Mar 30, Tues (Death Valley, CA - Las Vegas, NV)

March 30, 2010 (Death Valley, CA – Las Vegas, NV)

The wind here is strong. It hissed along our car like a living beast. We started our day by driving to Zabriskie Point, which I learned from an excited Derek (who is limitless in his knowledge of film) that this was one of the filming location of the cleverly named 1970 film “Zabriskie Point.” Apparently it contains a scene with people who roll around in dust and dirt and have sex and go on drug trips. Hot.

I was wearing my shorts, and the wind was so strong, it blew up duststorms that pelted us with tiny rocks (especially my bare legs), and threatened our footing. Damned shorts. The view from the lookout was pretty, but we wanted to do a little hiking, and Derek thought the wind would be less at a lower elevation, so we took the narrow, one man path that winds down the rippling, banded landscape of badland hills (reminiscent of the South Dakota Badlands) to the former bottom of Furnace Creek Lake (gone now for a wee 5 million years). The erosion on the hilly landscape of the former lake made me think of sphinxes reaching out giant paws that melded into the earth. We followed the precarious path, and as shoes hit the dry soil, they sent up clouds of dust, so that literally we were eating eachother’s dust. I was wearing sandals, and the bare parts of my feet were soon coated in the stuff. Derek called them my ‘Jesus feet.’

The wind did subside the lower we went, though when it became still, it also grew HOT (thank god for the shorts). At the bottom, there were a few shrubs, and cracked, brittle earth.

We began climbing again, to a point that offered a better lookout of Manley Beacon (one of the more famous formations, a nice, jaggedy, pointed rock). There were moments when I was convinced the wind would blow us over, and the word of the day became ‘CAREFUL,’ especially when Derek would be filming and walking, or flipping through pictures and walking. I chided him for that, which then allowed him to chide me for such things as writing and walking the narrow path. We are each as bad as each other, but for some reason when he wasn’t paying attention to his feet it always seemed so much scarier than when I was absorbed in a thought I just had to jot down. There was only one point where I was actually scared – when a hard wind was blowing and the soft silt underneath my foot gave way and I slipped close to the edge. I looked over the side and had a momentary vision of the wind lifting me up, my clothes acted as a sail, and gliding for a few feet before I plummeted to my ultimate death (or as Derek pointed out, most likely mere paralyzation). If you haven’t guessed already, Derek and I can be a bit dramatic.

We saw the Manley Beacon and took our token pictures, though the hike was the most fun part about the whole thing. We decided to turn around, and on the way back up, close to the top, we were hit by another windstorm, peppered again by a succession of tiny, pebbly stings. The only thing to do was stop and draw in on yourself until it was over. Derek’s hat, which was tied under his chin (one of those floppy, green tour-guide hats) blew off of him anyway and landed partway down one of the hills, off the path. He decided to get it, though I thought it was a potentially hazardous idea. So I eeked out a few carefuls, and then took pictures of the process because that’s what I do, especially when nervous.

Our next stop was a drive to Dante’s view (whose name we had to look up, because we kept calling it Dante’s peak, Dante’s inferno, and the one Derek was most stuck on – Dante’s hammer ).

I don’t know why it’s called Dante’s view, because the sign was worn away, and the sun was blaring in my face, and it was fr-e-e-z-i-n-g. But the view was worth it. It was a 13 mile drive to the view, and not until we were at the very top and turned the last bend were the salt plains below us revealed - A giant valley, backed by the Panamint range, ethereal with mist that hung above the white floor far below. It is this kind of scenery, combined with the force of the wind, that puts life into perspective in the size and scale and brutal beauty of the world. It is a reminder how small I am against something so majestic, and utterly indifferent. I love seeing such sites and being stirred by such power of the earth, because I feel both connected and insignificant, part of something larger. Such a vision can awaken my mind, causing a spot assessment of all the trivial things that add up to the stress of daily life, and leave me, for just a moment, feeling peaceful.

