Don't call it Hornsilver? Gold Point, Nevada is no ordinary ghost town, with structures made uninhabitable by wind and rain and only the hardiest of desert rats and tumbleweeds passing through. Oh, no. Gold Point has at least seven full time desert rats residing in its collection of wooden shacks and there's electricity to boot. A couple times a year that number may even multiply into the hundreds as people roll in from all over the state (and it's neighboring territories) to a to spend a weekend whooping it up in one of the last "living" ghost towns in the west. Sometimes there's a staged gunfight, sometimes a chili cook off. But even on a normal weekend Gold Point is open for business and if the saloon appears shuttered, Sheriff Stone will happily open 'er up and set the resident bartender Walt to fixing you a drink. Of course, you'd have to have detoured off Highway 95 somewhere between Goldfield and Beatty to find Gold Point in the first place, but stranger things have happened. Like defending Libertarianism to a Constitutionalist over a game of shuffleboard.
(Mamiya 645, Portra film)