Los Angeles, California to Wichita, Kansas (1630 miles, approximately)

15 minutes into Colorado, XM radio starts playing "Rocky Mountain High" I shit thee not.

Quote of the Day: "OK, we’re gonna be cool. We’re gonna be sooo cool. We’re the coolest of the cool, chillaxin in Chilltown. Cool and chillaxed, AND WHY IS THERE NO GUARDRAIL, Okay let’s forget about the guardrail, there is no guardrail, there is no spoon, we’re cool it’s all cool. We’re not gonna look at that cloud, we’re not gonna think about that cloud right there, we’re gonna chillax and be cool. So. Very. Cool."—Me, Loveland Pass, Colorado

If memory serves, it went something like this: Long route from LA to Vegas > Crescent Junction Rest Stop (Utah) > Denver > Colorado Springs > Wichita

If it seems foggy, it is—I am recollecting from just a couple of days ago, but I would point very pointedly to the approximate mileage above, and 3 times zones of driving travel in a two-day period. Lordy Lordy.

I had intended to stay in Colorado Springs for two nights, thus breaking up the travel just a bit, but the weather had other ideas and I had to flee rather late in the day, not even 24 hours in town, to beat the oncoming snow and rain. I had also intended to visit Garden of the Gods, sleep overnight at a Kansas rest stop, and visit Dodge City before heading home. Good thing I tanked that whole plan, because as it turns out, a blizzard blew through Kansas, too, and dumped 16 inches of snow right along my planned route.

California sundown

I left LA straight from the West Hollywood library and took the longer, northern route because I was tired of going through LA straight east as that had been the same route I took to get back to Fontana every night. This was the only part of traveling in LA where I experienced grid lock. Every time we’d reach a clear area, I could never see a cause for the slowdown in the first place, so I’ll just blame it on the fact that LA drivers are comprised of two species: Caffeinated squirrels & obstinate mules. For most of my visit we managed to all coexist peacefully, performing the exquisitely timed ballet of graceful merging, twisting in and out of lanes and no honking or discernable ill will in sight. I know my LA driving is limited (though honestly, not that limited) and that LA is notorious for wild driving, but I felt far more fearful driving in Dallas. For example, in LA, there were no Mega Manly Truck Grilles pressed to my Rogue’s ass…instead, when people would get aggressive, they were tiny little gnats in my wake. There are very few of those TRUCK YEAH trucks in LA.

Once I cleared the traffic, the drive toward Nevada was lovely. It is a very mountainous area and sundown was warm and glowing fire dissolving into quiet night. When I came upon my intended sleeping arrangement for the evening—Valley Wells Rest Area in California—I shouldn’t have been surprised to find it closed for renovation. There was no inkling that this was imminent when I made my plans awhile back, but sometimes you have to go with the flow and, as it turned out, there just happened to be a town just a little farther down the road made almost entirely of hotels, neon, and broken dreams.

I had planned to drive through Las Vegas the next day to catch lunch somewhere weird, but instead I ended up staying at a recently renovated motel on the north, slightly sketchier end of the Strip: The Thunderbird Boutique Hotel. It turned out to be a great place to land, with parking in the back that made it feel semi safe. The hotel was colorful and well designed and the rooms themselves were huge. There was no padding under the carpet, and it felt uneven and strange as though God Knows What was under there, so I made a little towel path around the bed to avoid getting too ooged out.

If you’ve ever been lucky enough to have a house built from scratch, thus affording you the luxury of visiting the framed in construction site and all subsequent stages of the build, you will get to see the unseemly part of it too: The Rude Ass Garbage Situation. The crew just throws chip bags, cigarette butts, etc., wherever they happen to be standing, so you end up with permanent garbage under your house (definitely) and, depending on your builder, even under your damn carpet (maybe). It’s infuriating and super gross. So, this is what I thought of when I walked on the uneven Carpet of Secrets and decided nope.

