Looking out the window at the mountains, which rise up all around Borrego Springs, I feel more than a little frustrated. I want to get out there and hike. On the other hand I don’t want to die.
Yesterday in the afternoon, when the temperature reached 117, I went out on a brief walk in the field next to the house, among the creosote and brittlebush. I stood still and felt the unrelenting sun, felt the heat pressing in on me. It would be easy to panic if caught somewhere far from shelter. Last summer a man died when he tried to walk just a mile from his disabled car to refuge. He even had a bottle of water with him, though I suppose it didn’t help that he lacked shoes.
Around lunchtime, another friend of Larry and Sinda’s, Maggie, arrived from San Diego. She’s a colleague at San Diego State University (where all three teach in the English department) and had come out to the desert to celebrate her 60th birthday.
After a lunch of crab quiche and salad, we spent much of the afternoon in the living room, talking, listening to songs that Larry thought we should hear (including several by the band Gogol Bordello), and watching part of a documentary on The Who, as well as footage of Larry and Sinda’s granddaughter, Ella. Gin and tonic flowed freely.
At the pool in the early evening I tried to work off some of my unused hiking energy, swimming several laps. Then I put my hat back on and cowered low in the water to limit my exposure to the sun. Even though the temperature had dipped to 110.
After the sun set we headed to Carlee’s, a bar and restaurant in town, for food and karaoke. When we arrived, a young man with a goatee was singing “Strangers in the Night.” He hesitated momentarily when he got to the line “doo bee doo bee doo,” but then had a self-conscious go at it. In the course of the evening he would be the only person under sixty to perform, and the only one to show even the slightest timidity.
We sat at a table just a few feet from the karaoke corner, where the young man stood behind a small monitor singing Sinatra. I politely divided my attention between him and the menu.
When he finished, the karaoke master (or whatever the term is), a stout woman with tall white hair, called out the name Leon. A man with a white beard and a Hawaiian shirt tight around the middle performed two Eagles songs, including “Peaceful, Easy Feeling.”
Next was Todd, a man with long, lank hair, a ragged beard and sun-cured complexion. He took the microphone and proceeded to slur his way through The Temptations’ “My Girl,” skipping words and lines when he got behind, sticking with a monotone delivery throughout. Larry, always generous, said he liked his style, describing it as “dadaesque.” Later, Todd performed an understated version of the Trogs’ “Wild Thing.”
The karaoke master, Donna, sang too (as did her husband, Harold, who sat at the bar and filled in during lulls, choosing talky standards). In response to a request, Donna sang her signature song, “Live Close By,” striding up and down, belting out the chorus with an infectious brio:
Live close by
Visit often
That’ll work
That’ll work for me
Live close by
Visit often
Save us both a lot of misery
Larry took a turn, singing two songs and not bothering for either to look at the monitor. His first number was Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This.” He glided about the small performance space with the élan of an experienced crooner, switching the microphone from hand to hand, hitting each vocal mark spot on: “one man....one wife.... a love that lasts through life.” For his second selection he chose Elvis’ “Love Me,” a song he often sings on karaoke nights. When he returned to the table Sinda took his hand and said, “that was really good, Larry.” He looked a little abashed but also pleased with the compliment.
We watched a woman named Darlene sing “I Fall to Pieces,” then left just as Harold was coming to the front to have a go at “Georgia on My Mind.”
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The word "hot" is not sufficient
By the time I reached the small town of Mecca, at the southern end of the Coachella Valley, I was frantic for something cold to drink. I’d been driving across the Mojave for six hours, and the water I had with me was hot, matching the 112-degree air temperature. In a convenience store I gulped down a Naked Juice and felt better, at least for a little while.
I had meant to leave Las Vegas at four in the morning, to drive down to Borrego Springs, and should’ve left even earlier. But I didn’t drag myself from bed and get on the road until almost six; by eight the temperature had already risen above one hundred degrees.
The route from Vegas to Borrego leads through rugged and beautiful desert, descending gradually, over three hundred miles, towards the Coachella and the Salton Sea, which is nearly two hundred feet below sea level. I passed through wide valleys dotted with creosote and yucca, by the high sandy ridges of Kelso Dunes, alongside the jagged Coxcomb Mountains on the edge of Joshua Tree, through just two miniscule towns, Amboy and Desert Center, both nearly deserted. Near Mecca I came to the first signs of human activity, orange and date groves, watered by a canal from the Colorado River. In a large field of grape vines a scattering of big and variously colored umbrellas protected farm workers, who crouched beneath, pruning or picking.
I’ve made the same drive many times in the winter, usually taking two days because I stop so often to explore and hike. But on this day I impatiently ticked off the landmarks one by one, wanting to just get along, to get through. Unlike the Joads, who had to cross the same desert, I wasn’t carrying a dead grandmother in back, but I still felt anxious, watching the odometer, the temperature gauge. There were few other cars on the road, and not one without air-conditioning, like me. Listening to Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, especially the stories of his near starvation, added to the apocalyptic mood. Mecca was a great relief; I’d felt almost done for. My feet and hands were swollen up, my head was feverish and achy, and hot water was doing nothing for my substantial thirst.
From Mecca I had only another hour to Borrego Springs, where I’m visiting friends Larry and Sinda. Just after noon I pulled up at a mobile home trailer, in the Roadrunner Club, and hoped Larry had left the door open as promised (he and Sinda would be gone till later in the day). Luckily he had. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise; I had contemplated a stay at the small public library in town, if it was open. Inside the trailer the temperature was a cool and comfy ninety. An immense relief. By mid-afternoon the outside temperature had risen to 116, and a stiff wind only exacerbated the feeling of being oven baked.
Later, Larry showed up and we had a swim at the Roadrunner Club’s pool. I wore a hat and sunglasses and pasted myself in a corner just shaded by a palm tree.
