NY Times: On Loneliest Road, a Unique Tree Thrives

New York Times
May 18, 2004
MIDDLE GATE JOURNAL

On Loneliest Road, a Unique Tree Thrives

MIDDLE GATE JOURNAL

On Loneliest Road, a Unique Tree Thrives

Pictu
http://graphics7.nytimes.com/images/.../18shoe.xl.jpg
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
"Thousands of shoes have been thrown into a cottonwood tree along U.S.
50 near Middle Gate, Nev., in a tradition that began 20 years ago."

By CHARLIE LeDUFF

MIDDLE GATE, Nev. - The Loneliest Road in America is indeed lonesome.
As lonesome as a solitary shoe.

The road, officially known as U.S. 50, cuts through the heart of the
Nevada high desert, stretching 260 miles from Carson City in the west
to Ely in the east. There is a whorehouse at each end and not much
company in between.

There was a solitary man standing in the middle of the desolation
today with his thumb out. He was an oddly angular fellow and
psychologically not wholly convinced of anything more than his own
existence. He said that his name was Dwight and that he had spent a
winter of misery in Frisco and was in search of someplace else. He had
bits of sage in his shirt as he had slept in the bush the previous
evening, the rides being far between on the Loneliest Road.

"There's nothing out here," Dwight offered in a slurred, nasal tone.
"I don't mind. I'm just more comfortable in the absence of people is
all it is."

Dwight was a military brat moving from place to place to place as a
child. This has left him bereft of long-term friends, he said, no
hometown, no family, no place to go, no place to be, no love.

"Love?" he pushed the word around his mouth like a rye seed. "I don't
know love. I've never been in real love. Not unconditional love."

Love of course comes with many conditions. There are the contrivances,
bad habits, betrayals. To coexist with these flaws of character
requires patience and endurance. Love needs tending to like a tree.

Pictu
http://graphics7.nytimes.com/images/...al/18shoe2.jpg
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
"Passers-by in need have benefited from the shoe tree's offerings."

Proof of this existed about 100 miles back in Middle Gate, in the
middle of nowhere or 100 miles east of Reno, depending on how you look
at it. But Dwight missed this proof somehow as he had his head down,
too involved in his solipsism to see it.

Just a few miles outside of Middle Gate is a stand of cottonwoods
whose roots have found water. In the limbs of one of these trees hang
thousands of shoes, the tree starting to bow and crack from the weight
of them all.

The shoes are like some kind of letter or photograph or stain, the
locals explain, some proof that something happened here, that there
are other souls traveling on the road of loneliness. There are
snorkeling flippers, tennis shoes, work boots, flip-flops, high heels,
pumps, baby booties.

There used to be snowshoes and a pair of skis but someone took them,
which is fine, said Russ Stevenson, proprietor of the Old Middlegate
Station, a bar and grill.

"Take what you need," said Mr. Stevenson, the tall, sturdy cowboy type
once seen on cigarette advertisements. "Some people buy new shoes just
to put in the tree without recognition, to do something right for
their fellow man. And people are grateful to get them. One hitchhiker
had shoes so worn out with holes he had blisters on his feet."

The tree, Mr. Stevenson said in his own plain-spoken way, is an emblem
of charity and decency, the way Americans out here wish to think of
themselves.

The population of Middle Gate was 18 until February when Clark
Warfield Cole died. They found him in his trailer. They also found a
bundle of empty money bags from a Denver bank. The suspicion is that
Mr. Cole was a stick-up man before he came to the desert to get lost.
This might explain the $100 bills in the soles of his boots. The
townsfolk here believe Mr. Cole may have buried the money somewhere on
Carrol Summit, he spent so much time there. But that is another story.

In any event, all Mr. Cole ever wanted was someone to stop in off the
highway and play him a game of chess, Mr. Stevenson said. The desert
can be a lonesome place.

And so goes the reason for the Shoe Tree. Mr. Stevenson's wife,
Fredda, said the first pair of shoes was thrown into the branches
about 20 years ago. It seems that a couple who had just gotten married
in Reno stopped to camp under the cottonwood. The husband was angry
with his bride for having blown their money in the slot machines. "He
said it was her fault they didn't have any money," Mrs. Stevenson
said.

The young wife grew annoyed with the henpecking and threatened to walk
back to Utah. The groom told her that if she was walking back to Utah
she was going to walk in her bare feet and threw her shoes into the
tree. He left his wife standing there and drove to the bar for a beer.

"He was here for two or three hours," Mrs. Stevenson said. "I told
him, 'With an attitude like that, you'll be fighting for the rest of
your lives. Go back there and tell her it was all your fault.' "

The man did as he was told. The couple patched things up and the groom
threw his own shoes into the tree as a sign of solidarity. A year
later, Mrs. Stevenson said, the couple returned with their baby and
threw his shoes into the tree as well.

"Love is hard work," said Sherry Milan, the daytime bartender. "Love
is the hardest thing I've ever done."

Down the road a hundred miles or so stood Dwight, the loner, the human
tumbleweed, pleased to have heard this story.

"I suppose it's good to have company," he said. "I had a dog once.
Maybe I'll get another."


http://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/18/na...rint&position=

I seriously doubt that there's a whorehouse in Carson City.

