Bourbon and Blizzards

We were somewhere near Mound House, careening through the storm-battered edge of the desert as a blizzard swallowed us whole. The wind screamed with the fury of some long-dead prospector, drunk on revenge and howling curses across the frozen wasteland. Snow came down in rabid bursts, clinging to the windshield like a strung-out hitchhiker desperate for a ride.

Doc Staunton was at the wheel, a grim shadow hunched over like a man staring into the barrel of a loaded gun. His hands gripped the wheel with a death-defying fervor. “We need ether,” he hissed, clawing at the glove compartment. Papers and receipts flew out like startled birds. “I can’t do this without chemicals!”

I should have never loaned him my “Fear and Loathing” DVD.

“Forget the ether,” I snapped, pulling my coat tighter against the creeping cold. “What we need is chains on these tires—or a goddamn snowplow.”

The dashboard radio sputtered to life, a monotone voice issuing a dire warning: “Blizzard warning in effect. Heavy snow expected. Travel strongly discouraged.”

“Travel discouraged?” I barked. “We’re explorers. Travel is our sacred duty.” I reached for the flask of bourbon buried deep in my coat, took a righteous swig, and passed it to Staunton. He drank like a man trying to outrun Death itself.

Virginia City loomed ahead, its streets desolate but for a few battered trucks slithering down the ice-slicked roads like prehistoric beasts in the throes of extinction. The drivers, madmen, wove a glorious tapestry of chaos—tires skidding, horns blaring, and laughter erupting into the freezing night.

The Old Corner Bar appeared like a beacon of civilization—or what passed for it in these parts. We stumbled inside, shedding snow like mangy dogs. The bartender, a brick wall of a man with a face chiseled from rawhide, regarded us with bored disdain.

“What’ll it be?” he grunted, wiping the bar with a rag that had seen better days—possibly in the 19th century.

“Bourbon,” I said. “Two. Neat. And smokes.”

Staunton inhaled his drink in one savage gulp, slamming the glass on the bar with the intensity of a man convinced he’d just outdrank God. “We’ll hole up here,” he declared, his eyes darting to the frost-rimed window. “Ride out the storm like real men.”

We found a table near the front, where the warped glass offered a view of the chaos outside. Locals staggered down the snow-buried streets, performing impromptu acrobatics on the ice with reckless abandon usually reserved for lunatics and political candidates. A few attempted to sled down the boardwalk on garbage can lids, their triumphant whoops carrying above the storm.

“Look at these maniacs,” I muttered. “They’re defying Nature herself. The Comstock spirit, distilled into pure madness.”

Staunton leaned back, a cigarette dangling from his lips like a declaration of war. “You know, this whole town feels like the French Revolution,” he said, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. “But instead of guillotines, we’ve got snowdrifts. Same chaos, less blood.”

We drank as the storm roared louder, each glass a small rebellion against the howling void. The snow buried cars, swallowed sidewalks, and transformed the town into an arctic battlefield. Yet inside the Old Corner, we were gods—untouchable, unstoppable, fueled by bourbon and bravado.

“To survival,” Staunton toasted, his grin feral and wide. “And to the bastards brave enough to tempt fate.”

“To the Comstock,” I replied. “Wild and untamed.”

We raised our glasses as the blizzard raged, a chaotic symphony of Nature’s wrath and human defiance. Somewhere beyond the storm, sanity waited patiently for the thaw. But here, amidst the madness, we had found something faithful—a fleeting, beautiful freedom.