFNDmj5XirjaO3V6zok9hp8YAY6NCIgYzTGoqw/w400-h250/hoover8.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Decades ago, Laureen and I took our very young children to visit the Hoover Dam. Recently we revisited that trip and none of it looked familiar to me. Of course, in all transparency I sometimes wear mismatched socks - so, not remembering an adventure 20 years in the past seems to be not a big deal.</div><div><p>“Remember when Jessica asked if you had worked on the dam?” Laureen said, as we hiked from the furthest parking lot from the Hoover Dam visitor center. “That was funny.”</p><p>I smiled. Nope, I didn't recall that question from my daughter, though I do have memories of hanging off the cliffs on a single rope while drilling dynamite holes into the rock face as we began building the Boulder Dam.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObD9oUbJ_lrBLRq-svGEARhZrtwi1N__ecWx_aLb5CGzl-xMmZiqzDM30gtcMp_MDFqNZ-2n0qFTGLfBaFV1yys9DEZ_LF3UiJlspFwK8AulmxzjQEXsNMBPfNKiAp6bcbheBkfHpEwEvjD7vCmAo9KWONjosFxO0fPkQbZJ-gNgso39ym2nTPW12785w/s3665/hoover2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2772" data-original-width="3665" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObD9oUbJ_lrBLRq-svGEARhZrtwi1N__ecWx_aLb5CGzl-xMmZiqzDM30gtcMp_MDFqNZ-2n0qFTGLfBaFV1yys9DEZ_LF3UiJlspFwK8AulmxzjQEXsNMBPfNKiAp6bcbheBkfHpEwEvjD7vCmAo9KWONjosFxO0fPkQbZJ-gNgso39ym2nTPW12785w/w400-h303/hoover2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not John R Beyer at work, but this is how it was done </td></tr></tbody></table><p>“No,” I replied, “but what was funny was when I dropped the pick hammer and it landed in Joey’s head at the bottom of the canyon. Now, that was funny. Except, Joey did walk and talk a bit differently after that.”</p><p>Laureen had arranged for a tour of the Hoover Dam, along with 33 of our closest strangers. She believed it was a total dam tour but as we stood in line with our phones ready to scan at the visitor’s center, we learned it was for the power plant section of the dam only.</p><p>“I thought it was for the whole dam,” Laureen said.</p><p>“Shouldn’t curse,” I replied.</p><p>Hoover Dam is an architectural masterpiece - pure genius, guts, and engineering.</p><p>Without going into too much history of why Boulder Dam was built in the first place, there were three major reasons - flood control since the river loved to surprise folks living shoreside with unpredicted floods which wiped out crops and towns, to provide controlled/regulated irrigation for farms which help to feed the population, and produce hydroelectric power for all those people who had moved into California, Arizona, and Nevada.</p><p>Seemed the thing to do.</p><p>In 1869, John Wesley Powell led a group of adventurers down the raging Colorado River in wooden boats. This river’s path and ferocity was unknown to most people, even the Native Americans who had lived near the flowing water for eons.</p><p>Powell managed to make it through the sometimes Class 5 rapids in the Grand Canyon and lived to write about it. He was a strong leader, who had served in the Civil War for the Union side and actually lost half of his arm during the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee but this did not slow the adventurer down.</p><p>It was his final reports after the journey down this magnificent river in the southwest that made folks in the east understand the importance it had to the development of the country. Rich mineral finds, large tracts of vacant lands perfect for farming and grazing, and great weather made the idea of converting this river into a life giving bloodline for pioneers could be crucial for an expanding nation.</p><p>And, the pioneers heard the call and moved west.</p><p>In 1902, Arthur Powell Davis who worked for the Bureau of Reclamation decided that perhaps a dam should be built, or multiple dams.</p><p>It would be 30 years before the construction for such an ambitious project could begin.</p><p>Laureen and I wandered along with the tour to visit the power plants that make Hoover Dam so important to millions of people living in the southwest.</p><p>Over 7 million guests visit the huge Hoover Dam yearly which borders the states of Nevada and Arizona - there is actually a stamp along the dam where a photo can be snapped showing where a person could stand between both states. I chose Nevada - no personal state income tax.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6THt-NY08C9ncuQnwHnsti6aHEzaEZiQOiyY1lSOgpjNOTYNdwBXYG1KuMQrYk-p-KNdGAntLcHSA3LHfoiaXeAqohJ1B6aVkGccKBf2mbfpaaFZWCrsXZX-s1NwCq2YtyupWRnTZWxkrMnyGdgk7CQf0SKjH2y-n0ZzxllYppbwyrQ5f1uiIKi3leULr/s5069/hoover10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2702" data-original-width="5069" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6THt-NY08C9ncuQnwHnsti6aHEzaEZiQOiyY1lSOgpjNOTYNdwBXYG1KuMQrYk-p-KNdGAntLcHSA3LHfoiaXeAqohJ1B6aVkGccKBf2mbfpaaFZWCrsXZX-s1NwCq2YtyupWRnTZWxkrMnyGdgk7CQf0SKjH2y-n0ZzxllYppbwyrQ5f1uiIKi3leULr/w400-h214/hoover10.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bridge for vehicles and pedestrians span the Colorado River</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Our guide, Matt, was young and very well versed about the dam and the power plants we were visiting.</p><p>“We are now five hundred and thirty-six feet deep into the dam,” Matt said, after we had taken an elevator into the depths of the cement structure.</p><p>It was a bit surreal, realizing that on either side of where we were standing there was about a trillion gallons of water pushing against the thick cement walls of the dam. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9L14dUY9U4t8A2iwRYgFO8BirpsdsayNyRSo5AdRpIc2xtE7cYhKGz5f1gUusz1tle1hVmvwdt7yo6v9y8m8ZmBKJdcknEdM_5blytvu3MYSQ30dhPXh_9fzOBdYjGw_n-t7Rgpa-H0PLDvULeNh9sA3xRyP05QQqFcLuWgwhTKTAJmjjK2S0jR-G6Nk/s3774/hoover7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2888" data-original-width="3774" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM9L14dUY9U4t8A2iwRYgFO8BirpsdsayNyRSo5AdRpIc2xtE7cYhKGz5f1gUusz1tle1hVmvwdt7yo6v9y8m8ZmBKJdcknEdM_5blytvu3MYSQ30dhPXh_9fzOBdYjGw_n-t7Rgpa-H0PLDvULeNh9sA3xRyP05QQqFcLuWgwhTKTAJmjjK2S0jR-G6Nk/w400-h306/hoover7.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen Beyer deep within Hoover Dam</td></tr></tbody></table><p>“If these walls busted,” I said to Laureen, “we’d be in Mexico in a matter of minutes.”</p><p>My lovely wife has a bit of claustrophobia, so I didn’t press the issue. </p><p>“Isn’t that weird? We could be at Cabo Wabo within an hour. Margaritas on me,” I continued.</p><p>She gripped my hand so tightly that I looked to see if she had changed places with Chuck Norris.</p><p>Matt continued with his dialogue about the building of the Hoover Dam and it was awe inspiring.</p><p>“We have to remember that the dam was started in nineteen-thirty-one and finished in nineteen-thirty-six, two years earlier than the date promised,” Matt said. “And, this was men working with picks, shovels, drills, dynamite, and sweat. An unbelievable accomplishment, no matter the year.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YCpAOyiFTNOwHKz7rHdp0L-ckiZer_CnzqmLEFaZTqxJk3yoomF0Pd-FA4maNGf8X2uTTS3aawLw4lBFObbCQWqsUbGxHsnmS95_wzbtL79kOO7GPMhb58K0iqYObav4qHzMFrYfIAxpnZZxhPLHnaneehWWRpd_MTvFyUy5Zzd6FuF1WO9FlFJ9LHAR/s3766/hoover9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3766" data-original-width="3650" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1YCpAOyiFTNOwHKz7rHdp0L-ckiZer_CnzqmLEFaZTqxJk3yoomF0Pd-FA4maNGf8X2uTTS3aawLw4lBFObbCQWqsUbGxHsnmS95_wzbtL79kOO7GPMhb58K0iqYObav4qHzMFrYfIAxpnZZxhPLHnaneehWWRpd_MTvFyUy5Zzd6FuF1WO9FlFJ9LHAR/w388-h400/hoover9.JPG" width="388" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drill marks can still be seen near Hoover Dam</td></tr></tbody></table><p>At the time such a construction was thought impossible. A building project as the Boulder Dam (it was later renamed Hoover Dam) had never been done and was the largest manmade endeavor attempted at the time. </p><p>But that did not stop the chutzpah of American knowhow.</p><p>With the leadership of Chief Engineer Frank Crow starting in 1931, the building of the dam and safety of his crews was most on his mind.</p><p>Over 5,000 workers were employed to construct the dam and the pay was not wonderful, generally four dollars per day - of course, those who had more dangerous jobs could earn another dollar. It should be noted though, this was during the Great Depression and lines of men from Las Vegas waited daily for a chance to earn a buck or two for their families.</p><p>In the years of the building, less than 100 men died during the construction - any death is a tragedy but for such a mammoth and long term project, it was not unexpected deaths would occur.</p><p>“And for those who have heard the rumors,” Matt said. “No one was covered by cement and died. No, the deaths were from men falling off cliffs, blasting accidents, heat exhaustion, drowning, and other causes. Terrible as that is.”</p><p>During our tour we learned that the amount of cement used is almost unimaginable. “Over four point three million cubic yards of cement was used,” Matt informed us.</p><p>“How much is that?” I asked Laureen, she’s smarter in these matters than me.</p><p>She simply rolled her eyes. “A lot.”</p><p>Turns out that amount of cement could produce a 16 foot highway from New York City to the city of San Francisco. That is a lot of concrete.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkk-L819frVHiGdZJss0LY0LZe7BkfSKUGtPaHQVsVr5vr8Wyx1Rwq9fa3anS6c-dJ0AS8TWAZitjO3FhcV9an3H6jCLW5Bc-o27xQY90X6cr-xSihNPzRXL3OMCd8LO-KAXFcQuzg1sHrhxEZed5PxdVJl-VZ1k6o21qVjiq9FFroW_vzl4ZpyFqjtZH/s5437/hoover3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3454" data-original-width="5437" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkk-L819frVHiGdZJss0LY0LZe7BkfSKUGtPaHQVsVr5vr8Wyx1Rwq9fa3anS6c-dJ0AS8TWAZitjO3FhcV9an3H6jCLW5Bc-o27xQY90X6cr-xSihNPzRXL3OMCd8LO-KAXFcQuzg1sHrhxEZed5PxdVJl-VZ1k6o21qVjiq9FFroW_vzl4ZpyFqjtZH/w400-h254/hoover3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South side of Hoover Dam - that's a lot of concrete</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We were hundreds of feet down into the dam, which is over 660 feet wide at the bottom of Boulder Canyon and a narrow 45 feet at the top, where tourists can walk.</p><p>“The dam is so wide at the bottom, that twenty percent of the cement is still curing,” Matt told the visitors.</p><p>He asked if there were any questions. “How long does the government believe this dam will last,” I asked.</p><p>“Good question,” the guide said. “Back in the fifties it was examined and determined it would last one thousand years.”</p><p>There was an audible gasp. “But today, we believe it will be closer to four thousand years. Every once in a while core samples are taken from the bottom and studied, that’s how the engineers came up with that last figure.”</p><p>In a few minutes we reentered the elevator and traveled upwards about 50 feet to where we were able to view the huge steel turbines stationed within the walls of the dam. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-OFtvXqdUZc0KMjrjIWCtZAmzOcrkR9xXuYok5vdc4Qv9e0O4UM1gZ3x3R-mdRoYDVLPzaifjrS6XlVzUWwgSJm12a-X_xajylC9rCa3LLGJsxjgPac3FnSKEzb5KP00SJVRXErWomCmmsnGVcAlIXy4dQsEO49xApLmGgUwjSl9JCXvABBmhfeRm6-7/s3217/hoover4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3217" data-original-width="3007" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-OFtvXqdUZc0KMjrjIWCtZAmzOcrkR9xXuYok5vdc4Qv9e0O4UM1gZ3x3R-mdRoYDVLPzaifjrS6XlVzUWwgSJm12a-X_xajylC9rCa3LLGJsxjgPac3FnSKEzb5KP00SJVRXErWomCmmsnGVcAlIXy4dQsEO49xApLmGgUwjSl9JCXvABBmhfeRm6-7/w374-h400/hoover4.JPG" width="374" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turbines on the Arizona side of Hoover Dam</td></tr></tbody></table><p>“Above us are two cranes needed to lift these turbines,” Matt said. “They are able to lift three hundred tons each.”</p><p>Looking across the nearly 650 feet to the other end of the cavernous interior of the dam was amazing. Fork lifts, trucks, and everything needed to keep these turbines which produced ample energy for millions of people looked like toys in comparison to each of the size of the machinery.</p><p>There are 17 such turbines in the complex, nine on the Arizona side and eight on the Nevada side. Our guide went into a monologue about the megawatts produced as billions of gallons of water rushed into each turbine spinning its innards like a washing machine - except a whole lot faster.</p><p>I was suddenly confused with all the technical talk. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGMeD7n-Lo_LrVC1WFHUguxDmjNz9yegviT2d6A2cLrL9DGVJMrdFq0xDqqCQwg-jUGKhOlZPlbbqTtgxFGiC_lWvexbGDgwtAl2Vq8I_Dl0VuKhpE4pN5R_ysm915Lvq57hJLbGyrX1oqxREKsOftZ191qrmukjb6Rvzugy7BFWxqfQHkXHzczoBBW_F/s4716/hoover6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2678" data-original-width="4716" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtGMeD7n-Lo_LrVC1WFHUguxDmjNz9yegviT2d6A2cLrL9DGVJMrdFq0xDqqCQwg-jUGKhOlZPlbbqTtgxFGiC_lWvexbGDgwtAl2Vq8I_Dl0VuKhpE4pN5R_ysm915Lvq57hJLbGyrX1oqxREKsOftZ191qrmukjb6Rvzugy7BFWxqfQHkXHzczoBBW_F/w400-h228/hoover6.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just one of the water pipes within Hoover Dam</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Soon the tour was over and as we walked across the top of the dam, I could only ponder what John Wesley Powell would think about this dam which tamed the mighty Colorado River.</p><p>I suspect he would smile.</p><p>For more information: Hoover Dam | Bureau of Reclamation (usbr.gov)</p><p><br /></p></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Nevada 89005, USA36.0160655 -114.73773257.7058316638211579 -149.8939825 64.326299336178849 -79.5814825tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-74475012888704671202024-02-08T06:00:00.000-08:002024-02-08T06:00:00.135-08:00Tragedy at Nelson Landing, Nevada<p> “I remember coming here fishing as a young man in the early seventies,” the now older man said. “It was a wonderful location for families to camp, boat, and just have fun.”</p><p>Laureen, my lovely wife, and I had just met this fella along the shores of the Colorado River, not far south of the Hoover Dam.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE8_920DVmBTuao58e_wfgYCv6ycBTcUOVBsu67ocYzQLaI7hW_MKwW_FE4WfkQ8CBctSQEidoGUlBPXkxXbzrU0Oh6TqQDSvqdCXWCPDHQpe4WJDEX_iKopCvPnpYjFGYtAJMZUtSNMMgTdnRXX4zaPe3_CsjpkczfI3wiHhhrYh2j37CIFo-oTp28wP/s5437/hoover3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3454" data-original-width="5437" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE8_920DVmBTuao58e_wfgYCv6ycBTcUOVBsu67ocYzQLaI7hW_MKwW_FE4WfkQ8CBctSQEidoGUlBPXkxXbzrU0Oh6TqQDSvqdCXWCPDHQpe4WJDEX_iKopCvPnpYjFGYtAJMZUtSNMMgTdnRXX4zaPe3_CsjpkczfI3wiHhhrYh2j37CIFo-oTp28wP/w400-h254/hoover3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South side of Hoover Dam</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In all transparency, we were actually at Lake Mohave, but it is still all part of the Colorado River. In fact, gold ore used to be shipped along the river near the town of Nelson 350 miles to the Gulf of California. With the building of Hoover Dam, Davis Dam and others, the river was tamed and man-made lakes were created, but it is still all part of the Colorado River system.</p><p>We had been out exploring places we had not yet visited when we had found ourselves along the shore of crystal clear waters.</p><p>“Then in an instant it was all gone,” he concluded, and then drove off through the sandy wash westward.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQUGaiwqz2bh_VezZ6SCbhgIQ0rdSAUR3w_Zck-bUdKakLoY8yEXMrcWzN-7CLqQcTyBd_i1545AiEmLqfJZSYbqOf0RNrLJEVM1IJf1kR2-PYF4FZO-gO3mds8Z5GvLoa21w-FBIp2OP2NEA5aBvIkIdqOFKHzRDSEaEtPwtYK_gf4YYQTml32BXayw-/s5619/nelsons6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="5619" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQUGaiwqz2bh_VezZ6SCbhgIQ0rdSAUR3w_Zck-bUdKakLoY8yEXMrcWzN-7CLqQcTyBd_i1545AiEmLqfJZSYbqOf0RNrLJEVM1IJf1kR2-PYF4FZO-gO3mds8Z5GvLoa21w-FBIp2OP2NEA5aBvIkIdqOFKHzRDSEaEtPwtYK_gf4YYQTml32BXayw-/w400-h178/nelsons6.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All that is left of the once popular Nelson Landing</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A sobering moment as we learned we were standing on the ground where Nelson’s Landing had once stood. A river resort that had been loved and shared by countless folks for decades.</p><p>Nelson’s Landing had been located on the western edge of Lake Mohave in El Dorado Canyon, roughly five miles east of the ghost town of Nelson - which is where Laureen and I had actually been heading. But, unbeknownst to us - there was another story at the end of the pavement when we had decided to travel past the ghost town.</p><p>“Let’s see if we can get to the river on this road before touring Nelson,” Laureen had said, and being the dutiful husband and traveler agreed.</p><p>“All roads lead somewhere interesting,” I replied.</p><p>At that moment the idea of interest had been an understatement. Turned out to be a black ribbon of asphalt that had a tale of horror and tragedy at the end of it.</p><p>Nelson’s Landing had been a small beach settlement enjoyed by locals and visitors alike. Mobile homes, RVs, campsites, boat docks, restaurants, and other amenities made this place a must go river spot.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkHAi9mlzsagDI0P0FTCodz5XjJvNSkA2DTPusQA6Qy6T0QlP6GTLqxIjMoPtNGs-ilQH3ZcfpMX0oCz4wCudt5G8K2YAe0VenYCgCqPDL3A6MMp75E2f3eBYEu4gwaIc8LfFop04udNl7_udGmrsVK-D7qfNp_nvZYIrvb9b5_6kh7NV1eranEQfqcaN/s722/nelsons2.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="722" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkHAi9mlzsagDI0P0FTCodz5XjJvNSkA2DTPusQA6Qy6T0QlP6GTLqxIjMoPtNGs-ilQH3ZcfpMX0oCz4wCudt5G8K2YAe0VenYCgCqPDL3A6MMp75E2f3eBYEu4gwaIc8LfFop04udNl7_udGmrsVK-D7qfNp_nvZYIrvb9b5_6kh7NV1eranEQfqcaN/w400-h248/nelsons2.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original photo of what Nelson Landing looked like before the tragedy</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Looking for a choice for water activities, there is Lake Mead, north of Hoover Dam or Lake Mohave, south of Hoover Dam. Take your pick. Either would be a good choice on a hot day. It was an easy destination for people living in nearby Boulder City or even Las Vegas, a mere 50 miles away. </p><p>One such summer day was September 14th, 1974 where people were boating, laying on the sandy beach, camping, and enjoying lunch in one of the restaurants at the landing when the unexpected reared its ugly head.</p><p>Miles away to the west a storm cloud showed up and poured a monsoonal amount of rain onto the dry desert soil in only a few minutes.</p><p>The torrent splattered the desert floor, but with the sun scorched hardened earth the ground was like a piece of tile and that rain simply did what gravity intended - flow downhill undeterred.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKuV7bPotJtDr1pSGmLPZWlj3KEYSQVYgk29W1a19Y9MPuDGeOdsKgeOQV5PVvl_Y06RONsMafqgD-8ATDmJOW5FPG0mFT2xEnN3tkjaVcnHXQBuR-wHQLFLqOV1IGagu_aozngh8BLSKXqlDJfPW-r9Vt4jEnDJOyLI6JadQ9zDqpX5yiUfGz815mZjZ/s4522/nelsons5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3002" data-original-width="4522" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKuV7bPotJtDr1pSGmLPZWlj3KEYSQVYgk29W1a19Y9MPuDGeOdsKgeOQV5PVvl_Y06RONsMafqgD-8ATDmJOW5FPG0mFT2xEnN3tkjaVcnHXQBuR-wHQLFLqOV1IGagu_aozngh8BLSKXqlDJfPW-r9Vt4jEnDJOyLI6JadQ9zDqpX5yiUfGz815mZjZ/w400-h265/nelsons5.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narrow canyon walls allowed torrents of water to flow</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Soon a forty foot wave of water channeled from five separate smaller canyons rushed through El Dorado Canyon toward the resort. In a matter of minutes the resort was completely wiped out.</p><p>Among the rubble, only memories were left by those who had survived.</p><p>Nine people died on that fateful day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0zyECyaZOxy1UB-u6hBj4chCR-PFd4OPJlnOVB4GuABux43aGQgpPKHLbC4Br63shKjaDx5QpZF-oTmzkfueiEBrcGDZpG7b6E1uto83dUcblAnYA6qIfkGiW3_nPpGzfbsoB9DfRLdRNqTH24EnkU9qTdCqPly03vpAnnWYYKylkh_TzqvJkYJWQEqj/s507/nelsons3.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="507" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0zyECyaZOxy1UB-u6hBj4chCR-PFd4OPJlnOVB4GuABux43aGQgpPKHLbC4Br63shKjaDx5QpZF-oTmzkfueiEBrcGDZpG7b6E1uto83dUcblAnYA6qIfkGiW3_nPpGzfbsoB9DfRLdRNqTH24EnkU9qTdCqPly03vpAnnWYYKylkh_TzqvJkYJWQEqj/w400-h255/nelsons3.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rescue workers looking for survivors at Nelson Landing</td></tr></tbody></table><p>According to a July 9, 2019 online news article from 8@NewsNow.com (Las Vegas) - local resident, Tony Werly stated: “That’s fifty-two square miles that all merged into that one canyon. As the cloud was coming down the mountain, they (the people who had been enjoying the day at Nelson Landing) were trying to get their boat docks out of the water before they got rained on. They never knew what was coming down the canyon with it.”</p><p>Werly also stated a teacher he had once had, Jack Dailey, had been one of the victims of the flooding disaster.</p><p>“Dailey was actually a school teacher of mine when I was in high school and he was one of the guys that died.”</p><p>Dailey’s friend, John Gellifent, was also interviewed.</p><p>“Jack was out boating,” Gellifent said. “He was coming back when the wall of water hit.”</p><p>Turns out the teacher and friend of Gellifent’s had been out enjoying the river and upon returning to the beach in his boat he was overtaken by the destructive path of the flood and killed just offshore.</p><p>Nelson’s Landing was never rebuilt. There are now signs warning visitors that the chance of a severe flood is a real and present danger.</p><p>We looked out across the area where one minute visitors were having the time of their lives and the next, there was no time left.</p><p>“How horrible,” Laureen said. “To be here with your family enjoying a wonderful day and then that happens.”</p><p>I did not reply. My gaze took in the blue waters of the river in front of me and I could almost hear the terrified screams of those watching from wherever they were at the moment as a tsunami barreled down on them.</p><p>And then the frantic search and rescue through the rubble that had been a popular beach resort must have been heart wrenching.</p><p>It did not take a vivid imagination to feel what those poor folks felt as they looked westward up El Dorado Canyon and saw nothing but a huge debris filled wave of water racing toward them.</p><p>I felt chills run down my spine. To be standing at a gorgeous location, as this place is, and then to realize you are standing on hallowed ground.</p><p>People had perished here. Their only fault, just enjoying a hot summer day by cool waters.</p><p>It was not something we had expected to experience as we had happily been driving north along US Route 93 toward Boulder City, Nevada when we took a short jaunt toward the ghost town of Nelson.</p><p>A few years ago, my buddy Paul and I had powered up the Colorado River from Katherine Landing aboard my pontoon boat. It was a casual camping excursion, where we took in gorgeous inlets, water canyons, hidden coves, witnessed families of Bighorn sheep, and wild donkeys. The final destination of cruising by Willow Beach, on the Arizona shore to the Hoover Dam 12 miles to the northwest.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIqu06flfP6SkwWvm8u69gXrMolg3sJyqqzC89MCu4FJuwpxjjM3QUTocPxf1S8DmVPceuBqvC_T8DDW9h_dxcW8IvoBU1Kfz7xeiRvo3DubLvNy1w7gW2AneG2hj7EbTMotVLhFbVf0ZH0Egy9eTYk7xDvU9sLgxi1IxZR87ZWqpjM_gg0TJ1FkePHg1/s480/lakemohave1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIqu06flfP6SkwWvm8u69gXrMolg3sJyqqzC89MCu4FJuwpxjjM3QUTocPxf1S8DmVPceuBqvC_T8DDW9h_dxcW8IvoBU1Kfz7xeiRvo3DubLvNy1w7gW2AneG2hj7EbTMotVLhFbVf0ZH0Egy9eTYk7xDvU9sLgxi1IxZR87ZWqpjM_gg0TJ1FkePHg1/w400-h300/lakemohave1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The blue waters of Lake Mohave</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The previous day, we had witnessed dozens of people laughing while they jumped from some pretty high natural cliffs alongside the Colorado River on the Nevada Shore.</p><p>All through the warm months, people flock to Nelson’s Landing to jump off the cliffs into Lake Mohave. Some spots along the steep walls are 50 feet high and caution as well as a little dose of common sense are needed here.</p><p>I wondered if those summer loving folks realized that less than half a century ago, folks had literally fought for their lives on that sunny September day, and some had fought in vain.</p><p>“I boated past this spot without realizing the tragedy which had taken place,” I said to Laureen. “When Paul and I made our way to the Hoover Dam and saw people jumping into the water. Never thought of where or how tragic this place was.”</p><p>Laureen nodded.</p><p>Though the temperature was in the high thirties when we visited in January, the sun was shining making the water sparkle and the sand crunch beneath our feet.</p><p>No sign of a past calamity was to be witnessed in this picturesque setting. Just quiet and beautiful.</p><p>According to the National Weather Service - ‘Flash floods can roll boulders, tear out trees, destroy buildings and bridges, and scour out new channels. Rapidly rising water can reach heights of 30 feet or more. Furthermore, flash flood-producing rains can also trigger catastrophic mudslides. You will not always have a warning that these deadly, sudden floods are coming. Most flood deaths are due to FLASH FLOODS.’</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZyj8zyhmwFD0aYAcBIBWR76tQ30kwh-rejALJ_MFz0o4klHEFslCDx4cMR27DuUS5Ob9AkKI6qmZNP5jJUL8YQiS8nmaHwC6pR5GM2ByUBCOUmglZzz1_aSFFgFzkyogb7hL9ojer4_hgZOsG-S-CYhuGNTfieIhFPV-NIxfF7JYU3cBZzZS3u5TPRkF/s2560/nelsons7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZyj8zyhmwFD0aYAcBIBWR76tQ30kwh-rejALJ_MFz0o4klHEFslCDx4cMR27DuUS5Ob9AkKI6qmZNP5jJUL8YQiS8nmaHwC6pR5GM2ByUBCOUmglZzz1_aSFFgFzkyogb7hL9ojer4_hgZOsG-S-CYhuGNTfieIhFPV-NIxfF7JYU3cBZzZS3u5TPRkF/w400-h300/nelsons7.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The strength of rushing waters can dislodge huge section of earth</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The fun-loving people enjoying a hot September day in 1974 did not think twice about a dark cloud far away on the horizon - why should they? But, in a matter of a blink of an eye rain fell in huge amounts and turned that care-free event into a horrific and unforgettable catastrophe. </p><p>The teacher, Jack Dailey, did not live to see a school named after him in Las Vegas - Dailey Elementary School. </p><p>Though I often make light of being out in nature and possibly ignoring signs about this or that - driving out of El Dorado Canyon on that January morning reminded me that signs are there for a reason and must be taken seriously.</p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Old Nelson's Landing Rd, Nevada 89046, USA35.7078945 -114.71308347.3976606638211564 -149.86933340000002 64.018128336178847 -79.5568334tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-10063575338581805092024-01-23T04:00:00.000-08:002024-01-23T04:00:00.140-08:00Western Film Museum, Lone Pine<p> Driving through Lone Pine along Highway 395, I decided to stop and have a looky-loo at the Museum of Western Film History.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdKADmVmuISq2xUBHUudTHskfdowIMz6ZEY15kdK6XnC2CBk3zEOBsPgBAyCRuY3SXYOVIlm_TIEJaJRaw358_PdyRjnQVuu-ioNl6sezlCciYmDJdFldpnpAtZAKXKJCe3rfD9vnIaYg6BZzTttHrgQq-i12HznNLbd4GRO5YFcY0C4XRBVbCIzr5LvX/s4155/filmmuseum55.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3607" data-original-width="4155" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdKADmVmuISq2xUBHUudTHskfdowIMz6ZEY15kdK6XnC2CBk3zEOBsPgBAyCRuY3SXYOVIlm_TIEJaJRaw358_PdyRjnQVuu-ioNl6sezlCciYmDJdFldpnpAtZAKXKJCe3rfD9vnIaYg6BZzTttHrgQq-i12HznNLbd4GRO5YFcY0C4XRBVbCIzr5LvX/w400-h348/filmmuseum55.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>I am sort of a geek when it comes to museums. I like them. I like them so much that I try to stop by most as I pass when on the road, which is a lot.</p><p>“There, a museum,” I may shout to Laureen, or the empty passenger seat while driving through this little berg or that little berg. “We should stop.”</p><p>Laureen usually agrees and when she is not traveling with me, the passenger seat remains silent, which I take as, “Sure, let’s see what is in there.”</p><p>That is the only sort of geek I happen to be. No techie here - nope. If the television is acting funny while I am alone at home, I will wait until someone arrives to save me.</p><p>“Dad, how long have you been sitting here staring at the screen?” one of my daughters may ask when they find me in the recliner with three days of beard growth.</p><p>“I can’t exit Netflix,” I may utter. “I’m in the twenty-fifth century with Picard.”</p><p>So, I decided to stop and check out this museum, which boasts it is similar to the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum located in the small village of Cooperstown in New York State.</p><p>The similarity, which I read about on their website, means they are the one and only true Western Film History Museum tied to the special location of the village of Lone Pine.</p><p>Lone Pine is a lovely town, approximately 210 miles northeast of Los Angeles or 2,700 miles southwest of Cooperstown, New York.</p><p>The town of Lone Pine is worth a visit all in itself. Anyone who has traveled north along Highway 395 on their way to Mammoth to ski, to Reno to gamble, or to Tonopah for paranormal fun, knows Lone Pine.</p><p>The town of a little over 1,500 citizens sits at 3,700 feet above sea level on the southeastern slopes of the Sierra Nevadas in Inyo County. It is home to the Alabama Hills and entryway to Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States, towering at over 14,500 feet.</p><p>Contiguous is just a fancy way of saying, among the forty-eight states in the continental United States. In the state of Alaska, also a part of the United States for those who are checking, sits either Mount McKinley or Denali (one and the same) which tops over 20,000 feet.