Day 3: Utah and Colorado

February 6, 2021February 13, 2021 steveboilard2 Comments

Editor’s note: Given limited travel opportunities these days, I decided each Thursday to post travel stories I’d written prior to starting this blog. The following is from a cross-country trip I made along the length of US 50 in the spring of 2018. I hope you might vicariously enjoy this trip while we’re all hunkering down at home. Because this is a longer trip (a week and a half), I’m going to post each of the daily entries over each of the next 10 days.

I set out this morning around 6:30 am. I stopped at the Green River Coffee Company (in Green River, Utah), which was just half a mile from my motel. The place was empty, but I heard someone rustling in the back kitchen. Eventually a lanky woman in her early 30s emerged, looking very much like a hippie from 1969. She was cheerful, and said “If you want coffee or breakfast” [why else would I have come there??] “you’ll have to wait a few minutes while my equipment wakes up.” I assured her I was in no hurry, and observed that it was indeed still early. “I must be your first customer” I astutely noted. The woman, whose name turned out to be Becky, explained to me that the place doesn’t actually open until 7, but she gets in at 6:30 to “wake up” her equipment. “I used to get here at 5:30, in order to do my online homework using the shop’s wifi. But now I can get internet service on my phone, so I do my homework in the morning before I leave.” It turns out she’s taking an online program through Oxford (supposedly the Oxford) in English literature. And she’s going to take an in-person class in England next summer. “I’m hoping to move there permanently.” I asked what would happen to the Green River Coffee Company. Does she own it? “No, I’m just the Coffee Wench.” Thanks for the coffee. Gotta go…

Green River Cafe. Note the equipment waking up.

US 50 is still part of I-70 heading east out of Green River, so the drive to the Colorado border was pretty fast and uneventful. Shortly after entering Colorado, I came to Grand Junction, where 50 once again breaks off from I-70. I was back on the familiar, undivided, quiet road that is US 50. It was like reuniting with an old friend. The road began twisting and climbing as I moved up into the Rockies, and I admit that there were moments when I questioned whether the Yaris was up to the task. I became especially nervous as I approached Monarch Pass (elevation: 11,312 feet) where there was even some snow on the ground. Somehow we managed to get over the hump, which, incidentally, is the Continental Divide. I know that doesn’t make the pass any harder to cross, but there’s something notable about crossing the Divide. It makes one feel like they’re leaving the West. Which I guess I was.

“On top of the world, Ma!” (Edward G. Robinson)

A short time later I came into the town of Salida (which the locals pronounce “suh-LIE-duh), and stopped at Soulcraft Brewing for a lunch stop. I had the Green Chile Ale, which was just the ticket on a warm day. I asked the bartender about food, and she directed me to the “food truck” outside next to the patio. This “food truck” is a “truck” the way that a mobile home is “mobile.” The food truck was really just a trailer, permanently built in place, and when I asked the gray-haired cook/owner about it she told me “this thing never moves. I don’t even have a truck that could move it.” I suspect Soulcraft is getting around some kind of restaurant license by calling this thing a “truck.” Anyway, the “truck” owner told me that this was now her restaurant — she used to own a regular brick and mortar restaurant in Denver, but then somehow she became the dean of a university. As one does. I asked her which university, and she muttered something about an online university. Somehow this didn’t quite pan out for her, so she recently quit the academic life and bought this “food truck.” I’ll say this much for her though: She makes a delicious homemade pasta dish. I had it with my beer, sitting on the patio in the sunshine. You really can’t beat that.

Green Chile Ale, with rootbound “food truck” in the background.

I got back onto US 50, with the Arkansas River and a small railroad line stretching along on my right. It was a very pretty and pleasant drive. Now, for the most part, this trip has not been about tacky, kitchy tourist attractions. Admittedly, I’ve made that the focus of some prior trips with Ian, such as our Route 66 trip. But this US 50 trip is meant to experience a more authentic part of America. I did slip once today, though, when I saw this giant beetle beckoning me to an insect museum. How could I say no??

