The Old Blog in the Desert

Many a time, I find myself counting change from newspaper sales and discovering more than just coins. A trinket here, a foreign coin there—charms and oddities that seem to travel through time and space, landing in my cash bag like gifts from the universe.

It is the sort of thing that keeps the day interesting.

It is rare to return to my truck and find something perched upon it that is not a parking ticket or a stern warning from a deputy. Such was the case when I discovered a red, five-inch metal 1955 Chevy Stepside pickup, much like the one I used to own, sitting on my hood.

Who left it there remains a mystery, and why I have taken up my pen to write this. Maybe the kind soul will reveal themselves—or not—and that will be fine, too.

The simple mysteries of life are not for solving in haste, after all.

Pleased as punch with my newfound treasure, I placed the little truck in the coffee holder by the gear shift and resumed my delivery route. Down the hill I went, through Gold Hill, Silver City, and on toward Dayton, the tiny toy rattling along as I mused over the identity of my mysterious benefactor.

An hour later, I returned to Virginia City. I parked in front of the gas station, grabbed my latest bundle of papers, and stepped inside, where I met up with KC.

She had been gone for over a month, off to India with her husband to a wedding for her cousin. She greeted me warmly, and as she paid for the papers, she asked, “Do you want these presidential coins or paper money?”

“I’ll take the coins,” I said.

“Good,” she replied, “Because a woman came in, sold them to me, and told me to give them to you.”

Naturally, my curiosity piqued, “Who?” I asked.

KC shrugged, “A woman, about my height. I can’t remember her name, but she said you’d know. I’ll have to ask her next time and write it down for you.”

I thanked her, wished her well, and returned to my truck.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I dropped the coins into my cash bag, glanced at the toy truck, and thought, “There are no coincidences in life.”

And so, the mystery lingers like a wisp of fine smoke, just out of reach but not out of mind.

Former Las Vegas City Councilwoman and current suspended Pahrump Justice Court judge Michele Fiore was classified as a “domestic terrorist” by the federal government in 2020, her lawyer disclosed in recent court documents. The designation stems from Fiore’s public support for Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy, who was involved in an armed standoff with federal agents in 2014.

Fiore is facing federal charges, including wire fraud and conspiracy to commit wire fraud, following a July indictment by a federal grand jury. Prosecutors allege that Fiore misused more than $70,000 in charitable donations intended to fund memorial statues for a fallen Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department officer, using the money for personal expenses such as rent, travel, and her daughter’s wedding.

Fiore has pleaded not guilty to all charges, with her trial scheduled for later this year.

Fiore’s attorney, Michael Sanft, argued in court filings this week that her domestic terrorist designation has unfairly impacted her legal proceedings. Sanft claimed that during Fiore’s arraignment in July, her security threat level was heightened due to the designation, first applied in 2020 and later downgraded from Level I to Level II without explanation.

“The designation of Ms. Fiore as a Level I Domestic Terrorist, later modified to Level II, without any discovery or justification is disturbing,” Sanft wrote. He also called it “an unfathomable proposition” to label an elected official with over a decade of service to Nevada as a domestic terrorist.

Fiore’s designation is reminiscent of the treatment of former Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard, who was similarly labeled a terrorist after publicly criticizing the Democratic Party and the federal government. The connection between Fiore’s support for Bundy and her subsequent labeling by the government raises concerns about the use of such designations against political figures.

The charges, dating back to 2017 and 2022, accuse her of founding and mismanaging funds for the memorial statues, meant to honor a fallen police officer, and redirecting the money for personal use. Fiore has denied the accusations and maintains her innocence.

During a recent court session, attorneys indicated that the trial could last over two weeks. They also requested permission for out-of-state witnesses to testify remotely.

While U.S. District Judge Jennifer Dorsey confirmed the court’s ability to accommodate such requests, federal prosecutors sought a private discussion regarding the logistics of certain witnesses. Dorsey briefly closed the courtroom, questioning why the remainder of the hearing should be conducted privately, given the absence of a jury and the public interest in open judicial proceedings.

Paul was thinking of sleep—he had that glazed look in his eyes—and I suppose that is why he finally flicked off the overhead lights at the bar. It was his way of politely telling us to scram, even though he had not officially called “last call.”

Naturally, I muttered a few choice words as I tripped out the back door of the Tahoe House toward my truck parked on B Street. Once in the front seat, I found myself aimlessly cruising around town, making turns down Taylor and then C Street as if something interesting might leap out of the shadows.

I eventually pulled up in front of the Tahoe House, figuring the Washoe Club, a few doors down, might still have life, if not spirits, left in it.

Inside, I ordered a beer before things turned peculiar.

A man grumbled, “Don’t take my picture.”

Now, mind you, I did not have a camera on my person.

Before I could say anything, he added, “And stop eavesdropping!”

