Tag: Nevada

Nevada, often referred to as the “Silver State,” is located in the western United States. Renowned for its vast deserts and striking mountain ranges, the state boasts a diverse landscape that includes the arid Mojave Desert in the south and the forested Sierra Nevada mountains in the west. The state is famously home to Las Vegas, a vibrant city known for its bustling casinos, entertainment venues, and nightlife. Beyond the glitz of Las Vegas, Nevada offers rich history in its ghost towns, a legacy of the 19th-century mining boom. The state also features significant natural attractions, such as Lake Tahoe and Great Basin National Park, offering a wide range of outdoor activities. Nevada’s economy is driven by tourism, mining, and, increasingly, technology, making it a dynamic state with a blend of natural beauty and modern attractions.

Berlin Nevada – Nye County Ghost Town

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Nestled in the arid, sun-scorched folds of the Shoshone Mountains in Nye County, central Nevada, Berlin stands as a poignant monument to the fleeting fortunes of the American West. This remote ghost town, frozen in time amid sagebrush and jagged peaks, whispers tales of silver strikes, immigrant laborers, and the inexorable march of economic decline. Once a bustling hub of extraction and ambition, Berlin’s story encapsulates the raw optimism and harsh realities of 19th-century mining frontiers. Today, as part of Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park, it endures not just as a relic of human endeavor but as a gateway to prehistoric wonders, drawing intrepid explorers to its weathered ruins.

Berlin Nevada - 1910
Berlin Nevada – 1910

The Spark of Discovery: Seeds of a Mining Camp (1860s–1890s)

Berlin’s origins trace back to the restless prospectors who roamed Nevada’s desolate basins during the post-Civil War mineral rush. In May 1863, a small band of fortune-seekers stumbled upon rich silver veins in Union Canyon, a narrow defile slicing through the Shoshone range. They christened their rudimentary camp “Union,” a nod to the Union’s victory in the ongoing war, and eked out a modest existence amid the dust and dynamite blasts. The ore was promising—glistening veins of silver laced with traces of gold and lead—but isolation and rudimentary technology kept Union little more than a scatter of tents and adits (mine entrances).

Decades passed with sporadic activity until 1895, when State Senator T.J. Bell, a savvy operator with an eye for untapped potential, relocated operations deeper into the canyon. Bell’s persistence paid off; by 1897, the camp had evolved into the formal townsite of Berlin, named whimsically after the Prussian capital, perhaps evoking visions of European grandeur amid the American wilderness. The Union Mining District formalized its boundaries, and Berlin sprang to life with the clamor of progress: assay offices, saloons, and boarding houses dotted the landscape, their adobe and wood-frame structures huddled against the relentless wind.

The school house in Berlin, Nevada
The school house in Berlin, Nevada

The Boom Years: A Hive of Industry and Diversity (1897–1907)

Berlin’s golden era unfolded in the shadow of the Berlin Mine, the district’s crown jewel. In 1898, the Nevada-Utah Company—backed by eastern investors hungry for silver—acquired the key claims, injecting capital for deeper shafts and a 100-ton-per-day mill that hummed with the ceaseless grind of stampers reducing ore to shimmering concentrate. At its zenith around 1905–1907, the town swelled to 250–300 souls, a polyglot community of Cornish miners, Italian laborers, and Basque sheepherders who toiled in the stifling heat of the 100-foot-deep workings. The air thrummed with the multilingual babel of English, Gaelic, and Romance tongues, punctuated by the clang of picks and the lowing of burros hauling ore cars up steep inclines.

Life in booming Berlin was a gritty ballet of hardship and hedonism. Miners, earning $4 a day, crowded into company-owned bunkhouses, their days measured in tons of “horn silver”—a high-grade chloride ore that gleamed like polished metal. The town’s centerpiece, the Diana Mine, yielded over $1 million in silver by 1906 (equivalent to roughly $35 million today), fueling a modest economy of general stores, a post office established in 1900, and even a schoolhouse where children learned amid the scent of sage and gunpowder. Yet, beneath the prosperity lurked perils: cave-ins claimed lives, and the remote location—over 100 miles from the nearest railhead—meant supplies arrived by wagon, inflating prices and testing resolve. Berlin was a company town through and through, its fate tethered to the vein’s whims.

