“Death Valley Road”: What Could Go Wrong?

March 24, 2026 steveboilard1 Comment

Spring officially began a few days ago, which of course signals the opening of road trip season. And right on cue, loyal reader Peter D. helpfully sent us a Los Angeles Times article highlighting a stretch of highway in the Mojave Desert that piqued our interest. It’s California Route 127, and it’s known to old-timers as Death Valley Road. It dates back to the FDR administration–or, perhaps more relevant for a California highway, it dates back to the administration of Governor James “Sunny Jim” Rolph, Jr, a man who lasted three years in office before he collapsed and died while campaigning for re-election.

Route 127 is about 91 miles miles long, running along the eastern edge of Death Valley National Park from the Nevada state line down to the town of Baker on Interstate 15.

And so this morning I took a cheap Southwest flight to Las Vegas, where I rented a car and set out to explore this fabled (?) stretch of roadway. I’m going to cover the full 91 miles, but first I had to get there.

As luck would have it, getting to the beginning (or end, depending on your perspective) of Route 127 meant driving a stretch of US Route 95, which is a highway I explored in 2021. Attentive readers might recall that I got as far south as Beatty, Nevada on that trip. Today I had the opportunity to cover another stretch of US 95, between Las Vegas and Beatty. I must say, it’s a whole lotta nothin’.

*“In the desert you can’t remember your name/’cuz there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.”*

Well, not quite nothing. While looking for a gas station, I saw this sign along US 95:

Now, Area 51 is indeed in this general area, but this facility and signage feel a little too obvious:

It turned out to be one of those combination convenience store/alien souvenir junk/gas station operations. (It’s almost identical to Jackass Joe’s, that I visited in Utah last year.) But this UFO-themed place has another distinguishing feature:

That’s right–the front door of the Älien Cathouse is right next to the gas station’s water and air hoses. As you may or may not know, brothels are legal in Nye County, Nevada. While I was pumping my ethyl (if you’ll pardon the expression) a husband and wife were posing with their young children in front of the Cathouse.

I got back on the road, and after a short time I was approaching the California state line, where I passed a Last Chance Nevada casino whose roadside calling cards are, confusingly, a giant pig and a giant cow.

(Interesting side note: The cow used to stand atop the now-defunct “Holy Cow! Casino and Brewery”in Las Vegas.)

Finally, as I crossed into California, I was instantly on California Route 127. I was eager to see for myself the road that the LA Times calls an “antidote to the frantic pace of our modern condition, a necessary pause to see not what has been forgotten, but what endures.”

Shortly after starting my journey along CA 127, I arrived at a magical place called Death Valley Junction (pop: 3). The town was founded in 1907, when the Tonapah and Tidewater Railroad ran a spur line here to serve the Pacific Coast Borax Company’s plant. (You have to admire the chutzpah of naming a mining operation in the middle of Death Valley after the shores of the Pacific Ocean.) Borax is a naturally occurring mineral that was discovered here in Death Valley, and is used for cleaning and other uses.

Anyway, the western writer Zane Grey published an article decrying the horrible living conditions of the borax workers living in tents out here in the desert. So the Pacific Coast Borax Company, sensing a potential PR nightmare, built proper housing and facilities right here where I’m standing. This company town was constructed almost exactly a century ago, and it had offices, a hotel, worker dormitories, an infirmary, a community hall, and other facilities. By all accounts it was a thriving community.

This state of affairs only lasted for a few years. It seems that a richer vein of borax was discovered elsewhere, and the Pacific Coast Borax Company moved its operation out of Death Valley Junction. Then, in the 1940s, even the railroad left town…literally. The rails were pulled up and sold to the US government, which used them for the war effort in Egypt.

*The few remnants of Death Valley Junction’s borax plant, as seen today.*

*The 100-year-old dock where borax was once loaded onto railcars.*

Without the railroad or the borax operation, Death Valley Junction essentially became a ghost town. Except for the hotel, which struggled along, the old company town was left to decay.

Then something wonderful happened. In 1967, a ballerina and artist from New York named Marta Becket was on tour through the west, and her car broke down near Death Valley Junction. While the car was being repaired at the town’s sole garage, Marta explored the old buildings and fell in love with them. In particular, she envisioned the old, abandoned community hall as an opera house. Here. In the middle of the desert.

*The garage where Marta Becket serendipitously took her car and walked across the street to discover what would become the Amargosa Opera House.*

So Marta Becket and her husband leased (and later bought) the property, converted the community hall into the Amargosa Opera House, and opened for business. Marta herself would perform on the stage every weekend. For forty years. Here, in the middle of the desert. A story in National Geographic in 1970 caused this little secret in the desert to become world famous. People came from around the world to watch her perform and to see the artwork she painted on the walls of the opera house and the adjoining hotel.