Well, that seemed like a cue to relocate. I grabbed my beer and retreated to a table, Wild Bill Hickok-style, keeping an eye on my new fan.

It seemed like the safest course of action. One can never be too careful around folks who accuse you of crimes you never dreamed of committing.

Minutes later, I drained my glass, tipped my hat to the lady behind the bar, and wandered down the boardwalk to the Ponderosa, where karaoke was in full swing. After a couple of brave souls had their moment in the spotlight, Alexia took the stage to belt out “Proud Mary.”

Just as she was hitting her stride, the too-tall stranger came peg-legging up the boardwalk like a man with boots full of lead. Before stepping inside, he bellowed, “And don’t take my picture!”

Rather than explain myself again, I decided discretion was the better part of valor, and I quietly slipped out the side door to my truck. As I climbed in, I heard the unmistakable sound of laughter echoing from the Firehouse Saloon.

Having never been there, it seemed like the perfect moment for a new experience. So, in the spirit of adventure, I unceremoniously jaywalked and stepped inside.

Pete spotted me and slid a beer down the bar—a dangerous habit I had acquired earlier that evening. It was my tenth beer, give or take, but I was no longer counting.

I sat at the far end of the bar, half listening to the conversations and half-watching Full Metal Jacket on the TV, not needing to hear the movie, as the visuals did all the talking.

Not long after the credits rolled, Niles and Bryce, the local fraternal twins, came in. Niles is an archaeologist digging up bones and history, while Bryce has a talent for growing and fermenting grapes while studying water use.

It was not long before the “last call” was announced. This time, I had the sense to leave before Pete turned the lights off.

After closing, the twins and I stood outside, chatting for over an hour about nothing in particular, until Niles and Bryce decided to head to the Ponderosa for karaoke. On the other hand, I had a more urgent desire.

I had to pee like a wild Mustang on a flat desert rock.

Climbing into my truck, it quickly became apparent that I could not make the public restrooms at the north end of town. By the time I had reached this conclusion, I was already rolling south, and that is when I spotted the VFW memorial.

I parked my truck, crossed the street, and hurried down the hill just far enough to be out of sight should any deputies roll by.

As I fumbled to get unbuttoned and relieve myself, a low growl rumbled through the darkness. I had forgotten about the four mountain lions prowling around town.

As that realization hit me, a large feline face emerged from the shadows, its eyes locked on me, and it let out a growl accompanied by a warning lunge. Forgetting why I had come down the hill in the first place, I zipped up faster than a politician changing his position.

I bolted up the hillside, running across C Street, diving into the front seat of my truck, where I finished what I had come to do.

The drive home was long, uncomfortable, and a little embarrassing, but in the grander scheme, it was better than becoming the next mountain lion snack and a headline for the newspaper.

The U.S. Department of the Interior (DOI) has approved Nevada’s greatest solar and battery storage development, the Libra Solar Project, and opened the public comment period for the proposed Bonanza Solar Project.

The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) has given the green light to Arevia Power’s $2.3 billion Libra Solar Project, a 700 MW solar facility with a 700 MW/2.8 GWh battery storage system. The project is approximately 18 miles south of the Fort Churchill substation in Yerington, near the Mineral and Lyon county lines, making it the largest co-located solar and storage venture.

Expected to be operational by the end of 2027, the Libra Solar Project is part of Nevada’s clean energy future. Arevia Power also signed a power purchase agreement with NV Energy in June, ensuring that the energy generated by the project will help meet the state’s growing demand for renewable energy.

In addition to the Libra project, the DOI has approved NV Energy’s Greenlink West transmission project. This 350-mile transmission line will run from Las Vegas to Yerington, increasing the state’s transmission capacity and supporting the integration of large-scale renewable projects like the Libra Solar Project into Nevada’s energy grid.

The BLM is also seeking public input on the Bonanza Solar Project, which proposes a 300 MW solar facility with a 195 MW/780 MWh battery storage system and a 5.4-mile gen-tie line across 5,133 acres of public land in Clark and Nye counties near Las Vegas. The comment period for the Draft Resource Management Plan Amendment and Environmental Impact Statement is now open.

The recent advancements by the BLM in July included the Esmerelda 7 Solar Project, which would be the largest solar development globally. The project comprises seven proposed utility-scale facilities that will generate 6.2 GW of solar energy, with a battery storage output of 5.2 GW. The projects will be on 118,000 acres of BLM-managed land near Tonopah.

Starting where we ought to end is always the most logical place for the story of human folly to begin.

And so it was at the Tahoe House when Nadine and Bob came shuffling in like two ghosts freshly risen from the graveyard of print journalism. I spotted them right away.

They stood there, propped against the bar, their eyes glazed over in a thousand-yard stare that suggested they had either seen the face of God or spent the night wrestling with an angry printing press. I wagered it was the latter.

