The Old Blog in the Desert

A Bill, A billion, and A Bunch of Questions

It does appear that Governor Joe Lombardo has loaded a scatter gun with a grand notion–he wants to sprinkle a cool billion dollars across the Nevada landscape like a farmer seeding a field, only instead of wheat, he’s looking to grow houses folks can afford.

The Nevada Housing Access and Attainability Act—a highfalutin’ name—promises to carve out a fund to shovel money toward housing developments, with a tidy $250 million set aside to help folks pay rent or scrape up a downpayment. Mighty generous.

Full of optimism, the Governor assures us that Nevada need not choose between growth and more growth—an assertion that, depending on who you ask, is either forward-thinking or the sort of thing a fella says before his horse steps into a gopher hole.

Now, here’s a curiosity–the proposal claims to expand eligibility for affordable housing to those making 150 percent of the area’s median income. But that raises an interesting question—what exactly became of all that federal gold dust Nevada’s got showered with thanks to Senators Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen?

After all that taxpayer money rolled in, surely there ought to be some housing to point at, or is it like a gambler’s winnings in Virginia City—gone before you know where it went?

One of the plan’s ideas is to remove barriers holding builders from using government-owned land for affordable housing. The Governor points out that public land auctions often send prices soaring higher than a Fourth of July bottle rocket, leaving affordable housing developers to pick through the ashes.

Now, it seems reasonable enough, though one wonders why the state owns all this land in the first place if nobody can afford to build on it.

Lombardo says his office worked with Nevada’s federal delegation and the White House to hammer out the details, but the fine idea has yet to take the form of an actual, numbered bill. In other words, a grand promise sitting on a fence post like Mugwump, waiting to see how the political winds blow.

For now, the folks of Nevada can take heart in knowing that their fearless leaders are thinking about affordable housing, but whether they’ll do anything about it—well, that’s a house of a different color.

If you happened to look up in Washoe Valley last week and saw a helicopter buzzing about like a dragonfly with purpose, you weren’t hallucinating—at least, not unless you’ve been into something more than fire water.

The flying machine belonged to the Nevada Division of Forestry, and it wasn’t just out for a joyride. Nope, it was busy re-seeding the scarred remains of last year’s Davis Fire, which did a thorough job of turning nearly 6,000 acres into something resembling a bad day on the moon.

The noble effort is the work of a small army of government outfits, from the Nevada Division of Forestry to the Bureau of Land Management, all shaking hands under the grand umbrella of the state’s Shared Stewardship Agreement. The idea is simple: drop enough native seeds from the sky and hope Mother Nature forgives last year’s transgressions.

Officials swear by it, saying it’s the best way to give the land a fighting chance at looking green again, rather than the ashen wasteland it currently resembles.

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the state, Clark County residents have been given a rare and generous offer–free trees, with no strings attached, no government forms requiring your firstborn.

Through the Community Canopy Project, about 4,500 water-efficient trees are up for grabs, with priority given to those most at risk of roasting alive in the desert sun. The particular act of kindness is a direct response to what was, officially, the hottest summer ever recorded in Southern Nevada, with temperatures reaching a blistering 120°F and over 500 deaths blamed on the heat.

So, whether sprinkling seeds over burned land or handing out trees like a kindly Johnny Appleseed, Nevada is doing its best to undo some calefaction damage.

Clark County Employee Jailed for Indecency

In a development that will set many a parent’s teeth on edge and send schoolhouse reputations tumbling like a poorly built fence, a Clark County School District employee has been clapped into irons for alleged misconduct with a minor.

Manuel Ayala-Tovar, aged 33 years and—one assumes—fully aware of societal consensus on right and wrong, got escorted to the Clark County Detention Center, where he will no doubt have ample time to contemplate the error of his ways. The accused had been gainfully employed at Manuel J. Cortez Elementary School since 2022, though one suspects his departure will not come with a gold watch or farewell parties.

The authorities, diligent in sniffing out misdeeds, commenced their investigation in November 2024. From that moment, Ayala-Tovar got sent home, which in schoolhouse parlance generally means “don’t come back.”

While the wheels of justice turn, the community watches and waits, hoping that such a disgraceful business never darkens the door of their schoolhouses again.