In the mid-afternoon I hit Pueblo, Colorado, which marks the end of my US 50 journey for today. Upon arriving in Pueblo, I took a 2-hour detour up the interstate to see my old friend Detlef Kurpanek (yes, that’s his real name). Detlef and I were friends in middle school and high school, back in the 1970s. We both had an interest in trains, each had a model railroad, and we’d ride our bikes 10 miles to San Jose to watch the commuter trains come in from San Francisco. Detlef has been living with his wife Nancy in Aurora, CO for a couple of decades now. I’m staying at his house tonight, and I’ll return to US 50 tomorrow afternoon. I’m planning to make to the middle of Kansas tomorrow.

Cool old RR depot in Grand Junction CO — in honor of my visit to Detlef.

Road trips · trains · Uncategorized

Day 2: Nevada and Utah

February 5, 2021February 13, 2021 steveboilardLeave a comment

I woke surprisingly refreshed this morning at the Cozy Mountain Motel, and took my bracing cold shower. While checking out, I noticed these displayed on the front counter like Russian nesting dolls. I decided to hurry on my way before they discovered any problems with my MasterCard payment…

I explored the town of Austin a bit more before getting back onto 50. I was struck by the number of abandoned buildings, completely untouched for decades. This is truly a ghost town.

1313 Mockingbird Lane meets Georgia O’Keeffe

As I mentioned yesterday, I resolved to get breakfast in the town of Eureka, about an hour down the road. So I got back onto US 50, which, if anything, was more deserted than yesterday. I’m getting used to the rhythm, though, and there’s a fullness to the emptiness, if that makes any sense. The sky is big, blue, and beautiful, and the landscape stretches out for miles and miles. Periodic US 50 signs confirm that I didn’t make a wrong turn somewhere, heading far off course.

I was quite hungry when I got to Eureka, and I found the Jackson Hotel (which supposedly has the amazing food) quite easily. It’s part of a complex of buildings on the main drag (which is, of course, US 50). I had trouble determining which door actually led to the restaurant, so I just entered a door that said “open” on it, hoping for the best. I found myself in a large auditorium of sorts that looked to be well over a century old. After a moment I was greeted by a middle-aged woman with a Farrah Fawcett hairdo who asked if she could help me. When I informed her I was just a tourist looking for a place to eat, she seized upon the opportunity to give me a guided tour of the building, which I learned was the Eureka Opera House.

It’s an impressive building that was originally built in 1880. My guide (whose name is Patty), it turns out, is the manager of the building, and is responsible for booking events (including concerts by Eddie Rabbit and Loretta Lynn’s daughter, among others. Their signed photos are on the wall.) She’s also responsible for setup, clean up, and everything else. Check out the old, original projectors that are down in the basement:

Patty is a bundle of energy, and wants nothing more than to promote the Opera House and the town of Eureka. After she gave me a tour of the Opera House, she took me across the street to the county courthouse, the jail, the assessors office, and other county offices. (These are housed in the historic courthouse, as well as a more modern annex.) For some reason, Patty has keys to all these offices, as well as several vaults. Here she is showing off the Treasurer’s vault:

I told Patty I was driving the full length of US 50, and she asked if I had the “passport” for the drive. I hadn’t heard of this at all, so she provided me with a copy. It turns out that it’s just for the towns along the Nevada stretch of US 50, and I had already passed most of those towns. But I took the passport, and she stamped it with the gusto of a customs official.

When I told her I’m writing a blog about my trip, she offered to take a picture of me in the judge’s chair in the courtroom.

