Piso española

June 21, 2026 steveboilard1 Comment

Ah, the Father’s Day weekend–presenting a fine opportunity to take a motorcycle ride in the fine June weather without feeling guilty that I’m not mowing the lawn.

If I might be permitted a brief personal aside, apropos of Father’s Day: As of two weeks ago, I’m officially a grandfather. Observe the evidence:

Plus, this important context:

But to get back to my story: I was cruising along CA Route 193 (my earlier trip on this route is here) in the glorious spring weather, and on a whim I took a short detour to a place called Spanish Flat (pop: 8,000).

Spanish Flat arose as a mining town during the Gold Rush in 1849. Its name does not relate to Spaniards per se, but rather to Spanish-speaking miners who arrived from Mexico, Portugal, and Chile.

*There is so little photographic record of Spanish Flat that I’m forced to employ this cartoon.*

The early years of the Gold Rush in this region were characterized by placer mining–essentially collecting gold that lay on the surface of the land, usually in current and former creek beds. Spanish Flat was evidently a rich source of gold, and it grew into a sizable community. Then, after the easy pickings played out, the miners moved on to other areas, and Spanish Flat’s population rapidly declined. On several occasions–most recently in the 1930s and 1940s–it experienced a resurgence as mines were dug deep into the ground. But these veins played out as well, and Spanish Flat eventually became a sleepy, rural hamlet that subsists on ranching and farming.

These days, Spanish Flat is notable only for this famous Gold-Rush era photograph.

Allow me to quote from Doug Noble, whose blog (“Doug Steps Out”) is quite informative:

The name of this town is known world-wide because of a single daguerreotype (photograph) entitled, “Miners at Spanish Flat, El Dorado County”, that appears in nearly every book about the Gold Rush. Attributed to an early photographer name Joseph Blaney Starkweather, the often printed photo shows four miners, two of whom are black, working together in what appears to be conditions of equality. The original of this photo is kept at the California State Library and was prominently on display at the Oakland Museum’s Sesquicentennial of the Gold Rush exhibition a few years ago. It is believed to have been taken in 1852.

But that was all over 170 years ago. Today, there is no real “town” that I could see–no city offices, no fire station, no businesses of any kind. Just some scattered houses and this old, mysterious cabin that might once have been anything from a bus shelter to a multi-seat outhouse.

Now, I always feel a little uncomfortable dropping into remote areas like this, where few nonresidents are ever spotted traversing the narrow road. I know that many small communities are actually quite welcoming, but here I spotted a few less-than-friendly signs:

*Admittedly, the fairy wand does somewhat mitigate the sense of menace.*

I must say that I didn’t see anywhere near enough houses to shelter the supposedly 8,000 residents of this tiny village. But assuming that they’re hidden away in the hills and hollers, it becomes obvious that these people rely mightily on the one or two paved roads that connect them with Highway 193 and beyond. This was on my mind as I cruised along Traverse Creek Road, which is one of the only two roads worthy of the name that cut through Spanish Flat. It dips and turns through stands of oak, manzanita, and toyon, and several times it crosses the eponymous Traverse Creek, which feeds into the south fork of the American River. It was then that I felt an appreciation for the nameless workers and bureaucrats who are responsible for this narrow ribbon of infrastructure. I doubt the county gives Traverse Creek Road a lot of regular attention, but it’s a blessing that it’s there at all, providing a vital like to civilization for the skeleton-flaunting residents of Spanish Flat.

Oh, and did I say “nameless bureaucrats”? The exception that proves the rule is Henry Lahiff, the engineer responsible for a modest, one-lane bridge on Traverse Creek Road.

Henry Lahiff (1868-1954) was an Irish immigrant who settled in Placerville after the Gold Rush, and became the US Deputy Mineral Surveyor in the area, as well as the El Dorado County Surveyor. He’s responsible for a number of bridges in the region, and in the 1930s seems to have developed the habit of having his name affixed to each one. (Note that in my earlier Highway 193 trip I called attention to one of Lahiff’s bridges.)

Henry seems to have been quite capable in his work, which we still use today. He was also something of a stud.

