by Bill Graves
An Addicus Nonfiction Book
Copyright 1999 by Bill Graves. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information, write Addicus Books, Inc., P.O. Box 45327, Omaha, Nebraska 68145.
ISBN# 1-886039-36-4
Cover design by Jeff Reiner, Josh Doolittle
Typography by Linda Dageforde
Cover photo by Sutter Creek, CA by Henry Mace
Back cover photo by Chris Graves
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Graves, Bill, 1933-
On the back roads : discovering small towns of America / Bill Graves.
p. cm.
“An Addicus nonfiction book”—T.p. verso.
ISBN 1-886039-36-4 (alk. paper)
1. West (U.S.)—Description and travel. 2. West (U.S.)—History, Local. 3. West (U.S.)—Biography. 4. Cities and towns—West (U.S.) 5. Graves, Bill, 1933- —Journeys—West (U.S.) I. Title.
F595.3.G73 1999
917.804’33—dc21
98-42821
CIP
Addicus Books, Inc.
Web site: www.AddicusBooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Judy, Chris, and Kathy,
And for Connor, whose journey has just begun
Contents
Part I Southern California — Nevada
1.. Emmy
2.. Pegleg Smith’s Lost Gold Mine
3.. Fossils in the Desert
4.. The Search Begins for Main Street
5.. Oh-My-God Springs
6.. The Story of the Salton Sea
7.. Hunting for a Caboose
8.. Rest Stop of Wilted People
9.. A Day Dedicated to the Caboose
10.. El Garces: A Harvey House
11.. The Last Boomtown
12.. Highway 95: 450 Miles and One Traffic Light
13.. Old Saloons and Tiffany Lamps
14.. A Class Act of the Old West
15.. A One-Sidewalk, One-Airplane Town
16.. Potluck Booze Made Pizen Switch
Part II Northern California — Oregon: Spring
17.. Isolated by Its Hugeness
18.. California’s “Highest” Town
19.. It’s Illegal Not to Have a Gun
20.. Where Flies Come to Die
21.. The Driftwood Capital
22.. This Trucker Hauls His Two-Year-Old
23.. Harley-Davidson vs. Honda
24.. A White-Circle Town
25.. Independence Comes With Living Close to the Land
26.. The Sucker Jar of Surprise Valley
27.. The Oldest Living Things
28.. Can’t Root for the Hometown Team
Part III Central California: Summer
29.. Perched on the San Andreas Fault
30.. Jake’s Fish Farmer
31.. A Town That Deserves a Medal
32.. Its Name Preceded It
33.. Searching for Main Street
34.. Where Butterflies Spend the Winter
35.. A Convex, Equilateral, Three-Sided Temple
36.. Adventures on a Narrow-Gauge Speeder
37.. Vandenberg Air Force Base: Thirty Miles of Beach
38.. Fog, Flowers, and Watermelon Seeds
39.. Servicetown, USA
Part IV California — Arizona — Utah: Summer
40.. Home for a Visit
41.. The Year’s Longest Day
42.. Route 66
43.. The One-Man Post Office
44.. The Sun’s Hot Grip
45.. The Grand Canyon vs. Route 66
46.. “Little Hollywood”
47.. Maybe America’s Only Ant Hunter
48.. “Catfish” Charlie on Butch Cassidy
49.. Silver Oozed from the Rock
50.. Dixie Country
51.. A Monument to a Massacre
52.. Pioneer Day
Part V Wyoming — Utah: Fall
53.. Welcome to Wyoming
54.. A Subterranean City
55.. Oregon Trail Trading Post
56.. Greatest Pioneer Movement in History
57.. The Beaver Hat
58.. Ranch Girls Aren’t Prissy
59.. J.C.Penney Mother Store
60.. Inside the Temple
61.. Columbus Day is Transferable
62.. Truck Attack on the Library
Part VI Arizona — Colorado — New Mexico: Fall
63.. A Bad Day for Arizona
64.. Indian Country
65.. Mostly Texans Here
66.. The Anasazi: Now We Know
67.. Ten-Cent Coffee
68.. The Uranium Rush of 1950
69.. On the Santa Fe Trail
70.. A Route around Albuquerque
71.. Where Dust Bunnies Can’t Hide
72.. Street of Healing Magic
73.. The True Journey Never Ends
About the Author
Introduction
I told my friends, when I was writing this book, that it was about a former naval officer who could not stand the stress of retirement and ran away in a motorhome. Looking back, that is a pretty good description of it. It’s honest anyway.
Six years ago, I was facing huge decisions, but from the perspective of a 22-year old just starting life. I had no real job, no place to live, my kids were grown and doing well in the world and I was single again. The difference, of course, I was older, maybe wiser and had an income. I did what I have never done before: I followed a dream. I took off in a motorhome to explore the West. I did not know where I was going – and didn’t care much - but quickly realized that a destination is not import ant. The journey is what it’s all about. For me it was everything—all there was.
