Las Vegas gets all the press, but there are several unusual places to vacation in Nevada. At the top of the list is Carp, which is centrally located only hours from numerous dry lakes, a sheep range, the Atomic Energy Commission Nuclear Testing Site, and a tree. Interestingly, according to Fuzzy Dumwalt who is an almost famous Dimmitt sportsman (he hopes this year to break the world record for having exceeded the catch limit on the most species of game fish), isn’t even really supposed to be named Carp. Fuzzy went there to fish for carp (which he later found out wasn’t even a game fish) only to find out that all the Dry Lakes that he had marked on his map to fish were actually lake (dry), except for sometimes when there was a lot of snow melt or if one of the larger sheep herds all felt the call of nature at about the same time. Anyway, after Fuzzy never did find a place deep enough to put in his bass boat without scraping his depth finder on the bottom, he learned that the Indian word which the locals translated as carp actually meant crap. So he left. Carp is also located close to the Virgin River, but going there isn’t really worth the time and effort since it’s difficult to find and not very attractive, anyway. There’s also the town of Nixon, which was reported to have everything but the missing tapes. I can only confirm, however, that the town is centrally located only hours from numerous dry lakes, a sheep range, a major mud flat, and the Humboldt Sink.
There’s little I can say about northwestern Nevada that it doesn’t say for itself: Cow Head Lake, Massacre Lake (Dry), Alkali Lake (Dry), Lower Alkali Lake (Dry). The only mystery is why they didn’t just call them all Alkali Lake (Dry) and assign each a number. The gateway to all this is Winnemucca, which is a concentration of slot machines located on the banks of the Little Humboldt River. The Little Humboldt will have a lock on first prize if they ever hold a national competition for Most Redundant Names. There is a National Wildlife Refuge in the area, although the only species they appear to be protecting is the vulture.
Nevada has no trees, which is also probably why it has no birds, since they’d have nothing to land on, nest in or poop from. In fact, there’s very little vegetation of any kind in the state. None of the natives I talked to even knew if they had a state flower, although several thought that it might be the potted plant. The absence of greenery is certainly understandable, as water is too precious here to be diverted to irrigation from its more vital functions such as golf courses and swimming pools.
There are virtually no roads in Nevada. It’s not really a problem in Las Vegas, since everyone can either swim or take a golf cart to where they’re going. And truthfully, the need for roads in the remainder of the state isn’t as acute as one might think. The majority of the land being hard, gray and flat, the only improvements usually needed are center stripes and road signs. Non-residents will wish to inquire as to which center stripes are considered current, as many areas of Nevada are no longer in use. A useful rule of thumb to follow is: If you find yourself somewhere where you can’t see a casino, you’re lost and should immediately call for emergency services. Towing charges are understandably quite high, unless you’re willing to be towed to a casino, in which case the service is free. The sparsity of actual roads probably has much to do with the sparsity of actual rest stops. I saw only two in the state, one of which was closed for repairs. With this in mind, you’d think the state would be a lot greener.
I regret that I am unable to report on Las Vegas. My arrival there would’ve necessitated crossing the Spotted Range and, as no one was able to explain to my satisfaction either why it was spotted or how long it had been that way, I decided not to risk it. Also, Wayne Newton lives there.
Rating **
CAMPFIRE NOTES
THE FIX
I had occasion on an already hot Nevada morning to be stopped at a rather rustic rural filling station. My pause there was motivated by the need, not only for gas and a respite from the road, but also for a place to doctor my grilled groin with sunburn lotion and a fresh sanitary napkin. It was here, while dallying over a soft drink, that I entered into conversation with Tony. We were exchanging banalities involving the weather and the Cubs when we were interrupted by the store’s proprietor.
“Hey, Fix, some of the boys were complaining they lost money in the number two slot. You better get it fixed.”
“Fixed? Hell,” he roared, “if they lost money it’s working just fine!”
“You know what I mean. It took their money and didn’t give them a pull.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tony grumbled, “I’ll check it.”
“Did I hear him call you Fix?” I asked.
“Huh? Yeah. The Fix, that’s what everybody calls me.”
“Interesting,” I said, as I followed him to one of the slot machines. “Like Bob Villa?”
“Who?” Tony said distractedly as he fumbled through his pockets.
“The home improvement guy. I gather you’re a handyman.” “Huh?” Tony seemed momentarily confused, then laughed. “Oh. That’s a good one! Hey, Charlie, pass the word, I’m changing my name to The Handyman!”
“Is that your profession?”
Tony eyed me uncertainly, then grinned broadly. “Just a sideline. I’m sort of a farmer.”
My interest was sparked for two reasons. First, I was reared on a farm and considered myself to also be “sort of a farmer.” Second, in all the time I’d been in Nevada, I’d never seen anything which even remotely resembled a crop.
“What do you raise?”
“Chickens.”
The Fix certainly wasn’t typical of the chicken farmers of my acquaintance. He was set apart by, if nothing else, the alligator shoes and Halston cologne. I also suspected that his styled and slicked coiffure had never been graced by a straw hat. I pressed him further.
“What type of hens?”
“Hens? Oh, girls! Hell, I raise roosters!”
It immediately became clear why he found it necessary to moonlight as a slot machine repairman. As roosters don’t lay eggs and are tough to eat, the profit potential in raising them is quite limited. I would’ve been remiss in my responsibilities had I not pointed this out to him.
“This is just a thought, but I’ve heard the real money is either in laying hens or fryers.”
His blank stare indicated that he’d failed to follow my line of reasoning. Before I was able to rephrase my recommendation into more layman-like terms, however, he laughed good-naturedly and slapped me on the back.
“You’re okay,” Tony said. “Hey, some joker! . . . Oh, Christ! Hell, Charlie, I forgot my damned keys!”