Decline and Desertion: The Fading Echoes (1907–1911)

As swiftly as it rose, Berlin’s star dimmed. The Panic of 1907 crashed silver prices, squeezing margins and idling the mill. Labor unrest simmered; in 1907, a bitter strike by the Western Federation of Miners halted operations, exposing the fragility of boomtown bonds. The company responded by shuttering the mines in 1911, evicting tenants and auctioning off machinery. Families packed their belongings into creaking wagons, bound for Tonopah or Goldfield, leaving behind a hollow shell: doors ajar, hearths cold, and the Diana shaft silent under a shroud of tumbleweeds.

By 1914, Berlin was a ghost town in earnest, its population dwindled to a handful of caretakers. Intermittent revivals flickered—brief ore shipments in the 1920s and 1930s—but the Great Depression and World War II sealed its fate. Scavengers stripped what they could, yet the site’s isolation spared it the total plunder suffered by more accessible ruins. Berlin slumbered, its adobe walls cracking under the weight of desert solitude, a skeletal testament to mining’s boom-and-bust cycle.

Preservation: From Relic to State Treasure (1950s–Present)

Redemption came in the mid-20th century, when Nevada’s burgeoning interest in heritage tourism cast a protective gaze over forgotten outposts. In 1957, the state acquired Berlin’s core structures, arresting decay through minimal intervention—propping roofs, stabilizing walls—to preserve its authenticity. The Berlin Historic District, encompassing 24 buildings and the old assay office, earned National Register of Historic Places status in 1973, safeguarding it from modern encroachments. But Berlin’s true allure deepened with a paleontological twist: the adjacent site yielded the world’s largest known ichthyosaur fossils in the 1950s—massive, 45-foot marine reptiles from 225 million years ago, their bones fossilized in eerie congregations, suggesting ancient mass die-offs.

This dual legacy—human grit intertwined with prehistoric mystery—birthed Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park in 1971. Over 1,100 acres now encompass the townsite, fossil quarries, and hiking trails, with interpretive signs resurrecting the past: one evokes a miner’s supper of beans and biscuits, another details the ichthyosaurs’ dolphin-like grace in Triassic seas. The park’s Fossil Shelter, a climate-controlled exhibit, displays articulated skeletons, bridging epochs in a single glance.

Current Status: A Living Ghost in 2025

As of November 2025, Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park thrives as a serene enclave of reflection and adventure, drawing over 20,000 visitors annually despite its 3-hour drive from Reno or Las Vegas. The ghost town remains in “arrested decay,” its saloon, courthouse, and miner cabins standing as evocative tableaux—peel away a layer of dust, and you half-expect a spectral card game to resume. Recent enhancements include a new fossil discovery announced in April 2025, unearthing additional ichthyosaur remains that promise fresh insights into Mesozoic mass mortality events.

The park operates year-round, with day-use fees at $10 per vehicle and camping options amid piñon-juniper groves. Trails like the 1.5-mile Berlin Townsite Loop wind past ruins and wildflower meadows in spring, while off-road enthusiasts navigate nearby 4×4 paths. Challenges persist—flash floods occasionally scour canyons, and summer heat exceeds 100°F—but rangers maintain accessibility, with solar-powered exhibits and guided tours illuminating Berlin’s layered lore. In an era of rapid erasure, Berlin endures as a vital thread in Nevada’s tapestry: a place where the ghosts of silver barons and ancient leviathans coexist, inviting us to ponder our own impermanence amid the endless desert sky.