*Henry with his sister Nora (left) and some floozy named Lillie Lambert.*

Anyway, my point is (1) that Spanish Flat is one of those many Gold Rush-era settlements that once held economic and social significance but today exists as a pale shadow of its former self, and (2) God bless Henry Lahiff and the myriad other public works professionals whose efforts from a century (or more) ago we still rely on in our so-called modern lives.

Gas stations

Service Station Switcheroo

May 20, 2026 steveboilard3 Comments

The other day I was in downtown Sacramento and came across an auto repair shop that, I was told, used to be an Orbit Gas station. (Alert readers will recall I’ve developed a minor obsession over documenting the extant remains of the Orbit gas station empire.)

At first glance it does bear some resemblance to Orbit’s distinctive roofline, particularly the pointy projections of the star-shaped roof:

And yet upon closer inspection, this is but a pale imitation of an Orbit. As a point of reference, he’s the real thing:

Note that the genuine Orbit station has no need for those clunky girders that are holding up the ersatz building. They look clumsy and out of place, like the truss towers that hold the colored lights at a Black Sabbath concert.

Moreover, the middle part of the building–the actual interior space where Orbit stored quarts of oil and V-belts, and where they displayed an outdated calendar featuring bikini-clad women suggestively holding auto parts–is framed by a pleasant arch, while the copycat building just has a blocky, angular roofline. It’s the difference between Michelangelo and Picasso.

So we can officially put the kibosh on the rumor of another former Orbit station in downtown Sacramento. But do let me know if you stumble upon any other leads about extant Orbit infrastructure. We’ll do our best to give it the Snopes treatment.

URGENT UPDATE

Just as we were going to press, we reviewed an earlier post where we deemed Suzie Burger in Sacramento to be a former Orbit gas station. This claim is validated on various online sites. And yet, the building looks remarkably similar to the auto repair shop that I’ve deemed to not be an Orbit. Here’s my photo of Suzie Burger:

Notably, a 2019 article in the publication Inside Sacramento says Suzie Burger is “a former Orbit-style gas station” (emphasis added). Maybe there was a knockoff Orbit-style chain of gas stations?

So, here’s how things stand:

Orbit definitely had gas stations in Sacramento, and a few of them still stand today.
There are at least two buildings–Suzie Burger and A-1 Auto Repair–which look sort of like Orbit if you quint. One of these is dubbed a former Orbit, and the other isn’t.
Did Orbit have two styles of buildings? Did Suzie Burger undergo some kind of transformation from a “real” Orbit to an Orbit-“style” building?

You can rest assured we’ll get to the bottom of this.

Breweries · Road trips

International Daytripping

April 25, 2026 steveboilard6 Comments

Those of you who know anything about my sordid past are aware that I did a graduate program in international relations, focusing particularly on relations between the Soviet Union and East Germany. And literally while I was writing my doctoral dissertation, both of those countries ceased to exist. Such is the power of my negative energy.

Much of my graduate study comprised studying things that I should have learned as an undergraduate. Like the map of the world. For example, it wasn’t until grad school that I realized Mauritania looks like it was constructed from Lego bricks.

Anyway, one country that even graduate school didn’t prepare me for is the Republic of Molossia. Molossia is what is termed a “micronation,” It’s a landlocked country with only a couple of acres of land in Nevada and two “enclaves” in California. It boasts a population of 38 (including pets).

Like so many things in Nevada, Molossia began as a young man’s fever dream. Kevin Baugh was just a teenager in 1977, when he and his friend Jim watched the 1959 Peter Sellers movie The Mouse That Roared, in which a tiny European nation declares war on the US in order to be defeated and receive American postwar announced. Why don’t we do that, they asked. Accordingly, they declared the formation of the Grand Republic of Vuldstein, with Kevin as Prime Minister and Jim as the ceremonial king. Alas, they owned no land on which to base their country, and Jim eventually lost interest. Kevin, on the other hand, never gave up on the dream, and in the late 1990s he purchased an acre or two of land about a dozen miles east of Carson City, NV. He dubbed it the Republic of Molossia. Baugh is the elected president, though he readily admits that the election was rigged.

