Unionville, Nevada is a gift. The moment of its arrival is always perfect. In Unionville a vast silent beauty vanquishes my thoughts, my fears, my dreams. But leaves behind a fantasy of living there. My mind is too contrived to know what is good for me. Those mountains, they evidence God’s mighty ways. Standing before them I apprehend my smallness. In submission, there is wisdom. I feel blessed to experience it.
Tall trees flaunt medallion-gold leaves against a Spartan gray Humboldt Range. The last time we were here, the few homesteads with sheep and cows were brown and barren. The lush oasis that usually is Unionville–which amazes all who stumble upon it in the midst of this desert wilderness–had faded. I peeked over a fence but saw no sign of Buena Vista Creek.
We drive slowly so as not to raise dust. The car heater blows steadily. I set aside my coffee and fumble for my camera. If the Creek dried up permanently, would Unionville lose its allure? It is, after all, already a ghost town. It thrived until the silver ran out.
I open the door and step out. The air is crisp and shimmering. Before lifting the camera, I adjourn to the mainspring, the One that always replenishes. And drink of the knowledge that there will be many more moments like this in Unionville.