</p><p>The town received its name from a once lonely pine tree that sat at the mouth of the Lone Pine Canyon. </p><p>One item that pulls on the traveler's heartstrings is the monument dedicated to the folks who perished during the 1872 Owens Valley earthquake. At 2:30 in the morning on March 26th, a huge fault gave way and nearly wiped out the town which at the time contained a few hundred people. Twenty-seven residents perished and nearly 60 were seriously injured. It was later determined that the quake possibly measured anywhere from 7.4 to 7.9 on the Richter scale, which was one of the largest to ever strike California. It was similar to the monster that struck and destroyed most of San Francisco in 1906.</p><p>Each time I drive along that beautiful highway of 395 through the town of Lone Pine, I pull over and bow my head near the dedication monument for the victims who had gone to bed on March 25th of 1872 and never saw the sun rise again.</p><p>It is a very somber place to stand and reflect.</p><p>The museum is a historical journey of over 400 films and 100 television episodes that have been shot in the nearby Alabama Hills or other locales near Lone Pine or Owens Valley.</p><p>That is a lot of filming through the years starting with the 1920 blockbuster The Roundup, starring Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle, Buster Keaton, and Chief Red Foxx.</p><p>The list from that beginning is long and interesting. 3 Godfathers in 1948, Around the World in 80 Days in 1956, The Great Race in 1965, Transformer: Revenge of the Fallen in 2009, Terminal Velocity in 1996, and my favorite Hopalong Cassidy and the Sasquatch Kid - release date unknown at this time.</p><p>While I wandered the exterior of the museum, a film crew was all set up in the rear parking lot. Long tables with food were beneath popup tents, loads of sound equipment stacked around huge trailers, make-up folks discussing which tint went with what tint, guys and gals walking around looking rather Hollywoodish, and a middle-aged guy in a suit having his hair dyed.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLc3wNjzEnvNhfB5lfvpDCQtbdm4JnNmYBMjtcw-FSU3FU8ngZV17AYBWFteaX8MnQJfnaGP9JalqUaMe28FO68ND3xLjv7NLIZyOqMAUNFo5w7jNkSxj1mkwSNc5nXyDMpXGm1Zzji2BWkN59An-U1edw7TyVlNrSsgj9eCiSrlTdKkr-kWTXkl4kKs7/s4718/filmmuseum74.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="4718" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLc3wNjzEnvNhfB5lfvpDCQtbdm4JnNmYBMjtcw-FSU3FU8ngZV17AYBWFteaX8MnQJfnaGP9JalqUaMe28FO68ND3xLjv7NLIZyOqMAUNFo5w7jNkSxj1mkwSNc5nXyDMpXGm1Zzji2BWkN59An-U1edw7TyVlNrSsgj9eCiSrlTdKkr-kWTXkl4kKs7/w400-h171/filmmuseum74.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready for the next shoot at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I smiled and said hello to all I walked by. I was summarily ignored and decided to enter this western museum in Lone Pine.</p><p>Immediately I knew I should have stopped years earlier. The place is a cornucopia of film-making magic. Laureen, my lovely wife would have loved it. The empty passenger seat I had been currently traveling with could care less would be my guess.</p><p>One of the most intriguing exhibits is the 1928 RKO Studio camera car sitting like it just came out of the Ford production line. It is beautiful and all rigged out for a full camera crew to film any sort of moving action that was needed.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpwHsNCliebpmC8Nr1G2v6Ne8Rq56HMexuvBLRUxHoHOhQ1lqY2HcJQ261X1CetzM6OK81zAsy0_dNhFNXzSBUKfbLoPrnDYo8tHJOzA1-EcVCFKI10v6Mvd8qy_QwzgmgrzcZDFDWXfkYgJxRU179iUTiGI8dqROQKNMMvAFZTEWsDb1x1eW_xGpXwz_/s4497/filmmuseum69.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3135" data-original-width="4497" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpwHsNCliebpmC8Nr1G2v6Ne8Rq56HMexuvBLRUxHoHOhQ1lqY2HcJQ261X1CetzM6OK81zAsy0_dNhFNXzSBUKfbLoPrnDYo8tHJOzA1-EcVCFKI10v6Mvd8qy_QwzgmgrzcZDFDWXfkYgJxRU179iUTiGI8dqROQKNMMvAFZTEWsDb1x1eW_xGpXwz_/w400-h279/filmmuseum69.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RKO Studio film car on display at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>This vehicle has been used in multitudes of films including Steve McQueen’s movie, Bullitt, Bruce Willis and James Garner's film, Sunset, and Under the Rainbow starring Chevy Chase.<p>Meandering the multiple-room complex, which even has a movie theater, is a rewarding experience.</p><p>There is the history of Lone Pine mixed in with photographs, clothing, props, and anything else that will allow the visitor to fully understand the importance of filming has to do not only with this small town but the full cinematic industry.</p><p>An entire room is dedicated to the film series Iron Man, starring Tony Stark - I mean Robert Downey Jr. Easy to mix those two up.</p><p>Not far away in the Alabama Hills is where the Afghanistan ambush and escape took place and close by Olancha School was turned into a terrorist camp for the production.</p><p>Another exhibit is rather creepy, detailing the use of nearby locations to shoot the film series Tremors, starring Kevin Bacon. There are replicas of the Graboids, Shriekers for guests to view and get nauseous over, and a replica of the town the movie supposedly took place in Perfection, Nevada - a phony town.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMQYS-nGnw6ahrxFrDYu0AW7t-GVB432837TWa4XDRnzdwJjN5C3-ng19PI7VyCoVYN5xYsZOHDRo6kZM7DV9URWFtkDxquoD27tt4v-zDNe7Sgkp3EU3JRqaqcDY4t3RVTFNYU3gn0IB8AbrFVbulZMysryFC0udh_K7C-L-2nt0JUv9CKFM8_3vTj9Z/s4864/filmmuseum66.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3635" data-original-width="4864" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTMQYS-nGnw6ahrxFrDYu0AW7t-GVB432837TWa4XDRnzdwJjN5C3-ng19PI7VyCoVYN5xYsZOHDRo6kZM7DV9URWFtkDxquoD27tt4v-zDNe7Sgkp3EU3JRqaqcDY4t3RVTFNYU3gn0IB8AbrFVbulZMysryFC0udh_K7C-L-2nt0JUv9CKFM8_3vTj9Z/w400-h299/filmmuseum66.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tremors creep-out on display at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It was perfect.</p><p>Of course, there are many items from earlier days of filming, such as a beautiful red Overland Stagecoach, supposedly used in the film, Rawhide. A dozen or more saddles hosted the rear ends of such legendary Western stars as Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Cesar Romero, John Wayne, and many more.</p><p>There are prop guns, prop boots, prop jackets, and all sorts of other props that are and were used to make magic come alive on the silver screen.</p><p>Walking through the myriad of vintage film cameras including a Simplex, RCA, and Panavision, all surrounded by metal circular canisters to keep the secrets of the day's shoot hidden and dry is a delight.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprPbhRi54kzknBt5-ca7egEYdiXm7NnQ1FdiDKtMG4XqDSZ3xxqVQeaNUitbtNhLfo3Q_8dEb7Mwudel-jQK5NRWk8CO7wW2ef65nopGHDYU4M7KSlYNWLQncRZgq5bWKN5dgGJCehAj51HRkgNU3XHLoRTLtdTMdnZyQ4_xem8zi-t5h7w1guYiVCU1k/s4507/filmmuseum60.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3191" data-original-width="4507" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprPbhRi54kzknBt5-ca7egEYdiXm7NnQ1FdiDKtMG4XqDSZ3xxqVQeaNUitbtNhLfo3Q_8dEb7Mwudel-jQK5NRWk8CO7wW2ef65nopGHDYU4M7KSlYNWLQncRZgq5bWKN5dgGJCehAj51HRkgNU3XHLoRTLtdTMdnZyQ4_xem8zi-t5h7w1guYiVCU1k/w400-h284/filmmuseum60.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cameras for any film at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Photographs of legends are on every wall, as well as posters such as the one advertising Django, starring Jamie Foxx. One of the films, Gladiator, was autographed by the star Russell Crowe. Of course, John Wayne is lurking everywhere in life-sized cutouts depicting various Western films he starred in the Owens Valley.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdP3qFCwS6x8OC9hh7qIITsitX44Qod4f6RBlP9PTQs2NqC9q6XzJmgN8gUEWH_iA0SQypF0qWLHqtnZRNkKjsy23T2Ek6hyphenhyphenrqqxN53NQJprl7AQMxqgJFqXosOsl5-EgR-OW4DOIelYbPEFWoVANJEVoQc_3ZVYU5qQT61k4tbNbMk3_OMj7dXQylCLW/s4704/filmmuseum72.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4704" data-original-width="1921" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdP3qFCwS6x8OC9hh7qIITsitX44Qod4f6RBlP9PTQs2NqC9q6XzJmgN8gUEWH_iA0SQypF0qWLHqtnZRNkKjsy23T2Ek6hyphenhyphenrqqxN53NQJprl7AQMxqgJFqXosOsl5-EgR-OW4DOIelYbPEFWoVANJEVoQc_3ZVYU5qQT61k4tbNbMk3_OMj7dXQylCLW/w164-h400/filmmuseum72.JPG" width="164" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lone Ranger</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A red director’s chair used by Quentin Tarantino is dead center with a description of what film he used the chair for and a sign telling the guest not to sit in it.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_vQNyXdJipOobpLtQTkGiIfKluZuyaHLVe_l5c3O6BieyOfWLZZxRWvC__LEzW8qbiblEzObTtqJuy7RvmIh5mWAkz-g4LmkEaTVKbB9dRMZFqfVf5GvO8tBx70AvW5Mp6UBsxiF1B6qrwFrgUeJMRcL3ome3PacJI8BaAjOrobzM0F1hJKl5rZ5PXh4/s4070/filmmuseum59.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4070" data-original-width="2742" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_vQNyXdJipOobpLtQTkGiIfKluZuyaHLVe_l5c3O6BieyOfWLZZxRWvC__LEzW8qbiblEzObTtqJuy7RvmIh5mWAkz-g4LmkEaTVKbB9dRMZFqfVf5GvO8tBx70AvW5Mp6UBsxiF1B6qrwFrgUeJMRcL3ome3PacJI8BaAjOrobzM0F1hJKl5rZ5PXh4/w270-h400/filmmuseum59.JPG" width="270" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tarantino's chair on display at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I looked around the room - I was alone at the moment.</p><p>Dresses worn by leading ladies, like the sparkly fringed blue dress that draped one of the most famous female Western actresses of all times, Dale Evans are tastefully shown around the museum.</p><p>A room describing the building of an entire Indian town in the Alabama Hills is on display for the filming of the 1938 film, Gunga Din starring Cary Grant.</p><p>Being a car guy, one of my favorite sights was the 1938 Plymouth Deluxe coupe used in the 1941 film, High Sierra starring Humphrey Bogart. It is shiny gray which oozes class and seems to be in pristine condition.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9c3exyhGd8170TuTsU4FhrxcJ1CKBHNDkoPZrdb30WxP9rzu3LRnGpyh7FXWFkfU_Qiyw49XelNCDQmaaZh54RCTXTeNDcPLXtDq7mVeWE-iiE5TPE4xaKRbVYrk3_-OZbp1c2D9W9eE2xLg9OVa6Pri8_5ccuiLc81hi3fqgDKAjKB9o9L-AZnXLDkP/s3841/filmmuseum62.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2727" data-original-width="3841" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9c3exyhGd8170TuTsU4FhrxcJ1CKBHNDkoPZrdb30WxP9rzu3LRnGpyh7FXWFkfU_Qiyw49XelNCDQmaaZh54RCTXTeNDcPLXtDq7mVeWE-iiE5TPE4xaKRbVYrk3_-OZbp1c2D9W9eE2xLg9OVa6Pri8_5ccuiLc81hi3fqgDKAjKB9o9L-AZnXLDkP/w400-h284/filmmuseum62.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beauty on display at the Western Film Museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A couple of hours or more is needed to see all that is to be seen at this museum. Every minute is worth it, if the traveler has an interest in filmmaking or simply to learn how Lone Pine is so important to this billion-dollar industry.</p><p>This may have been my first visit, but not my last.</p><p><br /></p></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Lone Pine, CA, USA36.6063107 -118.06371198.2960768638211562 -153.2199619 64.916544536178847 -82.9074619tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-24084027296820193712024-01-09T06:00:00.000-08:002024-01-09T06:00:00.128-08:00A Pass through Montgomery Pass<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFjV4GbcjND3wx5y-PfzxmBRvvCMFo0Gx5iTzSaYb3f6HDmHc-KeszROivDb8ZoG3wzVh5lXifswyVfrFCkbf4aAQf_He8hZs_C4CZMoZjNM59QoFUH45Kbv0QDdIaAO8k_A3GvGf83Duv5IJKwJT4VEZpmWDWkxTcrMDAkgw301rOFUi5IjPKO1GiEG4/s3342/MP3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1443" data-original-width="3342" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFjV4GbcjND3wx5y-PfzxmBRvvCMFo0Gx5iTzSaYb3f6HDmHc-KeszROivDb8ZoG3wzVh5lXifswyVfrFCkbf4aAQf_He8hZs_C4CZMoZjNM59QoFUH45Kbv0QDdIaAO8k_A3GvGf83Duv5IJKwJT4VEZpmWDWkxTcrMDAkgw301rOFUi5IjPKO1GiEG4/w400-h173/MP3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Montgomery Pass to Tonopah along US 6</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As I made my way through a myriad pile of junk - old rusted slot machines, broken down chairs, tables, shattered glassware, I suddenly felt as though I was being watched.</p><p>“You don’t belong here,” a voice seemed to utter. “You should leave.”</p><p>Taking a gander about this wreck of a once vibrant welcoming center, I decided to take that unknown recommendation to heart.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyd_P3jzbaK24tfIoufc6TsYjAODA0CNVB5Tj2h2mRSz5fApKkHmZynWNEequo4aaA1Ex9eBiYRhbw0n5T_FYdClE-xxzYrtzd8egR9uey1FDhByTNbwL8vny9a4_cbAK4gXrMiiAmAaVNI2ld-iEKGq-JbfRJK2ULnJJZGWaZoH5W8YrOtw-0Zmzf15o/s5065/MP2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2270" data-original-width="5065" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyd_P3jzbaK24tfIoufc6TsYjAODA0CNVB5Tj2h2mRSz5fApKkHmZynWNEequo4aaA1Ex9eBiYRhbw0n5T_FYdClE-xxzYrtzd8egR9uey1FDhByTNbwL8vny9a4_cbAK4gXrMiiAmAaVNI2ld-iEKGq-JbfRJK2ULnJJZGWaZoH5W8YrOtw-0Zmzf15o/w400-h179/MP2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once bustling visitor center and hotel at Montgomery Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Stepping up and over a windowsill without panes of glass, I knew there was something about this place, Montgomery Pass, that was inviting but at the same time unnerving.</p><p>I don’t believe in Casper flying about doing this and that, even though I do write about visiting supposed haunted places for columns each October. </p><p>Thus, as I was passing this locale with dark overcast skies and threatening clouds, I was not looking for any paranormal mumbo-jumbo. I had just been passing by and discovered this empty soul of a small town.</p><p>Sitting at nearly 7,200 feet above sea level, it was chilly and uninviting, but at the same time, the place called out to be visited.</p><p>I was making my way toward the town of Bishop along US 395 via US 6 after leaving the town of Mina in Nevada along US 95. There were a lot of US highways on this route, one of the most patriotic road systems running through the area.</p><p>Montgomery Pass is near Montgomery Peak, which is one of the tallest peaks in California with its twin, Boundary Peak, not far away. Both peaks are over 13,000 feet above sea level. Those are some mighty tall peaks along the White Mountains, just east of the Sierra Nevadas.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYT5aMBRqF_kXKMLRzg_GCSKZzrNXCtydsBqVEK5HhkERyFVCETUNsOr8UTYITy7kWb5IE0kDvwDrFfI5f59D0Kr3LrC-K8-bXtwa_K9mI_v_JjgNz45ZmsXIP6FgAxVpQOQD_q0h12HieGo2bHdsEKodFb-NXeivUuiWvc2VmZfnPVm9B_-IlgGKWcDO/s3925/MP7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1789" data-original-width="3925" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYT5aMBRqF_kXKMLRzg_GCSKZzrNXCtydsBqVEK5HhkERyFVCETUNsOr8UTYITy7kWb5IE0kDvwDrFfI5f59D0Kr3LrC-K8-bXtwa_K9mI_v_JjgNz45ZmsXIP6FgAxVpQOQD_q0h12HieGo2bHdsEKodFb-NXeivUuiWvc2VmZfnPVm9B_-IlgGKWcDO/w400-h183/MP7.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful vistas behind the remnants of Montgomery Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><p>According to the Nevada Travel Bureau, US 6 is the real Loneliest Road around. There are 297 miles of open roadway with only three towns with more than 100 people residing - Baker, in California, and Ely and Tonopah, Nevada. The truth is, you will not be seeing many vehicles along US 6.</p><p>I recall roughly two summers ago, traveling between Tonopah and somewhere when it suddenly dawned on me that I had not seen another vehicle for at least 30 minutes. A bit peckish, I stopped in the middle of the road, lit up the bbq and within an hour was enjoying a rack of lamb, sided with Za’atar roasted carrots and grilled asparagus, followed with a delicious glass of Fiji Water in a crystal goblet.</p><p>It is a lonely highway - as I was driving off after my scrumptious luncheon, I believe I heard the asphalt crying.</p><p>Montgomery Pass was a totally unexpected delight on this simple travel day. According to one of my favorite ancient Greek philosophers, Heraclitus: ‘If you do not expect the unexpected, you will not find it, for it is not to be reached by search or trail.’</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp5ldL7vGKGnLp7hghRzj5UKhqOg5DQxNMNtIuatUwyCV26HEpD-NSPd3kp0LNVnOck8PEU04tljVSh8hPKMu0tkz0_EpVllXWocZrHx3NzILruI7ykE_zIQeXnGtbHQ1X4ltZNmwez6oFZeKKTytWotc00DuDUizkX6R-1Fv-gmkoFgIufnLlV1EuKh23/s148/heraclitus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="148" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp5ldL7vGKGnLp7hghRzj5UKhqOg5DQxNMNtIuatUwyCV26HEpD-NSPd3kp0LNVnOck8PEU04tljVSh8hPKMu0tkz0_EpVllXWocZrHx3NzILruI7ykE_zIQeXnGtbHQ1X4ltZNmwez6oFZeKKTytWotc00DuDUizkX6R-1Fv-gmkoFgIufnLlV1EuKh23/w400-h400/heraclitus.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heraclitus thinking hard about something</td></tr></tbody></table><p>And of course, this goes with my own belief which is to find sights you would not expect, you must choose the byways when traveling to see what may have not been seen.</p><p>A railroad was constructed over the pass between 1880 and 1883 using primarily Chinese laborers, who spent exhausting and dangerous time digging track lines, leveling off steep inclines, and blasting a 247-foot tunnel through a portion of Montgomery Pass.</p><p>In fact, the tunnel was the highest constructed, even outdoing the Southern Pacific Railroad tunnels near Donner Pass.</p><p>With the creation of an avenue from Nevada to California, mining also picked up in the early 20th Century with claims of various minerals being clawed out of the earth in the White Mountains and further east into Nevada near Tonopah.</p><p>One grizzled miner may have reported, “My claim is the biggest claim of any claim anyone else may be claiming.”</p><p>It is also rumored he spent quite a bit of time at the Liberty Club in Eli ruminating over glasses of rum.</p><p>The small enclave of Montgomery Pass began to grow during and after the construction of the railroad as a camp for the workers. Soon, not just goods and products crested the pass, but passenger trains also joined in allowing folks traveling from Reno to have a more direct route to the west into California.</p><p>Then in the 1930s, a decent road was established, allowing those adventurous folks in automobiles to travel across the high mountain pass and into the Owens Valley and beyond toward the Pacific Coast.</p><p>Railroad traffic slowed as mining dwindled and merchandise was easily transferred by commercial trucks, but that did not mean the end of the complex at Montgomery Pass.</p><p>Nope, since Nevada allowed legal games of chance and legal meetings with a certain kind of woman, the town became a mecca as a selective tourist stop.</p><p>Soon there was a hotel, bungalows, a large gas station, gaming rooms, bars, a restaurant, and supposedly a few bordellos - everything a traveler may need or want.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zrs-twtsnwXG29BZ1cV9hF93xOZaxn2-LFEAJIEjp139Rf6rJfRDzvWDHN4h1-nhNIuLQNUMmfQ_vIak8zKvyYBRZpSoJ0smowZ_D1MEVGSJ5W_vHS3FoYAs4mxWrksx_EIhsQCvrtxeZpiX5xRjU-BhRxlbczzYUG69L5FFYXZeZvoBIWUia75oLn5l/s3709/MP1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3035" data-original-width="3709" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zrs-twtsnwXG29BZ1cV9hF93xOZaxn2-LFEAJIEjp139Rf6rJfRDzvWDHN4h1-nhNIuLQNUMmfQ_vIak8zKvyYBRZpSoJ0smowZ_D1MEVGSJ5W_vHS3FoYAs4mxWrksx_EIhsQCvrtxeZpiX5xRjU-BhRxlbczzYUG69L5FFYXZeZvoBIWUia75oLn5l/w400-h328/MP1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned motel at Montgomery Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><p>According to the Reno Evening Gazette of June 24th, 1959, ‘although the gaming control board is looking sharply at a slot machine license application for the Mt. Montgomery Service Station bar and restaurant, owned by Nevada vice figure Joe Conforte, it probably won’t recommend a denial strictly on the ground there are shady ladies about. Actually, several Nevada bordellos operate slot machines and have done so for 20 years or more.’</p><p>A pastime of ours is to watch the warm and cozy family togetherness films in ‘The Godfather’ series on Thanksgiving.</p><p>So, in honor of Mario Puzo, I wonder if Joe Conforte offered the gaming control board an offer they could not refuse?</p><p>The somewhat bawdy history of the pass is quite interesting. In 1960, both Conforte and his bartender, Robert Paolo, were in court pleading not guilty to selling liquor at the pass without a permit. In the meantime, the liquor license issued to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Campo was revoked, and not long after, Mrs. Campo decided to become a widow and murdered her husband, Joseph.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJQxuZ3M0HmU5BhOry-u9z5DgZOoQNu45rNPjgoOohEbLg681SEsNx2niJszkS5qYAcaJma88ga9ziFCcrCPvcCLuhdrmzHShRDGZtuKDLGcWMvzAEXQMs-_HY-ViGS9XmkdyKGaO5tWFFP4Egf_d077HCj_pAgUxdZ3QEdgeeqNj27cqqXX9leiKdm32/s5437/MP9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1768" data-original-width="5437" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJQxuZ3M0HmU5BhOry-u9z5DgZOoQNu45rNPjgoOohEbLg681SEsNx2niJszkS5qYAcaJma88ga9ziFCcrCPvcCLuhdrmzHShRDGZtuKDLGcWMvzAEXQMs-_HY-ViGS9XmkdyKGaO5tWFFP4Egf_d077HCj_pAgUxdZ3QEdgeeqNj27cqqXX9leiKdm32/w400-h130/MP9.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dark deeds may have taken place at Montgomery Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Somewhere along the way, Conforte found himself in a lock-up in the Storey County jail and was offered $47,500 from a farmer out of Visalia, California for the property at the summit in 1960. The purchase was approved by the gaming control board given the provision that no prostitution or vice-guy Conforte would ever be near the property again.The farmer swore that would be the case, though in later years a bailiff may have mentioned that the farmer had his fingers crossed behind his back at the time.</p><p>In 1962, another sale for the property to the tune of $85,000, was denied by the Nevada Gaming Control Board on the grounds of the buyers utilizing questionable finances.</p><p>The businesses remained and thrived with tourists coming in from Nevada and California to enjoy the quietness and beauty of Montgomery Pass.</p><p>As I wandered the rather extensive grounds, I understood the draw.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOf9XsXJN6f7tA1IPu8BKXGj-5ZNUjIhA-xvERaTcHp3-lR2cnrWvnX8w1_m6RunBz-Eae_TkAkP1_aiFaU6pKhqyBp75XkeAwNKMcSCjCmPh-Ke8d-Uc0BfRwvZT9efFYI6xXQNuyaKNJbCDCMHqOq511VejUV7-wOg6nC4IFOrSreUF62gRTIMiRyPa/s3043/MP4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1904" data-original-width="3043" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSOf9XsXJN6f7tA1IPu8BKXGj-5ZNUjIhA-xvERaTcHp3-lR2cnrWvnX8w1_m6RunBz-Eae_TkAkP1_aiFaU6pKhqyBp75XkeAwNKMcSCjCmPh-Ke8d-Uc0BfRwvZT9efFYI6xXQNuyaKNJbCDCMHqOq511VejUV7-wOg6nC4IFOrSreUF62gRTIMiRyPa/w400-h250/MP4.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even deserted, there is a draw to Montgomery Pass</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Rolling up out of the deserts of Nevada during the summer months must have been a wonderful reprieve from the often scorching heat. Bishop, only an hour's drive away, is often bustling and hustling with tourists year-round, so escaping up to the summit may have been a great place for a little solitude among the pines while dealing with a one-armed bandit.</p><p>In 1985, during an interview, a woman from Bishop mentioned why she loved visiting the summit. “I don’t like the big city casinos. I prefer this place because they get to know you, and always ask how you are. Plus the drive is marvelous and it’s a chance to get away from town for a while.”</p><p>The drive through the Montgomery Mountains is spectacular. Tall peaks covered in green trees and shrubs allow the driver to relax, hoping to see deer, elk, or a cryptid cross the road.</p><p>Tourists finally dried up for the businesses on the pass in the late 1990s, when gambling at numerous casinos operated by Native American tribes near Bishop and other areas along US 395 opened.</p><p>The gambling finally stopped in 2001. In 2010 many of the structures burned down, leaving Montgomery Pass just a reminder of a time when folks gambled on their future.</p><p>As I walked through the remnants of a burned-out building or two I could almost hear people laughing at a joke, screaming when they beat the house, and overall having a good time.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmXb1ry8S08IYLR_MBpfO8afx2TD87261FB1GbYEhG2jBpG2ZlsiVq0vzgX6aJ57vmjOOClt7Tx_uMVebx0fAtCc6a_X4KPjLmjQ5SQDk83HG65U11rnctL_uPFmTKc5SPpZvzt4bgx2Kr5Fh1_De-g2koI9dg-4CAOBWzEc0VFkdY45LAcDaRANvNe-n/s4335/MP5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2920" data-original-width="4335" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmXb1ry8S08IYLR_MBpfO8afx2TD87261FB1GbYEhG2jBpG2ZlsiVq0vzgX6aJ57vmjOOClt7Tx_uMVebx0fAtCc6a_X4KPjLmjQ5SQDk83HG65U11rnctL_uPFmTKc5SPpZvzt4bgx2Kr5Fh1_De-g2koI9dg-4CAOBWzEc0VFkdY45LAcDaRANvNe-n/w400-h270/MP5.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Empty chairs just waiting for the next unexpected traveler</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Good times! The past and present when one ventures to the byways and finds the unexpected.</p><p>There you go, my man Heraclitus!</p><div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Montgomery Pass, Nevada, Nevada 89010, USA37.9735415 -118.32678639.6633076638211577 -153.48303629999998 66.283775336178849 -83.1705363tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-19726703980882717442023-12-28T06:00:00.000-08:002023-12-28T06:00:00.150-08:00Happy New Year - 2024<p> </p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">May this New Year that is upon us find you planning wonderful and exciting escapes to places you have never been before. This round ball of a planet has so much to offer and you have so much to offer it in return.</span></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uAUqUvnCMViwxwPk1FIQ1oQhiYFVKs9gWDbJJ4johUteDfNsEM_smnSn3_aJ09zMetCVrfazhDABcYboJJF8DmPnkaWkO6zPjtz0VdLom-TrG8Bd8urh6u5I9FaB4RKQeas8iSDJ0Qo-d3HCfL60XjFcalrc4STJOUNphffQ-wl8bI_hqOsZ2zdbBXtu/s1529/Mob2%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1061" data-original-width="1529" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uAUqUvnCMViwxwPk1FIQ1oQhiYFVKs9gWDbJJ4johUteDfNsEM_smnSn3_aJ09zMetCVrfazhDABcYboJJF8DmPnkaWkO6zPjtz0VdLom-TrG8Bd8urh6u5I9FaB4RKQeas8iSDJ0Qo-d3HCfL60XjFcalrc4STJOUNphffQ-wl8bI_hqOsZ2zdbBXtu/w400-h278/Mob2%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy New Year from the Mob Museum in Las Vegas, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span> <i> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Get out and and travel in 2024!!!!</span></i><br /></span></p><p><span><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijORzcDdDHy9LSbME9eFWCjho1j0GhidygT9tIualjMWQZlywp0nlaBAmdfvmAm5G_Qhh8DxGjLO7VRgnI7BFEEx5ZTLkG3dI7e08IGEtKkMBliL2NEFjJioUGJVscW2Xn_9OSSWdrWHwVpa_Y_AJy4IthTrW7Kbm94tEcfdckh6UxnYO5Go_HXwLrdW4h/s960/Peru2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijORzcDdDHy9LSbME9eFWCjho1j0GhidygT9tIualjMWQZlywp0nlaBAmdfvmAm5G_Qhh8DxGjLO7VRgnI7BFEEx5ZTLkG3dI7e08IGEtKkMBliL2NEFjJioUGJVscW2Xn_9OSSWdrWHwVpa_Y_AJy4IthTrW7Kbm94tEcfdckh6UxnYO5Go_HXwLrdW4h/w400-h300/Peru2.JPG" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Traveling freely along the Amazon River in Peru - Make it yours<br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></i><p></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Nevada, USA38.8026097 -116.41938916.689630906388309 -151.57563900000002 60.915588493611686 -81.263138999999981tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-22943080171358830692023-12-21T06:00:00.000-08:002023-12-21T06:00:00.249-08:00Merry Christmas<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">As we speed through this Holiday Season, we want to wish all our friends and loved ones a very Warm and Happy Christmas - and to always remember the reason for the season is - </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nxwRQFmpKonnpRHaIMzZkwHQcuU6ZXdegUM7VTC8vrByD3LDHCZX1ml0FkSSbMr5FUWVSTl_4yLxHlWSLO9s8R-pLNK7_jaemibOa_xgZLtNB2DEUFbjT2FXBAMsDvYd0TNQjwls-yWYPHrCLt9UWRV891rq4Ff2eWt7Yk1tzDBQSHlpOHLER_7JhzLS/s222/jesusthereason1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="222" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nxwRQFmpKonnpRHaIMzZkwHQcuU6ZXdegUM7VTC8vrByD3LDHCZX1ml0FkSSbMr5FUWVSTl_4yLxHlWSLO9s8R-pLNK7_jaemibOa_xgZLtNB2DEUFbjT2FXBAMsDvYd0TNQjwls-yWYPHrCLt9UWRV891rq4Ff2eWt7Yk1tzDBQSHlpOHLER_7JhzLS/w400-h267/jesusthereason1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><p><span style="font-size: large;">John 3:16 - 'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'</span> </p></span><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Jerusalem, Israel31.768319 35.213713.4580851638211563 0.057459999999998956 60.078552836178844 70.369959999999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-15190714525257882122023-12-14T06:00:00.000-08:002023-12-14T06:00:00.139-08:00Enjoying the Town of Elko, Nevada<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWd8XMlg58w2r1Hd2kAHOAHr8ZKuyTkvvx4U7c8k5mj8q-frN3C1li7-12pO1osv9ts2g-a5g0ysJN0xowgoLcmdIi7bg1a45kstzStQumxCVVK7f_ihq9crWNpQpYBfR_GwpNNq9scHDRZaaMfvqtsjnYJ4vrij1dY7SqdyPGCHwLUYTR7c6X8Ma67Lt/s4784/Elko1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4784" data-original-width="2673" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWd8XMlg58w2r1Hd2kAHOAHr8ZKuyTkvvx4U7c8k5mj8q-frN3C1li7-12pO1osv9ts2g-a5g0ysJN0xowgoLcmdIi7bg1a45kstzStQumxCVVK7f_ihq9crWNpQpYBfR_GwpNNq9scHDRZaaMfvqtsjnYJ4vrij1dY7SqdyPGCHwLUYTR7c6X8Ma67Lt/w224-h400/Elko1.JPG" width="224" /></a></div><p>When traveling along the lonely stretches of the byways, a person can venture into places they may have planned and perhaps not have planned.</p><p>On a hunch, I drove into Elko, Nevada. I was not sure why the trip would be worth it, but as I drove along the main road into this small town in North Eastern Nevada, I realized why the black asphalt road had led me there.