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The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) has taken a step in addressing the widespread contamination caused by per- and poly-fluoroalkyl substances (PFAS), commonly known as “forever chemicals,” designating two PFAS chemicals, PFOA and PFOS, as hazardous substances under the Superfund law, the EPA aims to expedite cleanup efforts and hold responsible parties accountable for the pollution.

While the designation does not outright ban the use of PFOA and PFOS, it mandates the reporting of releases into soil or water exceeding certain levels. It empowers the EPA to enforce cleanups to safeguard public health and recover costs.

PFAS chemicals are phased out in the U.S. but persist in the environment due to their non-degradable nature. Used extensively since the 1940s in various industries and consumer products, including cookware, carpets, and firefighting foams, they pose health risks, accumulating in the body, leading to cancer, liver and heart damage, and developmental issues in infants and children.

The EPA’s action aligns with recent efforts to mitigate PFAS exposure, including strict limits on certain PFAS in drinking water. These regulations, announced earlier this month, aim to reduce exposure for millions of Americans and prevent illnesses, including cancers, associated with PFAS contamination in drinking water.

Financial responsibility for cleanup efforts is also addressed, with chemical companies reaching billion-dollar settlements to compensate for polluting drinking water systems with PFAS. President Joe Biden’s administration has emphasized the urgency of addressing the threat posed by PFAS, underscoring the EPA’s commitment to protecting communities’ health and holding polluters accountable.

In Nevada, the impact of PFAS contamination on water supplies, addressed through regulatory measures and funding initiatives, has not been a source of PFAS pollution, however, proactive measures such as banning PFAS in firefighting foam and implementing a PFAS Action Plan demonstrate a commitment to safeguarding public health.

Ongoing research and monitoring efforts, led by researchers like Yeongkwon Son, a Desert Research Institute researcher and University of Nevada, Reno professor, aim to identify sources of PFAS pollution and implement targeted interventions to mitigate risks. Son’s study, which focused on PFAS pollution in Nevada, highlighted the importance of understanding the origins of these chemicals to develop effective cleanup strategies.

In the dim light of the early morning, Joe received the long-awaited message on his mobile phone: “He’s on the way.”

He slipped the device back into his pocket and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. But his moment of respite was short-lived as James chastised him for his nervous fidgeting.

“Will you stop it?” he grumbled.

The tapping from the passenger footwell ceased, and James couldn’t help but chuckle at the jittery demeanor of his friend.

“Calm down, Joe,” he reassured. “He might have gotten delayed on the road.”

“But at four in the morning?” Joe protested, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Things happen,” James reasoned, trying to ease the tension.

James announced, “He’s here,” as the tractor approached from behind.

The pair waited expectantly as the tractor, driven by their accomplice, charged toward the mini-market like a knight in a joust. However, the impact did no damage.

Undeterred, James instructed Joe to keep the engine running while he and their accomplice prepared to loop a chain around the ATM. James couldn’t help glancing at the store’s overhead camera, though he was sure it was off.

A passing 18-wheeler and a car slowed to navigate around the truck, but neither stopped to investigate. Jame’s accomplice turned the tractor around, and as he did, the building collapsed, burying the ATM beneath the rubble.

The same rubble cascaded onto the truck, forcing the man to jump from the seat. Nearby curtains twitched, indicating that they had drawn unwanted attention.

With the cash machine now buried, the group hastily piled into the waiting truck, but their escape became hindered when the engine sputtered, died, and then failed to start.

Joe moaned, ” I should have stuck with breaking horses for old man Barker.”

Just then, the truck fired up, and they started driving away.

“My balaclava! It’s on the tractor seat,” the accomplice declared. “I can’t leave it. They’ve got my DNA on record.”

Without hesitation, he darted from the truck and raced towards the wreckage.

“So much for being like Jesse James or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Joe sighed. “This was a stupid idea.”

“Quit your complaining,” James responded. “It’s too late for that.”

Minutes felt like hours as they waited anxiously for the accomplice’s return. Finally, he emerged triumphant, clutching the crucial piece of evidence.

“Good job,” James praised. “But next time, make sure you’re wearing it.”

The Nevada Department of Wildlife (NDOW) is seeking information from the public regarding an incident of illegal turkey dumping in eastern Nevada after 25 turkeys were unlawfully deposited onto the Key Pittman Wildlife Management Area, roughly 110 miles north of Las Vegas, on Friday, April 9.

Upon receiving reports, game wardens responded to the scene at the south end of Nesbit Lake within the Wildlife Management Area. A witness provided information, noting the presence of a white truck with a crew cab towing a horse trailer in the vicinity.

