Borax: A Ghost Town in the Vastness of Nevada

Borax, a name that whispers of arid landscapes and the remnants of human endeavor, exists as a ghost town and a solitary railroad siding nestled within Clark County, Nevada. Its presence is marked not by structures, but by its location along the Union Pacific Railroad, a silent sentinel east of the modern artery of Interstate 15. Coordinates pin its existence: 35°42′52″N 115°20′26″W, a precise point on the map of the United States, a state within the state of Nevada. The elevation here is 2,707 feet (825 meters), a modest height that offers no grand vistas, only a stark reminder of the land’s enduring, unyielding nature. As of the last census in 2010, its population was a definitive zero. Time here operates on UTC-8, the Pacific Standard Time, with a shift to UTC-7 during the daylight saving months, a subtle nod to the rhythms of the outside world that Borax itself seems to have shed. The ZIP code is 89026, and the area code, 702, connects it, however tenuely, to the living. Its Geographic Names Information System feature ID is 855974, a bureaucratic tag for a place that has largely slipped from common memory.

History: A Fleeting Spark in the Desert

The genesis of Borax as a settlement dates back to 1905. Its appellation, a direct tribute to the rich borax deposits that characterized the region, speaks to the economic imperative that often birthed such isolated communities. These minerals, prized for their versatile industrial and domestic applications, were the lifeblood that sustained a handful of souls in this unforgiving terrain. By circa 1940, the town’s population was recorded as a mere 10 individuals. This figure, while small, suggests a brief period of fragile existence, a small cluster of lives tethered to the extraction and processing of the land's bounty.

However, the sands of time, much like the desert winds, are relentless. As of the present day, 2021, the physical manifestation of Borax has all but vanished. No buildings remain to tell tales of the lives lived here, of the hopes and hardships endured. The site has receded into its fundamental elements: a railroad siding, a point on a line, a place where trains might pause but where people no longer dwell. It exists now as a memory etched into the landscape, a testament to the transient nature of human settlements in the face of overwhelming natural forces. The claim for its current state, marked by a "citation needed", is a stark reminder that in the digital age, even the absence of evidence can be a subject of scrutiny.