Larry and Sinda have a house on the other side of town, and keep the trailer (which at one time had been Larry’s father’s) as an office and sometime guest lodge. After our swim we went over to the house, where first off I was introduced to Vargas, their new scorpion. I peered in the terrarium, but Vargas--named after the faux-Mexican character Charlton Heston plays in Touch of Evil--was hiding under a rock. It was the fourth in a series of scorpion companion pets, each named Vargas, one of who had lived for two years in captivity. Sinda had found the pale creature the day before at a local furniture store.
It was crawling across an open patch of floor, and Sinda grabbed a leather bowl and coaxed it inside. Leaving the scorpion safely confined, she thought, she went to the front of the store to ask for a bag. The salesperson’s eyes bulged apprehensively, and she was all for abandoning the premises. But she gave Sinda the bag. However, when Sinda returned to the back of the store the bowl was empty. After a little scouting about she re-discovered the scorpion and managed to bag it. She had planned to take it outside and let it go, but then decided to take it home, as she and Larry have both enjoyed the company of past Vargases. “But this time, Larry,” Sinda admonished, “you can’t over-feed it.” The last one Larry, mesmerized by its killing and eating technique, had plied with too many crickets, and it had died.
He agreed to be more careful this time, but told Sinda it would still need to feed. He turned to me, already with a plan, and said, “So Capper, we’ll go out a little later and see if we can capture some insects. Vargas will only eat then if they’re alive.”
Later we did manage to find a couple flying bugs, more wings than body, but Vargas would not come out to eat them, not at least while we watched.
I had meant to leave Las Vegas at four in the morning, to drive down to Borrego Springs, and should’ve left even earlier. But I didn’t drag myself from bed and get on the road until almost six; by eight the temperature had already risen above one hundred degrees.
The route from Vegas to Borrego leads through rugged and beautiful desert, descending gradually, over three hundred miles, towards the Coachella and the Salton Sea, which is nearly two hundred feet below sea level. I passed through wide valleys dotted with creosote and yucca, by the high sandy ridges of Kelso Dunes, alongside the jagged Coxcomb Mountains on the edge of Joshua Tree, through just two miniscule towns, Amboy and Desert Center, both nearly deserted. Near Mecca I came to the first signs of human activity, orange and date groves, watered by a canal from the Colorado River. In a large field of grape vines a scattering of big and variously colored umbrellas protected farm workers, who crouched beneath, pruning or picking.
I’ve made the same drive many times in the winter, usually taking two days because I stop so often to explore and hike. But on this day I impatiently ticked off the landmarks one by one, wanting to just get along, to get through. Unlike the Joads, who had to cross the same desert, I wasn’t carrying a dead grandmother in back, but I still felt anxious, watching the odometer, the temperature gauge. There were few other cars on the road, and not one without air-conditioning, like me. Listening to Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, especially the stories of his near starvation, added to the apocalyptic mood. Mecca was a great relief; I’d felt almost done for. My feet and hands were swollen up, my head was feverish and achy, and hot water was doing nothing for my substantial thirst.
From Mecca I had only another hour to Borrego Springs, where I’m visiting friends Larry and Sinda. Just after noon I pulled up at a mobile home trailer, in the Roadrunner Club, and hoped Larry had left the door open as promised (he and Sinda would be gone till later in the day). Luckily he had. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise; I had contemplated a stay at the small public library in town, if it was open. Inside the trailer the temperature was a cool and comfy ninety. An immense relief. By mid-afternoon the outside temperature had risen to 116, and a stiff wind only exacerbated the feeling of being oven baked.
Later, Larry showed up and we had a swim at the Roadrunner Club’s pool. I wore a hat and sunglasses and pasted myself in a corner just shaded by a palm tree.
Larry and Sinda have a house on the other side of town, and keep the trailer (which at one time had been Larry’s father’s) as an office and sometime guest lodge. After our swim we went over to the house, where first off I was introduced to Vargas, their new scorpion. I peered in the terrarium, but Vargas--named after the faux-Mexican character Charlton Heston plays in Touch of Evil--was hiding under a rock. It was the fourth in a series of scorpion companion pets, each named Vargas, one of who had lived for two years in captivity. Sinda had found the pale creature the day before at a local furniture store.
It was crawling across an open patch of floor, and Sinda grabbed a leather bowl and coaxed it inside. Leaving the scorpion safely confined, she thought, she went to the front of the store to ask for a bag. The salesperson’s eyes bulged apprehensively, and she was all for abandoning the premises. But she gave Sinda the bag. However, when Sinda returned to the back of the store the bowl was empty. After a little scouting about she re-discovered the scorpion and managed to bag it. She had planned to take it outside and let it go, but then decided to take it home, as she and Larry have both enjoyed the company of past Vargases. “But this time, Larry,” Sinda admonished, “you can’t over-feed it.” The last one Larry, mesmerized by its killing and eating technique, had plied with too many crickets, and it had died.
He agreed to be more careful this time, but told Sinda it would still need to feed. He turned to me, already with a plan, and said, “So Capper, we’ll go out a little later and see if we can capture some insects. Vargas will only eat then if they’re alive.”
Later we did manage to find a couple flying bugs, more wings than body, but Vargas would not come out to eat them, not at least while we watched.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Rob and I have a great lunch
Rob and I were about to get in his car and escape into air-conditioning when he pointed across the street and said, “mobile car wash.” Behind a white Subaru, a panel van was parked, with a green garden hose snaking out of its open back doors. A young man had finished the wet portion of the job and was now wiping the Subaru down with a chamois cloth.
I’d driven to Rob’s work so we could go to lunch at Kilroy’s, home of the World’s Greatest Hamburger. Unduly influenced by this claim (a self-serving one, yes, but supported by the Food Network), I had decided to compromise my dietary and moral principles.
Inside we were greeted simultaneously by two young women, one femme, the other butch. The latter, short and short-haired, looked daggers at the former, as if to say, "what are you doing, you officious pain in the ass.” She elbowed the longhaired woman out of the way and took us to a booth and handed us big menus. Thus began an intense relationship with Tiffany (according to her nametag), and my sense was that by the end of the meal that had I proposed she would’ve accepted. I still might go back.