Subsequent investigation efforts led wardens to discover security footage from a local convenience store, capturing the truck with a dent on the passenger side door and trailer, refueling before traveling north on U.S. 93 around 1 p.m. Authorities suspect the individuals responsible for the illegal dumping are from Clark County, as they entered and exited from the south.

“Any information could be key to this investigation,” said NDOW’s Lieutenant John Anderson.

He highlighted the potential for neighbors to notice unusual disturbances, such as a sudden decrease in noise, which could aid in identifying the culprits.

Meanwhile, Shawn Espinosa, Game Division Administrator at NDOW, expressed concerns regarding the welfare of the dumped turkeys, explaining that the birds, likely domestic or habituated wild turkeys, may be ill-equipped to survive in the wild and could pose risks to native bird populations due to potential diseases or become prey to predators.

NDOW urges anyone who may recognize the truck or suspects depicted in the footage to contact them at 800-992-3030.

As the sun set behind Mount Davidson and darkness fell across Virginia City, under the glow of old Chandler lights, Piper’s Opera House readied for a spectacle unlike any other. The air buzzed with anticipation as the crowd eagerly awaited the next act.

“And now, for our next act, please welcome to the stage… Roberta, the Cleaveress of the Dalles.”

Polite applause rippled through the audience as a stout woman with fiery red hair ascended the circular platform. Adorned with several gleaming cleavers dangling from her belt, she commanded the attention of all who beheld her.

Socks and Westerly, seated side-by-side, watched the scene with interest. Socks, his neck craned to catch a better view, found himself intrigued by the Cleaveress, while Westerly remained skeptical.

“That is a lot of woman,” Socks remarked, his admiration evident.

“Not my type,” Westerly retorted, his tone dismissive.

As the Cleaveress showcased her remarkable skill, effortlessly hitting bullseye after bullseye with her precise throws, the old stage master regaled the audience with tales of her tragic past.

“Quite a talent, really,” Socks conceded, watching in awe as the Cleaveress continued her impressive display.

Meanwhile, Westerly could not help but reminisce about his dalliance with Helen, the daughter of a Gresham butcher, drawing parallels between her and Roberta. The narrative painted by the stage master was a picture of a young woman whose life became felled by romance.

As the targets began to move, circling the stage with increasing speed, Roberta’s throws grew more determined. But as the spectacle unfolded before him, his gaze shifted, and he found himself staring intently at the Cleaveress, a dawning realization creeping over him.

His breath caught in his throat as he observed the telltale signal of deception in her appearance. The crimson hair now revealed itself to be nothing more than a clever disguise, a mask to conceal her true identity.

As he watched, rivulets of sweat traced paths down her forehead, leaving behind streaks of reddish-pink tint on her skin. And beneath the powdered facade, he discerned the unmistakable truth: the roots of her hair were midnight black.

His mind raced, connecting dots that had long remained unconnected. In a sudden moment of clarity, Westerly rose from his seat, his movements urgent as he pushed his way through the crowd, propelled by a revelation that sent shivers down his spine.

“Where are you off to?” Socks called, but Westerly did not hear him.

“And it is her burning shame which propels her arm to this day,” the stage master proclaimed, unaware of the turmoil within the audience.

In his haste to escape, Westerly stumbled, tripping over a boot. An angry shout erupted, and a forceful shove sent Westerly reeling backward.

His heart raced as he turned the stage, his eyes locking with those of the Cleaveress. At that moment, he knew it was Helen, the butcher girl.

Her chest heaving with exertion, sweat glistening on and between her ample bosom, she gripped the last blade in her hand, and as the final words of the stage master echoed in his mind, “And to cleave him to her at last.”

And as the crowd erupted into screams, spilling onto B Street, Westerly came face to face with his past.

The day following St. George’s Day, Wednesday, April 24, four horses from the Household Cavalry, the ceremonial guard of the Monarch, bolted after injuring their riders and before running loose through London.

It happened the same day Big Ben, or Elizabeth Tower, stopped at 9 a.m., and when it restarted, it chimed 11 times.

At any rate, a white horse covered in blood and an uninjured black horse ran through Aldwych in between London’s historic financial center and the busy West End theater district. It was hard not to think of the white horse representing the one that St. George is riding when slaying the dragon, or “The Beast.”

With St. George being a Christian allegory, my thoughts turned to Revelation 6:8.

“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.” (KJV)

As a side note, St. George is the patron saint of Russia, and his image appears on their National Coat of Arms and Presidential Standard, also on the flag of Moscow City. Meanwhile, the shield of St. George is the logo of Moscow, while the coat of arms is the symbol of the capital.

