Trees and the August 9 Storm

If you’re from Western New York you most likely remember the storm of August 9, 2009. It blew through here (quite literally) in the evening, dumping an incredible amount of rain and producing a spectacular light and sound show. If you live in Gowanda or Silver Creek, you will remember this storm for a long, long time. Many people in those areas were flooded out, and, in Gowanda, a wall of mud joined the water. The town was closed to traffic for a week, there was so much to clean up.

I had the great fortune to be driving home from an art show that evening. It was one of my scariest drives ever, even including white-knuckle drives on ice and in blizzards. I literally stayed with the storm the whole way as it drifted from north to south across Erie County. The constant flashing made it seem like daylight much of the time. The thunder was so close, so deep and powerful, it felt like I was inside a giant subwoofer. The rain was coming down so hard, I had my wipers on high and still, they often couldn’t keep up. And even though I was naturally going slow, a couple of times my tires hydroplaned and I was surprised when I didn’t slide right off the road.

Due to flooding roads were being closed right behind me. The north and west accesses to my road were both closed. I’m lucky I made it home. The sense of relief I felt when pulling into my driveway was indescribable, let’s just say I was mighty thankful I had made it home. But it wasn’t over yet.

The power was out. I grabbed my headlamp that I keep right by the door for just such emergencies and made my way into a pitch black house. Great, with the power out I wouldn’t be able to shower (I have a well) and I was a sweaty mess, so I poured myself a glass of wine and sat by the windows watching the light show continue outside. Suddenly, my skin prickled and I had the eerie sensation of what it must be like to stick your fingers into an electrical outlet. The next moment, thunder and lightning crashed and flashed simultaneously and I knew it had hit just outside - I swore I saw it peeking in the window at the other end of the room looking at me. Weird description I know, but that’s just what it felt like.

I went outside to look for damage and didn’t find any. But there was damage. It fried my telephone line (I was without my phone for five days, the repair crews were so busy), zapped the motion detector on the outside light, cooked my stereo and when the power came back on and I turned on the computer, it acted like it was brand new – it was telling me to activate Windows. But I am alive and undamaged (as far as I can tell, please do let me know if I am acting a little strange) and for that, I am, once again, thankful.

Now, you’re probably wondering why the word ‘Trees’ is in the title. I’ll get to that in the next post…

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXII)

Part Twenty-two: Ghost Towns and Snowplows (say what?)

Dawn: I start out towards DV, hoping the roads are open and am distracted by a sign for Rhyolite ghost town. Some history: On August 9, 1904, prospectors "Shorty" Harris and "Ed" Cross found gold on the south side of what was eventually called Bullfrog Mountain. They took a piece of ore that was about the size and color of a bullfrog in the town of Goldfield to have it evaluated. Word of the discovery spread and soon thousands of hopeful prospectors and speculators rushed to the ‘Bullfrog Mining District.’

Rhyolite, named for the deposits of the mineral rhyolite that contained much of the gold, became the largest close settlement to the mines. The industrialist Charles M. Schwab bought the most promising mine and expanded it greatly, hiring workers, opening new tunnels and drifts, and building a huge mill to process the ore. He bought another town's water and paid to have an electric line run 100 miles! from a plant at the foot of the Sierras.

Three railroads eventually served Rhyolite. By 1907, the town had an estimated population of somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000. Production began to slow down by 1908 and the mill and mine were closed in 1911. By 1910 only an estimated 675 people remained in Rhyolite. The last train left Rhyolite in July 1914. The power was turned off in 1916 and by 1919, the town was completely abandoned.

Some of the old buildings are now fenced off to protect them from vandalism including the railroad depot:

and ‘The Bottle House’ (sorry, I didn't get a good shot):

A house built from thousands of beer and liquor bottles by Tom Kelly in 1906. Most of the other buildings, including the bank, schools, and jail, have long since decayed and partially or completely caved in.

It’s snowing and sleeting at this elevation (3,800 ft.) as I poke around the ruins, a raw day.

And it’s early so I have the place completely to myself. All the better to feel the spirit of the place - it’s kind of creepy actually. No one would choose to live here without gold for incentive, it’s bleak, dry, extremely hot in the summer and remote. How quickly they fall when the gold (money) runs out.

Now I continue on to my original destination, Death Valley - will the roads be open? I descend down to 3,000 elevation, then 2000, 1000 until I am at sea level. And what do I see? A big, fat snowplow! plowing sand off the roads accumulated from yesterday and last night’s flash flooding. I travel 3,000 miles from the midst of a Western New York winter to the hottest, driest place on the continent and encounter a snowplow! Talk about ironic…

Next: Death Valley Waterfalls (again - say what?)

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XXI)

Part Twenty-One: The Torrential Rains of Death Valley

After spending the night in a cozy motel (I needed to both thaw out and catch up on my notes), I am off across southern Nevada, heading for ultimate of harsh desert landscapes: Death Valley. (While I am writing this in August, I clicked on the weather forecast for today: Sunny, 124 degrees and no breeze – then ‘cooling off’ to 95 tonight. These readings are taken at 5 feet above the ground, on the ground itself temperatures can rise to above 200 degrees, eggs can be fried on rocks!) I am surprised anything at all can live in this climate, so arid and sooooo hot from late spring through fall.

I, however, am visiting in early February, when temperatures are quite pleasant - in the 60’s and 70’s during the day, 40’s and 50’s at night. I’m looking forward to hiking through marbled canyons, fields of sand dunes and, of course, I must do the tourist thing – amble across the salt flats of Badwater, at 282 feet below sea level, the lowest place on the North American continent while snowcovered 11,000 foot Telescope Peak hovers above.

I do so love Death Valley for it’s pitiless landscapes, it’s such a contrast to everywhere else, even the high altitude deserts that I’ve spent the last week and a half in, seem positively lush by comparison. Here on the ‘valley’ floor there aren't even any cacti or creosote bushes, just rock, sand and a few scraggly saltbushes.

But Death valley has its own kind of unique beauty – the earth laid bare revealing bands of pastel colors running through the rock walls of the surrounding mountains – in places it resembles different flavors of ice cream layered on top of each other if one uses a little imagination.

At sunset and sunrise, when the low sun accents the colors, the effect can be quite stunning. Sand dunes also stand out during the magic hours of dawn and dusk, taking on a warm glow with long shadows accenting their textures.

So why do I find myself in a motel again tonight, outside of the park? Because, believe it or not, it is pouring relentlessly and all the roads in the park are closed due to flooding (and snow and ice at higher elevations.) What? In Death Valley? The place where the 1.9 inch annual rainfall is greatly exceeded by an evaporation potential of 150 inches per year? Yes, I have timed my arrival perfectly (not.)

Guess I’ll have to enjoy the relative comfort of a motel room for one more night and see what tomorrow brings. It’s not like I have a choice, my next destination is the Owens Valley and it is only accessible from here, at this time of year, by traversing Death Valley.

Next: Ghost Towns and Snowplows (say what?)