Berlin Town Summary

NameBerlin Nevada
LocationNye County, Nevada
Latitude, Longitude38.8818713, -117.6076020
Elevation2059 meters / 6756 feet
GNIS858871
Population300

Berlin Trail Map

Atwood Nevada – Nye County Ghosttown

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Tucked away in the stark, sagebrush-dotted expanses of the Paradise Range within Nye County, Nevada, lies the faint echo of Atwood—a ephemeral mining camp that flickered to life amid the gold fever of the early 20th century. Situated approximately 35 miles northeast of Mina and at an elevation of about 6,001 feet, Atwood emerged as the beating heart of the Fairplay (or Atwood) Mining District, a rugged pocket of the Basin and Range Province where jagged peaks rise like forgotten sentinels against the vast desert sky. Named after prospector Okey Davis, who initially staked claims under the moniker Atwood (a nod to a potential backer or simply a whimsical choice), the settlement embodied the raw optimism and brutal transience of Nevada’s mining frontier. Though brief in its heyday, Atwood’s story weaves into the larger tapestry of Nye County’s boom-and-bust legacy, a county born from Civil War-era territorial ambitions and fueled by successive waves of mineral mania. Today, as a true ghost town with scant ruins, it whispers of fortunes chased and lost in the shadow of the Toiyabe National Forest, accessible only to the intrepid via dusty backroads that test both vehicle and resolve.

Discovery and Early Settlement (1901–1905)

Atwood’s origins trace to the sweltering summer of 1901, when a quartet of determined prospectors—Okey Davis, George Duncan, E.A. McNaughton, and William Regan—stumbled upon promising gold-bearing ledges in the Paradise Range, a remote spur of the Hot Creek Mountains straddling Nye and Mineral counties. The strike, rich in free-milling gold ore that assayed at $40 per ton (with two-thirds in gold), ignited whispers of a new El Dorado amid the post-Comstock ennui that had quieted Nevada’s mining scene. Initial claims, including the Lone Star group held by Woodward and Everett, revealed veins three to four feet wide at depths of 53 feet, drawing a trickle of hopefuls to the parched canyon floors where water was hauled from distant springs and wood chopped from piñon stands.

By 1903, the camp stirred with activity: six- and seven-foot ledges yielded shipping-grade ore, and plans for a mill surfaced under Mr. Norcross, promising to process the “crop” locally rather than freighting it to distant smelters. The following year, 1904, marked a surge—over 100 men swelled the tent city, their numbers growing daily as tales of abundant timber, reliable water, and easily milled ore spread via stage from Sodaville and Mina. Stores sprouted amid the canvas, three saloons echoed with the clink of tin cups, and a post office was slated for July 19, though it would not materialize until later. A rival townsite, Edgewood, was platted in December 1905 but fizzled almost immediately, leaving Atwood unchallenged as the district’s hub. The air hummed with the rasp of picks and the lowing of ore-laden burros, while the scent of sage and sun-baked earth mingled with the acrid tang of assay fires.

Boomtown Ascendancy and Company Control (1906–1907)

Atwood’s apogee arrived in the crisp autumn of 1905, when a Tonopah real estate syndicate platted the townsite, hawking lots with visions of a bustling metropolis to rival nearby Goldfield. The pivotal shift came in January 1906, as the Griggs Atwood Mining Company—a Reno-based outfit—acquired the fledgling settlement, molding it into a disciplined company town engineered for efficiency and profit. Under their aegis, infrastructure bloomed: a post office opened on February 6, dispensing letters from homesick kin; a two-story hotel rose to house transients; general stores stocked beans, bacon, and blasting powder; a meat market catered to the carnivorous appetites of laborers; and a raucous dance hall pulsed with fiddles and foot-stomping on weekends.

The mines fueled this frenzy. The Atwood Mine, Butler (the district’s crown jewel with a 280-foot shaft), and Gold Crown—operated since April 1904 by the Gold Crown Mining Company—churned out high-grade ore shipped to Sodaville for milling. By late 1906, the population crested at 200, a polyglot throng of Cornish hard-rock men, Irish muckers, and American speculators bound by the shared delirium of wealth. A stage line clattered daily from Mina, ferrying supplies and souls, while the Fairplay Prospector newspaper debuted in 1907, its inky pages trumpeting strikes like the $2,000-per-ton bonanza at the Fairplay claim on Griggs-Atwood property. Hoists groaned into operation—the Paradise with a 20-horsepower gasoline engine sinking to 110 feet (aiming for 300), the Gold Canyon prepping a compressor—heralding Atwood’s ascent as a “good crop” poised for permanence. Even leisure flourished: a local basketball team vied with rivals from Goldyke, their games a fleeting diversion in the relentless grind.

