What a long, strange trip it's been (part 3)
One year ago today I almost passed out at the wheel.
The exhaust that was seeping into my car, where I sat with my foot on the pedal, watching Utah and Nevada slip under my tires, was numbing my brain. It smelled, yes, but the thought of inhaling carbon monoxide didn’t cross my mind. I was going to get to Reno no matter what. From there it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to Santa Cruz.
I saw even more incredible scenery on my third day. The west has an overabundance of beautiful geography. There were tall, multicolored cliffs around the Colorado-Utah border that looked like a million layers of different colored Jell-O stacked on top of each other (like my aunt’s famous seven layer Jell-O — mmmm). Central Utah was mountainous and rugged like the Rockies, and Salt Lake City was its quiet, Mormon self, nestled against the foothills without coffee shops.
The Bonneville Salt Flats was the most breathtaking thing I saw. Imagine a straight stretch of Interstate 80 surrounded by a white desert for 50 or 60 miles. No exits, no towns, no sign of civilization other than the pavement and the other cars. There were thousands of signs and symbols written with rocks along the side of the road, and I could see tire tracks where people had veered from the interstate to do a little impromptu off-roading.
Before entering Nevada I stopped in Wendover for gas. It was a small, run down little town on the Utah side. Vacant businesses and hotels lined the highway. Families of tan skinned Hispanics walked the sidewalks to the few surviving stores. But West Wendover was thriving. I drove through town, and a wide, white line spanned the width of the road, indicating the border. NEVADA and UTAH were painted on opposite sides. The Nevada side was home to tall casinos, and the road was lined with big tour buses. The restaurants and fast foot joints looked like they’d been remodeled recently. There were signs advertising golf courses and new subdivisions.
Nevada was a haul. It rained for a few minutes while I drove through a valley peppered with brush. I rolled down the window and the air smelled like potpourri. The sun set while I was still in the middle of the state, and I remember seeing a very bright halo over a mountain to the west. I thought it was a huge mining operation or a giant power plant (I’d passed a few), but a full moon finally rose above the peaks, spreading a pale light over a nebulous landscape.
By the time I reached Reno (probably around 11 p.m.) I was about to fall asleep at the wheel. My head was light and it was becoming harder and harder to turn. I assumed it was because I’d driven 900 miles.
My trunk smelled horrible. I don’t know how to describe it other than with the word “burnt.” It wasn’t noticeable when I got to Grand Junction — I only got a small whiff when I opened the lid. But after I’d checked in at the El Dorado (the first, true casino I’d ever stayed at), and opened the trunk to gather my things, the smell was overpowering. It had soaked my pillow and reeked up the clothes in my duffle bag. I noticed a dark, brown spot on the carpet and felt it with my hand. It was scorching hot, and so was the area around it.
Not good, I thought.
There was no gambling or slot machines for me. I didn’t have money to waste. The over night stay was cheap, and that’s all I cared about. I was dead tired. Reno went crazy below me as I slept.
The exhaust that was seeping into my car, where I sat with my foot on the pedal, watching Utah and Nevada slip under my tires, was numbing my brain. It smelled, yes, but the thought of inhaling carbon monoxide didn’t cross my mind. I was going to get to Reno no matter what. From there it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to Santa Cruz.
I saw even more incredible scenery on my third day. The west has an overabundance of beautiful geography. There were tall, multicolored cliffs around the Colorado-Utah border that looked like a million layers of different colored Jell-O stacked on top of each other (like my aunt’s famous seven layer Jell-O — mmmm). Central Utah was mountainous and rugged like the Rockies, and Salt Lake City was its quiet, Mormon self, nestled against the foothills without coffee shops.
The Bonneville Salt Flats was the most breathtaking thing I saw. Imagine a straight stretch of Interstate 80 surrounded by a white desert for 50 or 60 miles. No exits, no towns, no sign of civilization other than the pavement and the other cars. There were thousands of signs and symbols written with rocks along the side of the road, and I could see tire tracks where people had veered from the interstate to do a little impromptu off-roading.
Before entering Nevada I stopped in Wendover for gas. It was a small, run down little town on the Utah side. Vacant businesses and hotels lined the highway. Families of tan skinned Hispanics walked the sidewalks to the few surviving stores. But West Wendover was thriving. I drove through town, and a wide, white line spanned the width of the road, indicating the border. NEVADA and UTAH were painted on opposite sides. The Nevada side was home to tall casinos, and the road was lined with big tour buses. The restaurants and fast foot joints looked like they’d been remodeled recently. There were signs advertising golf courses and new subdivisions.
Nevada was a haul. It rained for a few minutes while I drove through a valley peppered with brush. I rolled down the window and the air smelled like potpourri. The sun set while I was still in the middle of the state, and I remember seeing a very bright halo over a mountain to the west. I thought it was a huge mining operation or a giant power plant (I’d passed a few), but a full moon finally rose above the peaks, spreading a pale light over a nebulous landscape.
By the time I reached Reno (probably around 11 p.m.) I was about to fall asleep at the wheel. My head was light and it was becoming harder and harder to turn. I assumed it was because I’d driven 900 miles.
My trunk smelled horrible. I don’t know how to describe it other than with the word “burnt.” It wasn’t noticeable when I got to Grand Junction — I only got a small whiff when I opened the lid. But after I’d checked in at the El Dorado (the first, true casino I’d ever stayed at), and opened the trunk to gather my things, the smell was overpowering. It had soaked my pillow and reeked up the clothes in my duffle bag. I noticed a dark, brown spot on the carpet and felt it with my hand. It was scorching hot, and so was the area around it.
Not good, I thought.
There was no gambling or slot machines for me. I didn’t have money to waste. The over night stay was cheap, and that’s all I cared about. I was dead tired. Reno went crazy below me as I slept.
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