We eventually moved on, driving our way out of Death Valley, passing an abandoned town that we of course had to stop and take photos of. We passed spotted landscapes of brush and bush and rock that reminded me of the humps of a giant, tufted animal. Cholla cacti entered the landscape, their furry coat glowing in the sun. The vegetation is scarce enough that when a new plant is growing, even I, a vegetation novice, can recognize it.

We passed desert covered with thin coats of salt, looking almost exactly like snow, perhaps the only snow that stretch of desert will ever see. Then we crossed over to Nevada, and with great ceremony flipped our first atlas page. It felt like a big step. We were truly on our way.

We stopped in a small town that I couldn’t find on the map. While Derek topped off our gas and scraped off the bug guts from the windshield, I entered the market in search of a restroom. It had about four slot machines inside, and a weathered man pulling the handle as the girl behind the counter chatted with him and told me that next door had the bathroom. So I headed next door to the Tavern, whose hand painted sign denoted it as a “gambling and drinking establishment.” There were about four people at the barstools, and a woman behind the counter who saw my clearly lost look and said, “Honey, it’s right over there.” Four sets of eyes followed my movement into the bathroom, and resumed again as I walked out. Not unfriendly, just curious.

We saw a turtle crossing sign and dutifully looked for turtles on the road, and instead saw a white haired man sitting on the side of the road with his dog. We were a little disturbed by this but kept going, because it was clear he wasn’t trying to hitchhike. Maybe he was just enjoying the heat of the day. In the dust. On the side of the road.

We entered Pahrump (where the martians land in Mars Attacks!). We had decided to stop here for lunch, but we soon began to despair at ever finding a unique eating establishment in such a land of fast food. I finally spotted some colorful buildings that mentioned a ‘honcho’s bar.’ It turned out to be part of the casino, and we ended up eating at a café in the casino instead, after being made to wait for a table even though several tables were open, which Derek was convinced was a tactic to get people to gamble (and it did. I lost 20 of Derek’s bucks yippy skippy in a video poker machine). We ate to the sweet sound of the chinging and dinging of slot machines, perhaps the only young people in a see of walkers, canes and wheelchairs.

On our way to Vegas again, we saw a field of Joshua trees, those branched and twisted trees with tufted ends that belong in a Dr. Seuss book. Too add to the perfection of the scenery, a tumble weed blew across the road in front of us. “That was the Godzilla of tumbleweeds!” Derek exclaimed. Then moments later, we saw a large rock formation in front of us with a notch in the face towards the top that could have been a cave (if you squinted). “It looks like a Yedi cave!” Derek said. It made me smile. Our descriptions of what we see are so much a part of who we are. I tend to anthropomorphise, and wax on poetically for too long, and Derek tends to see the film monsters of his youth.

And then Vegas suddenly rose in the distance like a mirage, one that moves in and out of view as you get closer for the next 20 miles. After all the danger and drama of the past two days, first blood of the trip (aside from Derek’s tooth) was me scraping a knee on the asphalt as I kneeled in the parking lot, trying to figure out where I’d stashed my ‘nice clothes’ for Vegas. Pathetic. I also realized when I stood up that my knees were black from the pavement, and I couldn’t wipe it off. I looked like a vagabond in my dusty sandals with black knees, so I tried to hide behind Derek while he checked in at the Palms. After washing the grime and blood away, I promptly scheduled a massage in the hopes that it would help my shoulder. Derek cleaned up and gambled. We met back at the room and headed to the trendy ghost bar at the top of the hotel, whose view of the city was by far the best thing about it. Its logo was a ghost with this long curved tail, and I wondered idly about why the long tail made the ghost trendy, and what makes things trendy in general, because that kind of sh*t is way over my head (as anyone would guess who has seen me dress). Derek was raring to go, (but we’re in Vegas baby, Vegas!) but I felt too tired for sin. We ended up eating dinner at Derek’s guilty pleasure, a diner called the Peppermill. I love diners at any and all times (I could eat breakfast for every meal). It’s neon lights and flamingo lamps only seemed to add to the night. But when dinner was over, I was done, and though Derek didn’t want to admit it, so was he, as he fell asleep sitting up in his chair at the desk. I led him to bed and so ended a rather sinless night in Sin city.