Having known Nadine and Bob for as long as the ink has dried on our weekly papers, I did the friendly thing and waved. No response.

Again, I waved, a little more eagerly this time, like I was trying to flag down a passing rowboat on the Carson, and still, nothing. It was as if they were communing with the bottles of whiskey, gin, tequila, and other libations and as if these spirits held the answers to the great mysteries.

Earlier that morning, I had made my usual trek to the shop to load up my truck with the edition for delivery. That is when I knew something was afoot.

In the upper left corner of each one was a staple—stapled, mind you—page by page, like some overzealous schoolmarm had taken it upon herself to prepare a lesson plan for the entire town. Topping it off was a massive box of sample ballots sitting in the corner as if the printers had decided to moonlight as an election official.

Now, the printer, bless its old, unreliable gears—was silent, a kind of silence that says, “I give up, you win.”

Shaking my head in disapproval, I muttered a few choice words, wondering what poor soul had angered the infernal machine this time. But I loaded the papers anyway, figuring it was best not to ask too many questions before my morning coffee.

Fast forward a few hours, and here I am, standing in the Tahoe House, watching these two look like they have just returned from battle. Stepping closer, I waved again—right in front of Nadine’s face this time—and suddenly, she blinked as if waking from a deep slumber.

“Oh!” she gasped, startled.

Bob looked over, saw me, and let out a laugh that sounded half relief, half exhaustion.

“Long couple of days?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Not even half of it,” Nadine replied with a weary smile.

Bob nodded, adding, “The printer kept jamming. We barely got anything done.”

“That explains the, uh, new format for the paper,” I said, doing my best not to sound too amused.

Nadine sighed, “Yeah, had a technician come out to fix it.”

“But they couldn’t figure it out,” Bob chimed in.

“Seventeen hundred sample ballots though!” Nadine said, with the kind of pride that only comes after you have survived a near-fatal brush with bureaucracy.

I leaned back, thinking about the morning, “Well, at least it gave me a chance to get creative with my deliveries. Told everyone, ‘Call me your weekly handout boy.’”

They guffawed, the kind of half-laugh from people who have survived a disaster in black and white and read all over and lived to tell the tale. I knew my humor would not stop the angry letters or the calls to the editor, but for a brief moment, standing there in the Tahoe House, it did not seem to matter.

The Department of Interior (DOI) has granted final approval for the Greenlink West transmission line, a massive infrastructure project connecting Las Vegas and Reno.

The 350-mile transmission line, spearheaded by NV Energy, will boost the state’s energy transmission capacity and facilitate the distribution of up to 4,000 megawatts of clean energy—enough to power approximately 4.8 million homes. Construction begins in early 2025, with the project expected to go online by May 2027.

The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) also released its draft environmental impact statement for Greenlink North, the companion project. Greenlink North is a 210-mile transmission corridor along Highway 50 through several counties, covering 84,700 acres of BLM land. The two projects will link with the existing One Nevada Transmission Line, forming a continuous high-voltage transmission loop throughout the state.

However, the cost of the Greenlink projects has soared, with the combined price tag nearly doubling to $4.24 billion since first proposed in 2019. NV Energy’s wholesale transmission customers and the general public are splitting the cost, with Southern Nevada customers expected to bear 70 percent of the expenses. NV Energy anticipates the projects will generate $690 million in economic activity and create 4,000 jobs.

Environmental concerns have been raised, particularly about the impact of Greenlink North on sage-grouse habitats and other sensitive ecosystems. Patrick Donnelly, the Great Basin director for the Center for Biological Diversity, expressed alarm, calling it “one of the most harmful actions” permitted by the BLM.

The BLM has mandated NV Energy install anti-perching deterrents to minimize predation risks to the bird.

Kirstie and James Lang from Westport, Wash., were married at 10 a.m. on Saturday, September 14 at the Silver Queen.

Boon and Brian Smith from Tacoma, Wash., were married at 3:30 p.m. on Monday, September 16 at the Virginia City Train Museum.

Jason & Ashley and Jason Johnson of Reno, Nev., were married at 11 a.m. on Monday, September 23 at the Silver Queen.

The Pistol Packin’ Preacher, Rev. James Matthieu, officiated.

Nevada Gov. Joe Lombardo announced Tuesday, September 3, that Brig. Gen. D. Rodger “Dan” Waters has been selected as the 31st Adjutant General for the State of Nevada, making him the senior-ranking officer in the Nevada National Guard.

“I am honored to appoint General Waters as the new Adjutant General for the Nevada National Guard,” Lombardo said. “His extensive experience, both in domestic operations and overseas assignments, along with his deep commitment to Nevada, make him the ideal leader for our state’s military forces. I am confident that General Waters will continue to uphold the legacy of excellence that has long defined the Nevada National Guard.”

