Since my accommodations during my recent superbloom trip to Death Valley National Park were in Beatty, Nevada—and not inside the park or in one of the surrounding towns in California—my geography gave me the opportunity to explore some of the environs east of and in the eastern end of the park for the first time in a long time.
For all the times I've visited Death Valley National Park—starting way back in 2008—I don't think I've ever seen any wildflowers there.
I remember hearing about wildflower blooms there during the springtime, but Death Valley isn't the kind of place that you can just decide to visit on a whim. It takes some planning ahead to get a room for the night, and some significant driving to get there from Los Angeles.
I missed the "superbloom" that occurred in 2016, having just started a new job and still bouncing back financially from years of unemployment. I've regretted that for 10 years.
Now, there's a once-in-a-decade bloom happening in Death Valley again—and this time, I was prepared. All the way back in January of this year, I started booking hotels in anticipation of a very good wildflower bloom about the occur. I wasn't sure when it would hit, so just to be safe I reserved a room for every weekend in March, and the first weekend in April.
Usually wildflower season hits Death Valley later in the spring, following the burst of color that occurs annually—to varying degrees every year—in Anza-Borrego and the Antelope Valley. But this year, the desert environs much farther north of LA caught up to the Southern California floral explosion timing-wise.
And on the first weekend of March 2026, I'm pretty sure I got pretty close to the peak of the best wildflower bloom that Death Valley has had in a decade.
Update 9/2/23 12:44 AM PT—According to a press release from Friends of the Inyo, a federal appeals court reversed a prior decision from a lower district court and overturned the U.S. Forest Service’s 2021 approval that allowed gold-mining exploration Inyo National Forest’s Long Valley area. This may not be the end—but it's a victory for now.
In Mono County's Hot Creek Gorge in the Eastern Sierra, a colorful display of bright blue, green, and turquoise indicates where boiling water bubbles up—after percolating deep underground in a thermal aquifer near hot, subterranean magma located about 3 miles beneath the surface.
At the geological wonder known as Hot Creek Geologic Site, water heats up and is pressurized far beneath the earth in a literal hotbed of geothermal activity.
The thing that got me really hiking through Joshua Tree National Park back in 2009 was the fact that it was the only way to get to the Wall Street Mill site.
Back then, I was in shape enough and confident enough—or stupid enough—to trek out there by myself.
But my hiking abilities have really declined since my car accident in 2014—and so I've had to curtail my adventures and stick to easier hikes, usually with groups.
So I was excited to join the Desert Institute on a field trip back into the park—this time, near the Twentynine Palms entrance—to explore a couple of lesser-known mine sites.
My first trip to Virginia City, Nevada coincided with the 150th anniversary celebration of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad, a.k.a. "Queen of the Short Lines"—so while I was in the area, I wanted to make sure I could experience as much of the V&T as possible.
After having ridden a railbike from Carson City towards Virginia City (where a train also runs, though its schedule didn't mesh with mine), I headed to Virginia City to ride a special train towards Carson City to experience the rail from the other end.
But I had some time to kill before my train departure, so I started snooping around town.
I first heard of Gold Hill when I was researching a trip to Virginia City, Nevada that I ended up not taking last fall. All the travel guides recommended taking the train from Gold Hill instead of trying to find parking in Virginia City. That piqued my interest.
I almost didn't write about this adventure because it felt like a failure. But I guess it was actually a partial success.
And since I'm not exactly sure when I'll be able to ever complete the mission, I've decided not to wait—and share what I've got now, even though I found it a bit disappointing.
But let me back up for a moment.
In a constant boom-bust cycle that lasted nearly 100 years, the mining town of Cerro Gordo—in the Inyo Mountains of the northern Mojave Desert, near the 395 to the west of Death Valley—produced silver, lead (galena), and zinc ore at one time or another between 1866 and 1957.
I can't remember when I first heard of it. But I know I first tried to go sometime after 2013, after I'd begun working as a field agent for Atlas Obscura and thought that it would make for a great—albeit far-flung—excursion for our group.
