Wednesday 1 June 2005
Two days since Memorial Day
Across Aridzona & Nevada
DEPARTURE: We're up early early, finish final packing. El Coche is tighter than a drum, as stuffed as a Georgia ballot box. We say goodbye to Tucker the big grey cat, to the giant king snake, to the little hummingbird nest built against a clothespin on our back-porch clothesline. Bisbee has been so quiet, so deathly silent as Dad would say. Bisbee needs more EVENTS (search here). But not today.
We take off through The Time Tunnel that connects Bisbee to the 21st century, dodging roadwork crews -- we're lucky with pilot-car timing. North down the long splendid Tombstone Canyon and west across the Rio San Pedro's bit of spectacular middle Sonoran desert. Blooms are light and bright: the yellow of sunflowers, cream of yuccas, white of natilja poppies and datura.
At the immigration checkpoint above Huachuca City, guards look at our overstuffed vehicle, shake their heads and ask, "Could you get *anything* else in there?" I say, "Not a bloody thing -- we even had to leave a katchina behind." No need to mention the ollas, or the ladder and handtruck and gate we didn't strap to the roof. And no possibility of having any compressed UDAs (UnDocumented Aliens = wetbacks) hidden away in here.
SYMBOLISM: Onto the interstate, west towards Tucson. I start seeing (often bloated) pickups plastered with SUPPORT OUR TROOPS stickers and magnets. Leaving aside that the war is immoral, illegal, and ill-advised, benefitting only a few politicos and profiteers, I note that SUPPORT OUR TROOPS usually means, "Buy some Chinese-made stickers and magnets for your car." How very patriotic, especially when displayed by non-veterans, eh?
I also start seeing lots of JESUS-FISH symbols on cars and the same bloated pickups. Unique among industrialized nations, USAnians overwhelmingly assert that their favorite deity plays a major role in their lives. Not that their behaviour is much improved by such belief, given the levels of violence and corruption in USAnian life. But Chinese atheist manufacturers of JESUS-FISH stickers, magnets and placquards have a steady market for their products.
TUCSON & SISTERS: We wave at Marsha in her office tower as we drive past downtown Tucson. The city sprawls like an enchilada casserole from hills to mountains, filling and overflowing this wide desert basin, edged by cactus parks and ever-more developments. Will Bill and Barbi settle here too?
Driving in the states, remember that left and right turn signals mean, "I intend to turn left or right," not that it is or isn't safe to pass me (or that I just might turn anyway.) Gosh, all these private cars, and hardly any of them are taxis!
And yellow-blooming desert tobacco growing down the interstate highway's center strip, the roadway NOT being crossed by pedestrians, wheelchairs,. canine- or equine-pulled carts, livestock, etc. And no topes! Such purity of purpose!
MILITARY SURPLUS ETC: The east side of Tucson butts against Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, a giant parking lot for surplus military aircraft, thousands of aging warbirds perched fitfully in restless ranks. Your tax dollars at work. On Tucson's west flank is Pima Air Park, a smiliar storage facility for redundant commercial airlines. Your airfares at work. Mojave California boasts a much larger parking lot, jumbo jets stretching beyond the limit of vision. And private spaceships launch there. Too bad we won't pass by on this trip.
We just passed a shiny pickup whose licence frame indicates that its home is Amador County, our destination. The pickup is towing a nice handmade wooden trailer, covered but open in the back. Visible in the trailer is a military cannon, looks like a 75mm field piece. How about some target practice?
(Note: Remember to write about opuntia hybrids and Mexican radio and our Alaska trip and the US as a child-hostile society.)
GOODBYE, TUCSON: We pass the Ostrich Park, right next to an RV park. Hey, let's stay here! But we continue beyond the Tucson zone, into a boring stretch of stinking desert. There's nothing to see but a passing train, one mile of cattle cars (mostly Canadian), then it's gone. Lower and lower, to Casa Grande and Phoenix. Damn, I hate Phoenix. Everyone in Aridzona hates Phoenix. But most Aridzonans live there anyway. Is there a technical term for this masochistic mental pathology?
We switch on the radio, skim past scores of boring classic rock station, then hit on a Hispanic DJ spewing a bewildering Spanglish rant. What does it all mean? David in Taxco said that when he got to the states decades ago, he landed in Texas. It took him eight months to learn Tex-Mex and just four months to learn English. Total immersion, of course. Learn or go hungry.