Decline and Sporadic Revivals (1908–1930s)

Fortune, however, proved fickle. The Butler Mine’s closure in 1908—its veins pinching to unprofitable slivers—triggered a cascade of exodus, swelling the ghost winds that howled through empty saloons by year’s end. The post office shuttered on January 31, 1908, its final stamps canceling dreams deferred, and the Prospector fell silent, its press gathering dust. Optimistic dispatches from 1908, touting the Gold Crown’s 50-horsepower mill and the Wagner Azurite Copper group’s 500-foot depths, proved hollow echoes as high-grade ore dwindled.

Resurrection glimmered in early 1914, when Okey Davis unearthed a bonanza south of the old diggings, spurring four new outfits: Nevada Chief Mining Company, its Extension, Contact Mining Company, and Excelsior Twilight Mining Company. Miners coalesced in satellite camps—Atwood proper, Okey Davis (eight weathered structures), and Butler (renamed Nevada Chief after M.L. Butler’s 1915 claim, peaking at 75 souls with a frame lodging house, cookhouse, and lumber yard). Yet summer’s heat sapped momentum; Butler’s ranks thinned to zero by fall, briefly rechristened Gilt Edge before oblivion reclaimed it. In 1927, Arizona’s Oatman United Gold Mining Company optioned the Okey Davis and Nevada Chief properties, shipping machinery for a revival, but the effort sputtered into the early 1930s amid the Great Depression’s shadow. Walter Pfefferkorn, the last holdout at Okey Davis camp, departed in 1959, his footsteps the final imprint on a landscape reverting to wild desolation.

Current Status (As of November 2025)

In the autumn of 2025, Atwood slumbers as an unincorporated ghost town, its zero population a stark counterpoint to the 200-strong chorus of a generation past. Managed within the Toiyabe National Forest, the site yields scant relics: a solitary foundation amid scatters of iridescent glass shards and rusted can dumps, remnants of bottled fortitude and tinned sustenance long since scavenged by time and trespassers. No vertical structures pierce the horizon; the hotel’s timbers have rotted into the alkaline soil, and mine shafts—once portals to promise—lurk as hazardous voids, their collars collapsed under decades of seismic sighs and flash-flood fury.

Reaching Atwood demands commitment: from Fallon, it’s a 94-mile trek east on U.S. 50 to Middlegate, then south on State Route 361 through Gabbs, veering onto a graded dirt road for 5.3 miles before forking left onto a rutted local track for another 5.9 miles—high-clearance 4WD advised, especially after winter rains that transform arroyos into impassable mires. No amenities await—no water, no facilities, no cell service in the bowl of the valley—only the keening wind through creosote and the distant yip of coyotes patrolling the periphery. As of late 2025, Atwood draws few pilgrims; Nevada’s ghost town enthusiasts favor more photogenic ruins like Rhyolite or Berlin-Ichthyosaur, leaving this site to solitude. Yet for the dedicated, it offers unvarnished authenticity—a canvas of erasure where the ghosts of Griggs and Davis linger in the glint of forgotten glass, a subtle admonition to the hubris of extraction in Nevada’s unforgiving wilds. For access updates, consult the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest ranger district.

Barcelona Nevada – Nye County Ghost Town

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Tucked away in the rugged folds of the Toquima Range in Nye County, Nevada, Barcelona emerges as a spectral echo of the Silver Rush era—a fleeting mining enclave where the promise of subterranean wealth briefly defied the relentless desert. Originally organized as the Spanish Belt Mining District in 1875 and later synonymous with its namesake town and principal mine, Barcelona lies approximately 20 miles southeast of the more enduring ghost town of Belmont, at an elevation of about 8,500 feet along the eastern slopes separating Ralston Valley from Smoky Valley. Accessible today via graded dirt roads suitable for 2WD vehicles, this isolated site, with its grid-like layout and seasonal climate of scorching summers and crisp winters, encapsulates the boom-and-bust archetype of Nevada’s mining frontier. Named perhaps for the Iberian flair of its early Hispanic prospectors or the district’s “belt” of silver veins, Barcelona’s story is one of rapid ascent, exhaustive exploitation, and tenacious, if sporadic, revivals, leaving behind a tableau of weathered ruins that whisper of bygone labors under an unforgiving sky.