Patty spend a full hour with me, and which point I was really ready for breakfast. I asked for a recommendation, and she referred me to the Pony Express Café. (It turns out that US 50 follows the old Pony Express trail in Nevada; I encountered numerous references to it along the way.) The Café is run by a couple of Amish women, who were warm and welcoming. It appears that the Café is where all the locals hang out, with plenty of conversation and back-slapping. In fact, while I was sitting at a table waiting for my breakfast, I felt a large hand grab my shoulder. I looked up and it was just some local greeting me, smiling and asking how I was doing. Is this a great town, or what? Oh, and I had the best “Amish Breakfast Sandwich” ever.

Refueled, I got back onto 50 and headed for Ely, Nevada. Ely is a famous railroad town, and a few miles before reaching Ely I saw plumes of black smoke next to the highway. It turns out a steam locomotive was operating – I still am not sure why. But there’s something wonderful about seeing this equipment, which must be from the 1930s or earlier, out in the wild, rather than at some museum. (Editor’s note: I later learned that, for a fee, regular shmoes like me can drive these vintage steam engines along a private track. Is this a great country, or what?)

Now that I had my official US 50 passport, I visited the Chamber of Commerce in Ely. The woman there stamped it with the “Ely” stamp, and commented that Patty sure had made a lot of stamps in my passport. Evidently there was some rivalry between the two towns, or these two women. I asked her what I should visit in Ely, and she said I should get a lime rickey from the old drug store down the street. I didn’t know what a lime rickey even is (didn’t he manage the Brooklyn Dodgers?), but I was game.

Upon arriving at the drug store I learned it had been at the same location since 1946, with the same soda fountain, same chairs, same stamped metal ceiling, etc. all those years. There were two young women working the fountain, and I ordered my lime rickey. Impressively, the two of them created this drink from scratch, which involved cutting and squeezing fresh limes. It turns out the woman on the right is 31, with a 3 year old, and she moved here from Las Vegas. She seems to really love Ely, and says it’s definitely a good place to be raising a young child. But she thinks in a few years she’s going to move out to Florida, where all her relatives currently reside. She reflected that Ely used to be a much bigger town, “before the mine closed.” It used to be a bustling town of almost 10,000 souls. “We even had a Sears!” I think she sees the writing on the wall.

After my lime rickey, I returned to the familiar ribbon of US 50. I left Nevada behind some time in the afternoon, entering Utah. I stopped for dinner in the town of Delta. There were two good prospects on the main drag; a diner and a motel “cafe.” It turns out the diner now serves only Chinese food, so I opted for the cafe. I was feeling a need for some greens, so I ordered a chef’s salad. It came with my choice of bread, and the waitress recommended I get the scone. It’s not like any scone I’ve ever seen:

Shortly after leaving Delta, US 50 becomes part of Interstate 70 for a bit. I was dreading this part of the trip, because I hadn’t been on an interstate since I’d left Sacramento and I was enjoying the freedom to drive on the empty, undivided, quiet roadway that is US 50. I could pull over whenever I wanted to see anything, and I could flip around whenever I needed to backtrack. So the idea of getting onto the interstate, and sharing it with semis, was not appealing.

However, it turns out that I-70 in Utah cuts through some of the most spectacular scenery I’ve seen. You wend your way around enormous carved mountains that are iconic in this area. Here’s an example, which somehow reminds me of a poop emoji.

So I actually enjoyed this part of the drive. Even travelling at 80 mph plus, the scenery simply dwarfs and overwhelms me. It’s a unique experience, and really places one in perspective.

I didn’t take many photos of this scenery, because an iphone camera just doesn’t do it justice. You really have to drive through it to appreciate it. But I did stop at the “ghost rock” viewing area in Emory, UT. There I ran into a solitary person who was taking a photo. She was probably in her 20s, and probably pregnant. (I knew better than to ask.) I noticed her SUV was packed to the gills with boxes and suitcases. I said that it looks like she’s moving somewhere. “Yes. New York.” From where? “San Francisco.” That was about the extent of our conversation, but after I got back in my car I wondered: Why is she taking this route? Wouldn’t Interstate 80 make more sense? What caused her to want to relocate all the way to the other side of the country? One theme I seem to keep running into on this trip is that everyone wants to be somewhere else.