I hung out where I felt like it, usually in the small towns that were a long way from the big ones. I may have missed some of the spectacular national parks and fun places average Americans go; and I may have missed a chance to meet tourists from around the nation. But that’s okay. I was out there searching for that special breed of American who makes his life in the tiny towns of the American West, and I wanted to do it on his turf.
For the seven months I traveled, I was able to fufill my wish. And now, I am pleased to introduce you to the many fascinating people and places that were part of my unforgettable journey.
My motorhome helped make it all possible. It is completely self-contained right down to an electric generator that runs everything including my microwave and two air conditioners. It is comfortable, of course, but that is not what the motorhome lifestyle is all about—at least for me. It is about the independence and freedom that it offers, the absolute in free-spirit travel. Not ever tied to a schedule, a reservation, or even a clock, I let my curiosity run everything. I didn’t have to read a sticky menu be fore breakfast or unpack a suitcase for my toothbrush. The motorhome did, and still does, offer life on my terms on the open road. And it doesn’t get much better than that.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
1874-1963
Part I
Southern California — Nevada
1
Emmy
Southern California Desert
Emmy was alone, camped a ways off the county road. If I startled her, approaching unannounced, she said nothing, except to politely offer me a chair.
Nearby, a shallow wash that ran with winter rains two months ago was filled with lupine and wild
primrose. To one side bloomed a desert lily.
“I haven’t seen a lily here for at least eight years. Its roots go deep, still it rarely gets enough water to give us a flower,” Emmy said, laying aside her reading.
The view out front was a calendar picture. April. Springtime in the desert. Three folding chairs plus a pair of collapsible tables, now covered with her books and my camera case, furnished Emmy’s open-air parlor. Moving a chair on her way to get us some tea, Emmy commented that most of her visitors come in pairs.
Emmy was a schoolteacher. An exemplary one, I would guess. Teaching was her life. She quit twenty-two years ago—retired, really—and has never looked back.
Eighty-three now, Emmy+ has no family. She never married. She sold what little she had, which didn’t even include a house, and bought this self-contained camper.
Emmy had clear plans for the rest of her life. It shall be a journey. A true journey, she says, no matter how long the travel, never ends.
“My curiosity runs everything. I tell people that it even writes my schedule and usually overbooks me. There’s just so much to do.” Half-smiling, Emmy shaked her head in apparent frustration. “Unfortunately, God gives none of us time to do it all, but I’m pestering Him for an extension.”
“Think you will ever settle down?” I asked.
“Do I have to?” Emmy put on the pleading look of a teenager. “I am settled. That’s the point. Just look out there.” Her hand swept the horizon. “It’s breathtaking! No person could plant a more beautiful flower garden. And if someone did, you and I couldn’t sit by it like we are and watch the sun move across it all day.”
Five months of spring freshen Emmy’s year. If there is such a thing as a blooming wildflower circuit, she is on it. Starting in the lower desert of California in early April, she moves next to the high desert, then to the Pacific Coast, ending at 14,000 feet in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in August. The rest of the year, she roams the back roads of the West. Wildflowers, she says, are her fascination; America’s small towns are her passion.
“Believe me, the little communities of this country are its last real hope,” Emmy insisted. “There is not much inspiration coming out of the big cities. Have you watched TV lately?”
“I try not to.”
She moved her chair and faced me. “When I am in one of those little cow towns, like in Nevada or Montana, it recharges my optimism. Kids walking home from school say ‘hi’ to me. They don’t fear a strange face. Would you believe it? There are still places in this country where is it OK to be friendly with a stranger.
“You would be amazed at the number of people, born and raised in the city, who move to small towns and start over.” Emmy reached for a book on the table. “I was just reading this [John] Steinbeck book. Must be the third time. He wrote this in the late fifties.” She found the page. “Listen to this: ‘As all pendulums reverse their swing, so eventually will the swollen cities rupture like dehiscent wombs and disperse their children back to the countryside.’ Now, that’s exactly what’s happening.”
Handing me Travels with Charley, Emmy continued. “Some people think it’s just my generation or yours. It’s not. It’s everyone who wants to escape what is happening in the city. Families are desperate to make something for themselves, something of value that doesn’t need to be chained down. I have seen them, young couples poking around small towns on weekends. I talk with them. And the next year when I come back, they run the bakery or the library or have an office on Main Street.
“You know, the man who doesn’t strike out and do what it is he really wants to do in life…well, he is missing life itself. People are realizing that more and more, I think.”
Emmy paused, maybe thinking I had something to add. Then she asked where I hailed from.
“Guess I’m homeless. I’m a runaway.” It was a facetious answer, of course, and that’s the way she took it. Honestly, both were true.
Emmy turned and looked at my comfortable motor home.
“Face it, Bill. You aren’t homeless. You’re a vagrant!” she laughed.
“Vagrant? As in nomadic? I guess I can live with that.”
