Grieving Gardener

Grief is a journey that passes only through time, but through the raw and shifting landscape of the heart. When a loved one is gone, it can feel as though the world has cracked open, leaving unfamiliar, trembling ground.

A mother who recently lost her 30-year-old daughter said through tears, “But you’re all going home tomorrow, and I’ll be left alone without my baby-girl.” Anyone who has loved deeply and lost can feel the weight behind those words. A reflection of sorrow and ache that needs no explanation.

At least someone who loses a spouse has a name — widow or widower. A person who loses their child is still a mom or dad suffering unimaginable pain. Their world has changed forever, and while others can return to their lives, this mom must find a way to live in a world her daughter no longer inhabits.

There’s no easy roadmap through grief. It’s not a straight line or a checklist. Grief is a winding journey that unfolds at its own pace, sometimes moving slowly, crashing, or pausing in silence. Unbearable, especially in the early days, when each breath or sunrise feels like a betrayal to the one you lost.

The first month is often the most brutal. The shock is still fresh with everything being a reminder. It’s a haze of disbelief and raw, overwhelming pain. But slowly things will begin to shift. The sharp edges of sorrow smooth, not because the loss is any less devastating, but because our hearts start learning how to hold it.

Similar to childbirth, where excruciating pain fills the moment, with time, the body and the spirit begin to heal. Grief never disappears entirely, but evolves. It becomes less of a wound and more of a scar that is permanent, visible, and part of who we are.

As the months and years pass, the best memories begin to percolate to the surface. The sound of their voice, the sparkle in their eye, their quirks, the things they loved. These moments will eventually shine brighter than the pain. In remembering, we begin to feel them again in a way that still connects us.

Grief teaches us to live one day at a time. Some days will be heavier than others. Some may feel impossible. But mornings will come when the sun rises and you notice its warmth again. There will be laughter that sneaks in when you least expect it. There will be moments when you feel your loved one close, not in body, but in spirit, memory, and in the legacy of love they left behind.

If you’re grieving, be gentle with yourself. Don’t rush the process. Don’t compare your journey to others’. And don’t lose hope.

Because even in the darkest valleys, hope persists, not in denying the pain, but in honoring it. Not in forgetting, but in remembering with love. Not in being the same as before, but in discovering strength you never knew you had.

You’re not alone. While nothing will ever replace what was lost, life in its slow, quiet, and stubborn way, will find a way to bloom around the absence.

One day at a time. One breath at a time. Keep going.

More tomorrow.

There’s something deeply satisfying about turning a handful of dusty coins into hundreds of dollars. In large numbers, pennies are far from useless. If you’ve saved a lot of them, like HHH and me, turn them into cold hard cash. That saved coin can add up to more cash than you ever dreamed!

Deep into early fall cleaning, we recently decided to cash in our coin jars. I’d already turned in the pennies weeks before, totally more than $100. Sadly, I’d wasted the time rolling them and then found out most banks won’t accept them. Unwrapping them in a flash, I went to Coin Star at the local Walmart. After fighting with an aging machine for longer than it should have taken, I was delighted with the outcome. The rolled coins I’d been hanging onto forever needed to be the next to go.

The next time we went together. At that time, HHH mentioned that our Credit Union had a Coin Star machine we could use for free. In no time, we were the Coin Stars! It was rather like winning a jackpot without the risk of gambling. We were both shocked at the results. Saving big money doesn’t need to be about giant sacrifices, but more about being sneakily consistent.

There is something strange about those of us who save coins. I’d often dreamt of sitting through the winter looking for that one valuable coin. In reality, the chance of that happening is very small. Besides, my winters now are busy having fun with HHH.

Amazon offers something called the 100 Envelope Savings Challenge book. With this inexpensive little system, you can try a challenge that’s right for you. $500 in 30 days. $1,000. $5050. $10,000 in 52 weeks. Each book comes with 100 numbered pockets in which you put a certain amount of money each day, week, or month, depending on your goal.

In 2007, my girlfriend really wanted a flat-screen television, so her budget-conscious husband told her to save for it. She decided to save $5 bills. Anytime she found one in her purse, it went into the TV fund. She even began to sneak $5’s from her hubby. She was driven. It took a while, but she finally had a brand new flat screen on her wall after months of being mindful and consistent. In the end, she fessed up to her husband. It turned out he knew it all along and thought it was cute. He’d even added a few $5’s to her jar when she wasn’t looking. It’s not about the amount but about consistency, patience, and a laser-like focus on the goal.

