Trailer Life: Tonopah, Nevada

Descending into Ely from the east, U.S. Highway 6 comes with two others-Highways 93 and 50. From there it heads southwest across Nevada by itself, ending in Bishop, California, 272 miles away. Passing through country with scattered herds of cattle, it's a desolate, lonesome road interrupted by just one town.

To call Tonopah a century-old mining town doesn't distinguish it from any other town in Nevada, except those few founded on all-you-can-eat buffets and gambling. Tonopah's population is 2,500 and dropping. For no particular reason, that's where I am headed, having taken aboard 55 gallons of gas and 6,000 calories of cheese bread in Bishop.

Sunday morning at Erick Schat's Bakkery in Bishop reminds me of a restroom at intermission-there is a waiting line for everything. The lady who slides my loaf of cheese bread into plastic said that it is worse in the summer: "Can't move in here for the people."

Back in the motorhome, I immediately make coffee. The bread, shaped like a deflated football, is still warm and wobbly. So I cut thick strips, which works well. It doesn't need butter. I manage to drop a couple of crusty chunks from the cheesier side onto the floor. Rusty watches them until I move. When I do, she knows they are hers. (Problem with that practice is that she always wants more, and I am not that generous.)

We climb north out of town on Highway 6; flanked only by sagebrush, an occasional ranch and snow-capped mountains.

This clean openness is a refreshing contrast from the peopled places I have just left. During the next 40 miles we climb through the White Mountains, past Soper's Casino (claims to be Nevada's highest), and over Montgomery Pass at 7,132 feet.

Crossing into Nevada, a series of road signs updates me on administrative matters: After "Welcome," the next one proclaims this the "Grand Army of the Republic Highway." Then, "Seat Belts Reit: quired;" then, "Welcome to Pioneer Territory;" then the black "6" on a white shield; and lastly, the startled-cow warning that this is "Open Range."

Interestingly, there is no speed limit sign. Out here on the far side of the moon, I suspect Nevada realizes that posting a speed limit is a waste of time,which it is.

I stop at Coaldale Junction-a roadhouse where Highways 95 and 6 meet. "In a few months, this will be a truck stop and casino," the lady inside tells me. The place is almost empty of everything.

The lady continues: "Before they bought this place, they had a machine out front counting everything that went by. It's all done nowadays with numbers, you know."

She is selling the last of her "gift shop" at 33 percent off-long racks of used paperbacks and video tapes with hand-lettered labels.

Back on the road, it is instantly obvious that this is a truck route, and moderately busy by Nevada standards.

The approach to Tonopah is a gradual hillclimb. My underpowered motorhome makes the sign superfluous that says I should reduce speed to 45 mph. Hills on both sides of the road bear the open, white scars that miners leave.

These mines produced $150,198,315, mostly in silver, between 1900 and 1950. Tonopah peaked in 1906 with 60 saloons, three banks, a brewery, four newspapers and a railroad that ran until 1946. Its population shot from 3,000 in 1902 to 10,000 in 1906. Four years later, it was 3,000 again.

The Army Air Corps built a base just outside town during World War II. The Air Force took it over from the Army, which helped keep Tonopah economically alive after the mines closed. But now, the Air Force has all but pulled out.

Today, the town hangs on with the help of county government-it's the seat of Nye County-a small mining operation, a struggling tourist business and boundless optimism.

The owner of an overstocked pawn shop on Main Street tells me, "We have been up and down before. The mines will kick in again, or the Air Force will create some good paying jobs here. I'll wait it out-got no choice."

The Station House, at the south edge of town, is Tonopah's biggest commercial employer, with 105 employees. Although the all-night sign in front reads "Station House Hotel and Gaming Saloon," it is also a mall where you can rent videos, get your teeth fixed or apply for state welfare. In back of the casino, there is an asphaltstrip with 19 RV hookups. It's nothing fancy, believe me. I stayed there.

Station House manager Oliver Crickmon is having a bowl of cereal at his desk the next morning when I meet him. His office is dimly lit by a shaded window, his desk lamp and the glow of five black-and-white TV monitors. They show the front desk and the dining room, and seem to switch around the casino with close-up, overhead shots of the three blackjack tables. He explains that Tonopah's labor force now is mostly in the service industry, which pays the minimum wage and little else. "Tough to build a growing economy on that," he says.

A second casino is in the center of town in Tonopah's finest building, the Mizpah Hotel. This magnificent, five-story classic-a true historic landmark-was built in 1907. It has been sensibly refurbished to preserve the best of the Old West, as good as the good life got back then. Most of the rooms still have toilets that flush with the pull of a chain and iron bathtubs that stand on claw feet.

Jack Dempsey was a bouncer and bartender in the hotel, when he wasn't working in the mines. Wyatt Earp stayed here often. He owned the Northern Bar in Tonopah. His brother, Virgil, was deputy sheriff in neighboring Esmeralda County. And Howard Hughes got married here, but several other places can make that claim, too.

The Jack Dempsey Dining Room is heavy with rich mahogany. Brocade silk covers the walls-its raised design of deep red feels like velvet. The doors have inlaid glass that is beautifully etched. A person who knows might properly call this Victorian style. I would claim it for John Wayne, petticoated ladies in ruffled dresses and the Old West.

Bill Allison, age 66, has owned the Mizpah for 13 years. He calls it the "grand ole lady," and runs it as it begs to be run: with good taste, 24-hour attention and the unrealistic love of a dreamer. Although its rooms are full most all the time, the Mizpah is going broke. "Too many mistakes in the past," Bill says philosophically, realizing that his dream may die because of them.

Should the worst happen and the hotel shuts down, the town will lose its 54 toppaying service jobs. And, what about those folks who had those jobs? "Billy D's" will probably disappear-a pizza parlor and popular teen center next to the hotel that Bill built for the kids of Tonopah. And what will take its place in the lives of those kids?

The closing of the old hotel would be especially tragic here. It's the class act in town. Without it, Tonopah has none.

Still, things have a way of bouncing back in this town that silver built. Bill may lose his dream-"give it away," as he calls it. If so, someone will come along, and, hopefully, pick up where Bill leaves off. Whatever the mysterious circumstance is that keeps these Nevada towns alive, it may just save the Mizpah for another generation. TL

Bill's e-mail address: roadscribe@aol.com