Biker cops

 I slept like a dead rock and woke up to find my car nice and safe in the lot and ready for the long drive across Utah to the next rest stop (which from my searches, appeared to be open). Before leaving I decided to visit the library on a whim (covered in another post) and make a few passes up and down the Strip to take some pictures.

Las Vegas is far more impressive at night, with miles of neon beckoning and hypnotizing, but it’s still quite a sight to see in the daytime. You get to see who the real go getters are, too, up bright and early and full-tilt squirrely, running around taking pictures and making memories. It’s also a time of day when dragging the Strip is mild and gentle, not too busy or maniacal, and an actual, non-stressful joy.

 What struck me was how much had changed since I’d been there last…though to be fair, it had been a long, long time (the 90s!) so what did I expect, right? I absolutely loved the tacky part of Vegas the last time I’d seen it—anything over the top ridiculous, like Circus Circus, Excalibur, the Flamingo, and of course Caesar’s Palace, big time. Loud, brazen, and shameless: Bring it. From different media sources (okay, The Real World) I knew more “standard” hotels (rectangular monoliths absent all that flashy cashy neon delight) were going up over the years since I’d last visited, and it was true there were quite a few, making the skyline far more cosmopolitan than I’d remembered, but there was still plenty of wonderful and weird to counter the boring, glass bricks of standard hotel fare.

I’ve been to Vegas twice, the first time we stayed at Circus Circus, the second time we stayed at the Luxor. While I tried gambling a bit, I only ever sampled the slot machines and never went anywhere near the craps, cards, or roulette wheel. Interesting factoid about rehab: One of the first questions they ask you is Do you have a gambling problem? Followed up by, Have you turned to gambling when you could not access your drug of choice? I couldn’t have been more surprised if they’d asked me had I ever eaten asparagus on a moonlight boat ride. But apparently, it is a thing—same pleasure receptors and all that. But not for me. I generally find gambling boring, and am more likely to see the expenditure of even one dollar in that enterprise as nothing more than throwing it into the fires of Mount Doom. This, of course, coming from the person who used to blow at least $100/week on vices. Not bad, right? Compared to, say, a heroin budget? All smart abusers buy in bulk!

I intended to pull over and spend a dollar on a slot machine just to say I did it, but I forgot and ended up leaving town (and Nevada) never taking advantage of the opportunity. Oh well. There will be a next time, I have no doubt.

Some favorite shots between Las Vegas and Zion...

Even if you are not a gambler, I would still recommend going to Vegas just to see the excess of it all. You will have to bear some sadness, though, as there are many, many indigent people everywhere. I even saw the tent city erected very near the library. It is away from the Strip itself, but not that far. Gird your feelings and do it regardless. Stay a couple of nights in Vegas, do whatever makes you happy, then drive the same route I took from Vegas to Denver (I15 to I70). This drive is unbelievably beautiful. I took some pictures along the way, but it doesn’t capture how gorgeous it is. You’ve got to put your human eyes on it, with all that luxurious peripheral vision.

I forgot about the dang switch to Mountain time, so arrived too late to see much of Zion, but I took some pictures of the area just outside the park which was, in my opinion, pretty damned impressive. I can see why they named this park Zion. It looks like an excellent place to be still and take measure of things, both great and small.

The town just outside the park (Springdale) is just about the cutest thing I have ever seen with lots of little homes with flower gardens and beautiful wood framed mom-and-pop businesses lining the one main street that weaves its way up to the main gate. The whole area is so gobsmacking gorgeous I’ve already made a promise to myself to come back for the express purpose of staying in this town and spending some real time there. Excruciatingly precious town meets majestic, stunning locale = Top Destination.

After the side trip to Zion, I continued my journey through Utah and made my way to the Crescent Junction Rest stop to burrow in for the night. It was very cold and I’ve finally learned that I am human and not impervious to chills. Worse yet, Utah’s rest stops leave everything to be desired, including the fact that the toilets are somewhere near the damn floor so you practically have to fall on them. They’re also those “natural” type toilets so that it smells like hell forever. Watered down soap, hand dryers, and no way to open the door without touching it just added to the charm. GUH. Can I just mention, by the way, that the ONLY state-run rest areas I visited on this leg with swing-out doors you never have to touch were in KANSAS? Seriously, guys, get it together.

