Who among us hasn't heard the expression, "peaks and valleys" and if you live on the 395 corridor and marvel at Jobs Peak, I'll bet only a few of you have heard of a valley called Smith. It's true that peaks get all the attention, but valleys deserve praise too. I live in Smith Valley and here's why.
A few years back, on a trip to Reno, Orllyene, my wife, suggested we deviate from Highway 95 and see where a squiggly little blue road would take us. As we entered the obscurity of the community that is Schurz, we turned west. First we hit folksy little Yerington, then the Walker River roaring through Wilson Canyon and finally the panoramic grandeur of Smith Valley. What scenery. We were goners. Even before we'd made it across the valley, Orllyene said "I could live here."
Quilted squares of alfalfa green, pastures dotted with rotund cattle and the most glorious view of the mountains you can imagine. At the time, we were living in Las Vegas and ever since the thermometer in our garage hit 116, we started looking for a way to escape.
Now as we meandered across the valley, our "relocation endorphins" kicked in. When a low roofed building claiming to be Smith Valley Realty appeared, the motor home practically drove itself over to the side of the road and stopped. Judy, a swan-like creature, greeted us.
Yes, five-, 10, 20-, 40-acre parcels were available and she would be happy to shepherd us around. I assured her that five acres would be ample and soon we were walking on a five-acre parcel which fit the bill perfectly. Feeling very much like a land grabbing tycoon, I made an offer. While we were in Reno, the offer was accepted.
With our business in Reno concluded, we rushed back to have a look at our triumphant purchase. I turned onto the dirt road, parked at the edge of our land, and got out.
"What have I gotten us into," Orllyene gasped.
Her shoulders slumped, she stared straight ahead at a griddle of sagebrush and never ending nothingness. You could shoot a laser for five miles and you wouldn't hit a fly. We were city people, L.A., Vegas, Atlantic City, and now we were moving out with the jack rabbits and coyotes.
"It's OK honey, it's just buyer's remorse," I boasted, my teeth chattering.
We stood, frozen, non-comprehending. We were two seasoned adults flirting with our golden years. Aloneness can be staggering to city dwellers. The Pine Nut Range to our right, the Matterhorn looking Sweetwater Mountains to our left and through a notch the majestic Sierras would be the confining elements of our world. Breaking the silence I say "Listen to that. There is absolutely no sound."
Strangely, the noiselessness was cleansing and reverberated deep in us. Living out here in the country would be different. Instead of congestion, we'd have solitude; instead noise, cryptic silence.
Now, 10 years later, as I crest Jack Wright Pass, I'm Ronald Coleman returning to Shangri La. In view are the patchwork of emerald alfalfa fields, poplars and pinon pines, cows ruminating, sheep nibbling and a clear trout stream. We have no traffic signals and only one stop sign. The school is K-12 and our library is newer and more classy than the monolith we left behind in Las Vegas. My early morning walks are touched with the warble of meadow larks, the plaintive cooing of morning doves and the tippy toe scampering of quail.
Our mountains shut out the harassment of world events and are replaced by rampant neighborliness. To prove it, If you're ever out this way, stop in. Our patio has a stupendous view of the Sierras that will perk you up and at the same time slow you down. One thing for sure; they couldn't get me to leave Smith Valley even if they made me register Republican.
Ron Walker lives in Smith Valley