I ordered the basic Kilroy burger, keeping it simple, and I was indeed impressed. Classic, toasted bun, medium-rare half-pound patty, just the right amount of charcoaly flavor, red onion and lettuce (no tomato=no salmonella, not a bad idea), mayo on the side--all this added up to a satisfying hamburger experience. For a side I had the choice of baked beans or cole slaw. When I asked Tiffany for a recommendation, she paused as if this was an important question, as if she was trying to decide what was best for me, knowing me as she did, then answered “cole slaw.” I said, "ok,”and our eyes locked for just a moment. Rob and I also ordered a basket of shoestring fries.
We ate and talked about Harry Potter, Catholicism, and the pleasures of legal contracts, among other topics. When my water glass was empty, Tiffany brought an icy pitcher and set it down with a smile that seemed to say, ”there’s more where that came from.”
When we stood up to leave I made a point of seeking out Tiffany, who was taking an order at another table, to say thank you. Her smile was wistful, as if she too was glad to have met, yet sad that things were coming to an end so soon. The longhaired waitress tried to horn in from across the room, calling out “thank you, guys,” but I ignored her.
Back at Rob’s roomy office I sat down in the client chair while he went on his computer to get me directions to a public library branch. The fierce air-conditioning made one yearn for a light jacket. Rob looked professional and competent, dressed in white shirt and tie, sitting behind a desk spread with stacks of legal documents pertaining to various cases. I wanted to stay and watch him be a lawyer, but he said he doubted I’d find it entertaining.
At dusk, after Rob came home from work, we drove up to Red Rocks for a hike; Peyton Manning came too. With the sun down, the warm air was almost comfortable rather than hostile. We walked up a small canyon, past small reedy pools of water that Peyton splashed through with obvious pleasure. Phainopepla, dark, crested birds, and sparrows moved about in the small willow trees. The rock is indeed red, a deeper more astonishing shade of blood red in the fading light of dusk. The rock rose up in great bulbous masses, like hardened blobs of wet sand. We climbed upwards over stone slabs until nearly dark, then turned and looked out over Las Vegas to the east, where yellowy lights were coming on in the vast sprawl.
On the way home we got take-out at Viva El Taco!, one of the many excellent Mexican food stands located in gas station convenience stores. None of that Taco Bell Express or Subway bullshit. On the counter sat big, freshly re-stocked trays of pickled carrots and sliced radishes and cucumbers; I filled several small plastic cups with these treats, then waited patiently while a young man in a red baseball cap turned sideways made my burrito. Rob bought a twelve-pack of Tecate, and when we got home and spread out the food on the coffee table and opened our beers and put on The Shawshank Redemption and made Peyton Manning lay down, I was happy and contented.
I’d driven to Rob’s work so we could go to lunch at Kilroy’s, home of the World’s Greatest Hamburger. Unduly influenced by this claim (a self-serving one, yes, but supported by the Food Network), I had decided to compromise my dietary and moral principles.
Inside we were greeted simultaneously by two young women, one femme, the other butch. The latter, short and short-haired, looked daggers at the former, as if to say, "what are you doing, you officious pain in the ass.” She elbowed the longhaired woman out of the way and took us to a booth and handed us big menus. Thus began an intense relationship with Tiffany (according to her nametag), and my sense was that by the end of the meal that had I proposed she would’ve accepted. I still might go back.
I ordered the basic Kilroy burger, keeping it simple, and I was indeed impressed. Classic, toasted bun, medium-rare half-pound patty, just the right amount of charcoaly flavor, red onion and lettuce (no tomato=no salmonella, not a bad idea), mayo on the side--all this added up to a satisfying hamburger experience. For a side I had the choice of baked beans or cole slaw. When I asked Tiffany for a recommendation, she paused as if this was an important question, as if she was trying to decide what was best for me, knowing me as she did, then answered “cole slaw.” I said, "ok,”and our eyes locked for just a moment. Rob and I also ordered a basket of shoestring fries.
We ate and talked about Harry Potter, Catholicism, and the pleasures of legal contracts, among other topics. When my water glass was empty, Tiffany brought an icy pitcher and set it down with a smile that seemed to say, ”there’s more where that came from.”
When we stood up to leave I made a point of seeking out Tiffany, who was taking an order at another table, to say thank you. Her smile was wistful, as if she too was glad to have met, yet sad that things were coming to an end so soon. The longhaired waitress tried to horn in from across the room, calling out “thank you, guys,” but I ignored her.
Back at Rob’s roomy office I sat down in the client chair while he went on his computer to get me directions to a public library branch. The fierce air-conditioning made one yearn for a light jacket. Rob looked professional and competent, dressed in white shirt and tie, sitting behind a desk spread with stacks of legal documents pertaining to various cases. I wanted to stay and watch him be a lawyer, but he said he doubted I’d find it entertaining.
At dusk, after Rob came home from work, we drove up to Red Rocks for a hike; Peyton Manning came too. With the sun down, the warm air was almost comfortable rather than hostile. We walked up a small canyon, past small reedy pools of water that Peyton splashed through with obvious pleasure. Phainopepla, dark, crested birds, and sparrows moved about in the small willow trees. The rock is indeed red, a deeper more astonishing shade of blood red in the fading light of dusk. The rock rose up in great bulbous masses, like hardened blobs of wet sand. We climbed upwards over stone slabs until nearly dark, then turned and looked out over Las Vegas to the east, where yellowy lights were coming on in the vast sprawl.
