Dog Town, California

1857. Remnants shatter in stillborn haste. GOLD in them hills young men. An American fever born eight years earlier peaked in the Eastern Sierra. Before Bodie, Aurora, Masonic or Virginia City, Dog Town ruled! Wasn't much?! Just Dog Town Creek, a spit of desert, dirt and everlasting stone. Rattlesnakes knew better than stake a claim. Indians moved to the West, North and South. The hustle had the blood in children lost to the seas. Dead on arrival. Not much could become of Dog Town, California. The verse I heard on starry night scape, told of miners long in tooth, drunk and dumb enough to call the blank mountain east of Sawtooth Ridge home. They lost hope on the small stream. Most came West with pick hammer, dynmite money, crossed fingers and a trusty pup. When all busted they steamed toward Sacramento. Leaving man's best friend behind. By the end of the decade dogs outnumbered people in the camp. Hence the name. Anabelle, the wolf dog ranging hill holes did not approve! Warding intruders do not come Bodie way. The gents never got much more than a hand job of Hell. The shallow water lusting piss. The realm of celestial fireweed. The crest a hallow cactus. Today we find it a Spiritville north of Highway 270. A pond of decent trout to the left. Nothing to the right. Just how DOG TOWN liked it...RW
www.sierrastrange.com
STAY STRANGE! 
​