I was looking forward to being back in California almost as much as I was keen to leave the desert behind. Layne had a lesion burned off her leg on Wednesday and the dermatologist pronounced her fit to travel by Friday. GANNET2 and I were ready, Rusty who enjoyed two days lounging at the Hampton Inn was a little less enthusiastic about returning to the road.
He and Layne spent much of the journey on the bed keeping her leg elevated while I drove. It was a long day. Highway 93 north of Phoenix:
We got an oil change in Kingman to break up the monotony which was further interrupted by some 4,000 foot passes driven up and down to get through the southern tip of Nevada.
Bullhead City Arizona welcomed us on a one hundred degree afternoon and we lusted after the locals camped on the Arizona beach on the shore of the Colorado River. The rushing river looked so cool and clean and fresh.
The Nevada side was dedicated to the indoor sport of losing money rapidly while hoping hopelessly to retire early. Further up the road I was struck by a Denny’s, “America’s Diner,” sharing a building with a package liquor store and a casino. Nevada does that to mess with your mind and I still fall for how odd the Silver State is. Laughlin Nevada seen from the Arizona side of the river:
I like backroads and I discovered Nipton California sits on the border with Nevada between Highway 95 and I-15 the main road between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. So instead of sticking to I-40 we took the back roads. Nipton is a dump, a desert rat hole of decaying wooden buildings and dusty wobbly RVs that appear no longer mobile. One thing was that we did not pass through the agricultural inspection station customary at the state line as there is no traffic here. A big sign said commercial carriers need clearance papers to sell produce in California but we needed no such papers.
We stopped in Barstow to buy dinner, a steak ranchera plate for Layne and a weird burrito for me which tasted okay but had crinkled French fries inside. Never had that before. I woofed it.
While Layne ordered dinner to go I walked Rusty behind the dilapidated unoccupied anchor store in the mall.
Decay is oddly attractive in passing and I enjoyed the symmetry and angles of the industrial building.
It was restful after a long days drive. I had an embarrassment of riches when it came to choosing which dumpster to use to store Rusty’s dog egg deposited with some fine discrimination in the dirt behind the building.
I thought the bright colors and the red motel sign (below) were evocative of the photography of William Egglestone and Stephen Shore, whose work Google can easily display to you. A voice asked me what I was photographing? How to explain the mid 20th century photographic revolution of recording daily scenes in color after decades of holding photography up as an art form only in black and white? Freedom I called back abbreviating the complexity I thought, with a masterful all American motif appealing to anyone. Not so to the angry man. I thought he might have wanted to be angry at me for not picking up after my dog and my habitual clean up done without thought deprived him of a legitimate excuse to bully me. People are weird. I like being a nomad.
Highway 58 after I-15 produced more desert, a little rain and an endless stream of traffic en route to Las Vegas (“the plains”) for a weekend of gamboling in Sun City. Naughty people.
California roads are dismal and similar in bounciness to Mexican toll roads. Not a good thing. I was tired.
We stopped for the night at a rest area called Boron 90 minutes shy of Bakersfield where we plan breakfast with a friend. The Borax visitors’ center is a stone’s throw north of us in the desert. We shall skip that place this visit. I loved using borax in my laundry in our fixed Florida house as it gave clothes a freshness I miss. Mind you I some days I miss freshness altogether in van life.
Sun down and 95 degrees still. Thank heavens for our battery powered roof air conditioning.
I promised Layne fresh mussels for Sunday lunch in Morro Bay. I never thought I would be looking forward so much to California’s notoriously foggy cool coastal air. Never again shall I complain of being cold in summer on the Central Coast. I promise.