</p><p>This village seems to beckon the adventurer. </p><p>As mentioned in a previous column, my lovely wife, Laureen, wondered why I was traveling to a place we had never heard of. </p><p>Perhaps that was enough.</p><p>In the Native American Shoshone language, Elko means ‘rocks piled on one another.’ Not sure that is what I saw when driving into the town of nearly 21,000 citizens but maybe I didn’t look out the windows of the truck enough. Though I must admit, driving through Ruby Valley and into the township there were plenty of rocks nestled on top of each other, so perhaps the Shoshone knew something I did not.</p><p>The city of Elko, known as the Heart of North Eastern Nevada, is not that far from the Ruby Mountains - in fact, I stared at them a few times while visiting Elko. They are impressive and can be easily seen the mere 20 miles to the east. </p><p>Tall, imposing mountains which offer hiking, skiing, hunting and over 20 alpine lakes - high-altitude lakes in a mountainous areas, usually near or above the treeline.</p><p>In layman’s terms, lakes that don’t have a lot of trees around them due to the elevation.</p><p>The Ruby Mountains are called the Swiss Alps of Nevada.</p><p>In fact, on my travels near Elko, I actually met a lovely family by the name of Von Trapp who asked if I wanted to join their singing group. Though my voice is lovely, I had to turn them down and off they went wearing fashionable dirndls for the girls and lederhosen for the boys.</p><p>Elko also claims to be the biggest city by virtue of population in nearly 130 miles. That is saying a lot and after asking strangers in the main park if this was true I am not sure.</p><p>“Is it the largest city in one hundred and thirty miles?” I asked one man.</p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>“But is it?” I leaned into my journalistic atmosphere.</p><p>“If you say so,” was the return.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_aIr-krQ6g-wR7h-7rkV-50v1e60Vtff2FVjae-oFeB7iI57NyFVPZfFdn6XXguQdRvtL7tLWR4zhmSnQc1scEjVClY_HGiAvWjGNXc8kNrdmTxNZNS77yiTszZVekpMHfzIm_UAZh0wdlrUUQFBMe-W1vgUOrFWL6wxSadd6eUaKqASyITqrQTaOWiA/s3448/Elko4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3448" data-original-width="2274" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_aIr-krQ6g-wR7h-7rkV-50v1e60Vtff2FVjae-oFeB7iI57NyFVPZfFdn6XXguQdRvtL7tLWR4zhmSnQc1scEjVClY_HGiAvWjGNXc8kNrdmTxNZNS77yiTszZVekpMHfzIm_UAZh0wdlrUUQFBMe-W1vgUOrFWL6wxSadd6eUaKqASyITqrQTaOWiA/w264-h400/Elko4.JPG" width="264" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elko may be small but they have big boots</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I wandered off to find one of the many breweries in the local area.</p><p>The city received its name, per the myth, by Charles Crocker who was a superintendent of the Central Pacific Railroad.</p><p>Railroads were big businesses during the conquering of the west and this muck-muck, Crocker decided he would name this new burg after one of his favorite animals, the elk.</p><p>But, even Crocker knew that no one would want to say, “I live in Elk,” so he added an ‘o’ and thus Elko was born in the late 1860s.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vsl4lgM1d-EURG-mOmPupMqbS0gE86DNoCcJvudExFjfd33ujcVreb3KVXXrYtCsLHHzNJHVJNYJtKihH9ZsW03Qc8uKJybVgXCcHB2zGZsZbuL5jnyFyq8mS2j2HwMe7T3Iu_AAXgXhxOXFLXt4najOjhcY8P43_kN8tc8I6ax-3zhRFE_bt0CC4Icj/s5188/Elko7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2095" data-original-width="5188" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vsl4lgM1d-EURG-mOmPupMqbS0gE86DNoCcJvudExFjfd33ujcVreb3KVXXrYtCsLHHzNJHVJNYJtKihH9ZsW03Qc8uKJybVgXCcHB2zGZsZbuL5jnyFyq8mS2j2HwMe7T3Iu_AAXgXhxOXFLXt4najOjhcY8P43_kN8tc8I6ax-3zhRFE_bt0CC4Icj/w400-h161/Elko7.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elko was and still is a railroad town</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Elko was a part of the original California Trail - the path to the promised land of high taxes and higher real estate prices.</p><p>“I cannot wait to mortgage one of our children for a bungalow in Malibu,” one pioneering father was heard to say. </p><p>When the construction of this section of railroad was finished, the engineers and work crews left but the town began to grow and thrive as a hub for ranching, mining, railroad freight, and everything else a growing town needs.</p><p>In 1917, Elko was officially incorporated as a city.</p><p>There are many interesting things to learn about this Heart of North East Nevada and one of curiosity value is the importance it had with the commercial airmail service. Something called the Kelly Act, which was enacted by congress in 1925, allowed the United States Postal Service to contract out some of its mail service. The first time this act was used was on April 6, 1926 when a commercial plane flew from Pasco, Washington all the way to what one day became the Elko Regional Airport - an amazing distance of 487 miles.</p><p>The Kelly Act is much like the newer version, the Jeff Bezos Act.</p><p>Stopping by the Northeastern Nevada Museum on Idaho Street - why Idaho Street instead of Nevada Street, I do not know - I saw the original Pony Express Office which had served Ruby Valley and was moved to this location in 1960.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrckklzbwgCv5AOYIa_ZygXXPuLm29X-ylcO8TnM-ThooIVX_DQ9ABN3WckmTyqhckQ9qu3SV0dCc1zaHjcAWG_7T0wyZ6_grppr8NX5poInDLku5_lMyTAx_OrlBCFuDK_m3KHWLrVGSnW26c4wwMjhK5y6pj6g8cvWrv0MXZYFKLSfCBZPtUvd6AfFW9/s4976/Elko3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3205" data-original-width="4976" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrckklzbwgCv5AOYIa_ZygXXPuLm29X-ylcO8TnM-ThooIVX_DQ9ABN3WckmTyqhckQ9qu3SV0dCc1zaHjcAWG_7T0wyZ6_grppr8NX5poInDLku5_lMyTAx_OrlBCFuDK_m3KHWLrVGSnW26c4wwMjhK5y6pj6g8cvWrv0MXZYFKLSfCBZPtUvd6AfFW9/w400-h258/Elko3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pony Express Office outside of museum</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It was perfect, as though someone could rest there while waiting for the next young rider barreling into the area.</p><p>While touring the museum, I saw something that brought joy to my heart. Two young mothers escorting their very young children from exhibit to exhibit patiently explaining what each display was showing.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlW6mmZGqj2BuB-XQFMwBUom0f-qhPjnhdzkJEISOPZ-kcXSwoTk6yoaFO68vZla9fWodBkGp8cPRGQAXJvbEjPGVG-ycKAySUmlAukA3VrET0sn6UeCxssMW3d0TM4o5PzCvtQGtH5kDSBwaIgpK-z4iTG9nzStdUd6ae1PbmoF0l5ySq_iJuzWlBuB-z/s4758/Elko2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2941" data-original-width="4758" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlW6mmZGqj2BuB-XQFMwBUom0f-qhPjnhdzkJEISOPZ-kcXSwoTk6yoaFO68vZla9fWodBkGp8cPRGQAXJvbEjPGVG-ycKAySUmlAukA3VrET0sn6UeCxssMW3d0TM4o5PzCvtQGtH5kDSBwaIgpK-z4iTG9nzStdUd6ae1PbmoF0l5ySq_iJuzWlBuB-z/w400-h248/Elko2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A whole array of fossils are on display</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Traveling as I do, I visit a lot of museums and sometimes they are crowded and sometimes they are empty, but it always makes me remember the times when Laureen, my lovely wife, and I would take the girls to various museums in the states and abroad.</p><p>Such good times.</p><p>“Can we leave now,” Erica may say.</p><p>Jessica would pipe up with, “There’s just a bunch of old stuff here.”</p><p>“I’m hungry,” Kelly would finish the conversation.</p><p>Good memories.</p><p>One of the women looked over and asked if I was a photographer since I had my Canon Rebel around my neck and had been snapping pictures.</p><p>“Laureen wished I was,” I replied.</p><p>Turns out both ladies were from Indianapolis. That’s somewhere to the east of Nevada. </p><p>Kristina had moved out to Elko nearly a year ago and truly loved the small town.</p><p>“It’s so beautiful here,” she told me. “And the people are so friendly.”</p><p>Becca, Kristina’s friend, still resided in Indiana. “Kristina told me to come and visit, now I don’t want to leave. No crowds, no crime and the cost of living is so much better.”</p><p>It also turns out that Kristina is a professional photographer. I politely smiled when Becca showed me Kristina’s website.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARx38ywQ3EsN_sFzeMOrtiu2qnIJ5oq98I-7gkIEXEyNhSFcR7uW3y-VgJNAQyVfrgLueC8_8hoEb-ymmcJbB_aW3XuS2FEvvaOqa1ACCDhRPkdtMtyOj2GrnIy-fhUjXuhcUkCXI3LIRAEg_cUKVxwN_yXHY3fHs1lim4ad_RGkxaOT8dIAd5HdJZ55y/s1280/IMG_9179001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARx38ywQ3EsN_sFzeMOrtiu2qnIJ5oq98I-7gkIEXEyNhSFcR7uW3y-VgJNAQyVfrgLueC8_8hoEb-ymmcJbB_aW3XuS2FEvvaOqa1ACCDhRPkdtMtyOj2GrnIy-fhUjXuhcUkCXI3LIRAEg_cUKVxwN_yXHY3fHs1lim4ad_RGkxaOT8dIAd5HdJZ55y/w400-h266/IMG_9179001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Kristina Crews</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I may have to go back to college for some photography lessons.</p><p>Bidding adieu, I traversed the museum and marveled at how well everything was structured and the care each individual exhibit received from the staff.</p><p>And that is no easy task for anyone to take one with over 20,000 square feet and covering multiple levels.</p><p>There are intricate Native American baskets, shoes, weapons, beautiful artwork, and everything else either the Shoshone or Paiute may have needed or desired while living in the nearby locale.</p><p>The history of mining - which was so important to the development of Nevada, which is known as the Silver State - is on display with tools of the trade as well as descriptions of how they were utilized. </p><p>The history of ranching, which is a major industry that Nevada ranks 3rd in the nation for ranch sizes with the average ranch in Nevada at 3,500 acres. There is exhibit after exhibit explaining the daily routine of ranches with photographs, horse saddles, lariats, and tools of the trade.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx925laAxd2eqLrZXTi2tuBU7jBtnVm0pPxIcdLA_BouTMyCzSp-PFlKop8TxrrYvJ93YOUoREJuh2itVy8ZnJ7D0OR80shZP6vGIGo8w5hThYDANGXZE7hgSI8XbotUJxDNrzr9DFtqDM3aP2CfW0QEFc6FhqUQPAcMHpHv0HaOr5lwgsk8Fv58-mX8p/s3951/Elko6%20.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3131" data-original-width="3951" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx925laAxd2eqLrZXTi2tuBU7jBtnVm0pPxIcdLA_BouTMyCzSp-PFlKop8TxrrYvJ93YOUoREJuh2itVy8ZnJ7D0OR80shZP6vGIGo8w5hThYDANGXZE7hgSI8XbotUJxDNrzr9DFtqDM3aP2CfW0QEFc6FhqUQPAcMHpHv0HaOr5lwgsk8Fv58-mX8p/w400-h318/Elko6%20.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wonderfully historic Stage coach on display</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Humongous two million year old mastodon bones can be found in the E.L. Wiegand Gallery as well as other fossils of creatures that lived near Elko thousands of years ago like; giant sloths, lions, bison, unicorns, and small native horses.</p><p>These ancient but now extinct horses measured seven feet long and four feet tall. Much smaller than the horses we know and love so well now.</p><p>“Hey, Pardner,” one ancient cowboy may have said to another. “I like your horse but your feet are dragging the ground.”</p><p>One huge room is crammed with stuffed animals. Not like in a baby’s room but more of a big game hunters trophy library. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08NiQlnOcwRoi34X9XeYoJ37gwQoXWWlF2xhDnBrGwQ1lmBpZ-56vgIcQAvWTU7N7L92_ajDUcJ7-Qfaj-z4E3LRnutkvPnqSgvwyJDDSsysd1nSnJ3UE5ihHDFVQfoRjKk8Rfu0gHFmXV12N-OuamWVaL4hyyMNJiCzR6GpMYDBQ1ctEaDd7q_fS2Wsv/s4494/Elko5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3590" data-original-width="4494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08NiQlnOcwRoi34X9XeYoJ37gwQoXWWlF2xhDnBrGwQ1lmBpZ-56vgIcQAvWTU7N7L92_ajDUcJ7-Qfaj-z4E3LRnutkvPnqSgvwyJDDSsysd1nSnJ3UE5ihHDFVQfoRjKk8Rfu0gHFmXV12N-OuamWVaL4hyyMNJiCzR6GpMYDBQ1ctEaDd7q_fS2Wsv/w400-h320/Elko5.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful displays of animals for the visitor to see</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Turns out that most of the animals were donated by the late Jack Wanamaker. He was a conservationist who enjoyed shooting wild animals from all over the world. Over 180 exhibits are in this one room alone and is the largest such collection in the state.</p><p>There were lions, tigers, and bears - oh my. I had to go there.</p><p>On the second floor are walls filled with paintings by legendary western artists Will James and Edward Borein.</p><p>The styles of both artists allow the viewer to really see and feel what life was like in the early days of western life.</p><p>In another gallery are dozens of photographs by Ansel Adams and Edward Weston. These are original and many are personally autographed.</p><p>There are even watercolors and etchings by Weston, who seemed to have plenty of time to create these gorgeous paintings and renderings when not snapping photographs.</p><p>I offered some of my own photographs but was politely told to leave quietly.</p><p>This museum is a must stop for any adventurer traveling through northeast Nevada.</p><p><br /></p><p>For photos by Kristina Crews: www.krccorner.com</p><div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Elko, NV 89801, USA40.8324211 -115.763123212.522187263821152 -150.9193732 69.142654936178843 -80.6068732tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-32022386564529462902023-12-05T16:33:00.000-08:002023-12-05T16:33:16.442-08:00There's Space Aliens in Rachel, Nevada<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmX0KMxpm1AggbCam-lU-Bqma4Af2k7S_EfmC93S7hjYWW6tRtAQ1sR6kAz4nAOyX9cP6F8CRp5oQuyv7R0bzXiWr1fVB9vIgq5T5-K8cxzt2pS1XzJs_FaXaw5Y1XdcrUIcOfOiwZ2KkoFfn7EAO6BIBLn2nLqIPQ7k6arKGhf7ijP5Ist5d8X29uRrk/s5601/IMG_2972%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3287" data-original-width="5601" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmX0KMxpm1AggbCam-lU-Bqma4Af2k7S_EfmC93S7hjYWW6tRtAQ1sR6kAz4nAOyX9cP6F8CRp5oQuyv7R0bzXiWr1fVB9vIgq5T5-K8cxzt2pS1XzJs_FaXaw5Y1XdcrUIcOfOiwZ2KkoFfn7EAO6BIBLn2nLqIPQ7k6arKGhf7ijP5Ist5d8X29uRrk/w400-h235/IMG_2972%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little A'Le'Inn, in Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> According to Michael, a staff member at the Little A’Le’Inn, in the very tiny town of Rachel, Nevada, “I’ve seen things in the night sky that should not be there.”</p><p>“Aliens?” I asked, a hunch since I had just driven the Extraterrestrial Highway.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6wAUR2qbbQravd5rnx30cIgkkTfRiHCv3ClMWbHaSQ4T19uGslW_8K1SfmplbDAkevxfVc85nS366KgoN-IJJ-LD3bXF-hhFMbSMvo5wTUImhAJZX0oK6bgIFAFXYIsB9wS8yDTJwsL1_o63ltAqmVMhn49Avh5J44pWn6a3eVV7BCt4Zzt0trZgRO_a/s2795/IMG_2962%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="2795" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6wAUR2qbbQravd5rnx30cIgkkTfRiHCv3ClMWbHaSQ4T19uGslW_8K1SfmplbDAkevxfVc85nS366KgoN-IJJ-LD3bXF-hhFMbSMvo5wTUImhAJZX0oK6bgIFAFXYIsB9wS8yDTJwsL1_o63ltAqmVMhn49Avh5J44pWn6a3eVV7BCt4Zzt0trZgRO_a/w400-h158/IMG_2962%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sign says it all near Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>He looked at me. “Not sure, but whatever I was looking at did not maneuver like a plane or helicopter should. Just bizarre really.”</p><p>Being a bit peckish, I had stopped by the very uniquely colorful restaurant along Nevada State Route 375 for a spot of breakfast.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMezvNIr683WaRq0uBVXO_ffBzrP_L9UU1WiFz0eycHreFswh3NlxlLfTi2muhClqSmgUUIoq4V65rXt_o8jRoNJBNYqZq2Kx-gsofIbZ53S2Kp_NL_XJdMZwdxAdc74jrlpd69I0YZJZhgNdcjBDf0bbpUyWN80za8L8lWOgrz9mccW-VwK6-ynYj1zx/s4433/IMG_2969%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2486" data-original-width="4433" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvMezvNIr683WaRq0uBVXO_ffBzrP_L9UU1WiFz0eycHreFswh3NlxlLfTi2muhClqSmgUUIoq4V65rXt_o8jRoNJBNYqZq2Kx-gsofIbZ53S2Kp_NL_XJdMZwdxAdc74jrlpd69I0YZJZhgNdcjBDf0bbpUyWN80za8L8lWOgrz9mccW-VwK6-ynYj1zx/w400-h224/IMG_2969%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange sights to be seen at the Little A'Le'Inn, Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The eggs, home fries and sour dough toast were yummy.</p><p>Nikki, the unofficial manager said, “I’ve lived here all my life. The night skies are almost scary since they are so full of stars. We have no light pollution at all.”</p><p>This area of Nevada is so removed from city lights, especially lying in the middle of a valley that no city lights could interrupt the celestial ceilings of the night sky.</p><p>“And you?” I asked. </p><p>A moment of silence. “Yeah, I’ve seen things that I can not explain. A green comet, I thought, streaking across the desert sky at night. I’ve seen lots of meteorites but nothing that looked like that. Green, almost effervescent.”</p><p>That was strange, but I just happened to be in the middle of alien country and anything could be expected. </p><p>Rachel is less than 28 miles from Area 51, the once top-secret military installation that houses aliens and alien aircraft - wait, I’ve been listening to too many conspiracy podcasts.</p><p>The existence of Area 51 was finally acknowledged by the United States Government in 2013, but as of yet, no public tours are allowed.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuo6hMtHC6j8sLDA5vcmCU2v3OwsLsM8TEteOeJuKOhtAhQSrugIW1GDFFjTQ8gA5kkksSltFuqlD7G9wv6N64vQewfJI21DVSRgoUodjZKoQhJvPa4WF7SGQyVlwUrZP2PH15PWUaWrvZ4opzj6eXpgRCc9kuvbjkbskScujFqGTj9uQElRYyJEG84I2/s2654/IMG_2964%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2602" data-original-width="2654" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuo6hMtHC6j8sLDA5vcmCU2v3OwsLsM8TEteOeJuKOhtAhQSrugIW1GDFFjTQ8gA5kkksSltFuqlD7G9wv6N64vQewfJI21DVSRgoUodjZKoQhJvPa4WF7SGQyVlwUrZP2PH15PWUaWrvZ4opzj6eXpgRCc9kuvbjkbskScujFqGTj9uQElRYyJEG84I2/w400-h393/IMG_2964%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heed the warning near Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Now, that’s a way to get rid of the national debt.</p><p>“Dude, I just shook hands with a Grey,” one enthusiast may blush. “I’d pay another gazillion dollars for that again.”</p><p>Driving into Rachel from the small town of Alamo was rather lonely. Fifty-two miles along Route 375 leaves a person wondering what could occur in these isolated night skies.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3zhuW2RVuK9JFMTwgzoIQVwl0dQrFXnzRlLcAqHgbM4NfxeZnt2uszh_ZFLUk5Es6i0bG2upbErnMQL91r7ajhzd-pCSEaJU3T8dq2V1PoFxNdGzReuWr1FkO8eKJFvGKA5CJy89SDbe9DjWTkwqoxnPTp8bbYc29FOtRflxPqgHOqWg3IYhJPP3U-JvV/s4158/IMG_2965%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1825" data-original-width="4158" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3zhuW2RVuK9JFMTwgzoIQVwl0dQrFXnzRlLcAqHgbM4NfxeZnt2uszh_ZFLUk5Es6i0bG2upbErnMQL91r7ajhzd-pCSEaJU3T8dq2V1PoFxNdGzReuWr1FkO8eKJFvGKA5CJy89SDbe9DjWTkwqoxnPTp8bbYc29FOtRflxPqgHOqWg3IYhJPP3U-JvV/w400-h175/IMG_2965%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lonely and Alien looking landscape toward Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Forget the night skies for a moment since it was daytime. </p><p>As I was driving I pulled over for a moment as a huge flock of birds, not sure if they were sparrows but from a distance they appeared to be, blocked the roadway.</p><p>I got out and just stood there.</p><p>There must have been hundreds just walking around the black top, not paying any attention to me - and I was only 30 yards or so away from them.</p><p>I studied the birds for a moment wondering why they were gathered as such when suddenly like a black cloud they all took to wing. For a moment the sun was lost in their ascension.</p><p>Glancing across the sky there was nothing unusual, bright blue backdrop with a few puffy white clouds.</p><p>As I climbed back into my truck, there were noticeable goosebumps on both of my arms. </p><p>It was very eerie and disconcerting.</p><p>I mentioned my incident to Nikki. “Yeah, the birds do act strange around here once in a while.”</p><p>It should be noted that just prior to my unnatural experience with the flock of birds, I had stopped by the iconic black mailbox.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFs8r0aUOdx-IyWNIMbxplXB4TG27OmHsOPAI__qh8pbc6828l8eOCSSBXcKlhHGOm7dIZDwhpmQ7IVVLUBdtj5Qd4WaahwI9S1BLIEKxg93Q9oGWmzfR90KLcg6SUzieiGVwktHz-QKZbfjO7x4eNxcoCJlPvcAxC3gDnN7Omm8eLRCBcf3cOIRGIqjKC/s3264/IMG_2967%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1925" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFs8r0aUOdx-IyWNIMbxplXB4TG27OmHsOPAI__qh8pbc6828l8eOCSSBXcKlhHGOm7dIZDwhpmQ7IVVLUBdtj5Qd4WaahwI9S1BLIEKxg93Q9oGWmzfR90KLcg6SUzieiGVwktHz-QKZbfjO7x4eNxcoCJlPvcAxC3gDnN7Omm8eLRCBcf3cOIRGIqjKC/w236-h400/IMG_2967%20(2).JPG" width="236" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Black Mailbox, Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The mailbox that folks can leave messages to aliens if they choose along 375.</p><p>I did not since I was not sure of the postage cost to a galaxy far far away.</p><p>Rachel is located at the southern end of Sand Springs Valley. Driving through it. there is nothing to see in this empty bowl-shaped place which measures about 25 miles wide but with the emptiness, it seemed a lot wider and more desolate.</p><p>Northwest of Rachel is a dry lake bed with no name. Suspicious?</p><p>And if that isn’t strange enough, the history of the valley will surely raise eyebrows - much like Science Officer Spock does when he is inquisitive about some space anomaly. </p><p>Seems that near this locale is something called the Alamo breccia - an ancient layer of sea sediment from an inland sea over 50 million years ago.</p><p>There have been a lot of past inland seas, thus a person can wander many deserts and find seashells and other fossils - no big deal.</p><p>But the fossils found in this breccia layer are not supposed to be there. Fossils of these deep water fish at one time in the past were violently thrown to the shore of the sea to mix with the more typical and newer shallow based life. Now, these fossils are all mixed together - hardly what a scientist would expect.</p><p>Geologists theorize that a massive meteorite smashed into the land about 375 million years ago. This would have caused the older and deeper sea life to crash onto the shoreline and later mix with the shallower sea life once the sea dried up.</p><p>“Well, what about the crater? Where is it?” one geologist may have asked.</p><p>Years counting in the hundreds of millions would have filled the crater leaving no sign of it today.</p><p>This only leads more and more people to believe there is something ‘alien’ about the lands surrounding Rachel.</p><p>And this brings in the curious. So, there is a welcomer. </p><p>Little Fidget, the greeter dog, greeted me with a wag of its tail and a sniff of my leg. </p><p>“He loves guests, and gets plenty of attention,” Michael stated. “We get anywhere from one hundred to five hundred visitors daily during our top season.”</p><p>The crush of tour buses, mellow biker gangs, families on vacation, foreigners looking for space foreigners, and men dressed in black, occurs during the months of March through October.</p><p>For a tiny hole-in-the-wall joint, Little A’Le’Inn is truly worth a visit.</p><p>There are alien statues outside, a mock-up (maybe) of an alien craft hanging off the rear of a tow truck, plaques dedicated to this and that, and just the vastness of the desert is enough for any visitor to enjoy.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cM9ILSOP2jG_iUZKHwgNGVxw8bvBcvPvFuVblYhT2zWXpHMiqmJlfEnGzfq3dkIUtisYNnrmdpMksHPGHijNXmhIzX-eex1AOCvlNFUQ8-rE1wZK28px73dmkcVj3abxlwHdovgGkVA1BClsJzzI5nwruwCksDouUpqhimrOejYOGlnGXUAN62SFeivO/s2218/IMG_2971%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1395" data-original-width="2218" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0cM9ILSOP2jG_iUZKHwgNGVxw8bvBcvPvFuVblYhT2zWXpHMiqmJlfEnGzfq3dkIUtisYNnrmdpMksHPGHijNXmhIzX-eex1AOCvlNFUQ8-rE1wZK28px73dmkcVj3abxlwHdovgGkVA1BClsJzzI5nwruwCksDouUpqhimrOejYOGlnGXUAN62SFeivO/w400-h251/IMG_2971%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One plaque explaining the importance of Rachel, Nevada</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The large valley used to be home to various bands of the Paiute Indians and in the hills around Rachel petroglyphs, arrowheads and other signs of early native American settlement can be found.</p><p>There is no evidence that any long term residency had taken place from any of the tribes moving through the area though.</p><p>Rumor has it that for more of a permanent residency they traveled to south to Las Vegas - perhaps at Caesar’s.</p><p>Then the miners moved into the local mountains seeking their fortunes. Like all such dreams, there were good and bad times in the search for fabulous wealth.</p><p>There are dozens of abandoned mines and ghost towns within an hour of Rachel.</p><p>One example is the town of Logan, approximately ten miles west from the town of Hiko and three miles south of Mount Irish Peak. Here a settlement was founded after silver ore was discovered in 1865. But, like many mining camps, this one did not last long either.</p><p>A post office opened in 1868 and closed in 1871 when the mines played out.</p><p>It became a ghost town, and there are others to explore such as Crescent, Freiburg, and Groom.</p><p>Yes, the same name as was given that humongous dry lake bed which Area 51 now occupies: Groom Lake.</p><p>A note of caution on two aspects of traveling through these deserts.</p><p>When wandering through a ghost town with mine shafts, be very careful where you tread.</p><p>These are remote areas that have been unoccupied for many decades and anything that once may have been sturdy in the mines probably isn’t now. Folks can and do lose their lives exploring where they probably should not have.</p><p>And, when approaching Area 51, the signs concerning the use of deadly force are real. I have been escorted away from the tall chain link fences in the past by a couple of not-so-friendly security personnel.</p><p>One of them had the strangest eyes too, they sort of had an inner lid - but perhaps it was the sunlight.</p><p>Nikky told me a story about the production of the 2011 film Paul. A parody of many science fiction movies and some scenes were supposed to take place within the Little A’Le’Inn.</p><p>“A film crew came in, took photos, did sound checks and then left.” she stated. “Then they copied the interior and filmed it someplace else. So, if you watch the movie Paul, it didn’t happen here.”</p><p>Ah, the magic of Hollywood.</p><p>I have never viewed the film but plan to now, so I can tell anyone in the room watching that it wasn’t filmed where it looks like it was.</p><p>I stood outside after my adieus and looked across the vastness of this huge empty valley. </p><p>Tens of thousands of people from all around the globe come here to visit, but are only those from planet earth?</p><div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Rachel, NV 89001, USA37.64472 -115.742789.334486163821154 -150.89902999999998 65.954953836178845 -80.58653tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-16010252002429261092023-11-20T04:00:00.000-08:002023-11-20T04:00:00.139-08:00Happy Thanksgiving<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpWKwjjOc6XXtiHD5qXkmoY_wMfy5Hotr2fCSwO5EpwVTlnCIrJkd2CsTCky-5bCWmxmByJ0utr5rhoBKXAL-L-ZOVT-xPTRBBROGUGx1RJVizBwmIsCw8OEAwZMAx-9cIw9kt-FTQNpVuryX8_gdJur1tu0rrmBUaVGSUZHP9AHjxzkXmJf9toleWN_Y/s311/thanksgiving1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpWKwjjOc6XXtiHD5qXkmoY_wMfy5Hotr2fCSwO5EpwVTlnCIrJkd2CsTCky-5bCWmxmByJ0utr5rhoBKXAL-L-ZOVT-xPTRBBROGUGx1RJVizBwmIsCw8OEAwZMAx-9cIw9kt-FTQNpVuryX8_gdJur1tu0rrmBUaVGSUZHP9AHjxzkXmJf9toleWN_Y/w400-h208/thanksgiving1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Often, between Halloween - a Holiday we love, and Christmas - a Holyday we love, we often forget the importance of the Holiday of Thanksgiving.</p><p>It is not only a day to spend with family and friends over a lavish feast spinning tales or watching sports but one of simply being thankful for those we love.</p><p>That is the utmost importance. To be 'Thankful' for those we love, present and past.</p><p>So, this upcoming Thanksgiving, please remember the words of Marcie, from <i>A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.</i></p><p>'We should just be thankful for being together. I think that's what they mean by Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown.'</p><p>To be just -<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKIQJXwWM3ZoSSt62Om_N3nzx_qysA6toKCxLC9XVibw_gvl5zyA_wnX0yadL7YBuSx9kf_1fcaoyb-o6oJNKJRvr9fcCkL4sGB1ilIiVuh5BWVO2DQiR76Ay-NLs-Ls_HC8DPVUVFVFkMXXZP-6M_DmVAF_RGOpEbvDoc8dAqxyhpzsxdvXORhY5FSzm/s285/thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="285" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXKIQJXwWM3ZoSSt62Om_N3nzx_qysA6toKCxLC9XVibw_gvl5zyA_wnX0yadL7YBuSx9kf_1fcaoyb-o6oJNKJRvr9fcCkL4sGB1ilIiVuh5BWVO2DQiR76Ay-NLs-Ls_HC8DPVUVFVFkMXXZP-6M_DmVAF_RGOpEbvDoc8dAqxyhpzsxdvXORhY5FSzm/w400-h248/thanksgiving.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Laughlin, NV 89029, USA35.1677771 -114.57302086.8575432638211566 -149.7292708 63.478010936178848 -79.4167708tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-57773061212845175772023-11-17T15:59:00.000-08:002023-11-17T15:59:10.194-08:00Alamo, Nevada<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtrkI7gFpOqYFY6TH5wUXtc3oilotcYCTE7LTgl5S9BkEs63ygXAsRHNX1T06u3OLEbpBPPIFKtbx3OibxU06JQW000H_S7eMcnRGHOb3ZPg8DXYA8U0FpVvxw5MfRQNjN-IBfize8lXsGjd6thF5lb2eOWNi6LRLRwmBX-3rtEZFvBXTY6gROAyLSVTs/s334/alamo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="334" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtrkI7gFpOqYFY6TH5wUXtc3oilotcYCTE7LTgl5S9BkEs63ygXAsRHNX1T06u3OLEbpBPPIFKtbx3OibxU06JQW000H_S7eMcnRGHOb3ZPg8DXYA8U0FpVvxw5MfRQNjN-IBfize8lXsGjd6thF5lb2eOWNi6LRLRwmBX-3rtEZFvBXTY6gROAyLSVTs/w400-h181/alamo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Alamo, Texas</td></tr></tbody></table>Going on a road trip is awesome. The planning, the packing, the pressure, the pain, and then the panic.<p>“I’m going to be gone for two or three weeks,” I looked at Laureen. “Who’s going to make your coffee each morning?”