I called a halt to today’s driving when I got to Green River, UT. Tomorrow it’s off to Colorado!

Road trips · Uncategorized

America’s Loneliest Road

February 4, 2021February 13, 2021 steveboilard1 Comment

The inspiration for this trip comes from the sign at the western terminus of US Route 50, in West Sacramento, which I have passed many a time over the years. The sign tantalizes me with the vision of “Ocean City, MD 3,073” miles away.

Day 1

My US 50 trip began early this morning with a flight from LAX to Sacramento, where I picked up my rental car. Now, many people had urged me to rent a “fun” car for this trip. And I thought about that. But in my normal, everyday life I drive a “fun” car, and this trip is about connecting with the “backbone of America,” not blasting across the country in luxurious, steel cocoon surrounding me with infotainment options and various gadgets.

So I’m driving a Toyota Yaris. And not just any Yaris, but a no-frills Yaris. I know you think that’s redundant, but there are actually blank plastic plugs in the dash where available options –like power mirrors, cruise control, or even FM radio – might go in the “loaded” version. I’ll say this much for it: The car won’t be distracting me from the sights the US 50.

My first stop was on the side of the freeway where eastbound Interstate 80 branches north, leaving, as the straight part of the branch, the beginning of US 50 . (The photo below was taken just before I was almost hit by a drifting truck.)

“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me…”

After narrowly escaping a Peterbilt’s front grille, I hopped back in the Yaris and headed east on US 50. The first half hour of driving was old hat. I’ve driven that stretch of US 50 many, many times. But after passing Placerville, I moved beyond my usual haunts and drove on pavement I haven’t experienced too many times. You can feel the metropolis of Sacramento, and the poor air quality of the central valley, melt away as you head into the foothills. It’s a very freeing feeling. Every time I’ve driven out towards Tahoe in the past, I’ve told myself I should do this more often. But somehow I almost never have found the time. Until now.

As I wended up towards the Sierra, I spotted the South Fork of the American River. It’s just beautiful this time of year.

I encountered a couple of abandoned buildings. Maybe the economic recovery hasn’t caught up with this part of California? I love how the “restaurant” sign was painted freehand, almost as an afterthought. And I doubt that parking meter has seen a coin since Buffalo nickels went out of fashion. Land out here is so cheap that buildings just stand vacant for years, and some eventually just crumble. I’ll rejoin this theme in a few paragraphs, when I describe the motel room I’m writing this from right now….

After a bit more driving I re-encountered civilization at South Lake Tahoe. And then, in the blink of an eye, I left California behind. A few buildings greeted me as I entered Nevada, but it was a half-hearted greeting. Unlike Reno or Vegas, Stateline, NV barely tries to entice gamblers from California. You just pass a faded casino or two, and then the town disappears. The vast expanse of Nevada beckons, interrupted by only a couple of cities. One is Carson City, the State Capital. I made a brief visit to the Capitol building. It’s a contrast to California’s, not only in terms of architecture, but also to the paucity of visitors, employees, and legislators. I suppose when your entire state’s population is only about 3 million souls, there’s no need for major legislative activity.

The last town of any size at all I went through today was Fallon (pop: 8,606). I stopped for dinner at Jerry’s Diner, which has supposedly been “a Fallon original since 1966.” (I learned later, though, that it’s now owned by the same people who own Black Bear Diner, so I inadvertently violated my “no restaurant chains” rule for this trip.)

My waitress was very authentic and friendly, though. She saw me consulting my Rand McNally atlas at the table and asked me about my trip. It turns out that she is from Sacramento, and has noticed the same US 50 sign and wondered about Ocean City, MD as well. But here in Fallon is as far as she ever got. She’s raising an 11 year old, and hopes that, after he’s graduated from high school, she can do some travelling. By which she means getting an hour or two out of Fallon.

