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Show THE ZEPH YR/OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 2007 house, blank, staring window spaces, rot in the once proud houses. In the sagebrush Well, the war over, Roosevelt’s New Deal in the past, we once again pulled into the wilds of the Big Sandy country, an abandoned house next to a creek and in the creek a wagon wheel crusted by rust. Water slithered past, Wyoming wind touched thé tips of sage. I couldn’t help thinking that wheel, upright and well-anchored in creek bottom,. was deliberately placed, a warning perhaps, or a marker: We were here, we tried. camp, walked through the empty streets and buildings, including the company headquarters where we noticed a big stack of tough brown envelopes, their return addresses printed in bold black ink: WAR DEPARTMENT. Olaus hesitated, not wanting to be a thief, but I knew he could use those envelopes to file his continuing output of sketches Wells, Nevada. I took a right turn from the early morning traffic, walked north, fol- and clippings. It didn’t take us long to decide. We took them. lowing memory traces. The old commercial buildings in a long row facing the U_P. railroad and U.S. 40, now a Now our war department has a new name: DEFENSE. Or, in journalese, THE PENTAGON. How things do change and stay the same. I mention this visit for a reason: the spookiness wasn’t there. Maybe because we knew the place, had sat on folding chairs for the entire length of a long movie, listened to officers talk and the murmur of young men lonely street. No life, no traffic, not a breath of wind, the early under military discipline, saved from inner city joblessness. We had walked the grounds that were as dusty and pale as the surrounding desert, which we knew well. Part of our stompin’ grounds, was that it? I think that was it. Istill have some of those big manila envelopes, stuffed with pencil and charcoal drawings, portraits of animals and people, forest scenes, desert scenes, mountains. Relics of a more forthright era. skerihog@westelcom.com LITTLE WEASEL ADS, INC. PRESENTS az sO sun lighting the false fronts of brick or concrete, the bank with its Ionic columns. Desert colors: brick red, rose red, off-white and shades of tan. Wide sidewalk, weeds as tall as bushes growing from the cracks. Names on the fronts, black weathered to char: S. Quilici and Son. Elite Bar. The Capitol. Hotel. Rooms. Wells Bar and Cafe.Wells Bowl. Here an entire culture died. This was U.S. 40 when cowpokes rode the range in Ford V8s. Dusty travellers came in from the desert to dredge heavenly soda pop from ice crush. Golden gasoline foamed into glass tank pump tops. Road maps free. Saloon doors opened on delicious dark. Now nighthawks still buzz warm dusk of the new main drag where two casinos wait for night to ripen pale neons. Nighthawks, beaks agape, reap untold wealth. Aging I-80, south of town, hums alone in the soft smell of sage, staying put under the rush, that old song, hurry west to start again, the elsewhere call. Night takes all, mountain ridges go blank against the stars. Mountains and stars, aloof, never did heed our destiny brag, never did preside over our taking of the land. O° AT THE END OF THE DAY, iT STILL DOESN'T GET ANY STRANGER THAN THIS FREAKY DUDE... Here an entire culture died. This was U.S. 40 when cowpokes rode the range in Ford V8s. Dusty travellers came in from the desert to dredge heavenly soda pop from ice crush. Golden gasoline foamed into glass tank pump tops. Road maps free. On furlough, I hitched to northern California, met my dad, Olaus, and we had a great time travelling the west. Olaus was on assignment for the Wilderness Society, meeting ‘people, drumming up enthusiasm. On the way home we drove through northern Nevada, decided to drop in on the abandoned Civilian Conservation Corps camp on the Sheldon Antelope Refuge. We'd been there before, when it was a bustling place run by the U.S.Army. Spent one night there, took in a movie, a DeMille extravaganza, The Crusades in the spacious rec hall. The film broke midway, of course. The young CCC men sat quietly, talking in low tones, waiting for the repair. Took quite a while, but nobody was in any hurry, the nearest town far, far away across miles of desert. 1 remember only one scene from the movie, King Richard meeting with the Sultan. Richard unsheathed his sword, cut an iron bar in half with a mighty wham. The sultan tossed a gauzy silk into the air, caught it with his scimitar’s edge and it gently fluttered down, in two pieces. Impressive, pure Hollywood. : ee eee (CQ 435.260.8011 eas aang 150 EAST CENTER SF. MOAB, UT 84532 BITE HIS POINTY E My My oe 435.259.5693. FAX: 259.5930 www.moabproperties.com STRANGE AND UNUSUAL? That's us! We're unusually interested in finding you the right home at the right price. 9 ANTHONY IN SON MASON (CQ. 435.260.2374 anthony@moabproperties.com |