Back in 2016, I'd taken a hike up Hostetter Fire Road with the Historical Society of the Crescenta Valley to view the remains of a former graphite mine operation up in the Verdugo Mountains of Los Angeles.
But there wasn't actually that much left of the former Hostetter Mine to see up the hill.
There was, however, a significant mill site that remained down the hill—only it was so hidden in the underbrush and the overgrowth, I couldn't get to it after lagging too far behind the group.
Five years later, I had another chance to go see it, after some volunteers had bushwhacked their way through and tried to re-establish a trail to it.
Unlike on Hawaii's black sand beaches, the black you'll find on certain SoCal beaches—especially at the southernmost section of Carpinteria State Beach, just south of Santa Barbara—isn't exactly exotic or romantic.
[Last updated 7/27/25 9:55 PM PT—The Ryan Historic District was officially listed on the National Register for Historic Places in January 2025. For more info, click here and here.]
In 2013, Death Valley Conservancy received a donation of a 40-acre site—3000+ feet above sea level, overlooking the valley below, 15 miles from the main visitors' area at Furnace Creek.
Part of the Hillside Group of mines, it had been the main operation for borate mining in Death Valley for Pacific Coast Borax Company from 1914 to 1927.
Borate ores mined here were transported or processing via the narrow-gauge Death Valley Railroad (dismantled 1931) to its eastern terminus at Death Valley Junction.
In 1927, PCBC relocated its operations to Boron (a.k.a. the Kramer District), where it became known as U.S. Borax as of 1956 and heretofore Rio Tinto, since1968.
Today we know the area simply as Ryan Camp, named after PCBC's field engineer John Ryan—but this conservancy-owned parcel outside the bounds of Death Valley National Park is more than just an old mining ghost town. And it's far from abandoned.
Take one of the tours offered in the spring and fall—led by the full-time, live-in caretaker—and you'll see how Death Valley Conservancy is delivering on its mission to "preserve what is left and restore where possible." And that includes the second life of Ryan, when PCBC got into the tourism business and converted its facilities into the Death Valley View Hotel.
Operated by the Death Valley Hotel Company—whose holdings also included facilities at Death Valley Junction and Furnace Creek (until the 1960s)—it provided desert accommodations full-time until 1930, when the railroad was dismantled.
Visitors would arrive from Death Valley Junction via gas-fueled motor coaches along the former mining rail right-of-way...
...or, after 1930, from Furnace Creek Inn, if it was full and guests came to Ryan to take advantage of overflow accommodations.
Sure, there was a fascination with the hot, unforgiving desert in the early 20th century—but at Ryan and its Death Valley View Hotel, the main attraction wasn't necessarily the view, but rail trips through the workings of the old abandoned borax mines on the "Baby Gage" (more on that in a little bit).
Since tourists had come all that way—and to such a remote area—they'd make a whole trip out of it, staying at the hotel and eating in the dining room that had been fashioned out of the old mining camp's messhall.
There was a kitchen in the back, but I doubt any travelers came here specifically for any of the hotel amenities.
The novelty was in how you'd be surrounded by all this mining stuff—frozen in time and literally frozen on the tracks—and you could pay your respects in a kind of outdoor reliquary of Old West-ament artifacts.
There's another reason why people still visit Ryan, though the property was mothballed by 1962. A film crew made the ridge above the old power house (circa 1924) famous when they featured it in the film Spartacus.
It looks exactly the same now as it did back then. (Scroll to the bottom of this post to watch the clip.)
Of course, the movie's depiction of what's become known as "Spartacus Hill" doesn't show the circa 1924 warehouse that likely also housed staff (including kitchen personnel)...
...though it's fared the hot, dry summers and occasionally snowy winters very well.
And it's still a kick to see rusty old relics emblazoned with "Pacific" and "U.S. Borax"...
...as well as the old ore cars still in place.
Probably the highlight of the tours given today is the 24-inch baby gauge railway that once hauled water, timber, explosives, and other supplies to the Grandview, Lizzie V. Oakley, and Widow mines to the south for a total of 6 miles.