Here’s the beautiful truth: you can save any amount once aware of your spending habits. That’s it. No magic tricks. No 7-step financial bootcamp. Just awareness.

It’s easy to spend in the moment while grabbing lunch out because it’s easier, buying that $12 candle that smells like “coastal dreams” (whatever that means), or subscribing to a streaming service we forgot we had. But when you pause and put that $10 aside instead? It quickly adds up.

Saving shouldn’t feel like punishment. Turn it into a game, like choosing which envelope to fill today. Do a little victory dance when you find $3 in your jeans pocket and toss it into the coin jar. It’s about stacking up small wins until they turn into big changes.

So, whether you’re rolling quarters, labeling envelopes, or channeling your inner $5 hoarder, just know that every little bit counts. It only takes a goal and action to accomplish something big! However you begin, make it fun.

More tomorrow.

We had other plans for Saturday night. Astronomers from the Biggest Little City to the West had planned an evening at a local lake to stargaze. This has been on my bucket list since the day I moved to Winterpast 5.5 years ago. With no white light allowed (to avoid light pollution), it would’ve been the perfect night to enjoy the stars. I’ve been told you can even see the Milky Way after dark. What a lovely thing to do.

Well, Mother Nature had some other ideas for us. A monsoonal rainstorm struck on a night when there was a 10% chance of rain. That’s the desert for you. If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes and it will change. So different from the boring Central Valley of California, where I spent decades gazing at grey skies without wind or puffy white clouds. How I wish I had known the secrets of the desert in the 70s. I would’ve moved here then.

There’s something unforgettable about rain in the desert, especially when it doesn’t just whisper through but roars in with all the force of a monsoon. At around 7 PM on Saturday night, the skies over our quiet desert neighborhood cracked open. What started as a soft breeze quickly escalated into 45 mph gusts that rattled our windows. Within minutes, the clouds unleashed a downpour so heavy and relentless that it was hard to believe we were still on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

Gutters overflowed almost instantly. The rainfall was too much, too fast, as it cascaded over the edges like small waterfalls. Water rushed down the streets through the main neighborhood drainage system, never designed for anything close to this. Clogged with debris, it began to back up. Within fifteen minutes, the end of the block looked more like a shallow lake than a road.

And then there was the lightning. For thirty full minutes, bolts lit up the sky like a light show, with some arcing horizontally while others slammed straight into the nearby mountains with bone-shaking thunder. The dogs, usually so brave, huddled under the patio chair, ears back and eyes wide, waiting for it to end. I dashed to the garage to shut off the still-running sprinklers, completely unnecessary in this kind of rain.

Although beautiful, it was also a bit terrifying. The kind of storm that makes you stand in the doorway in awe, even as the wind tries to push it shut. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and something ancient, as the land remembered what it felt like to be soaked.

In the aftermath, the desert will come alive with green. It’s amazing how quickly the colors change with the growth of new life. That’s great news for the bands of mustangs, numbering around 30. With two new foals that we know of, water is a welcome relief in the middle of August. Hopefully, they’ll walk on by Winterpast, and stay in the desert where they belong.

I’m pretty sure those working on the Playa while preparing for Burning Man suffered some setbacks. Mud Fest 2025 may be in the works after such a downpour. Just wait for the fun to begin.

By 7:30, the show was over. The only things left were puddles, a few broken branches, and a night sky so quiet it seemed like nothing had happened at all. Not sure that people danced under the Cosmos after that. Desert mud is pretty nasty and with no white light allowed, I’m glad we weren’t there to experience it. If you were here, you know exactly what happened and you’ll never forget it.

More tomorrow.

Out in the front yard, early in the morning

See the neighbors walking dogs all in a row

Some folks go to work, some go on vacation

But I took a paintbrush, and off to paint I go……

Soooooo……….

We’ve been painting on the railing,
All the live-long day,
Trim and doors and window framing,
Brushing dirt away!

Can’t you hear the rock pile calling,
“Move us, don’t delay!”
Spreading bark and mulch ’til evening,
Yard’s gonna shine today!

Someone’s in the yard with a shovel,
Someone’s laying lines just right,
Someone’s by the fence with a paint can,
Freshening the view in sight!

Yard work, don’t you go slow—
Weeds don’t take a break, you know!
Trim it, rake it, roll that stone,
Make our yard a beauty zone!

We’ve been hauling bags of topper,
Mulch is smelling fine,
Rocks are placed and lights are gleaming,
Edges all in line!