A landscape of cleared fields, scattered chollas, planted sahuaros, road-runoff-nurtured cottonwoods and mesquites, burro-bush, less gray sage, more creosote bush (larrea), brittle-bush (encilia) and Palo Verdes. Valley of the [expletive deleted] Sun. Thicker traffic and air. Some naturally-occurring sahuaros, and more. 97°f (36°c) at 11:00 AM.
THROUGH PHOENIX: We're back in the land of road games; there was none of this further south, guys trying to ace you just for the hell of it. Through the heart of Phoenix, it's OK as long as you don't stop. Temperature 102°f (38°c). A highway cleanup sponsor: The Divorce Store. And a sign pointing to the Natural History Museum and Federal Prison -- watch the cons in their natural habitat, eh?
Uphill and away. At 2500 feet and 97°f the sahuaros are blooming creamy white. The roadway is elevated, we can look down into the blossoms atop the tall cacti. And we keep getting higher and higher, almost high enough.
AFTERNOONISH: At the Arcosanti-Prescott turnoff, we refuel at a Chevron station, the price a bit higher than Pemex but self-service here, no helpful attendants. At McDonalds (the only alleged eatery around) we see a shark poster captioned: FISH ARE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD. So I guess it's OK for your friends to eat you.
At this fastfoodarama there are no screaming TVs like in Mexico, just shouting staff; not as loud as USA oil-change workers, though. And the McFood is as rancid and gunky and awful as usual. People go there voluntarily? Are they NUTZ?!?!?
See my 2004 notes on ARCOSANTI (click here) and BIOSPHERE II (click here).
THROUGH PRESCOTT: An easy drive on a smooth highway up a dull bare slope, boring until we hit the tree line just below Prescott. Way too much traffic for mid-Wednesday. Rocky peaks almost lost in the low-heat haze. Not charming, not today. Better than Phoenix, but so is almost anyplace else.
We take the turnoff north towards Grand Canyon, past the aeronautical university and the big municipal airport. Roads here are name after firearms: Ruger, Winchester, Colt, Kalishnikov, Uzi, Sten. Remember that Arizona has at least one state park dedicated solely to shooting. And we pass the GunSafes delivery truck.
See my 2004 notes on PRESKIT (click here).
We roll north across more grazing plains. In the distance, snow gleams on the San Francisco Peaks, one of the poles of Navaho cosmology. This is odd, since the Navaho only arrived in this area from the Yukon a bit over 500 years ago, slightly ahead of the Spanish. But everyone deserves the cosmology of their choosing, don't they?
INATTENTIVE HUMANS: Woops, another stupid-clueless driver nearly whacked us; that's the third in a half hour. Many USAnian drivers do NOT pay attention to road conditions and traffic. And US highways are engineered to promote inattention. Maureen suggests that auto insurance be outlawed -- everyone would have to be much more careful and drive much more safely. Or else.
Compare to Mexico: Cars driven in from the US must be insured, but most Mexican cars aren't. If you hit something or someone and you don't flee the scene and you can't pay on the spot (or show that you're insured) then you go to jail. A rather nasty jail that you can buy your way out of only with difficulty. That's a great incentive to PAY ATTENTION. See what's around you and DON'T HIT IT.
We switch on the radio, to NPR. A media critic-activist complains that cable TV companies force parents to subscribe to program blocks that deliver offensive programs, a nasty form of extortion. We switch him off. We suggest that he switch off his TV rather than let his 8-year-old daughter be corrupted by nasty programs. We think of other things families can do, rather than assign to TV the task of being a babysitter. Like: read and talk to kids. Play games together, paint pictures, practice music or sports or whatever. Adults had to deal with kids before there was TV. Kids learnt violence and sex and other fun stuff before TV existed to corrupt them. We agree that such media critics-activists should GET A LIFE.
HIGHS AND LOWS: We're up to maybe 6500 feet on the Coconino Plateau, the pinyon-juniper zone, zooming along the heights for many miles, then down to the upper Mohave desert, approximating the line of old Route 66. I think I've been here a few hundred times before.
South of Kingman we stop for ice cream and a driver change at Grasshopper Junction, the unfriendliest Stop'N'Rob MiniMart north of the Salton Sea. Restroom applicants must be buzzed in from the cash register. G'zzz...
