California temperature gauge proves tempting to tourists

BAKER, Calif. — This little speck off Interstate 15 was suffering an identity crisis. Tussling with Barstow and Nevada casinos for travelers with empty gas tanks or full bladders, the town first tried to lure them with a moniker, "Gateway to Death Valley." It didn't really work.

So in 1991, a local businessman built a reason for drivers to brake: a towering 134-foot thermometer, only 17 feet shorter than the Statue of Liberty.

The pink beacon signals an oasis to eyes weary from the desert highway. Travelers sometimes mistake it for a flight tower or a casino gimmick. They then spot the Bun Boy Motel's red neon — with only the letters N, O and O blinking — and hear desert radio stations touting the 700-person town's signpost.

"Baker," the ads say, "home of the World's Tallest Thermometer."

The tale of the nearly 13-story thermometer shows how roadside oddities, concrete dinosaurs and muffler men that dot the California desert and stand next to interstates are more than junkyard relics. They can not only boost a town's income, they can also bolster its sense of self.

Although travelers inevitably would make pit stops in Baker — its sold-out motels received a boost this spring from Death Valley wildflower-gazers — its gargantuan temperature gauge is so intertwined with its identity that it was erected twice, braced with concrete once and dimmed to cut costs.

Although there are plenty of road warriors — more than three-fourths of vacationers drive, the Travel Industry Association of America says — interstate towns still battle for growling stomachs and people taking bathroom breaks.

A giant thermometer functions "like a great ad that gets you to go to a restaurant," said Scott Harris, a marketing consultant in Thousand Oaks, Calif., who has driven through 48 states.

"It's a clutter-buster: If you see nine gas stations and the 10th one has a giant Paul Bunyan statue, where are you going to stop?"

Willis Herron figured as much when he dumped $700,000 into a thermometer whose 4,900 globe-style bulbs lighted up the night sky and required him to pull down his window shades at his home across the street.

Glittering casinos on the Nevada border 50 miles away tempted drivers to power past the rest stop, and Herron, who called Baker home for half a century, couldn't watch the roadside town turn into a ghost town.

When he was co-owner of the Bun Boy restaurant, Herron overheard diners bragging on pay phones about the skin-searing heat. That developed into an idea for a thermometer that would track temperatures that often creep into triple digits.

"Awww, I know it's tacky," Herron said in 1991. "But I also know people won't be able to pass it more than four or five times without saying, 'What the hell is that?' "

So over the objections of his six children, who pined for a beachside condo, and some locals who fretted that the phallic symbol would sully their hometown, Herron built a thermometer big enough for Paul Bunyan. The idea sprouted from 60 feet to 134 feet after someone brainstormed that it should mark Death Valley's recording of the country's hottest temperature: 134 degrees in 1913.

"People would say Baker was a pit stop. They used that word: pit stop. I resented that," said Herron, 80, who once crowed that his creation would transform the town into Thermometer City.

Baker's biggest competition, International Falls, Minn., nicknamed Icebox of the Nation, dismantled its own thermometer in 2002 after it broke, although its 26-foot Smokey Bear statue remains.

The Baker thermometer's three sides broadcast the current temperature using strings of glowing ovals that climb in 10-degree increments — from 30 to 130 — though rain often hampers its accuracy and bulbs sometimes flame out.

Just after construction ended, 70 mph winds snapped the thermometer in two. Its top 114 feet crushed an under-construction gift shop and an empty Southern California Edison truck. Two years later, the rebuilt thermometer swayed and clanged like a church bell in high winds, so contractors popped off its top and poured concrete inside to strengthen the metal core.

Herron fought to keep the thermometer standing out of more than fatherly affection. He said business at the Bun Boy and country store leaped immediately after its creation. Community leaders credit the thermometer for spurring some development and lots of curiosity.

The thermometer's sheen has dimmed recently, however. Larry Dabour — co-owner of the Bun Boy, a 24-hour gyro joint and the giant thermometer — grimaced at an $11,000 monthly electric bill too many times. He doused the lights between temperature ovals, which lowered his payout to $5,000. He couldn't switch it off, though.

"You need a gimmick, a reason to stop besides the bathroom," Dabour said, sitting under plastic grapes at the Mad Greek. "You know, what we need is the world's largest bathroom."