"Sufaud" wrote in message
...
New York Times
May 18, 2004
MIDDLE GATE JOURNAL

On Loneliest Road, a Unique Tree Thrives

MIDDLE GATE JOURNAL

On Loneliest Road, a Unique Tree Thrives

Pictu
http://graphics7.nytimes.com/images/.../18shoe.xl.jpg
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
"Thousands of shoes have been thrown into a cottonwood tree along U.S.
50 near Middle Gate, Nev., in a tradition that began 20 years ago."

By CHARLIE LeDUFF

MIDDLE GATE, Nev. - The Loneliest Road in America is indeed lonesome.
As lonesome as a solitary shoe.

The road, officially known as U.S. 50, cuts through the heart of the
Nevada high desert, stretching 260 miles from Carson City in the west
to Ely in the east. There is a whorehouse at each end and not much
company in between.

There was a solitary man standing in the middle of the desolation
today with his thumb out. He was an oddly angular fellow and
psychologically not wholly convinced of anything more than his own
existence. He said that his name was Dwight and that he had spent a
winter of misery in Frisco and was in search of someplace else. He had
bits of sage in his shirt as he had slept in the bush the previous
evening, the rides being far between on the Loneliest Road.

"There's nothing out here," Dwight offered in a slurred, nasal tone.
"I don't mind. I'm just more comfortable in the absence of people is
all it is."

Dwight was a military brat moving from place to place to place as a
child. This has left him bereft of long-term friends, he said, no
hometown, no family, no place to go, no place to be, no love.

"Love?" he pushed the word around his mouth like a rye seed. "I don't
know love. I've never been in real love. Not unconditional love."

Love of course comes with many conditions. There are the contrivances,
bad habits, betrayals. To coexist with these flaws of character
requires patience and endurance. Love needs tending to like a tree.

Pictu
http://graphics7.nytimes.com/images/...al/18shoe2.jpg
Jim Wilson/The New York Times
"Passers-by in need have benefited from the shoe tree's offerings."

Proof of this existed about 100 miles back in Middle Gate, in the
middle of nowhere or 100 miles east of Reno, depending on how you look
at it. But Dwight missed this proof somehow as he had his head down,
too involved in his solipsism to see it.

Just a few miles outside of Middle Gate is a stand of cottonwoods
whose roots have found water. In the limbs of one of these trees hang
thousands of shoes, the tree starting to bow and crack from the weight
of them all.

The shoes are like some kind of letter or photograph or stain, the
locals explain, some proof that something happened here, that there
are other souls traveling on the road of loneliness. There are
snorkeling flippers, tennis shoes, work boots, flip-flops, high heels,
pumps, baby booties.

There used to be snowshoes and a pair of skis but someone took them,
which is fine, said Russ Stevenson, proprietor of the Old Middlegate
Station, a bar and grill.

"Take what you need," said Mr. Stevenson, the tall, sturdy cowboy type
once seen on cigarette advertisements. "Some people buy new shoes just
to put in the tree without recognition, to do something right for
their fellow man. And people are grateful to get them. One hitchhiker
had shoes so worn out with holes he had blisters on his feet."

The tree, Mr. Stevenson said in his own plain-spoken way, is an emblem
of charity and decency, the way Americans out here wish to think of
themselves.

The population of Middle Gate was 18 until February when Clark
Warfield Cole died. They found him in his trailer. They also found a
bundle of empty money bags from a Denver bank. The suspicion is that
Mr. Cole was a stick-up man before he came to the desert to get lost.
This might explain the $100 bills in the soles of his boots. The
townsfolk here believe Mr. Cole may have buried the money somewhere on
Carrol Summit, he spent so much time there. But that is another story.

In any event, all Mr. Cole ever wanted was someone to stop in off the
highway and play him a game of chess, Mr. Stevenson said. The desert
can be a lonesome place.

And so goes the reason for the Shoe Tree. Mr. Stevenson's wife,
Fredda, said the first pair of shoes was thrown into the branches
about 20 years ago. It seems that a couple who had just gotten married
in Reno stopped to camp under the cottonwood. The husband was angry
with his bride for having blown their money in the slot machines. "He
said it was her fault they didn't have any money," Mrs. Stevenson
said.

The young wife grew annoyed with the henpecking and threatened to walk
back to Utah. The groom told her that if she was walking back to Utah
she was going to walk in her bare feet and threw her shoes into the
tree. He left his wife standing there and drove to the bar for a beer.

"He was here for two or three hours," Mrs. Stevenson said. "I told
him, 'With an attitude like that, you'll be fighting for the rest of
your lives. Go back there and tell her it was all your fault.' "

The man did as he was told. The couple patched things up and the groom
threw his own shoes into the tree as a sign of solidarity. A year
later, Mrs. Stevenson said, the couple returned with their baby and
threw his shoes into the tree as well.

"Love is hard work," said Sherry Milan, the daytime bartender. "Love
is the hardest thing I've ever done."

Down the road a hundred miles or so stood Dwight, the loner, the human
tumbleweed, pleased to have heard this story.

"I suppose it's good to have company," he said. "I had a dog once.
Maybe I'll get another."



http://www.nytimes.com/2004/05/18/na...rint&position=

"J-Man" wrote in message
k.net...
I seriously doubt that there's a whorehouse in Carson City.


Incorrect, prostitution is legal in some counties of Nevada,
at least one brothel in Carson City even has its own website

http://www.bunnyranch.net

Keith

"J-Man" wrote:
I seriously doubt that there's a whorehouse in Carson City.

The article doesn't say there is. Nor in Ely.

The article also doesn't say that Highway 50 extends for a couple of
thousand miles. It doesn't say many things including that there's a
whore house in Carson City.
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