The Spark of Discovery and Early Settlement (1860s–1875)

Barcelona’s origins trace to the post-Civil War mineral frenzy that swept the Great Basin, when opportunistic prospectors scoured Nevada’s arid highlands for the next Comstock. Silver outcrops were first noted in the late 1860s—accounts pinpoint 1867 as the year of initial discovery—amid the slate formations of what would become the Spanish Belt District, initially an extension of the neighboring Philadelphia Mining District that encompassed Belmont. Yet, these early finds languished due to the site’s remoteness, scant water, and the superior allure of richer strikes elsewhere, such as nearby Jefferson, which boomed with $2.3 million in silver output by 1875.

The district’s formal organization came in 1875, spurred by surveys revealing a promising “belt” of argentiferous ledges akin to those in Philadelphia. Hispanic miners, led by the enterprising Señor Emanuel San Pedro and his crew, spearheaded the first substantive claims, infusing the camp with a cultural mosaic that lent it its evocative name—possibly evoking Barcelona, Spain, or simply the “bar” of ore veins. By this nascent stage, Barcelona was little more than a scatter of tents and ad hoc diggings, sustained by mule trains hauling supplies from Austin, 50 miles north, across parched valleys where mirages danced on alkali flats. The air hummed with the tentative ring of picks against quartz, and the faint scent of sagebrush mingled with the acrid bite of black powder, as hopefuls bartered claims under starlit vigils.

Boomtown Flourish and Industrial Ambition (1874–1889)

The mid-1870s ignited Barcelona’s meteoric rise, transforming the gulch into a hive of activity that mirrored the speculative fervor gripping Nye County. Serious mining commenced in 1874, catalyzed by San Pedro’s operations at the flagship Barcelona Mine, which quickly yielded high-grade silver ore laced with gold and traces of mercury— the latter noted as early as 1876 but not commercially exploited until later. By 1876, the population surged to around 150–175 souls, a polyglot assembly of Cornish hard-rock men, Mexican laborers, and Yankee speculators who erected a modest skyline: three bustling boarding houses fragrant with beans and bacon, an assay office tallying payloads by lamplight, a cluster of saloons alive with the clatter of poker chips and harmonica wails, and sundry businesses including a blacksmith forging mule shoes amid sparks and oaths.

Daily stages rumbled in from Austin, ferrying mail, whiskey, and wide-eyed newcomers, while ore wagons creaked toward the Monitor-Belmont mill, 10 miles distant, where steam-powered stamps pulverized rock into fortune. The Barcelona Mine alone produced over $500,000 in bullion by 1890 (equivalent to millions today), its veins—alongside adjacent claims like the South Barcelona and 1871-discovered Liguria—fueling a frenzy that blanketed the hills in charcoal haze from piñon-fired smelters. Life pulsed with frontier vigor: miners swapped tales of “pocket” strikes over tin mugs, children hawked pies baked in Dutch ovens, and the occasional fandango echoed through the canyon, a fleeting respite from 12-hour shifts in damp adits. Yet, beneath the bustle lurked fragility; water scarcity forced hauls from Hot Springs northward, and economic tremors from national silver slumps cast long shadows.

Decline, Revivals, and Enduring Echoes (1890s–1920s)

As with so many Basin outposts, Barcelona’s zenith proved ephemeral. By 1877, the shallow high-grade ores pinched out, stranding the camp in a swift ebb—population plummeting to a skeletal handful as families decamped for Belmont’s steadier prospects. A brief 1880 resurgence, buoyed by renewed assays, flickered like a dying ember, only for idleness to reclaim the shafts amid depressed markets and litigation over claims. Sporadic pulses followed: desultory picks in the 1890s, a 1892 reopening thwarted by water woes, and intermittent shipments to Belmont’s mills through the early 1900s.

