Well, bless their stars and all that is sacred in the world of racing–Virginia City’s World Championship Outhouse Races have managed to worm their way into the USA Today’s 10 Best Readers’ Choice awards, earning a shiny nomination in the Best Cultural Festival category.
Todd Tuttle, the town’s tourism director and likely someone who has seen more outhouse action than most people see in a lifetime, was quick to credit this new recognition to the long-standing tradition.
“What started as a tongue-in-cheek protest decades ago has now become a must-see event for everyone—from grizzled locals to tourists who can’t tell the difference between a Western saddle and a Western toilet,” Tuttle mused with a wink. “It’s free, it’s family-friendly, and it’s the loo-niest race in the West. We’re very proud.”
It’s worth noting that in the race of tourism, Virginia City is certainly a contender. With its streets, preserved 19th-century charm, and a history of innovation, it’s a town that somehow manages to be a modern-day crossroads of culture, history, and, apparently, outhouses.
The nomination, Tuttle claims, is a “testament to the dedication of those who work tirelessly to keep our story alive.”
So, if you’re feeling generous and wish to reward the fine folks who’ve perfected the art of portable bathroom racing, you can vote for them. Voting continues through March 12, which gives you time to look up what a cultural festival is before casting your ballot.
Travelers hoping to take to the skies this fine Sunday were instead treated to an impromptu lesson in the whimsical tyranny of Mother Nature as the Reno-Tahoe International Airport found itself at the mercy of winds strong enough to make a bald man reconsider his hatlessness.
By the afternoon, 21 incoming flights were delayed, three outright canceled, and seven outbound flights were told to stay put, likely to the dismay of passengers who had already resigned themselves to overpriced coffee and the dulcet tones of an intercom repeating the words “Thank you for your patience.” Another nine departing flights were caught up in a purgatory of delay as their fate dangled between the caprices of the wind and the optimism of airline scheduling.
The National Weather Service—well-versed in delivering bad news with clinical precision—reported gusts of 70 to 80 miles per hour, a force of nature typically reserved for hurricanes and particularly enthusiastic door slams. These gales were so mighty that at least one flight from Las Vegas turned tail midair and scurried back the way it came as though it had suddenly recalled an urgent engagement elsewhere.
For those still harboring dreams of air travel, officials advise checking with your airline before making the trek to the airport, lest you arrive only to be informed that your journey is getting scotched by a capricious breeze with a mean streak.
In an inspiring display of decision-making that would make a chicken crossing the road look like a master strategist, Dennis Solares-Garcia, aged 39 and allegedly a proud affiliate of the esteemed social club known as MS-13, found himself in the warm embrace of U.S. Marshals on Sunday.
His crime? A robbery at the Tiendita Luzita MiniMarket in St. George, Utah—an establishment whose name suggests it was neither Fort Knox nor a depository for the Crown Jewels.
The authorities allege that Mr. Solares-Garcia, with a firearm in hand and ambition in his heart, relieved the store of an undisclosed sum of money before vanishing like a magician with no exit strategy. The St. George police, in an act of commendable perseverance, called upon the U.S. Marshals Service, who—exercising the radical investigative technique known as “checking Las Vegas”—found the suspect amid the bright lights and buffets of the Strip.
Further inquiry revealed a fascinating twist: Mr. Solares-Garcia had been deported once before. But, much like a stubborn weed or an unsolicited houseguest, he reappeared, undeterred by past failures. Alas, his luck expired around 11:30 a.m. on Sunday when the Marshals extended a most unceremonious invitation to the Clark County Detention Center.
U.S. Marshal Gary Schofield, speaking with the calm satisfaction of a man who has seen this sort of thing before, noted, “An MS-13 gang member responsible for a violent crime was removed from the community today.”
Indeed, thanks to the tireless work of law enforcement, the suspect finds himself in a new and less glamorous establishment—one where the slot machines are scarce, the buffet consists mainly of regret, and the only jackpot comes in early parole.
The investigation, as these things often do, continues.
Once again, the great and noble state of Nevada has saddled up for its biennial exercise in lawmaking, where the people’s representatives gather to argue, filibuster, and occasionally pass a bill or two—if they can stop bickering long enough to find a pen.
At the top of this session’s wish list is education funding, which remains the state’s favorite mystery. Gov. Joe Lombardo, a Republican, wants to make teacher raises permanent—something most educators never expected to see in their lifetimes—while Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, a Democrat, is also in favor, but only if the negotiations involve a proper number of long speeches, delayed votes, and at least one dramatic walkout.
Meanwhile, Nevada’s pre-K expansion is up for debate. Currently, only the financially unfortunate get a head start on their ABCs, but Cannizzaro wants all 4-year-olds to have a shot. Lombardo is offering $140 million to the cause, which will likely be spent on an in-depth study proving that small children benefit from early education.