St. George is depicted on a white (or pale) horse, slaying the dragon, a snake, representing evil. He is said to have killed a snake or dragon that lived in Neapolis of Cappadocia, now Nev-Shekir in Turkey in Asia Minor, where they fed children and babies to it.

One news report said the two horses ran 3.33 kilometers, a reminder of Christ, as he died at 33. It is also a highly spiritual number, resonating with the Holy Triune of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.

In numerology, 33 represents spiritual enlightenment, balance, and perfection. Another potential meaning includes the 33 Degrees of Freemasonry.

The significance of 33 cannot be understood unless combined with the navigational tools of the compass and the square and science of Free Masonry. The calculation of speed and location is considered sacred knowledge that unites time with space and the heavens with the earth.

The number “three” is essential to this process. Without the geometry of the three-sided triangle, establishing location and distance on a map or “triangulation” is impossible.

Then there is the 33.33 degrees of the great circle of the earth, representing 2012 nautical miles. Mount Hermon in Phoenicia, the first location of extraterrestrial influence with man, lies at 33.33° north, 33.33° East, 2,012 miles from the equator, and 2,012 miles from the prime meridian.

Then there is the number of nautical miles in 33.33 degrees of the earth, 2012.9, corresponding to the year and date the Mayan calendar ended. Added to this is the earth’s circumference of 21,600, divided by 33.33, equals 6,480 or 21,600 / 33.33 = 648.06480648064.

Now take 648.06480648064 and divide it by 19.47, a number suggested by the year of the 1947 Roswell crash, equals 33.28.

Taken as a latitude, 33.28° multiplied by 3.141592653589, results in 104.56, and when used as a latitudinal direction, encompasses the coordinates of the impact site near the New Mexico crash site outside of Roswell.

Additionally, the number 2012 multiplied by the Roswell crash site latitude of 33.28° and the crash year of 19.47 equals 64.80, corresponding to the years between July 1947 and March 2012. It is also significant that the U.S. Army recovered the debris and “alien” bodies on July 4, 1947.

So that you know I’m not simply reaching, 888 is the sum of the letters in Greek of the name Jesus or Iēsoûs, as each Greek letter represents a number. Now add the first messiah, or 888, to the second messiah, or 888, and it equals 1776.

Finally, while bringing all this information, or perhaps nonsense, together I haven’t the foggiest idea what it means.

Manning Ventures Inc. has concluded the gravity survey component of its phase one 2024 exploration initiative at the Copper Hill Project within the Walker Lane Trend.

The initial phase of the exploration program encompassed geologic mapping, soil geochemistry analysis, and the recently finished property-wide gravity survey. The findings from this survey are currently en route for comprehensive interpretation, including a detailed report integrating gravity survey data, ground magnetic data, and existing geological information. The results will be amalgamated with historical data to delineate target zones suitable for core and reverse circulation drilling.

The gravity geophysical program will help in assessing the extent of intrusive and limestone rocks. The sample locations highlight density variations among different lithologies, thus facilitating the identification of various rock types and fault zone orientations beneath the surface.

Copper Hill is in a quartz monzonite porphyry of the Jurassic Age, which intrudes the surrounding Luning Limestone of the Triassic Age and intersects several intrusive dikes. Zones of copper and gold-bearing skarn mineralization, associated with the porphyry, manifest along the intrusive-limestone contacts and within fault zones within the intrusive.

Situated within the prolific Walker Lane trend, Copper Hill occupies a spot in one of the top jurisdictions for precious metals mining. The historical mineral endowment within Walker Lane comprises 50 million ounces of gold, 700 million ounces of silver, and 4 million tons of copper.

Copper Hill boasts copper-gold-molybdenum mineralization in porphyry and skarn deposits, spanning 2.3 square miles, encompassing 66 mineral claims, about 22 miles north of Hawthorne. The project is a quartz monzonite porphyry and Luning Limestone, 33 miles east of the Yerington Copper District, which hosts prominent deposits like the Yerington Copper Mine, Ann Mason Deposit, and Pumpkin Hollow Mine, among others.

Historically, Copper Hill witnessed high-grade copper extraction from underground shafts, tapping into skarn and copper mineralization at the Copper Mountain Mine. Operations between 1914 and 1926 yielded an estimated 1,000,000 pounds of copper from shallow underground workings with a shipping grade ranging from 3.5 to 11 percent copper.

The mineralizing system at Copper Hill forms a topographic high surrounded by younger volcanic rocks. Identified mineralization includes bornite, chalcocite, chalcopyrite, chrysocolla, gold, silver, and molybdenite.