The "Baby Gage," as they called it, also hauled borate ores back to Ryan, where they were transfer to the Death Valley Railroad and mosey on their way to Death Valley Junction.
When the Death Valley View Hotel began to welcome tourists to Ryan, its operators added seats to the Baby Gage so it could carry passengers "'round the Funeral Mountains" to the Widow Mine, 4 miles away—right there through that same old haulage tunnel—until it ceased in 1949.
From the present-day Baby Gage display, you can look up and get a good view of the Upper Biddy McCarthy Mine...
...where there are still remains of a skip track, a dump trestle, and who knows what else?
Now, one of the reasons that Ryan lent itself to being repurposed as a destination getaway is because it wasn't just a mine—but an entire company town that was home to the miners, their families (including enough children to necessitate a schoolhouse), and other staff.
And you can still see some of the worker dormitories, staff houses, and guest houses...
...which were outfitted with electricity, steam heat (generated by an oil-fueled boiler), and refrigeration and supported by a sewage system and an ice-making plant.
The huge, two-story house of Superintendent William Smitheram (until 1916) was converted (sometime between 1919 and 1921) into a hospital building, replete with a surgery room—though no surgical team was staffed alongside the nurse who gave onsite care. It later was retrofitted to provide rooms for hotel guests.
With its corrugated galvanized steel paneled roof, Bunkhouse #1 was constructed in 1920 and then converted into Guest House #1 for the hotel.
Its outer stairs and veranda are being restored and/or rebuilt, while the interior guest rooms are being returned to their former glory...
...right down to the 1920s-era patterned carpet, which has been successfully reproduced by Brintons in the UK.
Many different patterns of linoleum once appeared throughout the camp's buildings...
...but what remains now are often just fragments, yet to be identified (much less reproduced).
And there's plenty in Ryan that's gone forever, not to be preserved or restored—like various shops, garages, and cabins that burned down or were demolished or moved elsewhere.
One of Ryan's landmark structures was actually relocated to the camp via rail in 1919—the rec hall (a.k.a. clubhouse a.k.a. dancehall).
It was dedicated in 1907 as St. Mary's Catholic Church in the gold mining camp of Rhyolite, Nevada. It nearly ended up in the Goodsprings mining district, but it moved to Ryan instead.
After its arrival, a stage was added for community meetings and secular recreation, though its interior still evokes an ecclesiastical purpose.
Stabilizing and restoring the rec hall is one of the major undertakings for Death Valley Conservancy's efforts in Ryan right now.
And finally, there's the schoolhouse building (circa sometime between 1919 and 1922)—which, like so many other structures in Ryan, is clad in industrial corrugated metal. A playground stands eerily abandoned in its recess yard.
Inside, the old school desks sit empty, the water-damaged wallpaper curling with every passing day that the bell no longer calls children to class.
I know it may be tempting to try to catch a glimpse of Ryan, but it is tightly patrolled and non-scheduled visits are strictly prohibited. Trespassing is not tolerated and prosecuted under the fullest extent of the law.
I arranged my visit as part of a public tour in November 2018 and received permission to enter structures and photograph the site.
I would consider the definitive history of Ryan's period of significance in mining and tourism to be the dissertation "Life and work in the Ryan District, Death Valley, California, 1914-1930: a historic context for a borax mining community" by Mary Ringhoff, available to read via USC Digital Library.
For lots more contemporary photos (circa 2012), visit Steve Hall's Death Valley Adventures. For the National Park Service publication "Death Valley Historic Resource Study: A History of Mining," click here.
A little over two years ago, a group of us ventured out to Yuma, Arizona for some sightseeing. By then I'd already been wanting to visit the Yuma Territory Prison historic site for a while—but to be honest, the real draw for me for that particular trip was to visit the "Enchanted Cavern" at Castle Dome Mine Museum.
It's become a tourist attraction for sure, but it began as Hull Mine. Its naturally fluorescent mineral walls—sparkling with cobalt blue fluoride crystals—make it a good candidate for a psychedelic spectacle.
