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Local and regional solar energy initiatives in Nevada receive a significant boost with over $218 million in federal taxpayer funding, announced by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) as part of the Greenhouse Gas Reduction Fund grant competition.

The Nevada Clean Energy Fund is the primary recipient, securing $156.1 million to advance its Solar for All initiative. The program plans to make solar energy accessible to marginalized communities by facilitating home installations and community projects.

Additionally, tribal nonprofit GRID Alternatives’ Western Indigenous Network Solar For All (WIN-SFA) will receive $62.5 million to extend solar access to thousands of Native American households. The funding prioritizes tribal communities in Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah.

When I first became employed by the radio station, I found a large ceramic coffee mug, covered in dust, in the back of the cabinet. After asking who it belonged to, I learned it was the property of nobody.

That day, I declared myself ‘nobody’ and began using it every air shift. Hot coffee, hot tea, hot chocolate, it did not matter.

Then, last week, I went to get it and discovered the thing missing. The only thing left was the paper towel I had stuffed inside it after washing it, which was tossed in disgust to the back of the sink, behind the faucet.

Its absence caused me some distress. What became of it and why the distress remains a mystery because it was a mug purchased from Starbucks, and since I am not a fan of that Java empire, it should have been “Big whoop!”

But knowing it was gone, I returned to the cabinet and withdrew yet another mug, even dustier than the first, from the darkness. My new “borrowed” coffee cup is approximately the same size as the first, has a handle, and comes from Nevada State Bank.

Weirder still is that I got a tickle from that fact and had to laugh — because I’m a credit union member.

In pop culture, certain things have the uncanny ability to overshadow their original purpose and become symbols of an era.

Such is the case with Crocs, the ubiquitous rubber clogs that have garnered ridicule and adoration in equal measure. Yet, their journey from movie prop to global sensation is worth exploring.

Released in 2006, Mike Judge’s satirical masterpiece “Idiocracy” envisioned a dystopian future where societal intelligence had plummeted to alarming depths. Amidst the chaos, one of the film’s most memorable quirks was the presence of Crocs, the colorful, hole-riddled footwear that adorned the feet of characters in the film’s bizarre moviescape.

However, including Crocs in “Idiocracy” was not initially intended as a commentary on fashion or footwear trends. In a 2016 interview with Fast Company, Judge revealed that the decision was primarily a cost-cutting measure, as at the time of filming in 2004, Crocs were unknown, and their availability made them a practical choice for the film’s wardrobe department.

What began as a budget-friendly choice morphed, becoming synonymous with comfort and convenience or stupidity and elitism. Moreover, the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent lockdowns further fueled Crocs’ popularity, as people sought comfort and functionality in their attire.

For me, the sight of Crocs is a perfect symbol for today’s society, with Gen Z’s demanding crybaby nature, the bitchy little Karens of the world, and Soy Boys who lack toxic masculinity on the march. As noted by social media users and cultural commentators alike, Crocs, as in the film, has taken on a symbolic significance, reflecting a shift in fashion sense and common sense.

I am tired of the Nevada Democratic Party lying and not being called out for doing so.

Once again, they have engaged in the age-old “fact check” routine using the very-left-leaning online newspaper, the Nevada Independent, claiming they have debunked Joe Lombardo’s assertion that he vetoed legislation for universal free meals for Nevada students because they are “thrown away.” Lombardo’s decision to veto AB139, which would have ensured “free” (nothing is free, idiots, someone has to pay for it, and that someone is Nevada taxpayers) breakfast and lunch in public schools, has drawn criticism.

“Joe Lombardo might call himself the ‘education governor,’ but he isn’t fooling anyone,” remarked Tai Sims, a spokesperson for the Nevada State Democratic Party. “By choosing partisan politics over our students, he denied them guaranteed access to nutritious meals and then lied about it.”

During the pandemic, federal waivers ensured free meals for all students, but these waivers expired after the 2021-22 school year. State lawmakers extended the program for the 2022-23 and 2023-24 school years, utilizing approximately $104 million in federal COVID relief funds.

Nearly 460,000 students received an average of 6.5 million school meals last year. Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui sponsored Assembly Bill 319, allocating $43 million to the state Department of Agriculture to continue the universal “free” breakfast and lunch program, which Lombardo vetoed because of food waste in the state’s schools.