Marta finally retired in 2012, and died at age 92 in 2017.

The Amargosa Opera House continues to honor the legacy of its creator with daily tours and various performances throughout the year. My tour guide was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable person named Sue, and she also works at the hotel.

Speaking of which, I’m spending the night here in the old, original hotel that the Pacific Coast Borax Company built in 1924. Some say the place is haunted…..

Beer of the Day

The BOTD comes from BrewDog in Las Vegas. It’s their Black Heart Nitro Stout.

Because it’s a stout, it has the usual roasty and malty notes. Plus, as a nitro beer (i.e., it’s carbonated not with the usual carbon dioxide but with nitrogen), it has a creamy mouthfeel and a slightly sweeter taste. The nitro also presents an attractive, cascading-bubbles effect and a creamy head.

All that said, this beer was underwhelming. It has no complexity; it just tastes like someone filled a sock with oatmeal and steeped it in dishwater. There is absolutely no finish and, it seems, no hops. And at a scant 4.1 ABV, there’s no alcohol bite. This is a beer that’s nice to look at, but that’s about it.

Road trips

A Headless New Year To You All!

January 2, 2026 steveboilardLeave a comment

My legion of loyal followers will of course recall the story of Mike the Headless Chicken. In case you need a refresher, here’s the original post. And, apropos of today’s entry, you’ll want to recall that Loyal Reader Brian W shared that his brother-in-law is the performer of a storied Mike the Headless Chicken song. Alas, I was initially unable to track down a recording of said song, and when Brian helpfully supplied an AIFF file, I discovered my antiquated laptop can’t cope with that format.

But now, after much effort and cursing, I’ve been able to convert the file and append it to this post. So, I give you Timothy P. and the Rural Route 3, performing “Mike the Headless Chicken!”

I must say this is a masterful performance. The musicianship is head (!) and shoulders above the other examples of the MTHC genre. And the lyrics are impressive: “There wasn’t any Colonel with his tasty twelve-piece bucket. They cut their dinner’s head off and pluck-it, pluck-it, pluck-it.” Plus, the wordplay comparing “colonel” and “kernel” is brilliant!

As you no doubt recall from my earlier post, the town of Fruita, Colorado holds an annual “Mike the Headless Chicken” festival on the Labor Day Weekend. This is where I plan to be in 2026. Join me if you dare! Until then, keep your head above water and out of the clouds.

Breweries · bridges · California history · Cars · movie theaters · Road trips · Yard art

Been There, Done That, Got the T-Shirt

August 29, 2025 steveboilardLeave a comment

This morning I headed downstairs from my motel room to partake of the “free” breakfast. Then I spotted this sign in the breakfast room:

*But a “D” is technically passing right? At least that’s what I used to tell my parents when I brought home my report card.*

Instead of the motel breakfast, I got a gas-station coffee and donut. I then got onto the U-28 scenic byway, which carves its way through the Colorado River gorge towards Grand Junction. It was so spectacular it even made my donut taste good.

*That’s the muddy Colorado River on the left.*

*A perfect setting for a Western…which it has been, many times.*

After maybe half an hour of driving I came across a pedestrian suspension bridge that crosses the Colorado River. Attentive readers will recall that I’m a sucker for these things, so I looked for a place to pull over and sway my way across the (not-so-) mighty Colorado.

So imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the bridge’s decking was entirely missing.

*…but wait–what’s wrong with this picture?*

Turns out the Dewey Bridge (for that’s its name) was built in 1916 and is Utah’s longest suspension bridge. It was fully restored in 2000….and eight years later some kid was playing with matches and the whole thing went up in flames.

*Kids, don’t play with matches! (2008 photo from Wikipedia Commons.)*

A sad and ghostly air hangs about the skeleton of the Dewey Bridge. It set back my good mood a bit.

A little later I came to the town of Fruita, Colorado (pop: 13,400). I could live in this town. It’s one of those places that’s figured out how to preserve its history, cater to modern tastes, create a livable community, and attract tourists. The town is jammed with public art, and the main street has plenty of outdoor cafes and benches to relax, have a cup of coffee, and watch the world go by. It seems that most of the buildings along Main Street are historic and well-preserved or restored.