The area underwent exploration between 1959 and 1979 by Idaho Mining Corp. and Walker-Martel, encompassing ground geophysics, underground mapping, prospecting, and approximately 6000 feet of Rotary drilling. Subsequent ground magnetics conducted in 2007 and rock sampling revealed notable copper and gold values.

The primary target pursued at Copper Hill is a porphyry-styled copper-molybdenum-gold deposit.

The cold hangs outside the doors as winter pulls the snowflakes from the skies. The wind heaves a chilled breath, threatening to reduce life to a sleepy end.

Along the dimly lit hallway of the Veterans Hospital, we stand front to back, a motley crew united by the shared experience of waiting. The air is thick with the scent of ancient sweat and the murmur of hushed conversations.

The walls, nicotine-yellow with age, seemed to close in on us, while the green and white linoleum floor beneath our feet bore the scars of countless footsteps. Across from us, a lone clerk darted back and forth behind bullet-proof windows, her movements mechanical and devoid of warmth.

Winter coats cling uncomfortably to our bodies, the warmth of the crowded space quickly turning stifling. Old souls, relics of a bygone era, clinging to our paperwork in a world of advanced technology.

And so, we wait.

My eyelids drooped with fatigue, the monotony of the wait threatening to lull me into a stupor. Could I fall asleep standing up?

Then I hear my last name.

The sound of my name jolted me awake, and I stumbled forward as the clerk motioned for me to approach her window.

“Go to the door on your left,” she instructed, her voice devoid of empathy.

Confusion clouded my thoughts as I scanned the hallway for the door she mentioned but found none. With a resigned sigh, I reluctantly obeyed, feeling the weight of the eyes of the others in line behind me.

As I moved away from the window, a door appeared at the end of the hallway, seemingly materializing out of thin air. A woman stood beside it, gesturing for me to approach.

“Over here,” she called, her voice gentle and inviting.

With a sense of trepidation, I crossed the threshold into her office, leaving behind the hallway. The space was bright and quiet.

She motioned for me to sit on the metal chair before her desk, her smile warm and genuine.

“I’m sorry for the wait,” she said kindly. “I know how it feels to be overlooked.”

I frowned, taken aback by her empathy. “What do you mean?”

She chuckled softly. “Once we hit sixty, it’s like we become invisible, isn’t it?”

She understood, she saw me. I nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling heavily on my shoulders.

But as she reached out to touch my hand, a chill crept over me, and a sense of unease washed over me. I tried to pull away, but her grip was firm, her touch like a winter’s snow against my skin.

“As I said before, we are invisible,” she stated. “In the old days the elderly got less meat because they could not work for it anymore.”

Her appearance began to shift before my eyes, her features twisting and contorting into something grotesque and otherworldly. And as her teeth elongated into sharp points, I realized with horror that she was not what she seemed.

In that moment of terror, I felt myself slipping away, my very life essence fading into nothingness, growing invisible, as her dark eyes bore into mine.

Now, just a specter, devoid of flesh and skin. My visage, a memory hanging limply within my vaulted skull, long and short bones suspended, waiting to be cracked open.

I see her timeless face, marked by laugh lines, as she murmurs, “It takes so damned many of you to make a decent bone broth.”

In the hope of shutting down a free speech platform critical of the Washoe County Registrar of Voters, the Washoe County Commission, the Washoe County School Board, and the Reno City Council, former Reno City Councilmember Paul McKenzie has filed an election violation complaint against the Political Action Committee (PAC) Operation Sunlight, associated with Robert Beadles.

McKenzie alleges serious violations, claiming that the PAC has failed to disclose any political expenditures with the state since the first quarter of 2022. In that report, Beadles was the sole registered officer for the PAC.

Under state law, political campaigns must file quarterly Contributions & Expenses (C&E) reports during election years and one C&E report per non-election year. McKenzie points to the PAC’s Facebook ads as evidence of political spending, noting that the ads explicitly call to action to vote or support candidates.

Emphasizing the importance of adhering to state law, McKenzie states that while he disagrees with Operation Sunlight’s politics and attack ads, transparency is paramount. If operating under the guise of a PAC, disclosure of contributions and expenditures is obligatory through the Secretary of State’s office in Nevada.

“The law doesn’t say that you can’t lie about another candidate, but it does say if you’re going to lie about another candidate, you need to disclose where the money is coming from for those lies and how that money is being spent to spread those lies,” said McKenzie.

Evidence of political content is found in the public Facebook ads library under “Operation Sunlight” in the ads category about “social issues, elections, or politics.” Numerous flagged Operation Sunlight ads advocate for or against election candidates, with many removed for violating Facebook’s policies. The ads library also displays the amount spent on each ad.