After leaving Fallon, I became one of the few people remaining on the highway. It’s this stretch of US 50 that earned the moniker “America’s Loneliest Road.”

In an hour I passed only a handful of cars. And I was covering lots of ground in that hour — about 90 miles, actually. (You do the math.) At one point I looked down and the speedometer showed 100 mph. I had no idea the Yaris could move that fast. But you just don’t feel the speed out here. Partly it’s because there are almost no landmarks to highlight your speed. And partly it’s because the road surface is flat, straight, and in good shape. Evidently Nevada takes much better care of its roads than California does. Someone once told me that Nevada doesn’t have speed limits, which is demonstrably false, because I saw signs posted with a 70 mph limit. I’ve also heard that, even if there are limits in Nevada, they aren’t enforced. I hope I don’t encounter evidence to the contrary.

I ended today’s leg of my US 50 journey in the town of Austin, NV (pop: 192), at the base of the Toiyabe range. There’s something very eerie about this town, which alternately feels abandoned and haunted. The first thing you see, high up on a hill as you enter the town on US 50, is an ancient stone tower. A short drive up this hill reveals the tower to be something called Stokes Castle, which was constructed by a silver and railroad magnate named Anton Phelps Stokes in 1897. After completion, it was only inhabited for a couple of months, and has been vacant ever since. As you can see, even the local kids have been afraid to spray graffiti on it for over a century.

Complementing the sense of doom and abandonment, just a short hike from Stokes Castle, is a Civil War-era cemetery. I walked the cemetery for awhile, and not a single car passed by on US 50. All was silent except for a faint rustling of the leaves in the trees.

Some of the only residents I encountered along America’s Loneliest Highway.

Now, you should know that, back in Fallon, I had phoned the “Cozy Mountain Motel” in Austin to make reservations for the night. I knew nothing about this place, other than it had a vacancy. When I turned into the driveway, right off US 50, this is what greeted me:

When I checked in, I asked the desk clerk what was up with the skeleton on the front bench. Without missing a beat, she said “he’s been waiting for the shower in his room to get hot.” I told her I didn’t get it, and she looked down and muttered “you will.”

I suspect tomorrow’s shower will be bracing.

Until then, I’m going to try to get some shut-eye. Here in this doomed town.

Uncategorized

Water We To Do?

January 28, 2021 steveboilard1 Comment

Editor’s note: Given limited travel opportunities these days, I decided each Thursday to post travel stories I’d written prior to starting this blog. The following is from July 2019. I hope you might vicariously enjoy this trip while we’re all hunkering down at home.

There are decided trade-offs to living in the LA area. On the debit side are gridlocked freeways, high taxes, homeless encampments, and monotonous suburbs. These are balanced out by thePacific Ocean, great weather most of the year, a vibrant music and arts scene, and close proximity (at least in terms of mileage, if not time) to some amazing mountain scenery.

Straddling between the good and the bad is a fascinating social and industrial history, and the bold, even arrogant physical infrastructure that goes with it. And that was the focus of today’s travels.

I was inspired by a book I’m reading about William Mulholland and his efforts in the early 20th century to bring water into the fast-emerging metropolis of Los Angeles. As I read the early chapters about the 230-mile aqueduct Mulholland built to transport water from the Owens River (in the Sierras) to Los Angeles, I decided it was worth a trip to see at least the southern portions of this project in the flesh (as it were). There are three sites in particular that are within a day’s round-trip travel. So this morning I saddled up the trusty Triumph and set out north on I-405.