One public art installation that made me scratch my head was this rooster with no head:

A friendly fellow drinking coffee at an outdoor table noticed me photographing the sculpture and gave me the story of Mike the Headless Chicken. (Trigger warning for those sensitive about food preparation by carnivores.) It seems that in 1945, a local farmer by the name of Lloyd Olsen was attempting to behead one of his chickens for dinner. His aim was a little off, and most of the chicken’s brain stem remained with the body. The chicken survived his beheading, flapping his wings and running around headlessly. What was Lloyd to do? He spent the next year and a half carefully feeding Mike (for that was the chicken’s name) individual kernels of corn through the throat and addressing Mike’s thirst with milk and water from an eyedropper. Mike became a sideshow attraction and gained national fame. Indeed, I remember reading about Mike in a “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” paperback in the 1960s. Fruita still remembers Mike with the sculpture, T-shirts and other souvenirs, and an annual “Mike the Headless Chicken Festival” each spring. I am not making this up.

Fruita also has a lot of non-headless-chicken art around town. In fact, I noticed that many of the towns in eastern Utah and western Colorado feature interesting public art installations. Here is a sampling:

*Sculpture honoring children’s music teacher David Carl Moore in Delta, Colorado.*

*Windrider Custom Cycles sculpture in Delta.*

*Sculpture at Dennis Weaver Memorial Park in Ridgway, Colorado. Dennis Weaver (I remember him as McCloud from the NBC television series) reportedly loved eagles and lived in Ridgway for many years.*

I also randomly ran into these women playing the tubular bells (?) xylophones(?) that are installed at the park. Somehow I think Dennis Weaver would have appreciated it.

*I’m not sure if it technically qualifies as art, but there is a large number of long-parked classic cars on both sides of the street in downtown Delta, Colorado.*

Also related to this theme of public art is the 1928 Egyptian Theater in Delta. It’s obviously been loving restored, and it regularly shows movies and hosts performances. It’s much smaller than the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood, but it similarly reflects the fascination with all things Egyptian in that era.

But let’s get back to the purpose of today, which was to complete my trek to Placerville, Colorado. You’ll recall that the California version of Placerville was originally called Hangtown, and the tree where those hangings took place (in 1849) stood on Main Street for many years. Even though it was cut down in 1853, the stump remains in the basement of an old Main Street building, where a dummy perpetually hangs from a noose.

*Photo by the author, from my 2021 blog post about Placerville, CA.*

So it was auspicious that, just as I was getting close to Placerville, Colorado, I spotted this hangman’s tree in the town of Montrose:

*According to the sign, George Bikford was hanged from this tree for robbery and “horse stealin'” in 1878.*

And so, with that preface, I finally came to the storied town of Placerville, Colorado. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly El Dorado.

*This is seriously about all there is to the town.*

Pretty much all that makes up Placerville is a post office, a general store, a storage facility, and a few houses. In the 1800s it was a mining boom town, but as with many boom towns, the mines dried up and the population went elsewhere. Later, the failure of the local Trout Lake Dam in 1909 wiped out most of what remained.

But be that as it may, I think we can declare this mission a success.

And (shockingly) I was even able to purchase Placerville merch at the general store!

*I was hoping for “My husband drove from Placerville to Placerville and all I got was this stupid T-shirt.”*

BREW OF THE DAY

We have a winner!

In the town of Ridgway, Colorado (pop: 1,300) I stopped in at the Floating Lotus Brewery. It’s a friendly, casual place with an airy atmosphere, two outdoor patios, a stage for live music, and a great view of the neighboring property where John Wayne filmed some scenes from True Grit. Owner/Brewmaster Kenny Conley hooked me up with his favorite beer: the Blastoplast IPA.

This was hands down the best beer I’ve had on this trip. Of course, that’s an admittedly low bar. But this is seriously a tasty brew. Unlike so many modern IPAs, this one is perfectly balanced. It’s not too hoppy, not to carbonated, not too pungent. At the same time, it’s flavorful and a bit “richer” than you’d expect from an IPA, without the astringent IPA afterburn you sometimes experience by the end of the glass. And at 6.3 percent ABV, I’d say the alcohol content is right where it should be. This is a five-star brew.

*Kenny at his post. If you ever find yourself in Ridgway, or even in the vicinity of Telluride, pay him a visit!*

Breweries · Road trips

Land of the Giants

August 28, 2025 steveboilard2 Comments

This morning I checked out of the Jailhouse Hotel early. I returned my hilariously-labeled “cell key” to the “warden” at the reception desk.

While I waited for the warden to finish processing my paperwork I glanced around the lobby and spotted this blast from the past:

*Is anyone old enough to remember these?*

Eventually I was liberated from the Jailhouse and back in my car. On my way out of Ely I spied a sign for the “Ward Charcoal Ovens.” It looked like a minor detour on a dirt road, so I followed the sign. I’m glad I did. After a few dusty miles I encountered a collection of enormous, well-preserved, 19th-century ovens that had been used for making charcoal. Standing about 30 feet high, these are gigantic, otherworldly artifacts in the middle of nowhere.

