Above the hill town of Austin, Nevada – and a whole lot of nothing on the other side.
It’s been a long day of driving. But it was exciting. I left San Francisco across the Bay Bridge, took 80 North to Sacramento and headed east on 50.
I started here.
That last sentence is for my dad, or people like him. People that can talk about maps and routes for hours on end. I’m not talking apps either. I’m talking poring over maps with a magnifying glass and writing meticulous notes on every dip and turn in the road. To talk to my dad about a road trip goes something like this.
“How are you going to get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You going to take I-40 to I-70?”
“No idea. A voice decides. Some computer navigation does all the thinking for me.”
“You could take I-80 to I-50, or you could take the 101 to the 46 to the 5 to the 15 to the 40 to the 70 and up. Or you could take I 80 through Salt Lake, catch a flight to Durango, rent a car and head northeast through the Arizona badlands. Then again…”
“I’ve got to –breaking up — phone—”
Outside of Stagecoach, Nevada. Not the best place to open a real estate office.
Pretty much right after you get past Sacramento its a great drive. It’s one of those freeways that turn from freeway to main street in every town you go through. Much better than taking I-80 I thought. The interstates toss you along too fast and you don’t see anything but fast-food joints and gas stations. This way I got to see more of what I was driving through–which is what I wanted.
You head through South Lake Tahoe – sort of like Switzerland and Liberace and Sasquatch made a baby – at some point you cross into Nevada…and then it’s a string of dying or dead small towns interspersed with the middle of absolute nowhere. It’s the part of the country the U.S. decided was only suited for dropping bombs on.
In the town of Fallon I saw signs asking people to call a number if they encountered any foul odors. There’s probably some nuclear bomb sewage and other discontinued toxic stuff lurking in the ground out there.
Above the hill town of Austin, Nevada – and a whole lot of nothing on the other side.
I drove through a series of mountains interspersed with valleys of sand and scrub brush. Lots of dead houses and old gas stations and would-be tourist traps and never had a chance housing communities. It was great!
Getting dark in a land of giant flying predators.
I almost hit what I thought was a Chupacabra or a rogue Bull Mastiff. I saw it in my headlights, some massive beast hunched over something on the freeway. I was on the verge of convincing myself it was a silverback gorilla when it flew away, struggling with what looked like a rabbit in its talons. It was the biggest bird of prey I’ve ever seen. It was like a genetically modified eagle juiced with testosterone. It shrieked at me when I tried not to hit it, and looked like it might make a go at me. It’s probably some military robot bird.
The problem with taking the scenic route is nobody does it. Everyone takes the fast route, because that’s where the motels are. I would hear about a town, then drive through and see that everything was closed and the town had moved on. I made it as far as Ely, but the sun went down, and I didn’t fancy navigating all the turns in the dark. It’s a small cow town (live bull riding every Saturday night! All You Can Eat Barbecue Chicken Dinner at the Hotel Nevada Restaurant! Free late night stabbings outside The Liberty Club!) but for out here, it’s the biggest thing going.
—To Be Continued…
