Early one morning in October, I picked up Patterson in my rental truck and we headed south out of Tonopah to view some of the sites included in his complaint. It was a cloudless day and there were few cars on the road. In the center of town, Patterson noticed Perry Wickham’s white Ford F-150 driving in the opposite direction.

When I glanced in my rearview mirror the truck had already turned around and proceeded to follow us for several miles outside of Tonopah. Patterson suggested I pull off the highway onto an unpaved county road so we could discuss our plans for the day. Wickham’s truck continued on. But about five minutes later, Wickham sped past us, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel.

Through a BLM spokesperson, Wickham said he followed me out of curiosity after seeing one of his employees riding with a reporter. The previous afternoon I had stopped by the Tonopah field office to review case files and, though Wickham wasn’t there, he instructed his staff to tell me that I needed permission from the state office to access records, which is not standard practice. After about an hour, I was told to leave the office. A BLM spokesperson said it was an “unfortunate misunderstanding” and that the public and media should be permitted to request files from an office at any time.

Adam Federman

Patterson and I drove east toward the Kawich Range to a series of remote 9,000-foot peaks where Patterson, in his complaint, said a group of “politically and economically influential” families had taken advantage of mining claims to build illegal cabins. It was called the Five Jokers mine. One of the original Five Jokers was Roy Neighbors, an influential Nye County administrator, who had also served in the Nevada Legislature. Patterson had seen photos of the cabins in the BLM case file but had never actually visited the site. According to Patterson’s complaint, it was well known among BLM management in the Battle Mountain district that the claims were being abused and had even become a “running joke” within the office.

The state road we were driving on is known as the “Extraterrestrial Highway” because of its proximity to Area 51, the government owned site, where numerous people have claimed they’ve seen alien activity or UFOs. As we headed north on a narrow access road into the mountains the sagebrush desert transitioned to a forest of pinyon and juniper trees. We passed by a stake marking a BLM “Wilderness Study Area,” which pleased Patterson, though he couldn’t recall the last time a BLM employee had been out here. Finally, we came around a bend and saw a piece of plywood nailed to the base of a tree: “5 Jokers Mining Co LLC,” with a phone number below it. The road became too steep to drive up, so we continued on foot for a mile or so passing old legacy mines where there were no signs of recent earth disturbance and abandoned processing equipment that had become overgrown with vegetation. Near the top of the ridgeline we came to a gate with a “no trespassing” sign on it.

In front of us were two modern cabins occupying some of the most remote and breathtaking real estate in this part of Nevada. Scattered about the property were a trailer with flat tires and an old Ford F-250 with a duct-taped driver’s side window and “5 Joker’s Mine” written on the door. There were 400-gallon water tanks with open spigots that had been recently emptied; generators to supply the cabins with running water and electricity; solar panels and an outdoor shower. There were globe lights on a wraparound deck perched on the steep hillside. Nearby Patterson pointed out large metal drums of gasoline or fuel oil. One labeled “leaded racing gasoline” was bloated, indicating it could possibly rupture. According to Patterson, who is trained in handling hazardous materials, storing fuel oil in this manner at active mines is prohibited and remediation is typically required. Patterson took his pocket knife out and dug around in the soil next to the pump where large amounts of fuel had leaked. It wasn’t clear how deep it went. Patterson reminded me that this was all public land; that the Five Jokers weren’t paying any rent or property taxes—just a $155 annual fee to keep the claims active; and that there were no zoning or building standards that they had to abide by.