Neighbors wave and say it’s stunning,
Drinks are on the tray—
Time to sit and watch the sunset,
After this display! _{Thank you to Johnnie Cash– I’ve been working on the railroad.}

Undergoing a huge transformation, Winterpast seems like our NEW home. A huge, THANK YOU to HHH and his vision. Without his tireless efforts, none of this wouldn’t have been possible.

This weekend, we’re off to work our magic on the Meditation Garden at the church. When it’s all done, expect some pics.

I hope your weekend is as fun-filled as ours.

I’ll be back Monday to fill you in on the latest.

Life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada has been changing. These days, a 30-minute drive to the city west of us can take an hour or more, depending on the number and severity of crashes on the interstate. Once a modest, artsy alternative to California life, the area is rapidly transforming.

As I’ve been painting outside, the added noise is hard to ignore. With the Port of Nevada up and running, trains run day and night. The interstate is bumper-to-bumper many times a day. And then, there are the apartments. With construction surging and a steady stream of citizens fleeing Cali, daily life in our area is feeling the ripple effects of urban growth.

Just yesterday, HHH and I decided we needed a few things at Costco. We haven’t visited the store for months, as it’s easier to order online and have things delivered. Costco used to be one of my favorite shopping stops. Offering everything from Coach bags to dog food, there was something for everyone. It was also a place to visit with fellow farmers who were taking a break from the summer heat to shop.

Before we left, I kiddingly made a bet with HHH that Christmas items would be on sale. We both laughed, agreeing that mid-August and Christmas don’t go together. Of course, there wouldn’t be Christmas items yet. But, of course, there they were right next to Halloween goods.

Yesterday may have been the last time I will ever willingly go to a Costco again. The last time I visited that particular store, a person had been run over in the parking lot. Indeed, it could have been repeated yesterday. People on a mission to make their purchases and get out are unaware. One woman did hit me with her basket as we tried to navigate the aisles. It’s only August. No big weekend ahead. A Wednesday morning at 10:30. What will it be like week before Christmas?

The huge influx of transplants has come with consequences. Although housing markets in some states are a bit sluggish at the moment, homes are selling like hotcakes here amid the great migration. Each week in our town, another new family is putting down roots. Comical at times, their eccentric ways make them easily identifiable.

One such family down the road has just installed a six foot fence around their acre of desert sand. Looking like penitentiary grounds, we aren’t sure exactly who or what they are trying to keep in or out. After installing the very expensive wrought iron fencing, ($20,000?) they installed cheap mesh wire and at ground level along the entire fence. Why??? Protection from rattlesnakes? (Never seen one here.) Rabbit control??? (Their entire property is rock.)

As for locals, limited housing, services, and rising rent costs weigh heavily. The infrastructure is at a breaking point with crowded roads, stretched schools as the race to build even more apartments continues. These are multi-story, unsightly, and extremely expensive to rent. A tiny 2-bedroom apartment in our little town rents for $1700/month (and the usual first, last, and hefty deposit). That’s over $5,000 to enter a rental agreement for an apartment.

For the time being, it’s best we avoid traveling west. After all, there isn’t anything we really need that can’t be found at the local Walmart. There’s always the city to the east, which isn’t experiencing such extreme growth. YET.

Whatever you do, when shopping, keep your head on a swivel. Don’t get confused. It’s still August, even if Christmas music is playing as you shop..

More tomorrow.

Life is a lot of things, but stagnant it isn’t. All the pieces of life’s puzzle have fallen into place. Happy laughter is the music of the day. But, in a matter of hours, catastrophic glacial flooding could arrive, burying lives in copious amounts of mud, like the poor souls in Sitka, Alaska. Or, it could be something as commonplace as losing your spouse of 32 years. When that mud comes, it may be too deep to navigate, bringing with it confusion, denial, anger, and regret.

Slow down for just a minute, and you can become stuck in life’s mud. It’s a human condition that hits everyone at one time or another. At those times, it’s helpful to remember the following Bible verse.

The dancing time is lovely, the laughing time divine. But that weeping, mourning, stuck-in-the-mud time? Not so much. That’s the season we pray will pass faster than a Friday afternoon root canal at the dentist. Unfortunately, it’s up to us to free ourselves from the mud of the situation.

Muddy seasons are part of life, and everyone gets stuck from time to time. Whether it’s grief, loss, regret, or just the slow, sneaky weight of daily discouragement, sometimes we find ourselves sinking, spinning our wheels, and not going anywhere. It’s possible to become emotionally, spiritually, and physically stuck.

