A trip to Alamo, Nevada is worth the drive

Going on a road trip is awesome. The planning, the packing, the pressure, the pain, and then the panic.

“I’m going to be gone for two or three weeks,” I looked at Laureen. “Who’s going to make your coffee each morning?”

My trip to northern Nevada, Western Idaho, Eastern Oregon, and Northern California had been in the works for a while. I do occasionally plan trips, but most of the time, I wing it. This time, I had some destinations in mind - I didn’t but pretended I did.

My friend Paul asked, “Where are you going?”

“The byways, my friend.”

“You have no idea, do you?”

I didn’t, but I knew I would be driving north at the beginning of August. Then Laureen changed my plans.

She broke her right foot. I think it was the Metamucil or the metacognitive bone, but I probably have that wrong - I remember Laureen explaining which bone was broken after the x-ray, but I wasn’t listening.

Being the dutiful husband I am, I postponed the trip to be at her beck and call. And in the following six weeks, there was a lot of beckoning and calling.

She mended just fine, but I was exhausted. I had to get on the road for some relaxation.

One hurdle while driving north on Interstate 15 toward northern Nevada is that the traveler must navigate the traffic of Las Vegas.

The economy may not look great right now, but try explaining that to the builders in Sin City.

New housing projects are popping up like weeds. Substantial industrial complexes are sprouting like weeds. Hotels and apartment buildings are growing like weeds. And medicinal cannabis clinics are appearing like - well, weeds.

It was so confusing driving in stop-and-go traffic along Interstate 15 with all the freeway ramps and lanes closed that finally, my GPS sent me a message: ‘You are now on your own.’

Laureen called me on my second day on the trip.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on Flamingo Boulevard for the thirtieth time in the past forty-eight hours.”

“So, stop and ask for help,” she replied.

Something no true man wants to do, but I had. A kindly Las Vegas police officer advised me, “I’ve been on Tropicana for the past three days. I don’t know where I am now.”

A week later, I located Route 93 and headed north. Nearly two hours later, I came to the small quaint village named Alamo.

The sun was slowly setting in the west, as usual, and my energy levels were in sync with that blazing bag of hydrogen and helium.

Since I was pulling the tent trailer, or pop-up trailer as some like to call it, I pulled into Pickett’s RV Park and obtained a space.

It was a nice place to stay for the night: courteous folks, large sites, and shady trees.

I did not know much about this berg but soon learned it is tiny. It took 30 seconds to come to that realization. No stop sign. No traffic signal. Just the long black pavement of the highway bustling past a Sinclair gas station.

The town has a population of around 1,000 people and is pretty rural. Sitting along State Route 93 only 90 miles north of Las Vegas does allow the small locale plenty of byway travelers, which supports a couple of gas stations and motels in the area.

Sitting at nearly 3,500 feet in elevation gives the area a coolness that the folks down the hill in Vegas never feel.

“The pavements are melting,” one resident of Las Vegas may say to another during the summer. “Let’s head to the Alamo.”

“What can we do there?”

“Not become a pile of liquid goo.”

A post office has operated since 1905, so Alamo is not a ghost town.

I took a few moments (after setting up a very bougie sort of camp with carpets, a welcome mat that I do not mean, and exterior solar lights) to drive the few streets the town has to offer in the way of neighborhoods.

It was impressive. Beautiful green lawns and tall billowing trees set against the background of neatly painted and well-kept houses. The schools I drove by would be the envy of any larger town.

Alamo has it going on, except for a lack of restaurants and bars.

The town was founded by a group of Mormons, and with their religious beliefs concerning abstinence from alcohol, none was allowed within the town limits.

That changed earlier this year when the town board started allowing alcohol sales in gas stations and supermarkets, but bars were still a no-no.

No issue for this traveling writer - always carry a large ice chest if you end up in a dry county or town.

Many believe the town's founders wanted to immortalize the battle, which took place nearly 1,400 miles southeast of their mainly ranching community.

But, the true story may be that when the community was imagined by Fred Allen, Mike Botts, Bert Riggs, and William Stewart, they thought the name Alamo, which is Spanish for poplar, would be appropriate because of all the poplar trees growing in the area.

“Remember the Alamo trees,” Riggs may have yelled at a community meeting.

“Let’s forgo the tree part, shall we,” Stewart may have returned.

Alamo is located within the Pahranagat Valley, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not pronounce that name, but it is a beautiful long valley with soft rolling hills dotted here and there with ranches. Long white fences square off grasslands where horses and cattle seem happy just munching away.

A few miles south along Route 93 is the Pahranagat National Wildlife Refuge.

It is over 100 years old and was started by the locals as a respite for migratory fowl, flying here and there on their way somewhere.

The over 5,000-acre refuge wasn’t created officially until August of 1963 in Lincoln County and is part of the larger Desert National Wildlife Refuge Complex. This complex, at nearly 2 million acres, happens to be the largest such refuge in the lower 48 states.

Rumor has it that Hawaii did not return a phone call since it was embarrassed that all they had was a bunch of islands, and Alaska scoffed, saying that the average citizen there had that many acres in their front yards.

I drove to the refuge and found it very relaxing and peaceful just sitting on one of the many benches that surround a large lake.

People in motorhomes, camping vans, and tents seemed content while sitting in their lawn chairs in the designated campsites, staring out across the sparkling blue waters toward the Badger Mountains to the west.

“We love it here,” Beatrice told me. “We’re from Henderson and like to get away up here and away from the hustle and bustle of city life.”

Her husband, Anthony, told me he likes to look for the green-winged teal, various mallards, pintails, and shovelers.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but smiled as though I did. “Any luck today?”

“A beautiful mallard, but that’s about it,” Anthony stated. “Though, to be honest, I’m just relaxing.”

It's easy to see how that can be the day's call. A slight breeze with the temperature in the mid-seventies made for a perfect outing.

The entire valley has seen humans strolling around its lush lakes and rolling hills for thousands of years.

Evidence of early American Indian tribes have either lived or traveled through the valley for the past 8,000 to 13,000 years ago. With all the abundant wildlife in the area, it was a no-brainer for the native tribes to settle here.

Deer, elk, and antelope roam the hills and valleys freely, making hunting relatively easy for experienced hunters. The lakes and streams are full of trout, crappie, and catfish. Tens of thousands of fowl of every species make their way across this vast land, allowing those living here to have plenty to eat.

This valley had it all, from ancient inhabitants to the modern ones.

So, is the Alamo worth a visit on its own? I am not sure I would make it a final destination, but for a place to slow down for the night and relax, then definitely, yes.

And, besides - it is only 13 miles to the most eastern section of the Extraterrestrial Highway.

John can be contacted at beyersbyways@gmail.com

This article originally appeared on Victorville Daily Press: Remember the Alamo: Beyer's Byways