...more recent posts
Friday, Aug 18, 2000
Motel 6 in Wilcox
August 16, 2000
I had intended to press on into the night all the way to El Paso, making the trek from southeastern California to west Texas in a single day. But my energy dwindled along with the light of the day while still crossing Arizona. As I began to doubt my plan, the Eurythmic’s “Missionary Man” popped up on the CD changer. Annie Lennox’s strong and charismatic voice coaxed a burst of energy from some deep reserve. Her fervor was contagious. To prolong the sensation, I played the song three times running, but as Annie wound down for the third time, I realized I was tapped out, spent, done.
I sought lodging in Wilcox, a small town in southeastern Arizona, and transitioned to a nocturnal phase of writing and rest. New Mexico would have to wait for the morning. In the quiet chambers I rented from the fine folks at Motel 6, Inc., I was more prolific than usual, and have several disjoint snippets for your diversion.
Mojave Whoops
My strategy across the southwest is to move fast. I got a taste for the basins and ridges of this region during a previous journey to Las Vegas. Since the proximity allows me to revisit the area easily, I want to allow more time for the east. The basic line is I-5 to I-10, but I took a detour through Tehachapi, Mojave and Barstow to avoid the LA basin.
Leaving Barstow in the morning, the monotony of the interstate bore down on me. But the detour wasn’t quite over. To get from I-40 down to I-10, I took US 95, a small two-lane highway. An older road, it conforms much more closely to the terrain than the interstates do. The dips, bumps and curves gave me a visceral connection to the land I was traversing. These variations turned the chore of driving to the joy of driving.
My favorite feature of this type of road is the narrow arroyo. The road suddenly falls away, leaving the car light. Just as the suspension settles at the bottom of the dry river bed, the road shoves the car skyward while climbing the opposite bank.
In this desert road rapture, I came upon a couple truckers who didn’t quite share this same joy. While passing through some whoops (small, closely spaced dips and rises) I passed one of the trucks, and got a big honk. As I moved to pass the other, that driver aggressively swerved his rig to block.
I honestly try to avoid hassling truckers. They don’t come to my place of work and give me a ration of shit, so why should I mess with them? Driving my race car tow rig, some 45 feet and 12,000 pounds of truck and trailer, has given me an appreciation of the hardships of their profession. The first pass and the blocked attempt were perfectly clean from my perspective, but I had transgressed an unwritten rule of the road: no passing in the whoops section. Obviously these guys weren’t into motocross.
I had a few minutes sandwiched between these two trucks to ponder exactly how riled the drivers were. I’ve seen the film of truck-car terror Spielberg did early in his career. With some small slight, Dennis Weaver had triggered blood lust in an anonymous trucker. As he raced along a lonely mountain road in the barren southwest, Dennis could not get away from his tormentor. Every time he thought he had made his escape, that god dammed evil truck would reappear, shrouded with malevolence.
Back on US 95, I was biding my time. At the right moment, I made a squeaky clean pass, cranked the Babatunde Olatunje on the CD player, and left this mini-drama in my wake. I banished the tension, and savored the cognitive dissonance of listening to rich Nigerian drums while gliding across the desolate Mojave.
Marks near Barstow
Every traveler has a tale. One has fewer opportunities to share the telling when traveling by car. But there are intriguing signs. The vacation toys on the roof rack. The U-haul filled with furniture. These artifacts give glimpses into lives in motion.
Skid marks on a highway also reveal a few fragments. Having experience driving at and beyond the limit of control, I can’t help but hear the stories suggested in the details of the skid marks. Was it a truck, or a car? Did it go off the highway straight, sideways, or spinning? Was it slowing at the edge of the road, or did it launch into the desert?
The tracks left by passenger cars typically reveal the most confusion and desperation. Some marks speak of flashes of terror which dissolved in gasps of relief. Others speak of the brief silence of an airborne car, the graceful arc preceding a collision of horrific violence. In light of the Firestone tragedy, I wonder how many others on the hot summer highways are reading those marks.
Story Telling
As I think about how to write a travel journal, I think about how to share the details. How can one describe the differences between the Dead Sea, Death Valley and the Mojave? My guide in Jerusalem told me they have different words to describe the various deserts of the region, similar to the way the Inuit have a multitude of words to describe frozen water. In English, I often have to find my own words to describe the subtleties in sand, rock, cactus, grass and scrub.
With these thoughts about story telling fresh in my mind, and while making final preparations for the journey, I caught a few bits of Clinton’s DNC speech from LA. Man, this guy’s good. While describing how he had lived the American dream, rising from humble beginnings in a log cabin to president of these here united states, he mentioned that he was born in a summer thunderstorm near Hope, Arkansas. What in the world does the weather in Hope have to do with anything? It’s one of those details of place and time that anchor a moment, and make that moment more vivid and memorable. Bill slides in these nuances effortlessly, with no visible affectation.
I couldn’t help but contrast him to the current batch of candidates. His speech made George Dubya’s acceptance speech in Philadelphia look like one given by a gifted 6th grader at a school assembly, complete with admiring parents. The final touch would have been an Instamatic in Barbara’s hand.
What the country yearns for is a regular guy, who can spin a good yarn. Ron and Bill filled that need. To the peril of their careers, Jimmy and George didn’t. We want a chief executive, good buddy, and national spokes-model rolled into one. We all know that Dubya has a few tales to tell. That, and his practiced amiability may be sufficient. In these times of plenty, we want the amiable rogue, not the brainy nerd trying oh so hard to blend.