“Live with it!” Emmy was shaking a finger at me. “There are millions who would take your place in a flash. I meet them all the time. Being a curiosity—or should I be honest and say an oddity—they come by and want to talk, just like you have. I explain that I don’t own an alarm clock or a phone. I tell them that the only thing I have to do today—or tomorrow, maybe—is to see what’s over the next hill. That makes them want to cry,” she joked.
Emmy sat quietly for a moment, and sipped her tea.
“No, you are very lucky, and so am I.” She was looking out over the desert, thinking beyond what she was saying. “There is so much to see. Have you ever seen the wheel ruts made by the wagons on the Oregon Trail?”
“Not yet.”
“You will. The roads you travel will lead you right to them. Most people think I’m nuts when I ask that. But can you imagine? Just think about it, what a thrill when they discover the ruts made by those wagon trains are really there. Yes, in a New York second they would take your place. Some will eventually get out here. A few, maybe. But for one seemly good reason or another, most never will. And that saddens me.”
Emmy was not just an astute observer. She was very wise. I’m sorry that I left without telling her that. Nor did I tell her that she accomplished what all teachers aspire to but few achieve: She filled me with questions about my life and how I should be living it.
What did Emmy mean by “the last real hope?” What is happening in the small towns of this country? All I actually know about present-day America is what I see in the newspapers and on television. Emmy, it appears, is a far better source than either of those.
I want to see the real America for myself. I don’t mean a senior-citizen tour, seeing it out of the window of a sightseeing bus. If the wagon ruts are still there, I will walk in them. When the main-street diner opens in the morning, I will be there to share coffee with those who want to chat. I will sit on the steps of the courthouse, and maybe in a rocker with a family on their front porch. And I’ll see the sun rise over a place, any place, as many times as I want.
I can’t cover the whole country, but I have the time, the mobility, and pocket change to see the West.
Emmy’s words are still with me, what she said about a true journey. It never ends. I must admit, I have not yet started mine. It’s high time.
2
Pegleg Smith’s Lost Gold Mine
Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, California
I found a place to spend the night near a grapefruit orchard off Highway S22. My headlights swept a registered historic marker mounted in a rock pyramid. This is great, a site of epic significance. I parked my motor home near the marker.
I dragged out cocktail hour and dinner and forgot the marker until I was ready for bed. But I had to know. So I trudged out in shower shoes with a flashlight to read the plague. It told of Pegleg Smith, “a mountain man, prospector, and spinner of tall tales. The legend about his lost gold mine has grown. Countless people have searched.” So much for epic significance.
I read somewhere that there are 1,070 of these historic markers in California alone. Waiting for sleep, I wondered how many there are between here and Canada, between here and the Mississippi, between here and Duluth. Did they tell of Lewis and Clark, of Martin and Lewis, of Mickey Mantle, of Mickey Mouse? What was next, over the next hill?
I awoke in the dark to a wild and frightening sound. It was the scream of a coyote. He was close. I got up and opened the door, the chilly night drifting in around my bare feet. I saw starlight, as much of it as I have ever seen, and a satellite, whirling by as steady as a lamp. What is not on earth is best seen from this desert. Perhaps a cowboy in Montana might argue with that. But I have never seen a night sky in Montana or anywhere else as crowded with stars as this sky over the California desert.
The coyote was off sl
inking in a patch of thorny mesquite with his fellows of fang, poison, stinger, and claw. I would not see him unless he wanted me to. Coyotes are cagey, conniving cowards. They have a lot of enemies. I am one.
Last year, a pack of them killed our family dog, the only pet my two children ever had. A lovable, spoiled, miniature poodle, he was good at licking faces, not defending himself. When he was attacked, he probably yelped. Nobody heard him, so no one went to his rescue. I know he died wondering why.
I sat in the doorway, listening to the gent le voice of the night. It had taken up the details and shadows of the day and had wiped the face of the desert to simple, uncluttered blackness. My mind was reaching back, deriving memories from the most remote of sources. Surprisingly, I was not pushing them away or shutting them out.
I looked at my watch, not for the time but for the date. It has been eighteen months and two days since my marriage of twenty-four years ended. Tonight, I am feeling at peace with myself for the first time since. Guilt. Remorse. Shame. Defeat. All those gut-wrenching pains that pile one on top of another during the collapse of what was once a lifetime commitment. They are gone, at least for now.
I am seeing a universe of stars and feeling awed by it. Hearing the chilling scream a coyote and feeling both anger and sorrow, as if for the first time. It is easier to separate the two now. Anger is simple to handle. Sorrow, an affliction of solitude, is not and never will be easy.
I am paying attention. This moment is important. For months, I have been a non-participant, existing as an uninterested spectator, while valued life experiences have passed like meaningless news clips. They flashed and disappeared for my lack of attention or interest. There are no reruns.
It’s a wonderful journey, this life. I don’t want to spend any more of it asleep in the back of the bus. It’s not too late. It never is. A man becomes his attentions. It is all he has, or ever will have. His observations and curiosity make and remake him.
Emmy said it best yesterday: The journey is what’s important, the getting there. The poor sucker who misses it, misses about all he is going to get.