I decided that I should fill in this gap in my graduate education and learn more about Molossia. (Alert readers will recall that I attempted to visit the nation last year, but their customs office was closed.) And so it was that this morning I grabbed my passport and made the two-and-a-half-hour trek that went around Lake Tahoe, across the Nevada state line, and into the Republic of Molossia, where I was personally greeted by the President and First Lady. I’m not making this up.

*Molassia has two official languages: English and Esperanto. (Look it up if you’re not familiar.)*

Naturally, my visit to Molossia required passage through Passport Control. I was relieved that my official US Passport was accepted and stamped by the Molossian authorities.

The nation of Molossia is an interesting entity. It would be easy to write it off as a joke. And yet, I was struck by two things: (1) the earnestness of this endeavor, and (2) the obvious good intentions and self-awareness of the First Couple. Put a pin in that latter point, as I’ll be coming back to it at the end of this post.

The earnestness shows up in many ways. Above all, they open their micro-nation to tourists (such as myself) over a half-dozen times each year, offering two-hour tours completely without cost to the visitor. (There were about 30 of us on today’s tour.) On top of this, they have sponsored a biannual meeting of micro-nations (Microcon), and participate in many local civic activities. Radio Molossia transmits news at least once a month, and the nation has been a major player in an ongoing war with one of the last remaining Warsaw Pact countries, East Germany. (There’s a story behind this, that I may or may not share in another post. If you feel strongly, you can purchase war bonds to support Molossia’s cause.)

Perhaps most impressive, Molossia, which is entirely surrounded by the United States, has remained entirely removed from the ugly partisan sniping that has absorbed the country. Instead, Molossia promotes positive values like world peace, as indicated by its Peace Pole in its Red Square.

In addition, Molossia has constructed a “Friendship Gateway,” which is described thus: “We do not build walls in Molossia, we do not live in fear, we welcome all. We have instead built a gateway – a hole in the wall, so to speak – to symbolize inclusiveness and openness. Molossia’s Friendship Gateway is dedicated to openness, inclusiveness and amity between all peoples!“

*The President and First Lady at the Friendship Gateway.*

That’s not to say that Molossia ignores the need for law and order. Indeed, the country maintains a jail, and relegates the worst of their prisoners to the salt mines. (We visitors were each gifted with a small vial of salt from the mines, assured that the product was “proudly mined by happy political prisoners.”)

*Sadly, some of today’s visitors had to be jailed because they had contraband in their possession.*

*A vial of Molossian Salt, “proudly mined by happy political prisoners.”*

The end of my visit, which included some transactions at the Molossia Mercado, left me with a couple of Valora, which, of course, is the currency unit of Molossia. Unlike old-fashioned currencies which are backed by gold or silver or other passé metals, the Valora is backed by chocolate-chip cookie dough. Which is why the Molossian central bank is internationally recognized to be “rolling in dough.” (The First Lady made that comment during our tour.)

Before concluding, allow me to share a few other photos from today:

The Republic of Molossia is on Molassia Standard Time, which is about 31 minutes ahead of Pacific Time.

Posted speed limits are in Imperial Nortons, which, coincidentally, are identical to kilometers. However, the other official unit of distance is the Norton, which is the length of President Baugh’s hand.

*President Baugh and his one-Norton-sized hands.*

Oh, a word about the Molossian flag, which appears in various of the above photos and in the photo immediately below: The blue represents the fair skies over Molossia, the white represents the snow on the distant Sierra mountains, and the green represents springtime in the desert. But most notably, the flag is identical to the flag of Sierra Leone turned upside down. This makes it quite easy to source Molossian flags…

*President Baugh in his official office, with ~~Sierra Leone~~ Molossian flags.*

In conclusion, I have to say that this was one of the more delightful visits I’ve made on my many road trips. Here we have a couple of people with a vision that they’ve faithfully translated into brick-and-mortar reality…over the past three decades. Their goal seems to be benign, and their impact upon all they come into contact with appears to be entirely positive. A person could do worse. Perhaps what this world needs is more micronations.