Although I woke up at the rest stop a bit groggy, I thought I was fortified and ready for the drive…it seemed manageable, just 5-6 hours, and I was going to meet up with an old high school friend after visiting a library in Denver to boot. So much time! So much energy! So much forgetting that what stood between me and the rest of my day was the goddamned Rocky Mountains. Before getting to the Let’s All Be Cool part of the story, I should state the obvious: The Rockies are incredible. Driving ever upward and winding to and fro, it was a pleasure to see all those cabinesque villages nestled in the flattest corners of the mountains, with hidden lakes and fierce drops into soft plumes of white snow and tiny jagged trees. It truly is a wonderland.

 

Things were going great. It was snowing a bit, but nothing unmanageable, and I even got to see skiers near Vail going zoom zoom zoom down the mountain. It was delightful. The snow grew thicker, but we were all doing fine traversing I-70, going the speed limit, and no perceptible ice in sight. The worst part for me was the state of the road—every time there was a hollow of collected water, my car would do a mini hydroplane, which would kick the cruise control off and, when going upward, jolted the car and made the damn drive seem more like off-roading than commuting through the civilized world. Nothing about driving through the Rockies feels remotely civilized to me, though, as it is both fascinating and horrifying that humans saw this somewhat (completely) inhospitable environment and thought, Let’s live here. But this is just my Kansas showing…it’s also why every time I saw a mountain (or hill) on my trip, I got overexcited and screamed at it because WOW WOW.

At Silverthorn, the cops had cordoned off the Interstate, forcing all cars to exit and find another way. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going, I did not. I pulled over and, after some quick consultation, put my trust in Google Map Woman. I know, I know. What was I thinking? Probably something along the lines of She would never hurt me. Because I am a foole. When she said Let’s go on Colorado 6, I said, OKEY DOKEY.

So ever upward we went. It was still snowing but I took heart as I passed Keystone ski resort. I knew living humans who had skied there. So obviously I would be fine. After all, it was almost May. Practically summer! But I still didn’t know where I was until I saw the sign. Loveland pass. I knew Loveland Pass, I didn’t know much, other than the fact that it was HIGH. Very high. And by the time I reached this sign, there was really nowhere else to go.

Things got stony quiet in my car. I started having my first full blown panic attack in I don’t know how long. I was hyper aware of the altitude, thin air, and losing my breath the harder I panicked. I put the cold air on high and turned all the vents to blow directly on my face.

When I have a panic attack, I go molten hot. All the air leaves the room. Everything goes far and wee. I had to get my shit together and fast.

So I started talking to myself as the road went higher and wound tighter and tighter. My one comfort was every average, non-ATV, non-SUV I would see passing the other way. If a damn Toyota Tercel could make it, I would make it. Just keep cool, freezy breezy, cool cool cool, and go as slow as necessary and do not give one thought to people behind me. Luckily there was an old truck at the lead and it had to corner slowly anyway, so the stress of being the cause of backing up traffic behind me was voided out anyway.

One added stressor that I had never even considered when making all these plans and setting up my car for both travel and lodging became evident the higher I went: the air mattress. Apparently either the thin air or the temperature change (or some combination of the two) made the air inside it e x  p   a    n     d.

I heard a terrible, tight squeaking right behind my head. This is while I was already a clenched muscle of acid-laden terror, so you can imagine my reaction. Whatthefuckwasthat. I felt behind me and it was pushing up against my seat, hard, and completely taut. So, as I drove I waited for the boom. Would it just separate at the seam and just kind of woof? Would it pop like a big bubble wrap? Or would it be an atomic BOOM, shattering my nerves and sending me careening, screaming into the white abyss?

