The Old Blog in the Desert

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.

In the year 1860, Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille—two greenhorns in the journalism trade—set out to stake their claim in Mendocino County, Calif., with high hopes and, more importantly, a wagonload of all the fine details that make up a fledgling newspaper: type, tied-up articles, and an assortment of printing supplies. Fresh from the smoldering wreckage of their failed San Francisco venture, the duo set their sights on fortune, though it was unclear which direction it might come from.

They took to the mountains, sure that somewhere in that wilderness of rock and dust, they would find their way to riches and renown. Ever the dreamer, Twain had an idea to make their paper a mighty force. “Why, we’ll be the voice of politics, the beacon of history, the shining light of enlightenment for the whole Pacific Coast!” he declared, his voice echoing through the vast empty spaces.

Dan, for his part, wasn’t so sure, but he had grown used to Twain’s impossible enthusiasm. Their trip was uneventful until they hit Simpson’s Station, where they crossed paths with a peculiar group of emigrants headed for Lower California.

They were hauling a small mountain howitzer. Twain’s eyes lit up, and before Dan could ask what in the world they’d need such a thing for, Twain was offering fifty dollars and two kegs of powder for it.

Dan, ever the voice of reason, frowned and muttered something about “reckless extravagance,” but Twain waved him off. “When we start our paper,” Twain explained, “we must fire a salute! No respectable office in California should be without a howitzer! When we get a pesky reader demanding a retraction, we can just blow him into the next county. The howitzer stays.”

Dan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue—he had learned long ago to humor Twain’s more bizarre whims. So, with their cannon now part of the ensemble, they continued on their way, the mountains looming ahead like a slow and steady march of destiny.

That night, about fifteen miles from Simpson’s, they made camp in a ravine. It wasn’t long before their horses became restless, jerking them awake at what seemed like the stroke of midnight. Through the moonlight, they saw something that made their blood run cold: fifty Indians advancing up the ravine.

Ever quick to find a solution, Twain snapped to attention. “The howitzer!” he cried, springing from his bedroll like a man possessed.

In a frenzy, they began to load the cannon with powder, but just as Twain was preparing to fire, Dan leaped forward. “Wait!” he shouted, shoving something else into the barrel.

Twain, already striking the match, called back, “What in thunder are you doing?”

Dan grinned and replied, “A little something extra for good measure.”

The fuse lit, and the howitzer erupted with the force of a thunderclap, sending the attackers scattering in all directions with yells of confusion and pain.

Twain stood, blinking smoke from his eyes. “What in hell did you put in there?”

Dan, barely able to suppress a chuckle, replied, “A column of solid nonpareil and a couple of sticks of your spring poetry.”

Twain roared with laughter. “Well, the poetry did the trick. Next time, use one of your geological articles—it’s bound to do more damage.”

As the attackers regrouped, Twain and Dan didn’t waste any time. They hastily reloaded the howitzer, this time with an even more absurd mix of ammunition: an acrostic by John B. Ridge in long-primer, Jeems Pipes’ song My Mountain Home, and an editorial so scathing it could melt steel—Twain’s own on “Law and Order.”

With each blast, the attackers scattered further, unable to withstand the chaos of flying fonts and type. By the end of it, fifty-six men lay in a heap, casualties of the printed word, felled by dashes, drollery, and poorly chosen letters.

Ten days later, after a journey of weary bones and aching feet, Twain and Dan reached Virginia City, where they found employment at the Enterprise. Their grand Mendocino newspaper dream ended, but the legend of the “Great Howitzer Battle of Mendocino County” grew.

Years passed, and Twain, always the storyteller, wrote to Dan:

“Dear Dan,

I trust this letter finds you in fine health and high spirits. Do you remember the time we wiped out that tribe of illiterate savages in Mendocino? If you visit the spot, gather some ghostly relics and erect a monument in their honor. I’ll send you $1.50 for expenses.

Yours ever,

Mark Twain

P.S. See if you can find a thighbone from the chief—send it by express, if you can.”

Dan promised to make the pilgrimage come spring, though by all accounts, the howitzer remained in his possession, a memento to one of the most ludicrous and memorable chapters in the history of journalism—forever commemorated by nothing more than a slightly bent barrel and a few tattered pieces of printed paper.

If you were hoping for a state better known for mining, cowboys, or perhaps a reasonable fear of the desert sun, think again. Nevada has risen to the top of the TikTok food chain.

The Silver State has firmly claimed its spot as the most TikTok-obsessed state in America. This revelation comes from a highly scientific study by Socially Powerful (a name so powerful it’s almost an influencer’s alter ego), which analyzed a ginormous 30 TikTok-related keywords.

Among them: “TikTok,” “TikTok app,” “download TikTok” and, yes, “TikTok store”–because who doesn’t need to buy a bit of TikTok?

In all its majestic glory, Nevada proudly leads the pack with 3,902 TikTok-related searches per 100,000 residents, totaling 121,140 searches. Yes, you read that correctly. Forget about the Nevada silver rush; we’re in a new era where everyone’s rushing to download the app that turns people into influencers—with the same effort it takes to swipe left on a dating app.