There was only one problem.
Our trip didn't overlap with the days of the week that the Enchanted Cavern is actually open. And the Castle Dome Mine Museum wouldn't bend the rules to let us in off-schedule.
The sentiment of the group was that we would just return to Yuma sooner rather than later to cross the Enchanted Cavern off all of our lists. But other sites (and sights) and adventures have taken precedence since 2018—and we haven't made it back yet.
Fortunately, the Castle Dome Mining District—which once encompassed 10 square miles and eventually 300 mines—had plenty to offer to keep us occupied for a few hours.
And as it's only fully open from October to April (call for hours the rest of the year), I'm glad we got there when we did.
In operation from 1864 to 1979 (the longest operating mining district in Arizona), Castle Dome began with 17th-century diggings from Spanish explorers—which eventually gave rise to the state's second patented mine, the Flora Temple Mine, in 1871.
Down there—150 feet deep—they found a half-mile-long vein of galena, an important source of silver (mixed with lead). Galena is formed along earthquake faults, where the earth fractures and is pushed up by seismic and volcanic action.
In fact, most of the mines at Castle Dome produced silver—though occasionally a pocket of gold would be uncovered.
There was enough mining activity at one point to warrant a population explosion of up to 3000 residents, living in cabins...
...and, eventually, bunkhouses (presumably for the bachelors without families).
By the year 1878, Castle Dome City was bigger than Yuma, having gotten 200,000 ounces of silver out of 5000 tons of silver galena ore.
But now it's a ghost town, its only permanent residents the bodies that are buried in the cemetery—including those who died by a knife wound or were beheaded—and those of four miners who got caught in a flash flood in 1887 and never escaped from the 450-foot-deep vertical hole.
Today, the Castle Dome Mining District attraction is a step back in time to an era of machine shops, mercantiles, a blacksmith shop, a saw shop (which sells, literally, saws), and more.
Among the 50+ buildings (seven of which are original to the town), there's a stone cabin, filled with artifacts (many unearthed from surrounding mine shafts)...
...and a church, situated against the backdrop of the Castle Dome Mountains (and the "dome" itself, actually a butte) and the surrounding Kofa National Wildlife Refuge.
Preservation efforts have really benefitted from Castle Dome's remote location.
The church's bell in its tower still rings.
Owned by Pennsylvania-born 49-er Jacob Snively and his brother Connor, Castle Dome Mining District consisted of just a portion of mining claims along the Colorado River—which enabled the ore to be transported by (steam?)boat and ultimately shipped out for smelting.
But those who lived and worked at Castle Dome mostly never left—and the isolated boomtown was a boon for their most basic tendencies.
It was the Wild West, with all the trappings...
...including the town saloon.
A miner's life can be the pinnacle of the "work hard, play hard" ethos...
...and there was plenty of work to be dome at the bank, the assay office...
...the recorder's office...
...and even the barber shop.
The deepest they ever got was 700 feet. Given what a chore it was to separate the silver from the lead, it wasn't really worth it to dig any deeper.
And with the rise and fall in demand for silver over time. so did the success of Castle Dome fluctuate.
During both WWI and WWII, lead actually emerged as the more valuable mining yield—and with the involvement of Arizona Lead Company, bullets were made from millions of pounds of extracted lead.
Still, the war effort wasn't enough to keep the Castle Dome school from being shut down in 1950.
In 1979, the drop in silver prices was a death knell for Castle Dome's mining operations. When the separating process began to cost more than the value of the silver, it dealt a final, fatal blow to legitimate mining on the claim.
In the years that followed, scam artists showed up as scam artists are apt to do. In 1993/4, Allen Armstrong and his wife, Stephanie bought the land that sits atop three of the patented claims of the former mining district—and by 1998, they were able to open it as a museum.
The Hull Mine—the sparkly, colorful, "enchanted" one—is actually a recent acquisition, circa 2016. I hope it sticks around long enough for me to go back and see it in person.
