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Mindstates
A Lesson in Rawhide
by Patricia Alfano
It all sounded so exciting—a camping trip with a group of artists to the ghost town of Rawhide, Nevada to paint, write, draw and take photographs in the quiet, outstretched desert. What I didn’t anticipate was that this little junket would forever change the way I lived my life.
The journey began with our convoy snaking its way through Los Altos, a suburb of San Francisco, and heading toward the California/Nevada border. As we pushed beyond Sacramento and into Nevada, the road opened before us, stretching into infinity. Somewhere around Reno, the inside of the truck began to feel like a medieval torture chamber. By the time we got past Fallon, our path became a bumpy, dusty roller coaster, tossing our bodies from side to side. The 20-minute ride from NV-31 to Rawhide had no road at all—only jackrabbits, rattlesnakes, scorpions and an occasional clump of parched vegetation.
I was having second thoughts.
As our caravan came to a halt at a half-standing structure known as the Old Jail, I gingerly peeled my body out of the vehicle, slowly lowering one foot and then the other on to the shifting sand. Shading my eyes from the brilliant sunlight, I turned around in a circle to survey my surroundings and look for signs of life. There were none.
In 1908, Rawhide, Nevada was home to 8,000 people. There were 40 saloons, 30 hotels, 28 restaurants, three jewelers, 13 doctors, nine bakeries, 10 barbershops, nine lumberyards, four hospitals, three banks, two churches and a quarter-mile-long, red-light district known as Stingaree Gulch. At the time of our trip, all that remained were abandoned mines and a few partial structures.
The desert was quietly returning to its natural state, reclaiming everything the gold-mining community had destroyed close to 100 years ago. The rape of the land that forced it to give up its precious metal was slowly healing as eroding soil filled the mines, and vegetation sprouted through crumbling concrete. The clouds in the distance cast ghostly shadows on the desert floor animating the story of a boom-to-bust town built on shallow dreams.
The self-appointed leader of the expedition, an artist and expert on conservation, jumped from his truck and took charge of the group. Filled with all the energy of someone who had just ingested lightening for lunch, he had everything organized before I could finish stretching my legs.
“The food has to be kept cool; this is how we will do that,” he said quickly creating a makeshift cooler out of rocks. “We’ll put the water here, and the rations there,” he barked. “Then we have to gather what we need to build the fire for chow,” he continued.
Chow? I thought to myself. I guess we won’t be eating in any restaurants.
I was still collecting my thoughts when I noticed that the others had already finished arranging their campsites and begun recording the scenery with their brushes and cameras. They were all well-versed in wilderness survival, and able to effortlessly attend to their needs with the utmost regard for the earth. I felt pitifully out of place fumbling with my inadequate gear while having hallucinations of cool drinks, hot baths and take-out food.
The learning curve in desert survival and sustainable living was steep. I knew nothing about conservation, fragile ecological systems or the biodegradable toilet paper that fell apart in my hands. Composting and recycling were foreign words that needed extensive translation and explanation for me to come even close to grasping their meaning.
“Why can’t we just leave everything in a trash can for the waste management people to collect?” I asked the group after being shown how and where we would be burying the biodegradable garbage.
The first frustrating day stretched into night. I made a feeble attempt to sleep, but my eyes wouldn’t shut. I kept listening for sounds that might indicate critters attempting to sample my sleeping facilities. When dawn finally arrived and the fragrant aroma of breakfast cooking and coffee brewing greeted my nostrils, I became cautiously optimistic, and followed the scent to its source.
Cooking was not one of my specialties; so I was shocked to discover what a huge production preparing a meal was when it required more than simply popping something frozen into the oven. I struggled with learning how to use a rock formation, which had a natural shape to contain a fire for creating a makeshift stove. I marveled at the idea that tea and other liquids could be heated by harnessing the sun’s rays and I was completely surprised to learn that caste iron pots were not solely for creating flower arrangements.
Water was a precious commodity and used mostly for drinking and cooking. The closest place to get a refill for our containers was about an hour’s drive away and volunteers to make the trip were in short supply. As a result, strict conservation methods were enforced when it came to sanitation, such as cleaning dirty dishes and utensils. The precious liquid was carefully measured, saved or reused. As a water addict, it was hard to kick the habit and not sneak a drop or two to refresh my body.
Then there was the lesson of learning to live without electronic conveniences. At first, it was difficult; but eventually, and out of necessity, I discovered it was possible to survive without them. Oil lamps and flashlights guided our way in the dark. The desert rocks were employed to both capture heat and keep things cool; and the warmth of a campfire was not only inviting, but revealed just how much the company of 10 eccentric artists was better than watching television.
The second evening, I began to write; first about my questionable choice of vacation destinations, then detailing my latest adventure in composting. As I gazed to the heavens for a thought, I noticed the stars. There were millions of them—huge, bright spheres that seemed very close to the earth. My consciousness was drawn into the hypnotic celestial array as my exasperation with desert survival evaporated into the constellations.
Under the starlit sky, in the quiet moments that fell between the sound of my breathing and the secret language of the desert, a part of me opened that brought forth a wellspring of inspiration. Linear time dissolved, and I wrote until the stars disappeared into a crimson sunrise.
By the third day, my armpits that no longer smelled like rosebuds stopped being of concern to me. The desert had become my forbidden lover begging for every inch of its surface to be explored. Making peace with the wildlife, I climbed the sensuous hills and caressed the rocky landscape. The invisible veil that clouded my inner vision lifted to reveal the magnificence of a deep, blue sky that kissed the hilltops and blushed with the setting sun.
I discovered how people at the turn of the last century had lived without modern technology by examining the treasures I unearthed at the ancient landfill. Antique perfume and whiskey bottles, rusted metal implements and old buckets used to carry water demonstrated how a civilization existed prior to the age of electronic wizardry. I walked along paths that led to nowhere, yet everywhere.
As the days passed, a new awareness replaced my need for convenience and impatience with anything that wasn’t instantaneous. Cynicism gave way to a humble appreciation for something greater than fine dining, taxicabs and flush toilets.
Just as all things must come to an end; the time came for us to leave. We carefully packed our belongings and, in single file, slowly drove out of the desert in the direction of a plastic world. As the truck strained to negotiate the turf, I took one last glance at Rawhide as it disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Although a part of me was left behind in that desert ghost town, I came away with something much more powerful. I learned how to make more space in my life by surviving with very little; and how to really see instead of to merely look. For this, my gratitude is as deep as a desert sunset.
Patricia Alfano lives in beautiful Ocean Beach, California and works at a local university. Contact her at pat_alfano@hotmail.com or visit her blog at www.bohemianopus.com.
photo 2 - pen & ink drawing of the Old Jail.