My wife is a nutrition service assistant manager in our local school district, and uneaten food gets thrown away routinely to comply with federal contracts. Failure to discard uneaten food would result in the loss of federal taxpayer-funded monies designated for food services.

So, the claim by Sims is an all-out lie, and I am here to call the Nevada Democratic Party out on their propaganda bullshit. Perhaps they ought to talk to someone other than partisan shills Elizabeth Martinez, Clark County School District (CCSD) director of nutrition services, and Adam Searcy, the CCSD chief operating officer, to learn what is verifiably going on with the school lunch programs in Nevada.

For half a century, the Harris family stood as stalwart defenders of justice in Elko County, committed to upholding the law as etched in the gleaming gold of their iconic badge.

As custodians of order in the vast expanse of the fourth-largest county in the contiguous United States, they navigated the rugged terrain with a blend of toughness, humor, and unwavering integrity.

Sheriff Joe Harris, a towering figure in Elko County’s history, patrolled the expansive territory from 1910 to 1936, traversing the landscape by automobile, train, and horse. His son, Sheriff Jess Harris, continued the family legacy from 1950 to 1974, earning national renown as the “Flying Sheriff” for his innovative use of airplanes in law enforcement.

The bond between the Harris family and the people of Elko County was sealed in gold when the appreciative residents of the mining camp Tuscarora commissioned G.S. Garcia, a renowned craftsman, to create a badge for Sheriff Joe. Crafted from Tuscarora gold and adorned with eight rounded points, the badge symbolized not only the authority of the office but also the deep respect and admiration of the community.

Proudly worn by Joe and Jess, the badge represented their integrity and dedication. Though they eschewed uniforms, opting instead for the badge to adorn their shirts or coats, their commitment to upholding the law was unwavering.

The legacy of the Harris sheriffs extends beyond their tenure in office, as evidenced by Sheriff Neil Harris, who continued the tradition into the 21st century. While not related to Joe and Jess, Sheriff Neil Harris carried forth the proud legacy of his predecessors with honor and distinction.

Today, the Joe and Jess Harris Collection, consisting of weapons and artifacts of their time in office, is a testament to their enduring impact on Elko County’s history. And while the badge remains in the Harris family, its radiance continues to shine as a beacon of justice and integrity in the heart of the Nevada wilderness.

it is spring season
all the beautiful colors
standing in the rain

In March, elders of the Battle Mountain Band of Western Shoshone Indians stumbled upon a bulldozer digging a trench on their daily walk on the Battle Mountain reservation. Surprised by the unauthorized activity, they sought answers upon their return home.

With no negotiations or agreements regarding the purchase of a right-of-way—legal authorization to use the property for a specific purpose and duration—Band member Joseph Holley took it upon himself to investigate. As chairman of the Te-Moak Tribe of Western Shoshone Indians, a consortium of four Bands, including the one in Battle Mountain, Holley drove to the work site to speak to the bulldozer operator.

According to Holley, the encounter turned hostile, with the contractor using offensive language and demanding Holley leave the area. Despite attempts to de-escalate the situation, tensions remained high.

The Battle Mountain Band and local AT&T representatives met following the incident, where Holley recounted the altercation, expressing his disappointment in the bulldozer operator’s conduct. AT&T’s Nevada area manager, Torrey Denoo, apologized on behalf of the company, saying they expect respectful and courteous behavior from individuals representing AT&T.

Holley, however, asserted that the contractor would not be permitted on Band land again.

Cliff Cooper, AT&T’s local right-of-way manager, also apologized for the lack of proper research leading to the trespass and unsanctioned digging. The work was to provide fiber optic service to the Consolidated Edison solar plant nearby.

During the meeting, the Band’s attorney, Rollie Wilson, raised concerns about compliance with federal laws requiring the evaluation of the tract for protection of cultural resources before commencing work. The issue remained unresolved.

Addressing concerns about future activities on tribal property, Holley stated that any further bulldozing without authorization would constitute trespass, a criminal offense. Until the Band and AT&T can reach an agreement, work has paused.

When questioned by media outlet Barn Raiser, an AT&T spokesperson condemned the bulldozer driver’s behavior as unacceptable and reiterated the corporation’s commitment to compliance with regulations governing rights-of-way and property easements. AT&T is actively engaging with the Battle Mountain Band’s leadership to resolve the situation amicably.