I was in Santa Clarita (otherwise known as Magic Mountain) within an hour, and shortly after exiting the freeway I came upon the first site: the Cascades. This is essentially the southern terminus of Mulholland’s aqueduct. It was completed on November 5, 1913, when 40,000 souls congregated to watch the first gush of water come through the gates. Today, more than a century later, it’s still going strong. (In 1970 a second aqueduct was added, and both of them terminate here at the Cascades.) It’s simply a damn impressive sight. And the water makes the entire 230-mile trip solely by gravity. Here are a few pictures I took today:

Better than the flume ride at nearby Magic Mountain

You really have to check out the vido I took as well. It’s only about 10 seconds long:

All ashore that’s going ashore

There’s something mesmerizing about watching hundreds of cubic feet of water per second crashing along the sides of a cement canal as it tumbles down to enter the city water supply and be used to wash down the floors of barns. At least, that’s what my wife does with it…

Truth be told, the diversion of the water from the Owens Valley was very controversial, even 100 years ago. In fact, local farmers and others disrupted the pipeline with explosives and other tools of the sabotaging trade. But now, with 10 million residents, Los Angeles simply could not exist without external water sources such as this one.

After meditating on the Cascades for a bit, I rode up into the Sierra Pelona Mountains, about 40 miles northwest of downtown Los Angeles. (See paragraph 1, above.) It’s a lonely road through arid country.

Still, it was an enjoyable ride, with warm weather (see paragraph 1) and blue skies. It felt far from Los Angeles. What a great way to spend a Thursday. Ain’t retirement great?

Eventually, after turning onto ever-smaller roads, I encountered Site # 2: This is one of the power houses that belongs to the LA Department of Water and Power. It’s fed by three penstocks that take their water from the aqueduct.

It’s a stately structure from the 1920s, built with that same art deco look that all utility providers seemed to share in those days. The building originally looked like this (below) when it was originally constructed in 1920. Note that there were only 2 penstocks at that time:

The building I saw today had been re-constructed in 1929, for reasons that are connected to the upcoming Site #3. But first, let’s go back to March 12, 1928, when another motorcycle rider was coming along this same road that I visited today. That motorcycle rider was Ace Hopewell (I’m not making that name up), and he passed the power station a little before midnight. He didn’t notice anything unusual, and continued up the road another mile or two, when he heard the loud sound of rocks rolling down a mountainside. He stopped, smoked a cigarette (as one does), and when the sound faded away, he hopped back on his motorcycle and continued on his way.

It turns out that what Ace heard was the failure of St. Francis Dam, which is just a mile and a half from the power station. The dam had been constructed two years earlier at Mulholland’s order, in order to provide backup water storage for Los Angeles. Water was diverted from the Los Angeles aqueduct to fill the new reservoir behind the dam, and it had reached capacity just a few months before Ace took his midnight ride. Meanwhile, the dam keeper had been noticing cracks and water seepage, but Mulholland assured him that those were normal for a dam of this size. Indeed, Mulholland had personally inspected the dam and declared it safe earlier that very day. And now, a few minutes before midnight, the dam catastrophically failed. A wall of water 120 feet high crashed through the canyon, wiping out buildings (including that poor power station), homes, ranches, and, further away, several towns. The floodwaters eventually emptied into the Pacific Ocean, some 50 miles away, around dawn the next morning. Almost 450 people would lose their lives, making this the second worst disaster to befall California (after the 1906 earthquake and fire).

So today, I’m standing in the same canyon where the floodwaters unleashed by the St Francis Dam had scoured everything from the surface. I tried to imagine what that must have been like. The scale is hard to fathom. And so to help me wrap my head around this disaster, I sought out Site #3: The ruins of the St. Francis Dam.

This took a little doing. After a few false leads, I found an abandoned road which had been barricaded with K-rail. I parked the Triumph and hoofed it along the cracked roadway, down into what had briefly been the dam’s reservoir.

The further I went, the more overgrown the road became, until it was barely a path hemmed in by brush:

But then, suddenly, the brush cleared and I was standing on the site where the St. Francis Dam once stood. It was eerie, in that desolate area, hearing nothing but the wind rustling the leaves of the (incongruous) Aspen (?) trees, and imagining the total collapse of that massive structure. All that was left were some large concrete chunks and some rebar. (The authorities long ago dynamited and bulldozed the portions of the dam that had been still standing, in order to discourage sightseers. Like me.) Anyway, here’s what I saw today:

“Then the wall of the city will collapse and the people will go up, every man straight in.”

