Caliente City Hall is seen at the bottom of this overview photo of Lincoln County’s largest and only incorporated town, Wednesday, Oct. 28, 2020.
Sunday, Nov. 15, 2020 | 2 a.m.
CALIENTE — Penny McCracken has battled fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome for most of the past 40 years.
The Panaca resident understands her own vulnerability, as the disorders frequently weaken her body and have led to six bouts of pneumonia in the past 13 years. The 82-year-old is largely homebound.
So when she felt run-down in May, it wasn’t surprising. It has happened many times before, she reasoned.
But what she couldn’t figure out is why after a month the symptoms continued and she developed a 101-degree fever, especially because her hypothyroidism typically keeps her running cool.
“I was coughing so explosively, I was gagging,” McCracken said.
She went to Grover C. Dils Medical Center, the lone hospital in Lincoln County that also serves as the de facto public health agency.
As a precaution, they administered a COVID-19 test. To her surprise, it came back positive.
Eight months into the coronavirus pandemic, Lincoln County isn’t in the midst of a third wave, or even a second. The county of about 5,200 residents over 10,600 square miles mostly avoided the health crisis that has gravely impacted other, much larger regions in Nevada.
But the unpredictable virus wouldn’t stay away.
Lincoln County went from having just five cases through the initial seven months of the pandemic into early October, to a recent outbreak bringing the total to 60 — or a staggering 1% of the population — through Wednesday.
“We really thought there were going to be no more patients. Then bam, we had 19, then 34 and then 39 and 44, in a couple days,” McCracken said. “It was just startling because we are very sparsely populated.”
They, unfortunately, also had their first fatality at the end of October.
“As most of you surely know, our county has been experiencing a serious rise in COVID-19 cases. Seeing a steady flow and rise in patients with COVID-19 symptoms and complications is both heartbreaking and alarming,” read a Facebook post from the medical center. “As a facility it is our mission to provide the best care that we can to our rural towns, and at this time we are asking that the community help us.”
Lincoln County is among the rural pockets nationwide seeing an autumn surge in COVID-19, bearing down on its limited medical resources. It’s a statistically similar story across Nevada, where all but the Las Vegas and Reno metros are considered rural.
As of Nov. 2, Lincoln County led Nevada in testing positivity with a rate of 18.6%, followed by Nye, Washoe and Lyon counties, all also coming in above 10%. Clark County had a positivity rate of 9.8%.
Four weeks prior, Lincoln County had a positivity rate of zero.
Lincoln County Emergency Manager Eric Holt said he is helping craft a “recovery plan” to submit to the state, which has flagged the county for its elevated COVID-19 transmission for three consecutive weeks.
Lincoln County is a ranching community of rugged grassy bluffs and natural hot springs about three hours north of Las Vegas. It’s closer to Utah than any major Nevada population center.
In Caliente, Lincoln County’s largest and only incorporated town, the historic quirks of the remote high desert collide with emblems of 2020 that have become almost painfully familiar, as likely to be seen in Los Angeles as this community of 1,100: a decal at the door of the Knotty Pine diner, reminding patrons to stay 6 feet apart, is positioned above an “alien hunting license,” a whimsical nod to nearby Area 51.
An automatic hand sanitizer dispenser sits outside the main entrance of the 97-year-old train depot across the road, squirting alcohol against the century-old adobe walls that now hold Caliente’s City Hall.
Caliente is also home to the county’s only hospital, the four-bed Dils Medical Center. Dils also has a small long-term care wing, but no intensive care, and only two ventilators. This is where people can get tested, and tests have also been increasing.
Hospital chief executive Missie Rowe said some locals are anxious about the virus, but the majority of residents aren’t concerned. As of Wednesday, 45 of 60 total cases were considered recovered.
Linda Larson-Butler, Caliente’s deputy city clerk, said more people have been wearing masks since the current outbreak kicked off.
The virus seemed to miss the region during what would have been an earlier opportune time, when Lincoln County hosted off-highway vehicle races in late spring.
“Honestly, that’s when I thought it would happen,” she said. “It didn’t.”
She thinks Lincoln County will ultimately be fine. In a tone pragmatic but not dismissive, she said, residents are prepared for their way of life.
The county’s recovery plan includes increased testing and acquiring test kits that can be processed locally within 24 hours, rather than being sent to an out-of-county lab, Holt said. Leaders will also continue to encourage physical distancing and limited travel.
Lincoln County hosted two drive-thru testing events earlier this year with the assistance of the Nevada National Guard. None of the roughly 150 tests turned up a positive result. The virus had barely hit the area then. Holt said motivating more people to get tested will be a challenge, but he hopes the recent surge will drive people, especially those without symptoms, to take the opportunity.
Holt, who also serves as Lincoln County’s fire district chief and ambulance administrator, said he thinks residents have been responsive to guidance, including staying home if they’re sick. And local investigators have effectively traced contacts and connected cases in groups, he said.
“We’ll just take it as it is and keep trying to protect our community,” Holt said.
In severe cases, coronavirus patients are transferred to a larger medical facility in St. George, Utah, about 60 miles away. Fortunately for McCracken, she was able to self-isolate at home and beat the virus.
“I never really panicked about it,” she said, “although I did update my will.”
Because of her bout with COVID-19, McCracken has isolated herself even more. She doesn’t want to be reinfected, especially with deer season bringing in out-of-town hunters. She stays inside and reads. Neighbors bring her groceries and fetch her mail.
If she ventures out of her cozy duplex, it’s to the market or post office a few blocks away. A major outing means the 80-mile drive to Cedar City, Utah, where she can take a scooter around the Walmart and still be exhausted for a week afterward.
McCracken doesn’t want people to necessarily panic over COVID-19, either. But she wants them to take the disease seriously.
She recalled giving her mother her case of measles as a girl, and even the woman she described as a pugnacious “human steamroller” self-quarantined because it was the sensible thing to do when stricken with a potentially devastating illness for which there was no vaccine at the time.
“All these idiots going to the beach and cocktail bars and standing shoulder to shoulder and not wearing masks — they’re going to be sorry when it gets them,” she said.