</p><p>My trip to northern Nevada, Western Idaho, Eastern Oregon, and Northern California had been in the works for awhile. I do, occasionally plan trips but most of the time I wing it. This time I had some destinations in mind - actually I didn’t but pretended I did.</p><p>My friend Paul asked, “Where are you going?”</p><p>“The byways, my friend.”</p><p>“You have no idea, do you?”</p><p>I really didn’t but I knew I would be driving north at the beginning of August. Then Laureen changed my plans.</p><p>She broke her right foot. I think it was the metamucil or the metacognitive bone, but I probably have that wrong - I do remember Laureen explaining which bone it was that was broken after the x-ray but I wasn’t really listening.</p><p>Being the dutiful husband I am, I postponed the trip to be at her beck and call. And in the following six weeks, there was a lot of beckoning and a lot of calling </p><p>She mended just fine but I was exhausted. I had to get on the road for some relaxation.</p><p>One hurdle while driving north on Interstate 15 toward northern Nevada is that the traveler must navigate the traffic of Las Vegas.</p><p>The economy may not be looking so great right now but try explaining that to the builders in Sin City.</p><p>New housing projects are popping up like weeds. Huge industrial complexes are sprouting like weeds. Hotels and apartment buildings are growing like weeds. And medicinal cannabis clinics are appearing like - well, weeds.</p><p>It was so confusing driving in stop and go traffic along Interstate 15 with all the freeway ramps and lanes closed that finally my GPS sent me a message: ‘you are now on your own.’</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyeJSqxyw4OuFxaovH7r5-Y1XFbTTLVE80Ht-4HeizPRxq_A4Va89-UpF2Djd_fhZJOTnEO21bqfi6OUGYHWPW7b9NpYMbXVEGa9uKe3jortLskGuUoPNYDOOCOPX-ZAjytQjZkcpwunAMQUdIoqkj7p7Y5hBkRqIGi4eq1ji3sOgc2uH9EuJjYjP0Ien/s275/highways%20las%20vegas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyeJSqxyw4OuFxaovH7r5-Y1XFbTTLVE80Ht-4HeizPRxq_A4Va89-UpF2Djd_fhZJOTnEO21bqfi6OUGYHWPW7b9NpYMbXVEGa9uKe3jortLskGuUoPNYDOOCOPX-ZAjytQjZkcpwunAMQUdIoqkj7p7Y5hBkRqIGi4eq1ji3sOgc2uH9EuJjYjP0Ien/w400-h266/highways%20las%20vegas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Laureen called me on my second day on the trip.</p><p>“Where are you?”</p><p>“I’m on Flamingo Boulevard for the thirtieth time in the past forty-eight hours.”</p><p>“So, stop and ask for help,” she replied.</p><p>Something no true man wants to do, but I had. A kindly Las Vegas police officer advised me, “I’ve been on Tropicana for the past three days. I don’t know where I am now.”</p><p>A week later, I located Route 93 and headed north. Nearly two hours after that, I came to the small quaint village by the name of Alamo.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3voHPMBYZCflsGGnDVFdkr4TqH9gSJaJU3xDBqy-sgzaLqPpO1kaVFZKCOLg7onQmktvp6MyS3paI0t6fvOPutxa0u0v1gwNoS90vieAZ1foNmcsI615EJ_O0RjRaha__auNCnTZ4dMksgjTImWdte-p-9mWl0ROhy9hHXfLApyoWTctMGMmbYFtSqK1/s2482/IMG_2960%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2482" data-original-width="2328" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3voHPMBYZCflsGGnDVFdkr4TqH9gSJaJU3xDBqy-sgzaLqPpO1kaVFZKCOLg7onQmktvp6MyS3paI0t6fvOPutxa0u0v1gwNoS90vieAZ1foNmcsI615EJ_O0RjRaha__auNCnTZ4dMksgjTImWdte-p-9mWl0ROhy9hHXfLApyoWTctMGMmbYFtSqK1/w375-h400/IMG_2960%20(2).JPG" width="375" /></a></div><p>The sun was slowly setting in the west, as it usually does, and my energy levels were in sync with that blazing bag of hydrogen and helium.</p><p>Since I was pulling the tent trailer, or pop-up trailer as some like to call it, I pulled into Pickett’s RV Park and obtained a space.</p><p>It was a nice place to stay for the night. Courteous folks, large sites, and shady trees.</p><p>I did not know much about this berg but soon learned it is very small. Took thirty seconds to come to that realization. No stop sign. No traffic signal. Just the long black pavement of the highway bustling past a Sinclair gas station.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMbbSn3pJM28Olsajnps5sswN2HZXia7kJRG85r9aR67hNRGVZnhv2Y6b7P08fZxv8nIfoWdur4M7WuL1Z_oPKSW1IbgTPA6gHss0miFD93B5HchG9qY1TzbABc5HcOT6k8emVWhWw6VSmCZzzqHGEwQiUmQh7_-OoperFuvZMwpiaCluccuptBnLHN30/s3216/20231003_161026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1649" data-original-width="3216" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMbbSn3pJM28Olsajnps5sswN2HZXia7kJRG85r9aR67hNRGVZnhv2Y6b7P08fZxv8nIfoWdur4M7WuL1Z_oPKSW1IbgTPA6gHss0miFD93B5HchG9qY1TzbABc5HcOT6k8emVWhWw6VSmCZzzqHGEwQiUmQh7_-OoperFuvZMwpiaCluccuptBnLHN30/w400-h205/20231003_161026.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The town has a population of around 1,000 people and is pretty rural. Sitting along State Route 95 only 90 miles north of Las Vegas does allow the small locale plenty of byway travelers which support the couple of gas stations and motels in the area.</p><p>Sitting at nearly 3,500 feet in elevation gives the area a coolness that the folks down the hill in Vegas never feel.</p><p>“The pavements are melting,” one resident of Las Vegas may say to another during the summer. “Let’s head to Alamo.”</p><p>“What can we do there?”</p><p>“Not become a pile of liquid goo.”</p><p>A post office has been in operation since 1905, so Alamo is not a ghost town per definition.</p><p>I took a few moments (after setting up a very bougie sort of camp with carpets, a welcome mat that I do not really mean, and exterior solar lights), to drive the few streets the town has to offer in the way of neighborhoods.</p><p>It was impressive. Beautiful green lawns, tall billowing trees set against the background of neatly painted and well-kept houses. The schools I drove by would be the envy of any larger town.</p><p>Alamo has it going on, except for a lack of restaurants and bars.</p><p>The town was founded by a group of Mormons and with their religious beliefs concerning abstinence from alcohol, none was allowed within the town limits.</p><p>That changed earlier this year, when the town board started allowing alcohol sales in gas stations and supermarkets, but bars were still a no-no. </p><p>No issue for this traveling writer - always carry a large ice chest just in case you end up in a dry county or town. </p><p>Many believe the founders of the town wanted to immortalize the battle which took place nearly 1,400 miles southeast of their mainly ranching community.</p><p>But, the true story may be that when the community was imagined by Fred Allen, Mike Botts, Bert Riggs, and William Stewart, they thought the name Alamo, which is Spanish for poplar, would be appropriate because of all the poplar trees growing in the area.</p><p>“Remember the Alamo trees,” Riggs may have yelled at a community meeting.</p><p>“Let’s forgo the tree part, shall we,” Stewart may have returned.</p><p>Alamo is located within the Pahranagat Valley, and no matter how hard I tried I could not pronounce that name, but it is a beautiful long valley with soft rolling hills dotted here and there with ranches. Long white fences squaring off grasslands where horses and cattle seem pretty happy just munching away.</p><p>A few miles to the south along Route 93 is the Pahranagat National Wildlife Refuge. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPIlElFvimVM-_xgdekutdPsppXu2MBjXJhXuWyZTC6wvGfxqsVcUDtsvlEuAxU5l2e1ictwkLwMQVcIjgoMJPvCzGNTGb_JnZ5Q1YOBd6dw1iPsQJ8bAxgudTXf65JtN6Xx5pgtlJ_7MOL6hx2bcRxTin6XUfLv5JN_QPsU1B40fxFbjUjZwCf8hMSQk/s3995/IMG_2954%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3262" data-original-width="3995" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPIlElFvimVM-_xgdekutdPsppXu2MBjXJhXuWyZTC6wvGfxqsVcUDtsvlEuAxU5l2e1ictwkLwMQVcIjgoMJPvCzGNTGb_JnZ5Q1YOBd6dw1iPsQJ8bAxgudTXf65JtN6Xx5pgtlJ_7MOL6hx2bcRxTin6XUfLv5JN_QPsU1B40fxFbjUjZwCf8hMSQk/w400-h326/IMG_2954%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>It is over a 100 years old and was started by the locals as a respite for migratory fowl which would be flying here and there on their way somewhere. </p><p>The over 5,000 acre refuge actually wasn’t created officially until August of 1963 in Lincoln County and is part of the larger Desert National Wildlife Refuge Complex. This complex, at nearly 2 million acres, happens to be the largest such refuge in the lower 48 states. </p><p>Rumor has it that Hawaii did not return a phone call since it was embarrassed that all they had was a bunch of islands, and Alaska scoffed saying that the average citizen there had that many acres in their front yards.</p><p>I drove to the refuge and found it very relaxing and peaceful just sitting on one of the many benches that surround a large lake.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Gi11npYfDzQyyANDqeH6XWqxPvemrMng2ga1MBpEygQz_jy0s0BT-fol6W4W71xW1nAfooMiqYWud20M4feSnCdexjI8I056gegcfoI2LN8Ycs_0m3HTBF5cW1YbspRCZwuuFX_hDc9goEfFwItgMKC-lbU-NFPIE7uAo3OlWPisD4qVAEFzcEB0XSWj/s5718/IMG_2959%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3038" data-original-width="5718" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Gi11npYfDzQyyANDqeH6XWqxPvemrMng2ga1MBpEygQz_jy0s0BT-fol6W4W71xW1nAfooMiqYWud20M4feSnCdexjI8I056gegcfoI2LN8Ycs_0m3HTBF5cW1YbspRCZwuuFX_hDc9goEfFwItgMKC-lbU-NFPIE7uAo3OlWPisD4qVAEFzcEB0XSWj/w400-h213/IMG_2959%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>People in motorhomes, camping vans, and tents seemed very content while sitting in their lawn chairs in the designated campsites staring out across the sparkling blue waters toward the Badger Mountains to the west.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw54_GDQv39cgVKZak2e81so7D5QEXrEuU4K6Hi1bDD9YOMbYiDyjcB4qh4IVHSAwJ6zkFRmh6pBJhR2pTSj_UucWyT16v1ZmluYsYNgsLeqklRmZa3Ye2HcVPvl-ueoec58D0d3gmqeW1fbEvTvZYyY8a6OOK1bDNOPUkRm9eTsECfet3P7cYyMd7wQj/s5086/IMG_2957%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2658" data-original-width="5086" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw54_GDQv39cgVKZak2e81so7D5QEXrEuU4K6Hi1bDD9YOMbYiDyjcB4qh4IVHSAwJ6zkFRmh6pBJhR2pTSj_UucWyT16v1ZmluYsYNgsLeqklRmZa3Ye2HcVPvl-ueoec58D0d3gmqeW1fbEvTvZYyY8a6OOK1bDNOPUkRm9eTsECfet3P7cYyMd7wQj/w400-h209/IMG_2957%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>“We love it here,” Beatrice told me. “We’re from Henderson and like to get away up here and away from the hustle and bustle of city life.”</p><p>Her husband, Anthony, told me he likes to look for the green-winged teal, various mallards, pintails, and shovelers.</p><p>I had no idea what he was talking about but smiled as though I did. “Any luck today?”</p><p>“A beautiful mallard, but that’s about it,” Anthony stated. “Though to be honest, I’m just relaxing.”</p><p>Easy to see how that can be the call of the day. A slight breeze with the temperature in the mid-seventies made for a perfect outing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qdCp7k5ieGnwtwl0u0hlKyqep1NKrTpfzT3GVJI2jsrzZJ_I8jxOhqA1olafIvaS8ekYqAepbeslOeVU7vwil58JZPx_sZ3XwIk5evooCKFbfsJGXB4O4aBFxqSWfnFwsvZV6C54p8kag_fh0iAFmiWs7iqTPGZfQ2avhaZWF6nrVWEIODwUNDcQrhak/s6000/IMG_2956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qdCp7k5ieGnwtwl0u0hlKyqep1NKrTpfzT3GVJI2jsrzZJ_I8jxOhqA1olafIvaS8ekYqAepbeslOeVU7vwil58JZPx_sZ3XwIk5evooCKFbfsJGXB4O4aBFxqSWfnFwsvZV6C54p8kag_fh0iAFmiWs7iqTPGZfQ2avhaZWF6nrVWEIODwUNDcQrhak/w400-h266/IMG_2956.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>The entire valley has seen humans strolling around its lush lakes and rolling hills for thousands of years.</p><p>Evidence of early American Indian tribes have either lived or traveled through the valley for the past 8,000 to 13,000 years ago. With all the abundant wildlife available in the area it was a no-brainer for the native tribes to settle here.</p><p>Deer, elk, antelope roam the hills and valleys freely making hunting relatively easy for experienced hunters. The lakes and streams are full of trout, crappie, and catfish. Tens of thousands of fowl, of every species, make their way across this vast land giving the opportunity of those living here to have plenty to eat.</p><p>This valley had it all from ancient inhabitants all the way to the modern ones.</p><p>So, is Alamo worth a visit on its own? Not sure I would make it a final destination, but for a place to slow down for the night and relax, then definitely yes.</p><p>And, besides - it is only 13 miles to the most eastern section of the Extraterrestrial Highway.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Alamo, NV 89001, USA37.3649613 -115.16446149.0547274638211519 -150.3207114 65.675195136178843 -80.0082114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-6458783707794172122023-10-30T13:46:00.003-07:002023-10-30T13:46:59.920-07:00Happy Halloween - In search of Ghosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC8Ze70oXDs7H04ZXksh3Gc6K1wIN-jBbviQrNkitfqW5Tn0OiHO0xscDBh_jEhRVEeazXPYhDHDT_Xpt3gag93oB8_Or7WG7kiFj_y5eN0Zj-PUrE0aEcCzEnAcEjKvOF4yHG-hMCL5llmlKx80XBggIZmUXmsdt9SLxG2_V1M15P17EsbX1A5sxBWcj/s612/midnight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="612" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC8Ze70oXDs7H04ZXksh3Gc6K1wIN-jBbviQrNkitfqW5Tn0OiHO0xscDBh_jEhRVEeazXPYhDHDT_Xpt3gag93oB8_Or7WG7kiFj_y5eN0Zj-PUrE0aEcCzEnAcEjKvOF4yHG-hMCL5llmlKx80XBggIZmUXmsdt9SLxG2_V1M15P17EsbX1A5sxBWcj/s320/midnight.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>My watch showed me that it was nearly midnight, but I really did not need the timepiece to alert me to such an hour.</p><p>I had been wandering here and there, albeit carefully, through the deep clean sands of the Mojave River bed just northeast of the town of Daggett.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwJM2Sz-Dn_qgFqWyaPvpKxKrO1ZNHL0qOd9LMpFJk7QCE-eA1rVwqBrsu2oC4miMOecz6Xa0z-7VXLY4jqaz9PXgqp_EM501gJ395I8bKDEpWWjoEC3ESElmtQbwpVr7UiLfk-dmCuUB4t9e-QK9cQ4rtXdzaql9Jykc-6xHieiE0EJKuOQC5tuAVqB4/s6000/IMG_2871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdwJM2Sz-Dn_qgFqWyaPvpKxKrO1ZNHL0qOd9LMpFJk7QCE-eA1rVwqBrsu2oC4miMOecz6Xa0z-7VXLY4jqaz9PXgqp_EM501gJ395I8bKDEpWWjoEC3ESElmtQbwpVr7UiLfk-dmCuUB4t9e-QK9cQ4rtXdzaql9Jykc-6xHieiE0EJKuOQC5tuAVqB4/w400-h266/IMG_2871.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing but lonely sands in the riverbed</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In search of the spectral Hatchet Lady of Newberry Springs.<p>I was in search of one of the most terrifying hauntings in the High Desert, according to a news article in the Victorville Daily Press dated October 26, 2010.</p><p>In fact, the article entitled, ‘High Desert’s Most Haunted Places,’ describes this ghostly apparition’s path listed as the ninth most haunted place around. </p><p>‘Newberry Springs. Legend has it that the “hatchet lady” roams the Mojave River bottom at night.’</p><p>That sounded rather sinister, and thus the reason I was traipsing through the ankle deep sand in search of this specter recently.</p><p>That is what I do for a weekly column, especially for the month of October.</p><p>This ghostly apparition is not a very nice ghost. According to the Urban Dictionary, ‘The Hatchet Lady caught her husband cheating, and in a fit of rage she lopped off his head with a hatchet, and then committed a gory suicide in the same swing of her arm.’</p><p>Seems a little extreme to ‘lop’ off someone’s head when caught cheating while playing poker. But perhaps it wasn’t a card game.</p><p>Now, this demented and thwarted woman patrols the Mojave River bed looking for her next victim between Minneola Road and Harvard Road in Newberry Springs.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQh6Qj8bYFwrOj_EE7kp5OLGsG7At0F4emZ188LOKsmCIKu8yXeLZGp0sziW0S7gC56b-0NXMPqUKi84AVPMgLB1Aqk8vwOrHjQkoYeX6fJYEC4VT7ocCv7PyO97CD-BppXhMA3UVasvYaqz3fTFNDip2nBjK2KxL5wtUyG0jYOqaDTaQwu0yGbZhccMr/s4167/hatchet3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3557" data-original-width="4167" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQh6Qj8bYFwrOj_EE7kp5OLGsG7At0F4emZ188LOKsmCIKu8yXeLZGp0sziW0S7gC56b-0NXMPqUKi84AVPMgLB1Aqk8vwOrHjQkoYeX6fJYEC4VT7ocCv7PyO97CD-BppXhMA3UVasvYaqz3fTFNDip2nBjK2KxL5wtUyG0jYOqaDTaQwu0yGbZhccMr/w400-h341/hatchet3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dirt trails, possibly leading to the Hatchet Lady</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Rumor has it she shrieks in the air like a banshee. Though I have never heard a banshee but just the name sends shivers up and down my arms.</p><p>There is quite a distance in miles between both roads and after walking and stumbling through the near total darkness for an hour, while yelling out for the Hatchet Lady, I was tired.</p><p>“Hey, Hatchet Lady,” I yelled, while nearly tripping over a rather large abandoned truck tire. “I’ve got a deadline here, show yourself.”</p><p>Suddenly, out of the darkness near a tall other-worldly looking tamarisk flew one of the largest owls I had ever witnessed.</p><p>I was glad to have worn Depends this particular evening. I did not shout my presence again.</p><p>Another hour later, I was really tired and made my way back to my truck parked along Minneola Road. </p><p>Perhaps the hatchet swinging damsel had set hours and I had merely missed them.</p><p>The following day I ended up at the Barn along Route 66 in Newberry Springs. I knew I would find the truth about the Hatchet Lady from the patrons there. If not, a cold adult libation would certainly find its way in front of me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdldmbrwduV4CAO9515RG1NdoSONm_qo0h9lVGaKEHCNn6eAF0etb4pi91THqGyLUbTNY-5g9LRt_uP50picUAw4raX6qEL67JifcgZNwZc-BLdRui4iamyt02bPbLxmItZBCDTTfFAhEptbDzEvy3RoXKfK1iN7Olt9mEEJrBaIvD_QBZAgLdsNw1EUg/s2817/barn9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1545" data-original-width="2817" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdldmbrwduV4CAO9515RG1NdoSONm_qo0h9lVGaKEHCNn6eAF0etb4pi91THqGyLUbTNY-5g9LRt_uP50picUAw4raX6qEL67JifcgZNwZc-BLdRui4iamyt02bPbLxmItZBCDTTfFAhEptbDzEvy3RoXKfK1iN7Olt9mEEJrBaIvD_QBZAgLdsNw1EUg/w400-h220/barn9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Wes, a local, was wetting his whistle. “Nope, never heard of her and I’ve lived here over ten years.”</p><p>Renee, the owner of the bar, shook her head. “Sounds scary, but I’ve had the place over at Lake Jodie for decades and nada.”</p><p>Joel, the maintenance manager for the Barn also shook his head. “That’s interesting, I’ve lived here for five years and haven’t heard of her.”</p><p>I took out my phone, found four different websites about the Hatchet Lady and showed it around the bar.</p><p>Blank faces stared back at me.</p><p>“But you know, this place is haunted,” Joel stated.</p><p>Huh?</p><p>Turns out that both Joel and Renee have felt and seen strange happenings at the establishment.</p><p>“I was working one night after the place closed,” Joel started, “when suddenly I heard the men’s bathroom door slam shut.”</p><p>“Okay,” I replied. “Doors slam shut.”</p><p>He then walked me over to the bathroom door and pointed at a large cinder block holding the door open.</p><p>“We leave it open using that,” he said. “When I came over that night, the block was over there.”</p><p>He pointed to a spot across the hall at least eight feet away.</p><p>“Interesting,” I replied.</p><p>He then filled me in on other strange occurrences that had been going on at the Barn.</p><p>“The kitchen light came on and when I checked on it, the switch was in the off position. I checked the wires and they were correct. I turned it off and while walking away the light went back on, but the switch was still turned off.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDY_2wDNRDACSesnLLDxQdR5tdIjXRSzWB8z-Rwv0HkAuTlaFsVOXPIh-KFLximTQymIfk7oZ_lbH8L0ycoWywIuzyKJvEFa2dCFd8cT4NKchidkPS8uQhjs6DbYkpwQnsRghD5y1FB5B-JegZv9I7qepvznlQ_ioOb_qRFJ-_HuNfFgPA_p8czO5cI7m/s4032/barn7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjDY_2wDNRDACSesnLLDxQdR5tdIjXRSzWB8z-Rwv0HkAuTlaFsVOXPIh-KFLximTQymIfk7oZ_lbH8L0ycoWywIuzyKJvEFa2dCFd8cT4NKchidkPS8uQhjs6DbYkpwQnsRghD5y1FB5B-JegZv9I7qepvznlQ_ioOb_qRFJ-_HuNfFgPA_p8czO5cI7m/w400-h300/barn7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ghostly happenings at the Barn in Newberry Springs</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Renee happened by the two of us. “One time I was sitting listening to a band, taking a break from the bar when I felt a hand on my shoulder that gave me a squeeze. I thought it was a patron wanting my attention but when I turned around there was no one there.”</p><p>“As I was laying some new flooring behind the bar after closing hours,” Joel added, “I heard the freezer door open and then slam shut. Then footsteps walked from the kitchen, across the dining area and disappeared into the rear of the building. I was alone at the time.”</p><p>“What did you do then?” I asked.</p><p>“Went home.” Joel replied.</p><p>I asked Renee who the spirit - a great term to use in a bar, maybe.</p><p>“I’m not sure, but I do not believe it means any harm,” Renee responded. “Sort of like it is keeping an eye on the place.”</p><p>Sometimes when investigating a locale or event nothing happens - a big fat zero, like I found out with the river bed wandering banshee who hefts a mighty hatchet.</p><p>Though, I did sort of wonder how a person could cut off her cheating husband’s head and then cleanly decapitate themselves with one swing.</p><p>Perhaps Hatchet Lady should have saved that swing for the majors?</p><p>“You know, John,” Renee stated. “Lake Jodie is haunted.”</p><p>Joel, who also lives at Lake Jodie piped up. “There have been times when I see shadow people by the lakeside, and when they see me looking they disappear.”</p><p>A shadow person, per paranormal sources, is a shadowy figure or black mass resembling a humanoid figure. Often they are interpreted as the presence of a spirit or other entity by believers in the paranormal or supernatural realm.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBlJbLJL8HFVS_-fJBIJzGncCp0GE3y16wJCXK0640eMlDgN5-DeMp_X9N_xRVJ7a2xi8OEgnThAWmAA32__ddtnL4atjWS5L_TmKPigectb7vKasBno6Veezx9CIFFIPAEtQkR6cE0Jzt1q84zP8rhCrEiFnTDKAFt5kdUWRXfbmRVP_zNLui9A1vAtX/s640/Renee3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBlJbLJL8HFVS_-fJBIJzGncCp0GE3y16wJCXK0640eMlDgN5-DeMp_X9N_xRVJ7a2xi8OEgnThAWmAA32__ddtnL4atjWS5L_TmKPigectb7vKasBno6Veezx9CIFFIPAEtQkR6cE0Jzt1q84zP8rhCrEiFnTDKAFt5kdUWRXfbmRVP_zNLui9A1vAtX/w400-h300/Renee3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Jodie, where shadow people are often seen</td></tr></tbody></table><p>My interpretation is, these black blobs walk around scaring people without uttering a word - like watching an IRS agent sitting behind their desk and staring at you during an audit.</p><p>Both would be equally frightening. </p><p>“I’ve heard footsteps on the exterior steps and then something walking to the water’s edge, but there is nothing there,” Joel continued. “I actually had someone grab my left shoulder one evening while I was sitting on the steps outback, as though using me for leverage to make it down the stairs.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7TeE0D8bnvZeEjl7VKNoQQzatmpKYKHM3VQFJPVZs17iELWxM0sijc_vvVL9XdSMNPgpCYTV4HTf6K62CfUOPZOmbVtZ1h9vTIl-9ZWrdPTqpDductBLassy0wiU7kXUXNTZIO-jM2NJ9BWCnM2spdCAGGWYwzbMyCNKNjZHvS9ChJpFsfcfhGyP-0wD/s480/Renee2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7TeE0D8bnvZeEjl7VKNoQQzatmpKYKHM3VQFJPVZs17iELWxM0sijc_vvVL9XdSMNPgpCYTV4HTf6K62CfUOPZOmbVtZ1h9vTIl-9ZWrdPTqpDductBLassy0wiU7kXUXNTZIO-jM2NJ9BWCnM2spdCAGGWYwzbMyCNKNjZHvS9ChJpFsfcfhGyP-0wD/w400-h300/Renee2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Footsteps can be heard but no one is there</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As Joel is telling me this tale, I noticed large goosebumps on both of his arms. He pointed at them, “See, I hate even thinking about the shadow people and other things I’ve witnessed out there.”</p><p>At that point I knew I had to contact the ghostbusters team of Cody Dare and Shawn Warren of The New Reality Paranormal investigative team.</p><p>Arrangements were made to meet at one of the houses at Lake Jodie (in all transparency - Lake Jodie is a gated community and no address will be supplied in this column) at a certain date and time.</p><p>Like many things in life, other duties turned up and I was not able to be there while Cody and Shawn did their paranormal activity. I believe I had a mani-pedi scheduled instead.</p><p>Cody got back to me. “Dude, there is a lot going on there. The place was lighting up like crazy.”</p><p>That’s paranormal lingo for, “Wow, Dude, the place was lighting up like crazy.”</p><p>“This place has all kinds of different energies just wanting to be heard. They actually want to talk to you.”</p><p>Why me, I wondered.</p><p>Shawn punched into the conversation. “There is a little girl there who is very prominent. It’s very heartbreaking to know she’s still there.”</p><p>Both these professionals know I am a skeptic, but not about their work. They have investigated dozens of places with supposed paranormal activity and have told me things that neither they nor I can explain.</p><p>And, that is paranormal, folks.</p><p>Though I didn’t locate Hatchet Lady, probably better for my noggin, I did learn that many people in the Newberry Springs area have experienced things there are no seemingly logical explanations for.</p><p>And who doesn’t like a bit of mystery or goose bumps in their life?</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: xx-large;">Happy Halloween!</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Newberry Springs, CA 92365, USA34.8286042 -116.68892276.5183703638211554 -151.8451727 63.138838036178846 -81.5326727tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-82755925022242477742023-10-09T07:00:00.001-07:002023-10-09T07:00:00.138-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fM0SPVcH1g4GXQ-tSXA5YMiklFIdA7B3gEoCdt_N3hU9lJWqaM5XPGlD14GL1zn-WExb_a-LJfUbsFvFVLJys2eBp9nLJsRGq0S90gbzkB9xk4bU5rhsZGX8XMD4oGdwoKhr609N2uN971VcihSBiFNpm108LtWLN1RvZqYeLb8o-S8taVzfvfNtHBbw/s5548/IMG_2831%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="5548" height="73" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fM0SPVcH1g4GXQ-tSXA5YMiklFIdA7B3gEoCdt_N3hU9lJWqaM5XPGlD14GL1zn-WExb_a-LJfUbsFvFVLJys2eBp9nLJsRGq0S90gbzkB9xk4bU5rhsZGX8XMD4oGdwoKhr609N2uN971VcihSBiFNpm108LtWLN1RvZqYeLb8o-S8taVzfvfNtHBbw/w400-h73/IMG_2831%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>It is that time of year to get your scare on! Yep, October is the month for spooks and goblins to be wandering the streets in hopes of administering a whole lot of fear in us mere humans.</p><p>Well, for those that believe.</p><p>According to a United States government survey conducted in 2021, 41% of Americans believe in ghosts, the other 59% are too afraid to say either way.</p><p>“What if I’m wrong and Casper shows up in my bedroom floating around angrily?” one participant may have asked.</p><p>So, with October here, I thought I’d check in with my buddy, Cody Dare, of The New Reality, to learn what haunts I needed to check out.</p><p>“Dude, you gotta go to the All Saints Lunatic Asylum in Apple Valley,” Cody said. “There’s a lot of paranormal action going on there.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTEYay_CXrWhLpWN2hgltxIhL5k3MtqbHc_0-h1czJs00oGFfiLHss-OXQnQq1B99H1ZRJLIfcnxEIuWDJ3nM4UwdMZTNmlRLmWh_ebL-JepsNYqr-e4J0El6cw-Gtmclsos_FAH1xwFlOUP3sRIB8W-g-DfOSwtQtMJs5kq-49gZYpPrHp2knc-SgLvR/s2669/IMG_2835%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2669" data-original-width="1996" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTEYay_CXrWhLpWN2hgltxIhL5k3MtqbHc_0-h1czJs00oGFfiLHss-OXQnQq1B99H1ZRJLIfcnxEIuWDJ3nM4UwdMZTNmlRLmWh_ebL-JepsNYqr-e4J0El6cw-Gtmclsos_FAH1xwFlOUP3sRIB8W-g-DfOSwtQtMJs5kq-49gZYpPrHp2knc-SgLvR/w299-h400/IMG_2835%20(2).JPG" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halls you may not want to enter</td></tr></tbody></table>It has also been a professional Haunted House in the High Desert for the past eight years. Of course it is haunted - it is supposed to be.<p>Can’t be a lunatic asylum if all the patients are sitting around in Lazy-boys watching sit-coms and telling each other they are fine.</p><p>Nope, a lunatic asylum has to be a place of horror, torture, grief, terror, and all the other things that make people afraid to enter. No one is afraid to enter a lunatic asylum that resembles something like Friends.</p><p>“Oh, Rachel,” Monica may say. “You look just horrible with that leather mask strapped to your face while bound to a shopping cart.”</p><p>Rachel will only snarl and drool, but we all know it will work out for the best by the end of the episode.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhUpwLj2tM73i3kclLPYhNZydLzqTwwcnQDd6haob_3bPM3VW_1ZNdqODf20z6wHcqAVds2QDtu25HrV1OP6cd-Xl1uhVzua9OP_oaDT1aZG8xJxhWU8hZQ0BkznvslBj6Yw_Xyhn2OS6Q_TNBzXm_f10PpzYhDckzDaN-V283plkDIDXgRl1ZNTklQgR/s5225/IMG_2839%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5225" data-original-width="2366" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhUpwLj2tM73i3kclLPYhNZydLzqTwwcnQDd6haob_3bPM3VW_1ZNdqODf20z6wHcqAVds2QDtu25HrV1OP6cd-Xl1uhVzua9OP_oaDT1aZG8xJxhWU8hZQ0BkznvslBj6Yw_Xyhn2OS6Q_TNBzXm_f10PpzYhDckzDaN-V283plkDIDXgRl1ZNTklQgR/w181-h400/IMG_2839%20(2).JPG" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never saw this in 'Friends'</td></tr></tbody></table>I drove to Apple Valley to check out this lunatic asylum, making sure I took my get out of asylum free card with me - just in case.<p>Christy and Richard Cerreto, the owners of the All Saints Lunatic Asylum met me at the double glass doors of their haunting business.</p><p>They were normal looking people. Not sure what I was expecting, but a couple who enjoy scaring the bejesus out of people may have looked like they had just exited a wild rage of Alice Cooper enthusiasts.</p><p>Nope, and to boot, they are college professors. Perhaps the place is haunted - making demons appear like well-educated humans.</p><p>How dastardly!</p><p>Actually, the couple were a lovely duo who just like to be surrounded by ghoulish and bloody exhibits.</p><p>“It started at our home,” Christy explained. “We love Halloween and would sit on our front porch handing out candy and scaring the trick-or-treaters.”</p><p>“Then it branched out to a maze of fear in our backyard for the neighbor children,” Richard chimed in.