On the way home we got take-out at Viva El Taco!, one of the many excellent Mexican food stands located in gas station convenience stores. None of that Taco Bell Express or Subway bullshit. On the counter sat big, freshly re-stocked trays of pickled carrots and sliced radishes and cucumbers; I filled several small plastic cups with these treats, then waited patiently while a young man in a red baseball cap turned sideways made my burrito. Rob bought a twelve-pack of Tecate, and when we got home and spread out the food on the coffee table and opened our beers and put on The Shawshank Redemption and made Peyton Manning lay down, I was happy and contented.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
In Las Vegas with Peyton Manning and Harry Potter
In the late afternoon yesterday, when the temperature had cooled to a 103 or so, I went for a short neighborhood walk. Dark paved roads, pale cement sidewalks, high cinderblock walls, gravel yards the color of dried-blood, tan stucco houses; occasionally a small desert tree made a dollop of faded green in the muted landscape. You can see the reason for Las Vegas’ bright famous signs.
Not that I’m complaining, or much. It’s beautiful here, in a desert-y, oven-y way.
Most of the day I spent inside reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. At lunch I paused to watch Team America, a film I’d never seen. America, Fuck yeah! Peyton Manning was home with me, most of the time supine on the cool tile by the front door; but when I went into a different room he got up and followed and we chatted amicably. We went out to the backyard for a short time, but while I sat in the shade reading, Peyton Manning insisted on laying down in the full sun, on patio stones I found too hot to walk on. I tried to get him to move into the shade with me but he saw no point. So before long I took us both back inside, worried for his health.
Alix and I had started listening to the Harry Potter on the way out to Idaho. We got through about a third of the book, but then she flew home with the cds, because she can’t be separated from her Harry Potter and I understand that. When I arrived here at Rob’s I found the print book on a shelf and took it down and started reading. And while I have some reservations about Rowling’s writing, the plot pulled me right along and by the end of my second day here in Vegas I’d finished the book, because why else does one come to Las Vegas but to sit alone inside a quiet house with a dog and two cats and read all day?
After I finished the book I felt worked over, emotionally exhausted, and that’s when I went for my walk, because I wanted to think about what I thought about the book.
The book’s theology is a bit muddled, I think. There’s an afterlife, apparently, occasionally someone says “Thank god!”, and they celebrate Christmas, but there’s never, as far as I can remember, mention of a deity. I get that a fully fleshed out religion would have required substantial digression, but still, I wanted to know how the story’s quasi-Christianity fit into the Wizarding experience.....
Harry is a Christ-figure, that’s clear enough, but one who suits a modern sensibility, in particular the strong desire for a happy ending: he sacrifices for the good of others, but he doesn’t have to die, only to be willing to die. Christ is a loner in the end, but Harry gets the girl.
And three children, a family. And family is what it seems to me the books are mostly about, finally. Yes, it’s a story of youthful prowess and independence, like most children’s literature, but more I think it’s a story of parents and children. It’s about what kids want from parents: reassurance and love and support. Harry, Voldemort, and Snape are all more or less parentless, and they struggle accordingly. But Harry is saved by that one year of parental devotion, Snape by his love for Lily, while Voldemort apparently never got a hug and so turned out mean. All you need is love.
And those moments when love, especially the love of parents for children, is expressed, those are the parts of the book that choked me up: Mrs. Weasley’s grief over Fred’s death, Neville’s grandmother’s pride in his feats in the last battle, Xenophilius Lovegood’s fear for his captured daughter Luna, and the scene at the very end when Harry reassures his anxious young son, Albus, about the imminent Sorting at Hogwarts. I’m getting all watery-eyed just thinking about it....
When I got back from my walk Rob was home, and he guided me through my first Wii experience. I took the “Joe” avatar, despite the fact that I don’t wear glasses or a goatee. In tennis I flayed away like an idiot, both on screen and off. Rob and I, as doubles partner, were beaten in each game we played. Turning to golf, I did a little better—shooting par on my first hole, while Rob triple bogeyed. Thanks, Joe.
We went off for take-out from Archi’s Thai Bistro a couple strip malls down the road. Back at the house we filled our plates and sat down on the couch to watch the tv. Peyton Manning stood beside the coffee table as we ate, next to me with his muzzle inches from my plate, garnishing the pad thai and curry with dog breath. I pushed him away and soon he lay down, his demeanor suggesting that he hadn’t really expected me to share anyway.
Rob and I stayed up late watching one episode after another of the fourth season of West Wing.
Not that I’m complaining, or much. It’s beautiful here, in a desert-y, oven-y way.
Most of the day I spent inside reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. At lunch I paused to watch Team America, a film I’d never seen. America, Fuck yeah! Peyton Manning was home with me, most of the time supine on the cool tile by the front door; but when I went into a different room he got up and followed and we chatted amicably. We went out to the backyard for a short time, but while I sat in the shade reading, Peyton Manning insisted on laying down in the full sun, on patio stones I found too hot to walk on. I tried to get him to move into the shade with me but he saw no point. So before long I took us both back inside, worried for his health.
Alix and I had started listening to the Harry Potter on the way out to Idaho. We got through about a third of the book, but then she flew home with the cds, because she can’t be separated from her Harry Potter and I understand that. When I arrived here at Rob’s I found the print book on a shelf and took it down and started reading. And while I have some reservations about Rowling’s writing, the plot pulled me right along and by the end of my second day here in Vegas I’d finished the book, because why else does one come to Las Vegas but to sit alone inside a quiet house with a dog and two cats and read all day?
After I finished the book I felt worked over, emotionally exhausted, and that’s when I went for my walk, because I wanted to think about what I thought about the book.
The book’s theology is a bit muddled, I think. There’s an afterlife, apparently, occasionally someone says “Thank god!”, and they celebrate Christmas, but there’s never, as far as I can remember, mention of a deity. I get that a fully fleshed out religion would have required substantial digression, but still, I wanted to know how the story’s quasi-Christianity fit into the Wizarding experience.....
Harry is a Christ-figure, that’s clear enough, but one who suits a modern sensibility, in particular the strong desire for a happy ending: he sacrifices for the good of others, but he doesn’t have to die, only to be willing to die. Christ is a loner in the end, but Harry gets the girl.