The ovens were used to transform pinion pine and juniper into charcoal, which in turn was used to fire the smelters that melted ore during Nevada’s silver rush in the 1870s. These ovens were only used for a few years until the silver ran out, yet they’ve been standing for about a century and a half. I was impressed by how well-preserved they are. Not a speck of graffiti, no trash on the ground, and virtually no damage to the stone. (A ranger I talked to informed me that there has been some minor restoration work done to the mortar.)

The ovens (which somehow seem a little creepy to me, even in broad daylight) were a product of the era, when physical challenges (like melting ore) were met with ever-larger infrastructure (bigger locomotives, larger dams, these enormous ovens), rather than, say, intricate technological advances. It’s simultaneously awe-inspiring and incredibly wasteful. About 6 acres of trees would have to be felled each time an oven was filled, and after only a couple of years all the trees in the area had been cut down.

*View from inside an oven. The top hole allows smoke to exit; the arched “window” on the side allows for the insertion of wood.*

So, these ovens were environmentally damaging and obsolete in a few short years. On the positive side, they produce a cool echo effect.

The ovens are also, um, titillating.

Speaking of racks, I came upon this impressive display at a butcher shop just outside Ely:

But to get back to the theme of “land of the giants,” I beheld these enormous soda cans at a gas station in Salina, UT. They actually contain diesel fuel, and so are not quite so unhealthy as you would guess from their labels.

And to round out the Giants theme, this gigantic watermelon slice was sitting in a parking lot in Green River, UT (pop: 850), for no discernible reason.

The watermelon slice is constructed entirely of wood, and a little Internet research reveals that it was built in the 1950s as a parade float of sorts. Remarkably, the watermelon is self-powered, with an engine hidden inside. I managed to sneak a photo through a small porthole (?).

Watermelons seem to figure prominently in the local agriculture, as I saw watermelon vendors set up in several parking lots.

But more interesting to me near Green River was a place called “Jackass Joe’s,” which is a combination gas station and purveyor of all manner of quirky and irreverent stuff. Their specialties seem to be T-shirts (with their own name on them), exotic jerky, and various styles of candy “poo.”

*Jackass Joe decorates in an unexplained alien theme.*

And yet, notwithstanding the fun factor of Jackass Joe’s and the various giant foodstuffs, by far the most impressive part of today’s journey was driving along I-70 through the San Rafael Swell and other geologic formations. It’s simply jaw-dropping. The craggy and stratified shapes are otherworldly, the colors are vivid and varied, and in keeping with our Land of the Giants theme, the scale is enormous. It was almost transformative to drive my little rental car along this narrow ribbon through these formations. Alas, I wasn’t able to take any photos, and more to the point, I realized my little iphone camera couldn’t possibly do the scene justice. So allow me to present a couple of photos taken from the Internet:

*Public domain photo from US Dept of Transportation, showing Interstate 70 snaking through the San Rafael Swell in central Utah.*

*“Swell” photo from Utah Chamber of Commerce.*

This section of Interstate 70 has been called an “engineering marvel,” as it twists over, through, and along these geologic formations, while attempting to minimize disruptions to the landscape. The construction process also unearthed various dinosaur fossils.

I’ve encamped for the night in Moab (pop: 5,400). Tomorrow we will finally arrive at Placerville, CO!

BREW OF THE DAY

The BOTD comes courtesy of Moab Brewery. They have a fairly extensive menu of their own beers. I let the server choose for me, with the only instruction being that “I don’t want a light beer.” She directed me toward the “Export Stout.” Unfortunately, it is not available on tap (i.e., bottle only), and the bottle holds 22 ounces. So this is a commitment.

Unfortunately, it’s a commitment that doesn’t pay off. I was hoping for a rich, thick, malty, high-gravity beer. What I got was something closer to bathwater.

OK, maybe it wasn’t that bad. But it was definitely thin in body, and it had no nose to speak of. It’s very carbonated–maybe over-carbonated. The flavor tastes of burned coffee (like when the pot has been sitting on the heating element at the truck stop for a few hours) and something slightly vegetative, like maybe moldy alfalfa. Deep in the back of your nasal passages you get a slight sense of Volatile Organic Compounds, reminiscent of Testor’s model glue. The finish reminds me of Crayola crayons.

