RICHARD STEPHENS / PVT Watkins and Desert Rose outside the Gold Point they shared. RICHARD STEPHENS / PVT Richard Watkins, since deceased, and the Window That Wasn't There at his home in Gold Point. Advertisement

GOLD POINT -- "WE FIX UFO'S."

I saw it painted in huge letters on the faded side of a mobile home as I drove into the ghost town of Gold Point for the first time.

The well-preserved landmark is located on the sloping side of a mountain not far from Lida Junction in Esmeralda County.

Part of it is operated as a rather unusual bed-and-breakfast retreat, and many of the unpainted wooden cabins are privately owned by people from distant cities who use them for occasional getaway vacations.

Later in the day, as a caretaker (one of only six full-time Gold Point residents, I was told) let me into the old general store and post office to take pictures, I asked who had posted that unusual message.

"Oh, that's 'Goofy' Watkins," came the reply. "I'm glad he lives on that side of town."

I spent the rest of the day photographing the town's picturesque buildings and mines but couldn't get this 'Goofy' Watkins out of my mind.

"He may come out with a shotgun," I thought, "but I've got to meet this guy."

It was many months later before I found myself in Gold Point once again. Someone had painted over the message on the mobile home, and as I approached, it was obvious it was used for storage, and that the owner lived in the wooden cabin next door.

Nervously, I knocked on the cabin door, ready to take to my heels at the emergence of a gun-toting madman.

I was greeted instead by a wiry, bearded fellow with a ready smile and a twinkle in his eye that took years off his 50-something face. He immediately invited me in, and I spent several delightful hours with this self-proclaimed over-aged "hippie" as he told me his story, read me some of his poetry and gave me a tour of his cabin.

When I explained my trepidation about approaching him, he laughed, and asked, referring to the whirligigs, wind socks and other ornaments that hung around the cabin, "Couldn't you see the signs of happiness?"

I had to admit I'd been too nervous to notice them.

His name is Richard Watkins and he didn't care for being called "Goofy." He explained that he was a retired postal worker, an avid environmentalist and a lover of the desert.

As we talked, a slim woman with her head wrapped in a towel walked through the room. My first impression was that she was maybe 30 years old, but I had to adjust my estimate when she later emerged without the towel, revealing her newly dried snow-white hair.

This was Rose, who had become his companion after answering a personal ad in the Ruralite.

Electricity was the only utility connected to Watkins' cabin, and the couple didn't have so much as a cell phone to connect it to the outside world.

Mail delivery from Goldfield came maybe once a week. He had a water tank on a trailer in which they hauled water from a spring some distance away.

"One of the reasons I live in a place like this," said Watkins, "is that there is nothing that has to be done right now. With the exception of a fire, there is no emergency I can think of that couldn't be taken care of later."

He explained that all the cabins and buildings in Gold Point were sitting on Bureau of Land Management acreage, and that all anyone had were quit-claim deeds on the structures themselves.

His cabin had been added to and modified by various owners. One interesting feature was the ceiling, which was covered with Styrofoam egg cartons acting as insulation. In the bedroom, someone had used different colors of cartons to form a cross over the bed.

Watkins showed me various things on the outside of the cabin, too, including his "window that isn't there," a bit of painted whimsy of which he seemed particularly fond.

As he and Rose were seated in a little sun room off to one side -- obviously a newer addition -- Watkins looked around with a sly grin and asked, "Do you know what this is?"

When I said I didn't, he continued, "Didn't you build forts when you were a kid?"

Before I left, I had to ask Watkins about the "We fix UFO's" sign, which had now been painted over.

"Well," he replied, "another reason I live in a place like this is that if I want to do some crazy thing, there is no one -- no city council or anyone -- to tell me I can't do it. So I just go ahead and do it.

"After a while I'll think, 'That was kind of silly after all,' and I'll cover it up ... but I'll think of something else."

Several years ago I was told that Richard Watkins had died.

I was sorry to hear it.

It is not every day you meet someone who has actually escaped the rat race and who has succeeded in re-entering the playful world too many of us have too thoroughly outgrown.