And three children, a family. And family is what it seems to me the books are mostly about, finally. Yes, it’s a story of youthful prowess and independence, like most children’s literature, but more I think it’s a story of parents and children. It’s about what kids want from parents: reassurance and love and support. Harry, Voldemort, and Snape are all more or less parentless, and they struggle accordingly. But Harry is saved by that one year of parental devotion, Snape by his love for Lily, while Voldemort apparently never got a hug and so turned out mean. All you need is love.
And those moments when love, especially the love of parents for children, is expressed, those are the parts of the book that choked me up: Mrs. Weasley’s grief over Fred’s death, Neville’s grandmother’s pride in his feats in the last battle, Xenophilius Lovegood’s fear for his captured daughter Luna, and the scene at the very end when Harry reassures his anxious young son, Albus, about the imminent Sorting at Hogwarts. I’m getting all watery-eyed just thinking about it....
When I got back from my walk Rob was home, and he guided me through my first Wii experience. I took the “Joe” avatar, despite the fact that I don’t wear glasses or a goatee. In tennis I flayed away like an idiot, both on screen and off. Rob and I, as doubles partner, were beaten in each game we played. Turning to golf, I did a little better—shooting par on my first hole, while Rob triple bogeyed. Thanks, Joe.
We went off for take-out from Archi’s Thai Bistro a couple strip malls down the road. Back at the house we filled our plates and sat down on the couch to watch the tv. Peyton Manning stood beside the coffee table as we ate, next to me with his muzzle inches from my plate, garnishing the pad thai and curry with dog breath. I pushed him away and soon he lay down, his demeanor suggesting that he hadn’t really expected me to share anyway.
Rob and I stayed up late watching one episode after another of the fourth season of West Wing.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I stay inside, mostly
In Rob’s house, all species are equals. There’s an easy camaraderie between him and his wife Jocelyn and the two cats, Santino and Heidi, and Peyton Manning the Dog II. Rob and Jocelyn are in charge to some degree, as they can open the back door and fill food bowls, but they don’t take an authoritarian, parental approach. The five are friends and they live like roommates who are close but not too demanding. Everybody does his or her own thing, and no one seems to have undue expectations.
Peyton Manning the Dog tends to dominate the home atmosphere, mostly because he is the youngest and most active, a frenetic creature who likes to play tug of war with pet toys, the torn remains of which are scattered about. Occasionally Peyton lunges at a passing cat, but this is more playful than threatening, though the cats don’t necessarily appreciate the attention. He enjoys licking my legs and feet, which I understand but still discourage. When I first arrived, he almost knocked me down, leaping up to bang chests as if we had just shared some moment of athletic victory. I wasn’t ready and staggered backwards; he tried again, but I just couldn’t quite manage.
Santino is the same color as the gray couch and unfortunately I’ve sat on him a couple times. Heidi wears a bell and is appealingly compact and short-haired. She is markedly smaller than Santino, but doesn’t hesitate to cuff him if he displeases her; this despite the fact (or maybe because) he’s her son.
I spent the day in the house with the cats, reluctant to go out into the 106 degree heat. Rob and Jocelyn had gone off to work, Peyton to his twice weekly dog daycare site, where for ten hours he can run around inside an air-conditioned facility with twenty or so other dogs. If it’s good for small children, and it is, why not for dogs? He comes home worn out with pleasure.
In the evening Rob and I went out to eat at El Taco Fresco, a small restaurant in a sandy-colored strip mall. I had a bean burrito and cheese enchilada combo with rice and beans. Why does too much food continue to seem a good idea, though always afterwards it’s clear it’s not?
We ate in a bar, The Money Place, connected to the restaurant by an interior door. We sat at the bar, on a side without video poker consoles, and watched Game 6 of the NBA Finals, a disappointingly one-sided game, though we both wanted the Celtics to win. Around the other side of the bar a baseball game was on, and a large blonde woman shouted, “Fuck the Padres?”
She had paused from playing tabletop shuffleboard. The long wooden playing surface stretched along one side of the room, and a bald-headed man kept shaking sand down its length before each of his turns.
Rob and I talked about the legal profession (particularly his own work), about politics, about basketball. . . . Someone yelled “the Lakers suck!” and soon after we watched the Celtics celebrate. Kevin Garnett seemed to have lost his mind.
Back at the house we watched a portion of a West Wing episode that Rob wanted me to see for a Hemingway quotation, something about how we are all broken but some become stronger where the broken places heal over. Hopefully, I suppose. Peyton Manning came over and lay down on my feet and exhaled a sigh so contented it could only have been uttered by a dog.
Peyton Manning the Dog tends to dominate the home atmosphere, mostly because he is the youngest and most active, a frenetic creature who likes to play tug of war with pet toys, the torn remains of which are scattered about. Occasionally Peyton lunges at a passing cat, but this is more playful than threatening, though the cats don’t necessarily appreciate the attention. He enjoys licking my legs and feet, which I understand but still discourage. When I first arrived, he almost knocked me down, leaping up to bang chests as if we had just shared some moment of athletic victory. I wasn’t ready and staggered backwards; he tried again, but I just couldn’t quite manage.
Santino is the same color as the gray couch and unfortunately I’ve sat on him a couple times. Heidi wears a bell and is appealingly compact and short-haired. She is markedly smaller than Santino, but doesn’t hesitate to cuff him if he displeases her; this despite the fact (or maybe because) he’s her son.
I spent the day in the house with the cats, reluctant to go out into the 106 degree heat. Rob and Jocelyn had gone off to work, Peyton to his twice weekly dog daycare site, where for ten hours he can run around inside an air-conditioned facility with twenty or so other dogs. If it’s good for small children, and it is, why not for dogs? He comes home worn out with pleasure.
In the evening Rob and I went out to eat at El Taco Fresco, a small restaurant in a sandy-colored strip mall. I had a bean burrito and cheese enchilada combo with rice and beans. Why does too much food continue to seem a good idea, though always afterwards it’s clear it’s not?
