The first spring-like Saturday this year, Ken and I traversed dirt roads to an old mining district northeast of Reno called Nightingale. Not many buildings remain here: the concrete foundations of the mill and one tenuous wooden building. The excavated landscape is pocked with mine tunnels, deep ominous shafts and huge manmade caves where tungsten deposits were mined starting in 1917.
Mill foundation in Nightingale Mining District.
We explored the landscape on foot. While strolling uphill to the mill, an image came to mind of a lean gentleman walking beside me on my right. I felt his energy as he strode alongside me. He wore a black suit that was in style a century ago, a white shirt, with a black, thin ribbon tied in a bow around his collar. I silently acknowledged the gentleman and soon after, he disappeared.
Doubting my perception, I figured this clean-cut man was a creation of my imagination. But—I chided myself—if I were to make up a spirit, wouldn’t I have conjured up a miner, the most obvious choice for this location?
I released my musings and gave into the glorious day of little breeze and abundant sunshine. I chose to revel in having a fun day with Ken.
Afterwards, I posted some Nightingale photographs on Facebook. A friend commented, asking me if I saw spirits around the mines. As it was my personal Facebook page and some of my friends and extended family are uncomfortable with my paranormal exploits, I made a joke of it and said I wasn’t ghost hunting, but just enjoying the history.
My friend wrote that I must not have been “listening” when I was there as the area hosts a handful of ghosts. So, I replied to her in a private message, sharing my thoughts about the gentleman.
To my shock, she validated my vision. More than 20 years ago, she’d visited Nightingale with her mother and both of them had seen the same spirit! My friend had thought he was dressed up to go a courting. Her mother, though, had believed him to be an undertaker. My impression was he was the latter.
Once again, I received a confirmation of my sixth sense. Why do I keep questioning my ability? I wish I’d trusted my instinct and perhaps if I did, I could’ve asked him what he was doing there, strolling those dusty roads today.