Captions:

1. Hiking down Zabriskie's Point

2. Dante's View

3. Abandoned town on the way to Vegas

4. Vegas

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“It tastes like blood back there.” And with those words, as Derek fiddled with his tooth’s new crown, we started our trip.

We made a pact to be healthy. So of course the first place we stopped to eat was In-n-Out. The place where everything tastes oh-so-good going down, and three minutes later causes you to feel like a bloated lard ball bemoaning lifes stupid choices. It was a good way to say goodbye to our old way of life. Or so we told ourselves. We’ve also shook hands on going to Pilates together when we’re back in London. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told myself I would start, but this time we shook hands, so that really means something. And I’m tired of being Popeye without the spinach weak, where I am always pulling muscles (like my infamous left chest and shoulder muscle) every time I yank a recalcitrant suitcase too hard.

It was stop and go for a bit. We stopped to pick up a few last minute things (because the car wasn’t full enough) including a pair of shorts for me. I didn’t bring any, because I hate wearing shorts, and I’m generally good at pretending to myself that everything is fine until someone points out the truth of the situation. Ie. Derek saying flatly “Leah, it’s going to be 90 degrees in Death Valley. You need shorts.” Oh, ok.

But then, for real, we were on the road, flying through the car pool lane with our two people occupied car. It was a beautiful day to begin, the sun was shining, the breeze was breezing, and the sky was fluffy with clouds. We couldn’t wait to get out of LA and away from all of the traffic. Maybe that’s not fair, considering we were in a car and part of the problem, but rarely do wishes cede to logic.

It was very deserty on the drive to Death Valley, and we stopped in California City for the purposes of research. Some of you may or may not know that part of this trip is a research project for a book I want to write, and I think CA City is going to feature in it. So I took some flip video, notes and pictures in this little town, and then we were on the road again, driving, driving.

Leaving CA City, we took what we thought was the correct road. The maintained part of the road soon ended, and Derek navigated our laden car around the pot holes (or parts of the road that were simply eaten away) as best he could. The road (or lack of) worsened, and I found many invectives escaping my mouth unconsciously. As our car dipped and bottomed out, I found myself breathing ‘oh shit oh shit oh shit’, and once in awhile a croaky ‘oh my (octave higher) god’ as our tires launched and slammed into the gravel, trailing a dust cloud behind us. I imagined being stranded on this 22 mile stretch of road with shredded tires and nowhere to go but into the horizon of the hot sun. Derek gripped the steering wheel tightly, but was grinning like a banshee. I asked him if maybe we should stop for a moment to take stock, but he said we couldn’t because of the ‘crazy people.’ He did a good job of finding a path for the car, considering most of the potholes were invisible until you were in them. The lines of my neck were involuntarily taunt, which wasn’t helping my shoulder or chest any. I wanted to fish out some aleve from my suitcase, but it was hopelessly buried in the pile, and besides, stopping meant risking those crazy desert people (even though we know a few desert people who are decidedly sane). There were no road signs, (or other roads for that matter), Derek’s blackberry gave us the wrong GPS location so we new that was useless, so we just kept moving along, praying to find the main road. Which we did, of course, or I wouldn’t be posting this, instead we would be stranded in the desert conserving our water. Landing on paved asphalt once again, Derek gave a “whoo hoo!” and a “yee haa,” where all I could manage was a “ffffaaaa,” too clenched from top to bottom to utter anything else.

On the main road again, we passed through Trona, or the town that the world has chosen to forget. If, by some miracle, you have heard of Trona, it may be because part of Tim’s Planet of the Apes was filmed at the Trona Pinnacles, a series of rock formations outside of the town that harkens back to primordial times.

