A brunch to remember in Nelson, Nevada leads to family history

Here's a quote to live by.

“According to Ralph Waldo Emerson,” Jeff Duncan said. “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

And I could not have agreed more with one of my newfound friends standing amid the eclectic ghost town of Nelson, Nevada.

I wrote a story about Nelson, Nevada, not that long ago. Two stories went to print. One concerning the actual mining town of Nelson and one describing the horrific events that occurred at Nelson’s Landing in September of 1974 when an unexpected and deadly monsoon swept the Nelson Landing Resort away, leaving nine people dead in its aftermath.

But it was the column I had written about Searchlight, Nevada, that inspired this latest adventure.

I received a lovely email from Randall Duncan, the president and CEO of EQLaunch out of El Segundo, regarding that Searchlight article.

Receiving complimentary emails from someone who reads my work makes my day. Hint-hint.

As it turns out, the Duncan family were big muck-mucks in the mining town of Nelson during its heyday. Gustavus Duncan, Randall’s great-grandfather, owned the Duncan mine and was general manager of several other mines in the area.

Looking southwest, Mount Duncan, named after the family, is almost dead center of the existing town in the Eldorado Mountains.

It seemed as though I was dealing with old west Royalty.

After exchanging additional emails and phone calls, Randy, as he likes to go by, and his family members would travel to Nelson and search for the mine his great-grandfather had once owned and worked.

As the intrepid travel writer, I casually asked if I could join the search, knowing it would be a delight to have someone like me join the hunt.

“Well,” Randy stated over the phone. “It was planned as just the Duncan boys going there.”

“OK,” I replied. “For this trip, you can call me Johnny Duncan. A brother from a different mother.”

We met on a recent Saturday morning in the parking lot of the general store in Nelson. Randy was joined by his brother Jeff, his two nephews Ryan and Tyler, and this trip's guest of honor and true purpose was Randy and Jeff’s father, Alan.

They were a nice bunch of fellas who made me feel welcome from the first moment I shook each of their hands. I was sort of tired of shaking hands and trying to remember each man’s name, so when they weren’t looking, I wrote them down on my left palm.

Alan is 94 years old and has the energy that makes me jealous. It was nearly my nap time, and this guy wanted to start the adventure in the rugged, cactus-strewn mountains nearby. It probably meant some walking up steep hills, too. I was exhausted just thinking about it.

But first, he pulled out a large box and set it on the tailgate of my truck. “I have written material I want to share with you.”

And those materials were spectacular.

There was a tattered old brown album full of black and white photographs of people now long gone but so much alive in those camera portraits. One that stuck out to me was Gustavus relaxing in a wooden framed lounger with a striped canvas covering for support. The man was sporting a substantial, thick mustache, wearing a dark suit, including a tie neatly knotted, and a pair of laced boots while casually holding a spiffy round-brimmed hat in his right hand. What was genuinely noticeable were his shoes, new but coated with desert dust.

Gustavus Duncan was an actual miner who was not afraid to get there in the rough and look for that elusive metal humans have coveted for eons.

Other photos included Gustavus’s wife, Fannie - a pretty petite woman who was by Gustavus’s side the whole time. Other images were of Nelson, Mount Duncan, a small tent town beneath the mountain, and more exciting remembrances of life when the Colorado River ran unrestricted to the Gulf of California before dams created Lake Mead and Lake Mohave.

Alan told me tales of when his family resided in Nelson. “Here’s a letter written by my grandfather’s daughter, my mother, who pretended to be writing it like it was written by her mother, Fannie Duncan, my grandmother.”

It was not confusing as the young girl described what it had been like to live in an element that was utterly foreign to her.

When the Duncan family moved from Santa Monica, there suddenly were no cool ocean breezes to counter the often blistering summer heat of the desert. In fact, at one point, the school for the town of Nelson was held within the walls of the Duncan mine to beat the heat of the summer.

It was quite an adjustment for Fannie and her family, but they made the best of it. These women and men were a tough lot and were not going to let scorching summers, rattlesnakes, scorpions, or other things that bite in the desert ruin their chances of striking it rich.

Alan then shared with me a long letter that Gustavus had written detailing much of his life. What piqued my interest was on page one when, in his own words, Gustavus watched as Wildbill Hickok shot and killed a man in the streets of Deadwood, South Dakota.

But we shall save that story for another time.

It turns out that none of the gentlemen I had met up with had ever ventured to Nelson to see where this Duncan Mine was.

I knew where Mount Duncan was but not the mine.

Tyler and Ryan had coordinates and a topographic map loaded on their phones, so we went searching for their family history.

Having traveled the backcountry for years, I find it easy to get lost, where all roads, washes, hills, canyons, and topography look the same after a while.

We spent hours here and there in our two separate vehicles scouring the desert, looking for access to the Duncan Mine with no luck. One wide dirt path looked promising and had a few hand-painted signs that made us feel queasy about venturing further.

The first set explained that we were trespassing. The second set explained that we were really trespassing. The last set explained that we were now beyond trespassing.

We stopped, remembering the words of one of the six people who lived in Nelson full-time.

“Yeah, we’ve had issues with folks in the backcountry shooting at trespassers. They really should not do that.”

Jeff looked at me, “I don’t want to be shot.” Both his sons agreed to that notion. Randy shrugged, as did Alan.

“I have press credentials,” I said.

“Do they defect bullets?” Jeff asked.

So we tried other routes to no avail.

Late morning turned into afternoon; unfortunately, I needed to return to the old abode. Without finding the mine, I bid adieu to the Duncan clan.

Was the trip to Nelson a bust for me? No, I had the chance to meet some incredible people, live in the moment of their family\'s history, wander through the desert, which I love, and learn more about the brave folks who were brave enough to leave their comfortable homes and venture to parts unknown. Some never found success, and some did, as did Gustavus and Fannie.

It was a special honor to spend the day with Alan Duncan, who wanted to explore this part of a rather barren desert in search of his roots.

Family is important, and we must often travel far and wide to learn where we came from and the impact that may have had on our lives.

Laureen and I spent a month in Ireland searching for my family's roots. There was too much time spent in various pubs, but enough said about my family history.

As I drove out of town, I wished them luck.

The following morning, I received a text from Randy showing him and his father near some old foundations - ‘We made it to the Duncan Mine!!!!’

I knew he was excited, but what about Alan, ‘Over the top happiness!!!!’

It was a dream come true for a grandson, and I am sure Gustavus had a giant smile when Alan, Randy, and the rest of the Duncans’ stood at the exact spot their relatives once strode so many decades ago.

This time, both the journey and the destination were so powerful for these adventurers.

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

This article originally appeared on Salinas Californian: A trip to Nelson, Nevada leads to family history