The West is full of ghosts. “Wanna see some?” after a couple of whiskeys down at the Bridgeport Inn and under the fading light of a dazzling, late Spring, Sierra sunset, we find the old, Mono county jail. It is open, wide-open. Nobody around at all. A couple of bare light bulbs swing in the intermittent breeze that comes in through the glass-less windows of this five-cell facility. The metal, spring cots with their mattresses slowly turning into dust, tell the strangest, most haunting kind of story. The wall are covered in pencil graffiti and here are a few of the artistic gems. With a shutter, we leave the place after ten, harrowing minutes.