So I talked to myself like a maniacal therapist with an infinitesimal vocabulary. And it calmed me down, thank God. I made it down the mountain and back to I70 (which was open at that end) and continued on to Denver. I was even able to appreciate the signs posted for truckers especially: Big, yellow signs yelling at them to stay in a lower gear because the declines were ongoing. These signs say things like, Not yet, truckers! And You are still not done! Huge, official signs. Which makes me think Colorado has had to deal with a great number of massive trucks zinging down these roads and flying off of mountains left and right. Imagine an airborne semi. It must feel so light and free! Before it dies in a clashing screech and ball of searing flame of course.

The mattress never blew up, by the way. I am going to write the most adoring product review for this thing, you have no idea. Wal-Mart! $7.44!

By the time I got to Denver I was exhausted so cancelled the library and meet up (sorry Michael!) and went straight to the AirBNB. What a lovely place—very suburban (and near nothing) but they have a great view of Pike’s Peak and the greatest bulldog on the planet: Roscoe. Look at this face. He was the sweetest meatball of furry love. Roscoe especially loves scratches behind the ears and guarding the front door. He makes the most expressive grunts and groans. He should be famous.

A Star

I spent the evening photo editing and vegging out on Netflix. By the next morning, I felt much better and decided to head toward the mountains again. I’d picked out several Colorado Springs area libraries to visit, and the smallest and most remote was located in the historic little village of Manitou. While there, I overheard people talking about an oncoming storm. There was no electricity to be found for my laptop, so I decided to move on to another, larger library, and vowed to look into the weather situation once I got there. Probably not a big deal.

I headed over to the 21c Library in Colorado Springs, took pictures, and mooned over the place for a while (I’ll cover this later). It wasn’t until 2 or so when I finally got around to checking the weather report for the area. Storm alert, 8-10 inches, travel not advised after the snow starts. Shit.

I made a decision. Go home. I have the luxury of going back to the Garden of the Gods and Dodge City at a later date. Knowing that there was a storm coming also meant car sleeping would only be colder and more miserable, no doubt, and God knows if I would be snowed in or what. I hightailed it back to the AirBNB, packed up, gave goodbye snuggles to Roscoe, and set out for Kansas.

Kansas Rest Area

I recall promising to assess which drive was more boring: Roswell to Albuquerque or Denver to Wichita. While it is true that Kansas is flat, it is also a soft and sweeping plains of flat. As opposed to scrubby, grubby desert. I suppose it is just a preference, probably based on familiarity, but I still think the aesthetics are significantly different. The old but extremely superior rest stops in Kansas also add to my assessment—they are very well maintained and stocked and, as I mentioned before, feature the ever-important swing out doors. Much to my delight, they still play radio weather broadcasts from ancient speakers on the exterior of the building, this time echoing what I now know turned out to be not just bad weather for Colorado, but extremely bad weather for Kansas.

After night fell, somewhere between Hays and Salina, eventually in my line of sight emerged a sea of red lights pulsating in unison far into the horizon. It was pitch black, so all I could see was what was directly in front of my headlights and the mystery lights blinking, slow and steady. On my life I could not fathom what they were for, but they were magical and I hoped they were alien beacons which of course they were not. Sorry New Mexico, Kansas has you spanked.

I arrived home around 11:15 that evening, zombified and overwhelmed. It was wonderful to see my mom, though, and meeting her new, tiny cat Luna was a delight. Now I hibernate for one week and try to regenerate. As the zombies like to say, “Blargggg.” But I am so happy I got the opportunity to take this trip. It was better than I’d hoped and I am looking forward to leg two!

Petrified Forest to Canyon de Chelly to Flagstaff to Meteor Crater (362 miles)

 Before I left for Canyon de Chelly, I made sure Google Maps was loaded up with the right route and ready to go. I've discovered that you may lose internet service and phone service, but Google Maps will manage to work, even if GPS loses you for awhile. Well, up until the jaunt over to Canyon de Chelly, anyway.