</p><p>I was wondering if this was my cue that it was time to leave. I’ve seen too many films where this could go wrong - I was just hoping there wasn’t a shed I’d hide in and learn it was full of chainsaws.</p><p>“We don’t use chainsaws here,” Christy reassured me.</p><p>Huh? I thought I had just said that quietly inside my own head.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgFRSXbmfzXY_rRg8uIgUODSPRQB3apd92iofoYaz3kNLcfBX8fscIW-65je8FbGdCEmAuW3B3fB5OOeOopd7NpRlgVD-nOtWFDCmuR5w8ofh24ENyqCCNhW7slKnbX7032T9uchEUO8nxu0Lj-Kqufri9VTvRcX8mIv-McaV9-5UIJ3heW5fyKOt9FuP/s5800/IMG_2844%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2733" data-original-width="5800" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgFRSXbmfzXY_rRg8uIgUODSPRQB3apd92iofoYaz3kNLcfBX8fscIW-65je8FbGdCEmAuW3B3fB5OOeOopd7NpRlgVD-nOtWFDCmuR5w8ofh24ENyqCCNhW7slKnbX7032T9uchEUO8nxu0Lj-Kqufri9VTvRcX8mIv-McaV9-5UIJ3heW5fyKOt9FuP/w400-h189/IMG_2844%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No chain saws, but ....</td></tr></tbody></table>Prior to showing up for my personal tour of the fear factory, I had contacted Cody Dare and Shawn Warren from The New Reality - the paranormal investigative group.<p>“All Saints Lunatic Asylum has always given me an uneasiness, a feeling of darkness, and never feeling alone,” Cody shared with me. Now, Shawn is pretty amazing when it comes to the paranormal stuff - him being a psychic medium and all - not sure what that means, but he is good at it.</p><p>He continued. “You can feel the oppression as soon as you walk into the door, always making me feel disoriented.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOpv5x6w53WQldqG6aVnv3gkq6RYt88chyCzY1e7psvKVAVzcxFjkGj8aDWT8YbJ3_1QdLJGaUmJT8xSjl0voutOtnBZVGVf4nFvZHnl-iasJoPf3djGhZIeZiECLWolOnypY4fIv5R7JuDogkdQEi5RFRJSuCM91UY93LsIND8ZZj4mjFNyk8iOxC522/s4636/IMG_2840%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3852" data-original-width="4636" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOpv5x6w53WQldqG6aVnv3gkq6RYt88chyCzY1e7psvKVAVzcxFjkGj8aDWT8YbJ3_1QdLJGaUmJT8xSjl0voutOtnBZVGVf4nFvZHnl-iasJoPf3djGhZIeZiECLWolOnypY4fIv5R7JuDogkdQEi5RFRJSuCM91UY93LsIND8ZZj4mjFNyk8iOxC522/w400-h333/IMG_2840%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nervous? Just talk to the nurse at the asylum</td></tr></tbody></table>Richard, Christy and I were in the lobby, where visitors to their macabre realm check in, and I did not feel any of the things Cody or Shawn had shared with me.<p>Then again, I generally state when someone insults me, “You hurt my feeling.” Perhaps I left that feeling by the glass entry doors.</p><p>“The New Reality has been here,” Christy commented. “It was awesome to see how professional they are.”</p><p>Richard nodded. “They always try to find a logical reason for any strange occurrences, then they can rule them out.”</p><p>And that is the case for legitimate paranormal investigators. At least 95% of weird stuff can be put down as wind, clouds, imagination, or other issues which may be nothing. It is the remaining 5% that cannot be explained that intrigues these investigators of the unknown.</p><p>It is much like when my beautiful wife, Laureen, shops and tells me she is saving money by buying a whole lot of stuff we don’t need because it is on sale.</p><p>Cody takes more of an intuitive empath approach - again, no idea what that means.</p><p>“The place is off the charts with paranormal activity. There is something very dark in the chapel room.”</p><p>The asylum is broken up into many rooms. There is the administrative room, the morgue, the children's room, the hospital room, the dentist office, the chapel, the Sasquatch cage, and so much more to entertain and delight.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCCJzpdI42t7kusyxjjvg9cJoDGyAvuHGWbaPuq362Yu8CEMep40U2LPQw_VpoczHKKGrjpLY-Ri1k0qqj_8xI_THAb7SgPbdOKtQtQhMMLZfpFOOIRxPPGaS1PmwOrGQGDJgNwEz1anLv_9vmn1RWNJ4dajs977EMVX4_TrMxnpTqZPdjnl0sotSYw6F/s4760/IMG_2832%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3899" data-original-width="4760" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMCCJzpdI42t7kusyxjjvg9cJoDGyAvuHGWbaPuq362Yu8CEMep40U2LPQw_VpoczHKKGrjpLY-Ri1k0qqj_8xI_THAb7SgPbdOKtQtQhMMLZfpFOOIRxPPGaS1PmwOrGQGDJgNwEz1anLv_9vmn1RWNJ4dajs977EMVX4_TrMxnpTqZPdjnl0sotSYw6F/w400-h328/IMG_2832%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the Asylum<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>“When the crew was here,” Christy started, “They were conducting an EVP and clearly a doll was directing one of the female members to choose a certain doll in the room. When she chose the wrong doll, the voice told her ‘no’ and directed her to the correct one.”</p><p>For the neophytes, an EVP is in reference to an electronic voice phenomena which are sounds found on electronic recordings that are interpreted as spirit voices.</p><p>Though I have been on an investigation with Cody and Shawn, I still have no idea what that means except in layman terms it may be when Betelgeuse insults us and we can hear him.</p><p>“Sorry, Betelgeuse, but I left my feeling at the door,” I may return.</p><p>I asked both Richard and Christy if the building in which the asylum is located in Apple Valley was built on some sort of sacred Native American land. Perhaps an old western cemetery? Perhaps a devil worshiping pond?</p><p>“Nope,” Richard replied. “A stripmall built in the 1970s. I think there was a butcher shop here, a church and who knows.”</p><p>A butcher shop. Hmm.</p><p>“Cody got struck by a screw, right into his chest,” Christy told me. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhoM2YGEWkUJxfzH4Y-J8ahQ9pf0XgngaF-dBR05tkwYxGx1pEqdbEQUyIrLuhxWzrdmxtI7HIlsLRwoN-8_aXaqzXLfV9J_nH6TIZIE2XWxOJV47iLaS8NFjlPNqbkrEq1Vjtb8KH2-0dvr06Ez0-0ToCKGrnOhFqomqIumXwIjqatNtO957wBje3Yf2/s3593/IMG_2847%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3593" data-original-width="3138" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhoM2YGEWkUJxfzH4Y-J8ahQ9pf0XgngaF-dBR05tkwYxGx1pEqdbEQUyIrLuhxWzrdmxtI7HIlsLRwoN-8_aXaqzXLfV9J_nH6TIZIE2XWxOJV47iLaS8NFjlPNqbkrEq1Vjtb8KH2-0dvr06Ez0-0ToCKGrnOhFqomqIumXwIjqatNtO957wBje3Yf2/w349-h400/IMG_2847%20(2).JPG" width="349" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haunted casket?</td></tr></tbody></table>“I’ve stepped on nails, right through my foot when I was picking up dog poop in the backyard,” I replied.<p>She stared at me. “No, when they were filming by the casket, Cody was conducting a sensory deprivation when suddenly a screw flew at him from the casket, right into his chest.”</p><p>I nodded as if I understood.</p><p>“They caught it on tape,” Richard shared.</p><p>At that point the tour through all the rooms was conducted by my guests and it was enlightening, thrilling, and terrifying. But, I am not going into detail since I would not want to ruin the surprise for any potential visitors.</p><p>Besides, I had my eyes closed most of the time. When I saw Granny rocking in her wheelchair with a face that would terrify Jeffrey Dahmer, I knew this place was the real thing.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ04P9hxCnmEyZMgJ6635W3CiW69IHIPOVPcWala1SJatU_PvCnpLS9AHGRBmoyNu-K9r8h2uqjwbaNQEqoMPWRHCBHk4wZ_MIf-Gx1VEwgC3zedPWJV9uIqVJAbtJz4M_afu0RtdfcujO7h341m3aGMEXIbU2A8dVu4KgSoI8cSTJXd9I6gIZ-VTAnT__/s4943/IMG_2836%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4943" data-original-width="2706" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ04P9hxCnmEyZMgJ6635W3CiW69IHIPOVPcWala1SJatU_PvCnpLS9AHGRBmoyNu-K9r8h2uqjwbaNQEqoMPWRHCBHk4wZ_MIf-Gx1VEwgC3zedPWJV9uIqVJAbtJz4M_afu0RtdfcujO7h341m3aGMEXIbU2A8dVu4KgSoI8cSTJXd9I6gIZ-VTAnT__/w219-h400/IMG_2836%20(2).JPG" width="219" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And here's Granny</td></tr></tbody></table>As I learned during the tour, pretty much everything within the walls of the asylum are antiques acquired from actual places where folks may have not been treated as well as they should have been while alive, or even after death.<p>Could it be that it is not the actual building where the asylum is located that is haunted but the artifacts contained there? Does the very existence of these items conjure up dark energy that then releases itself on unsuspecting humans? Does the culmination of all these objects together in one place open the portal to the underworld? Is this where the beginning meets the end?</p><p>I don’t know - but it is very cool.</p><p>Just before I left, Richard pointed out a slew, or should I say a slaying of awards earned by his and Christy’s haunted enterprise. It was quite impressive: best live theater, best innovative business, best place to work, best place to have a birthday party, and my favorite - best place to wet your pants in public.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSuAviM8dfjo_OUP1QVKFe-gsYdMkdb_Ku87-ZdKIoXOHrFNu6DwX6Jfi3kmq4yh9b0poVqWef4-rMhYO9PAHTuNONA7fecgT2vaS4sxJupoUq2qSYjerJNK3M2Py8QPbTyhQwLi4wRysj5Xb1m4i61L-8DRfHS92sWN_9BN0-TSjV8sH2b_IQcgCYRsq/s3596/IMG_2848%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3596" data-original-width="3481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSuAviM8dfjo_OUP1QVKFe-gsYdMkdb_Ku87-ZdKIoXOHrFNu6DwX6Jfi3kmq4yh9b0poVqWef4-rMhYO9PAHTuNONA7fecgT2vaS4sxJupoUq2qSYjerJNK3M2Py8QPbTyhQwLi4wRysj5Xb1m4i61L-8DRfHS92sWN_9BN0-TSjV8sH2b_IQcgCYRsq/w388-h400/IMG_2848%20(2).JPG" width="388" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of spooky awards</td></tr></tbody></table>Did I feel any paranormal activities while at the asylum?<p>Nope, but that does not mean there isn’t. I know this though, wandering those dark halls and viewing actual pieces obtained from real asylums, mortuaries, hospitals, morgues, and who knows where else, there could be very well stuff happening there no one can explain.</p><p>Perhaps there is some sort of energy present at this asylum. Perhaps there is not - but, the only way to find out personally is to visit.</p><p>And no, I am not a paid spokesperson for the All Saints Lunatic Asylum. In fact, both Richard and Christy asked me to come back when it was open for guests for free. I turned them down.</p><p>I like my pants dry.</p><p>For more information: http://www.allsaintsasylum.com/</p><p>Catch Cody and Shawn on their Youtube channel - The New Reality Paranormal </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com022521 Shawnee Rd, Apple Valley, CA 92308, USA34.4989476 -117.17216.1887137638211556 -152.32835 62.809181436178847 -82.01585tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-33105508147423115722023-09-25T17:13:00.000-07:002023-09-25T17:13:26.499-07:00Don Laughlin's Car Museum<p> In 1980, a man purchased a new 1,100 cc Honda Gold Wing with a desire to ride the</p><p>open roads.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCLNRpfgOOVbW8_9JwP9DCJHj70mXO-EpEy15qAhLqx34r9J7GkK_0WXPRN3uFjopdrOsyjxFD3ZIeZbyqakVGp5jgKSV6TGIQuB3P3T0pbSpNFdDMQVy7vYzxdqfuovxSPKLj-Cha56YVAFspORw5qI7m2KQ0ZryLkHj2bGAsrPkvDq6XWYzxK4kIAX2/s5941/IMG_2792%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3717" data-original-width="5941" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCLNRpfgOOVbW8_9JwP9DCJHj70mXO-EpEy15qAhLqx34r9J7GkK_0WXPRN3uFjopdrOsyjxFD3ZIeZbyqakVGp5jgKSV6TGIQuB3P3T0pbSpNFdDMQVy7vYzxdqfuovxSPKLj-Cha56YVAFspORw5qI7m2KQ0ZryLkHj2bGAsrPkvDq6XWYzxK4kIAX2/w400-h250/IMG_2792%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bike!</td></tr></tbody></table>Over the following four years he managed to put over 30,000 miles on that sturdy Honda<p>and when he put the kickstand down, he may have said, “That is not enough miles for me.</p><p>I want to see the world.”</p><p>The Honda’s owner, Emilio Scotto, may have been guffawed at by his friends and family,</p><p>since the man had never even left his native country of Argentina.</p><p>“You barely rolled out of Buenos Aires,” it is rumored a neighbor may have sneered.</p><p>“Now, you want to roam the world?”</p><p>Scotto shook his head. “I don’t want to roam but fly on my Gold Wing through the</p><p>heavens touching down in as many lands as I am able.”</p><p>The neighbor looked at Scotto, believing he may have had one or two Aloja de Chauchas</p><p>too many.</p><p>Scotto quit his job in 1984, and with 300 bucks in his pocket, he took off on his</p><p>motorcycle for the trip of a lifetime.</p><p>Over the next decade, the intrepid motorcycle rider covered 485,000 miles, visited 232</p><p>countries - including islands, colonies, atolls, and other not-really-recognized countries. It</p><p>is estimated that Scotto touched down, his words not mine, on nearly 99 percent of the</p><p>landmasses on earth.</p><p>Scotto holds the Guinness World Record for the longest journey conducted by an</p><p>individual on a motorcycle.</p><p>He finally arrived back home in Argentina on April 2, 1995 and promptly received a</p><p>traffic ticket, possibly from a jealous traffic cop.</p><p>When he met up with family and friends, it is rumored he said, “My rear end hurts -</p><p>really hurts from sitting down for ten years on bumpy roads.”</p><p>It should be noted that even though Scotto left Argentina in 1985 with few pesos, he did</p><p>pick up numerous sponsors for his around-the-world journey as his story was shared</p><p>campfire to campfire, which made eating and putting gas in his motorcycle a bit more</p><p>affordable.</p><p>Now, what does one man following his passion of traveling around the world have to do</p><p>with this column?</p><p>It isn’t about Emilio Scotto or his motorcycle, but about a person’s desire to see more of</p><p>the world than they had ever hoped for before.</p><p>Traveling is a way to do that - to venture out and visit strange new lands, see strange new</p><p>people, experience strange new experiences, and sometimes just to be strange.</p><p>Then again, Scotto’s motorcycle is on display with his complete adventurous story at Don</p><p>Laughlin’s Car Museum, located within the Riverside Resort Hotel and Casino, in</p><p>Laughlin, Nevada.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyd17W9sl-5i_S3Y8y7Quld9SY3AHUq-sdXk6Rc2afF-IiBU_ObQlMPWksOQxWulc2hJs0HUrWw6s1DJMQyE01o9u7LVFctrfdPGfUFi6otlrb8NoWNHbZOFDlVNxq2rHtPM1vZgK8kfI0hXxZ2wwMg2nUfEaW48hVIH19r3lVLm7cZ-HPdeuRT1ri1PD7/s2651/laughlin2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="2651" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyd17W9sl-5i_S3Y8y7Quld9SY3AHUq-sdXk6Rc2afF-IiBU_ObQlMPWksOQxWulc2hJs0HUrWw6s1DJMQyE01o9u7LVFctrfdPGfUFi6otlrb8NoWNHbZOFDlVNxq2rHtPM1vZgK8kfI0hXxZ2wwMg2nUfEaW48hVIH19r3lVLm7cZ-HPdeuRT1ri1PD7/w400-h145/laughlin2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Riverside Resort Hotel and Casino</td></tr></tbody></table>I’ve written about Laughlin in the past - the small gambling and entertainment mecca<p>which sits on the west side of the cooling blue waters of the Colorado River. A great</p><p>place for family and for those folks who don’t have a family.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-b9_Dc_phy06XH_fYFHuqldKwC7Hj4FOSc9FBF5jw3LKMBcREUGfNZDMsc61W6vk6mxJghXPU6nN-8Q9Nb0mpjHMxavZbnGwZMDynZ8OmIo7FbuzNs4KpfB67OFe_JOYagZTGxPhBxSJEER0fhxvjzl02LrWBRVaAW7cCi9Yh4ybFVMKbIhfn3yNL8DF/s2407/laughlin7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1593" data-original-width="2407" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-b9_Dc_phy06XH_fYFHuqldKwC7Hj4FOSc9FBF5jw3LKMBcREUGfNZDMsc61W6vk6mxJghXPU6nN-8Q9Nb0mpjHMxavZbnGwZMDynZ8OmIo7FbuzNs4KpfB67OFe_JOYagZTGxPhBxSJEER0fhxvjzl02LrWBRVaAW7cCi9Yh4ybFVMKbIhfn3yNL8DF/w400-h265/laughlin7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John R Beyer next to a statue of Don Laughlin</td></tr></tbody></table>The town works for both categories.<p>It had been a long time since I had visited the car museum located at the Riverside. In</p><p>fact, as I get older, my perspective of that long time may have been longer.</p><p>If recollection serves me well, the last time I visited, it was called the Don Laughlin’s</p><p>Horse and Buggy Museum.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kbRH4cNv9ZInnsvnQEkVa9DWFVR7GWJIcu71qecpvuBB68yuQdxK2bybRGX79NhndKbme6hMNpCf_3H6JwHc6AZLCm-rNBBHFzufthiPftBe-vq4dqUT94fPW1tyolTDfwkQjLjeM13QgN0FNo_X7XpglWyR7zLv4JU2c28IIyOd7NU1EhvfXmrmMaxM/s5999/IMG_2804%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3410" data-original-width="5999" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kbRH4cNv9ZInnsvnQEkVa9DWFVR7GWJIcu71qecpvuBB68yuQdxK2bybRGX79NhndKbme6hMNpCf_3H6JwHc6AZLCm-rNBBHFzufthiPftBe-vq4dqUT94fPW1tyolTDfwkQjLjeM13QgN0FNo_X7XpglWyR7zLv4JU2c28IIyOd7NU1EhvfXmrmMaxM/w400-h228/IMG_2804%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is no horse and buggy museum</td></tr></tbody></table>Laureen, my lovely wife, couldn’t make the trip to Laughlin so my buddy, Paul, ventured<p>out with me.</p><p>Men love auto museums, and I am not being sexist, but generally I see men being guided</p><p>by their girlfriends or wives through the museums on a leash. This is because the men are</p><p>wearing drool buckets attached to their ears and terrible and ugly spillage could occur if</p><p>they stop suddenly in front of a bright shiny gorgeous automobile.</p><p>“It’s just a silly old Lamborghini Veneno,” the wife or girlfriend may say, while giving a</p><p>little tug on the leash attached to the drool bucket.</p><p>“But, it was created to celebrate Lamborghini’s fiftieth anniversary back in 2013.”</p><p>A snap on the leash. “And when is our anniversary?”</p><p>“I understand the museum has a gift shop.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2khBzDu7XChsKyf2qqH5W-Dj7gyc_U6wnOlI2PYBdKuPaHuIc8joNVBBNNAJm_2USxUyx0tqcnfWoRtqJOOUraqGm1QcWOkyI4DwV6m2ijoqNipTK3oMFg0IkFnuP6BCQdk21H7daPytOyNZe7NdMGzww_2jflRJnjrnmX8udDlo0cYVFZXsPHuiJeY1/s5492/IMG_2806%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3216" data-original-width="5492" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2khBzDu7XChsKyf2qqH5W-Dj7gyc_U6wnOlI2PYBdKuPaHuIc8joNVBBNNAJm_2USxUyx0tqcnfWoRtqJOOUraqGm1QcWOkyI4DwV6m2ijoqNipTK3oMFg0IkFnuP6BCQdk21H7daPytOyNZe7NdMGzww_2jflRJnjrnmX8udDlo0cYVFZXsPHuiJeY1/w400-h234/IMG_2806%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who wouldn't drool?</td></tr></tbody></table>According to the car museum’s website, ‘The exhibit is a rotating collection of antique,<p>classic, and unique autos assembled from private collections from all over the world.</p><p>Included among these are several owned by Don Laughlin himself, an avid auto</p><p>enthusiast and collector. Don Laughlin’s Classic Car Collection has something for</p><p>Everyone!’</p><p>An exclamation point - must be pretty darn exciting in that car museum, and I was there</p><p>to find out if it was true or not.</p><p>The actual exhibit is divided into two different floors of the casino. The first floor, along</p><p>Casino Drive, is open to the public for free. It’s a tease to tempt car aficionados to head to</p><p>the 3rd floor on the south tower to see the majority of the vehicles on display for the</p><p>small price of five bucks.</p><p>I had to cover Paul’s ticket.</p><p>As I entered the ground floor exhibit, I was met by a staff/security gentleman sitting</p><p>behind a desk.</p><p>“Do you like working here?” I asked.</p><p>He simply waved his hand in the direction of a shiny medium blue 1963 Corvette</p><p>Stingray sitting stunningly by the large glass front window.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8J0KY9lCeE9FkMR2CSJi6EJ8ia8munzXYoXSAVui51sBnAlmCi3_PnFOuiztFS6isLPQj_9u86KhuJoQnrZZKOyMWbsrrDUtu1E2jlFIBJIg-SzFvxMde2F0rmnfGMSVaAtxupHahstaAB2Frb79D0aFk62m598YxF1PKXzKnMh7rqNhjbZLaZI-JN5x/s4386/IMG_2786%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3680" data-original-width="4386" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8J0KY9lCeE9FkMR2CSJi6EJ8ia8munzXYoXSAVui51sBnAlmCi3_PnFOuiztFS6isLPQj_9u86KhuJoQnrZZKOyMWbsrrDUtu1E2jlFIBJIg-SzFvxMde2F0rmnfGMSVaAtxupHahstaAB2Frb79D0aFk62m598YxF1PKXzKnMh7rqNhjbZLaZI-JN5x/w400-h335/IMG_2786%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>I started shaking a bit.</p><p>Wandering along the roped paths leading to this vehicle and the next, it was hard to</p><p>explain the pounding in my chest.</p><p>A 1949 Harley Davidson, a 1966 Triumph, a 1967 Velocette standing proudly against</p><p>one wall.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKl0NyzXIdLBrL_82Ie_WYRkauUT3b2giEjg-SD4XzZFDcRoodsrhGq0BD_T43VhTa2Fxq2vmTs9zP_sa_RLEuR07KxrcxhwlYpdno8VGlaG9WW87117lf8P_Xxt0owsxygJewYJ08CUE32XstFq6FhWkVmJJkcFBI4jr40jab1V3BXMeYY2psXu-xSfXO/s6000/IMG_2791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKl0NyzXIdLBrL_82Ie_WYRkauUT3b2giEjg-SD4XzZFDcRoodsrhGq0BD_T43VhTa2Fxq2vmTs9zP_sa_RLEuR07KxrcxhwlYpdno8VGlaG9WW87117lf8P_Xxt0owsxygJewYJ08CUE32XstFq6FhWkVmJJkcFBI4jr40jab1V3BXMeYY2psXu-xSfXO/w400-h266/IMG_2791.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>A 1969 Mini-mini Indian, a 1950 Whizzer Sportsman, a 1981 Honda ATC 110 also</p><p>standing proudly against another wall.</p><p>Desert vehicles, sports cars, and the like were there. But enough gawking, it was time to</p><p>head to the 3rd floor main event.</p><p>Stepping off the elevator we found ourselves in a world of wonder.</p><p>Thirty-thousand square feet of vehicle viewing area greeted the visitor. Some of that</p><p>space is for a small gift shop, and to my relief Paul is frugal - now, if Laureen had been</p><p>there?</p><p>Car after car was just begging for us to stop, ponder, and wonder how such a mechanical</p><p>beast could be so beautiful.</p><p>I could feel the horsepower roaring up to the white ceilings - though, in reality none of</p><p>the vehicles were running and we learned that most only have a smidgen of fuel just in</p><p>case they have to be moved a bit, or started to ensure everything was in working order.</p><p>One notable exhibit was the bright red Skylane Hot Road which was rotating on a</p><p>pedestal so everyone could see the beauty of this automobile in a full 360 degree</p><p>exposure.</p><p>There was a 1934 Ford Tow Truck, a 1977 Lincoln convertible, a 1954 Kurtis, a 1932</p><p>Buick Coupe, and it went on and on.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wODGM4yag39tOqPSE2WrsrDQvUhxTcI_KeYRVZAWOt6Kk46El4ymy2ODuGvqxEY4Nx1gKjH2pdAPjLrEGcEe8oswln50UTkg3LpW17ZL4I4Ygz0_mjUdLBM0sq5IxL-g84luKxUKkglRNKFtKA-TmqyqW3I9drmfPY0uuzsN2InQsMOaR7VsRp0gArlE/s6000/IMG_2798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wODGM4yag39tOqPSE2WrsrDQvUhxTcI_KeYRVZAWOt6Kk46El4ymy2ODuGvqxEY4Nx1gKjH2pdAPjLrEGcEe8oswln50UTkg3LpW17ZL4I4Ygz0_mjUdLBM0sq5IxL-g84luKxUKkglRNKFtKA-TmqyqW3I9drmfPY0uuzsN2InQsMOaR7VsRp0gArlE/w400-h266/IMG_2798.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Row after row of vintage cars and trucks in immaculate condition. It was almost too</p><p>much for a late morning jaunt.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRe2I8UkQMaxKCIEx_n1EhAzhaQmbo4nnueU23YOQ57j6o-j2ch_ulpXWi-ntkin4vgVIWGva7kKF0Fbi8guJRG9iBIrT5ozfbH5e44TCYxOdcPFHBbKZLtx9A2NRM5KgVIInfGMt099RV-8-yiRrZNpahTGbfNbobNqn6IZ3Jq4kdQJVFprBivZ_lIXm/s6000/IMG_2799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRe2I8UkQMaxKCIEx_n1EhAzhaQmbo4nnueU23YOQ57j6o-j2ch_ulpXWi-ntkin4vgVIWGva7kKF0Fbi8guJRG9iBIrT5ozfbH5e44TCYxOdcPFHBbKZLtx9A2NRM5KgVIInfGMt099RV-8-yiRrZNpahTGbfNbobNqn6IZ3Jq4kdQJVFprBivZ_lIXm/w400-h266/IMG_2799.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>I looked over at Paul, who was receiving a cup of water from another staff member while</p><p>being led to a chair.</p><p>“Happens all the time,” the staff member said.</p><p>Being a friend, I stayed by Paul for a few moments until he waved his right hand. “You</p><p>go ahead. I forgot to breathe while looking at the vehicles. I just need a little rest.”</p><p>I foraged ahead into another row of vehicles. All meticulously cared for by their owners</p><p>to the point of almost worship.</p><p>Suddenly my eyes were drawn to a 1937 bright red Cord, built by the Auburn</p><p>Automobile Company out of Connersville, Indiana.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewPZxtd75AuZaJn84vl4soHZmbOpVz9f2DHPsC8UMGdCiNHbhqQ4haZnPQ8vEkzyh2s8bmnTEab9juVNfW9WvOXZo43A_p9oIhDpXif8SN6Oupj_bZOXYBGLnG9v2YSNSivDDoR74954IC4CQwoXDijfFFtEt869-HH9zAmuqkaQAGMZHlblr_5-l8165/s6000/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewPZxtd75AuZaJn84vl4soHZmbOpVz9f2DHPsC8UMGdCiNHbhqQ4haZnPQ8vEkzyh2s8bmnTEab9juVNfW9WvOXZo43A_p9oIhDpXif8SN6Oupj_bZOXYBGLnG9v2YSNSivDDoR74954IC4CQwoXDijfFFtEt869-HH9zAmuqkaQAGMZHlblr_5-l8165/w400-h266/IMG_2797.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>It made me stop in my tracks. Curved like an artist created it out of a piece of clay and</p><p>then threw away the mold.</p><p>In 1937 this car sold for 3,000 dollars. A lot of money for its time, that today would</p><p>easily go for 150,000 dollars or more at auction.</p><p>Amelia Earhart owned one - and I had always wanted one.</p><p>“We’d have to sell one of our daughters,” Laureen would say.</p><p>That’s when I would start looking at grades, who picked up the doggie messes the most,</p><p>and so-on.</p><p>To this day, no Cord in my driveway.</p><p>The Don Laughlin Car Museum is a wonderful way to spend a few hours and just relax</p><p>amidst some truly awesome vehicles that would stand up to any artist.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MtTfpdwduyOgP_lMO39kEaBrXvNxpnvMP6dmPv1SCJ246yuGFmKWYSHO7grzizLuYUi2UuiF3yCKwByI479QLtb_LmrXRSS6YG6smltC9w9-fyI28nRRlItwJ3c7WnMRUN8rTA3dKpNxMBFchK_GsS0HobM_npFfazUZ_dfKn_7EHnqi0jwzTNZ9a3Ks/s6000/IMG_2787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MtTfpdwduyOgP_lMO39kEaBrXvNxpnvMP6dmPv1SCJ246yuGFmKWYSHO7grzizLuYUi2UuiF3yCKwByI479QLtb_LmrXRSS6YG6smltC9w9-fyI28nRRlItwJ3c7WnMRUN8rTA3dKpNxMBFchK_GsS0HobM_npFfazUZ_dfKn_7EHnqi0jwzTNZ9a3Ks/w400-h266/IMG_2787.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>If you doubt that, look closely at a work by Salador Dali. Enough said.</p><p>For more information: https://automotivemuseumguide.com/don-laughlins-car-museum/</p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com01650 S Casino Dr, Laughlin, NV 89029, USA35.167263 -114.57182716.8570291638211529 -149.7280771 63.477496836178844 -79.4155771tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-2361403762083408722023-09-09T09:32:00.002-07:002023-09-09T09:32:41.885-07:009/11 Never Forgotten<p>We at J and L Research and Exploration will never forget the horrible and tragic terrorist attack that occurred on September 11, 2001. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYi5LAQnDeJyGA625Mif3zOOIDjFXllkarnbo33nsIj2bFleYLansCo1K7bstmOlBnB9mGT1LPLa296YiuxKKcCKuKKVm5wUlew1-ZSD-Z615zMDN-oLkiPri7PI0cIHyRWKu_J3Hwh07GUH9xVmhTapxIbfAT7G6WhDoRl3D-O_cMtyHgvt4ajyXzql1c/s259/9-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYi5LAQnDeJyGA625Mif3zOOIDjFXllkarnbo33nsIj2bFleYLansCo1K7bstmOlBnB9mGT1LPLa296YiuxKKcCKuKKVm5wUlew1-ZSD-Z615zMDN-oLkiPri7PI0cIHyRWKu_J3Hwh07GUH9xVmhTapxIbfAT7G6WhDoRl3D-O_cMtyHgvt4ajyXzql1c/w400-h299/9-11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">God bless the United States of America!</p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.005972812.402541463821152 -109.1622228 69.023009136178842 -38.849722799999995tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-37072591885622781802023-09-02T10:45:00.004-07:002023-09-02T10:45:59.718-07:00Jimmy Buffett - The Poet Sails Away<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiei5ALQ-b2bE7z4AAVU8SlHPnYa3tLHxT4hds7ZWo35G-MEj51DzzXODzmiwXP1jFmQHCgxzhBvFOMF8A7tu7GZwS_qSpXpW6xeygqSVBgq1wIig4U2SjjGra3N0pZFapp_uZiCLredVY5Bn5fEpuKHAUwd1ZkGIYzrk0kdfbiW-QCKR_siZV-rU9LoVP/s612/jimmy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="612" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiei5ALQ-b2bE7z4AAVU8SlHPnYa3tLHxT4hds7ZWo35G-MEj51DzzXODzmiwXP1jFmQHCgxzhBvFOMF8A7tu7GZwS_qSpXpW6xeygqSVBgq1wIig4U2SjjGra3N0pZFapp_uZiCLredVY5Bn5fEpuKHAUwd1ZkGIYzrk0kdfbiW-QCKR_siZV-rU9LoVP/w400-h274/jimmy1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The early days</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We awoke this morning learning that one of our favorite poets had passed away the previous evening. </p><p>Jimmy Buffett, 12/25/1946 - 09/01/2023</p><p>Laureen and I were fortunate to see Jimmy in concert and he put on one heck of a show - the audience was singing along, dancing in their seats, drinking plenty of margaritas, and just having a wonderful time.</p><p>How couldn't a person truly enjoy a Buffett concert - he made summers last all year long.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXN8b_BEYggK2dgvUhJf7UZxQVdT6h93v2a-Tbv4a89OkiEBc6tgj0hOqOw8Exa7XHohflO4hECVmRLTh4yJVO7ch4inLvUXM6AZ2Rf6LuH5EMQDYLM8_SmANUDLVuaPC7LjaAvGJBCu_WXuQy-EWORvR5Ptw0goAlGmfifQgJNcDl79ZgSIAbHFtBOTvS/s612/jimmy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="612" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXN8b_BEYggK2dgvUhJf7UZxQVdT6h93v2a-Tbv4a89OkiEBc6tgj0hOqOw8Exa7XHohflO4hECVmRLTh4yJVO7ch4inLvUXM6AZ2Rf6LuH5EMQDYLM8_SmANUDLVuaPC7LjaAvGJBCu_WXuQy-EWORvR5Ptw0goAlGmfifQgJNcDl79ZgSIAbHFtBOTvS/w400-h279/jimmy2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still playing strong decades later</td></tr></tbody></table><p>One of our favorite songs written by Jimmy, though almost every one is our favorite, was <i>Come Monday</i> recorded in 1978.</p><p>'Headin' out to San Francisco</p><p>For the Labor Day weekend show</p><p>I got my Hush Puppies on</p><p>I guess I never was meant for glitter rock'n' roll'</p><p>No Jimmy, you were not meant for glitzy rock and roll - you were unique and original with your music and that is why you will always be loved and missed by these two Parrot Heads and tens of millions around the world.</p><p>On this Labor Day, our friend, sail away peacefully to that One Particular Harbor.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Key West, FL 33040, USA24.5550593 -81.7799871-3.7551745361788456 -116.9362371 52.865293136178849 -46.6237371tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-61366873659299268962023-08-23T16:35:00.000-07:002023-08-23T16:35:45.515-07:00Laureen, my lovely wife, and I have a deal. Being avid travelers, we decided years ago that every other year we would travel out of the country, and the following year, within in the country. <div><br /></div><div>That worked for decades: England and then South Dakota. Fuji and then Texas. Ireland and then Oklahoma. Peru and then Oregon.
