Drawing US Highway 50 Historical Site Hazen, Nevada: A Southern Pacific Railroad House, Lynching, Fire, a For Sale Sign, and the Unexpected Chiming in of Dungarees



Far Right Side Detail: Hazen, Nevada; US Highway 50 ( The Loneliest Road in America)

Left Side Detail



Right Side Detail

HAZEN WAS NAMED FOR WILLIAM BABCOCK HAZEN, WHO SERVED UNDER GENERAL SHERMAN IN HIS “MARCH TO THE SEA.” THE TOWN, ESTABLISHED IN 1903 TO HOUSE LABORERS WORKING ON THE NEWLANDS IRRIGATION PROJECT SOUTH OF HERE, INCLUDED HOTELS, SALOONS, BROTHELS, CHURCHES, AND SCHOOLS.

IN 1905 THE FIRST TRAIN CAME THROUGH ON THE NEW ROUTING TO TONOPAH. IN 1906 THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD BUILT A LARGE ROUNDHOUSE HERE AS WELL AS A FINE DEPOT.

IN 1908 HAZEN WAS NEARLY DESTROYED BY FIRE.



AS A TOUGH TOWN, IT HAD NO PEER IN THE STATE. NEVADA’S LAST LYNCHING OCCURRED IN HAZEN WHEN “RED” WOOD WAS TAKEN FROM THE WOODEN JAIL AND HANGED ON FEBRUARY 28, 1905.

I saw no reason to rewrite this statement.  What I know, you just read, and it comes from Historical Marker No. 178 and the Nevada State Park System.  Anything added is from memories of a small town, a railroad crossing, and a journey into darkness.

Hazen was the first town after the interstate.  When we left, the sun was low.  The land flattened out in advancing shadows, a thunderous freight train beside the highway churned past the last bit of daylight.  In the evening mist, every little insect seemed to hit the windshield, sweet smelling alfalfa whistled through open vents and windows.  Cool twilight unfurled a canopy of stars, and although others rode inside the car, darkness was my only companion.

I always like the H for Hazen on Black Butte.  Although the drawing is a depiction of heat, travel from Reno across the state often began late, Friday after work was the first chance to get away.  Hazen on a slight rise divides alkali from alkali.  Nevada is an array of drainage basins that never link up to the ocean.  Rivers like the Carson, Humboldt, Walker and Truckee die in isolation.  By the time trails were blazed for what became current day U.S. Highway 50, The Loneliest Road in America, it was known that none of the rivers of the Great Basin, lead the way to the San Francisco Bay.  Gravity frequently failed to take creeks and streams even as far as the next valley.  The landscape is a place of names dedicated to ancient lakes like Bonneville and Lahontan.  Springtime sometimes tries to fill the remains of vanquished lakes, now an ethereal ice age of sage assaulted by hail and rain, and the rage of thunder and lightening.  Here along much of this paved and rolling highway, the Pony Express made its way to the next station.

It had been years since I worked in charcoal.  Shopping for a sponge to cut up and dip in a new jar of powdered charcoal was fun.  Sitting at a table with familiar materials at hand was bit like slipping into a pair of old dungarees.  Although I never use the word, I thought I heard dungarees in the sound of musical phrasing and jotted it down.  It was like striking a match and I struck many of those while making this drawing, only I don’t know what to do with the words lyrically.  Perhaps the previous sentences should be scrubbed, edited, erased, but I think I will leave them in anyway.  The burnt end of a matchstick leaves a nice trail, a warm residue when pressed to paper.  Drawing can be thought of as a collection of pressure marks.  Defining a trailer house, gravel and weeds as a matter of record is just hand adjustments made with charcoal and an eraser.  Although I love listening to lyrics, I don’t know how to compose words into song.  Charcoal more fluid than paint is well acquainted with the atmospheric light that pigment often denies by relying too heavily on texture, the pasty state of style.  By the way, the charcoal and carbon rich matchstick scratching was enhanced a bit with color from water soluble crayons and a damp brush.

                                   

I stopped and read a sign

About a lynching in 1905

Instead of crying,

People seem to sing

Poor Red Wood,

Imagine the irony

Taller than any tree

Strung up and hung

From the lowly bough

Of a drought ravaged elm.



Standing in the sun,

I imagine dusty men

In old dungarees

Sipping chicken brothel soup

No longer offended

After crashing the wooden jail

Haling a man free

From justice and a judge

To twist in the middle of a crowd,

A lynchpin righteous with delight



I take history in with a smile

And leave with a breeze.

Poor Red Wood

Imagine the irony

Taller than any tree

Strung up and hung

From the lowly bough

Of a drought ravaged elm.









Hazen, Nevada; US Highway 50 (The Loneliest Road in America)
charcoal, burnt matchstick, drawing pencil, water soluble crayon
9 1/4 x 52 1/16 x 1 5/16 inches including integral frame