From the south exit of Petrified Forest, the drive is about 125 miles, mostly through the Hopi Reservation on Arizona highways 77 and 191. I was able to stop and take some really fantastic pictures along the way--beautiful, anonymous mesas, buttes, and hills. They certainly have names, but I've failed at finding them online. 

I wanted to check the status of the trip so opened the app and was a bit perturbed to find Google Maps declaring "You have arrived!" when I was only about halfway there by my estimation. I've been dropped before, with the "rerouting" message running and running, but I'd never experienced a false arrival. Somehow, this is much worse. 

Luckily I had my handy Atlas to rely on and it saw me through to Canyon de Chelly and back through to Flagstaff again. The atlas, I might add, is hilariously huge and sort of makes me feel like a bespectacled explorer and cartographer, owlishly tracing all the squiggly little lines and mumbling to myself. 

When I was researching the route I would take for this leg of my trip, I looked up "Things to See in Arizona" and Canyon de Chelly (pronounced d'SHAY) popped up in the results. I had never heard of it, but it sounded worth the drive. This park is different from other parks I've visited--it is on reservation land, so does not belong to the US government. The Navajo people cooperatively run the park with the government, but it is entirely their land. When you drive to each of the viewing areas, you are also driving past neighborhoods and farms, with many roads marked "private" so that the thousands of tourists that take this route aren't constantly tromping all over homeowners' property.

Nope. Not disconcerting at all.

All of the surrounding civilization is what makes the canyon itself so astounding. For most of the drive, you can tell something is over there, but it isn't clear just what you are in for...then you reach one of the better viewing points and it's like getting smacked between the eyes with a clown hammer. Boink. It is absolutely beautiful and stunning. The drops are horrifyingly gorgeous. To be a bird living in this canyon...if I am very, very lucky, I'll dream of it someday.

A couple of days later, when I was packing up my camp at Grand Canyon, I had a great conversation with a lovely family that had arrived only the night before. They had driven there from Wisconsin--mom, dad, and four kids under 10--in a fully loaded minivan packed to the gills with camping gear and supplies. We were comparing adventures and my recent Canyon de Chelly visit came up--they were wondering if it was worth the side trip on the way back and I offered that I thought it was. The dad said he'd heard it was more beautiful than the Grand Canyon and wondered if that could be true...it is an interesting question. There is no doubt that the Grand Canyon is more gobsmacking incredible--I can only imagine how people discovered it without losing a little piece of their minds in the process. It's almost too much. Beautiful, intense, unreal...it's the one place I wish every person on earth could see at least once.

Canyon de Chelly is not as large, but it is greener and narrower, and it even appears as deep as the Grand Canyon in places. It must be the immediacy of the walls of the canyon, the clarity of the light and air to the ground deep below, but it only ever drops as far as 1,000 feet (source) vs. Grand Canyon's heartstopping 6,000 feet depths (source). I found it very difficult to express why Canyon de Chelly was more beautiful to me, and the only word that I kept coming up with is how immediate it was. Driving up and down hills past all these homes and cars and normalcy, then you take a few turns down the right road and there is this incomparable, enchanting vision of grandeur and shocking, swoon-y heights. Words are, to be clear, stupid and pale.

What it most reminded me of was, weirdly enough, the movie Legend. You can ignore just about everything about this movie: the dialogue, the Keebler elves, the storyline, sexy Darkness Tim Curry, and awkward and miscast Tom Cruise, but you will not ignore the rich, vibrant locales created by set designers and imbued with magic by the cinematographer/art directors. It is an almost comically beautiful film where every last detail was sweated over and created within inches of perfection. I could easily see the Canyon de Chelly playing a part in a movie like Legend. It is a place you revisit in dreams.

