Book Explores the Historic Cemeteries of Carson City and Carson Valley

Empire City Cemetery

   It’s pretty clear that Nevada historical writer Cindy Southerland has a thing for cemeteries. For nearly more than three decades, she has studied several of northern Nevada’s historic cemeteries, which, according to her online biography, is because she considers them as outdoor museums.

   That point is obvious in her book, “Cemeteries of Carson City and Carson Valley,” published by Arcadia Publishing. Chapters in the lavishly-illustrated work examine such topics as the dying art of cemetery symbolism and what can we learn from tombstones.

   In examining the cemeteries of the Carson City/Douglas County region, she explores not only the larger and more familiar burial grounds, such as Carson City’s Lone Mountain, but also the often-overlooked or forgotten ones, like Empire City, the Pioneer Cemetery, Stewart Indian School, and the Ormsby County Poor Farm.

   For Douglas County, she takes a look at the cemeteries in Genoa, Gardnerville, Mottsville, Jacks Valley, Glenbrook and Fredericksburg.

   In the first chapter on the meaning of tombstones, Southerland reveals why she is so fascinated with cemeteries by nothing they are “often the only record or artifact remaining to share the story of a community and the individuals who shaped it.”

   With that in mind, she notes that a tombstone is more than a slab of marble or a wooden plank because each provides important details about the life of the buried person, such as biographical information, historical events, ethnicity, religious and fraternal affiliations and, in some cases, cause of death.

   “Tombstones are considered an outdoor archive and may be the last surviving document to record the existence of the person buried there,” she says, adding that they also often reflect the values of the people of past regarding such matters as death, mourning, and a proper burial.

   To make her point, Southerland provides images of a handful of tombstones and interprets the information that was inscribed on each. Thus, we learn that while a tombstone tells us that James Cook, son of David B. Cook was killed in Gold Hill by the Virginia and Truckee Railroad on August 3, 1873, Southerland’s additional research reveals that the 32-year-old man died while attempting to jump onto a moving train car and falling under the wheels.

   In other parts of the book, Southerland enhances the images of tombstones with reproductions of items that appeared in newspapers of that time regarding the deceased. For example, when telling readers about the famed stagecoach driver Hank Monk, who is buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery, she includes his 1883 funeral notice and the cover of sheet music that had been written to honor Monk by Carson City composer, John P. Meder.

   The chapter on the cemeteries of Carson City provides not only a look at Lone Mountain Cemetery, which remains an active burial ground, but others no longer in use. She points out that over the years the boundaries of various cemeteries have sometimes been forgotten so that when new developments crop up they can accidentally intrude on final resting places.

   This occurred in 2000, during excavation work for a new office building in Carson City on a triangular piece of land that had once been part of Lone Mountain, but had been forgotten and abandoned. A construction crew dug up the remains of a forgotten Chinese cemetery.

   She notes that the remains were removed, with authorities announcing their intent to have them reinterred at Lone Mountain.

   The book concludes with a chapter entitled, “Those They Bury With Most Ceremony,” which describes a number of noteworthy burial sites, including John “Snowshoe” Thompson, a legendary 19th century mail carrier who carried letters between Genoa and Placerville, California, Jennie Clemens, niece of writer Mark Twain, who died of spotted fever in 1864, and Nellie Verrill Mighels Davis, owner of the Carson City Morning Appeal and the first woman to cover the Nevada legislature.

   Cemeteries of Carson City and Carson Valley is available online and in many local bookstores.

   Southerland, who resides in Carson City, was interviewed in a recent article about the Lone Mountain Cemetery that appeared in the Nevada Appeal. It can be read at: https://www.nevadaappeal.com/news/2025/jan/07/this-is-carson-city-layers-of-history-at-carsons-lone-mountain-cemetery/.

Grass Valley is the Mother Lode of Gold Country History

 

  One of Northern California's most historic and scenic routes is Highway 49. Winding through the heart of the state’s gold country, the road passes through several fascinating 19th century mining towns—including Grass Valley.

  The community, in fact, is an important part of the northern mining region of California’s rich “Mother Lode,” the name given to the area because, according to legend, it was the mother of all gold discoveries.

  To reach Grass Valley, head east of Reno via Interstate 80 to Auburn. Exit onto Highway 49, then continue north for 24 miles to Grass Valley.

  The drive alone is worth the trip. Along the way, the two-lane highway passes through some beautiful countryside filled with stately oak trees, thick bushes of mountain mahogany, lush meadows and tall pines.

  The first significant gold discovery was made in Grass Valley in 1850 by George Knight. Local legend has it that Knight was chasing a cow one night when he stubbed his toe on an outcropping of rock. He decided to test the hard stone and found it to be high quality gold-bearing quartz.