Well now, gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen, and let’s take a gander at the latest installment of Nevada’s most thrilling spectacle—The Grand and Glorious Assurance of Election Integrity!

The dazzling performance, brought to you by none other than Secretary of State Francisco Aguilar, complete with lofty pronouncements, statistical wizardry, and the ever-reliable sleight of hand that has folks nodding along.

“Ensuring the security of Nevada’s elections is one of the most serious responsibilities my office has,” quoth Aguilar, straight-faced as a Sunday school preacher, as he unfurled yet another quarterly report meant to assure the good citizens of Nevada that all is well and just in their sacred voting process.

Now, let’s take a peek behind the curtain.

In the grand 2024 general election, a minuscule 303 attempted double-votes got noted—that’s 0.02 percent of the total ballots, a number so small you’d need a government-paid mathematician to find it with a magnifying glass. But don’t fret, dear reader, for of these 303, a whopping five cases have been closed, while the remaining 298 languish in a limbo more mysterious than a prospector’s last words.

The primary election fared no better, with 68 attempted double-votes and a dazzling 48 closing with no recommendation for criminal charges—one can only assume the perpetrators received a hearty handshake and a gentle reminder to try again next time. And in the grandest of them all, the 2024 Presidential Preference Primary, the number of double votes was so microscopic—two cases out of 215,742 ballots—it’s a wonder they bothered to count them.

Both cases came up dismissed, naturally.

What Aguilar and his merry band would have you believe is that these numbers prove the election was as pure as a mountain spring. But any old-timer worth his salt will tell you: the trick to a good con ain’t what they show you but what they don’t.

And for all the fine talk of transparency and accountability, the one thing you won’t find in these reports is anyone asking questions that might make an honest man blush.

So step right up, folks, and take comfort in the knowledge that Nevada’s elections are in the safest hands—at least, according to the fellas counting the votes.

But, ain’t it just the way of politicians and their pet number-crunchers?

They’ll stand up straight as a fence post and tell you, and with all the sincerity of a fella selling snake oil, that 303 attempted double votes out of nearly a million and a half ballots ain’t worth mentioning. Why–it’s such a small number, they reckon, you’d be a fool to worry about it.

But here’s the rub—one double vote is one too many. If a man slips an extra ace into a poker game and gets caught, you don’t say, “Well, it was just one card, no harm done.” No, you kick ’em out and watch the rest of the deck mighty close because where there’s one trick, there’s bound to be another.

What bean counters conveniently forget to mention is the simple truth–if they caught a few, how many more slipped through? It ain’t like cheaters line up to turn themselves in. And yet, we get the same tired song—“Nothing to see here, folks, move along.”

A fella with sense knows better.

On Sunday evening, the good folks of Central Lyon Fire found themselves called away from whatever honest labor or idle mischief they were about to engage in as a brush fire set about making a general nuisance of itself near Stagecoach, just off Highway 50 East. Not wanting to miss the excitement, Carson City Fire hitched up their wagons and rode out for mutual assistance.

The blaze reached about an acre in size before the firefighters applied a firm and unyielding hand to dampen its aspirations. Fire crews drowned the fire by 6:30 p.m.

Meanwhile, in Indian Hills, fire crews had another engagement involving a structure fire on Vista Park Drive. At around 5:20 p.m., smoke began making itself conspicuously unwelcome at a local residence.

Perhaps feeling that one fire wouldn’t fill the evening, Carson City Fire saddled up again for mutual aid. The firefighters arrived to find the rooms excessively filled with flames.

After some effort, the fire—whether it surrendered willingly or went out kicking and screaming–got knocked down. As for the extent of the damage, the flames have been remarkably tight-lipped on the matter.

And lest Lyon County feels neglected, a brush fire in Smith Valley made a play for attention earlier in the day, striking up a lively performance off Artist View. Fire resources, not one to encourage such rowdy displays, managed to subdue the fire’s enthusiasm significantly, leaving only the usual mop-up duties.

The land, now slightly singed but otherwise unimpressed, will no doubt be ready to host the next such conflagration at a moment’s notice.