We ate in a bar, The Money Place, connected to the restaurant by an interior door. We sat at the bar, on a side without video poker consoles, and watched Game 6 of the NBA Finals, a disappointingly one-sided game, though we both wanted the Celtics to win. Around the other side of the bar a baseball game was on, and a large blonde woman shouted, “Fuck the Padres?”
She had paused from playing tabletop shuffleboard. The long wooden playing surface stretched along one side of the room, and a bald-headed man kept shaking sand down its length before each of his turns.
Rob and I talked about the legal profession (particularly his own work), about politics, about basketball. . . . Someone yelled “the Lakers suck!” and soon after we watched the Celtics celebrate. Kevin Garnett seemed to have lost his mind.
Back at the house we watched a portion of a West Wing episode that Rob wanted me to see for a Hemingway quotation, something about how we are all broken but some become stronger where the broken places heal over. Hopefully, I suppose. Peyton Manning came over and lay down on my feet and exhaled a sigh so contented it could only have been uttered by a dog.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
And why have I come to the desert in June?
The sun came up and morning makes me feel right with the world even when I haven’t slept much. I headed south through rolling hills, and every hundred feet or so a rabbit turned away from the side of the road and stepped slowly back into the bushes, as if to snub me.
I soon came to U.S 50, the famed Lincoln Highway, the nation’s first ocean to ocean auto route. More recently Nevada state marketers have named it the Loneliest Road in America—not exactly misleading but certainly an exagerration.
The Diamond Mountains rose to my left; I came over Pancake Pass, then down and then up to Little Antelope Pass in the White Pine Range. Soon after I turned onto a gravel road that led to Illipah Reservoir hidden in the sagebrush hills.
As scenery the reservoir was disappointing—a sickly algae-green color, small and shrunken from a considerably higher highwater mark—and yet a number of people were camped on a bluff above the water, and several others were down on the barren shore, standing fishing next to their pick-up trucks. I parked on a small knob surrounded by sagebrush and got out, and indeed I could understand the appeal. The air was clear and morning sharp; for the moment there was no wind, just quiet and stillness, and you could see a long ways. Nearby an old man stepped out of a trailer and walked to a lawn chair stationed on the verge of the low bluff above the lake. He sat down and just sat. Pretty soon a young boy came out of the trailer and ran down to the old man and played around his chair. The old man reached out and put a hand on his head.
When traveling alone I tend to notice—and idealize—just about any human contact. The day before in a non-chain convenience store I’d seen a tall woman wearing Wrangler jeans and carrying a baby reach down to her four-year-old boy and put her hand over the top of his close-cropped head; she turned his head to the left then with a rough but not too rough shove impelled him towards the Men’s room door while she kept moving towards the Women’s. No hesitation, no breaking stride, no words; she knew what she was doing and the boy knew what was expected.
Around the town of Ruth the pale green land changes color. Rust-colored ridges, long and uniform, rise up hundreds of feet, the tailings from more than a century of copper mining. I followed a rough road up to an overlook on the verge of Liberty Mine, a vast, terraced, open pit a half mile across and nearly as deep, shading in color from almost white to dark orange. It’s amazing how much earth people can move around, given enough time and heavy equipment. To counter any misgivings, a sign at the overlook listed the many crucial items in a typical house that are made of copper. So shut up.
In the largish town of Ely I stopped for gas, then maps at the Visitor’s Bureau. North of town I drove up into the Schell Creek Range, the last four miles on a dusty gravel road to the East Creek campground in Humboldt National Forest. At road’s end I found only one other vehicle, a pick-up belonging to two young guys on a butterfly survey for the Forest Service.
I set off uphill, on a fading two-track, sweating in the afternoon heat. Sage gave way to mesquite trees, then a few pines. Above me a high rocky ridge ran north south, dotted with just a few small remnants of snow. I was lower than in the Ruby Mountains the day before, and I missed the alpine scene and snow. Here the ground was dry and crumbly, and the occasional dessicated cow pie told of grazing rights. Deer pellets were everywhere. Humans constituted a third megafauna, though I found only a few footprints, no droppings.
I climbed the slope to near the foot of cliffs, where the faint trail disappeared, then traversed to a ravine thick with mesquite and made my way back down. I found a pair of leather hiking boots, so curled and shrunken by age and weathering that it was hard to imagine they had ever been large enough to fit a person’s feet. I wondered how long they had been in that spot, snowed over and then thawed out, over and over again.
The walk was short, a couple hours, since I still had a ways to go to get to Las Vegas at a reasonable hour. Back in the van I headed south, back through Ely, then down long lonely stretches of road prefaced by signs that read “Next gas 109 miles” and then “Next gas 92 miles.” The elevation descended steadily, and the temperature rose. I thought the van was running hot, filling the cabin with hot air, but no, it was just as hot outside. In a dry heat the wind does nothing to cool you off. The radio said 103. I’d forgotten what that meant, what it felt like, and I wondered why I had thought it would be a good idea to spend late June in the Mojave and the Sonoran deserts.
I came out of the last canyon and spotted the vast Vegas sprawl just at dusk. Heavy traffic carried me through the city to the southeast side and Rob’s house.
I soon came to U.S 50, the famed Lincoln Highway, the nation’s first ocean to ocean auto route. More recently Nevada state marketers have named it the Loneliest Road in America—not exactly misleading but certainly an exagerration.
The Diamond Mountains rose to my left; I came over Pancake Pass, then down and then up to Little Antelope Pass in the White Pine Range. Soon after I turned onto a gravel road that led to Illipah Reservoir hidden in the sagebrush hills.
As scenery the reservoir was disappointing—a sickly algae-green color, small and shrunken from a considerably higher highwater mark—and yet a number of people were camped on a bluff above the water, and several others were down on the barren shore, standing fishing next to their pick-up trucks. I parked on a small knob surrounded by sagebrush and got out, and indeed I could understand the appeal. The air was clear and morning sharp; for the moment there was no wind, just quiet and stillness, and you could see a long ways. Nearby an old man stepped out of a trailer and walked to a lawn chair stationed on the verge of the low bluff above the lake. He sat down and just sat. Pretty soon a young boy came out of the trailer and ran down to the old man and played around his chair. The old man reached out and put a hand on his head.