Signs: WILD ANIMAL PARK! PIZZAS! COLD DRINKS! BEEF JERKY! SALMON JERKY! ARMADILLO JERKY! OCELOT JERKY! Yes, come see the wild animals before we kill and jerk them, eh?
The drive to Hoover Dam (TRUCKS AND BUSES PROHIBITED!) crosses a fair sample of stinking desert -- little pencil chollas scattered amongst the low scrub and very occasional creosote bush (larrea). Hark,, there's a much-mutilated Joshua Tree! And another one! Look, some old metal objects haven't yet crumpled into their constituent molecules. This dry climate acts as a wonderful preservative, except for people. Ah, lots of datura (jimson weed)! Perfect for visions, or for poisoning.
Sign: Highway 93 Is Under Construction At Hoover Dam. Expect Delays 2003-2008.
At the police checkpoint before Hoover Dam they ask, "Are you moving?" Yup. "To Las Vegas?" Nope. "OK, move along." Small vehicles go through a simple check. RVs and trailers and vans are shunted aside for more thorough screening. The bombproof bypass around the dam won't be completed for some years.
THROUGH LAS VEGAS: We drop into Lost Wages, a hot smog basin again (still). And this isn't even the bad season. The evening rush hour really sucks when it's 102°f (38°c) out. Hey, let's crawl into Vegas on our hands and knees! At least the CHECK ENGINE light is out.
The aerial maze of access ramps at the main interstate highway interchange is referred to as The Spaghetti Bowl. Traffic is retarded here, much worse than anywhere we've been lately.
Leaving Las Vegas would be sweeter if the outskirts were any better.
110 miles across the unremarkable stinking desert, we reach Beatty (a gateway to Death Valley) in twilight, after the only chili joint in town has closed. Our options are 1) bar sandwiches, 2) bar pizza, or 3) tuna sandwiches made and consumed in our very own funky room at the Phoenix Inn, an outpost for outsiders. We choose #3 and collapse, 15 hours after starting the day, 12 hours on the road, a weary day. But we should get home tomorrow with time enough to unpack the car before driving another couple hours into Sacramento for medical stuff the next day. The journey never ends, does it?
Thursday 2 June 2005
Two days since Mexico
Across Nevada & California
BEATTY: Up early, strap the heavy stuff back on the roof, grab a 'continental' breakfast -- it ain't Taxco but it ain't Boron, either. The Beatty version consists of packaged granola bars and orange juice, and freshish coffee and bagels. Chat with the curious-friendly locals, then we're away from Beatty, past its attractions (casinos) and repulsions (ditto), and out into the high sage desert of the Armagosa River Valley.
Our hostess spoke last night of going to the river. We spoke this morning of going to the river. Our host said, "You might as well turn on a bathroom faucet, you'll see more water." But the ground north of town looks springy and damp. Then the road turns away into high dry country.
UPHILL: We pass the derelict-looking location of the Shady Lady brothel, then an even gloomier site with a sign, RVs FULL HOOKUP $7. That's half the price of a comfy RV space in Creel, Copper Canyon, Chihuahua, and rather less than 1/10th the value. It's OK if you're desperate, maybe.
At our turnoff westward at Lida Junction, the Cottontail Ranch brothel looks a bit spiffier, the landscape a bit bleaker. We pass the deadend turnoff to mysterious Gold Point; our Bisbee neighbor Alan told us a couple days ago of going there to write a magazine article about ghost towns. Maybe we'll see it next time. Did I mention that I hate travelling in a hurry, hate having to skip past grand views and quaint places because we're in a hurry? It's true. Hurrying sucks.
Meanwhile, we climb into the snow-spotted mountains north of Death Valley. The highway is totally deserted but for us and the joshua trees, and maybe we aren't totally here. Looks like a rusty spacecraft (or its nose cone) crashed next to the road. Have we been abducted yet?
At the hamlet of Lida we see trees and craggy rocks and clapboard high-desert houses (not adobe). Snow clings to the ridges above. Suddenly, a juniper-pinyon forest, rather dry-looking. And at 7400-foot Lida Summit, the snow-covered Sierra Nevadas and White Mountains (at twice the elevation) jump up before us as a reminder that spring comes late in the highlands.
TRANSITION: We drop down greener scrub slopes into aptly-named Oasis, crouched at the chubby foot of the towering overwhelming White Mountains. BUMP! Welcome to California. We've taken a route that skips the usual checkpoints, where some would have to lie to the produce police, "No, this isn't an illegal cucumber! It's an organic marital aid!"