Notably, Mulholland assumed full responsibility for the dam’s failure, and a few months later he resigned as the head of LA’s water and power agency, and retired. There are many things not to like about William Mulholland, but you have to admire his The-Buck-Stops-Here attitude which is almost entirely lacking among politicians these days. Mulholland is quoted as saying, “If there was an error in human judgment, I was the human, I won’t try to fasten it on anyone else.” After retiring, he became a recluse, and it is said he spent the rest of his life feeling devastated by the St. Francis Dam disaster.

As I headed home, returning to the LA freeways and encountering the crush of Angelenos returning home from work, texting while they drive and exercising almost no lane discipline, I tried to make some sense of what I saw today. On the one hand, I’m in awe of heroic public works projects like the Los Angeles aqueduct. Leaving aside the environmental implications and the morality of stealing water from the Owens Valley, the sheer engineering and execution of the project is astounding. It’s not Apollo 11, but it’s close. There’s something awesome about that, and it reminds us that we as a civilization have enormous power to change our environment — for good or bad. And yet. It’s interesting to bookend the Cascades, which are still working beautifully after more than a century, with the St Francis Dam, which failed within a few months. I suppose you could take from that a warning that we need to be more careful in our design and execution. But I take a somewhat different message. It’s that we are not in fact entirely the masters of our destinies. Just as the abandoned road I encountered was being taken back by nature, so did nature take back San Francisquito Canyon. And, in a strange way, I find that somewhat reassuring. Maybe it’s good that we’re not entirely in control. There’s something liberating about that.

Makeshift memorial by the dam site. For the 450 victims in 1928?

California history · Road trips · trains · Uncategorized

Boring Work

November 15, 2020December 22, 2020 steveboilardLeave a comment

When I awoke in Tehachapi this morning it was 37 degrees. By mid-day, though, the temperature was flirting with 60, so most of the day’s ride was pleasant enough. But clearly this is going to be my last trip into the mountains until next spring.

My first order of business (after choking down the microwaved egg and sausage biscuit that the Fairfield Inn calls their “complimentary breakfast) was to check out some of the 18 Southern Pacific tunnels that were bored for the Tehachapi line in the late 1800s. Tunnels are one of my favorite railroad features. Each represents a triumph over physical obstacles, but in a way that is more elegant than brutal. I say that because, viewed from the outside, very little of the mountain is altered. If not for the portal at each end, you wouldn’t know the mountain had been altered at all. And these particular tunnels along the Tehachapi route are especially impressive when you realize that they were dug without major earth moving equipment. It was mainly picks and shovels, wagons pulled by draft animals, and of course TNT.

Heading west out of Tehachapi parallel to the rail line, I caught glimpses of 4 or 5 of these tunnels. Even early in the morning the long trains with multiple locomotives were moving in and out of these tunnels with a carnal symbolism that made me blush.

After reaching my limit of double entendres, I began my long, winding ride north through the Sequoia National Forest. The last town (and last railroad infrastructure) I passed before I began my climb into the southern Sierra Nevada was the town of Caliente. Like the city of Tehachapi, Caliente owes its existence to the Southern Pacific and its Tehachapi Line. In the late 1800s Caliente was a reasonably prosperous town, with plenty of jobs related to the railroad. The town at one time had about 60 buildings, about a third of which were purportedly saloons. Today, Caliente still sees plenty of rail traffic. But most of the buildings, and the population, are gone.

Is it caliente in here, or is it just me? (Sorry, I’ll stop now.)

Immediately after leaving Caliente my route narrowed to a thin road twisting up into the mountains. I was headed for Lake Isabella, named after Queen Isabella of Spain. The town of Isabella (no “Lake” yet) was founded near the end of the 19th century, and when the Kern River was dammed in the 1950s the original town site was submerged under the new Lake Isabella reservoir. The town was re-established on nearby dry land, and renamed Lake Isabella. I’m telling you all that because there’s really nothing else of interest about Lake Isabella. I just chose it as a arbitrary, midway target for today’s travels.