When traveling alone I tend to notice—and idealize—just about any human contact. The day before in a non-chain convenience store I’d seen a tall woman wearing Wrangler jeans and carrying a baby reach down to her four-year-old boy and put her hand over the top of his close-cropped head; she turned his head to the left then with a rough but not too rough shove impelled him towards the Men’s room door while she kept moving towards the Women’s. No hesitation, no breaking stride, no words; she knew what she was doing and the boy knew what was expected.
Around the town of Ruth the pale green land changes color. Rust-colored ridges, long and uniform, rise up hundreds of feet, the tailings from more than a century of copper mining. I followed a rough road up to an overlook on the verge of Liberty Mine, a vast, terraced, open pit a half mile across and nearly as deep, shading in color from almost white to dark orange. It’s amazing how much earth people can move around, given enough time and heavy equipment. To counter any misgivings, a sign at the overlook listed the many crucial items in a typical house that are made of copper. So shut up.
In the largish town of Ely I stopped for gas, then maps at the Visitor’s Bureau. North of town I drove up into the Schell Creek Range, the last four miles on a dusty gravel road to the East Creek campground in Humboldt National Forest. At road’s end I found only one other vehicle, a pick-up belonging to two young guys on a butterfly survey for the Forest Service.
I set off uphill, on a fading two-track, sweating in the afternoon heat. Sage gave way to mesquite trees, then a few pines. Above me a high rocky ridge ran north south, dotted with just a few small remnants of snow. I was lower than in the Ruby Mountains the day before, and I missed the alpine scene and snow. Here the ground was dry and crumbly, and the occasional dessicated cow pie told of grazing rights. Deer pellets were everywhere. Humans constituted a third megafauna, though I found only a few footprints, no droppings.
I climbed the slope to near the foot of cliffs, where the faint trail disappeared, then traversed to a ravine thick with mesquite and made my way back down. I found a pair of leather hiking boots, so curled and shrunken by age and weathering that it was hard to imagine they had ever been large enough to fit a person’s feet. I wondered how long they had been in that spot, snowed over and then thawed out, over and over again.
The walk was short, a couple hours, since I still had a ways to go to get to Las Vegas at a reasonable hour. Back in the van I headed south, back through Ely, then down long lonely stretches of road prefaced by signs that read “Next gas 109 miles” and then “Next gas 92 miles.” The elevation descended steadily, and the temperature rose. I thought the van was running hot, filling the cabin with hot air, but no, it was just as hot outside. In a dry heat the wind does nothing to cool you off. The radio said 103. I’d forgotten what that meant, what it felt like, and I wondered why I had thought it would be a good idea to spend late June in the Mojave and the Sonoran deserts.
I came out of the last canyon and spotted the vast Vegas sprawl just at dusk. Heavy traffic carried me through the city to the southeast side and Rob’s house.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Northern Nevada deserves more attention than it gets
Before I left Boise, Grandpa gave me a white envelope with my name, first and last both, written on it in all capitals. Back in the early 80s when I would take a bus up from San Diego to see him in L.A., he started giving me these envelopes of cash, a ten back then, a couple twenties in recent years. He never says a word about the contents, just hands me the envelope as if it’s something irritating that he needs to get shut of.
At dawn I headed back down to Mountain Home, then south across the Snake River and into the vast sagebrush. The high desert rolled away and away, to the brown Owyhee Mountains to the west, uninterrupted in all other directions. Yellow flowers of balsamroot stood low among the pale green and ubiquitous sage. Occasionally I spotted grazing bands of pronghorn antelope; once a coyote dashed across the two-lane highway. Ravens hopped away from ground squirrel roadkill as I passed by.
Down near the Nevada border, on the lands of the Shoshone-Paiute tribes, wetlands lined the road. Yellow-headed blackbirds perched on narrow green reeds, and through the open windows I could hear snatches of their songs. In a damp field a hundred white-faced ibis poked at the ground with their long, curved beaks; another group of the dark birds appeared overhead, looking to land. The road climbed into a jumble of hills and soon I came to Wildhorse Reservoir, where white pelicans and Clark’s grebes and double-breasted cormorants floated on the still water.
Beyond the reservoir I came upon a swarm of amber-colored grasshoppers crawling and hopping on and covering the warm roadway. The loud crackling sound of their carapaces popping beneath the wheels of the van was disturbingly pleasing. I passed over several swarms, some just a couple hundred yards long, one two miles. Later when I stopped I found that the van was splattered orange and green a foot or so up on either side, as if I’d driven through mud.
Late in the morning, I reached Elko, a substantial town which, like many other northern Nevada towns, feels quintessentially “western.” I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it has something to do with the signs: maybe it’s the dry air, maybe it’s nostalgic foresight, but in Elko and Ely and Winnemucca many signs from the fifties and sixties survive. Large and metal and light-bulbed or neoned, they depict cowboys and miners and dancehall girls, advertising casinos and motels and restaurants. The Silver Dollar. The Buckboard Inn, The Stockman’s Hotel. Peg-leg Annie’s. Jew Jake’s.
I got gas and paid $4.09, a low price if I’d only known. It would rise and rise again as I proceeded south through the state. The day had grown hot and hazy and oppressive, and I was feeling tired and bored with myself. I drank a Coca-Cola and my mood improved.
From Elko, I drove into the Ruby Mountains, up Lamoille Canyon to a dead-end where rocky peaks rose to ten and eleven thousand feet; large patches of snow remained not only up high but all the way down to the road. The parking lot was busy with Sunday visitors, but few strayed far from the fast stream at the bottom of the canyon. I found a trailhead sign that read “Island Lake 2 miles” and decided to give it a try. The path switchbacked up out of the canyon, and soon I was crossing steep snowfields, digging my feet sideways into the soft snow and hoping not to slip. (Alix, this wasn’t really dangerous: losing my footing would have meant sliding down to rocks and maybe getting a few scrapes, but certainly not death.) A small wooden bridge crossed a fierce torrent of snow melt; small streams, a foot or two wide, popped up out of the snow all over the open slope, sometimes taking to the path for a stretch.