  Within a short time of Knight's discovery, the area was overrun with gold miners. Like Virginia City, the ground beneath Grass Valley and nearby Nevada City eventually became a labyrinth of mining tunnels.

  Ultimately, more than $415 million in gold was pulled from the ground in Grass Valley, making it the richest of the northern area's mining communities. The town also fared much better than most 19th mining towns in that gold continued to be mined there into the 1950s.

  Today, Grass Valley has plenty of reminders of its rich mining past, including:

  • The Holbrooke Hotel (212 W. Main), considered on the community’s most recognized landmarks. An earlier business, the Golden Gate Saloon, opened on the site in 1851, but it was destroyed in an 1855 fire. The current hotel was erected in the early 1860s and is still in operation.

  • Nevada County Bank Building (131 Mill), which is one of the most impressive of all downtown structures. The striking gold-domed building was erected in 1917 by the Rector brothers, who owned a Nevada City bank. In the 1930s, it was purchased by Bank of America, which operated it until 1975. Today, it has been restored and is owned by an insurance company.

  • The Grass Valley Public Library (203 Mill), which was built in 1916 with Carnegie Foundation funding.

  An informative community walking tour brochure can be downloaded at: https://www.southport-land.com/PDFs/Grass_Valley_Walking_Tour_2005.pdf.

  Another good place to pick up a bit of the region's history is the North Star Powerhouse Mining Museum, just south of the town. The impressive stone power station was the built in 1895 and provided energy to operate the North Star Mine operation.

  Within the old station you will find a fine mining museum featuring large displays of mining equipment and other 19th century artifacts. For more information about it, go to: https://nevadacountyhistory.org/north-star-mining-museum/.

  One of the most colorful characters to live in Grass Valley was Lola Montez. The famed dancer/singer settled in Grass Valley in 1853 and purchased a house at 248 Mill Street.

  Montez, however, tired of life in a remote mining town and a few years later departed the city to resume her performing career.

  Her original house was extensively remodeled over the subsequent years and was demolished in 1975. It was replaced by an exact replica of her original abode and now is the home of the Nevada County Chamber of Commerce and a small museum.

  For more information about Grass Valley, go to: www.grassvalleychamber.com/community/explore-grass-valley/.

Reno: The Biggest Little City of Arches

 

  Reno loves its arches. For more than a century, the community has erected various arch structures over its main streets to commemorate special events or to promote an image.

  In fact, the late Nevada historian Phillip I. Earl discovered several photographs showing an arch built in 1899 atop the Virginia Street Bridge. The span commemorated Nevada troops returning from duty during the Spanish-American War.

  In 1914, Reno erected an arch over Virginia Street, this time greeting visitors passing through the city on their way to the Panama-Pacific Exposition in San Francisco. A third arch was temporarily installed over the city’s main street in June 1920 to promote the Reno Rodeo.

  In October 1926, a more substantial steel arch was constructed on Virginia Street at Commercial Row for an exposition celebrating the completion of the Lincoln and Victory highways, the nation’s first transcontinental roads.

  In lighted block letters, the arch spelled out the name, Reno, as well as: “Nevada’s Transcontinental Highways Exposition, June 25-August 1 1927.” Two lighted torches bookended the city’s name.

  Response to the new arch was overwhelmingly positive, so the Reno Chamber of Commerce and city officials decided to conduct a contest to find a new slogan for the city that would appear on the arch.

  The winner, G.A. Burns of Sacramento, received $100 for his suggestion: “Biggest Little City in the World.” Variations of the slogan had appeared in various Reno-related advertising campaigns over the years but placing the wording on the arch made it forever synonymous with the city’s name.

  In June 1929, the arch was renovated with the new slogan, removal of the torches and illuminated for the first time. Three years later, during the height of the Great Depression, the city announced it cold no longer afford to pay to light the arch at night.

  In response, a group of local residents volunteered to pay the electric bill and once again the sign lit up the downtown sky. In 1934, the city replaced the light bulbs on the sign with neon tubing and also decided to remove the famous slogan because some business folks thought it had reached its expiration date.

  In June 1935, however, following significant public outcry, the slogan was returned to the arch, which remained unchanged for the next 28 years. It appeared on postcards, in movies and books, and in thousands of tourist snapshots.

  In the early 1960s, executives of the former Harolds Club casino spearheaded a drive to raise funds to build a new, more modern arch. The new one, erected in 1964, still contained the city’s slogan and name but was constructed of sleek plastic and steel.

  In the meantime, the outdated, neon, 1930s arch was moved to Idlewild Park and later to Paradise Park on the Reno-Sparks border.

  In 1987, the city decided it was time to update the arch again and replaced the 1960s version with the present arch. In 2009, it was further spruced up with its incandescent light bulbs replaced with LED lights that can change color (for special occasions).