On the criminal justice front, lawmakers are wrestling over whether to make Nevada’s prisons so crowded that future inmates will need to bring sleeping bags. The governor wants tougher penalties for theft, drug trafficking, and crimes against children and the elderly. Progressive lawmakers insist on more rehabilitation despite Nevada’s rich tradition of solving problems with harsher punishments and a handshake with the warden.
Housing, another perennial favorite, has lawmakers scratching their heads over whether Nevada has more houses or casinos and which should be more affordable. Lombardo proposes a billion-dollar effort for middle-income housing, while Democrats are looking at rent caps and making evictions slightly less dramatic. Corporate landlords, naturally, are in mourning.
Election reform is on the table because nothing says democracy like endless arguments over when and how votes should count. Lombardo, a man of efficiency, wants mail-in ballots to be received by Election Day, while Democrats prefer the current system, where ballots can dawdle in like lost tourists on the Las Vegas Strip.
And lest anyone forget, the Gaming Control Board has submitted bills to streamline casino regulations because if there’s one thing Nevada takes more seriously than elections, it’s keeping slot machines operational.
From tax credits to water rights, cannabis sales to immigration, Nevada’s legislative session promises all the drama of a soap opera, the spectacle of a three-ring circus, and the productivity of a committee meeting scheduled right before lunch. So grab some popcorn, folks, because, during the next 120 days, Carson City will be home to the greatest show in government—where laws are written, rewritten, and occasionally, against all odds, actually passed.
Gentle reader, it is a rare pleasure to witness a grand spectacle of government at work, particularly when said work involves running headlong into a wall of its construction. The latest demonstration of political acrobatics came courtesy of the Trump administration, which, in a moment of inspired miscalculation, attempted to freeze federal funding with all the grace of a steamboat captain yanking the whistle cord without first checking for icebergs.
On Monday, the White House Office of Management and Budget shot off a memo instructing states to freeze all federal grants and loans, an order that landed upon the nation like a cannonball in a henhouse. State officials, charities, and agencies promptly found themselves bewildered, their funds held hostage by a decree so perplexing that even its authors seemed unsure of its purpose. The administration, when prodded for an explanation, declared that the freeze was a noble endeavor to reverse the tide of progressive notions such as diversity, equity, and inclusion—concepts which, by all accounts, had been threatening to bring civilization itself to ruin.
Upon realizing that the effort was about as popular as a rattlesnake in a child’s cradle, the administration performed a maneuver known in political circles as the “rapid retreat,” rescinding the order with all the dignity of a man attempting to pass off a tumble down the courthouse steps as an intentional dance.
By then, twenty-two state attorneys general, led partly by Nevada’s Aaron Ford, had filed suit faster than a cardsharp folds a bad hand. As laid out before the court, the argument was that the President, in his enthusiasm for unilateral decision-making, had neglected a minor detail known as “the law.” Federal Judge John J. McConnell, presiding over the matter, concurred and issued a temporary restraining order, effectively informing the administration that Congress—not the President—holds the purse strings.
Basking in the glow of the judicial spanking, Ford released a statement hailing the ruling as a victory for Nevadans, democracy, and possibly even the concept of sanity itself. Meanwhile, Governor Joe Lombardo’s office noted that nearly 32 percent of the state’s budget was caught in the funding freeze, which did nothing to improve the governor’s blood pressure.
And so, dear reader, we close this chapter of political theater, where the moral of the tale is simple: if one intends to freeze something, it is best to ensure it is not the entire machinery of government.
The Reno Police Department has triumphantly announced that it has delivered a knockout punch to the KO gang—an outcome that, if one were to believe law enforcement, was about as decisive as a heavyweight champ flooring a glass-jawed opponent in the first round.
For years, KO, a local Blood gang set, had been making a name for itself in the fine fields of homicide, human trafficking, drug dealing, armed robbery, and the ever-popular art of stealing cars. But after a multi-year investigation led by the Regional Gang Unit and the Northern Nevada Safe Streets Task Force, the police have seized 30 guns, several pounds of illegal drugs, and an awe-inspiring $10,000—an amount that, in modern criminal economics, wouldn’t even buy a decent used getaway car.
Still, authorities insist this was a resounding success. More than 50 gang members and associates have been convicted, with many now residing in the state’s most exclusive accommodations—prison cells with an all-inclusive meal plan. Several additional cases remain pending, presumably because the wheels of justice, like the Wi-Fi in Lovelock, operate at the pace of a glacier.
The RPD says this joint effort is the first of its kind in Washoe County, and they seem quite pleased with themselves. Whether KO members share in this enthusiasm remains unclear, but given the history of organized crime, one suspects that if history has taught us anything, nature abhors a vacuum, and so do gangs. One can only hope that whatever new criminal enterprise rises to take KO’s place will at least have the good manners to make better financial decisions.