Seemed pretty simple and straightforward.
The year 2023 meant out of the country. Though we did travel to Austria in 2022, but that was an anomaly since we hadn’t been able to travel much during those restrictive COVID times, in or out of the country. Besides, we just wanted to travel, and got a killer deal.
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD-F609bNrHaaQ-xkROGT8ekis5WFAugofYjW3yxeBwbsL7AOcZ9nx8somLNdgK1-boX7eUNVFKsea7BsJC3b15sb_efYbp8e_QhjIcllHnTdybLj2CiiUKoooR1zBiTQI5zmuD_DL4GcbFs0-7v5Ds70S321Qzx981NOkwvDOb714dntz4fl_pYX2XWE/s6000/IMG_1060.JPG" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBD-F609bNrHaaQ-xkROGT8ekis5WFAugofYjW3yxeBwbsL7AOcZ9nx8somLNdgK1-boX7eUNVFKsea7BsJC3b15sb_efYbp8e_QhjIcllHnTdybLj2CiiUKoooR1zBiTQI5zmuD_DL4GcbFs0-7v5Ds70S321Qzx981NOkwvDOb714dntz4fl_pYX2XWE/s400/IMG_1060.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vienna, seen from the River Danube<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
Though I did travel secretly, not letting anyone know of those travels during the restrictions certain entities put on their citizens. I had a travel column to write. It was my duty to throw caution to the wind.
California was so restrictive that I read about a dolphin that was arrested near the Santa Monica pier for swimming without a mask. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2g3AfI4oWGkLzbNozeU4VdGFhujR8XZSB9omhRDXt4GZtLLSP9RHJehRbiarCgguRNlJNGaZRcIzLR7k0VA2Qo1YCHPkXEOJYENwK-gIHDm-i1M-sCNId651j0QOqt41ZvHlJudnOKv1VGwDlQUrEkXUQx7XCd7AUbNJ9zntbJW7LVfzhRd3awjdDeas/s259/Hardyville%20cemetery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2g3AfI4oWGkLzbNozeU4VdGFhujR8XZSB9omhRDXt4GZtLLSP9RHJehRbiarCgguRNlJNGaZRcIzLR7k0VA2Qo1YCHPkXEOJYENwK-gIHDm-i1M-sCNId651j0QOqt41ZvHlJudnOKv1VGwDlQUrEkXUQx7XCd7AUbNJ9zntbJW7LVfzhRd3awjdDeas/w400-h300/Hardyville%20cemetery.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visiting Hardyville cemetery during COVID</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>“Scotland it is,” I stated one early morning.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkdUp48FgkC-G9JeC5C6kGyOT1FXZvtXshMPxeUuf-UQJXJlpQb3CAVQub9HMttS-JTHPUcfUKRitW4M2ZfDRVmyCs0TD8Zy92KbJqMn-VUZ3U7Djiq0E20s6mUxxlSpHRAq8ozMblMU1xr6afPMyL4Cx7Hndvz4JfSBv4eGeEQDAOhpV1E7ZWS2n8NqLo/s3387/20230702_052335%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="3387" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkdUp48FgkC-G9JeC5C6kGyOT1FXZvtXshMPxeUuf-UQJXJlpQb3CAVQub9HMttS-JTHPUcfUKRitW4M2ZfDRVmyCs0TD8Zy92KbJqMn-VUZ3U7Djiq0E20s6mUxxlSpHRAq8ozMblMU1xr6afPMyL4Cx7Hndvz4JfSBv4eGeEQDAOhpV1E7ZWS2n8NqLo/w400-h213/20230702_052335%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen Beyer ready for our trip</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>“How about Washington D.C. instead,” Laureen countered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nope, it was the ‘out of the country year’ - I knew who would win this discussion. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks later, we were headed to the Los Angeles International Airport for our booked flights.
And soon, we were landing at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.
Most would think that this would be a quick layover to the next flight which would deliver this traveling duo to the Edinburgh Airport in the area once known as Caledonia.
Nope, we were staying in the swamp of Washington D.C.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOr4nbsB9uvbXvDm4SFH-_3Col4jQymlCBa6q3rhopMC_emDE2mc0yRzKJQ09g967QWwm4kKc0PyuxeOoVcxga4hXMCT4sqy9rtu-UMgkBFYAZc6Bna3pcNCLXANMPlQTb3ls1gfbG795dHKYcp2uLKpbO2YZJFArVOocIhwA6Q_tkbtpU9T8Xfrb5l66j/s4035/IMG_2480%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2328" data-original-width="4035" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOr4nbsB9uvbXvDm4SFH-_3Col4jQymlCBa6q3rhopMC_emDE2mc0yRzKJQ09g967QWwm4kKc0PyuxeOoVcxga4hXMCT4sqy9rtu-UMgkBFYAZc6Bna3pcNCLXANMPlQTb3ls1gfbG795dHKYcp2uLKpbO2YZJFArVOocIhwA6Q_tkbtpU9T8Xfrb5l66j/w400-h231/IMG_2480%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington D.C. - the Swamp</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>“You know it really wasn’t built on a swamp,” Laureen stated as we waited for our car to take us to the hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had heard, from unreliable sources, that the capital of the United States had been built on a mosquito infested, alligator overrun swamp that oftentimes the likes of Sasquatch would snatch lawmakers out of their Congressional seats. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just a myth - but a good one.
George Washington, the first president of the United States, envisioned this city on the banks of the Potomac River since it was so close to Georgetown, a strategically important locale at the time.
The town was probably named after King George III (whom we pummeled), or either George Gordon and George Bell who first owned the land. </div><div><br /></div><div>Does it matter?
George Washington just wanted the land to be away from the swampland that surrounded Chesapeake Bay. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is rumored that the future president said, “I hath thought of a most opportune locality for the splendid capital of this country we are striving to complete.” </div><div><br /></div><div>His assistant may have replied, “Hath you?” </div><div><br /></div><div>“Yeth, I hathhh,” Washington started but stopped, as his wooden choppers fell into some swampy ground at his feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being from a drier climate than Washington D.C. is during July, I felt the sweat start rolling down my back like a leech that has attached itself to your body while swimming in a not-so-clean lake. </div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, leeches don’t move much, they just burrow into your body searching for blood. I’ve had a few in my time adventuring here and there in remote locales.
But my sweat rolled down from my back like the Potomac River making sure everyone knew I was a sweat attractor. </div><div><br /></div><div>And we were barely out of Terminal 2 at that point.
“It’s humid,” I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>“The car is air conditioned,” Laureen replied, as our driver showed up.
“Aren’t you sweating?”</div><div><br /></div><div>“Women glisten,” she said. “Men sweat.” </div><div><br /></div><div>Thus began my adventure where three separate branches of government rule this great land of ours.
The Executive Branch, the Legislative Branch, and the Judiciary Branch. All separate but equal.
I would be the judge of that, by the time this trip to the swamp was complete. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd-LUC8maYkpHJWFsKmWM2NtgLA3w2oN6P1j4sxh0WqVB5agTJJSdux3lX-KXaUyRm2o7IifqWciN5N_Z-evf9YER53hjwx5LYkrlvplT2fOpom7Y1VVCc2d9kB0NLTAMx03FEtN2KJL6ZfhOeeozfSvvokyTqW2H5Sqc4Qsa6u90MoLJdOOwqrIEHQnf/s4986/IMG_2551%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2685" data-original-width="4986" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd-LUC8maYkpHJWFsKmWM2NtgLA3w2oN6P1j4sxh0WqVB5agTJJSdux3lX-KXaUyRm2o7IifqWciN5N_Z-evf9YER53hjwx5LYkrlvplT2fOpom7Y1VVCc2d9kB0NLTAMx03FEtN2KJL6ZfhOeeozfSvvokyTqW2H5Sqc4Qsa6u90MoLJdOOwqrIEHQnf/w400-h215/IMG_2551%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">U.S. Congress - one seat of power</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>First, to the hotel and a cold adult libation. It was awfully muggy.
How muggy? A person could wear this weather. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had never been to Washington D.C., and I was looking forward to all the sites to be sought. </div><div><br /></div><div>George Washington, besides being the first president of the newly formed United States and the Hero of the Revolutionary War, actually chose the location of the nation’s capital.
The future home to the Republic was to be between the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers, above the shores and away from any of the swamp lands that are often present in slow brackish water located in eddies or estuaries. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLV3yuie4bGMIwdTtwWJI3Ngk3KfbchR9WW6RPP_zSLJVAPDT4_jJ2w5FvOfccuMp2wp42Cyjk2uDaeDzYaEQ9rAnxsRt-boDgLiQFapYaOyWIhi1v_k1Xa9RclUrNFBjDrzscqRdrWF3078oOmvFPNlRwk_xQaIAIVx6N_ZZNfkbA95TwScdbn3D0axqn/s4322/IMG_2683%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2442" data-original-width="4322" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLV3yuie4bGMIwdTtwWJI3Ngk3KfbchR9WW6RPP_zSLJVAPDT4_jJ2w5FvOfccuMp2wp42Cyjk2uDaeDzYaEQ9rAnxsRt-boDgLiQFapYaOyWIhi1v_k1Xa9RclUrNFBjDrzscqRdrWF3078oOmvFPNlRwk_xQaIAIVx6N_ZZNfkbA95TwScdbn3D0axqn/w400-h226/IMG_2683%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Potomac River looking toward Washington D.C.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The states of Maryland and Virginia ceded the land to build the capital, and according to the newly written Constitution, the area would be referred to as a ‘district’ distinguishing itself from belonging to any particular state.
Thomas Jefferson and his fellow signers knew that the nation's capital had to be independent and never given state status, since that would imbue the small state an immense amount of clout that the other states would not have. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pierre L’Enfant, clearly a Frenchman, drew up some really cool plans for the new city.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I, Pierre L’Enfant,” announced L’Enfant in a perfect French accent, “will make something you Americans could never think of. Because I am French.” </div><div><br /></div><div>Rumor is that a howling wind was sweeping along the Potomac and an aide to President Washington cupped his ears and said, “What did he say about an elephant?” </div><div><br /></div><div>The center of this new city would be the Capitol building where all the important issues would be decided by those elected by their constituents.
Washington D.C. was off to a roaring start, but then the British invaded during the War of 1812 and burned down the White House, the Capitol, and the Library of Congress in 1814. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was very rude of them, and to this day no true American will ever learn the rules to some silly game called cricket. </div><div><br /></div><div>The new white house was designed by an Irish-American by the name of James Hoban and was rebuilt in 1817.
He passed away on December 8th, 1831. I only mention this since I was born on December 8th and wonder if I may have gotten some of my building talents from my fellow Irishman. Aye, we Irish are a bit superstitious and believe in tall tales and conjuring of the spirits. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWFcyYJr3OmPwu1FtN92M6LhSYw_YWABGHTuHR1R4KCgavIWwzc_90CT9CZynzfQoDItOrQQm15gq1wdrqmt_JPeHxuRoEBCNZzt2r0Adk7ix0QN2vZHza3W6N7DmaEQYErMvfNoEyDM9XHH29PVz6hLlLXFWVC3OAk6fPgnGSDS5WiUR_UkBMDWkmOUC/s4825/IMG_2356%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2876" data-original-width="4825" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWFcyYJr3OmPwu1FtN92M6LhSYw_YWABGHTuHR1R4KCgavIWwzc_90CT9CZynzfQoDItOrQQm15gq1wdrqmt_JPeHxuRoEBCNZzt2r0Adk7ix0QN2vZHza3W6N7DmaEQYErMvfNoEyDM9XHH29PVz6hLlLXFWVC3OAk6fPgnGSDS5WiUR_UkBMDWkmOUC/w400-h239/IMG_2356%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One view of current White House</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The town did not have much of a population and in 1847 grew smaller both in folks living there and actual acreage. The area, now known as Alexandria, left the district since they felt as though they were not being treated well by those across the wide Potomac River. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VjgfJJykt-IgSbVQyBtS0HtjDziiazq5WKGSRVZmE3C0pF6HdV4w9yZwY6U6p4zAk40gi8zDlsjXqcAihpkapiIZZhKzRkEcV2Y6SWTKQpt6YqpUArH7zA0FGa6YpD_Ms0vBhNxIuaiCmKhEXgtIbEF2zktdi2ZOu6ODoOJH4QyLWx4rsFolw0B-IsD6/s2715/IMG_2662%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2715" data-original-width="1232" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1VjgfJJykt-IgSbVQyBtS0HtjDziiazq5WKGSRVZmE3C0pF6HdV4w9yZwY6U6p4zAk40gi8zDlsjXqcAihpkapiIZZhKzRkEcV2Y6SWTKQpt6YqpUArH7zA0FGa6YpD_Ms0vBhNxIuaiCmKhEXgtIbEF2zktdi2ZOu6ODoOJH4QyLWx4rsFolw0B-IsD6/w181-h400/IMG_2662%20(2).JPG" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cobblestone road in Alexandria</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>It wasn’t until the Civil War that Washington D.C. increased in size, partly because all enslaved persons in the district were emancipated on April 16, 1862 - nine months before President Lincoln wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. </div><div><br /></div><div>It became the hub for free slaves and the city flourished. Frederick Douglass, who met with President Lincoln on three occasions, made Washington D.C. his home. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fooXrifFwrBzOnAN7knOfsE3mECABARpMWQVlOVQoZEwkGA9GUWRVQuGEbHsFgg4GfkwG24N2R5bXgryvjJnCeUpsC5-IK73_SnUUc67HN0vy3xV-HmMa3XWWrgqZglmx4MAQ1Ki-lymGMufv2yJKn1hbaJA1g5eNjOI0Yo60qdGK3TnpaCAK-oejAqa/s5086/IMG_2691%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2548" data-original-width="5086" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fooXrifFwrBzOnAN7knOfsE3mECABARpMWQVlOVQoZEwkGA9GUWRVQuGEbHsFgg4GfkwG24N2R5bXgryvjJnCeUpsC5-IK73_SnUUc67HN0vy3xV-HmMa3XWWrgqZglmx4MAQ1Ki-lymGMufv2yJKn1hbaJA1g5eNjOI0Yo60qdGK3TnpaCAK-oejAqa/w400-h200/IMG_2691%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lincoln Memorial</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The federal government grew during the war and a large army was barracked there to protect, not only the president but the rest of the United States Government. </div><div><br /></div><div>A good decision, since Virginia joined with the Confederate States of America and the state can easily be seen by the naked eye from the White House. </div><div><br /></div><div>The history of the United States is jam packed in Washington D.C. from the Revolutionary War, to the Civil War, and beyond.
This is the centerpiece for all the action this wonderful country has seen. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was about time I visited and learned first-hand what this mecca for democracy had to offer.
After changing out of my thoroughly wet clothing in the hotel and feeling a few pounds lighter from water loss, Laureen asked what I wanted to do first. </div><div><br /></div><div>“There is so much to see and learn,” I replied. “I’m not sure where to start.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“There’s the National Mall, the reflecting pool, the Washington Monument,” she said. “Or perhaps we could just saunter through some of the Smithsonian Museums until we get our bearings.”</div><div><br /></div><div>So much to see, and so little time. We had nine days to take in 247 years of the unbelievable history of triumph, defeat, wonder, hope, imagination, despair, struggle, argument, world aggression, and the rest that makes the United States what it is today. Where to start was a question I pondered for a moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as I stood in the comfort of the air-conditioned lobby of our hotel and looked across the street. I knew where I wanted to start this new adventure to learn about those who not only built the history of our beautiful country but the city itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>“There.” I said. </div><div><br /></div><div>“Where?” Laureen asked. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Across the street, at the Capitol City Brewing Company.” </div><div><br /></div><div>And our adventure began. </div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Washington, DC, USA38.9071923 -77.036870710.596958463821153 -112.1931207 67.217426136178844 -41.880620699999994tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-26940267859786778162023-07-27T09:38:00.000-07:002023-07-27T09:38:35.133-07:00Old Rock Bath House<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf2c_eIhwIfxiApFVK1G_zqVOF4LGXxJ4yQzyHE5Tvof3aQ2QxYPnrCt3nOu0uF8jSNdkQMu_Vcd1UiYt0ZUsmEbl_akO6MAzrBwoQvfORR22xgJMsu1g0jB2akIfmlhTdtVG96lWyoERZPnk5-BW4tVECnDDmNRRIzF_V0sdFZsGPWyecfr7VZOso4EpJ/s6000/IMG_2135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf2c_eIhwIfxiApFVK1G_zqVOF4LGXxJ4yQzyHE5Tvof3aQ2QxYPnrCt3nOu0uF8jSNdkQMu_Vcd1UiYt0ZUsmEbl_akO6MAzrBwoQvfORR22xgJMsu1g0jB2akIfmlhTdtVG96lWyoERZPnk5-BW4tVECnDDmNRRIzF_V0sdFZsGPWyecfr7VZOso4EpJ/w400-h266/IMG_2135.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awesome rock formations near the Old Rock Bath House<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I was recently in Apple Valley on an errand doing this and doing that, when I found that I had some time to kill.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">So, I pulled over, safely, on Outer Highway 18, and asked Mr. Google what historical places I might find in the area.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve been all over Apple Valley. In fact, I lived there once upon another time, and knew that Jedediah Smith traveled through the region. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Jed,” I said to the bearded, unkempt explorer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“John,” he replied.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We parted ways then, me to my apple orchard and Jedediah south along the Mojave River.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Men did not talk much in 1826.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But there is so much to learn about the places in which we reside or may have resided.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A couple of hits came up on my search, Roy Rogers old residence, the Fairhope house, the Adobe House, and a few other famous houses in the area. I didn’t choose any of them. I wasn’t too sure the owners would like a stranger wandering their front yards snapping a photo here and there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Then, as I scrolled down to places to visit, the Old Rock Bath House seemed like an interesting destination.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After entering the location into my vehicle's GPS, I was on my way and soon was lost.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Directions seemed quite simple. The Old Rock Bath House is near Fairview Valley, not far from Zuni Road, not far from Laguna Seca Drive, east of Fairview Valley Road, along Keator Road, and not far southeast of Drip Ranch.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">After bouncing a while on the dirt Keator Road and passing by the same remote house in the area with a very nice man waving at me each time I bounced pass, I decided to stop.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Looks like you are lost,” he said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Was it my expression or the fact I passed your house seven times in the past half hour?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“And I waved each time,” he replied.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Our man-talk over, he pointed out another narrower dirt trail that led to a canyon deep into some very rocky canyons to the southeast of his property.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The kind stranger told me the road up to the site was too rough for my vehicle and meant for four-wheelers, and also that I should have taken the wide dirt road off of Cahuilla Road. It would have made the trip a lot easier.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQZrZhAe7SePXyZZMfXz-Qqo_Cru8NDKlpjtBEiudf_YA-MFBYb3zM6JbXz-d4Daz_pN3Xc_55n6jpAsXlhWSFgiG2W7mKCKK-O3aV0gUSFTObPzj1DEd_7EUy4tn78tMvEYA5ShbJsti_wTPKbP-YFn17vvkAjvSYppImP72eJ1_hKkP1FySSx0JbxV0/s6000/IMG_2126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnQZrZhAe7SePXyZZMfXz-Qqo_Cru8NDKlpjtBEiudf_YA-MFBYb3zM6JbXz-d4Daz_pN3Xc_55n6jpAsXlhWSFgiG2W7mKCKK-O3aV0gUSFTObPzj1DEd_7EUy4tn78tMvEYA5ShbJsti_wTPKbP-YFn17vvkAjvSYppImP72eJ1_hKkP1FySSx0JbxV0/w400-h266/IMG_2126.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty rough route to the site<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">My truck is pretty good in rough areas, but I decided that the gentleman had been correct, not only did the path get pretty narrow but it was very difficult to traverse over boulder-sized boulders. My Toyota FJ, no problem - but that stead was back in the barn, so I hoofed it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Getting on to summer-like temperatures, I of course remembered the rules of desert hiking; bring water (I didn’t), have sturdy hiking shoes (I had on a fashionable pair of Sketchers), make sure people knew where I was (I wondered if that included the stranger I had just met), and know your personal limits (I know when it is time to leave a bar).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A half -mile hike uphill into an unknown canyon looking for something I hadn’t known existed wouldn’t be a problem.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It wasn’t.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A little thirsty, a bit out of breath (time to work-out more), and I found myself staring at large stone and concrete structures where the canyon, known as Hidden Canyon, narrows into the hills to the south of it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALWA_15kUn_OXP2HeO34ax2LALc_hgZXvSZqZuVzp5eS0FFA2y680FWfIQDgjn18OkfWeLls5ZSH2QJ5OHY-RTTCSkL60m2yG3Vxn0TyNzItAyUsbiuOMXJw1o-q5WHL40UpDMF7XW6ENjW_h8cCdb5SDDK1xSJtaYCkNA1v7SF8VKkHno7JFNryO-n2L/s3715/IMG_2131%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3715" data-original-width="3289" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALWA_15kUn_OXP2HeO34ax2LALc_hgZXvSZqZuVzp5eS0FFA2y680FWfIQDgjn18OkfWeLls5ZSH2QJ5OHY-RTTCSkL60m2yG3Vxn0TyNzItAyUsbiuOMXJw1o-q5WHL40UpDMF7XW6ENjW_h8cCdb5SDDK1xSJtaYCkNA1v7SF8VKkHno7JFNryO-n2L/w354-h400/IMG_2131%20(2).JPG" width="354" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trail leading into Hidden Canyon<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">According to Rick Schmidt, Director of the Mohave Historical Society, the place has some pretty interesting and tragic history. The canyon, located in the Granite Mountains of eastern Apple Valley conjured up stories of the tough old pioneers who ventured where many would not, to make a new life for themselves.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">There had been natural springs in the nearby hills and one such place was here where I was standing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In an article written by Schmidt in 2018 for the Mohave Muse, it is rumored that Pegleg Smith and Bill Williams used to water their stolen horses in the canyons, while eluding the owners of those stolen horses.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1862, the United States Congress enacted the Homestead Act, giving free land to those willing to move west.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It worked and millions of once vacant acres were developed by those willing to take a chance and head to the unknown to better their lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was also here in this hidden cove with water that Warren Hair decided to homestead 25 acres of land in 1919. He began construction on several structures in the hopes of creating a family oasis.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">As I strode about the buildings, one thing stuck me, and it was the finely made rock stairway leading away from the largest of the structures to what appeared to be a creek at the bottom of the stairs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o5wD2mE8tuQ3bHCdDW-xXLoKjK2rLbkAw1J9EYDt9Avq6jIYbxoumYmhiVyP3xgvwZlNUcNMjiankczmXonOFQ5w54FyPekaeZS6bQeQO611guWkDpJ0svbrh2QYpSdVzdXuKIRkMSdiAsk9kMKvKtBQX1LJKVnbhtpuCBexj7im6WaYqWG5m4PuvfF8/s4675/IMG_2128%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3343" data-original-width="4675" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0o5wD2mE8tuQ3bHCdDW-xXLoKjK2rLbkAw1J9EYDt9Avq6jIYbxoumYmhiVyP3xgvwZlNUcNMjiankczmXonOFQ5w54FyPekaeZS6bQeQO611guWkDpJ0svbrh2QYpSdVzdXuKIRkMSdiAsk9kMKvKtBQX1LJKVnbhtpuCBexj7im6WaYqWG5m4PuvfF8/w400-h286/IMG_2128%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful stairs leading to seasonal stream</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">No water was running, but I could imagine at certain times of the year, the creek would be flowing well from its steep grade through the canyon. If someone built a dam, or a reservoir, then water could be contained possibly through drier parts of the year.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The remoteness of the canyon would surely be an advantage in keeping the water a secret from others who may take advantage.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">According to an article from the San Bernardino Sun, dated November 13, 1949, a permit to divert water was issued to a Clifford Hair, the son of Warren, to use for the family’s homestead. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Looking over the remains of the structures, a heck of a lot of work was put in by both Warren and Clifford through the decades to build the various rock and cement buildings. It was rather eerie walking about the place.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLUWwcHXkHKtSReiKK87CSRBE891WRELSmCsLLOjzcE5gSVtqId9y9yKa0u_s6athePMgMULlxEIjuTG1L7r4-pJvpc2xyjc1QnwkRkKD3ocR4VCDpqyQxgKvM7aVxhLhfF9mGPPw4nYk3C-Nw9loPlGpu5IUHdSyLI0KsQuGPhR34-NNd6msMlmH4fnO/s6000/IMG_2130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLUWwcHXkHKtSReiKK87CSRBE891WRELSmCsLLOjzcE5gSVtqId9y9yKa0u_s6athePMgMULlxEIjuTG1L7r4-pJvpc2xyjc1QnwkRkKD3ocR4VCDpqyQxgKvM7aVxhLhfF9mGPPw4nYk3C-Nw9loPlGpu5IUHdSyLI0KsQuGPhR34-NNd6msMlmH4fnO/w400-h266/IMG_2130.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the remains that are still visible<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A slight warm breeze seemed to assist the dragon flies in gaining altitude, as I walked from building-to-building wondering what it must have been like to take on such a project.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In my many travels, I have encountered places like the Old Rock Bath House, but it never tends to diminish the feeling of awe I have for such folks who invested such labor and time into their dreams.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It always seems to be an honor to walk where they once tread.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Clifford may have had a dream to create a holiday resort at the location. A hidden cove where an abundance of cool water flowed from above. What a great idea for a desert and those who may have wanted a chance to wash away the dust.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But, from the early 1900s, cattlemen in the area had been using the water which flowed from the Isabelle Spring, now part of the Hair’s claim, to water their livestock.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was easy to take a herd of cattle to the canyon, water them and head back to the ranch, but the cattle would tear up the trails leading to the springs. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A solution was needed to keep the property pristine. Clifford decided to fence the property off. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Apple Valley, being a small and close-knit community at the time, Clifford ran into numerous disagreements with the ranchers about fencing off such an easy access to water.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But he stuck to his guns and continued with the building project.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jAXZRLTRhaS_rA4XYCHMnFiFBNK-lHjdJBWIUqVFWhsFAh5WqoZBJW6GZVFl8Ahnfv3qy99fkWWozREZw73L_JjneRUZFQySn7lOmCivj7rV_PV-KvXlu_8TNg0C5n59z9hq2sJ2JYHyPp1R4dVlyNiGTxutDBMjim8PjG7xqygiDVGGoyzGyf31sRY8/s5125/IMG_2133%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3633" data-original-width="5125" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jAXZRLTRhaS_rA4XYCHMnFiFBNK-lHjdJBWIUqVFWhsFAh5WqoZBJW6GZVFl8Ahnfv3qy99fkWWozREZw73L_JjneRUZFQySn7lOmCivj7rV_PV-KvXlu_8TNg0C5n59z9hq2sJ2JYHyPp1R4dVlyNiGTxutDBMjim8PjG7xqygiDVGGoyzGyf31sRY8/w400-h284/IMG_2133%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great construction by Hair<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In reading a brief article written in the San Bernardino Sun on July 30th, 1956, I learned of the mysterious death of Clifford Hair.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It seems, Clifford had gone into the canyon to work and had not been heard from for nearly a week. When investigated by his family, his body was found lying at the bottom of the creek near one of the structures he had been working on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A single bullet hole through the heart was the cause of death.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was known that he carried a revolver for protection against rattlesnakes. The police investigation concluded the gun had dropped and accidentally discharged, killing him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Right through the back and into his heart.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I do not believe in conspiracy theories, but I do love a good conspiracy. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A man suddenly gates off a popular watering hole for ranchers and a later is found shot through the back.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Hmmm?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In all transparency, I have not been privy to the actual police or coroner’s report and have not read if the bullet which killed Hair was the same caliber as the gun Hair carried with him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m sure a thorough job was completed to get to the bottom of the death at the time though.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Wandering about the property, I wondered what Clifford’s last thoughts may have been on that fatal day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Possibly ‘I should have holstered my gun better’ or ‘perhaps I should not have fenced off the water.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We will never know, but one thing is for certain, Clifford Hair had a dream and continued with it to his last day in that hidden canyon, building his rock bath house. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKodvPZz8drH38e0mKWjCKWCeEa_onz4tzW_uS86n8xY_CxHMLsJCvaBx-Lx9ey-Gcd6Bdnorv99uEBx1wNbdPjj84kUTSyYorjR-7Kkro0TcKueIRJfA5tFa9HAeI84CQlJk1VdgWW-EGd173E7P1jSLSxaawl-cKrz5UnjsRTvSJnzL3EG1gZihf3IC/s4414/IMG_2134%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2879" data-original-width="4414" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKodvPZz8drH38e0mKWjCKWCeEa_onz4tzW_uS86n8xY_CxHMLsJCvaBx-Lx9ey-Gcd6Bdnorv99uEBx1wNbdPjj84kUTSyYorjR-7Kkro0TcKueIRJfA5tFa9HAeI84CQlJk1VdgWW-EGd173E7P1jSLSxaawl-cKrz5UnjsRTvSJnzL3EG1gZihf3IC/w400-h261/IMG_2134%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hair's dream and hard work almost came to fruition</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Apple Valley, CA, USA34.5008311 -117.18587596.1905972638211537 -152.34212589999998 62.811064936178845 -82.0296259tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-8111022730442318912023-07-09T00:00:00.001-07:002023-07-09T00:00:00.150-07:00Monterey and Stevenson<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9JS_bd-_jUshrUPq0e0cWiFhMq3EaSFVtJIEe4fzarIiTQYDsYXM1vmcrGwMDLDbK5o4e_WixGxCJBURYRfMZob39H5zvosonUSlPZXUDlLO50goj4zSBgE2Fy-_-OIkcp_64Ce70b6sYWsSTvdYpno0xqt5jo4xq-GoY_KbIkSBbQ34Hhwv7wPIN8D4/s2204/montery6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2204" data-original-width="1913" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9JS_bd-_jUshrUPq0e0cWiFhMq3EaSFVtJIEe4fzarIiTQYDsYXM1vmcrGwMDLDbK5o4e_WixGxCJBURYRfMZob39H5zvosonUSlPZXUDlLO50goj4zSBgE2Fy-_-OIkcp_64Ce70b6sYWsSTvdYpno0xqt5jo4xq-GoY_KbIkSBbQ34Hhwv7wPIN8D4/w348-h400/montery6.jpeg" width="348" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen in front of where Stevenson once lived</td></tr></tbody></table>In the latter part of 1879, a young unknown writer lived in a small Oceanside village called Monterey. He would be there only a short period, but the impact of that village would stay with him the rest of his life and influence what he would go on to write.<p>Robert Louis Stevenson was so little known, that most people just called him Bob.