  As for the 60s version of the arch, a few years ago it was given to the city of Willits, California. Today, it has been reconstructed with a new message that welcomes people to “Willits: Gateway to the Redwoods.”

  The historic 1930s arch was removed from Paradise Park in the late 1980s and placed in storage while city leaders discussed what to do with it. Despite discussions about putting it back on Virginia Street—making Reno a “city of arches”—it didn’t resurface until 1994, when the city allowed it to be used by a movie company, which wanted to re-create the Reno of the 1930s for the film, “Cobb.”

  The film company restored the old sign and Renoites began pushing the city to find a permanent home for the classic display. In 1995, it was reconstructed on Lake Street, adjacent to the National Automobile Museum, where it still stands today.

Jokes Fly Regarding Nevada's Great Cloud-Rustling Controversy - Part 2

 

  Last week, we learned about the December 1947 claim by Nevada rancher Dick Haman and his partner Freeman Fairfield to all the water inside any clouds that they seeded with dry ice that might fall on anyone else’s property. The two owned a 12,300-acre ranch north of Topaz Lake

  The claim quickly generated considerable attention, much of it with tongue-in-cheek. For example, just two weeks after it was filed, the United Press filed a report about an indignant group called the Arizona Cloud Ropers, Inc.

  “That hombre makes me sore,” said Nick Gregovich, president of the Ropers. “We're goin' right ahead with our plans to fly over to Nevada and California, drops loops over clouds, wrangle them to Arizona and make them give down.

  “Arizona Cloud Ropers, Inc., was organized for the purpose of getting even with California for trying to steal Arizona's share of the Colorado River's water,” Gregovich said. “Nevada had better devote itself to the feudin' and fussin' of its divorcees and its gamblin' and stay out of the Arizona-California ruckus. As for Haman, we'll take him on any time, any place—in court or on the desert. Let him choose his weapons - lawyers or fire hoses at 20 paces. Or he can make it a dog fight over the clouds with exhaust pipes for guns.”

  It wasn't long before other folks began to see the comic possibilities in the brewing cloud-seeding conflict. The Reno Chamber of Commerce jumped into the fray by sponsoring a series of highly-publicized cloud-seeding expeditions over Mount Rose. The chamber hired a plane and sprayed dry ice in the clouds in the hope of creating some snow to attract skiers and tourists.

  Immediately after the cloud-seeding—which had no apparent affect—the Salt Lake City Chamber of Commerce sent a telegram threatening to file a lawsuit in federal court to stop Reno from “milking” clouds before they reached Utah. The Reno chamber responded with a call for a new tax to be levied on clouds passing over Nevada on their way to Utah.

  The fracas even attracted international attention. The London Times editorialized that the United State should probably nationalize moisture-bearing clouds and vest control over them with a “board of nebulous planners.”

  As the cloud war escalated, Reno Chamber President William Brussard packed a 12-inch snowball on an airplane headed to Salt Lake City and enclosed a note saying the snowball was sent “with deepest regrets that this is your share of the snow, at least at present.”

  Upon receiving the snowball, Salt Lake City Chamber leader Gus Backman sniffed that it was “infinitesimal,” and boasted that his city's ski resorts were reporting more than six feet of snow.

  Referring to the high-flying snowball, the Nevada State Journal noted that “disposal of the snowball was not announced. But it was generally agreed that it had no more chance of survival than does a snowball in—Nevada.”

  The dry ice dispute finally began to wane after a few months. State Engineer Alfred Merritt Smith wrote in a February 1948 letter to the science editor of the Associated Press that “we have not as yet taken any action and it is quite likely that our attitude will be that this office has no jurisdiction in this matter. As a result of this application, there has been a great deal of comment in the newspapers of the West, some jokingly and some serious. It would seem that the clouds, being interstate in character, would come under the jurisdiction of the (federal) government.”

  The state engineer finally issued a temporary water right of the clouds over the Rocking F after Haman made his claim but the cloud-seeding never produced much water.

  While Haman relished the attention, Fairfield grew tired of the publicity and harassing telephone calls. By 1949, he lost interest in both Haman and the cloud seeding idea, and let his manager go.

  Ironically, it was another of Haman's wild schemes that resulted in finding water for the property, although it came too late for him to benefit from it. Haman hit upon the idea of using oil drilling equipment to find water on the land.

  After Fairfield severed his relationship with Haman, he decided to try the drilling plan. It worked and Fairfield began pumping water from the ground, transforming the previously worthless property into valuable farmland.

  As with many things legal, Haman's cloud claim eventually ended not with a thunderclap but with a whisper. In April 1953, state engineer Hugh Shamberger cancelled the application, saying Haman had failed to show the point where he intended to divert the water, as required by state law.