For now, Reno’s police have declared victory, and perhaps rightly so. Whether it’s a lasting peace or merely the intermission before the next act remains to be seen.
It has long been said that nothing travels faster than the speed of light, but in Lovelock, Nevada, it appears that taxpayer dollars can outpace even the most ambitious fiber-optic cable—especially when they’re being rerouted straight into a personal bank account.
For over two years now, the fine people of Lovelock have been waiting on high-speed internet, and instead, they’ve been treated to a masterclass in vanishing funds and bureaucratic shrugs. Uprise Fiber, the company entrusted with a $9 million government grant, has managed to accomplish something truly spectacular: no internet, no infrastructure, and no payments to the contractors who tried to do the work. The only thing they did manage to pay, it seems, is themselves.
The latest chapter in this gripping saga of high-tech highway robbery comes courtesy of NNE Construction, the second contractor to step forward with the shocking revelation that—brace yourselves—they, too, were never paid. They claim they purchased $750,000 in materials, deployed $2.5 million in equipment, and yet received just a single $50,000 payment—just enough to keep them hopeful, but not nearly enough to keep the lights on.
Meanwhile, financial records show that funds meant for Lovelock’s internet revolution took a different route—one that ended in the personal account of Uprise’s owner, Steve Kromer, who, in an admirable display of self-preservation, has now stepped down from the company, presumably to spend more time with his money.
Attorney Mark Simons representing the original contractors, summed up the situation with devastating simplicity: “Nobody has been paid except Steve Kromer.” In a bold new take on the term “public-private partnership,” the public has provided the money, and the private individual has pocketed it.
NDOT and the USDA, the agencies charged with oversight, have responded to this financial disappearance act with a level of concern best described as “mildly inconvenienced.” According to Simons, NDOT has stated that what Uprise does with the money is not their concern—an impressive stance, considering the money once belonged to taxpayers.
And yet, the most astonishing part of all this isn’t the missing millions, the unpaid contractors, or even the breathtaking lack of accountability. No, the real marvel here is that despite its suspended contracting license, Uprise is still trying to hire new contractors—presumably under the bold new business model of “work now, don’t get paid later.”
As for the residents of Lovelock, the dream of high-speed internet remains just that—a dream. The next court date isn’t until 2026, which, given current trends means Lovelock will likely have flying cars before it has reliable Wi-Fi. Until then, the town remains stuck between the 19th and 21st centuries, able to read about its misfortune only if the dial-up connection holds steady.
If you were hoping for a gentle dusting of snow and a few picturesque flurries to sip your cocoa by, I regret to inform you that the National Weather Service has other plans. A Winter Weather Advisory is now in effect, which is bureaucratic lingo for “hold onto your hats—literally.”
Accompanying this frosty delight is a High Wind Watch, set to begin Sunday morning and stretch through the night, with gusts reaching 60 mph in most areas and up to 100 mph on Sierra ridges. At that point, it ceases to be mere wind and starts resembling divine punishment.
Ski resorts have wisely chosen not to participate in this airborne rodeo, with chairlifts on hold before some unfortunate tourist achieves an unexpected flight. Meanwhile, Washoe Valley has become a scene of daring adventure, where only the bold (or the foolhardy) dare tread. And big rigs in Fernley have taken on the admirable practice of non-violence by refusing to move.
As we move into Monday, expect valley rain and Sierra snow above 7,500–8,000 feet, with 1–3 inches of precipitation piling up between Lassen and Plumas counties. By Monday night, temperatures will drop, bringing the snow level down to about 6,000 feet and depositing a fresh 1–2 inches at the Sierra crest.
For those living in the valleys of western Nevada, Tuesday night may bring the charming sight of snowflakes drifting lazily from the heavens—followed shortly by the less charming experience of skidding through an icy intersection on Wednesday morning. And for those above 7,000 feet, I hope you like shoveling because 2–3 feet of sno
Once heralded as the future of green energy, the Ivanpah solar power plant is circling the drain with all the grace of a buzzard over a desert carcass. Built on five square miles of prime Mojave real estate—and by “prime,” we mean land so inhospitable even the rattlesnakes carry canteens—the plant was supposed to usher in a new era of solar-thermal energy. Instead, it’s heading for an early retirement, much like the unfortunate birds that flew too close to its concentrated sunbeams and discovered the true meaning of “well-done.”
The plant, which came online in 2014, was once considered a beacon of progress. That is, until good old-fashioned photovoltaic solar panels—cheaper, simpler, and notably less prone to setting things aflame—started eating Ivanpah’s lunch. Now, Pacific Gas & Electric, the utility that once championed the plant, has decided to cut its losses. If regulators approve, two of the three units will shut down by 2026, a full 13 years before their contracts were set to expire.