The most vigorous revival dawned in 1916 with the formation of the Consolidated Spanish Belt Silver Mining Company, which installed a new superintendent and mill by 1919. A gravity-fed stamp mill rose in 1921, processing ore from deepened workings that tapped mercury-laced lodes, sustaining a modest workforce through World War I’s demand. Production crested anew, but by 1923, exhausted veins and postwar glut sealed Barcelona’s fate—the town shuttered permanently, its structures succumbing to wind-whipped sands. Faint aftershocks rippled into the 1980s with exploratory digs at the Van Ness Quicksilver Mine (discovered 1928, west of town), but these yielded naught but echoes. Today, the district—now commonly dubbed Barcelona rather than Spanish Belt—bears scars of this cyclic toil: collapsed timbers, tailing piles, and the ghostly grid of a forgotten metropolis.

Current Status (As of November 2025)

In the autumn of 2025, Barcelona persists as an unincorporated ghost town on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) holdings, a understated relic amid Nye County’s vast tableau of 600-plus abandoned sites. Scattered across the Toquima’s sage-dotted flanks, the remnants evoke quiet introspection: a handful of stone and adobe foundations etched by frost heave, tumbled walls of a bygone boarding house, and yawning mine shafts—remnants of the Barcelona and Liguria—that plunge into cool, silent depths, their lips fringed with cheatgrass. No standing structures endure, but the site’s fresh spring water, bubbling from a canyon seep, offers a rare desert mercy for wayfarers. Hazards abound—rusted relics, unstable adits, and seasonal flash floods—demanding vigilance, with the BLM advising sturdy boots, flashlights, and avoidance of solitary forays.

Reachable via a 20-mile jaunt from Belmont off State Route 82 onto graded Monitor Valley Road (suitable for passenger cars in dry conditions, though high-clearance recommended post-rain), Barcelona draws a niche cadre of off-road historians and photographers, its isolation a balm for those seeking solitude beneath Wheeler Peak’s distant silhouette. Absent the touristed pomp of Rhyolite or Goldfield, it garners scant social media fanfare—no viral #GhostTownNevada posts in recent feeds—but features in curated guides as a “worthwhile detour” for its unvarnished authenticity. Nevada’s tourism apparatus, via Travel Nevada, nods to it within broader Nye itineraries, emphasizing respectful treading to preserve these “living archives.” As climate shifts usher erratic winters—milder rains, fiercer winds—Barcelona stands resilient, a canvas where creosote whispers over rubble, inviting reflection on humanity’s indelible mark upon the wild. For real-time access, consult BLM Tonopah Field Office updates.

Cobre nevada

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Cobre is a former railroad town and ghost town located in northeastern Elko County, Nevada, approximately 39 miles northeast of Wells and near the interchange of major rail lines in the early 20th century. The name “Cobre” derives from the Spanish word for “copper,” reflecting its primary purpose as a transportation hub for copper ore extracted from mines in the Ely area of White Pine County, over 140 miles to the south. Unlike a traditional mining camp, Cobre itself had no significant local mining operations; it existed solely to facilitate the transfer and shipment of copper via rail. Today, it stands as a quiet, largely abandoned site emblematic of Nevada’s boom-and-bust railroad and mining era.

Founding and Early Development (1905–1910)

Cobre emerged in 1905–1906 during the construction of the Nevada Northern Railway (NNRY), a line built specifically to connect the burgeoning copper mining district around Ely, Nevada, to the national railroad network. The Guggenheim family’s Nevada Consolidated Copper Company (formed from mergers including the White Pine Copper Company and others) financed the NNRY to transport ore from mines and smelters in the Robinson Mining District near Ely.

Rather than connecting from the closer town of Wells, the NNRY chose a junction point on the Southern Pacific Railroad (SPR) mainline at what became Cobre. Construction began southward from this point on September 11, 1905, under contract with the Utah Construction Company. Rails were laid starting in December 1905, and regular operations commenced in 1906.