If you’re interested (and you should be), I’d encourage you to book a tour.

CRITTER CORNER

Let’s return now to the (puny) world that is my life: Two of our animals have gained national exposure! First, our Maine Coon (Mr. Bad) was psychoanalyzed on Mike Pesca’s podcast, How To! (That exclamation point is part of the title of the podcast, and not simply a sign of my over-exuberance.) Listen to me getting scolded by a cat expert for locking Mr. Bad in the laundry room: Mr Bad on Pesca

Second, our one-time race horse Kitten makes an appearance in Poe Unplugged’s “Poe It Like Poe Reading Event.” Kitten appears in my reading of Poe’s poem “Eldorado.” Here’s the video:

You can also watch the whole Poe It Like Poe event, which is here.

BEER OF THE DAY

Today’s BOTD comes from Great Basin Brewing Company in Carson City, NV (which is, of course, Nevada’s state capital). Great basin has four (count them!) locations in western Nevada. I got talked into their Cervesa Chilibeso. To be honest, it tastes like every other chili beer that’s out there (Masthead, Cave Creek, etc). It’s brewed with actual jalapenos in a lager base. At 5% ABV, you’re not going to get wasted on this stuff. It’s mostly a novelty drink, to show the world how you can drink jalapeno juice.

This stuff is characterized not so much by heavy spice as a slow burn on the back of your throat. There’s no nose to speak of, and no frothy head. It has the appearance of an Arnold Palmer. It has the color of the yellow Easter egg dye that your mom made by dropping a tablet of Paas into a cup of vinegar.

This stuff has good carbonation and goes down well cold. The first sip really wakes you up. But then you acclimate to the burn, and the flavor profile becomes rather boring. Let’s be honest: This is a gimmick beer. It’s drinkable only because, after a few sips, your taste buds are toast. No one drinks this for the flavor.

Two stars.

California history · Gas stations · Road trips · Yard art

Desert Depictions

March 28, 2026 steveboilard2 Comments

Now that I’ve managed to claw my way out of the Mojave desert, I thought I’d post a few additional photos that didn’t fit neatly into my scintillating narrative. Maybe think of these as “bonus features.”

This first photo is of the Royal Hawaiian Motel in Baker, CA…which is not royal, not Hawaiian, and not even a motel anymore. It opened in 1957 and closed in 2009. It sat vacant until just last year, when the building was demolished. I’m told that, just before it was demolished, it appeared in the Amazon Prime series “Fallout” (Season 2, Episode 1). But I can’t vouch for that, as I haven’t watched TV since they cancelled Happy Days.

At first I thought the art installation featured here was the three wise men. But the “camels” are actually mules (donkeys? burros?) with packs on their backs. I took this photo near the Old Spanish Trail in Tecopa.

This beer mug is crafted out of wood. I guess that’s why I took the photo. Sorry–I don’t have any other info on this.

Seemoore’s Polar Parlor sits on the main highway into Pahrump, NV. A nice, cold softserve is of course welcome in the desert. But Seemoore’s real claim to fame (according to the teenager serving me at the window) is that it’s the “world’s tallest ice cream stand.” I expressed my incredulity, for this place is barely two stories tall. His deadpan response: “Yeah, but all the other ones are one story. They don’t have a giant ice cream on the top.”

Unexplained “windmill”in Tecopa Hot Springs.

I’ve commented before that people in the desert have a special talent for yard art. I’m not sure what this is supposed to be–Maybe Watto from Star Wars Episode 1?

Speaking of aliens and yard art…

Sticking with the alien theme a little longer, these were advertised at the Alien Fresh Jerky store Baker. Sadly, they were out of them when I was there.

Younger readers might not recognize this photo. In the old days, people would actually go inside these glass boxes, deposit little metal discs called “coins,” and make a phone call from a clunky “handset” connected to a wire. This phone was still intact, but there was no dial tone. It got me wondering if there are any working pay phones anymore.

Another of the many advertisements for borax that one encounters around Death Valley.