Wet and Naked
I’m highly appreciative of the fine air conditioning in the motels along my route. The cool air makes the nights more restful, and some mist from the shower can provide the right touch of humidity to soften the edge.
I had a different experience with climate control in Spain. In 1997, the summer heat lingered into September a bit longer than usual, especially in Madrid. A mountain range to the northwest blocks the cool, moist Atlantic breeze, leaving the high plateau hot, stale and dry.
When entering a hotel room in Madrid, I was usually seeking a dark, cool retreat from a long day walking in the sun. The dark was readily available, but the cool was elusive. After many minutes on full high, the typical hotel air conditioner gave scant evidence of working. But I found the formula for relief. After taking a warm shower to wash off the grime of the day, I turned off the hot water, and let the full cold water run over me. Then I walked over to the air-conditioner, placed a chair directly in front of the vents, and sat down – dripping wet and naked. As I leaned closer to the vent, I could be heard saying “Oh, yeah ... there, that’s it ... I feel a little cooler now.” And I wished it were possible to procure just one cube of ice somewhere on that continent, so I could rub it on my neck.
Two Yards of Tyvek
I bought two maps for the journey. One is actually a book of maps, a detailed highway atlas of the US. While I admire the detail of the atlas, the discontinuities can be awkward. Sometimes I want to see the flow of a route across a vast stretch of land. So I bought another map, a 6’ x 4’ map of the US similar to what you might find in a classroom. I wasn’t sure if I would bring it, but I found it useful in the planning stage.
In the days preceding the start of the trip, I misplaced the atlas. So my sole guidebook to the land, for the moment, is this enormous map of the 50 states. Despite it’s ridiculous size, it folds up quite well. It’s made of that space age material used for indestructible postal envelopes, Tyvek. I think it shall do nicely. Perhaps at some rest stop, I will remark to another traveler, “That’s no’ a map. Now this ... is a map!”
Waist Deep in It
I was hesitant to bring a camera on the trip, because the attention demanded by a camera can get in the way of the actual experience of the journey. A photographer once related to me a story of his mother’s visit to 19 Mile Drive on the Monterey Bay coast. This scenic road is a disneyfied version of the central coast of California. Each vista point is carefully numbered and labeled, with a sign to explain all the beauty one is supposed to appreciate. His mom dutifully snapped a photo of each explanatory sign, but neglected to photograph the actual coast. To steer well clear of that version of a photo journal, I decided I should strive to integrate the photography with the experience.
Before starting the long drive, I took a couple of shorter trips. One of these took me through the Pacific northwest. While driving east on I-90 in central Washington, I saw what looked like an interesting photo opportunity. I slowed the car, and pulled over to the shoulder. My plan was to drive down the substantial embankment to a flat spot near the edge of a small river. I wanted to capture an image of the river and its environs.
The gravel at the edge of the road was deeper than I expected, and the front right tire dug in as I slowed. Too late, I realized the gravel was deep intentionally, so as to slow cars that inadvertently left the road. Being a race car driver, I should have recognized a gravel trap when I saw one. Doh! I was not very happy with myself, and tried to free the car too quickly. This left the car with the left rear and the right front deep in gravel.
Luckily, I had my “track day” stuff in the trunk, including knee pads and long gauntlet mechanics gloves. This allowed me to dig the car out by hand without mussing myself too much in the process. The whole time, I was aware of the eyes of dozens of motorists, and the potential for a visit by a state trooper.
Within minutes, I freed the car, and rolled it down the embankment, as intended. I got out to take my shot. While I was stalking the right composition, another driver pulled onto the shoulder next to an emergency call box. Soon thereafter a state trooper appeared. Finished with my shot, I prepared to make a hasty retreat. But the trooper had completed his business with the other driver, and pulled forward to my vicinity. I thought it best to wait and see if he wanted to chat.
As he walked down the embankment from his car to mine, he passed through an area of freshly disturbed gravel. Hmmm ... what happened here? After a short talk about the legality of stopping on limited access highways, he took my license number, and sent me on my way. For that particular photo op, I fully succeeded in integrating the shot with the journey.
But what of the photo? It really didn’t come out the way I wanted. I was hoping to capture the movement of the water. Not just the current and turbulence of that particular moment, but the way the river flows from its source in the nearby mountains, and the way it continuously re-carves its bed on its way to the ocean. The pattern of trees, grass, rocks and water tell a story of a seemingly calm river that can move tons of earth in a spring flood.
Movement on many time scales, from the ephemeral to the geologic, is the fundamental nature of a river. Somehow I wanted to capture all of that time and movement in a two-dimensional still image. I might have been able to do it with the right composition. If I had captured the right combination of the surface of the water in the foreground, the flood plain of the river in the middle ground, and the mountains in the background, I might have gotten it. But from my vantage point, that composition would have required standing waist deep in cold, rapid water. I had enough trouble sweet talking the officer without having to explain that particular circumstance.
The Budget
It occurs to me, as I contemplate changing direction, that I should choose something I like to do, that someone else will pay a lot of money for. And, I should use the remaining time for things I like to do, that no one in their right mind would subsidize. Like many insights, it’s pretty obvious, but I have not recently framed the issues in that particular manner. I have to thank the author Nathan Englander (who recently published For the Relief of Unbearable Urges) for nudging me towards this particular distillation.