The town is populated by factory workers and their families, as the main income is from the factories that spew their gases into the atmosphere. Their main company mines the mineral Trona, which is an important part of Sodium carbonate. Whatever the biproduct is (or perhaps the mineral itself) the entire stretch of town for miles stinks like low grade sulpher, a noxious odor that clogs your nose and coats your throat as you drive through. I wonder how people can live with that constant, toxic smell. There is no grass and little vegetation. The bleak landscape is ashen with white mineral deposits. I saw two people flirting in the town’s park – rocks surrounded by rusted fences. There are as many abandoned, decrepit buildings as there are houses lived in. It is an ugly town, and yet it has a pirate man selling flowers, cafes that advertise WiFI in hand painted signs, and a high school whose mascot is the Tornado. Leaving the town we saw an old, stick-thin man in a wheelchair on his porch, with a wispy beard and hair. The American flag fluttered behind him in the wind, and he gave us a wave as we passed. I felt sad and depressed, and wanted to make fun of the American dream after seeing and smelling this town, but something in the stature of that man, his proud stance, the kind wave, makes pity seem wrong. Perhaps they stay there not out of need but out of choice.

And then the air was clear again, and I breathed deeply, and studied the landscape and began to appreciate the desert’s subtle forms of life. The desert is such a desolate beauty, but there is hardiness in its lifeforms, that survive despite burning sun, dehydration and its unstable, loose soil, especially on the mountainsides. Life springs determinedly from each crack and crevice, and though it may not be as abundant as life elsewhere, each plant or lizard or bug or bat seems more precious for the absence of others around it. Each lifeform is highlighted in its space, so that I’m more careful where I step, for I don’t want to crush that single stem with its cluster of purple flowers, since I see no others like it nearby. It’s life is hard won, and to be respected.

I also appreciate the rich variation of the color palette here. It doesn’t scream with vibrancy, but it’s muted greens, and infinite shades of tan and brown lend itself to a subtlety best appreciated with time. I notice the tiny yellow flowers that tint some surfaces a mustard color, the reddish hue to the mountain soil, those poofy plants whose innards are green and it’s outsides sprout in thick sprigs of tan like an albino porcupine. The desert’s beauty is also in its contrast of flat scrubby shrubby sand against mammoth mountains that look like crinkled elephants feet from a distance. The mountains and sun create shadowy landscapes where brighter swatches streak against dark patches, and the highest tips of the hills and mountains peek through the shadows. And as the sun finally sinks behind the mountains on our left, leaving behind a silvered sky , we watch as the larger shadow crawls up the mountains on our, right swallowing the smaller shadows as it moves upward. Its fascinating how much the light changes our surroundings from moment to moment. And into this sunset, which began to show the slightest bits of pink and purple in the clouds, we drove into Death Valley.

Where, with all of this beauty stuffed into my head, I suddenly realize we are driving some crazy swirly roads with no guard rails. Derek makes the mistake of looking over and is visibly shaken, and I issue my most vile involuntary curse of the day as we hug the side of the mountain with nothing to stop us from flying into far down ditches of rocks: “Oh F*ckity f*ck!” But then we are free and clear of the scary parts, and we are driving in Death Valley to a gorgeous, full moon.

As it’s already dark, we decide to get a room at a little motel in the park, instead of camping (we also forgot to pick up food, so the idea of spooning peanut butter into our mouths as dinner wasn’t exactly appealing at the moment). Come to find out, there are no motel rooms available in Death Valley or any nearby town. I’m feeling a little guilty at this point, what with insisting we didn’t make reservations that morning. I try to convince a road weary, jetlagged Derek how much fun camping will be, even picking up saltines so that we can have peanut butter and jelly saltine sandwiches for dinner (MUCH better than just spooning the stuff into your mouth) until we realize there are no camping spots open either (though these, at least, you can’t make reservations for). So we make the spur of the moment decision to drive through the park in the moonlight and head straight to Vegas and get a jumpstart on the trip. But before we do that, we stop for almost an hour to take timed exposures of the moonlit landscape. We pass the salt flats, and illuminated by the moon, it has a fairy tale quality, looking like white mist rising against the mountain. As we drive by one of the other inns in the park, around 10:30pm, I say, “just in case, lets stop and ask if they have a cancellation.” So I do, and they tell us they don’t have a spot, but the Furnace Creek Inn (the one Derek originally wanted to make the reservation at in the first place) just happens to have a cancellation. So we race down there in fear someone will arrive before us, and not only do they have the room, but they give us a huge discount since we’re filling a cancelled spot. And because I can’t resist, I ask if we had called in the morning, would there have been any reservations available. The guy at the desk tells us that it would have been highly unlikely. Derek and I were giddy with our whim at that point. For if we had tried to make the reservation, and failed, we may never have journeyed into Death Valley that night, and never would have seen its beauty by moonlight.

