On the way back to Vegas from Great Basin, I made a couple detours to check out things I knew I wouldn’t have the chance to see again during my Vegas stay. One stop was Boot Hill Cemetery, in the ramshackle Old West mining town of Pioche. According to local lore, during the silver mining boom of the 1870s, more than 70 men were "killed with their boots on" before anyone died of natural causes in the then-newly founded town, and most were buried in Boot Hill.
The graves, or at least those that remain identifiable in the scraggly, treeless field, were lined with stones and marked with pieces of wood, most of which had broken or been worn down with time and the elements. This one looked suspiciously new, though I think it was probably just redone for the tourists’ sake.
In case you can't make it out, it reads:
1844-1873
Morgan Courtney
Feared By Some
Respected By Few
Detested By Others
Shot in Back
5 Times
From Ambush
His neighbor, John Lundh, died "in a dispute over a dog," while another marker simply said "Never Knew His Name. Shot to Death."
After Boot Hill, I made an 80-mile detour to the dusty, rather sad little town of Rachel. The only thing that brings people to Rachel is the fact that it is the nearest settlement to Groom Lake, also known as Area 51, the super-secret (only everyone knows about it) military installation where they keep all the aliens, UFOs, Jimmy Hoffa, the recipe for the orange powder in Kraft Macaroni 'n' Cheese and so on. Here’s a shot of the Groom Lake area.
Rachel was made famous when Fox Mulder visited in "The X-Files," but it’s clear that the end of the show brought the end of tourist traffic, aside from the occasional visitor like myself, who stopped for exactly three minutes to buy a couple postcards and take some photos.
Sadly, about 20 miles outside Rachel, just at the turn-off for an unmarked gravel road that leads to Groom Lake, I became a murderer.
I hit a beautiful, lithe jackrabbit. I swerved to avoid it, but it feinted and then darted right into my front bumper. If nothing else, I am certain its death was instant and that it didn’t suffer too much, but as you might imagine, it put me in a down mood for the rest of the trip.
The only other unsettling thing about my detour to Groom Lake was the number of cows roaming the two-lane highway as dusk fell on the desert. Usually, when you see the "Open Range" warning signs, you see the cows a mile or more off the road, but here, in no less than three places, cows were walking on or beside the road, at a time of day when most normal cows have already, well, gone home for the night.
Clearly they were government surveillance agents monitoring the outer Area 51 perimeter.
It’s the only possible explanation, of course, and it fits nicely with my personal conspiracy theory that cows are not to be trusted. When I look into their eyes, their cold, dead eyes like those of the Great White shark, I see no love for others. I don’t like the way they stare. I don’t like the way they pretend to be chewing when I’m sure they’re plotting some major takeover. I worry that the heavy use of antibiotics in industrial agriculture is creating supercows that will be impervious to conventional weaponry when we try to defend ourselves during the coming Bovine Revolution.
But I digress. Let’s just say that it’s the devil’s work to have that many stomachs. It just ain’t right.
Here is a shot of one of the government agents, taken from the safety of my car.
God save us.
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