In response to McKenzie’s allegations, Robert Beadles stated, “He can look forward to meeting my attorneys for filing frivolous, fabricated statements under oath.”

McKenzie is calling on Nevada Secretary of State Cisco Aguilar to investigate and refer the matter to Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford for legal action.

In the colorful confines of Virginia City, where the stories rival the peaks, Mount Davidson stands tall – a beacon for dreamers with hearts as big as the Nevada sky.

And leading the charge up this mountain of dreams is Spencer Davidson, a modern-day prospector with a lineage as storied as the gold he seeks. Descended from the esteemed geologist Donald Davidson, Spencer inherited the mountain, a thirst for adventure, and a keen eye for all things shiny.

With a motto as sharp as his wit – “Get off your hiney and find some shiny (or was it “winey.”) – Spencer embarks on his quest for riches.

One fine morning, as Spencer navigates the slopes of Mount Davidson, his gaze fixed upon the iconic flagpole, fate throws him a curveball. Nestled amidst the rocks lies a glimmer, beckoning with its sparkle.

With a mixture of excitement and determination, Spencer investigates the find. While most would rejoice at such a discovery, Spencer sees it as a cosmic sign – the mother lode awaits.

With the fever of a gold rush pioneer, Spencer digs deep, his shovel slicing through the earth with determination. Yet, what he unearths is not the gleaming treasure he anticipated.

Instead, Spencer discovers a plastic skull filled with glitter – a prank of cosmic proportions, one himself had orchestrated years ago. But ever the optimist, Spencer chuckles at the self-deprecating joke, reburied the glittery skull, and presses on.

Undeterred by plastic skulls and glittery tricks, Spencer shifts gears – transforming a lot on C Street into the ultimate gold panning destination. With bags of sand and a generous sprinkle of humor, Spencer creates a haven for laughter and merriment.

Soon, tourists flock to Mount Davidson Gold Panning, eager to try their luck and revel in Spencer’s infectious spirit. With homemade slews and tales spun taller than the peaks, Spencer crafts an experience to remember.

As the sun sets behind the rugged peaks, casting a golden glow over the land, Spencer stands beside Mount Davidson Gold Panning, surveying his domain with pride. Though the gold may be store-bought, the joy it brings is as golden as the Nevada sun.

And in the end, isn’t that the best treasure of all?

As the sun blazed overhead and the sky stretched endlessly blue, we trekked along the rugged path at the cliff’s edge. You surged ahead, driven by some unseen urgency, while I struggled to keep pace, my boots slipping on loose stones.

To our left, the cliff dropped sharply into the azure expanse of ocean, while to our right, twisted barbed wire delineated some unseen boundary. The wire, barely holding on, seemed more a suggestion of containment than a barrier.

At a bend in the path, I stumbled over the stones you kicked up, reaching out instinctively to steady myself, only to find my hand grasping painful barbs. The sharp sting made me cry aloud, but you continued, never looking back, seemingly unaffected by my distress.

I wiped the blood against my shirt, silently enduring the ache both in my flesh and in my heart.

Further along, as I struggled to catch up, I heard a plaintive cry carried on the wind. At first, I mistook it for the bleat of a sheep, but as I approached, I realized it was you, at the wire, desperately trying to free a trapped lamb. Your anguish mirrored the creature’s, each cry echoing the other’s pain.

“We need wire cutters,” you insisted, your eyes accusing me of negligence.

But as I scanned the desolate landscape, I knew rescue was unlikely.

“This land seems endless,” I muttered, feeling the weight of your blame pressing down on me.

With determined hands, you fought to free the lamb, oblivious to the blood staining its wool. Your cries mingled with its bleats, creating a cacophony of suffering that pierced the air. Despite my feeble protests, you persisted, your desperation escalating with each passing moment.

“Stop,” I pleaded, but my words fell on deaf ears. I watched helplessly as the lamb’s struggles ceased, its once vibrant eyes growing dull.

As you cradled the lifeless creature, your touch tender and gentle, I realized that your compassion was reserved solely for the helpless creature at your feet. With a heavy heart, I turned away, the sound of your grief fading into the wind.

Quietly, I retraced my steps along the cliff as the world softened about me. The harsh brightness of the sun mellowed into a comforting warmth, and the relentless blue of the sky became a soothing backdrop to my thoughts. Even the rugged cliffs offered a sense of solace.

At the spot where I had grabbed the barb, the wire glistened with my blood, a reminder of the pain endured. I glanced back briefly, knowing you wouldn’t notice the traces of blood staining the wire.

The fence, still flimsy in places, was the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit. With each passing moment, the distance between us grew until you were nothing more than a distant memory, a fading echo in the recesses of my mind.