Waters is the first Nevada Army Guardsman to hold the position since 1983, marking a shift from the Nevada Air National Guard, whose members have filled the role for the past six terms. The change of command ceremony is Saturday, October 19, at the Reno Ballroom inside the Grand Sierra Resort.

Waters has a decorated military career spanning nearly four decades. Most recently, he served as the Director of the Joint Staff for the Nevada National Guard, overseeing state joint operations and domestic emergency responses.

He enlisted in the military in 1985 before being commissioned as a Distinguished Honor Graduate from the Aviation Officer Basic Course in 1992. Over the years, Waters has flown numerous aircraft and held several command positions within the Nevada Army National Guard, including stints overseas in Afghanistan and Germany.

His notable overseas assignments include serving as the Afghan National Army Operations Officer for Combined Joint Task Force 82 (2007-2008) and as Division Chief at U.S. European Command in Stuttgart, Germany (2017-2020). Upon his return to Nevada in 2020, Waters served as Chief of Staff to Berry until taking on his role as Director of the Joint Staff earlier this year.

His accolades include the Defense Superior Service Medal, the Legion of Merit, and the Meritorious Service Medal. His education credentials are equally impressive, with a Bachelor of Science from the University of the State of New York, an MBA from the University of Nevada, Reno, and an executive certificate in public leadership from Harvard University.

Outgoing Adjutant General Maj. Gen. Ondra Berry, who has served since 2019, praised Waters as the “consummate Army officer.”

“Brigadier General Waters loves Nevada, he loves the military, he loves the mission, and he cares about our Guardsmen and women,” Berry said. “Our state’s military force will remain in good hands with Brigadier General Waters as the Adjutant General.”

Waters expressed his gratitude, thanking Lombardo for the appointment and recognizing Berry for his leadership.

“I look forward to a bright future for our great state and the Nevada National Guard,” Waters said.

In addition to his military service, Waters has been active in the Nevada community, serving with organizations such as the Boy Scouts of America, the American Legion, and the Rotary Club of Reno Sunrise.

What possessed me to believe I could conquer a summer cold with sheer willpower and a few questionable remedies, I do not recall. Armed with optimism and a collection of bizarre treatments, I embarked on a journey in July that would leave me humbled, sicker, and far too familiar with the taste of gin.

It all started with a simple sneeze—innocent, right? Wrong. That sneeze was the beginning of my downfall. First, my well-meaning friend, Smilin’ Jim suggested I soak my feet in hot water and crawl into bed.

Just as I was settling into a warm foot stew, another friend, Elizabeth Dress, burst in with the enthusiasm of a mad scientist, insisting a cold shower was the only cure. So naturally, I followed both suggestions because what could go wrong?

Answer: everything. The cold clung to me like a bad habit.

But I was not giving up yet. Then Hell Betty offered sage advice, “Feed a cold and starve a fever.” The problem? I had both.

So, in my wisdom, I decided to feed my cold as if I were a lumberjack preparing for winter. I ate with the ferocity of a competitive eater, so much so that the local diner shut down temporarily, citing “emotional distress.” Still, my cold persisted.

From there, things got a little out of hand. Someone—I do not even remember who at this point—suggested drinking a quart of warm saltwater. After testing this theory, I can confirm it is a great way to expel all you have ever eaten violently.

Meanwhile, Leggs, with a suspiciously gleeful smile, handed me a concoction of molasses, turpentine, and something called “aquafortis.” This delightful brew nearly led me to a life of petty theft and other odd larcenies, as it seemed to dissolve my moral compass but not my cold.

In my increasingly desperate state, I turned to gin—plain gin, gin with molasses, gin with onions (do not ask)—which only turned my breath into something akin to a decomposing vulture. People began avoiding me in the street. My cold got worse.

Then came the “sheet bath.” Have you ever wrapped yourself in a wet sheet and stood outside at midnight in winter? No? Well, do not. It turns out that nearly freezing to death is not a cure for the common cold—who knew?

As a final act of desperation, I retreated to the front porch, hoping fresh air would do the trick, and where I planned a mustard plaster treatment, only to discover my K-9 companions ate it. That should have been my sign to call it quits, but no, I pressed on.

After a week of steam baths, questionable herbal teas, and a terrifying amount of gin, I was no closer to recovery. My last-ditch effort? Ol’ Nine-toe-Joe, who swore by whiskey— advised a quart a day, he said. Of course, each had their own method, so I did the logical thing and combined their ideas: I drank a half-gallon a day. Surprisingly, I did not get better, and I wished not to.

Now, I am sharing this tale of medicinal misadventures not to recommend any of these treatments—seriously, do not do them—but to caution anyone foolish enough to think they can outwit a cold. If nothing else, I hope you have learned that sometimes the only cure is to wait it out or drink just enough whiskey to care no more.