8-5
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I hate this time of year. No, not August. More of a specific
day. I hate the day that I depart Reno, leaving Hot August Nights behind.
No more rainbow splash of colors, each car competing against
the rest for the most eye-catching hue.
No more searing glitter of chrome, sizzling swooping
checkered and striped patterns leaving sunspots marching across your vision.
No more earthy rumbly boasting of V8s, coalescing into a
deep bassy thumping reminiscent of a far-off herd on the move.
No more cheerful chatter of people united by a common
passion, frenzied in their need to say everything that needs to be said before
the moment passes.
Nothing but wretched solitude as we descend from the
northern oasis, striking out across the desolate plains of Nevada, Jane’s
exhaust echoing out into the vastness, suddenly a lonely small sort of sound.
Once again, we are alone, separated from our kind.
And everything suddenly seems very grey.
Of course, it may be that I’m being a bit dramatic here.
Maybe the greyness is just because there’s a massive amount
of haze in the air from nearby wildfires.
But it is good, because it matches my melancholy feelings.
Jane and I trudged south, taking it easy as we had nowhere
in particular to be. There was not much to be reported for the first five hours
or so – just searing scrubland crowned by smogged-in distant hills, punctuated
by the occasional lake or small rise.
We approached Death Valley and the smog burned off,
vaporized in the face of the valley’s unrelenting heat. It appeared that the
return trip to Austin would be a hot one, unlike my unseasonably pleasant drive
up. Ah, well. At least I had some very nice mountains to look at after that.
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| Wow! that is a lot of deformation |
Periodically, I would pass through small towns clustered
around a stand of cottonwood trees, a true oasis not just metaphorically but
also literally. Cottonwoods are a sure sign of water near the surface – maybe a
seasonal spring, maybe an underground river, but sometimes even an actual
flowing creek. It is very odd to drive across such vast stretches of desert only
to happen upon one of these oases, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. However
they occur, I am always thankful for them. Without them, Nevada would be one
unending desert, an uncrossable wasteland devoid of human life (or the all-essential
gas stations).
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| A no-name town composed of a group of mobile homes and a parts shop. |
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| The slightly-more-settled town of Beatty |
Think of it this way: the oases are the only thing standing
between Nevadans and a Mad Max-esque existence.
We kept on with our melancholy march, the smog competing with
the roasting heat in a horrible weather tug-of-war. I sat in the driver’s seat
and sweated and sweated, going through liters of water and a fair amount of
sunscreen. I tried some more Iron Maiden to pick us up, but ultimately that
didn’t satisfy and I settled on an unholy variety of 90’s dance music. No
accounting for taste (or lack thereof) in this vehicle on the way home,
sometimes. Fortunately, Jane voiced no objections, instead adding to the din
with the one-two punch of the bellowing exhaust and the accompanying clattering
exhaust leak.
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| Some really big sand dunes I passed! Incidentally, I later passed a sign advertising them as... you guessed it, "Big Dune". Creativity is really not Nevadans' strong point. |
I eventually arrived in Boulder City, hoping to once more
stay in the historic hotel “downtown”. But alas, they had just sold out their
last room by the time I got there. So I scooted down the block to a Sands Motel
– no relation whatsoever to the Sands Hotel in Reno, I assure you – and booked
myself a cheap room. The AC was cold, at least, so I flopped onto the bed to
soak up some cool air before wandering across the street to get some dinner. Jane
waited patiently outside the motel, a glittering gem already coated in a fine
dusting of road grime. If one was in a melancholy mood, one might remark that
the car itself was slowly turning grey, its vibrance perhaps leaking away with the
ever-increasing distance between us and the culture – and time period – it hails
from.
But that’s silly, of course, because to the outside
observer, Jane is as stunning as ever, a refreshing rare flash of a different
time when artistic whims were often upheld over pure utilitarianism. A little coat
of dust can’t hide that. Maybe that grime actually enhances the image, in fact.
Because that small detail tells the observer that this car isn’t just some museum
piece pulled out of storage for a brief spin to a local show. This is a car
that has held its own on the roads for nearly 60 years.
Probably no one else thinks about this, but I do. You have
to occupy yourself somehow when you’re driving through the desert for eight
hours, after all.
Tomorrow I’ll get up and head to Flagstaff for a small
amount of adventuring before continuing the long trek home. Until then…
Kelly signing out.
