Mark Twain got his start here, and, well, that was probably about the last time anybody really notable was hanging around this town.
Even Twain wasn’t notable then, not yet. He first showed up as a Missouri boy named Sam Clemens, riding on his brother’s coattails. Orion Clemens had, through some judicious politicking, wound up as secretary of the brand-new Nevada Territory, carved out of Utah.
So young Sam came out West and spent the next few years always on the verge of making his fortune in gold and silver mining, or maybe in horse-trading, but more likely in gold mining, or perhaps in silver mining, and in between seeing the sights and writing letters to the Territorial Enterprise newspaper — and finally, when he was out of prospects and down to eating his words, and them only two syllables at best, he got a note from said newspaper asking if he’d like to be paid $25 a week to be city editor.
That was when he began writing in earnest, hung the moniker “Mark Twain” on himself, and was finally able to profit from his exploits. You can read about them in his book “Roughing It.” The chapters are short, most of the stuff is true, and he makes fun of himself a lot. Then he got all the way famous and moved to Connecticut and made the rest of his money making fun of all of us.
But the last laugh may be on him, for the boy who never did see a fortune in Nevada except the ones that were waltzing in other people’s wallets, and died poor after all, has since had his name taken for gain by a museum, a bar and, just for good measure, the brochures put out by the Virginia City Chamber of Commerce. That’s all right, because he’s a prime candidate for ghosthood now, and ghosts have been good for “Virginia,” as the town is known.
You can hear them clanking alongside you on the plank sidewalks, especially after sunset, when all the day-trippers from nearby Reno and Sparks have left and all the locals have closed up shop and gone home. You can see them hovering around the mounds of tailings that still surround the openings of long-silent mine shafts, and the tracks of the Virginia & Truckee Rail Road, once the bed of rivers of gold and silver bullion. You can taste them as you sip the sarsaparilla that some of the saloons, with names like Bucket of Blood, still sell, to the occasional strum of a banjo player.
You can even feel them, if you want to, as you stand amid the gravestones in Boot Hill Cemetery on a ridge across from the one where the town lies, under a sky so sprinkled with stars it seems as if they spilled out of some celestial salt shaker.
Virginia City is, despite its connection to the mythical ranch of TV’s “Bonanza,” what you might call a reluctant tourist attraction. Case in point: When we looked in our guidebook for motel listings, we found three, which was three more than we had expected. The book (Deke Castleman’s excellent “Nevada Handbook,” Moon Publications) warned, however, that any of those three might be temporarily out of operation at any time, just because it was Virginia City.
We picked the Sugar Loaf Mountain Lodge because it was near the center of town, and got reservations — although apparently only after whoever was supposed to be working that day actually made it to work. But at $50 a night, the price was right. In the meantime, we got to anticipate what adventures might transpire if the place shut down before we got there, and what sort of lodgings we might enjoy if it didn’t. (They turned out quite acceptable, especially with the free coffee.)
Another case in point: Virginia is savvy enough to think up multiple ways to get your money, but gritty enough to be indifferent to the aesthetics thereof. Along C Street, the main drag, this shows up in the form of rock shops selling both geode bookends and sloth dung, T-shirt stores with exits into slot-machine-filled bars, and “museums” that never saw a curator or a marble floor and hope never to need either.
At one end of the street, Gina Pizza has pineapple and artichoke among its toppings; at the Wagon Wheel at the other end (“Good Eats,” a sign hints), steak is still a breakfast option and the milk remains defiantly whole. The morning of our visit, I unthinkingly requested skim, and the waitress informed me, “We only use real dairy products. Real milk, real cream, real butter …” I hastily asked for orange juice.
After breakfast on a mountain, it seemed only right to take a train ride along the side of the mountain, especially a mountain that in its heyday echoed with the hubbub of 40,000 miners and their supplementary carpenters, saloonkeepers, hoteliers, launderers and female entertainers, as the census-takers called them.
“Imagine,” we said to each other, “as far as the eye could see, the hillsides crawling with thousands of people, all come here on a quest for instant fortune, and the mining rigs sticking up everywhere, and the constant boom of machinery in the bowels of the earth!” Well, we didn’t say it quite like that. But we felt that, and would have said it like that if we had thought of it.
Alas, the train was idle for the winter. But the sun was strong and so were we, and we had been assured that Gold Hill, another node of the mother lode, was not two miles away. So we descended the steps to the depot and set off to walk the route.
As we trudged along the tracks, a quail ran out from the sagebrush on our right — then another, and another, and then a whole flock rose up suddenly on our left and flapped hurriedly away, which we chose not to take personally. Presently we rounded a curve and found ourselves looking at an old mine entrance, splintering timbers still in the form of a rough arch; we went to its edge and peeked in, wondering what sort of fortunes had been made there, while rust-colored mud sucked at our shoes. We posed for pictures and felt superior to all the summer tourists who had merely passed by on the train.
The tracks continued to curve; we were looping back toward Virginia City. In less time than expected, we were looking down on what remained of the fortune named Gold Hill: about a half-dozen buildings. We went down among them to investigate, but the only sign of life this produced was a couple emerging from the hotel. Now we had to go back uphill. It got hot.
By the time we reached the crest — the far end of C Street — our lungs were yanking at the thin air. We were nearly 7,000 feet above sea level.
To quench our thirst, we headed back down C to the Ponderosa Saloon, a bar that doubles as the entrance foyer for a mine shaft, in just enough time before the next tour for a round of good Bloody Marys. Then our guide, who sported a long white beard and a name tag that read, “Yes, I’m Santa,” led us through 315 feet of tunnels and timbers barely high enough for my 5-foot-3 — the floors had been lowered six inches to accommodate the public — while expounding on mining techniques and history.
We next did a whirlwind tour of the C Street museums. A favorite was the Julia Bulette Museum, a shrine to Virginia City’s most notorious madam.
By now it was time for us to leave, and we realized we had spent our entire visit on C Street and a railroad track. There was more: B Street, for one, and D Street. Not to mention the climb up Mt. Davidson, with its spray-painted white “V.”
They would have to wait. But in a town founded by fortune, fattened on fortune, then left forlorn by fortune, that was fine. Waiting is the name of the game. Because sooner or later, fortune hunters always come back.
DETAILS ON VIRGINIA CITY
Getting there: The closest airport is Reno-Tahoe International Airport. For connecting flights, best bets are Sacramento, San Francisco, Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. From the Reno-Tahoe airport, take U.S. Highway 395 south to Nevada Highway 341, which offers wonderful views as it winds up Geiger Summit. In Virginia City, Nevada 341 continues as C Street.
Getting around: Virginia City is so compact that vehicles are necessary only for getting in and out of town.
Where to stay: – Comstock Lodge, 875 South C St.; 702-847-0233. 14 rooms; $45 single, $50 double in winter.
– Sugar Loaf Mountain Lodge, 430 South C St.; 702-847-0505. 11 rooms; $40 single, $55 double, negotiable in winter.
– Chollar Mansion bed-and-breakfast, 565 South B St.; 702-847-9777. Three rooms and separate cottage; $70 to $125.
– Crooked House bed-and-breakfast, 8 South F St.; 702-847-0521. Three rooms with private baths; $45 to $95.
– Virginia City RV Park, Carson Street; 702-847-0999. RV hookups, $19 for two adults; tent sites, $12.
Accessibility: Wheelchair accessibility is limited at best.
Information: Contact the Virginia City Chamber of Commerce by telephone or fax at 702-847-0311 or by mail at Box 464, Virginia City, Nev. 89440.