The good folks of Storey County can rest a little easier—or at least drive a little straighter—thanks to a generous donation from local business owners Thomas and Deborah Hayward. In an act of goodwill that would put a Sunday preacher to shame, the couple handed over the keys to an all-wheel-drive Dodge Challenger that will bring a little muscle to the Sheriff’s Office’s ongoing battle against reckless driving.

Deputy David Ranson, head of the department’s STEER Unit (Safe Traffic Education and Enforcement Response), accepted the donation with the kind of enthusiasm one reserves for Christmas morning.

“The Dodge Challenger SXT was a wish list item for our traffic enforcement team,” Ranson said, suppressing a grin at the thought of patrolling the streets in a machine built for speed and safety. “Its all-wheel-drive capability and excellent safety ratings make it a critical tool for addressing traffic infractions and improving road safety in all weather conditions.”

The STEER Unit, dedicated to keeping Storey County’s roads as safe as a church picnic, will outfit the vehicle like a patrol car and use it for traffic enforcement, education, and community outreach events. In other words, lead-footed drivers will soon find themselves face to face with the long arm of the law—now backed by a powerful engine.

Deborah Hayward, speaking on behalf of the generous duo, explained their motives in plain terms: “We believe in giving back to the community that supports us, and we are honored to donate this vehicle as a token of our gratitude for the dedication and sacrifice of our first responders. We hope this contribution helps them continue their vital work.”

With this addition to its fleet, the STEER Unit plans to curb reckless driving and create goodwill between law enforcement and the community. The Sheriff’s Office has long been grappling with traffic-related incidents, and this new tool might just put a dent in those statistics.

Of course, the ultimate goal remains the grandest of all–zero fatalities. It’s a lofty ambition, to be sure, but one the department holds fast to.

And if nothing else, seeing a Dodge Challenger in the rearview mirror might just be enough to make even the most reckless driver think twice before pressing their luck.

Jedidiah Smoothwater had gone to his reward if he was to have one, which I reckoned was doubtful. He had played his part in this grand comedy with such middling skill that spectators, if any, must have been snoring through his final act.

Now, he lay, decked out in a mahogany coffin, glass over his face like a lid on a jar of preserves, looking as if he was enjoying his first and last peace. The undertaker had done a fine job, I must say, turning Jedidiah into a silent partner in the business of death.

At two o’clock sharp, his so-called friends gathered, their mourning as sincere as a politician’s promise. They stood around, trying to look as if they’d lost something more than a drinking buddy. Jedidiah’s kin took turns sobbing over him.

The widow made her grand entrance, weeping copiously in the practiced manner of one who had rehearsed for such an event. She threw herself upon the casket, pressed her face to the cold glass, and, having thereby chilled her emotions, allowed herself to be seated near her daughter.

The minister soon appeared, making all others seem like mere shadows. His eulogy was beautiful if you’re fond of gloom. The minister’s voice wavered like a flag in a storm, driving everyone deeper into despair until even the heavens joined in with a sprinkle of rain as if to say, “I too have felt this man’s absence.”

The service ended, the mourners sang with the cheerlessness of a dirge, and the pallbearers stepped up, ready to remove Jedidiah into whatever eternity awaited him. But the widow, not to be outdone by the proceedings, made a final, grand gesture of sorrow, collapsing in a faint so theatrical it might have been the climax of a melodrama.

Everyone rushed to her aid. One poor soul bumped the coffin, sending it to the ground with a crash that shattered the glass into a thousand sparkles.

From the wreckage and with a furtive, nervous scamper, scurried a rat. It paused momentarily, whiskers twitching as if in some dark amusement before darting away.

The clock struck three.

Rascals of Tahoe and a Case of Leniency

Now, dear reader, let us turn our attention to a tale of crime, justice, and a rather curious brand of leniency that has settled upon the shores of Lake Tahoe like an unwelcome fog. The principal character in this drama is one Edgar Ivan Trejo-Mendoza, a man with a knack for bad company and worse decisions, who now finds himself convicted and awaiting deportation after a grand multi-agency operation charmingly dubbed “Operation Bear Trap.”

Trejo-Mendoza’s luck ran out on February 8, when authorities plucked him from his roguish pursuits in Cool, Calif.—though one might argue a more fitting name for his hideaway would have been “Not-So-Cleverly-Disguised.” His arrest was the result of a multi-year investigation that sought to untangle the web of violent crime, illicit drug peddling, and gun-running in the Tahoe region.