Georgia Ann Thompson, the first female parachutist, and inventor of the rip cord, became famous under the name Tiny Broadwick.

She weighed only three pounds at birth on April 8, 1893, in North Carolina and never grew past foot tall and 80 pounds. She married at 12 and bore a daughter, Verla, at 13. After her husband died in an accident, she had to work 14-hour days in a cotton mill.

At the North Carolina State Fair in 1907, Georgia saw “The Broadwicks and their Famous French Aeronauts.” The performers ascended to the sky in hot-air balloons, then thrilled spectators by jumping out with parachutes.

Inspired by this, Georgia asked show owner Charles Broadwick if she could travel with the group. He agreed to hire Georgia, and her mother let her go with a few stipulations — she had to leave Verla behind and send back money to help support her.

Broadwick trained Georgia in parachuting, and in 1908, he legally adopted her, and she became Tiny Broadwick.

While performing, Tiny was known as “The Doll Girl.” She dressed in ruffled bloomers with pink bows on her arms, ribbons in her long curly hair, and a bonnet on her head.

Tiny was just 15 years old when she jumped from a hot-air balloon at the 1908 North Carolina State Fair. She later said, “I tell you, honey, it was the most wonderful sensation in the world.”

It was a thrill she would experience some 1,100 times in her life.

Tiny and Charles Broadwick traveled the nation with their balloon act, but by 1912, their performances were losing popularity. Fortunately, a new opportunity presented itself to Tiny when she met famed pilot Glenn Martin.

He had seen her jump from a balloon and asked if she would parachute from his airplane instead. Tiny immediately agreed to work for Martin, whose aircraft company is still in business today, operating as Martin Marietta.

In preparation for the jump, Charles Broadwick developed a parachute for Tiny made of silk. He packed it into a knapsack attached to a canvas jacket with harness straps.

A string was fastened to the plane and woven through the canvas covering of the parachute. When Tiny jumped from the plane, the cover tore away, and her parachute filled with air.

On her first jump, Tiny was suspended from a trap seat behind the wing and outside the cockpit, with the parachute on a shelf above her. Martin took the plane up to two thousand feet, and then Tiny released a lever alongside the seat, allowing it to drop out from under her.

The jump was a success, and she landed in Griffith Park in Los Angeles, making her the first woman to parachute from an airplane. After that first jump from the plane, Tiny was in demand.

She also became the first woman to parachute into a body of water and the first person to jump from a seaplane.

In 1914, at the start of WWI, the Army Air Corps visited Tiny in San Diego and asked her to exhibit a jump from a military plane. At that time, many Air Corps pilots had already perished, and the Army wanted Tiny to demonstrate how to parachute safely.

Tiny made four jumps at North Island. The first three went smoothly, but on the fourth, the lines of her parachute got tangled with the plane.

Due to high winds, she could not get back into the plane. Instead of panicking, Tiny cut all but a short length of the line, which made her plummet towards the ground.

Still keeping a cool head, she pulled the line by hand, freeing the parachute to open by itself. It demonstrated what would be known as the rip cord and showed that someone who had to leave an airplane in flight did not need a line attached to the aircraft to open a parachute.

A pilot could safely bail out of a damaged craft. Following this, the parachute became known as the life preserver of the air.

Tiny Broadwick made her last jump in 1922 when she was just 29 years old. Chronic problems with her ankles forced her into retirement.

Tiny received many honors and awards in her lifetime, including the U.S. Government Pioneer Aviation Award and the John Glenn Medal. She was inducted into the Early Birds of Aviation and received the Gold Wings of the Adventurers Club in Los Angeles.

In 1964, Tiny was made an honorary member of the 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg and told she could jump any time she chose. It is unknown if she ever took them up on their offer.

Tiny Broadwick, 85, died in 1978 and was buried in Henderson, North Carolina.

It started when Bill Findley invited me to tour the Chollar Mine, where he worked as a tour guide. Readily accepting, he led me to the farthest end of the shaft.

“Wanna see how dark it is down here?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

He disappeared back the way we had come. I heard him trip the power, pulling down on the handle at the side of the electrical box as the lights disappeared and darkness filled the void.

