Trish Rippie, our great friend from Pahrump, Nevada and a real estate wonder, called late one afternoon in January.
“Nancy, do you and Fred want to make an offer on the Mizpah Hotel?”
We knew the investors in this magnificent 1907 hotel were trying to sell, but we were in no hurry. Considering the economy and the size of the project we sort of wished she would have come back in about three years and asked the question then. I held my hand over the phone and asked Fred what he wanted to do. He threw out a number. I pitched it back to Trish.
From that moment until we heard back from the sellers I rode a wild emotional roller coaster. Excitement, terror, incredulity, happiness, and back to excitement. I somehow knew they would accept the offer but I still played with the idea that they might not bite. At that I felt both relief and disappointment. But in the end they did accept, at which point my excitement bordered on panic before finally settling into guarded optimism.
Right away we scheduled a trip to Tonopah, NV to learn the extent of what we’d gotten ourselves into. We’d been to Tonapah before, and to the Mizpah, but not for fifteen years. Needless to say the adventure of this latest trip is hard to describe. Whirlwind is a word that comes to mind. For in the span of a few short weeks we bought a hotel—a project of yet undetermined size and scope. We left our seven kids and the predictable comfort of our life in wine country and trekked deep into Nevada’s high desert. A trip into the desert is always a little humbling with its stark, alien landscapes and big skies. But adding to the ethereal quality was the fact that this was something of an ancestral home-coming for me. More on that later.
We arrived surprisingly wide-eyed after 8 hours on the road. For 
absurdly busy people like Fred and me, a road trip is quality time and we enjoyed ourselves despite the long haul. We checked in at the Jim Butler Inn, dropped off our things, and then it was on to dinner with Sandy Harmon, the Mizpah caretaker. The Mizpah has been closed since 2000 and it was Sandy who single handedly took care of the property during that time. His passion and love for the old hotel is unmatched.
That night over dinner, Sandy tested our resolve by hinting at the sheer enormity of the effort we were about to take on by restoring the Mizpah. The casino, the restaurants, the ballroom, bars and hotel rooms—they were all in great need of TLC. Sandy couldn’t be more excited for the Mizpah to reopen though, and as we walked into the hotel the next morning I couldn’t help but feel the same.
Our first stop on the grand tour was the vault, a relic that had come around the horn in 1871. The quiet, imposing presence of the massive, antique brass had a calming effect on my nerves as I realized that vault alone made the purchase worthwhile. It represented everything that was important to me about the project, as though all the town’s history, the miners’ stories, the stories of their families and the story of my family were locked up inside it, waiting to be let out and told anew.
Further reassurance followed when we saw that despite being closed for ten years, the property was pristine. The tables in the Jack Dempsey dining room were still set, folded napkins under forks and all. The hotel rooms were perfectly appointed. The beds were made, the little soaps in the washrooms were wrapped up untouched beside the claw-foot tubs. The towels were hung and the tissue boxes were full and fluffed. In fact there was no real evidence that the Mizpah had been closed at all. Everything was just so…clean.
And then, the basement. The electricity was off and it was about 32 degrees inside. Fred and I exchanged a quick look before zipping up our fleeces and venturing in. I scarcely remember One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest but I really think that spooky basement was used in the film. The laundry room was the most astonishing with four enormous washers and dryers you could drive a car through and an ominous pile of linens beside them. I imagine whoever set the tables and made the beds we saw earlier got the news about the hotel closing right before starting the laundry. Or maybe the basement crew just knew that closure was imminent. It looked like they’d thrown in the towel—literal and proverbial—weeks before the last guests departed. Sheets and towels were piled to the ceiling, telling the story of defeat in a way only a mountain of dirty laundry can.
The rest of the basement was relatively ordered with furniture parts in one room, lighting fixtures in another, old tools and records in yet another. Everything in its place, or in this case, pile. So much evidence of life but frozen in time. Adding to the chill factor was that Fred and I learned from Sandy the night before that two miners had died in that very basement during a robbery gone bad. Also, the prostitute fondly known as the Lady in Red had been murdered by a jilted lover five stories up in room 503. Then there was the guest who rode down in the elevator with a woman. When he turned to hold the door for her she had vanished. The man walked off the elevator alone and went straight to the bar for a shot of whiskey. He was pale as a ghost.
Oddly, I felt more calmed than spooked by the idea that there could be a lingering presence or two here with us. I thought, perhaps they’re waiting, like the set tables and made beds, for new life and energy to re-inhabit these spaces.
We left that day to return to Sonoma, knowing our lives would change forever with the undertaking of this project. Driving home we already felt like we had left our new child behind in Tonopah, fully committed as we were to bringing that beautiful old building back to life.
Revitalizing the Mizpah Hotel 