Authorities wasted little time in compiling an impressive list of charges against him, including possession of a firearm while being legally barred from doing so, courtesy of a domestic violence restraining order, the unlawful sale of an assault weapon to a felon, illegal entry into the United States, and the ever-fashionable title of fugitive from justice.

Yet, dear reader, if you were expecting a tale of swift and resolute justice, you may wish to temper your expectations. On February 18, Trejo-Mendoza pleaded guilty to a single felony count—unlawful transfer of a firearm—in El Dorado County Superior Court. His punishment? Time served–a total of 17 days in the county jail–and a probationary pat on the head. No sooner had he stepped back into the fresh air of freedom than he found himself whisked away by the diligent hands of the FBI and ICE, who promptly set about the business of initiating deportation proceedings.

Now, lest you assume Trejo-Mendoza was a lone wolf in his misdeeds, allow me to introduce some of his charming compatriots—men whose dealings in machine guns, narcotics, and other unsavory enterprises have earned them sentences so light they might float away on the Tahoe breeze.

Among them is Carlos Alfredo Perez Guerra, convicted of possessing Child Sexual Abuse Material and a firearm, despite his felonious status, originally sentenced to four years but now enjoying the comforts of probation after a mere two. Oscar Arreola Nunez, a man with sixteen felony convictions under his belt, including selling machine guns and narcotics across from South Tahoe Middle School—presumably an effort in early career development. He received a seven-year sentence, though four got graciously suspended, and after serving a measly year and a half, he, too, waltzed into probation.

Then there’s Jose Medina Vazquez, a collector of felonies in the double digits, himself convicted of crimes including possession of a machine gun, felon in possession of a firearm, and narcotics distribution. His seven-year sentence should, by current trends, land him back in circulation by spring 2026. Bryan Antunez Gonzalez, convicted of carjacking and robbery, at least earned himself a six-year stint in prison before the promise of deportation upon release.

And let us not forget the four federal defendants swept up in Operation Bear Trap back in 2022, who are still awaiting trial for methamphetamine trafficking—presumably because justice must first take its afternoon tea.

In the face of such an impressive collection of lawbreakers, one might expect the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office to throw its hands up in despair.

Yet they assure us they remain steadfast in their mission to combat illegal firearm trafficking, gang activities, and violent crime. They have promised continued collaboration with federal agencies, including the FBI and ICE, to apprehend, prosecute, and, when necessary, deport those with a penchant for lawlessness.

Norm Clarke

Norm Clarke had the instincts of a bloodhound, the nerves of a riverboat gambler, and, lest we forget, the unmistakable eye patch that made him look as though he had just stepped off a pirate ship and straight into a press room. It was not merely an accessory; it was the badge of a man who had seen much, lost much, and yet never stopped looking for the next great story.

Departing this world at 82, Clarke spent his days chasing the big tales—from the crack of the bat in Cincinnati to the neon glow of Las Vegas, where he reigned as the scribe of sin and spectacle. He was a man of ink and hustle, trained by the hard edges of life before finding his true calling among the stars and scoundrels of the Strip.

His “Vegas Confidential” column was not so much a gossip rag as a chronicle of the absurd, a running diary of the high-heeled, high-rolling, and often high-flying antics of the rich and reckless. He was the first to report on Britney Spears’ 55-hour marriage, which lasted about as long as a Las Vegas sunrise, the return of Michael Jackson to Sin City, and the moment Elton John turned his temper into a projectile, sending a stool and a glass of water into the audience.

If a celebrity was being bad, Clarke had the scoop before the ink was dry on the arrest report. But make no mistake—Clarke was no mere peddler of idle chatter.

He was a reporter first, last, and always, a fact he made clear to anyone who dared call him a gossip columnist. His work was legendary.

When a fire devoured the Beverly Hills Supper Club in Kentucky, Clarke ran a mile through gridlocked traffic to be the first reporter on the scene. When the MGM Grand went up in flames, Clarke’s words served as a witness to the event.

He covered the Big Red Machine of the Cincinnati Reds, tangled with Pete Rose over contract disputes, and took a slap to the face when he dared list baseball’s all-time hits leader among Vegas’ worst tippers. If there was a fight, Clarke didn’t just cover it—he was in it.