About fifteen seconds later, I heard him push the handle up into the on position, but nothing happened. For about a minute, I heard him flip the handle several times, trying to turn the lights on.

As I stood there, I saw an orb rise from the floor. As it glowed white, it expanded, first lengthening, then widening, eventually becoming a transparent figure of a young woman.

She had blonde hair and sad green eyes. Seeing her left me speechless and sweaty.

Suddenly, Bill rounded the corner. “Sorry, but I can’t get the lights to come back on.”

Together, we walked to the surface and the sunlight. I said nothing about the apparition.

At home and in bed that night, trying to fall asleep, I couldn’t help thinking about her and her sad eyes. Finally, surrendering, I got up and decided to record a podcast about what had happened.

As I opened the podcasting app on my computer, the screen came to life with the syne wave of a recording, though I had yet to say anything. Then it showed the same thing, showing the same pattern.

Playing it back, I listened to a muffled female voice whisper, “504 F Street.” Instead of recording, I went to the kitchen and poured myself a tumbler of whiskey.

The following week, I drove F Street in Virginia City until I found what I believed to be 504, a dilapidated wooden structure with a sagging front porch. The front door opened as I got out of my truck.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked as she stood in the darkened doorway.

Stuttering, I explained why and how I came to find her house. She listened impassively, never hinting at an emotion.

After telling me her name was Maggie, she said, “You met my twin sister, Marie.”

I suddenly realized how much the apparition and the woman in the doorway did look alike.

Maggie explained that Marie had suffered an allergy attack while visiting the Chollar Mine and had died as a result. “Now she contacts random people. I think it’s for attention.”

Feeling foolish, I said I was sorry about her sister and apologized for wasting her time. Without responding, she stepped inside and closed the door.

After a thorough search of Storey County records, I found nothing to indicate anyone had died from an acute asthma attack in or at the mine. That evening, I called my former editor, Angela Mann, and asked if she had ever heard of an asthma-related death at the Chollar.

“No, but it could have happened before Richard and I bought the newspaper,” she said.

“I checked as far back as the mid-60s and found nothing,” I replied.

“Then, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said.

Three days later, I drove to the house on F Street again. I wanted to ask Maggie when her sister died.

The house was deserted, the sagging porch worse than before and lacking a set of steps to ascend it, had I wished to risk collapsing the entire collapse.

“Perhaps I ought to go back in the mine and see if I can make contact with Marie again,” I thought.

My better judgment prevailed, and instead, I asked around about Maggie. No one knew who I was talking about. Furthermore, I learned no one lived in the old house.

Wanting a drink to steady my nerves, I sat at the bar in the Tahoe House, where I concluded I had almost fallen victim to a Doppelgänger as it attempted to lure me either back to the mine or inside the building.

As the sun set over the tranquil lake, it cast a golden hue across the surface. Two 12-year-olds, Lily and Alex, sat side by side on the old wooden dock, their feet dangling into the cool water below.

Laughter filled the air as they reminisced about the day’s adventures at Camp Eagle’s Nest.

“Remember when Tommy fell off the canoe?” Lily giggled, splashing her feet in the water.

Alex grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, and then he tried to blame it on the wind! Classic Tommy.”

Their carefree banter was interrupted by a sudden rustling in the bushes nearby. They turned to see a shadowy figure emerge from the trees, a sense of unease creeping over them.

“What was that?” Lily asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Alex replied, squinting into the fading light. “Probably just a raccoon or something.”

But before they could dismiss it, a ripple spread across the surface, followed by a series of small splashes. Lily and Alex exchanged a worried glance as they watched the water churn beneath them.

“What’s happening?” Lily’s voice trembled with fear as the splashes grew more frenzied.

And then, with a sudden surge of motion, a swarm of piranhas erupted from the depths below, their razor-sharp teeth glinting in the dying light. Lily and Alex screamed as the fish closed in on them, their peaceful evening shattered by the terror lurking beneath the surface.

Their nightmare had begun.

With adrenaline coursing through their veins, Lily and Alex scrambled to pull their feet out of the water, but it was too late. The hungry piranhas darted towards them, snapping their jaws menacingly.

“Jump! Now!” Alex shouted, grabbing Lily’s hand as they leaped off the dock into the shallow water.