It was a pleasant ride through the forest. Here and there were signs of long-past settlements. It seems that gold rushes over the years had brought miners to these mountains, just as 49ers flocked to the Mother Lode country up north.

I didn’t see many other people along my route, but I did come across this arachnid. Can anyone identify it?

Along the route I noticed a rustic-looking sign with the words “Cowboy Memorial” hanging over a broad corral gate. Flanking the gate were figures of a cowboy and a cowgirl. I stopped to investigate.

The plaque reads: “Cowboy Memorial and Library established June 17, 1980. Dedicated to THE COWBOYS….”

It turns out this “memorial and library” was the brainchild of one Paul de Fonville. I couldn’t find out much about him, other than he’s a former cowboy and rodeo champion. The museum and library was supposed to provide accurate information about real cowboys, as opposed to the Hollywood versions. I’m told the complex was always a little quirky and disorganized, but now it appears to be shut down entirely. I don’t know whether de Fonville even still walks this earth, but given that he was born in 1923, I doubt it. I did consider jumping the gate, but posted signs warned me not to. Skulls mounted on the fence posts convinced me that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

Just before I arrived at Lake Isabella, a cluster of ancient buildings caught me eye on the left. A large plaque memorialized the area as “Silver City Ghost Town.” It seems that in the 1970s a local by the name of Dave Mills decided to rescue a number of historic structures from deteriorating mining towns throughout the Kern Valley. (It was really a very different age, when you could just go in and uproot buildings and take them for yourself!) The buildings came from colorfully-named towns like Whiskey Flat, Hot Springs, Miracle, and old Isabella. Dave re-sited the buildings here in Silver City, and charged people to see ’em. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear, Silver City closed after only a few years. In 1990 it was purchased by a new owner, and it remains open to the public today. So I plunked down my $7.50 and took a stroll around. I think the idea is similar to that of Bodie State Park: To keep the buildings in a state of “arrested decay.” That is, you prevent further deterioration, but you don’t try to fully restore anything. The objective is to have these places looking like that would in a real, uninhabited, ghost town.

There were about 20 buildings altogether, and while the signage was a little wanting (most buildings just had an 8-1/2″x11″ sheet of paper with a few paragraphs of purple prose stapled to the outside), it was a fun way to spend an hour.

Many original artifacts are contained within the buildings, such as this post office.

Old church, with a coffin on a bier and a deteriorating organ inside.

The Apalatea/Burlando House, originally from Kernville, has been used in some old western movies, like this one. It’s also supposed to be haunted.

After consuming a BLT in Lake Isabella, I headed northwest through the mountains with the ultimate goal of reaching Porterville for the night. It was simply a beautiful ride.

It was one of those afternoons when you feel at peace with the world. The sun is shining, the air is clean, there’s no one else around, you’re just communing with God’s world.

And then.

It turns out that lighting started a fire (the “SQF fire”) back in August, which is still burning in the forest and has closed my route to Porterville. I took a detour through a winding, snow-scattered pass and eventually made it to Porterville by nightfall. Near the end of this detour I managed to find one more Southern Pacific-related site: Dutch Corners/ the town of Ducor. Here’s the text from a plaque: “In 1885 four German homesteaders, Chris Joos, Ben Spuhler, Fred Schmidt, Gotlet Utley, sunk a common water well where the corners of their land met. This junction became Dutch Corners. In 1888 the east side line of the Southern Pacific railroad was built and the name was condensed to Ducor.

Tomorrow I’m traveling south on State Route 43.

CAPTION CONTEST!

It turns out Porterville doesn’t have a single decent brew pub. So in lieu of a Brew of the Day, I offer this photo from today’s travels near the town of Loraine. Please submit caption ideas. The mind reels.