Eventually I reached a bench that held small Island Lake, still encased by ice except for an open sliver along one bank. On the opposite side a jagged peak loomed. I kept on upwards, trudging over the ridged, sun-softened snow—now uninterrupted except for an occasional boulder or pine tree—up into a bowl surrounded by high black-rock mountains.
Lower down I found a small open spot and sat down for a rest in the shade of two pines. The air smelled of the trees and of melting snow, and I felt happy. I was reading a few pages from Trollope’s The Eustace Diamonds when a dog appeared suddenly just a few feet away. For a moment I didn’t realize what exactly I was seeing—it was shaggy and wide and tailless and reminded me of those scary dog-like creatures in the film Willow. It trotted up, put its wet, muddy muzzle in my lap, then turned away when I didn’t immediately respond. A couple came up over a small ridge and yelled something at the dog.
Back down in Elko, I headed west and soon after south, on 278, a townless stretch of 150 miles, across wide valleys and up into hills covered in squat junipers. At dark I stopped at Garden Pass (elev. 6686) and parked in a wide pull-out. The end of game 5 of the NBA Finals was just listenable through the AM radio night static. I made a bed in the back, read for a bit, tried to sleep, but spent the night in an unreasonably jumpy state. Alix preferred campgrounds to the lonely, solo spot, such as Garden Pass, and she’s got something there. There’s also something to be said for company, and I was missing hers.
At dawn I headed back down to Mountain Home, then south across the Snake River and into the vast sagebrush. The high desert rolled away and away, to the brown Owyhee Mountains to the west, uninterrupted in all other directions. Yellow flowers of balsamroot stood low among the pale green and ubiquitous sage. Occasionally I spotted grazing bands of pronghorn antelope; once a coyote dashed across the two-lane highway. Ravens hopped away from ground squirrel roadkill as I passed by.
Down near the Nevada border, on the lands of the Shoshone-Paiute tribes, wetlands lined the road. Yellow-headed blackbirds perched on narrow green reeds, and through the open windows I could hear snatches of their songs. In a damp field a hundred white-faced ibis poked at the ground with their long, curved beaks; another group of the dark birds appeared overhead, looking to land. The road climbed into a jumble of hills and soon I came to Wildhorse Reservoir, where white pelicans and Clark’s grebes and double-breasted cormorants floated on the still water.
Beyond the reservoir I came upon a swarm of amber-colored grasshoppers crawling and hopping on and covering the warm roadway. The loud crackling sound of their carapaces popping beneath the wheels of the van was disturbingly pleasing. I passed over several swarms, some just a couple hundred yards long, one two miles. Later when I stopped I found that the van was splattered orange and green a foot or so up on either side, as if I’d driven through mud.
Late in the morning, I reached Elko, a substantial town which, like many other northern Nevada towns, feels quintessentially “western.” I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it has something to do with the signs: maybe it’s the dry air, maybe it’s nostalgic foresight, but in Elko and Ely and Winnemucca many signs from the fifties and sixties survive. Large and metal and light-bulbed or neoned, they depict cowboys and miners and dancehall girls, advertising casinos and motels and restaurants. The Silver Dollar. The Buckboard Inn, The Stockman’s Hotel. Peg-leg Annie’s. Jew Jake’s.
I got gas and paid $4.09, a low price if I’d only known. It would rise and rise again as I proceeded south through the state. The day had grown hot and hazy and oppressive, and I was feeling tired and bored with myself. I drank a Coca-Cola and my mood improved.
From Elko, I drove into the Ruby Mountains, up Lamoille Canyon to a dead-end where rocky peaks rose to ten and eleven thousand feet; large patches of snow remained not only up high but all the way down to the road. The parking lot was busy with Sunday visitors, but few strayed far from the fast stream at the bottom of the canyon. I found a trailhead sign that read “Island Lake 2 miles” and decided to give it a try. The path switchbacked up out of the canyon, and soon I was crossing steep snowfields, digging my feet sideways into the soft snow and hoping not to slip. (Alix, this wasn’t really dangerous: losing my footing would have meant sliding down to rocks and maybe getting a few scrapes, but certainly not death.) A small wooden bridge crossed a fierce torrent of snow melt; small streams, a foot or two wide, popped up out of the snow all over the open slope, sometimes taking to the path for a stretch.
Eventually I reached a bench that held small Island Lake, still encased by ice except for an open sliver along one bank. On the opposite side a jagged peak loomed. I kept on upwards, trudging over the ridged, sun-softened snow—now uninterrupted except for an occasional boulder or pine tree—up into a bowl surrounded by high black-rock mountains.
Lower down I found a small open spot and sat down for a rest in the shade of two pines. The air smelled of the trees and of melting snow, and I felt happy. I was reading a few pages from Trollope’s The Eustace Diamonds when a dog appeared suddenly just a few feet away. For a moment I didn’t realize what exactly I was seeing—it was shaggy and wide and tailless and reminded me of those scary dog-like creatures in the film Willow. It trotted up, put its wet, muddy muzzle in my lap, then turned away when I didn’t immediately respond. A couple came up over a small ridge and yelled something at the dog.
Back down in Elko, I headed west and soon after south, on 278, a townless stretch of 150 miles, across wide valleys and up into hills covered in squat junipers. At dark I stopped at Garden Pass (elev. 6686) and parked in a wide pull-out. The end of game 5 of the NBA Finals was just listenable through the AM radio night static. I made a bed in the back, read for a bit, tried to sleep, but spent the night in an unreasonably jumpy state. Alix preferred campgrounds to the lonely, solo spot, such as Garden Pass, and she’s got something there. There’s also something to be said for company, and I was missing hers.
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