</p><p>He truly would not be the Robert Louis Stevenson of writing fame until the publication of his bestseller, Treasure Island, in January of 1882. </p><p>Laureen and I love the city of Monterey. In fact, we try to get there at least once a year. There is something about walking the waterfront, driving beneath tall billowing trees, walking shoeless across the sandy beaches – the same sand that may have been there during Stevenson’s stay.</p><p>The entire Carmel Valley, where Monterey is located, is gorgeous.</p><p>Not many folks realize the man who penned such literary classics as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, resided there in a modest boarding house.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjRpdTVHeiG4dGaHKRiu8PvgSPrl_TLo_DKNdt7AeuCgzs3vDOQtH1rz5kA1QYRPy1aLu-WcvJjwD1THxkpx_MKOyvsAMfHz5dVXOh56KHGEfbx2dEEVYtCr8_elbIewUE20bnfr6s_p208LEit1jv-MSRs4qf7KSvQ0d3EOnv3yC_29Q0et86w2kOSxK/s1782/montery3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1782" data-original-width="1692" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjRpdTVHeiG4dGaHKRiu8PvgSPrl_TLo_DKNdt7AeuCgzs3vDOQtH1rz5kA1QYRPy1aLu-WcvJjwD1THxkpx_MKOyvsAMfHz5dVXOh56KHGEfbx2dEEVYtCr8_elbIewUE20bnfr6s_p208LEit1jv-MSRs4qf7KSvQ0d3EOnv3yC_29Q0et86w2kOSxK/w380-h400/montery3.jpeg" width="380" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Lewis Stevenson's old abode</td></tr></tbody></table>The writer would wander the hills, valleys, riverbanks, and streets soaking everything in.<p>‘The town, when I was there, was a place of two or three streets, economically paved with sea-sand, and two or three lanes, which were watercourses in the rainy season, and were, at all times, rent up by fissures four or five feet deep. There were no streetlights. Short sections of wooden sidewalk only added to the dangers of the night, for they were often high above the level of the roadway, and no one could tell where they would be likely to begin or end,’ he wrote of the village of Monterey in his work entitled, Across the Plains with Other Memories and Essays, in 1892.</p><p>Today, that image of Monterey seems so out of date – well, I guess it is, since it was written 131 years ago.</p><p>Nearly 30,000 residents now make this charming old California town home.</p><p>“I love Monterey,” Laureen said, as we turned onto Pacific Street from Highway 1.</p><p>I nodded. “We better, since this time of year seems to include large amounts of rain.”</p><p>It was raining as we drove near the Monterey Historic Park. There was a promise of some sun later in the day as the clouds kept teasing us by tearing apart and then sticking back together like a kid eating cotton candy.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJ9p9F40PG65uAyewN81Tlq5DgKwTpJevNDacllD5S7xU8oE2GBdcfMjsgNBEAar0pyZOA0nc4mgFWYvyZUtWd84nlV6XAHmOrK35Km8etYaeQT0A9_q9sFDCujaaULYkn4CxQZjl5tMbskzYecuHTN1hM08sDPn0ExjnaXLVmiY1cNhkgKokKbeQdC-6/s1836/montery2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1453" data-original-width="1836" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJ9p9F40PG65uAyewN81Tlq5DgKwTpJevNDacllD5S7xU8oE2GBdcfMjsgNBEAar0pyZOA0nc4mgFWYvyZUtWd84nlV6XAHmOrK35Km8etYaeQT0A9_q9sFDCujaaULYkn4CxQZjl5tMbskzYecuHTN1hM08sDPn0ExjnaXLVmiY1cNhkgKokKbeQdC-6/w400-h316/montery2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the beautiful natural sites to be seen in Monterey</td></tr></tbody></table>In all the times we had been to the city by the bay, we had never visited the Robert Louis Stevenson’s Museum on Houston Street.<p>“Why haven’t we visited it before?” I asked Laureen, slowing at a red light.</p><p>I bet during Stevenson’s stay there hadn’t been any red lights. Nope, just big wide sandy based paths going here and there across Monterey.</p><p>They knew how to lay out streets in 1879, no traffic lights and probably no stop signs either. </p><p>“Whoa, Nelly,” a farmer may have said. “We have to stop at the stop light and let Bob cross the street before us.”</p><p>“It’s Robert.”</p><p>“Sure, it is, Bob.”</p><p>A romantic story is the basis for Stevenson’s stay in Monterey, and that deals with a woman by the name of Fanny Osbourne.</p><p>She was married to Samuel Osbourne, but their marriage was a rocky one since he was not faithful to her. In fact, so unfaithful was he that she finally left the cheating Sammy in 1875 and moved to Paris. In April of 1876, her young son, Hervey passed away from tuberculosis and she had him buried at Pere Lachaise Cemetery.</p><p>That’s the same graveyard where Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt, Marcel Marceau, Jim Morrison, and many other well-known artists, writers, and musicians are buried today.</p><p>Soon after her son’s death, Fanny moved to Grez-sur-Loing, where she met Robert Louis Stevenson, though he was probably still known as Bob back then.</p><p>She was a successful artist and magazine short-story writer, able to support both her and her remaining children, Isobel, and Lloyd in good stead.</p><p>Fanny became friends with Stevenson in 1876. The young man, ten years her junior, showed promise as a writer and she encouraged and inspired him with the talent she believed he had. </p><p>They became very close when she suddenly jetted back to the United States, to California to be exact.</p><p>Actually, she did not really jet since such transportation was still more than six decades away, but rather boated back from France.</p><p>In two years, Fanny notified Stevenson that she was finally divorcing the cheating-dog Sammy.</p><p>Stevenson was thrilled with the news and planned to join her, but he didn’t have the funds for the trip and his parents refused to pay.</p><p>“Wait until you write Treasure Island, then you can afford passage,” his mother may have said.</p><p>“What’s a treasure island?” Stevenson may have replied.</p><p>Anyway, he saved up his money for the following three years and moved to Monterey in 1879 to be with Fanny who was suffering from an emotional breakdown dealing with the personal trauma over the divorce.</p><p>It was during this short stay in Monterey that Stevenson found his writing voice, which would lead to his long list of literary successes; Treasure Island in 1882, A Child’s Garden of Verses in 1885, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1886, Kidnapped in 1893, and other books, poems, and essays.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn14NmT90zykp3Kca90s9XMOydhryYdRL0O_gBfW5qq0XBOblWB51hYkqpgm3NbbrHPUue00tFH3XvBevGZol1qyXfuzN_jYduXGfiUUIEP9G1w8oIrhUU0TF4w_n3nHixJ-pyubOY0h2wv95GfUh-cO1AhuGu6skcMwUiR5t8nHH-lqlOXsFc-m_xR39Y/s245/robert%20louis%20stevenson1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="206" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn14NmT90zykp3Kca90s9XMOydhryYdRL0O_gBfW5qq0XBOblWB51hYkqpgm3NbbrHPUue00tFH3XvBevGZol1qyXfuzN_jYduXGfiUUIEP9G1w8oIrhUU0TF4w_n3nHixJ-pyubOY0h2wv95GfUh-cO1AhuGu6skcMwUiR5t8nHH-lqlOXsFc-m_xR39Y/w336-h400/robert%20louis%20stevenson1.jpg" width="336" /></a></div><p>He and Fanny married in May of 1880. </p><p>After the publication of Treasure Island, he and Fanny found it difficult to travel anywhere without throngs of folks wanting his autograph.</p><p>I know the feeling.</p><p>He would die on December 3rd, 1894, at the young age of 44 from a stroke while they were living in Samoa.</p><p>But it is his short say in Monterey that had brought Laureen and I back to this beloved town.</p><p>In his essays, he wrote about the woods surrounding the village at that time and mentioned how during the winter, with all the fog and rain coming off the coast the land would blossom into nothing but green.</p><p>And, then in the hot summers those very same forests would ignite into infernos. </p><p>From, The Old Pacific Capitol – 1880, ‘These fires are one of the great dangers in California. I have seen from Monterey as many as three at the same time, by day a cloud of smoke, by night a red coal of conflagration in the distance. A little think will start them, and, if the wind be favourable, they gallop over miles of country faster than a horse. The inhabitants must turn out and work like demons, for it is not only the pleasant groves that are destroyed; the climate and the soil are equally at stake, and these fires prevent the rains of the next winter and dry up perennial fountains. California has been a land of promise in its time, like Palestine; but if the wood continue so swiftly to perish, it may become, like Palestine, a land of desolation.’</p><p>Some things never seem to change with California. Large forest fires during Stevenson’s time and large forest fires in the present.</p><p>The Stevenson House, where the museum is located, is a two-story adobe building that has existed since the earliest days of Monterey.</p><p>It has been used to house government officials, families, artists, writers, and fishermen from the Mexican Era. It was even a rooming house called the ‘French Hotel.’</p><p>When Stevenson arrived back in 1879, he was very ill from his long and arduous journey across the United States. He wrote about these travels in his book, The Amateur Emigrant, published in 1895. </p><p>Friends at the French Hotel nursed him back to health so he could court Fanny Osbourne.</p><p>“You have to be well, Bob, if you want a woman to fancy you,” a friend may have said.</p><p>“It’s Robert.”</p><p>The Stevenson House is a must-see when visiting Monterey, with several rooms dedicated to the author. </p><p>This particular area of the house is actually referred to as the Stevensonia rooms.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UkV6mQToKcvg6yldJGB66gqeiL6LCccMUvb-WEK_aPj-k41vTHFCJ987ilxLCYrGPVPdHjNO-FRsByGUvqlwKUUWzri1rR5l8fTn02rhYL4byBj09G2Eoj1UFQ_J_3a3nIMnzLP7KTtT3_sDNvxcaVQAInHpnudlwgn4_RjwN1BSQNeOYXpWj_VyoitK/s1795/montery4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="1223" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UkV6mQToKcvg6yldJGB66gqeiL6LCccMUvb-WEK_aPj-k41vTHFCJ987ilxLCYrGPVPdHjNO-FRsByGUvqlwKUUWzri1rR5l8fTn02rhYL4byBj09G2Eoj1UFQ_J_3a3nIMnzLP7KTtT3_sDNvxcaVQAInHpnudlwgn4_RjwN1BSQNeOYXpWj_VyoitK/w273-h400/montery4.jpeg" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fireplace to warm your toes</td></tr></tbody></table>Artifacts dating to the time Stevenson stayed there are to be seen, and since donated by his family, along with information concerning his life as a writer and his bohemian adventures.<p>One photograph intrigued me. Stevenson and a large group of people spread around a large dining table filled with all sorts of food. It gave me a sense that this historic figure of a writer was just a man. A man enjoying time with family and friends possibly. Of course, it turns out that the dinner was a luau, and his friends included one of the last monarchs of Hawaii, King Kalakaua.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgW5cAHYl0zXDG_aXLlr55oyNfAihxaJs3EVBF_AEaRI-CPGrosuDlQLGhWEJ1za98xIzi9scJki0SGU0JJKPALrCWymup_rPs4AyB4Xhhtt0PRvGIpQlECzzWQPD2TkfKSOWr_18xR-AVtmqu31bDmO3gVhZzdqr2NRkenJ_j6LZnP-ZltAesFNZoMLB/s2376/montery10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1848" data-original-width="2376" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPgW5cAHYl0zXDG_aXLlr55oyNfAihxaJs3EVBF_AEaRI-CPGrosuDlQLGhWEJ1za98xIzi9scJki0SGU0JJKPALrCWymup_rPs4AyB4Xhhtt0PRvGIpQlECzzWQPD2TkfKSOWr_18xR-AVtmqu31bDmO3gVhZzdqr2NRkenJ_j6LZnP-ZltAesFNZoMLB/w400-h311/montery10.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>His lucky black velveteen writing jacket is prominently displayed along with other mementos of Stevenson and Fanny’s life together as they traveled the world, including an old steamer trunk emblazoned with his name and destination: Samoa. The whole place just gave a sense of humanness. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5f0fWxt32XJvGPcwOhKzdQjZ5gBEjV39SZ5J_1EvRdjZhB1RcJ--_KTaSUvo25vJZ0VcVY9ArouzOW9wcCEpgTJJeip3t6DhvEdXUBN1MctgPkRuUz_PLXGDsrw5W09KsAUUeEkp_9WJBa9Z9sd0Cpch_aa3LTWmJGbaYa3vBO8aCQ_5zaqvxVCfOMLlo/s2444/montery11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1580" data-original-width="2444" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5f0fWxt32XJvGPcwOhKzdQjZ5gBEjV39SZ5J_1EvRdjZhB1RcJ--_KTaSUvo25vJZ0VcVY9ArouzOW9wcCEpgTJJeip3t6DhvEdXUBN1MctgPkRuUz_PLXGDsrw5W09KsAUUeEkp_9WJBa9Z9sd0Cpch_aa3LTWmJGbaYa3vBO8aCQ_5zaqvxVCfOMLlo/w400-h259/montery11.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Items on display concerning Stevenson's personal life</td></tr></tbody></table>It is rumored that the setting for the novel Treasure Island was based on Monterey, and that this story may have been the driving force for the film, Pirates of the Caribbean.<p>Now, that is something to ponder while stretching one’s toes in the sands near Monterey Bay.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Monterey, CA, USA36.6002378 -121.89467618.2900039638211567 -157.0509261 64.910471636178841 -86.7384261tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-80395121250613769802023-07-02T00:00:00.002-07:002023-07-02T00:00:00.138-07:00Happy Independence Day<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELTFA_1u4M3GQtiTqcsvLTA7KEX8GCOjQThi0g_D204pJMIgbPCYilbuYAumMenOFLtPsSUSnlp4iHcY1mduECtNOyMyNtdzqhP5J46dn9hGyhB8pPUZ-6bCTp-7ykSCjx7nkmmIMv0L2ttY1LpAbdv06nHQLQtregbQClBtelcJVoB2KgSOML6wj9Xjn/s520/fourth%20of%20july.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="520" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELTFA_1u4M3GQtiTqcsvLTA7KEX8GCOjQThi0g_D204pJMIgbPCYilbuYAumMenOFLtPsSUSnlp4iHcY1mduECtNOyMyNtdzqhP5J46dn9hGyhB8pPUZ-6bCTp-7ykSCjx7nkmmIMv0L2ttY1LpAbdv06nHQLQtregbQClBtelcJVoB2KgSOML6wj9Xjn/w400-h278/fourth%20of%20july.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>The British Colonies located in those new and developing lands, which would be later known as the United States, voted on July 2nd, 1776, to declare independence from King George III and the British Empire.<p>The representatives meeting at the Continental Congress had decided they, and the majority of the citizens in the colonies, had had enough of the overbearing King way back across the pond.</p><p>Two days later, all 13 Colonies had signed on and the war for independence was on.</p><p>And that is why we celebrate the 4th of July on the 4th of July. </p><p>Now, John Adams, one of the original signers, believed the annual celebration should be held on the 2nd of July, since that was the day, the declaration had been approved by the majority of the members of the Continental Congress.</p><p>In fact, it is rumored that Adams refused future events that landed on the 4th and not held on the 2nd.</p><p>He was a stubborn man.</p><p>An interesting tidbit is that the drafter of the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams both died on July 4th, 1826.</p><p>At his last, did John Adams finally come to accept his demise on the day the country would celebrate its independence yearly?</p><p>We will never know – but here at J and L Research and Development, we just want to shout out to this most wonderful country and say – </p><p> <span style="font-size: xx-large;">Happy Independence Day</span></p><div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0United States37.09024 -95.7128918.780006163821156 -130.869141 65.400473836178847 -60.556641tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-87170686190465466342023-06-16T13:11:00.000-07:002023-06-16T13:11:10.975-07:00Keys Ranch, Joshua Tree National Park<p>It wasn’t a park or a monument yet, but a rough and desolate place to make a living. Yet this man was not deterred. No, this Russian-born immigrant would make the desert his home until his death.</p><p>This is a story of a man who built something in an extremely hostile environment; one which most of us only venture into via an air-conditioned vehicle and very little time outside of that air-conditioned vehicle. 1910, a hard working man moved from Nebraska and took up residence in what would later be known as Joshua Tree National Park.</p><p>This is also a story of a man convicted of murder in 1943, and pardoned for five years later.</p><p>This is a story about Bill Keys.</p><p>According to Ranger Dave, “Bill was an industrious man. As you will see on this tour, he never let anything go to waste and built a home for his family in this often tough desert landscape.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmsEG5uqgmGZCC3BCzlIXes_T9N37ZkycjZNeDudsZx7BJUATcgBp8QRFN8F3-wEMsCu3TPsIpeMokzJtWbTK9ZW1RF0EK-DweXlJFS83qgf6_OW__-kjuPII1_fL_cIiLswo3b1esg0V-T-yBsvPgzfESZIvGP-7eL_xA4ODl__aSCcEh76cz1EZxA/s3993/IMG_1918%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3993" data-original-width="3142" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmsEG5uqgmGZCC3BCzlIXes_T9N37ZkycjZNeDudsZx7BJUATcgBp8QRFN8F3-wEMsCu3TPsIpeMokzJtWbTK9ZW1RF0EK-DweXlJFS83qgf6_OW__-kjuPII1_fL_cIiLswo3b1esg0V-T-yBsvPgzfESZIvGP-7eL_xA4ODl__aSCcEh76cz1EZxA/w315-h400/IMG_1918%20(2).JPG" width="315" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ranger Dave at Keys Ranch</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I generally don’t attend tours. Not that there's anything wrong with tours, but I like to wander here and there on my own and do my own research.</p><p>Sometimes I even get the research correct. When I don’t, my readers let me know.</p><p>During my recent visit to Joshua Tree National Park, I took the Desert Queen Ranch Tour - the ranch that Bill Keys created among the Joshua trees and towering boulders on the northwestern section of the park not far from Hidden Valley.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoMim2El1ZZFbi5Z-vHMQ513Qo6-5NQ67Y8Y9zrz0PfFv7eKhJ2G1u5UOvJB-OgX34AMI2bfTqko92POh5p29EEwskI3Le3ZxYGTkc-Ggx-wSO-R5q7tG0CmMHQSlzhHgRI8iNI_fVq3JC8WIyc3SfKBhNvBkiPLzYoEGIJtbm5i_pOBpURz9GR0aFg/s4985/IMG_1917%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2551" data-original-width="4985" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfoMim2El1ZZFbi5Z-vHMQ513Qo6-5NQ67Y8Y9zrz0PfFv7eKhJ2G1u5UOvJB-OgX34AMI2bfTqko92POh5p29EEwskI3Le3ZxYGTkc-Ggx-wSO-R5q7tG0CmMHQSlzhHgRI8iNI_fVq3JC8WIyc3SfKBhNvBkiPLzYoEGIJtbm5i_pOBpURz9GR0aFg/w400-h205/IMG_1917%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keys Ranch in Joshua Tree National Park</td></tr></tbody></table><p>To reach the ranch, down about a half mile single dirt trail, a guided ranger tour was the only way to view this abode in the middle of nowhere.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtvrXb485GYQ9EaM7SJkdXg6J8UQqgD3qIJd1sc2CTI7l7i5GFvHW4rDOFUPkkaiDGYVWvhUZKlv6xu5-CfegFqdzLZKqtHgzb3Wjiz_qJGe1AXzTfVF0Owcqcdyx04j3pVaVozGr4lJlso-c__vuoRFvtYoHK1rw6zv4mpr2KijTGvcNa8qT25jWMQ/s4176/IMG_1908%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3394" data-original-width="4176" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtvrXb485GYQ9EaM7SJkdXg6J8UQqgD3qIJd1sc2CTI7l7i5GFvHW4rDOFUPkkaiDGYVWvhUZKlv6xu5-CfegFqdzLZKqtHgzb3Wjiz_qJGe1AXzTfVF0Owcqcdyx04j3pVaVozGr4lJlso-c__vuoRFvtYoHK1rw6zv4mpr2KijTGvcNa8qT25jWMQ/w400-h325/IMG_1908%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only way in to Keys Ranch is by a dirt road</td></tr></tbody></table><p>There was a locked gate. I didn’t have a key and broke two paper-clips before Ranger Dave showed up.</p><p>"I have the key,” he announced.</p><p>“I was trying to paper-clip some papers,” I replied. “But I forgot the papers.”</p><p>Ranger Dave was a friendly sort of fellow who greeted the tourists individually. The tour is limited in size and I think there may have been a dozen visitors at this early morning gathering.</p><p>Though, I was worried my paper clip may have jammed the lock.</p><p>“Okay,” he said to the tour group. “I will drive and all of you will follow me to the ranch. Please, do not take any items from the ranch or surrounding area since this is a historical site.”</p><p>Looked like I would have to stop by a gift shop to buy Laureen, my wonderful wife, a memento of my trip to Joshua Tree National Park.</p><p>A coffee mug or a rusty door knob from Bill Keys ranch - I know what I would desire.</p><p>The road was sandy, a bit rough but any vehicle could make the short trip to the ranch without any issues.</p><p>In 1910, Bill Keys arrived in the area of Twenty-Nine Palms and found work as a custodian and assayer at the Desert Queen Mine, east of where he would later build his home. It was tough work but something Keys fell in love with.</p><p>He oversaw the mine until 1917, when the owner passed away and Keys obtained the property due to not being paid for years. The back wages came in the form of a working mine.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriwb_UrBBMGG2lZo-mQrAGzqyf_9I1Kg6Ma_paU8Pz1tkC_vRRtV6Y0ENIpsX_db-hwiveyS42-AQ2PG5eypPiuj0NzcZ8_a3MWDVY8IJjv7xIhKAv0zgwsA4BgWefNYSea84Py6TEqLPxP9F81w0ILgzvNh1iPVlWnn_33T8zuRD4OtJzzSf5yMT7A/s6000/IMG_1923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriwb_UrBBMGG2lZo-mQrAGzqyf_9I1Kg6Ma_paU8Pz1tkC_vRRtV6Y0ENIpsX_db-hwiveyS42-AQ2PG5eypPiuj0NzcZ8_a3MWDVY8IJjv7xIhKAv0zgwsA4BgWefNYSea84Py6TEqLPxP9F81w0ILgzvNh1iPVlWnn_33T8zuRD4OtJzzSf5yMT7A/w400-h266/IMG_1923.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some mining equipment to view</td></tr></tbody></table><p>That same year, he filed for 80 acres under the Homestead Act and started his ranch, built by hand from nearby rocks, adobe bricks, and wood shipped in from Banning and other locations.</p><p>“Funny story about Bill,” Ranger Dave said. “After years of living in this area alone, he met Frances May Lawton who happened to come from a very comfortable lifestyle near Los Angeles.. They fell in love, got married and Bill drove her out here to their, her new home.”</p><p>The home was a small wooden built structure boasting a living room, dining room and a bedroom located in not the green area Frances was used to, but instead a seemingly barren desert.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmYiQuSTU3u5O_TBzeG2ObJIWuKmqUSWfquot_hlEhuOY6xQMgu65dli75C5J-TYFoRRhmZgQSVCSzydb9ISMs9HZMqqVUr0BC_jzZCfTE7s0jwwBzF7C5jmZyCaXGvkZrW5yJIjZZwcBTZhBulTdSoyXW1bMntk_IrBFjTlOTmM2Jo-68CdJi3vvsw/s5652/IMG_1936%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2805" data-original-width="5652" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmYiQuSTU3u5O_TBzeG2ObJIWuKmqUSWfquot_hlEhuOY6xQMgu65dli75C5J-TYFoRRhmZgQSVCSzydb9ISMs9HZMqqVUr0BC_jzZCfTE7s0jwwBzF7C5jmZyCaXGvkZrW5yJIjZZwcBTZhBulTdSoyXW1bMntk_IrBFjTlOTmM2Jo-68CdJi3vvsw/w400-h199/IMG_1936%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Keys main residence</td></tr></tbody></table><p>“What do you think her first words were when Bill stopped his old truck and showed his young bride her new home?”</p><p>Since this is a family blog - I will not say what words may have come out of Frances in my mind.</p><p>“We will never know,” Ranger Dave quipped. “What we understand is she smiled and accepted this is where she would reside with her husband. Within a short time, she loved this alcove in the desert as much as her husband did.”</p><p>Bill expanded the house, as well as the out-buildings as his family grew. The couple had seven children, with four reaching adulthood.</p><p>It was a tough life day to day, but as Ranger Dave stated during the tour, they were a close-knit family and loved the rough and tumble life they led here.</p><p>As Ranger Dave was stopping here and there at this or that location during the tour, I wandered a bit and snapped some photos, stared into the canyon walls surrounding the property, gazed at the house, the horse corrals, the hand dug well in front of the house, and the rest of the site.</p><p>Hardy folks to say the least. Not just for a man and woman who fell in love and decided to make their life in the middle of a desert but to raise and educate children here was something special.</p><p>These were tough folks - honest folks - determined folks - and resilient folks.</p><p>I gazed over the round arrasta used to break up huge pieces of quartz in the search of gold and wondered if Keys hoped to find his fortune in the nearby hills.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyGwDGdgIoO2OeebE3cErj97EuDoI9mnkD08dGvcJJpcczlHW7j45jDvVci8_tkwRDTtsqrXXokiNuG4h6DDBO3m05X4QBEtMdvyAS88Z9cW1D9zpj4yDvDA7kjWS3E_D5rD2PI3OO45Yd8P-Z-g2mcr4IV5wrF7vqZSl6iydXVkRVIJbjVXP7uw9mQ/s6000/IMG_1920%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3376" data-original-width="6000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyGwDGdgIoO2OeebE3cErj97EuDoI9mnkD08dGvcJJpcczlHW7j45jDvVci8_tkwRDTtsqrXXokiNuG4h6DDBO3m05X4QBEtMdvyAS88Z9cW1D9zpj4yDvDA7kjWS3E_D5rD2PI3OO45Yd8P-Z-g2mcr4IV5wrF7vqZSl6iydXVkRVIJbjVXP7uw9mQ/w400-h225/IMG_1920%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The arrasta at Keys Ranch in Joshua Tree National Park</td></tr></tbody></table><p>He had a small crushing mill at the ranch plus a larger one not far away for local miners to use, at a small fee, to crush what they had pulled out of the earth each day.</p><p>At one time, Keys had nearly 200 cattle on his ranch, along with pigs, burros, and a very large garden which grew both vegetables and fruit.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5SKO2I1PzZTJOPL42DA6qiJ7dUZQVz3d5FVBLHjpnNjBvqjOjuviY_zCCSgye5PjqI8ngVAYXU6hPaCjJ9MMNDR2K5wzS86ouKezKGB73Rt1bgYxQz1nqgxVBw3QPPGBLhW7hPbaA_l-FAwpnF069xlPEoWWO06el6vQ-_JYmQXSbtlIYdLDVhHbOZQ/s6000/IMG_1913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5SKO2I1PzZTJOPL42DA6qiJ7dUZQVz3d5FVBLHjpnNjBvqjOjuviY_zCCSgye5PjqI8ngVAYXU6hPaCjJ9MMNDR2K5wzS86ouKezKGB73Rt1bgYxQz1nqgxVBw3QPPGBLhW7hPbaA_l-FAwpnF069xlPEoWWO06el6vQ-_JYmQXSbtlIYdLDVhHbOZQ/w400-h266/IMG_1913.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horse corrals and livestock pens</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This family knew how to make a buck and did it honestly with hard daily work.</p><p>Frances and Bill even built a one-room schoolhouse at the front of their property and other families in the area would bring the children there for daily lessons. The county provided a school teacher who resided in a home in which Bill had built for that purpose.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Rm-z1F4gWb_gksXj5pTKIY48COSW_xb_3OTiLmiIT20CGPOp7hr4g1w-EVmSqhR7JQYwTKulyC9gS9cmMT_NKD2mqQAHHaE9MtHe20Aafm1gffW9qyGqVt7XHKgxmg_Af-vlnbCJTejf5_je02ZqZaiFiKLNsQvs6O5aTzQ6H4hGzggKwb7DOeUPEQ/s6000/IMG_1933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Rm-z1F4gWb_gksXj5pTKIY48COSW_xb_3OTiLmiIT20CGPOp7hr4g1w-EVmSqhR7JQYwTKulyC9gS9cmMT_NKD2mqQAHHaE9MtHe20Aafm1gffW9qyGqVt7XHKgxmg_Af-vlnbCJTejf5_je02ZqZaiFiKLNsQvs6O5aTzQ6H4hGzggKwb7DOeUPEQ/w400-h266/IMG_1933.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another quarter on the ranch</td></tr></tbody></table><p>During the tour, Ranger Dave told anecdotes about life here for the Keys family.</p><p>“One day, the children asked their father, since they were getting older, if it was their time to have a mine of their own.”</p><p>Ranger Dave smiled. “So, Bill told his kids to dig in a certain spot and that was to be their own mine. Well, they dug and dug and when the pit was deep and wide enough, Bill moved the outhouse over the hole.”</p><p>But, in 1943 the fortunes of the Keys family would change. With a dispute with a neighbor, Worth Bagley, there was a shootout and Keys was arrested for murder after killing Bagley.</p><p>According to a book written by Art Kidwell, Ambush, The Story of Bill Keys, the case against Keys seemed rather weak.</p><p>It was proven through the court records, or at least what I took from them, that Bagley shot at Keys without provocation first and Keys returned fire, killing him.</p><p>A trial was conducted and somehow the jury found Keys guilty of manslaughter.</p><p>Steve, a fellow visitor and recently retired California Highway Patrol Officer, looked at me - “Yeah, no issues there. A solid case of self-defense.”</p><p>I nodded in agreement.</p><p>Two former cops hearing what Ranger Dave said about the case put a lot of questions in our minds.</p><p>Rumors were that Bagley may have had friends in high places who did not like Keys.</p><p>Of course, those are just rumors.</p><p>After serving five years in state prison for the murder, Keys was pardoned by the governor of California, and instead of being a bitter man, Keys went right back to work on his ranch and mining operations.</p><p>Frances died in 1963 and Bill six years later.</p><p>A romantic story of a couple who built a home out of nearly nothing, even with all the hardships and obstacles, their love endured till the end.</p><p>A visit to the Keys Ranch must be on the list when visiting Joshua Tree National Park - the Keys story of endurance is enough for the journey itself.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Joshua Tree National Park, California, USA33.873415 -115.90099235.5631811638211559 -151.05724229999998 62.183648836178847 -80.7447423tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-65283180073958228192023-05-22T15:48:00.003-07:002023-05-22T15:48:34.896-07:00Memorial Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKFW-eB3Q2gg0GQ_h7sglyOlkDGzHBnulAKCrgl4C_KJBQFyaafO8itDxFFBMKzi3p1VX6MxRNZYZTQw5L-EJYGaSjaxRyPW5EO3MbcqP77mYZ-AhXnt-Mtd--kXGpV7wdlOiK_ACianNTZBrF_onaGGqreQWx8iMvR_bgd-J5gCjmDaGAcR_UCLcaQ/s1659/Memorial-Day-Illo.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1659" data-original-width="1020" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKFW-eB3Q2gg0GQ_h7sglyOlkDGzHBnulAKCrgl4C_KJBQFyaafO8itDxFFBMKzi3p1VX6MxRNZYZTQw5L-EJYGaSjaxRyPW5EO3MbcqP77mYZ-AhXnt-Mtd--kXGpV7wdlOiK_ACianNTZBrF_onaGGqreQWx8iMvR_bgd-J5gCjmDaGAcR_UCLcaQ/w246-h400/Memorial-Day-Illo.webp" width="246" /></a></div><p>Memorial Day is just around the corner - the unofficial start of summer, but what can not be lost is the meaning of this very special day and who it commemorates. </p><p>We at, J and L Research believe this remembrance should be year round - not just destined for one day each year.</p><p>The name Memorial Day would not be used until After World War I. Prior to that, the day honoring all those who had perished while serving in the United States Military was known as Decoration Day. It was started during the Civil War.</p><p>It was a day when citizens would place flowers on the graves of the brave men and women who had given up their lives while fighting for the freedom and very soul of this nation.</p><p>After World War I, the day was designated as Memorial Day, to honor all those who had died in all wars being fought in the name of the United States.</p><p>John Adams once stated - "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."</p><p>So many lives have been lost to uphold what our founding Fathers desired. A homeland that welcomes all, gives opportunities for all, and respects all, no matter our individual backgrounds or places of origin.</p><p>During a recent outing, while researching for my weekly Beyer's Byways column, I ran across a gentleman by the name of Ray.</p><p>Ray had escaped China and obtained his immigration papers in 2014. He became a United States Citizen in 2021.</p><p>"I am so proud," he told me. "To be a citizen in the most free country in all the world. You know, my friends who are still in China wear baseball caps that have Los Angeles on them. They all want to join me in this land of the free."</p><p>I simply nodded.</p><p>"You know," Ray continued. "We do not have freedoms in China like you have here."</p><p>"I know," I responded.</p><p>And on this Memorial Day, let's all bow our heads and give thanks for those soldiers of all branches who willing gave their lives to allow us the chance to live in this wonderful country. </p><p>A country that the likes of Ray choose to live in.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p class="gnt_ar_b_p" style="background-color: white; color: #303030; font-family: "Georgia Pro", Georgia, "Droid Serif", serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 14px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0United States37.09024 -95.7128918.780006163821156 -130.869141 65.400473836178847 -60.556641tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-54459518089956241692023-05-02T11:05:00.002-07:002023-05-02T11:05:45.802-07:00Winslow, Arizona - Where the Eagles Landed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPD4fDU0gJqyQn7_oPHAu4NTkBaww7WyXpXV1NIg66bsSGcdjD_FLWX-6I2ZBjG7kBI28MOxSxXC1_OfaYSaoDdQeyPOJulFMfzFFuQMzEXnO3UCeJrXzJ9w1S_fjYEn9j8Bv5au3a9qiDOr0vDG6ESovJDry2XxfM6y-CvEScbwUksXUCHU4WKMT-A/s3830/_1350396%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1726" data-original-width="3830" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPD4fDU0gJqyQn7_oPHAu4NTkBaww7WyXpXV1NIg66bsSGcdjD_FLWX-6I2ZBjG7kBI28MOxSxXC1_OfaYSaoDdQeyPOJulFMfzFFuQMzEXnO3UCeJrXzJ9w1S_fjYEn9j8Bv5au3a9qiDOr0vDG6ESovJDry2XxfM6y-CvEScbwUksXUCHU4WKMT-A/w400-h180/_1350396%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>My lovely spouse Laureen and I were driving somewhere. Not sure where, since we drive a lot, usually with a purpose, when suddenly a tune began to play on our vehicle’s radio which I hadn’t heard in quite a while. The Eagles were suddenly belting out a song with front man, Glenn Frey singing about taking it easy. </p><p>“Wow, you know where I’d like to visit?” I asked Laureen.