August 29, 2005 – Nevada, Arizona, and California in Two Days

August 29, 2005 – Nevada, Arizona, and California in Two Days

Heading out of Las Vegas midday on Monday July 21st with my wife IM and our daughters, RD and ME, IM’s brother WS, sister-in-law YS, and niece LS in our 1980 Pontiac diesel Station Wagon, we made our way along Highway 93 south and east toward the Hoover Dam. Viewing the dam—the dream of Herbert Hoover, the 31st President of the U.S.—that made Las Vegas and turned the fertile deserts of California and Arizona into vast expanses of agriculture, was a first for everyone. The narrow two-lane stretch of Highway 93 atop the dam was bumper to bumper with cars moving slowly in both directions as each vied to find a parking spot on either side of the dam. We managed to find a spot and everyone piled out walking out onto the dam and looking down its dizzying 726 feet height on one side and the 28,537,000 acre feet of Colorado River on the other side. We were all staggered by the spectacle. My mind kept jumping between the daylight brightness of Fremont Street in Las Vegas the night before and the Colorado River-powered generators below, the former entirely dependent on the latter: a caged genie doing the bidding of its hedonistic master.

After our stop at Hoover Dam, we carried on south on Highway 93 until its intersection with Interstate 40 at Kingman, Arizona. There we headed east of I-40 toward Flagstaff, Arizona and our reservations at the Pony Soldier Inn at 3030 E Santa Fe Avenue—old U.S. Route 66. The following morning we rose early and made the long drive north to the south rim of the canyon, parking with the gathering throng of tourist like us. We were all anxious to glimpse the remarkable landmark. The first thing you notice being at the canyon is the altitude, 7000 feet above sea level, and I was getting winded easily. However, all my concern about breathing vanished as I approached the rim of the canyon and peered down into the incredible depth and breadth of this natural wonder. What you’re viewing is a strikingly beautiful representation of the age of the earth and the hardest concept to grasp is the number of years it took to construct what we were looking at: 2 billion years to create the rock formations at the bottom of the enormous gorge. In comparison to the 80-year life expectancy of mere mortals, you cannot help but realize how transient and temporary human life is. Long after all traces of human life are erased from the face of the earth, this gigantic spectacle will continue to bear witness to the geological history of this earth of ours.

My brother-in-law WS is an inquisitive fellow who takes great pleasure in analyzing new discoveries. But I suspect, like the rest of us, he was as completely overwhelmed by the sensory overload he received at the canyon: so much information your mind could not determine where to focus its attention. (I recall hearing a piece of Ferde Grofe’s Grand Canyon Suite as I wondered about the Canyon rim that day.) Here before you was the entire history of the earth going back 2 billion years: the volcanic eruptions near and far, the earth's collisions with meteorites that deposited debris over the its surface, the plant and animal life of millions of years past, even the movement of the earth over time, all written in stone for the experienced eye to read. For the vast majority of those standing on the rim that morning, it was about the sense of awe the vista inspired within, not about the written record inscribed in the rock. The Indians native to the region—Hualapai, Havasupai, Kaibab-Paiute, Hopi, and Navajo—know the canyon as do the animals that call it home. They understand its character and personality and must despair to share this beautiful place with the likes of tourist who troop through on day trips trying to capture in a few days at most, what they have spent a lifetime trying to comprehend. If I were one of them, I would certainly feel that way.

For us, the canyon was a day trip. In addition to our excursion to the canyon, our other experience was the dinner we had at Black Bart’s Steak House at 2760 E. Butler Avenue right off I-40 the night before venturing to the canyon. We were attracted by its billboard advertisement and decided to drop in before checking into the Pony Soldier. For our guests from out of town, the restaurant was perfect: its interior resembling our modern concept of a 1800s saloon, college students dressed in period costumes, meat and potatoes faire that all of us could get into, and the sort of alcoholic beverages Black Bart would certainly turn his nose up at, but perfectly suited for present company: margaritas and red wine to accompany the steaks—which were not bad. The added treat was the rousing songs the waiters and waitresses would break into on a moment’s notice. Our guests got a feel for the old west filtered though the modern imagination.

On Wednesday morning, after breakfast, we drove west on I-40 to its intersection with Interstate 17, the north-south highway connecting Flagstaff with its hotter more heavily populated neighbor to the south, Phoenix, our destination. The trip down I-17 was a descent into hell from the forested heavenly heights of Flagstaff filled with aspen, birch, spruce, oak, and Ponderosa pine trees. Along the way, we would pass, the Red Rocks of Sedona, Arizona, sacred to Native Americans, and watch the forest give way to the prickly pear, barrel, yucca, ocotillo, mesquite, cholla, and organ-pipe cactus as well as wild flowers: golden columbines, paint brushes, poppies, and phlox. Eventually we would finally spy the majestic, gesturing saguaro cactus. YS kept describing her dreaded fear of snakes and absolute horror of encountering a rattlesnake or Gila monster. She was spared confrontation with both in the rest stops along the way south. In Phoenix we spent the day cooling off in the motel’s swimming pool and later cooped up inside the air-conditioned motel room waiting for the sun to end its relentless broiling. Once evening arrived, like nocturnal animals, we emerged from our artificial motel room coolness into a still warm evening and watched the sun sink toward California as we drove to dinner.

Our stay in Phoenix was an overnight rest stop as we began our trek back toward California on Thursday. We had done Las Vegas and Hoover Dam, two manmade wonders and the Grand Canyon and the Sonoran Desert, two natural works that for me certainly held more mystery and wonder than the two former. For the trip back, we headed south on Interstate 10 toward Tucson. At the I-10 junction with Interstate 8, we exited on to I-8 and headed west along the U.S. border with Mexico. Arriving at Yuma in mid afternoon, we picked up the pace entering into California making our way toward San Diego racing with the American Canal from Yuma to the outskirts of El Centro. From there, I-8 headed up over the Vallecito Mountains, where my downhill speed caught the attention of a California Highway Patrol on patrol. It was getting close to his shift change I could tell because instead of pulling me over he passed me on the left after I had slowed and moved into the right lane. As he passed, he used his car loud speaker to tell me to observe the 55 MPH speed limit. I acknowledged that I would and let him pass me doing 60 MPH and soon 65 after he had put us a sufficient distance behind in his rear view mirror.

It was close to 7:30 PM when we entered the city limits of San Diego. Our motel reservations were in Anaheim. Winding our way through the late commute traffic of the city, we eventually exited I-8 onto Interstate 5 north bound toward Orange County and Los Angeles beyond. We had just come in off a desert with temperatures hovering on either side of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Now, we were being cooled by the evening on-shore flow from the Pacific. It was close to 9:00 AM when we pulled into the parking lot of the San Juan Capistrano Amtrak Train Station. Across the street from the train station was a restaurant that was still serving and we were all starving from our long drive across the desert and up the coast. Getting out of the car in the train station parking lot all dress in t-shirts and shorts to accommodate the heat of the desert southwest we were all shivering in the cold. We quickly pulled on sweatshirts and hurried into the restaurant before they stopped serving. The meal was one of those memorable events that happen when you least expect it. The mixed drinks and food tasted great and we were the last customers being served. The server, a young man, was in good spirits, taking his time clearing our table, and chatting with us about where we had been and where we were going. After dessert and coffee, I gave him a big tip and we drove on to our motel in Anaheim in preparation for three days in Southern California.