Friday, Oct. 7, 2005 | 7:53 a.m.
The growth of our valley is seen in the numbers (the population has doubled in 15 years and will more than double again in the next 15) and by the rate of school construction (ground is broken for a new one every month).
But to me, the growth is defined by the cinder block walls behind streets such as Black Elk Avenue and Grand Canyon Drive -- masonry demarcation lines that separate new subdivisions north of town, along U.S. 95, from the undeveloped desert that eventually reaches the Nevada Test Site.
These walls are the current edge of suburban sprawl. In a week or a month, there will be new walls, encroaching even farther into the desert.
Behind one side of these walls, the desert floor is carpeted in pink Spanish tile and chocolate, cinnamon and salmon-colored stucco. Sales flags seem to outnumber mesquite trees. Moms have to push baby strollers around back hoes.
Big trucks from R.C. Willey deliver furniture to homes that still smell of interior latex, and roach coaches deliver tacos and burritos to workmen who are wrapping newly framed homes in molded foam and chicken wire so they can apply the stucco dressing.
Despite the vastness of the government-owned desert on the other side of the wall, some neighborhoods are built so compactly that driveways are too short to accommodate a car, homes are just six feet apart and there are no sidewalks. That tells you something about the cost of land in the desert as the government slowly relinquishes it at auction.
This is the good life in the newest Las Vegas, far from the phenomenon of high rises near the Strip. In one desert subdivision, the streets are named Old Wolf, Blue Raven and Fast Elk and, in another that seems to have been named with the help of a thesaurus, they go by Captivating, Entrancing, Tantalizing and Intriguing. (For the record, I live on More-of-the-Same.)
The views in the new desert 'burbs are mixed, and might change tomorrow. For the folks living on the perimeter of these subdivisions, second-floor balconies offer panoramic views up the valley -- until the next tract is built across the street, five feet higher.
"I heard there's going to be another planned community across the street from me," says Donna Lott, a travel agent who moved into a home 11 months ago on the perimeter of her subdivision. "So I know I won't always be able to see the desert. That's OK, actually, but I'm hoping I'll always be able to see the mountains."
I thought it was pretty cool that I can see Sunset Station from my back yard, until the folks out here bragged they can see the lights of the Mount Charleston Lodge at night. Now that is cool. And that's how far the suburbs have sprawled.
Jim Browning, a roofer, lives in Kyle Canyon, on the slopes approaching Mount Charleston, and he's watching the arrival of suburbia with some resignation.
When he moved to his barn-style home in 1989, the nearest tract homes were four or five miles away. He relies on well water, a septic tank and propane gas, and relishes country living. Now the suburbs are less than two miles away. "At least," he said, "I have five acres of property so they won't get to my door."
Frankly, I was hoping for this column that the desert-fringe residents might characterize themselves as the new pioneers. But they know there's no limit to the sprawl, and that any boasting rights about living at the edge of suburbia will only last for a few weeks. They await the sound of earthmovers.
These are pragmatic people. Michael Anobile, a Mirage dealer, says the open desert across from his house will soon become a subdivision named Providence. "I know we'll no longer be seeing all the animals we see now -- the quail, the roadrunners, the ravens and hawks and tarantulas and all the rabbits," he said.
"The floodgates for growth are open in Las Vegas," he said, "and now the builders are filling their saddle bags."
Outside his house, a new, wide road ends abruptly, a dead-end giving way to desert. As if in protest, there's a stop sign. But, of course, the growth won't stop.
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