The town quickly took shape as a rail interchange and service point:

  • A post office opened on March 12, 1906.
  • Facilities included section houses for railroad workers, a hotel, mercantile stores, saloons, and freight handling infrastructure.
  • In 1906, the Western Pacific Railroad temporarily headquartered in Cobre during its construction phase, sparking a brief boom.

By 1910, Cobre reached its peak with around 60 residents, three bars, and a reputation for rowdiness and violence typical of remote railroad towns.

Peak Operations and Role in Copper Transport (1910s–1970s)

Cobre’s economy revolved entirely around the railroad. Copper ore from Ely-area mines (primarily operated by Nevada Consolidated, later acquired by Kennecott Copper Corporation in the 1930s) was shipped north via the NNRY to Cobre, where it transferred to Southern Pacific (and later Western Pacific) trains for shipment to smelters elsewhere.

The town supported:

  • Railroad maintenance crews.
  • Freighting operations.
  • Basic amenities like stores and a hotel.

World War I and post-war demand for copper sustained activity, though fluctuations in copper prices caused periodic slowdowns. The line also briefly connected to the Western Pacific at Shafter, enhancing Cobre’s role as a key interchange.

Decline and Abandonment (1950s–1980s)

The post-World War II era brought irreversible changes:

  • Diesel locomotives reduced the need for extensive maintenance facilities and crews.
  • Declining copper demand and shifts in mining technology diminished ore shipments.
  • The Cobre post office closed permanently on May 31, 1956, marking the town’s effective end as a community.
  • The McGill smelter near Ely shut down on June 20, 1983, ending regular ore trains on the NNRY north of Ely.
  • In 1987, the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power acquired the dormant line from Cobre to Ely (originally for a proposed coal plant that never materialized), preventing immediate abandonment.

By the late 1980s, Cobre had faded into obscurity, with most buildings removed or demolished.

Current Status

Cobre remains an uninhabited ghost town and siding along the former rail lines in a remote, arid section of Elko County. Very little of the original town survives:

  • The dominant feature is a large cinderblock engine house constructed in the 1960s during the final years of active NNRY operations.
  • Scattered foundations, rail sidings, and minor debris are all that remain of the hotels, stores, saloons, and residential structures.
  • The site is accessible via dirt roads off Interstate 80 (near the Pequop exit), but it is on or near Union Pacific Railroad (successor to Southern Pacific) property, so visitors should exercise caution and respect private land/railroad rights-of-way.

The southern portion of the historic NNRY (from Ely to Ruth/McGill) has been preserved as the Nevada Northern Railway Museum, a National Historic Landmark operating heritage tourist trains. However, the northern segment through Cobre is largely inactive and overgrown, with no regular service. The area sees occasional visits from ghost town enthusiasts, railroad historians, and photographers, but it offers no services or restored buildings.

Cobre exemplifies Nevada’s many railroad-dependent settlements that vanished when mining economics and transportation technology evolved, leaving behind silent reminders of the state’s copper-fueled industrial past.

Treasure City Nevada – White Pine County Ghost Town

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Perched precariously atop Treasure Hill at elevations exceeding 9,000 feet in the rugged White Pine Range of western White Pine County, Nevada, Treasure City (originally known briefly as Tesora) emerged as one of the most dramatic symbols of the late-1860s silver frenzy that swept the American West. Born from the “White Pine Rush” — a stampede rivaling the Comstock in intensity but far shorter in duration — this high-altitude mining camp briefly glittered with promise before succumbing to the familiar Nevada pattern of boom and bust. At its 1869 zenith, Treasure City boasted a population estimated between 6,000 and 7,000 souls, complete with saloons, stores, a stock exchange, fraternal lodges, and the state’s first newspaper outside the Comstock region. Yet within a mere decade, it lay abandoned, its windswept ruins a silent monument to over-hyped riches and the unforgiving geology of surface-only deposits.