I noted the hasp and padlock on the slot machine. “I think I can help,” I said as I started for my van. “We’ll need a three-sixteenths hex head bit and a nut driver to take off . . .”
There was a sudden sharp report, and I turned to see Tony removing the shattered padlock. “Or a gun,” I continued sheepishly. I watched as The Fix fiddled with the slot.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, “you wanna go to a cock fight tonight?”
“Excuse me,” I said after a moment.
“Cock fight.”
“Huh, I did hear you right.”
“You never been to one?” he said, seemingly amazed.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. As a young boy in the Scouts I had, as boys will do, participated in certain group activities during which certain appendages were used for purposes not easily now defined. Perhaps I had been to a cock fight and was only confused by the terminology. In any event, The Fix’s tone suggested that the event was “a guy thing” of the first magnitude, and I wanted neither to miss a learning experience nor appear to be a wet blanket. I did, however, feel that honesty compelled me to inform The Fix about my infirmity.
“I won’t be able to participate in the competition.”
“Huh?”
“The cock fighting. I sort of fell asleep on a nude beach. It’s healing, but it’s still real sore to the touch.”
Following a repetition of the earlier vacant stare, he again laughed loudly, put a large hand on my shoulder, and escorted me to my van.
“You and me,” he said, “we’re gonna be real close.”
I was instructed to follow The Fix’s Cadillac out to the ranch. As I was more than curious concerning the unlikely nature of both his operation and his pastimes, I did so.
That I should follow him was a stroke of genius on his part, as no sum of verbal instruction would’ve been sufficient to the task. My final report to him would need to include the unpleasant truth that his farm was simply too far from a market for his produce. He would need to relocate in order for his operation to become profitable. The opulent two-story house, numerous bungalows and out-buildings, Olympic-sized pool, and airstrip that I noticed upon arrival were further indication of his naivete and financial mismanagement. The farm credit people had obviously allowed him to get in way over his head.
An urgent request for The Fix to fly down to Las Vegas awaited him at the house. I would thus, he explained, be left to my own devices until he returned later that afternoon to prepare for the cock fights. Prior to his departure, he informed the cook to add my name to the dinner list. I was relieved to discover that the entre wasn’t poultry.
I later had the opportunity to visit briefly with several attractive young ladies pool side. I learned that they were not related to The Fix, but rather were “professionals.” My interest as to the exact nature of their professions was interrupted by a sudden and devastating chafe attack, no doubt aggravated by the extreme heat. I found it necessary to excuse myself and hasten back to the more temperate climes of the house. Here I related to a confused but appreciative cook some suggestions for tenderizing tough poultry and proceeded to the den for a much needed siesta on the couch.
I’d apparently missed a substantial portion of the fracas which was ultimately responsible for my awakening. My subconscious had evidently interpreted the gunfire to merely be the auditory manifestations of an old TV western. It finally disrupted my slumber, however, and I reluctantly arose and ventured out on the patio to investigate the noise. There I saw The Fix, an individual identified quite appropriately as “No Nose,” several unidentified gentlemen, and the ladies of my earlier acquaintance all being frisked and loaded into police vans. As I attempted to question the officers as to the nature of the problem, I was apprehended at gunpoint and unceremoniously frisked. The search halted abruptly when the officer happened upon my garter belt and hygiene pad. He retreated and pulled his weapon.
“Drop ‘em!”
“Excuse me?”
“Your drawers, son! Now!”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. See . . .”
“Do it!”
I did. There followed a strained, lengthy pause.
“You some sort of a fruitcake?” said a rather distinguished looking gentleman in gray plaid. I turned to confront them in an attempt to clarify the apparent misunderstanding.
“Freeze!” This request came from a number of directions and was accompanied by the readying of several weapons.
“Are you with The Fix or are you here for the cock fights?” said gray plaid, who seemed more conversant than the others.
I was attempting to explain that, yes, I was sort of with The Fix, and, no, I wasn’t participating in the cock fights because of what happened up in Oregon that would’ve made it very painful and why it was also the reason I was wearing the garter belt and pad, when The Fix intervened on my behalf. I don’t know what was said in the conversation between The Fix and gray plaid, but whatever it was evidently established my innocence. Although the officer who frisked me continued to insist that I should be arrested for something gray plaid won out and issued instructions that I could go.
I never determined whether it was poor management or cock fighting that led to The Fix’s downfall, although I’m inclined to support the former. He was obviously overextended for a chicken farmer who was concentrating his efforts on the wrong gender. Too, gray plaid was definitely cut from a banker’s mold, stylishly callous. Conversely, while cock fighting is most assuredly bizarre and seemingly pointless, it doesn’t seem that these shortcomings would warrant the show of force exercised by the authorities that were in attendance. And while I’m sure that Tony and his farmhands will be well represented by counselors provided by the likes of the Grange and the Farm Bureau, I’d be remiss in not adding my voice to his defense. He was obviously a simple man who was encouraged to his prodigious excesses by overenthusiastic lenders who failed to provide him with proper direction regarding the fundamentals of poultry economics. They too must share the shame and the blame.
I departed the ill-fated farm in the company of the cook and several roosters that he’d managed to sequester during the melee. I initially assumed that Alphonse, or “The Cleaver,” as he liked to be called, intended the birds for a prospective repast, utilizing, quite naturally, my tenderization techniques. He indicated, however, that he intended to go into the chicken farming business. Fortunately for Alphonse, during the four hour drive that followed, I had both the time and inclination to impart to him both the principles of the poultry business and the dangers of easy credit. His relief and gratefulness were evident at the conclusion of our journey. Small reward perhaps, but we are, after all, our brothers’s keepers.
Real Travel Adventures 