Let’s put this into perspective. Arizona, the 10th most TikTok-crazy state, clocks in with a modest 3,120 searches per 100,000 residents—totaling 223,800. But, of course, Nevada’s numbers are more impressive because there are fewer people in the state to dilute the results.

California may have the highest number of TikTok searches with 1,373,760, but when you account for population size–Nevada still reigns supreme. So, go ahead, California, take your million-plus searches; Nevada’s numbers are like a high-performance engine in a sports car, while California’s are more like a minivan full of people frantically scrolling through their feeds.

And then there’s Montana, that wild and sparsely populated land where people have better things to do—like, I don’t know, maybe watch cows chew grass in peace. With just 1,495 TikTok-related searches per 100,000 people, Montana lingers at the bottom of the obsession list, clearly unbothered by the constant dance challenges and lip-syncs flooding every other state.

So, hats off to Nevada with its fascination with perfectly choreographed dance routines as it has earned its title as the state most likely to TikTok itself into oblivion.

It was a quiet night when a group of amateur investigators—armed with flashlights and too much confidence—decided to explore the graveyard. Strange sightings were reported near the rusted gates for years, and whispers of people vanishing without a trace had turned the place into the town’s favorite creepy legend.

The group was nervous but determined. “We’ll just look around,” their leader, Greg, said confidently.

Greg was always confident until things got scary. The gate creaked open, and they stepped inside, flashlights bouncing across moss-covered headstones.

At first, it was just a graveyard: eerie but not unusual. But then the air grew colder—too cold. Shadows seemed to move just outside the reach of their lights. And then, without warning, it happened: those who had vanished reappeared.

At first, relief swept through the group. “Oh my gosh, they’re alive!” someone whispered. But something was wrong. Very wrong.

The newly returned people weren’t quite right. Their movements were stiff and unnatural, and when they stepped into the flashlight beams, their eyes glowed an unnatural mix of red and yellow.

“What’s with their eyes?” Greg whispered, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Before anyone could respond, the glowing-eyed figures lunged. Chaos erupted as the creatures attacked, their strength unnervingly inhuman.

The group scattered, screaming. Somewhere in the madness, a little girl’s terrified cry pierced the night—but it cut off abruptly.

When the others found her, her eyes had already turned red and yellow. She was one of them now.

From that night on, the pattern continued. Every time a group entered the graveyard, the glowing-eyed creatures would emerge, attack, and vanish into the shadows before sunrise. No one knew why they attacked or what drove them. Some thought them cursed, while others believed the graveyard was a portal to something far worse.

One morning, after another brutal night of disappearances, the last group decided they had to end it once and for all. Armed with makeshift weapons and grim determination, they entered the graveyard before dawn, vowing to confront whatever evil lurked there.

But as the sun rose, no one emerged. The entire group disappeared without a trace.

From then on, the graveyard remained silent. No glowing-eyed figures, no strange sightings. Just an eerie quiet, as if the land itself had swallowed its secrets whole.

But every once and a while, on cool, quiet nights, people say they hear faint whispers from the graveyard—like voices trapped between this world and the next, waiting for someone foolish enough to open the gate again.

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.

Down in ma cups, I tried tae drown,
The gloom that haunts me every day,
Aye, climbin’ in, a bottle’s crown,
Hoping it’ll wash ma cares away.

‘Tis no’ love’s loss, nor bitter tears,
No loneliness that holds me tight,
But chemical waltz feeds ma fears,
More thistle than rose in the night.

Perchance I’ve lost ma mind for sure,
Yet cannae tell the reason why,
Seekin’ wish at the whiskey’s lure,
Genie deep in a glassy sigh.

At long last, I reckon I’ve deciphered the sage musings of Charles Earl Bowles—Black Bart, the poetic plunderer—when he scribbled down his verses and left them behind for the bank detectives to puzzle over. Then again, maybe I knew the truth all along but was too busy being bamboozled by life’s little indignities to add two and two and get the proper answer before now.

“I’ve labored long and hard for bread,
For honor, and for riches,
But on my corns too long you’ve tread,
You fine-haired sons of bitches.”

My tribulations, mind you, do not come by way of any six-shooter-wielding highwayman but by a more refined species of scoundrel—the erudite kind with college degrees, fine waistcoats, and a constitution that forbids labor but encourages the squeezing of the workingman till he hollers for mercy. These gentle people rob a body without the discourtesy of a mask or a pistol, preferring the pen, the ledger, and the unholy arithmetic of compound interest.

“An erudite bastard’s wits run deep,
Yet silver is a prize they’ll never keep.
For their rusty tongues and ink-stained hands
Ain’t worth a damn in law abided lands.”

And while I ain’t inclined to take up robbery just yet, I do find myself contemplating the dubious honor of being flat busted, wondering where the next house payment is coming from, and whether any enterprising soul is in the market for an elderly cuss such as myself—one who still knows a thing or two, but ain’t got the needed papers to prove it.