The drive back toward Flagstaff was serene and kind of gloomy, despite the bright skies and loud music. I was thinking about the night ahead of me, sleeping at the rest stop near the Meteor Crater, as I'd originally planned. Having spent the prior evening freezing my ass off, the thought of another night shaking under the cold lights, never really sleeping but dozing to a shiver then waking up hour after hour was weighing heavy on my mind. When I finally arrived at the rest stop, the decision was made: I had to spring for a hotel. The rest stop was serviceable, but remote and bleak. I just couldn't make myself do it. I managed to secure a room at the same place I would be staying just a few days later and, while it wasn't the Ritz, really...what is these days?

Boom! Goes the Meteor!

Freshly rested under real blankets and sheets in a properly insulated building, I headed out for a quick visit to the Meteor Crater. I was a bit reluctant to pay for admittance, but figured it would be the one time I would visit the site and, as it so happens, it did have some minor significance in my little world.

Part of that mean ol' meteor. You can touch it if you like.

Do you like Jeff Bridges? He's someone you could sit on the fence debating yea or nay until the stars fall out of the sky. Some people love The Dude (I was too drunk to remember much of that movie), some spit venom at The Fisher King...and I will admit his reputation took a massive hit when he appeared in The Vanishing, a movie that creeped me out so completely I still really haven't recovered from it (and don't think road tripping wasn't forever affected by it, either). But! First and before anything else, there was Starman. I saw this movie in theaters with my mother when I was 12 years old. I was already a fully formed Space Nerd, so Starman was added to my considerable love list from the very first viewing. I loved how he called her Jennyhayden and was such a freaking weirdo--a typically Jeff Bridges weirdo--but he was a charming kind of weird. We all want to believe the Visitors will be nice and curious and it will be humans who threaten first contact...and people especially love his assessment of our species (You are at your very best when things are worst). At twelve, it plucked all the right heartstrings (nice alien! mean government!) still violently twanging from just a couple of years previous by a far more precious and squishy E.T. I loved it.

Spoiler Alert: The movie came out over 30 years ago so cry me a river? They go to the Meteor Crater because that's his pick up spot to go back with his kind. So I had to go there, too. Besides, this is where a space rock slammed into the planet and caused some serious havoc--space things! It's kind of mind blowing just how much awesomeness Arizona has within its borders when you really think about it (meteor craters, grand and magical canyons, cacti). And to think: I just wanted to come here for the sunsets and the otherworldly silhouettes of mesas and buttes on the horizon. 

Crazy upside-down rainbow over the crater.

It was worth the $18 admission and I strongly suggest a stop by if you're ever in the area. First of all, once you leave the main road and breach the first big hill of the access road, you can see the impact of the meteor very clearly. The edges of the crater rise up from the desert floor so starkly there's no mistaking what you are seeing. The crater is actually privately owned, but they do a really great job at presenting it to the public. The facility is accessible to everyone (lots of elevators and non-scary stairs) and they have higher platforms outside for the more daring and curious. I didn't feel compelled to climb farther up because you can see the whole thing from the main platform, and really it is quite a sight. 

They also have a great, interactive museum, a 20 minute movie about the history of the crater, exhaustive gift shop offerings, and a Subway. (Sing along: Meteor Crater foot looonnggg)

When you think of the universe and all that it must contain far from our infinitesimal perspective, it is fair to marvel even at the somewhat pedestrian happenstance of meteor impacts. They happen to all planets all the time. Look at our lovely Moon, or space puppy, constantly circling our ankles and chasing the tides in and out. She's a pocked creature, shining those marks brilliantly through the night (I have now spent many a restroom run to and fro pausing to wonder not only at the stars but our singular, shiny moon), and even our own planet has plenty of craters to evince a wild thrashing over the years we've been orbiting the solar system. 

But it is that otherness, I guess, that confounds and inspires...it's the reminder that there is so much more out there. And yes, 99% of it is probably space junk (debris from the big bang and all that followed), black holes, and void...but not everything is terrestrial. In fact, earth is a rare, tiny jewel set deep in the back pocket of this one small galaxy. Well, you could fall into a 550 foot deep crater thinking about it.