Now we climb up a narrow deep smooth steep road through white rocks, over a summit and down into Deep Springs Valley. This is one of our geologist friend Terry Wright's favorite stomping grounds, and home to the unique Deep Springs College. I thought there was also a radio-telescope observatory here, but I don't see the dishes now. Maybe I'm looking at the wrong angle.
We continuing westward towards what passes for civilization aound here. I can't begin to describe the dark fractured rock layers this road cuts through. Hey Terry, how about a basic overview of Westgard Pass geology? The road is again a narrow deep twisty steep fissure, down to a one-lane slot carved in stone, one of the hairier paved roads around. In Mexico we'd see shrines along here.
TURNPIKE: And finally we're down to Big Pine on Highway 295, a major back route between Mexico and Canada, here running below the Sierra Nevada's dorsal fin. This has been some of our favorite country for decades. See HIGH MOUNTAINS AND DEEP VALLEYS by Lew and Ginny Clark for guidance. And see my 2003 notes for a description of the route from Yosemite northwards (click here).
Into busy Bishop to refuel (Shell gas is priced about the same as Pemex) and feed at Jack's (a new favorite). Bishop has swanked-up considerably since we first cruised through over 25 years ago, Now it's a ski-vacation resort-outfitting town, all too accessible from Los Angeles. I guess the locals are fatter and happier now.
A Train Of Thought: From FART; to "PULL MY FINGER; to "I AM FLATULUS OF BORG - RESISTANCE IS FUTILE - PULL MY FINGER;" to "Why did the Star Trek universe contain Borg in The Next Generation but not in Deep Space Nine?" to "The AE Van Vogt book VOYAGE OF THE SPACE BEAGLE inspired both the STAR TREK and ALIEN franchises, but Van Vogt doesn't get much credit;" to "The ALIEN designs look a lot like some Mayan masks we've seen;" and thus to "Was HR Geiger, the Swiss ALIEN designer, inspired by certain Mayan masks?" and "We want some of those masks, next time we're in Mayaland."
Something new in the ascent from Mono Lake to Conway Summit: warnings of strong wind conditions, and bright orange windsocks along the highway to indicate the gustiness. Mono Lake looks low, its shoreside exploiters look prosperous. Over the passes and summits it looks like early spring. The brash muddy Walker River is a churning chum of milk chocolate coursing down a cobbled channel of tumbled granite nougat boulders. (But I'm not hungry.) Meadows high and low are filled with bright flowers, hungry for life. (Really, I'm not.)
We climb over Monitor Pass into California's Alps. Conifers give way to forests of quaking aspens, then to rocks and alpine scrub. Maureen says this is as good as Switzerland, if a bit smaller. The white teeth of the jagged Sierra Nevada crest chew hungrily at the limpid blue sky. (No, really, I just had brunch.) Smaller creeks are greedily gnawing away at their brioche banks. (OK, but just one cookie, no more.)
HOMEWARD: Finally we're on the Carson Pass highway. This is the last leg of our trip home. The bumptuous Carson River claws at its rocky confines with terrible wet talons. (Hey, enough already with the imagery!) We're in the realm of the South Tahoe Public Utility District, whose scattered S.T.P.U.D. signs I always read as S.T.U.P.I.D. And big slow stupid trucks obstruct traffic, the same as everywhere.
Under snowy peaks, we pass the gorgeous little alpine meadows of Hope Valley, frosted with tiny yellow flowers. We pass the point where Maureen whacked a deer last year. We pass waterfalls and snowfalls and landslides and roadwork and traffic delays, and snow. And more snow. And straining bicyclists like hornets on wheels. And still-frozen lakes -- I guess we're not going canoeing here anytime soon.
Then we're safely past our favorite avalanche zone, and it's all downhill from here. But what's happened in our community?!?!? The video store has moved! They cut down all the trees from around the market! How DARE things change while we're away!?!?!
Drive down our dirt road; it's still there. The house and the little RV are still there. Grass is tall in our meadow; our gravel drive is littered with small pine cones; little conifers are popping up everywhere; we guess the rainfall was good this spring. We try to make a medical appointment; we unload all our stuff, unpack all the handcrafts, gloat over them; we handle basic sanitation, and collapse with exhaustion. NOW the trip is over. Temporarily.
