By the end of that month—when I first started taking news of the novel coronavirus seriously, months before anybody else seemed to—my hopes faded.
But as the year has fallen apart progressively in its first half, I think I still don't quite grasp how bad it is—or how bad it's going to get.
Because in March, I was prepared for a couple of months of closures and shutdowns. As May gave way to June, though, I'd pretty much radically accepted that the entirety of the year 2020 was canceled.
I wasn't, however, prepared for anything in the year 2021 to be canceled.
Now that next year has already gotten it first big cancelation—the Rose Parade—I'm starting to think that that two-month forfeiture of plans, recreation, traditions, and activities will be more like two years.
But it's one of the few traditions I've managed to establish here in California, where I'm largely on my own on holidays.
New Year's Day—or the day or two afterwards—has been one of the few times that I've had a plan when others haven't.
Every other holiday, I'm bereft of anything to do, while everything is closed and everybody else has plans.
Without the Rose Parade marking the new year, I'm afraid that January 1, 2021 will be no different than March 11—the day the World Health Organization declared the coronavirus an official pandemic—or March 17, May 25, June 21, July 4, and so on.
They've all been just another day...
...each one following getting worse than the one before.
My hope for this year is long gone. But I'd held onto some hope for next year—until the Rose Parade got canceled, for the first time since we skipped three years (1942-3 and 1945) during World War II.
That's gone now—now that I realize we are at war.
But this coming year, we don't even get a "token parade" like they did in 1944, just months before the WWII Battle of Normandy.
I guess it's better that I know what to expect—or not to expect—sooner rather than later. There have been so many insecurities and uncertainties since March, the unsurety has been maddening.
No news may be good news, but I'd rather get the bad news now—rather than hold onto false hope.
[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.
It didn't matter that Paramount Drive-In isn't as exciting as Mission Tiki Drive-In.
Located in the City of Paramount, home of the Zamboni, it's a lot closer to where I live in the LA area. And it seemed less crowded, at least upon my early arrival.
Besides, I don't have to choose right now. I want to hit them all. Even the ones in San Diego, San Luis Obispo, and Barstow. And Vegas, too.
I'd been kicking myself for not going to any drive-in movies for the first 9 years I lived in California—but in the case of Paramount, I get a little bit of a break. Movie screenings had ceased between 1992 to 2014 (though the swap meet operated continuously since 1955) and the theatre was closed for the first two months of the pandemic shutdown.
Opened in 1947, Paramount Drive-In Theatres was originally known as the Roadium—a brand that has recently been revived in Torrance, with drive-in movies and an open-air market.
Back then, that area was "Clearwater Township"—named after the seasonal lake that would form when fed by nearby artesian wells—but was rechristened "Paramount" in 1948. It was all dairy farms and chicken coops until the 1970s.
Amazingly, the entire site—built upon an old cornfield—remained intact enough for the drive-in to reopen in 2014, with digital projection and FM transmission for sound.
It's been a two-screener since the 1970s—and at least since its grand reopening six years ago, one screen is devoted to family-friendly programming (with each main attraction showing twice for an early and late screening).
This new venture is the brainchild of Glenn Bianchi of Bianchi Theatres—son of Joseph Bianchi, a WWII penicillin peddler who came out west to become the original proprietor of Roadium. Born in Compton, the younger Bianchi used to work in the snack bar as a teenager and eventually got promoted to manager.
The concessions stand still serves popcorn and hot dogs—but instead of malted milkshakes and Cherry Cokes, there are agua frescas and churros.
While the twin theatre's 45 acres should accommodate 800 cars, the pandemic requires keeping a space open between every parked vehicle. And their lightsaber-wielding ushers/security guards enforce the policy, thankfully.
But even with the capacity restricted, Paramount Drive-In has reported selling "double" the number of tickets it would any other year—any other year not in a pandemic, that is.
For some, it's just something to do. It almost doesn't matter what the movie is. And that's a good thing, considering how Hollywood has hit the brakes on its big summer releases.
But the little guys—the indies, the low-budget horror flicks—are thriving at the drive-in. And lucky for me, I like to watch a good scary movie in the dark while sipping soda nervously through a straw.
After years of feeling like I had to go to the movies by myself if I wanted to go to the movies at all, now I prefer solo adventures at the cinema. I don't want to leave my car or congregate with anyone else.
It's a perfect night out, with minimal risk of contamination and maximum entertainment.
