Travelogues Pt 1: Disconnected Points

Travelogues: Disconnected Points Pt. 1
by K. Dudley

I.
I decided to leave on Saturday rather than Friday so that I could catch one last Sharks game. There's always a difficulty leaving a place on a Friday, since you can be sure there's always going to be one last hoorah that you might miss, and if you've enjoyed a place well enough that's not how you want to go out. It's easier to escape on a Saturday morning, running head first into the morning sun, while everyone is writhing and dessicated from the night before. A quiet escape from town usually buys you a few days before your absence is fully realized, which in the short-term can ease the transition. It creates something of a time rift where your actions and those of the inhabitants of your previous world are operating out-of-sync from one another.

I was glad that I stuck around though because it ended up being a terrific game. Handzus and Marleau nabbed the victory by slipping two shootout goals through Nashville's netminder's mit- I don't remember the goalkeeps name but it was Polish, I think. The game was tight but somewhat lulzy through the first three periods, but got progressively more exciting in overtime and then finally the shootout. It's sad to say, but I have arguably seen better semi-pro games before, but this was likely the last Sharks (NHL) game I would catch for a long while, so I appreciated the show they put on. I stuck around for a while after the game for as long as I was legally allowed, being neither a member of a team or the media, and eventually I was politely escorted to the stairs, the ramp, and to the front steps by some of HP Pav's finest. It was my estimation at the time that they had perhaps not had the same number of $7.50, 18oz commemorative cup-fulls from the second bowl as I.

II.
Since it was winter, careful planning to safely reach Denver was necessary. I spent weeks debating whether to go north or south, with both routes having their pros and cons. Aesthetically, I felt the prefered route would have been to go the scenic route north to Tahoe: Sacramento-Reno-SLC- Cheyenne-D. But I-80 is notorious for road closures from ice and snow, and frankly I just didn't have time for that, nor did I have much in the way of excess money to spend on what could turn out to be several nights holed up in Wyoming or Utah motels. I gritted my teeth and accepted that going south was the more forethoughtful compromise of safety and economy.

When morning arrived, I caught 101 south out of San Jose and met up with I-5 via Gilroy-San Luis Reservoir State Recreation Area. I'm sure there are a handful of CA-HWY enthusiasts who would KO my philistine point-of-view, but I'm fairly confident it's the consensus op that driving the 5 is dull.

There is nothing charming about being reminded every 5 miles by sign posts from distressed agrarians and political dissidents that the Central Valley of California is becoming a congress created dustbowl. I feel a desert, a destitution, vapidness and a vacuum within me on the issue, because I simply don't fully understand what it's exactly all about. Maybe I need to watch Chinatown again. The fact of the matter is, we're all from somewhere, and every state, city, county, country, solar system, star system, particle system, microcosm, macrocosm, a caelo usque ad centrum, everywhere, everywhere, has it's own multiplicity of problems, and my emotional economy simply doesn't have an allotment for concern for the overwhelming issues of CA.

On a lighter note, as the aforementioned downer is mainly encountered on a roughly 225 mi segment of the 5, you can very easily make it from the Bay to Bakersfield on a single tank of gas, which limits the number of stops necessary along the way. That being the case, I held my breath for a few hours, made a few pit stops, and before I knew it I was rounding California City and making my way into Barstow.

From Barstow, I was left to arbitrate between my two options that would bring me east. It was becoming evident that all of my maps were indicating that the fastest way to Denver was through Las Vegas on 15, then to 70, then Grand Junction-Lakewood Springs-Lakewood, and then she would say 'You have arrived at your destination'. Naturally, passing through Vegas appealed greatly to my more debased side.

You would have to be a crazy son of a bitch to drive directly through the Rockies in the middle of winter- in a 12 year old car- loaded to the brim with a life's worth of belongings- haphazard brakes- pigeontoed wheels- and a drivers-side back window that doesn't shut. Still, the appeal was there and consideration was given. It turns out I'd rather take my chances driving the slow pitches and plateaus of the lower Southwest states and spend the extra 4 hours on the road. Whatever the case, the intervention of nature would have made the decision for me shortly after Vegas had I chosen to take that route. I saddled up, and settled the matter by propelling onward towards Needles, CA, through the quiet expanse of the two-lane highway under the halcyon desert sun of winter.

I decided it would be prudent to set a goal for the evening, so I honed my sites on Flagstaff. I'd been through Flagstaff a time or two around May and August and I remembered the beautiful scenery of the Ponderosa pines lining the strip of I-40 as you pass through before you reach the endless drylands of eastern AZ-NM-TX.

I reached Needles, CA around 18:05 and the sun was setting. I'd remembered the scenery along of the stretch of road from the CA border to Seligsman. The sun-red cliffs alternate from the up close, in- your-face sandstone corridors to the picturesque panorama that gives you the 'boy-we-sure-are-small- in-the-scheme-of-things-ain't-wepaw' conscieous experience of countless American families en route to the Grand Canyon. This is an excellent day-time excursion, but is a far more precarious adventure during the bedtime hours. A slip of the wheel and you'll be sharing your paint job with the side of the cliffs, or perhaps better (since you won't even see your impending death!), you also have the option of plunging down into a R-66, mojave (eventually rocky) abyss to meet Will Rogers at the pearly gates.

By the time I crossed into AZ, night had descended like sackcloth, and I could not swear under oath that my eyes were consistently open. For some unbeknownst reason, I'm a sucker for any metamorphoses in climate during a drive, and there was a pleasant (and sudden) drop to somewhere in the 30's-40's in Western AZ. It was thirteen hours into the trip and now I had new life breathed in my lungs from the light, cool air, roughly 20 degrees cooler than my humid Bay morning, and I was prepared to push on, despite my digressive visionary prowess. I keyed in and glared blindly into the night, and up ahead I could see the iginis fatuus rising and glowing from the highway out into the distance near what might have been Kingman. In an instant, my eyes regained the alacrity they had eight hours ago near Fresno.

I'd driven the Appalachains many years earlier in winter with my wife at the time when we were together. I barnstormed our voyage with the dangerous combination of egotism and impetuosity that sadly has resulted in many-a crucifix along many of our major U.S. Highways. She followed behind me in her car 1200 miles from Detroit down to New Orleans, and I imagine much of the verbage of the transcripts of those monologues would have turned a bible-belt housewife's swear jar into a taxable entity. It was exciting/terrifying for me, but it was something I swore I would not do again, alone or with a fleet of any kind. Those powdery, spiriling roads at only 500ft were quite enough.

III.
From Kingman, despite the dark, the drive seemed to be smooth sailing for the foreseeable future. I stopped to refuel for a few minutes, got some provisions (highly caffeinated!), did a few Eagle Arms, Neck Rolls, and Butterfly Wings and got back in the captains chair. Delerium was setting in- I was going to make it to Denver by 8:00A. I'd made it this far and I'm not even tired. Once I'd hit Flagstaff I'd practically already be there, only another 11 hours and by that point, I'd already done 13-15. What was another 11.

Inexperience can be a dangerous aphrodisiac for the traveling senses. The lack of knowledge of the road ahead creates an excitement that can be hard to part with. We dream of alien worlds, of the uncharted, the unfamiliar, the exotic, the unexplored, and justifying and minimizing the risks are all part of the mental gymnastics we perform in satiating these urges. Whether it's the road, the girl, the career, personal edification, we take on challenges that we feel necessary to behoove our desires. Reality becomes the illusion, danger and headway become our providence, and only unmitigated miscarriage of our ambitions can initiate our retreat.