This may or may not be an example of desert folk art.

The covered porch of the service station at Death Valley Junction where Marta Becket had her car repaired and envisioned the Amargosa Opera House.

Finally, here’s the borax loading dock at Death Valley Junction/Amargosa. I just liked the lighting.

Thus concludes my Mojave trip. Mark your calendars for my visit to the Republic of Molossia on April 25. Until then, remember: Borax is King!

California history · Cars · Road trips

The Last Word in Road Trips

March 27, 2026 steveboilardLeave a comment

My hotel for last night was in Pahrump, NV, and when I checked in, the desk clerk explained the town is pronounced “paw-RUMP.” And so, when I awoke this morning, a Christmas carol was running through my head: “Pa-rump-a-pum-pum…”

I was eager to make the 25-minute drive back to Shoshone and finish my trip along CA-127. But first I settled onto a Pahrump park bench and enjoyed my coffee and muffin in the warm morning air. But what’s this? Next to my bench was a plaque commemorating Pahrump favorite son Art Bell.

Why was his name familiar? I pondered a bit, then recalled he’d been mentioned by Sue at the Amargosa Hotel on the first night. Sue had explained she’d spent years working in radio, and was always intrigued by a guy who used to broadcast a paranormal- and conspiracy-related radio show from his home “compound” in Pahrump. That man was, of course, Art Bell. Sue was born in Canada and her career moved her around a lot, but because Art Bell had a strong transmitter (or maybe just because his show was syndicated), Sue was able to listen to him wherever she lived.

Art Bell was a complicated guy. Sure, we are all complicated, but Art was especially so. He definitely trafficked in conspiracy theories, but it’s unclear how much of it he actually believed. He set records, won awards, and had a huge influence upon the medium of radio from the 1970s until his death in 2018. He was married four times and had many children. There’s far too much to go into here, but if you’re interested, check out his Wikipedia page. But remember his name; we’ll come back to it.

After I finished my coffee with the graven image of Art Bell, I returned to Shoshone and resumed my southward journey along CA-127. It was a relaxing and uneventful drive, as there was nothing but desert to be seen for about 50 miles.

But then, just as I was reaching the highway’s southern terminus, I entered the town of Baker, CA (pop: 480). Like the other towns on CA-127, Baker owes its existence to the Tonopah & Tidewater Railroad and to “Dad” Fairbanks. And because Baker is situated where CA-127 meets Interstate 15, it benefits from significant tourist activity.

Sadly, there was no sign marking the End of CA-127 South. The closest approximation is the first Northbound sign, and it’s been obliterated by stickers. (I guess this is one of the downsides of having a steady inflow of interstate travelers.)

*Paging CalTrans. Clean-up on aisle I-15.*

Deprived of my customary end-of-the-highway photo-op, I had to settle for this alien-themed selfie:

As should be obvious, Baker’s primary tourist draw is an extraterrestrial-themed snack store called Alien Fresh Jerky. The enormous space-fighter(?)-shaped building looms over the main drag.

Inside are a million different flavors of beef jerky, as well as alien-themed snacks, sodas, T-shirts, and plush toys. There are also various aliens posing on benches for selfies, and several “fortune-telling” booths.

In the back parking lot there’s a giant flying saucer. I’m not making this up. The clerk in the store explained it’s a hotel that, for reasons she didn’t want to get into, hasn’t yet been approved for occupancy. I am so staying there next time I come through.

Across the street from the alien jerky place is The World’s Tallest Thermometer (134 feet!), which was registering a comfortable 82 degrees.

The thermometer was erected by Willis Herron, the owner of Baker’s famous Bun Boy restaurant that used to stand next door.

The Bun Boy restaurant had been around since 1926, and Willis bought it in 1956. Things were going well, then it burned down in 1990. Undeterred, Willis had the restaurant rebuilt the next year, but he added the giant thermometer as a gimmicky attraction. This was the state of affairs until 2005, when Willis sold the restaurant and the thermometer.

