Middlegate Station

   Racing off into the dusk eager to reach a place of rest, Ron grudgingly agreed to turn around and go back to “Middlegate Station.”  [East, Middle, and West Gate were terms to describe the break in the mountains that led to each of these Pony stops.]

  We reached yet another Lincoln marker, a cause for celebration, but it was apparent that Ron needed to be fed to soothe his irritation at being diverted back to this roadside stop.

 Middlegate Station's restaurant included the usual out-west humorous decor, but the menu was an eye-catcher:

       Another interesting aspect of Middlegate was a table of four men sitting near us, rough rowdy old farts type guys, washing down pulled pork sandwiches with wine sipped from elegant cut-glass wine glasses.  One looked kind of like an old hippie turned golf player; one who gave the appearance of being dimmer than the brightest bulb in the box began to speak of the days when he taught at the college…..since by then Ron and I had said everything we could think of to say to each other, it was great to listen in on their conversations for a picture of local life quite different than what we might have expected.  I was also grateful that the restaurant described their pulled pork sandwich as pulled pork, rather than trying to convince us it was “barbeque.”  Good to know that these folks out on the back side of Nevada believed in truth in advertising.The staff of the bar there at Middlegate also came across as fairly sophisticated for such surroundings.  Kinda neat getting a different view of life out in remote areas. And Ron was content when dinner was served.

       Darkness fell, and we soon arrived at the Lincoln Motel in Austin, NV.

Austin WAS, indeed, named by the man who founded it after his home town in Texas.  The daunting day of discovery, disappointment, delight and disgruntledness, ended with an [expected] disillusion that brought us back to the depressing division raging in our nation…

It was tempting to vandalize the International Hotel, a historic restaurant imported from Virginia City, though I would merely have planted a “Hillary” sign.  Found out the next day that someone before me had turned “Great” into “Hate” on the back of a smaller yard sign. 

It was heartening to hear from the motel manager the next morning that we weren’t the only people unwilling to give the restaurant our business.  She said other guests had preferred to get a sandwich from the Chevron station rather than patronize the only restaurant in town that served dinner, and that the hotel’s spirit did not represent all the people of Austin.

Austin – now that’s another story for another day.