“PG&E determined that ending the agreements at this time will save customers money,” the company said in a statement, which is corporate-speak for, “We’d rather not throw more cash into this particular bonfire.”
Environmentalists, who initially opposed the project due to its impact on wildlife, now have the bittersweet satisfaction of being able to say, “Told you so.” Julia Dowell of the Sierra Club summed it up succinctly: “The Ivanpah plant was a financial boondoggle and environmental disaster.”
It’s rare to see nature lovers and utility companies agreeing on something, but Ivanpah has apparently accomplished what generations of diplomats could not.
In addition to its dubious environmental credentials, the plant struggled with a rather fundamental issue: the sun didn’t shine as much as engineers had predicted. This was an unfortunate oversight, given that sunlight is critical to a solar plant’s business model. Meanwhile, drivers on Interstate 15 heading to Las Vegas were either mesmerized by the mirage-like reflection of the mirrors or momentarily blinded by an accidental death ray, neither of which inspired confidence in the technology.
NRG, one of the plant’s owners, insists that the project was a success in proving that solar-thermal technology could work—just not well enough to compete with cheaper, more efficient alternatives. The company is now looking into repurposing the site for photovoltaic panels, a poetic twist given that such technology was what doomed Ivanpah in the first place.
So, as the sun sets on Ivanpah, let us take a moment to reflect on its legacy: an ambitious idea, a series of miscalculations, a generous helping of government funding, and a wake of singed wildlife. The desert, as always, will endure. Whether the same can be said for the investors remains to be seen.
Once, before men’s ambitions and their wagons rattled across every inch of this old Earth, there lay a little green patch amid a whole lot of brown nothing. That oasis, an emerald in a dustpan, became known to the weary pioneers as Humboldt Wells.
And why not? It had springs clear as a preacher’s conscience, or at least his pre-sermon one, and meadows so lush that even a mule might whistle a tune of gratitude.
From the 1840s to the 1870s, this spot was as good a rest stop as any along the California Trail—a rustic paradise where the overland emigrants paused to fatten their livestock and thin their tempers. Humboldt Wells even rivaled all other watering holes, and for twenty years, it existed as a kind of ghostly stagecoach passenger: always present, never staying.
When Nevada strutted onto the national stage in 1864, Humboldt Wells didn’t even make the state line—it remained part of Utah Territory, a political afterthought at best. It wasn’t until Congress, with a flourish of its almighty pen in 1866, handed over a sliver of land that Humboldt Wells finally joined the Nevada fold, whether it cared to or not.
When the iron horse thundered across the plains and the Central Pacific Railroad rolled into Humboldt Wells, the place got its first taste of civilization—or what passed for it. A water tower sprouted like some mechanical cactus, and a humble boxcar parked beside the tracks served as the station. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to lure a bar into existence, which naturally meant civilization had officially arrived.
The Bulls Head Saloon staked its claim as the town’s first permanent structure, followed by the obligatory livery stable, telegraph office, general store, and—of course—another bar. In those days, a man could set up a town with only whiskey and grit.
Then came the Chinese workers, left behind after the railroad handshake at Promontory, Utah, in 1869, where East finally met West, and they both awkwardly pretended they’d been on time. These industrious souls built a bustling Chinatown with cafes, stores, and laundries. Some even took to living in underground hovels—a choice that likely confused the gophers but suited the pioneers’ brand of practicality.
By 1873, Humboldt Wells was feeling its oats and decided to drop the “Humboldt,” shortening its name to just Wells. It had grown to a respectable town of 300, with a school where the morning bell wasn’t a bell but a locomotive’s dulcet whistle. And, if that isn’t a quintessentially Western symphony, I don’t know what is.
Through the years, Wells proved to be a master of adaptation. When one economic leg got kicked out from under it, the town leaned on another.
Mining went bust? Ranching picked up the slack. Railroads shifted priorities? Well, the highways came along just in time. And when even the mighty steam engines gave way to diesel beasts, Wells shook its head, rolled up its sleeves, and kept going, much like the trains it had faithfully served.
Today, Wells sits at the crossroads of Interstate 80 and US 93, still a pit stop for the weary traveler. It boasts truck stops, a golf course, and a museum celebrating the emigrants who once cursed and prayed through town. Angel Lake sparkles in the nearby Ruby Mountains, overlooking the place like a guardian angel with a soft spot for Nevadans.
Wells has never been a boomtown, so it never keeled over dead like its many mining camp cousins. The folks are tough–weathered by the desert sun and tempered by the hard times that always come knocking.
They’ve taken the cards life dealt them—crooked as they sometimes were—and played their hand with all the grit and gumption that the West demands. And for that, Wells stands today, not as a boomtown or a ghost town, but as a reminder that the best towns aren’t born in gold rushes or railroad booms—some get forged by the resolve of people who refuse to quit.
The Old Blog in the Desert 