They splashed into the lake, their hearts pounding with fear. Lily felt a sharp pain shoot up her leg as a piranha grazed her calf, drawing blood.

“We need to get to shore!” she cried, kicking furiously.

But the piranhas were relentless, closing in on them with each frantic stroke. As they reached the shallows, Lily stumbled onto the rocky shore, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Alex followed close behind, his eyes wide with terror. “We have to warn the others,” he said, trembling. “They could be in danger too.”

Lily reached for her phone, but it was still on the dock. “We have to go back,” she said, her voice barely audible.

But as they turned back towards the dock, they froze in horror. The water around it was alive with swirling piranhas, their frenzied feeding turning the once-tranquil lake into a bloodbath.

“We can’t go back,” Alex whispered, his voice filled with despair. “We’re trapped.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the lake, Lily and Alex huddled together on the rocky shore, praying for morning to come. But deep down, they knew their peaceful summer at Camp Eagle’s Nest was over, replaced by a nightmare they could never escape.

As darkness descended, the distant sounds of panic echoed across the lake as other campers and counselors became aware of the danger. Lily and Alex could hear shouts and screams from the direction of the campgrounds, adding to their growing sense of dread.

“We have to find help,” Lily said, her voice quivering with uncertainty. “There must be someone who can help us.”

But Alex shook his head, his eyes fixed on the chaotic scene. “Who would believe us? We’re just kids. And even if they did, how could anyone stop those things?”

Lily’s heart sank as she realized the truth in his words. They were alone, surrounded by darkness and death, with no one to turn to for help. But she refused to give up hope.

“We can’t just sit here and wait to die,” she said, her voice filled with determination. “We have to do something.”

With that, Lily and Alex set off into the night, their only goal to survive until morning. They moved cautiously along the rocky shoreline, avoiding the water as they searched for a way to escape the nightmare that had descended upon them.

But as they ventured deeper into the darkness, they soon realized they were not alone. Eyes glinted in the shadows, watching their every move with predatory intent. Lily’s heart raced as she realized they were being hunted, not just by the piranhas, but by something far more sinister.

“We have to keep moving,” Alex whispered. “We can’t stay in one place for too long.”

With no other choice, Lily and Alex pressed on into the night, their footsteps echoing through the darkness as they fought to stay one step ahead of the relentless predators that lurked in the shadows. And as they disappeared into the night, the true horror of their situation became painfully clear: in the depths of the Lost River Lake, there was no escape from the jaws of death.

As Lily and Alex pressed on through the darkness, their hope dwindled with each passing moment. Every rustle in the bushes, every whisper of the wind, sent shivers down their spines, reminding them of the lurking dangers around them.

Suddenly, a light pierced through the night, illuminating the trees ahead. Lily and Alex froze in their tracks, their hearts pounding with fear and relief. The light grew brighter as figures emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden behind dark masks.

“Who’s there?” Alex called out, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

But the figures remained silent as they approached, their footsteps echoing through the darkness. Lily’s hand tightened around Alex’s as they braced themselves for whatever fate awaited them.

The figures stopped in front of them, their features obscured by the harsh glare of the light. Lily squinted against the brightness, trying to make out their faces.

“We’ve been looking for you,” a voice said, low and gravelly. “You’re coming with us.”

Lily and Alex exchanged a wary glance, unsure what to make of the situation. But before they could protest, strong hands grabbed them, pulling them into the blinding light.

The next thing they knew, someone shoved them into a waiting vehicle, the doors slamming shut behind them. The engine roared to life as it sped off into the night, leaving behind the darkness and the horrors that had consumed their world.

Whisked into the night, Lily and Alex’s minds raced with terror as they realized the true horror of their situation.

It was no rescue.

They were being stolen, taken to a place where nightmares go to die, where secrets remained buried. A place where the walls whispered of unspeakable atrocities, and the air was heavy with the stench of rot.

Dragged further into the unknown, Lily and Alex felt their sanity slipping away, consumed by the darkness. They clawed desperately at the windows, pounding on the doors, but there was no escape from the clutches of their captors.

And as the vehicle vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but silence and shadows, the truth of their fate became painfully clear. They were never to be found, never meant to tell their story, never meant to escape the horrors that awaited them in the depths of the unknown.

In the heart of darkness, there was no mercy, only madness.