If you’re like most, the first instinct is to curse the mud. Be careful because negative thinking is quicksand. You start with one gloomy thought, like, “I’ll never get out of this”, and before you know it, you’re building a mental house in the swamp, complete with matching curtains made of cynicism and regret. Not helpful at all.

The longer the negative thinking sticks around, the heavier the mud gets. Stuckness becomes becomes your label, story, atmosphere, and identity. The only thing that remains is more mud. Not solutions, healing, or hope. The heavier your heart, the harder it becomes to get out.

While stuck, the worst thing of all is that life goes on. Don’t you dare let it carry on without you. There are those things we’d all like to forget for a bit. Bills and chores will always be there, no matter how low we get. But, right outside your door, the seasons are changing. New babies are born. People are falling in love, starting new jobs, or even learning to salsa. Don’t let life get ahead of you while the mud holds you back.

After the rain stops, the mud WILL dry up and that heavy, stuck feeling will lift. Shake off that sludge and keep moving forward, one foot at a time.

Call a friend.
Go for a walk.
Talk to God (He’s fluent in muddy prayers).
Refuse one negative thought today, and trade it for a positive.

Bit by bit, step by mucky step, you’ll find your way out

If you’re stuck today, you’re not broken, just human. There’s a time for everything under heaven. But there’s also a time to get up, wash off the mud, and rejoin the dance floor of life, awkward moves and all.

Life hasn’t forgotten you. Just don’t let it leave without you.

More tomorrow.

There comes a time in every homeowner’s life when, while squinting at the peeling edges of your trim, you say, “Yes, it’s time.” Not “time for a professional,” because obviously, HHH and I are weekend warriors with paint buckets and ladders. The time for these top-notch DIY-ers to spring to action had come, and we decided to paint it ourselves.

This is how HHH found himself, paintbrush in hand, balancing like a caffeinated mountain goat on the second rung of a ladder, gazing lovingly at our white house. Built in 2004 with raised trim around the doors, windows, both the trim and body of the house were the same color. A color we now know Lowe’s offers under the name “Nice White”.

Planning this project all summer, the games began a week ago. Windows and screens needed cleaning, which dovetailed with washing the entire house before painting. HHH started with the back windows, leaving the front for last.

While painting window trim in the front, HHH noticed some movement down the road. Three troublemaking mustangs sauntered right in front of Winterpast, but continued to walk on by. Of course, not before leaving us a present. The best thing of all was that they ignored the new landscaping, which means that the lion-pee-laced-hog-deterring-nuggets are working!! A win for us.

Naturally, once you start painting trim, you discover all kinds of secrets your house has been hiding. Small portions of railing have transformed into “wood-colored sponge cake” thanks to years of moisture and wood rot. It’s important to check your house every few years.

After quickly emptying the first gallon can of Elastomeric paint, it was time to return to the paint counter at Lowe’s. We approached with our carefully chosen color swatch, “Zanzibar Spice”. And there, we waited. It’s not good to keep your customers waiting so long, they learn the “Help” button cycle. Across the entire store, people everywhere could hear that customers were waiting at the paint department. After quite some time, the Queen of Paint arrived.

Ordering five gallons, we left her to do the mixing, but not before HHH witnessed her wiping away 1/2 the tint that should’ve gone into the paint. Yes. Stray drops fell on the lid, only to be whisked away by Little Miss Helpful.

When we got home and opened the paint, the color was wrong. Quite a bit lighter than that already painted on the trim. Back to Lowe’s, we got another associate to mix up a new five-gallon bucket, which was a correct match. It seems many situations end up like that these days. Very sad.

Over the last eight days, HHH has painted trim in the heat and wind. Slowly and surely, Winterpast is glowing. The fresh paint made the windows pop. The boring, nice white has been replaced with clean, “Zanzibar Spice”. The house looks like it’s just come home from a spa weekend after a great facial. In the end, it’s been worth it. Long delays at the paint desk have all paid off.

Winterpast, you look fine. Not just “okay” fine, but fantastically fine. Your trim gleams, your blemishes are fixed, your windows are gleaming, and your curb appeal is almost flirty.

As for HHH? He’s earned a victory lap, sore shoulders, and a secret dream of hiring professionals next time.

Maybe.

With only three more weeks of GriefShare classes, HHH and I have learned more amazing things about grief. Each week, as we share a little meal, we’re getting to know each other better. Friendships have bloomed, even though grief is a deeply personal and often lonely journey. Whether someone has lost a loved one, a relationship, a pet, a dream, or a sense of stability, the stages of grief can feel overwhelming. For those walking alongside someone who is grieving, it’s sometimes hard to know what to say, or even if saying anything helps at all.

