An aerial view of the Coyote Springs development, above. Below, Sherman Frederick (center) discusses the project with Klif Andrews (right) president of Pardee Homes, Las Vegas division. Photos by Clint Karlsen.

I saw the future of Las Vegas last week. And, it wasn't in Las Vegas.

It is now a naked patch of Nevada landscape roughly one mountain range north of Las Vegas. It's called Coyote Springs. By car, it's about 60 minutes away from the center of town. And if all goes according to plan, 50,000 people will be living there inside of 120 months.

Isn't that something?

Today, nothing and nobody. Tomorrow, a master-planned community roughly the size of Nevada's capital, Carson City.

Astute readers will associate Coyote Springs with some controversy. It's the doing of lobbyist Harvey Whittemore, who has managed to cobble together a bunch of private land, clear away significant opposition from environmentalists and find the water to at least get the project going. I don't know Mr. Whittemore, but just that last sentence gets him a six-week gig as the Lance Burton of Nevada's political stage.

Now, I know some are skeptical about Coyote Springs. They either say it shouldn't happen for one reason or another or that it won't elevate to the height promised in its conceptual drawings.

Here's my advice: Don't bet against Las Vegas. Just 15 years ago, I can remember four-wheeling all over what is now Summerlin. Heck, it wasn't long ago that Decatur Boulevard was horse country. What came before Aliente? Bella Vita? Cascade? Desert Shores? I don't think I need to go through the whole alphabet to make the point.

Besides, if a goofball like Bob Stupak can erect the Stratosphere Tower, then anything can grow in the fertile economy of Las Vegas. This is magical turf. As long as Nevada remains a tax friendly environment and the market holds -- and I think it will -- Coyote Springs is going to go ... in a big way.

The residential part of the town will be built by Pardee Homes. The Las Vegas point person for Pardee, Klif Andrews, showed me around the site last week. Because not every Review-Journal subscriber could go, I thought I'd tell you about it.

Today, Coyote Springs features nothing more than heavy equipment moving dirt and Dow Construction trucks digging trenches and laying the groundwork. But in almost the blink of an eye, there will be a Jack Nicklaus golf course, a huge PGA training facility, a convenience store and a home sales office on the site. Sometime early next year, the first human beings to ever live in this part of Nevada will call Coyote Springs home.

Yet another reminder that anytime you have a large parcel of cheap private land in Southern Nevada, you have the primary ingredient for a new town. Just add water.

And oh, by the way: They have the water.

Although I won't be around to collect, I betcha that sometime in 2107 Las Vegans will see fireworks on the other side of the Sheep mountain range and say: "Look kids -- this is the night Coyote Springs celebrates its centennial."

• If you want to see Nevada's newest metropolis before concrete is poured, drive Interstate 15 north to the Caliente/Ely turnoff. Head north. That aims you through a pass with the Arrow Canyon mountain range on the right and the Sheep mountain range on the left. As you come to the Delamar mountains dead head with the Meadow Valley mountains shooting off to the right, you are there. Now, if you don't know one mountain range from another (and don't feel bad, not many people do), just drive the highway until you see big ol' trucks. That'll be it. Can't miss it.

Take a picture of yourself in the middle of the beautiful Nevada nothingness. One day, when Coyote Springs looks like a Barry Bonds version of Summerlin, it will be a fun picture upon which to reminisce.

• This is going to sound like the old "the-dog-ate-my-homework" excuse, but it's the truth.

Two weeks ago I asked readers to give me some ideas for a plaque to be placed at Hole No. 2 at Southern Highlands, the site where Dario Herrera, the ex-county commissioner now on trial on corruption charges, received oral sex from a stripper courtesy of Mike Galardi. Allegedly.

Because the Review-Journal is read by a lot of very smart people, it was not surprising that I received many clever submissions. A good many were worded like toasts or playful rhymes. You know, phrases such as, "Rising to the occasion" and, "There once was a commissioner from Nantucket." I was going to give many of the less bawdy ideas credit today.

But I can't.

The dog ate my homework.

In this case, the dog is my damn computer. One day it ... it .... it just died. It flickered as if it were trying to say something, and then it went blank without so much as a moan, much less a "goodbye" or even a "good luck."

At first, I didn't know what to do. I stared at the screen thinking if I kept eye contact it couldn't go far. But it went far, far away.

I called The Children (my pet name for the computer people at the newspaper) and they hovered around my computer. Eventually, they said, "Oh, well" and pronounced it dead. Oh, well?

This was flesh of my flesh.

But unlike humans, when a computer dies, it does take everything with it. Sometime later, The Children were able to resurrect some of my hard drive information. However, those great Dario plaque ideas, I am sorry to say, didn't make it.

My apologies.

I think of my old hard drive often these days. Most of the time, I derive some comfort by envisioning it skipping hard-drive purgatory and going straight to hell.

Sherman Frederick (sfrederick@review journal.com) is publisher of the Review-Journal.