The Wild, Wild West

When our Winnebago trailer wasn’t being used to hide the Christmas presents, our family would occasionally hitch it to the rust-on-rust ’66 Suburban and take it out for an adventure. There was that campout to the Duchesne River were we were accosted by a cow at our campfire. There was also a family reunion at Utah Lake where I stepped on the skull of a catfish puncturing my right foot.

One summer in 1973 or so, Mom, Frank and the six of us kids headed west to Nevada in search of the Wild Burros my Uncle Don told us about. Mom and Frank loved the desert badlands and thought the Nevada heat would be a nice break from the Salt Lake heat. We all donned our crocheted beer can visors, pulled up our tube socks and hit I-80. Westward, Ho!

We spent the first night in Elko in the parking lot of the Stockman’s Hotel and Casino. We were awestruck by the gigantic polar bear in the lobby—completely oblivious to how out far away from the arctic he was. We stood by the slot machines handing our parents pennies to gamble on our behalf from behind the red line on the floor used to keep minors from gambling. When we ran out of pennies, the folks banished us back to the trailer so they could continue having fun. While incarcerated in the Winnebago, my brother Mark passed the time by eating an entire bag of oranges with the voraciousness of a ravenous chimp. He then proceeded to puke his guts out. Mom and Frank eventually returned to a trailer that smelled like Anita Bryant’s john.

The next morning (after taking Mark to the Elko Clinic) we headed south. It was a long hot drive. No radio. We kept cool with an arsenal of squirt bottles aided by the draft from the tailgate window that would never roll up. 

We reached the town of Eureka and stopped in a little general store where Mom bought the fixins for tuna sandwiches. The woman at the register was a haggy looking thing whom we knew was most certainly a witch. She gave us the creeps and we made a beeline out of the store chased by a pack of wild dogs nipping at our heels. Lunch was less than we had hoped for due to the jar of expired Miracle Whip. Not a big demand in these parts for sandwich spread on a roadkill sandwich, I reckon.

On to U.S. 50, which is known as the “Loneliest Highway in America.” So lonely, in fact, that it is even devoid of the aforementioned Wild Burros. Dirt and brush followed by more dirt and brush—just the sort of thing an 11-year-old kid longs for. Did I mention no radio? I spent the 80-mile drive envying the pioneers and what must have been a walk in the park for them.

We ended up in the bustling metropolis of Baker where we toured the Lehman Caves. My siblings and I placed bets if they were named after Lynn Lehmann, KCPX’s morning deejay. The stalactites and stalagmites reflected in the many pools—the only sight of water we’d seen since we left home.

After exploring the caves, Mom and Frank needed a thirst quencher. They found a bar in the middle of nowhere. The kids spent what seemed an eternity in the parking lot kicking gravel and throwing radioactive dirt at each other. Finally, bored to tears, we went into the bar and demanded that we get out of that hell hole. Unswayed by our demand, the folks continued with their swigging. A man at the end of the bar spoke up. “I have a ranch just a few miles from here,” he said, booming like Hoss Cartwright. “Want me to take them off your hands?” “Hell, yes!” Frank said. Mom seconded the motion and ordered another can of Burgie. We loaded into the man’s pickup (sans parents) and drove away in a cloud of dust. 

We spent the rest of the day hanging out at the ranch doing farm chores. Gail and Mimi drove a tractor. Mark was brave enough to mount a horse and rode it pretty handily until the horse decided to head into the barn. Mark forgot to duck and was beaned in the doorway suffering only a mild concussion. 

In the morning, after the girls made pancakes for everyone, the man returned us to our parents. We were free from any harm except for the grapefruit-sized lump on Mark’s forehead. He sure loves his citrus.

Anyway, we eventually made it home. Mom and Frank went on to have many more shenanigans along the back roads of Nevada without us kids, but for some reason are completely mum on any of those goings on. 

Of course, I’ve never told them of my Las Vegas escapades, either. What happens in Nevada stays in Nevada.