I’m afraid I can only give it 1 star. But I’ll give four stars to the most excellent brewery pretzel that paired with it.

bridges · California history · cemeteries · Road trips · trains

The Placerville Chronicles–Day 1

August 27, 2025 steveboilard4 Comments

This morning I picked up my rental car in Placerville, California, and headed in the direction of Placerville, Colorado–some 900 miles to the east. (For those coming late to this story, the details are here.)

As I left Placerville I passed this mural that honors John Albert “Snowshoe” Thompson, a Norwegian immigrant who settled in Placerville in the mid 19th century. Every winter for 20 years (1856-1876) he made a twice-monthly trip over the Sierra Nevada range to deliver the mail. He made the 90-mile trek on skis (despite his “Snowshoe” nickname) from Placerville to settlements in Nevada.

Unlike Snowshoe Thompson, I chose an easier passage over the mountain, driving a Nissan on US 50 over Echo Summit. I ended up in a little tourist trap of a town called Genoa, NV (pop: 1,300). Genoa brags that it’s the oldest settlement in Nevada…but I was struck by something that’s more relevant to this journey: Genoa was the eastern terminus of Snowshoe Thompson’s mail delivery route. And they have a statue to commemorate the fact.

*Snowshoe Thompson, doing his Gorton’s Fisherman impression.*

At some point Snowshoe Thompson moved his residence from Placerville to Genoa. In fact, Genoa became his final resting place.

*Those pruning shears on the face of his tombstone presumably are meant to be skis. But who knows, given the misspelling of his last name.*

Having appropriately honored this (quasi-)native son of Placerville, CA, it was time to continue my journey toward Placerville, CO. To do this, I passed through the “independent and sovereign nation” of Molossia.

What, you’ve never heard of Molossia? Neither had I. But it seems that there are about 11 acres of land in the town of Dayton, Nevada, whose owner (Kevin Baugh) has declared to be a sovereign nation. Molossia claims to have its own currency, postal service, navy, railroad, and various other trappings of a proper nation. President Baugh does have to pay property taxes to the county assessor, but he calls this “foreign aid.” Molassia’s back story is actually quite interesting and entertaining; if you’re interested, you should check their Wikipedia entry or their actual website.

The president of Molossia is very clear that you need to arrange your visit ahead of time. So a few weeks I emailed His Excellency, and got this response:

Steve, Greetings, and thank you for your interest in visiting our nation as a part of your travel blog. It is an honor.

I regret that we will be unable to host your visit to our nation on that date. … There are other events and activities taking place in Molossia on those dates, thus we will not be able to welcome you to our nation. My apologies. Hopefully you will make it back out this way on a future tour date and we will be more than happy to welcome you to Molossia then.

Regards,

His Excellency President Kevin Baugh
Republic of Molossia

Undeterred, when I came to Dayton I drove up to the border of Molossia. Conveniently, there was an open parking spot.

The Molossian flag was flying proudly, and a sign made clear that I was indeed about to leave the United States.

A sign next to a bench even invited me to “take a seat in a foreign country.”

Despite my inability to secure a reservation, I decided to approach the customs building. Alas, it was locked up.

So I had no choice but to follow the signs back to the United States.

I plan to try to get on Molossia’s official tour list for 2026. When I have a date, I will announce it on this blog in case any of my loyal readers want to join my delegation. But for now, I had to bid a sad farewell to Molossia.

Almost all the remainder of today’s journey involved traveling US 50 across Nevada’s enchantingly bleak Great Basin. This stretch of highway is often called “The Loneliest Highway in America.” I’ve driven it several times (see my blog post here) and I always find it to be relaxing and contemplative. Today was no exception. Here are a few pictures to give you a sense of the landscape:

*Inevitably, even out here in the middle of nowhere, you run into jackasses…*

*One of the few watering holes along the way, in Austin, NV.*

As the sunlight was wanting I stopped for the night in Ely, NV (pop: 3,900). Ely is well known for its superb railroad museum and heritage railway, but beyond that there isn’t much besides smoky casinos. I took a room at the Jailhouse Motel, whose reception desk is inside the adjoining smoky casino.

Also in the casino was something that passes for a bar, so I figured I’d try to get my Brew of the Day. But the beer selection was positively abysmal, and each seat at the bar was equipped with a huge, noisy video poker terminal. Looking at the bar’s sad patrons, I mumbled “terminal indeed,” and headed across the street to my room.

BRIDGE CORNER!

Although we don’t have a BOTD for today, we can offer you this 1906 railroad bridge over the Carson River in Fallon, NV:

As should be painfully obvious, this is a Pratt subdivided through-truss bridge. And, as a steel marker certifies, it’s made by the American Bridge Company of New York.

OK…thanks for indulging me. Tomorrow we’ll return to the BOTD.