That being said, we knew it would be slow going today, so we made a reservation at the Palms. Which means our first day of camping will be Wednesday, in the Valley of Fire outside of Las Vegas.

Captions:

1. Railroad crossings in the desert.

2.. Driving to Death Valley.

3. Stopping to take photos in the moonlight.

4. Timed 30 second exposure with cars passing on the road.

5. The tunnel to the Furnace Creek Inn elevator.

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March 29 - Sunday morning (Santa Monica)

Derek and I woke at an ungodly 6:30am, but jet lag or simple insomnia will do that to you. we have made our first big decision - Death Valley is our first stop. It's a five hour drive. Before we can leave, Derek has to go to the dentist (there's no better way to start a trip, really). We also need to get the car situated. How can two small individuals accumulate too much crap to fit in a Pathfinder? I find it amusing that I traveled for three months in my little Protege, and Derek and I are traveling for three weeks, and we're bursting his SUV at the seams. In all fairness, some of the stuff currently in the car isn't meant for the trip (like a huge, rolled rug that Kory thought we might need.) In any case, we must sort the rugs from the tents, so we will probably leave too late to get there before dark.

Our first debate of the trip was where to stay. Derek wanted to make reservations at the Furnace Creek Inn but I vetoed that and hope I won't regret my little hissy fit. I'm not against staying there if it's too dark to put up our campsite (after all, it's the beginning of the trip, and we're rusty, pitching a tent - a REAL tent you pervs - is tough in the dark). but I hate the idea of reservations tying us down. I want to go where whim takes us. Hopefully whim won't have us sleeping in our car. But if it does, it will be an adventure. I may or may not post a pic today, it depends if we end up in a place with internet.

And Derek just showed me some new, good music he brought for the trip, so now I'm getting excited!

March 28, 2010 - Sunday

Derek has joined me in LA! We arrived separately because my Visa expired in the UK a day after we were supposed to return there from Japan (the 24th). So I headed straight to LA, and spent a few days with my good friends Josh and Emily. It was just what my travel and visa weary soul needed. A few days of rest, relaxation, good food and great friends. Now all I have to do is recover my voice. The stress of the past few weeks has taken itself out on my vocal chords. I sound like a chain smoking frog. Which apparently, I've had a few people tell me, is sexy. Hey, I like frogs.

My pics of the day are a cheat because they aren't from today, but today was a visual null. Unless you consider repacking bags, catching up on Lost, and selecting through long neglected pictures activities you were just dying to see. Just writing about it makes me yawn...speaking of, bed time soon. If I make it past 10:30 pm tonight, it will be a first since I arrived on Wednesday.

Picture captions:

1. Josh & Em in their new hammock.
2. Josh's dad entering the graffiti show that Emily was photographing for a friend.
3. The Graffiti show.

It begins...again.

Eons ago when I was young and cherry cheeked and had no frown lines, I used to faithfully blog for a small audience of family as I wandered around the country. I credit the fire of youth for such long term blog maintenance. Back in those days (a long seven years ago) simply having the words and pictures out there was enough, even if just one person saw it, because THAT could make a difference...until I realized it didn't, and watching Dexter was about as likely to change the world as writing my blog. And yet...a few people have asked Derek and I to keep a blog on our journey. So, in the face of my own pessimism, I've decided to resurrect this one, deleting all the old posts so I can't be embarrassed by old blatherings (only current ones, which are embarrassing enough) . And so, as the title says, in defiance of the aging process, where the flow of desire and ambition slow until overwhelmed entirely by inertia...it begins...again.