Even away from the newsroom, Clarke had a taste for adventure. He ran with the bulls in Pamplona twice, which suggests he was either immensely brave or had a loose definition of self-preservation. His luck ran out in Tecate, Mexico, where a bull got the better of him, but a good reporter knows that sometimes you take the hit and get back up.

Born in Terry, Mont., Clarke’s life was one of resilience. He lost his father to cancer at ten and his right eye not long after, but none of it slowed him down.

His first break in journalism came for the princely sum of five dollars, covering a basketball tournament that ended with a buzzer-beating half-court shot. He became hooked from that moment on.

Writing wasn’t just a job—it was salvation.

His memoir, Power of the Patch, was published this month, and he wanted it placed in schools and libraries where the next generation of ink-stained dreamers might find it. He understood, perhaps better than most, that words have power and the right words at the right time can change the course of a life.

And so we bid farewell to Norm Clarke—newsman, storyteller, and, as Forbes once called him, the sheriff of Sin City’s wildest beat. He leaves behind a legacy of ink and intrigue, a trail of scoops and stories that stretch from the dugouts of Cincinnati to the casinos of Las Vegas.

He saw it all, and what’s more, he made sure we saw it too.

A Tale of Fraud, Fines, and Foolishness

Some men will climb the highest mountain, ford the deepest river, and perjure themselves on a stack of Bibles to bag a mule deer that isn’t legally theirs. Such was the case in the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, where two enterprising individuals got snared by the long arm of the law after cooking up a hunting scheme that was equal parts ambition and absurdity.

In December 2022, the Utah Division of Natural Resources got wind of a Panguitch, Utah resident who had galloped across the Nevada border, fraudulent hunting tag in hand, and laid claim to a sizeable 5×4 mule deer. The Nevada Department of Wildlife (NDOW) quickly confirmed that the hunter had been a Utah resident for three years, rendering them about as eligible for a Nevada resident hunting tag as a coyote in a henhouse.

“Residency fraud is becoming a real problem,” lamented Game Warden Lieutenant John Anderson, as he no doubt pondered the sheer effort some folks will exert to avoid paying out-of-state fees. “Our game wardens are spending quite a bit of time investigating residency fraud, and that’s valuable time they could be using to actually protect the state’s wildlife.”

As the investigation unfolded, it became clear that the grand scheme was a family affair. The hunter’s spouse, who fancied herself something of a backwoods bureaucrat, handled the fraudulent paperwork and tag purchases, filling out applications under untrue pretenses and securing licenses with the finesse of a small-time con artist.

Search warrants, financial records, and digital evidence all told the same tale—this was a crime of paperwork and poor judgment. The price for this ill-gotten mule deer?

The primary suspect took a plea deal, admitting to aiding and abetting unlawful possession—a gross misdemeanor. In exchange for the trophy, he received a five-year suspension of hunting privileges, a suspended 60-day jail sentence, a year of probation, and a devastating loss of 36 hunting bonus points, which, for an avid hunter, is about as cruel a fate as being exiled from the campfire. The financial reckoning came in the form of a shared civil penalty of $4,999.99, a precise sum that suggests the judge wanted to extract every last penny.

Meanwhile, the spouse, the unseen hand behind this grand deception, was convicted of a misdemeanor violation, losing her hunting license and coughing up more than $600 in fines—plus their share of the nearly $5,000 penalty.

Under the Interstate Wildlife Violator Compact, the five-year suspension means neither can legally hunt in 49 states, leaving Alaska as their only option—assuming they fancy a trek to the tundra to try their luck on moose instead.

While residency fraud may not rank much among crimes of history, it remains a persistent pest, gnawing away at conservation funding and robbing lawful hunters of opportunities. Lieutenant Anderson stressed that the case was a shining example of interagency cooperation, proving that, while some folks may think they can outsmart the system, the law will catch up—especially when you leave a paper trail as wide as the Grand Canyon.

And so ends another mule deer caper, a tale of fraud, folly, and the undeniable fact that some hunters will go to remarkable lengths to take a shortcut—only to find themselves on a much longer road than they ever intended.