</p><p>And soon after we found ourselves in Winslow, Arizona, and I was standing on the street corner next to a metal piece of art. Actually, the art was a full-sized bronze sculpture of Jackson Browne. Laureen had sauntered off to stand next to a metal representation of Glenn Frey, about thirty feet away from the corner of Route 66 and North Kinsley Avenue.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BnUrRRcYoby1NkKoiTFgVGSA3Ehr7tHFglaN7r7IDTWVkggR7A98ttbklhNDP1Zh14A-_BxcHlMe_sltG70Hndlp9AJ3TFRCAzsAoJObC8dmHCweCNplQxTBK7XLNz1XUvrUxi4pp9_DVSpjOnUmbtGzPV_0_K87nuUeXyagspFgalgIyLAnWz7bHg/s4498/_1350395%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4498" data-original-width="2856" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BnUrRRcYoby1NkKoiTFgVGSA3Ehr7tHFglaN7r7IDTWVkggR7A98ttbklhNDP1Zh14A-_BxcHlMe_sltG70Hndlp9AJ3TFRCAzsAoJObC8dmHCweCNplQxTBK7XLNz1XUvrUxi4pp9_DVSpjOnUmbtGzPV_0_K87nuUeXyagspFgalgIyLAnWz7bHg/w254-h400/_1350395%20(2).JPG" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen Beyer with Jackson Browne</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Jackson Browne and Glenn Frey co-wrote the famous song, ‘Take it Easy’ back in 1972. Actually, Browne had started writing the lyrics in 1971, but was in a bit of a pickle on how to complete it.</p><p>The rumor is that Browne had been working on his first album and had these words stuck in his head – “Well, I’m a-standin on a corner in Winslow, Arizona . . .” – and that is far as he had gotten.</p><p>The story goes on to suggest that Browne had been stranded in the town of Winslow when his vehicle had broken down. At some point, a woman in a pick-up truck had driven past Browne and lent a helping hand. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSnWOkXeScllAz0GhFh80P_Ze0RkP9yHoGs9h7ivklCcxAkHZu4nNhlMBqcyYsaHTkmJXd-N8gPuqSGE0tPEYjyMs_ELTEACTE6vJNIQBYbCn2am-ijODXAyls4E5KKPZE0b94gPKXfrutx5rgvDMYZToB6MhaX3Kix5iOxAxxOoyC0UUHBtgDytm-w/s4463/_1350413%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2447" data-original-width="4463" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSnWOkXeScllAz0GhFh80P_Ze0RkP9yHoGs9h7ivklCcxAkHZu4nNhlMBqcyYsaHTkmJXd-N8gPuqSGE0tPEYjyMs_ELTEACTE6vJNIQBYbCn2am-ijODXAyls4E5KKPZE0b94gPKXfrutx5rgvDMYZToB6MhaX3Kix5iOxAxxOoyC0UUHBtgDytm-w/w400-h219/_1350413%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen Beyer standing by the red pick-up in Winslow</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We all love legends.</p><p>It turns out that Glenn Frey and Jackson Browne resided in the same apartment building in Los Angeles, and being struggling musicians, had started up a friendship in the club – ‘Starving musicians and actors guild of greater Los Angeles.’</p><p>Browne played the beginning of the unfinished song and Frey nodded.</p><p>“Man, let’s put a woman or women in it, and then we’ll have a hit record,” Frey may have suggested.</p><p>So, the following lyrics were born - “Such a fine sight to see. It’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowin’ down to take a look at me.”</p><p>Browne liked the sound, Frey liked the sound and the Eagles released the song on their debut album, cleverly entitled: Eagles.</p><p>That is pretty awesome, since the song never would have been written in the first place if Browne hadn’t known Frey when they were struggling musical artists.</p><p>In fact, according to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, out of Cleveland, Ohio, the song – ‘Take it Easy’ released in 1972 actually helped shape the sound of rock and roll as we know today.</p><p>But, for such creative minds, couldn’t the band had come up with something a little more original for their debut album? Something like:</p><p>‘The Eagles have landed.’</p><p>‘Fly like a bunch of Eagles.’</p><p>Or, ‘We can play great songs but can’t come up with a name for our first album except the name of the band.’</p><p>In all transparency, according to my research, it may have been that Browne had been stranded at a Der Wienerschnitzel in Flagstaff, rather than the quaint little town of Winslow.</p><p>But, I can’t even imagine the lyrics of that song.</p><p>‘Well, I’m a-standin on a corner in Flagstaff, Arizona with a chili dog and fries. My shirt a mess, and such a fine sight to see, a car hop with a handful of napkins.’</p><p>Nope, wouldn’t make it in the top billion hits. We’ll stay with Winslow, Arizona for this column.</p><p>So, after doing the touristy kinds of things – posing next to the statues for photos, standing in the middle of the street for photos, asking people to take photos of us, taking photos for them, and then taking a bunch of selfies – we were exhausted.</p><p>It was time to truly take it easy, and we did.</p><p>We were staying at the La Posada Hotel in Winslow and believed an adult libation while sitting in one of the many beautiful gardens would be a resplendent way to take it easy.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs491niGtcTw6pW-dvENrSZOcqxqGNkdbvtVJ3g64mABaxGb9V7ZYql_bOIKDjdnUMxf-D5orJjGHZG6lyH3pbBFfqyzG84zp_d-tHdpF0SkwC-5ugVOnci7kP_vNMnEk5W-hkU9rhuHwpRFOnWUNSeiVp6WiAQ7cdpPZSDcwk-iWesgIknLs0zqxJ9Q/s4345/_1350456%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3197" data-original-width="4345" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs491niGtcTw6pW-dvENrSZOcqxqGNkdbvtVJ3g64mABaxGb9V7ZYql_bOIKDjdnUMxf-D5orJjGHZG6lyH3pbBFfqyzG84zp_d-tHdpF0SkwC-5ugVOnci7kP_vNMnEk5W-hkU9rhuHwpRFOnWUNSeiVp6WiAQ7cdpPZSDcwk-iWesgIknLs0zqxJ9Q/w400-h294/_1350456%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the La Posada Hotel</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It was.</p><p>La Posada Hotel was built in 1930, by Fred Harvey of the famous railroad Harvey House chain, and designed by one of his favorite architects, Jane Colter.</p><p>In fact, it was Fred Harvey’s vision to create the first restaurant chain, and used that chain and the railroad depots they were situated by, to draw huge groups of tourists to the Southwest. </p><p>This hotel was to be a shining example for all to see and experience, and Harvey spared no expense on his dream. Well over two million dollars was spent on the hotel and the grounds when it was built in depression era 1929 – that is well over a zillion dollars in today’s money.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_J-yRvCY-A4iZD4hkvddzZUikERTAM3aGJMx_sGT--WjXUPr9G7WizteGQdOcLOzradTu9lm4oOAO_jQgw22JPCqqBz9C00QhAAa47g5xKaQUJetMuqRDPUWpyx70c5PXoRShrJfG--4bUIM53SsncNkP-9jy9h0nFk9trSLSgCzmSk18HdBOj5h7Q/s4608/_1350457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_J-yRvCY-A4iZD4hkvddzZUikERTAM3aGJMx_sGT--WjXUPr9G7WizteGQdOcLOzradTu9lm4oOAO_jQgw22JPCqqBz9C00QhAAa47g5xKaQUJetMuqRDPUWpyx70c5PXoRShrJfG--4bUIM53SsncNkP-9jy9h0nFk9trSLSgCzmSk18HdBOj5h7Q/w400-h300/_1350457.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main entrance to the La Posada</td></tr></tbody></table>And Colter had the run of the whole operation, from the design, to the gardens, the linen to be used by the diners, and even the uniforms the staff would be wearing. Colter believed it to be one of her most glorious achievements, and today, La Posada is considered one of the most impressive and beautiful buildings in the entire Southwest.<p>With the construction of super-highways and the lack of railroad travelers, the hotel only lasted twenty-seven years before it was closed to the public. Most of the interior furnishings were auctioned off in 1959 and by the early 1960’s much of the hotel had been gutted – being used a bit here and there by the Santa Fe Railway as offices.</p><p>In fact, in 1994, the railway decided to abandon the property all together and have it demolished.</p><p>Those railroad kingpins – where is their love of history?</p><p>But, after the National Trust for Historic Preservation learned of the possible demolition by the Santa Fe, the eighty-thousand square foot building was placed on the endangered list.</p><p>“Tear down La Posada? Never!” Allan Affeldt may have exclaimed to his wife, the internationally recognized artist, Tina Mion.</p><p>“But, Allan, we don’t know anything about running a hotel, let alone renovating it,” Tina likely responded.</p><p>“Well, it’s a really cool building, so let’s see what we can do to preserve it,” Allan may have been overheard replying to Tina.</p><p>And preserve this architectural marvel they did. </p><p>It took three long years of negotiating with the railroad before Allan and Tina were allowed to purchase the run-down hotel. They moved in on April 1, 1997.</p><p>Though it was April Fool’s day, the couple knew it was no joke and a lot of work was ahead of them. Then came along their third partner, Daniel Lutzick who took the role of General Manager.</p><p>What they accomplished in restoring a building which had been virtually abandoned since 1959 and fallen into almost complete disrepair, is stunning.</p><p>Today, La Posada is one of the most sought-after hotel destinations in the United States. It has been rated in the top twenty for hotels in the Southwest by Conde Nast Traveler, and has received numerous other awards marking this as a worthwhile place to visit.</p><p>Besides a first-class hotel and with a tasty restaurant, The Turquoise Room, La Posada is also a showcase for unique artwork, much of which was created by co-owner Tina Mion. In fact, the entire complex is a living museum, with artifacts from the early days when Fred Harvey owned the hotel, to Native American history, as well as the history of celebrities who had spent time there in the early days of the hotels creation.</p><p>Such early big names such as: Gene Autry, Howard Hughes, Charles Lindbergh, Dorothy Lamour, Clark Gable, just to name a few.</p><p>It was the place for the rich and famous to plop down after a long day’s drive along Route 66 heading east or west.</p><p>But getting back to the town of Winslow –a small town located in Navajo County, Arizona with a population of nearly ten thousand citizens.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uSrBic9Yf0uIiF4PF-saMHHMjBbHjlEc83v4fId6nYVwJCtyOeKGZeNsuUMDWi5s__eoVrJiE1INp2ptVX5j4pmyijmwEiqMAKLYqZQeX5yPD3BBbVgRDEs1ZCIQ1dw58KNf-eQ2jDbwvMR0OAVm99cGLJdqsZIwqIW86SwgWgqFNkbVf1tRLKE1ZA/s4229/_1350410%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2578" data-original-width="4229" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uSrBic9Yf0uIiF4PF-saMHHMjBbHjlEc83v4fId6nYVwJCtyOeKGZeNsuUMDWi5s__eoVrJiE1INp2ptVX5j4pmyijmwEiqMAKLYqZQeX5yPD3BBbVgRDEs1ZCIQ1dw58KNf-eQ2jDbwvMR0OAVm99cGLJdqsZIwqIW86SwgWgqFNkbVf1tRLKE1ZA/w400-h244/_1350410%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous corner in Winslow, Arizona</td></tr></tbody></table>It boasts a main street which brings back the nostalgia of the early days of Route 66, with businesses lining both sides of the street. There is a homey feel to the downtown area, with restaurants and brew houses within walking distance from just about anywhere.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimc2pd2WQfzygd0SeaRciI9RqkojvJ7SMDP8oiunE_ESUwfcNL70lzN8XITsV9V2vf3oke11xug7gKGs6ZgkSPdszqahzwCORImSt7y18EbgqBRm1KVOwyMPZYsVWaZNc7icZmKwlbhQ8siTaRJWya7JBCGZ2010P4tzirkpugvnlX6G7B7WKJBepNA/s3992/_1350461%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2150" data-original-width="3992" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgimc2pd2WQfzygd0SeaRciI9RqkojvJ7SMDP8oiunE_ESUwfcNL70lzN8XITsV9V2vf3oke11xug7gKGs6ZgkSPdszqahzwCORImSt7y18EbgqBRm1KVOwyMPZYsVWaZNc7icZmKwlbhQ8siTaRJWya7JBCGZ2010P4tzirkpugvnlX6G7B7WKJBepNA/w400-h215/_1350461%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Winslow, Arizona</td></tr></tbody></table>“I like this town,” I stated to Laureen, while we sauntered down the sidewalk.<div><p>“You like any town with a local brewery,” she responded.</p><p>I nodded. “You gotta have your priorities.”</p><p>Winslow is also the gateway for so many outdoor activities – Meteor Crater, the Homolovi Ruins, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, the Apache Death Cave, and so many other places lie within a short drive.</p><p>There is a lot to do in this little berg.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhJc0yDseZwJjd0ShnVtW1dVHoX-d2lIuTlaQLLKvEf5J6WqrwGqyTzAFUFTFWRUyJU1Y4pR4wivmwcRzqi8NJsMkuGpJXmCa0Nufkn-mwWL76kReOhnOXNl1vHcYOBmAjkSl9C3IwmRM6a6kdxSs1t6yaep9kooaH44ekxjOuBIvqIEvVfcupBmalA/s4396/_1350402%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4396" data-original-width="3366" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhJc0yDseZwJjd0ShnVtW1dVHoX-d2lIuTlaQLLKvEf5J6WqrwGqyTzAFUFTFWRUyJU1Y4pR4wivmwcRzqi8NJsMkuGpJXmCa0Nufkn-mwWL76kReOhnOXNl1vHcYOBmAjkSl9C3IwmRM6a6kdxSs1t6yaep9kooaH44ekxjOuBIvqIEvVfcupBmalA/w306-h400/_1350402%20(2).JPG" width="306" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just be careful in Winslow, as John Beyer learned</td></tr></tbody></table>One such place brought a tear for both of us. That was the 9-11 Remembrance Gardens. It is just on the outskirts of town, heading east on Route 66. A flag which was flown at the Pentagon flutters not far from two large steel beams from the World Trade Center, twisted and broken. These were donated to the town, and the park which was built around the beams, was dedicated on September 11, 2002. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VJg-Yqn_156tXOlaNkb6peb9WY52rDvBOPE6L1hS-s0F_EH3Hw2alJOKOLfGSlnQfNzzCPEDTAuDNvMe0HxnVITW_djk5d4dYShDJB_rhIGZwc8osd_t4WJfRUFHDfu16vMpTS33TCUQI64aE-gkVv3iiUQj_dW4RsHc18NJVI1pnynGS6TeMXDM0Q/s4608/_1350414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VJg-Yqn_156tXOlaNkb6peb9WY52rDvBOPE6L1hS-s0F_EH3Hw2alJOKOLfGSlnQfNzzCPEDTAuDNvMe0HxnVITW_djk5d4dYShDJB_rhIGZwc8osd_t4WJfRUFHDfu16vMpTS33TCUQI64aE-gkVv3iiUQj_dW4RsHc18NJVI1pnynGS6TeMXDM0Q/w400-h300/_1350414.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The city of Winslow paying their respects</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhskB3KgjDX746Lda2TE7nIUsZ62RBtDSTkmJeyGa__HaBUmV0XbHUJFFHATjdRP3Xz9LYYwqzSy-4QG9r7UoHtjiE7cE2cQNftUvtny2jYbosJDOV84CTSJboyRxk8qimoe96_jmd2XSmZZSt6NrttuhIhmZ0j2U5SGRjFv4KZUGMXrVNjYDztRSxw/s4005/_1350419%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2716" data-original-width="4005" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhskB3KgjDX746Lda2TE7nIUsZ62RBtDSTkmJeyGa__HaBUmV0XbHUJFFHATjdRP3Xz9LYYwqzSy-4QG9r7UoHtjiE7cE2cQNftUvtny2jYbosJDOV84CTSJboyRxk8qimoe96_jmd2XSmZZSt6NrttuhIhmZ0j2U5SGRjFv4KZUGMXrVNjYDztRSxw/w400-h271/_1350419%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actual beams from the tragedy in New York City on 9/11</td></tr></tbody></table>These beams are the largest entrusted to any community in the nation, and it is the community of Winslow who truly got behind the effort to create this memorial. Everyone from elementary and ROTC students, to local business owners, volunteered to pitch in to build and maintain this garden.<p>These beams stand tall and strong in that place for all to see – and for all to never forget.</p><p>That alone, is reason enough to visit Winslow.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ51_zRJGga0Yd7gfkfCipHFgu24kLs7izDzDpiZmyTTMzcKJF-hwhKA9dJiHl_dXT3Zhpe71YZUbnZnwqCkDDRBhvX8UwQvz0HqSgNv12h22mBcbSgRi3wMyhL2e6hCVSmH8N9gvFVASb9N5BqCZMJTovuDbW0lBQWC-kbRmWwgJNdV7_0DiINNIyAg/s3366/_1350388%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3366" data-original-width="2606" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ51_zRJGga0Yd7gfkfCipHFgu24kLs7izDzDpiZmyTTMzcKJF-hwhKA9dJiHl_dXT3Zhpe71YZUbnZnwqCkDDRBhvX8UwQvz0HqSgNv12h22mBcbSgRi3wMyhL2e6hCVSmH8N9gvFVASb9N5BqCZMJTovuDbW0lBQWC-kbRmWwgJNdV7_0DiINNIyAg/w310-h400/_1350388%20(2).JPG" width="310" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even John Beyer had to get into the act</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com0Winslow, AZ 86047, USA35.0241873 -110.69735716.7139534638211558 -145.8536071 63.334421136178847 -75.5411071tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1183629936925386583.post-41678486218334643992023-04-17T08:44:00.000-07:002023-04-17T08:44:02.143-07:00Robert and Francis Fullerton Museum<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7ju4t3Bc9YXtYtRWDACDzkpxXQ3oAE5ACjBToleDLe4AHnqNsQSuXrhkHsy1A6B__G102wLId-xJJR-C0bOXoWMAdwcVSL9rsmSIFBDkRqXWIjUl4BeRSfJCdlYuAU68efKpAeINA1QsE51qRwu4cxdElGxh3YsP02Iz9VOIFu_Rck_nD27CIgaWxw/s3450/IMG_1634%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3114" data-original-width="3450" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7ju4t3Bc9YXtYtRWDACDzkpxXQ3oAE5ACjBToleDLe4AHnqNsQSuXrhkHsy1A6B__G102wLId-xJJR-C0bOXoWMAdwcVSL9rsmSIFBDkRqXWIjUl4BeRSfJCdlYuAU68efKpAeINA1QsE51qRwu4cxdElGxh3YsP02Iz9VOIFu_Rck_nD27CIgaWxw/w400-h361/IMG_1634%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The world of ancient Egypt never really interested me while growing up. I was more interested in American history, since that was where I lived and it was a lot cheaper to travel to Topeka, Kansas than to Cairo, Egypt.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“That’ll be forty bucks for the Greyhound,” a ticket person would state. “Or five gazillion dollars to fly across the world to a land of the never-ending desert.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I already lived in a desert, so I chose the bus to Topeka.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It was not until I viewed a documentary about Egypt that my attention turned around in considering the ancient Egyptians as some of the most advanced folks that have ever populated this earth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The year I watched the documentary is not important, plus it ages me, but I will never forget the impact it had on me from that point on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Professor Steven Martin stood on a stage and sang a song about the ancient Pharaoh Tutankhamun – the boy king. Tutankhamun died at the age of 18 years old and his tomb in the Valley of the Kings went undiscovered for over 3,000 years. The treasure-laden tomb was located in 1922 by Howard Carter, an esteemed and wily archaeologist. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">One poignant moment in Professor Martin’s televised lecture was when he sang, ‘How’d you get so funky – did you do the monkey?’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">That had a major impact on me with regard to ancient Egypt.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“There’s an Egyptian exhibit at the Robert and Francis Fullerton Art Museum at Cal State, do you want to go?” I asked Laureen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This Cal State was the California State University of San Bernardino – in case anyone was confused since there are 23 such campuses spread up and down the state of California.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“What sort of exhibit?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“I guess they have a bunch of stuff dating back a longtime ago in Egypt,” I replied. “A lot about the Egyptian afterlife.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re not going to dance, are you?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I thought of Professor Martin, and hoped he would not be disappointed. “No.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The ancient Egyptians, from my research put a lot of thought into what happened when they died.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfse4AznGv0PUY6fAmqPt3YNGJDZ1BrAyGJs-J13UeFEf7bw51jUh5eEyIftvMqkSwo5oQBsAAeKfbRB_o0ruGfXJURw52ywXResZmkyjPr5cKMovz3IHzLu7jVVRlAHssfdDGdhWEQcRBDK9f2cKcrLzHlq_UihM9F3HtQ3DAlvxfBHvYUiXnaWE0rA/s4093/IMG_1627%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3786" data-original-width="4093" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfse4AznGv0PUY6fAmqPt3YNGJDZ1BrAyGJs-J13UeFEf7bw51jUh5eEyIftvMqkSwo5oQBsAAeKfbRB_o0ruGfXJURw52ywXResZmkyjPr5cKMovz3IHzLu7jVVRlAHssfdDGdhWEQcRBDK9f2cKcrLzHlq_UihM9F3HtQ3DAlvxfBHvYUiXnaWE0rA/w400-h370/IMG_1627%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laureen Beyer studying a cartouche</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The ‘afterlife’ was really a part of their ‘present life’ since so much thought was put into when they would pass from this realm and into the next.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">According to something I read in some Australian archeology magazine: ‘The ancient Egyptians believed that when they died, their spiritual body would continue to exist in an afterlife very similar to their living world. However, entry into this afterlife was not guaranteed. The dead had to negotiate a dangerous underworld journey and face the final judgment before they were granted access.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">That sounded rather ominous to me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“Yeah, it’s just like your current life, but when you die you gotta travel though all kinds of nasty things with big teeth trying to eat you or getting squirted with a green Jell-O like substance.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The British Museum had an exhibit referred to as, ‘Ancient Egypt: Secrets of the Afterlife’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Which really is not much of a secret since it stated that ‘the exhibit would cover everything from the process of mummification and ancient canopic jars used to store the different organs of the body, to mummy masks created only for the wealthiest, which helped a person’s soul find their way back to their body in the afterlife.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">In all transparency, Laureen and I have visited the British Museum, the Louvre, the Museo Egizio, and other places that house ancient Egyptian artifacts. It was all very interesting, but my main point in visiting these museums was to have my photograph taken next to an embalmed Egyptian, so I could ask, “Are you, my mummy?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">For the sci-fi nerds like my wife, that reference was from an episode of ‘Doctor Who.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The Robert and Francis Fullerton Art Museum is located in the northeast section of the University of California, San Bernardino. A short walk from the parking lot to the west, and if you get there at the right time and correct day, you won’t have to pay for parking.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There is nothing special to the building, a large windowed cement block structure but what it lacks on the exterior is made up for in the interior.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This whole Art Museum is a treasure trove of not only the ancient Egyptian thingies we went to look at but there are rooms full of modern art work, some from the very students who attend the university currently.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There were paintings of this and that; a couple of metal horns facing each other and giggling, a pair of sunglasses on a red background, a blank canvass with a red a tie, a green light bulb attached to a board, a guy with no head and so much more. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It was enthralling and quite the experience.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“What’s that?” I asked.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“Art,” Laureen replied.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And I thought Picasso was hard to understand.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The Egyptian exhibit came into view, and what a view.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Glass case after glass case holding objects that were lost for eons, and here they were now for everyone to see.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Well, for everyone to see if that meant the Inland Empire.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Getting a person ready for burial in ancient Egypt was not for the timid. Usually, the whole mummification process took 70 days to complete and was reserved for the rich. After the person died, they would receive all kinds of attention, like having their innards taken out and stored in ‘canopic’ jars, which would be placed near their sarcophagus.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I did learn something that was really cool. A video at the museum explained which parts of the innards were reserved for the canopic jars after death.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was not a hit and miss slitting and sliding out of organs and tossing here and there. Nope, there was a method to this measure.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The video referred to it as ‘SILL’, Spleen, Intestines, Lung, Liver. These were the organs the ancient Egyptians carefully removed from the deceased and placed gently into the ceramic canopic jars. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Brains were tossed to the wayside, since the early Egyptian doctors had no idea what the brain was utilized for.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Sounds like some of our politicians, but I digress.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The heart, it was left in the body since the Egyptians believed this was where wisdom and love emanated from.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">‘My heart belongs to you, but please leave it within me since without it I will be an unfeeling doddering and drooling old ghost in the afterlife.’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">That was supposedly carved into a cartouche on a pharaoh’s cartouche around 1,300 BC.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We wandered the rooms full of ancient treasures.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There were cartouches, sarcophagus lids, jars full of ancient food items, burial items from small buttons to sew on the outer clothing of the deceased to large beautifully hammered metal chest plates.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8ld0OGdHakIwdZWSMu2wBpcVYxmdFS3J0AqDxMShYmVuoxX-SFvIQvv9podikaH4y_MkRqw102LzxRE74UCZI_nzKpER77S5i046ri3B7CBg0edPJHeJrs-0mUb6mmxWmGQXKIP9hlzlabB4IbOFUT2C1MERNq-3jtHi3Hw16a3gfNjUFYwl6GboXQ/s6000/IMG_1645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8ld0OGdHakIwdZWSMu2wBpcVYxmdFS3J0AqDxMShYmVuoxX-SFvIQvv9podikaH4y_MkRqw102LzxRE74UCZI_nzKpER77S5i046ri3B7CBg0edPJHeJrs-0mUb6mmxWmGQXKIP9hlzlabB4IbOFUT2C1MERNq-3jtHi3Hw16a3gfNjUFYwl6GboXQ/w400-h266/IMG_1645.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Items to adorn a tomb or mummy</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Being in this room, with pieces found in ancient tombs was really a sobering experience for both Laureen and me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Here were items that had once adorned folks that had died eons ago, and now were we walking from glass case to glass case in wonder at the unbelievable craftsmanship that took place in creating these pieces. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSo9jqYzVQ_iE8uT_wOzHnNysN_4fVOP6tAdW3b6nxIfMVp_kxC0RVHh2tCorNRsWluUyMuWdpKd3uSuTosslqcccNjZS489RO7v42l4lz7hyYNvQBTpgMQrk7PGshMJqDYdFrXwlfMgzWQZ3rwPUj7xoi5Ge_XFb3yVhScOMf1UCwZ_J0hbnGFw-Eg/s6000/IMG_1615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSo9jqYzVQ_iE8uT_wOzHnNysN_4fVOP6tAdW3b6nxIfMVp_kxC0RVHh2tCorNRsWluUyMuWdpKd3uSuTosslqcccNjZS489RO7v42l4lz7hyYNvQBTpgMQrk7PGshMJqDYdFrXwlfMgzWQZ3rwPUj7xoi5Ge_XFb3yVhScOMf1UCwZ_J0hbnGFw-Eg/w400-h266/IMG_1615.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Items found in various burial sites</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A pair of 3,000-year-old playing dice made of wood stared up at us. It was as if a dealer in Las Vegas could use those very dice today, since the numbers were so distinct. What appeared to be a pawn from a modern chess piece sat beside them. I could imagine losing to Laureen at that moment utilizing that piece in my demise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxOLKWrsY9W-yJvJC6jVgeFiiHyU08cIca3b7XVAXbrZKNzsUJsH2FqjfKyyFP4tbBIumwYSR7ojbtl6vv6VunzokvFlfj_mC7qRv7HbY4VgwFHT6VZXRDEoOTVoxPcClAT-enLi8GnUHBDR9AS63-VVUc8p8IqV9R-pcttNfvMWCIZ_IBeJxrJjNhQ/s1397/IMG_1609%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="1397" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxOLKWrsY9W-yJvJC6jVgeFiiHyU08cIca3b7XVAXbrZKNzsUJsH2FqjfKyyFP4tbBIumwYSR7ojbtl6vv6VunzokvFlfj_mC7qRv7HbY4VgwFHT6VZXRDEoOTVoxPcClAT-enLi8GnUHBDR9AS63-VVUc8p8IqV9R-pcttNfvMWCIZ_IBeJxrJjNhQ/w400-h381/IMG_1609%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rolling the dice</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">One item I found fascinating was a severed hand of a mummy. I am sure the mummy, if it were around and could speak, would counter my fascination.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“That’s my hand, and you have no business having it in a museum without the rest of me. All I want is my hand to make a handstand, and wouldn’t that be grand?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Even the rings that bejeweled the severed hand are on display, on the hand itself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcvEVJ-7lVTErp_HUdbD7GFLRqNEG3l9ybLhpAhow9HTTywHVHWCzmlDYdAjt8-W-TqJ3MXe-nBsSr0LSYpt6lcWEGL5rxv8oixKgM5v08nJJi1UVgLBkOI2QA3A5l5MNHFOYXqaa89__rOqbe5K_1Ya4PSkhiOuKoipHXe_ZGempRncHTZi_JbQ9YQ/s3887/IMG_1646%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2014" data-original-width="3887" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcvEVJ-7lVTErp_HUdbD7GFLRqNEG3l9ybLhpAhow9HTTywHVHWCzmlDYdAjt8-W-TqJ3MXe-nBsSr0LSYpt6lcWEGL5rxv8oixKgM5v08nJJi1UVgLBkOI2QA3A5l5MNHFOYXqaa89__rOqbe5K_1Ya4PSkhiOuKoipHXe_ZGempRncHTZi_JbQ9YQ/w400-h208/IMG_1646%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mummified hand with rings</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Laureen bypassed that exhibit.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">But one she did not bypass was the one of ancient Egyptian jewelry. Two glass cases revealing marvelous examples of delicately stringed jewelry for the neck and the wrists – along with a few rings.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsWskqyWJx0yDg_irypLdX3_QExzYtG199sAz7O1cLhEZsjini5XPx2VQLkQupPMQc8Ty7fBiBySHBtVcJ3f6l_vvrPOGTWQRSFLT-Q3QLe57inFUczU_Izp2uQrSw6CkLG1oZNJjiqjkp0yn1qtjy5a7D04P-VKzcysv604gmtHaay_n4vpl-5RysA/s5369/IMG_1652%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2397" data-original-width="5369" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtsWskqyWJx0yDg_irypLdX3_QExzYtG199sAz7O1cLhEZsjini5XPx2VQLkQupPMQc8Ty7fBiBySHBtVcJ3f6l_vvrPOGTWQRSFLT-Q3QLe57inFUczU_Izp2uQrSw6CkLG1oZNJjiqjkp0yn1qtjy5a7D04P-VKzcysv604gmtHaay_n4vpl-5RysA/w400-h179/IMG_1652%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some nice jewlery</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“You know, Mother’s Day is coming soon,” she said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There was a large cartouche, hope I have that right, showing a parade of Kings walking into the afterlife. Each pharaoh looked pretty happy, or pretended to be, walking behind each other into the uncertainty of the life after death.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEi8dpgASwZqNgsbD1UfDD_Mzh83WUID3QuQOsqQBT0-FmwK2r8r44p-EPkMD301ACluWEeTAnZiLdKSW1SUhczvGjncfuyxkp8WZriga67G7-KkmRfNfwJPAvcA5KctkEXib1PL7B60tQ7G8EBW2VCHNUX4-ylQa_rgUQOEC_shOoZuU2V0TLzJg5w/s5262/IMG_1643%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3640" data-original-width="5262" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEi8dpgASwZqNgsbD1UfDD_Mzh83WUID3QuQOsqQBT0-FmwK2r8r44p-EPkMD301ACluWEeTAnZiLdKSW1SUhczvGjncfuyxkp8WZriga67G7-KkmRfNfwJPAvcA5KctkEXib1PL7B60tQ7G8EBW2VCHNUX4-ylQa_rgUQOEC_shOoZuU2V0TLzJg5w/w400-h276/IMG_1643%20(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Beyer pondering the line of Pharaohs</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I pondered that a moment or two. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">The entire museum is worth a visit if a person is into ancient Egyptian artifacts. But, who is not with such hits as Indiana Jones, the Mummy, or John’s Hesitancy for Marching into the Afterlife.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">This is a place to explore – and don’t forget to dress the part, it will do the soul a lot of good.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></p><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>J and Lhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08480573356882659005noreply@blogger.com05500 University Pkwy, San Bernardino, CA 92407, USA34.1813584 -117.32318755.8711245638211551 -152.47943750000002 62.491592236178846 -82.1669375