Willis died in 2007. And sadly, the new owner neglected the thermometer, which began to malfunction and eventually went dark. Even the Bun Boy fell on hard times, and briefly became a Bob’s Big Boy before closing entirely in 2013.

But that’s not the end of the story, obviously. Willis’s widow bought back the thermometer, had it restored, and held a grand re-lighting in 2014. And that’s why I was able to see it today.

There’s a Gift Shop near the base of the thermometer, because of course there is. On the wall of the gift shop is an antique Bun Boy sign.

And, at least for now, a towering Bun Boy sign still beckons travelers on Interstate 15.

And so, lacking a Bun Boy, I decided to have lunch at a different local institution: The Mad Greek Cafe.

It’s delightfully tacky, painted up in the colors of the Greek flag and surrounded by statuary. It’s sort of a Greek version of Buca di Beppo. But it’s not a chain–the same Greek family has been running this place since 1974. And this place is not just surviving; it’s thriving.

I ordered a gyro and took a seat in the enclosed patio…

…which, it turns out, is home to the restaurant’s pet cat.

I managed to keep maybe 3/4 of the Gyro for myself.

That kind of sums up Baker, and thus it kind of sums up CA-127. But before I close, I want to return to the “Last Word” promised in this blog’s title. And it’s claimed that the last word in the English dictionary is (or should be) “Zzyzx.”

Zzyzx (pronounced ZYE-zix) is a community just a few miles west of Baker. It was originally known as Soda Springs, But in 1944 a self-proclaimed doctor and radio evangelist named Curtis Springer filed mining claims for almost 13,000 acres in the area, and he named it Zzyzx (because, he said, it’s “the last word in the English language.”)

Springer reminds me a bit of Art Bell, the conspiracy monger who broadcast from Pahrump. Springer claimed to be a minister (but he was ordained by no church), and he developed a nationwide radio following. And, like Bell, he would set up his own broadcast studio on his property.

Springer created the Zzyzx Mineral Springs and Health Spa on his Mojave mining claim, which was fed by natural springs. People flocked to this putative health oasis in the desert, where Springer blended some legitimate physical therapies with spiritual programming and some outright quack nostrums. The place was a destination to be sure, but like some other oasis, it was something of an illusion. The property’s “naturally occurring hot springs” were actually heated by gas boilers. And Springer’s “mining claims” contained no valuable minerals. Thirty years later, in 1974, the federal government reclaimed Zzyzx on the grounds that Springer’s mining claims weren’t valid. Springer would (unsuccessfully) fight that decision for the rest of his life. He died in 1985, at the age of 88.

The federal government handed the property over to the California State University, which to this day uses it for a Desert Studies Center. Many of the original buildings, palm trees, and water features remain. When I visited today, there wasn’t a soul around. It was eerie to see this abandoned oasis just sitting in the middle of the desert. Here are some of my pictures.

*That’s a dry lake bed in the background.*

*(Now-defunct) fountain originally put in place by Springer.*

As the desert sun reached high in the sky, it was time for me to put a wrap on this road trip and head back to the airport. CA-127 isn’t an exciting road. In fact, it’s pretty empty, with only three towns of any note to drive through. Even in March the weather is less than hospitable, and rattlesnakes hide in the shadows. And yet, the scene through the windshield is entrancing, and the (few) people you meet are warm and welcoming. I wouldn’t choose to live here myself, but I’m glad places like this exist.

Post Script

Now, you’d think Zzyzx would truly be the Last Word. But on my may back to Las Vegas International airport, I made a brief pit stop at the Primm Valley casino. And what did I see inside but the 1934 Ford sedan that Bonnie and Clyde were driving when a posse ambushed and killed them. There are over 100 bullet holes in this car.

Not only that, but the shirt that Clyde had been wearing is also on display:

Which brings us back to yesterday’s meditation about burying the dead. Bonnie and Clyde’s bodies are both buried in Texas, but the scene of their death–this car–has been on display literally around the world for some 90 years. And here I am gawking at it. But I ask the question again: What’s the interplay between embracing our past and moving on? When do we bury the dead? At this moment, I think the car is a legit artifact of history. The shirt, not so much.