Discovery and the White Pine Fever (1865–1868)

The story of Treasure City begins not with a lone prospector but with seasoned miners from the Reese River district who, in late 1865, organized the White Pine Mining District after finding modest silver showings on the western slopes of the White Pine Range. Initial development remained quiet until late 1867 or early 1868, when legend credits a Shoshone man known as “Napias Jim” (or “Indian Jim”) with revealing extraordinarily rich chloride silver ore to local blacksmith A.J. Leathers. Samples assayed at staggering values — some reportedly reaching $15,000–$20,000 per ton — ignited what newspapers dubbed “White Pine Fever.”

By spring 1868, thousands poured into the remote mountains east of Eureka. Claims such as the Eberhardt, Hidden Treasure, North Aurora, and Mammoth were staked across Treasure Hill’s summit. The ore, primarily cerargyrite (horn silver) in brecciated limestone, occurred in massive surface pockets rather than true veins, allowing easy extraction but dooming long-term prospects. Miners initially lived in caves (earning the base camp the temporary name Cave City), but as the rush intensified, settlements sprawled across the hill.

Boom Years and High-Altitude Frenzy (1868–1870)

Treasure City coalesced directly among the mines near the hill’s crest, earning its name from the apparent boundless wealth. Briefly called Tesora in early 1869, it was formally incorporated on March 5, 1869, and its post office opened under that name before switching to Treasure City in June. By late 1869, the town pulsed with life: over 40 stores, a dozen saloons, Masonic and Odd Fellows halls, a stock exchange, and the White Pine News — Nevada’s easternmost newspaper, printed on a press hauled from Belmont.

The air reeked of woodsmoke from countless stoves struggling against brutal winters, where blizzards buried tents and temperatures plunged far below zero. Water had to be piped or hauled uphill, fuel was scarce, and avalanches claimed lives. Yet money flowed: the Eberhardt Mine alone yielded massive boulders of nearly pure silver, and district production soared. Supporting towns sprang up below — Hamilton (the commercial hub and new county seat of freshly created White Pine County), Shermantown (a mill town), Eberhardt, Swansea, and others — swelling the greater district to perhaps 25,000–40,000 people in 1869–1870.

Rapid Decline and Desertion (1870–1880s)

The bonanza proved illusory. By 1870, the rich surface pockets were exhausted; deeper workings encountered only low-grade ore. Population plummeted — Treasure City’s census recorded just 500 residents that year. Businesses shuttered, and many structures were dismantled for lumber or relocated downhill to Hamilton. A devastating fire in 1874 consumed much of the remaining business district. The town was disincorporated in 1879, its post office closed on December 9, 1880, and by the early 1880s Treasure City was effectively deserted. Sporadic attempts at revival in the 1890s and 1920s yielded little, and the district’s total output from 1867–1880 is estimated at $20–$40 million (over half a billion dollars today) — impressive, but far short of initial hype.

Current Status

Today, Treasure City exists only as scattered stone foundations, crumbling walls, and hazardous mine shafts strewn across the windswept summit of Treasure Hill, within the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest. No intact buildings remain; the high elevation and harsh weather have reduced most traces to low rock outlines and debris fields littered with rusted cans, broken glass, and the occasional shard of fine china or champagne bottle — remnants of a brief era of ostentatious wealth.

The site is accessible via a rough, high-clearance dirt road branching south from U.S. Highway 50 near Illipah Reservoir (about 37 miles west of Ely), then climbing approximately 11 miles to the Hamilton area and onward to the hilltop. The road is often impassable in winter or after rain, and visitors must contend with extreme weather even in summer. Combined with nearby Hamilton (which retains a few more substantial ruins including the shell of the 1870 courthouse), Treasure City forms part of one of Nevada’s most evocative ghost town complexes.

Though remote and barren, the location draws history enthusiasts, photographers, and off-road adventurers seeking the stark beauty of a place where fortunes were made and lost in the span of a single winter. Artifacts are protected on public land — take only photographs — and open mine shafts pose serious fall hazards. As with all Nevada backcountry sites, go prepared with water, fuel, and a reliable vehicle; cell service is nonexistent. Treasure City stands not as a preserved museum but as raw testimony to the fleeting nature of mining glory in the Silver State.