Driving along the loneliest highway in America, the sight of the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson makes me remember another time and place. Virginia City, Nevada, is a quirky, wonderful, haunted little place perched at 6,200 ft., where the sidewalks are still wooden, the Bucket of Blood is a real saloon, and at any given moment, someone in a cowboy hat might be playing a banjo under a brilliant blue sky. During the day, it’s not exactly quiet, but when the tourists leave for the evening, it’s peaceful.
And then, Hot August Nights rolls in.
Once a year, this peaceful little mining town transforms into a chrome-covered, motor-oil-scented carnival. It’s like a meteor shower of classic cars crash-lands here, and instead of fleeing in terror, thousands of people show up to watch and cheer. I didn’t know I’d be signing up for this when it became my home in 2014.
Virginia City is famous for many events. The white line down the state highway is painted green for St. Patrick’s Day. The pets dress up for an old-fashioned pet parade for Easter. There are dirt bike races that last all day with close to 1,000 entries. And then, there’s one of the most famous classic car shows in the United States. Hot August Nights.
Of course, the neighbors couldn’t have explained what life would be like. But, I knew it was happening the moment I heard the first engine echo through Six Mile Canyon. That deep, rumbling sound of a ’68 GTO struggling up the hill like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Retirement Edition.
By noon, “C” Street was no longer a street but a mostly sun-burned parade route. People in camp chairs popped up overnight like mushrooms. Not many people parked on “A” Street, a bit more up the hill than most would like to walk. Of course, tourists were gawking at the old houses. One of them asked when they closed the gates at night. Not many believed anyone would CHOOSE to live on the side of the mountain in a haunted, old mining town.
Going to the store when you live in VC isn’t a quick trip. In fact, in any one of three directions, you need to travel eleven miles to get to flat ground and civilization. After three years of life on the mountain, a store finally opened that carried fresh milk. But when an event like Hot August Nights rolls into town, make sure your fridge is full and your car locked safely in the garage.
There’s something uniquely humbling about being woken up at 6:45 a.m. by the sound of a steady stream of vintage engines echoing across the canyon. Not roosters. Not church bells. Just raw V8 engines screaming into the morning sky like angry mechanical pterodactyls.
During those days, I gave up trying to live like a normal person. The driveway would be blocked and the roads jammed. Even the mustangs left town for higher ground during this event.
Perched on the deck, 16 feet above “A” Street, I enjoyed an ice-cold Diet Coke while sitting on the porch like the cranky prospector I am at heart. If you can’t beat ‘em, might as well yell “Nice paint job!” every few minutes and make the best of it. A guy in a candy-apple red El Camino waved at me. I waved back. He revved his engine so loud my windows rattled. By that time, I didn’t even flinch.
Here’s the deal. The cars are beautiful. The music is fun. People love this stuff. And if you’re into it, Virginia City during Hot August Nights is probably your idea of heaven.
But if you live there, it’s like suddenly sharing your living room with a thousand people and 400 Camaros for a week straight. A wild, noisy, tire-squealing, leather-jacket-wearing invasion.
Will the party ever come East to my little town? Probably.
Will I complain the whole time if it does? Absolutely.
Will I secretly kind of love it? …Youbetcha. I just might surprise HHH and get into it.
I’ll be back Monday.