Encouragement in grief isn’t always loud or wordy. Often, it’s showing up, sitting in silence, offering a tissue, or sharing a warm meal. It’s listening without trying to explain the loss away and acknowledging their pain without insisting they move past it.

A sweet woman I knew long ago was grieving the loss of her father. He’d been everything to her. A dad. A mentor. A confidante. He was her personal encyclopedia about facts on farming and nature, having lived through 99 years. A year later, she joined a grief group even though relatives told her she should get over IT. They couldn’t understand that what she needed was the support of others who understood a tiny bit of her pain. Her relatives didn’t need that in their grief journey, but she did.

Grieving hearts need reminders that they’re not alone but that someone sees them, acknowledging their loss. Most importantly, God is there, helping them carry more of the load than they realize.

In our daily routines, it’s easy to forget those that quietly mourn. A coworker still grieving a parent years later. A neighbor who lost a spouse. A young person grappling with the death of a friend. Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Encouragement means continuing to check in even when the casseroles are gone and the services are over.

Encouraging others through grief is sacred work, bringing a glimpse of God’s comfort to them. In grief support, members are seen, heard, and loved while learning about the normal stages of grief. Offering comfort to others reflects His heart.

There is a quiet joy in offering someone a safe place to land. While carrying peace into someone’s storm, our faith has deepened. Compassion grows and hearts expand. We begin to see people not for their pain, but as precious children of God who need tenderness, not solutions. Just being present, without pressure, can be more comforting than words.

God of all comfort, help us to be encouragers to those who grieve. Teach us to listen well, love deeply, and reflect Your compassion in quiet, faithful ways. Use us to remind the hurting that they are never alone.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

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.

When you think of ports, you probably picture bustling docks, towering cranes, sea spray, salty air, and massive cargo ships rolling in from Shanghai or Singapore. You probably don’t picture the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, 500 miles from the nearest tide pool and roughly one million nautical miles from anything remotely resembling a coastline. But that hasn’t stopped local visionaries from opening the next BIG port, which is dry, dusty, and entirely devoid of boats.

The Port of Oakland has long been a West Coast shipping giant, but it’s got problems including congestion, union disputes, rent prices that require a second mortgage on your first mortgage, and seagulls that judge you.

Nevada, on the other hand, offers ample space to store over 14,000 shipping containers, with room to spare. With affordable rent, good-paying jobs, and the possibility of owning a real home, in your spare time, you can fish Pyramid Lake, a landlocked lake with water 1/6 the salinity of seawater. If fishing in a salty lake isn’t your thing, freshwater Lake Tahoe is a short drive away, where hiking, water sports, or winter activities await.

Landlocked, the Port of Nevada lacks an ocean, lake, or even a respectable puddle. As it turns out, water isn’t always necessary. On our northern and southern borders, there are almost 170 existing land ports.

After arriving by ship in Oakland, containers will be moved by train over Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevadas, through a large city within feet of a major interstate. Now, what could possibly go wrong with that plan???

Here’s how it working:

1. Containers arrives in Oakland by sea.
2. They’re immediately transferred onto train cars.
3. Those trains travel 5.5 hours inland.
4. Someone at the Port of Nevada yells, “Ship it!” to feel important.
5. The cargo goes back on trucks or trains.
6. It continues to its final destination.

Efficiency? Pretty low.
Public Safety? Could be threatened.
Is it already up and running? Absolutely. Just drove by the place yesterday.

Currently, the Port of Nevada staff is working to flatten mountains of sand undisturbed since before the days of covered wagons. Expanding daily, rail traffic has, indeed, increased. New fencing borders our fine port, and now there’s even talk of a new airport on the edge of town. All this excitement builds while colorful containers are stacked up in neat rows, like at a real port. Let’s hope the contents can withstand extreme desert temperatures while waiting to leave for their final destinations.

Anyone who lives in our town knows the seagulls and white pelicans have been planning this for some time. With breeding grounds at Lake Pyramid, all we need is some salt-air breezes and we’ll be set.

Never seeing an actual ship, the Port of Nevada represents something more powerful than global trade. There is at least one person in this world who person thinking out of the box to come up with new solutions to age-old problems. Why not truck the materials to a state where union membership is a personal choice? Why not ship containers by rail to an inland port on the other side of the Sierras? After all, does every port need to sit next to the ocean?

So, the next time you order something online and it arrives six weeks late with some sand on the box, just smile. It probably passed through The Port of Nevada, the premier ocean-less port.

Ahoy, desert sailors, Ahoy.