Chapter Nine

IX.

From gray to reddish rust colored

People are liars. We’ve learned this through generations of time. People lie because repercussions of the truth can be far worse than attempting a lie and possibly getting away with it. In this case, the clerk at the desk told Eric, Marisa, and I an extremely brutal lie upon us leaving the hotel.

We woke up as planned around 9:00 am and lingered in to the lobby for some coffee and breakfast. The lobby was set up like a ski lodge with couches and stone fireplaces, which were lit. People were already awake, wrapped in winter clothes or three-piece suits, aiming, it looked, for either the slopes or a business meeting. The weary travelers, dressed down as comfortably as we could, stood out as the ones who clearly didn’t belong.

Our hotel nestled in a tiny hamlet in between two towering mountains. In the morning, the snow sprinkled the Denver air, just enough to force us to shield the roofs of our eyes to take in the spectacular view; the mountain tops carefully layered in an early autumn snow.

After breakfast, I weathered the light rain/snow mixture falling on Vail and brought my car up front. I told the busboy I was stopping just to get my bags, and I jogged back into the lobby, where Eric and Marisa were waiting for me. I returned my key and asked what I thought was a really simple question, which I wanted to be answered truthfully, no matter how much it may have stung my ears.

“I’m checking out,” I told the clerk, a woman about 45 years old, seemingly miserable from her early morning shift. “How far is it to Las Vegas?”

“Vegas huh?” She looked at me. “You have an easy day in front of you. Once you get out of here and onto the highway it is a straight shot.”

My optimism for the day became evident, as I told my two partners what she had said. They, too, had been restless during the previous day’s trip. The best thing for the three of us was that night’s rest. We had begun to find a level of annoyance with each other, which will happen to the best of friends stuck in such a small place for an extended period of time. We needed to regroup. With the four hours rest, and uplifting news that the worst driving was behind us, we were all ready to begin the trip. We, in the upcoming hours, learned that the information she gave me was true, that is, if by “easy” and “straight shot,” she meant “really hard, arduous, dangerous, and miserable.”

#

The skies blended perfectly with the colors of the highest peaks. We were ready for our day.

The goat sat on the side of the road, ignorant of the speeding traffic zooming past him. Still half-asleep, the sight of the gray goat perked the three of us up. The snow was still falling, and the black-gray rocks lined the highway, which winded on the Colorado River still about 500 feet below us. Whistles of trains blew, and highway cops lay lazily at the wheel looking for violators. Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fat City” lay all around us; I wondered just how many of the houses and condos we saw belonged to native Coloradoans, or to the real estate companies trying to make big bucks off the land.

The reality of how high in the air we were hit us when we kept descending still about an hour of our drive to Vegas. The farther south we got, the color of the rocks began to shift, from gray to reddish rust, as did the sky, which turned from a bluish-gray to sky-blue.

I began, during this trip, to record my thoughts each night. However, the stay in Colorado was the first time my notebook had gone blank. The toll of the trip began to weigh on me, I figured. Sometimes my journal entries would examine my thoughts on my thoughts, leading me to query on where in my life I had become so introspective, examining the metaphysical part of my existence in this world. Sometimes the entries would talk of the surroundings and the people I was with, putting into question where along the lines I became so involved with descriptions of people and places. Other times, the entry would just be one or two words, summing up my days with a minute detail, like when I wrote “Gatlinburg!” as my entry one night in Kentucky, as if I was anticipating some greatly epiphanic praise or prose that was yet to be constructed in my mind. The journal had become less of a hobby and more of an autobiography.

#

Colorado had definitely been the hardest part of the drive so far, though it seemed to disappear the quickest due to the level of alert we had to keep. We watched locomotives scream alongside us on the Colorado River, but the grey rocks, overcast sky, and chilly climate kept the mood morose.

We hit the Utah state border about two hours after we left the hotel. The cliffs rose magnificently, and shone brilliant displays of brownish red clay. We couldn’t help but bring up the irony that Colorado’s nickname was the “Colorful State” and that Utah, despite what we considered having more prevalent color was left, at least from the sign, nickname-less. The meeting to nickname states, we envisioned, surely went something like this.

Colorado state representative: “We’re going to nickname our state ‘The Colorful State’.”

Utah state representative: “That’s bullshit! We are way more colorful than Colorado. Fuck it, we don’t even want a nickname now.” Turns out Utah - and I’m sure it was begrudgingly – chose the Beehive State. I would have lobbied for “The More Colorful State – and fuck you Colorado.”

Our good mood and view of incredible red, brown, and sand-colored cliffs and roadsides carried us through the morning hours. We stopped for pictures of plateaus that seemed like only God could have created. The air was dry, but friendly, the hills of the highway brought on a different landscape to marvel at ten miles at a time.

What did this land look like 50 years ago? 100? These thoughts entered my mind as I envisioned wagons heading west across the barren landscape; they crossed my mind as I was crossing the Mississippi through the still desolate Midwest. What was now rich landscape for homes and businesses, cities and sports arenas was once a land inhabited by very few. Solace was granted by the very few country roads I chose to take, which would still create clouds of solid gray from kicking gravel behind my wheels.

To the credit of the area, one of the most remarkable feats of the American west is its ability to remain remarkably unblemished by humans. From the highway there is little to remind drivers of Capitalistic America; there are no chain malls, McDonald’s, or manufactured tourist attractions, just the sights of incredible plateaus of orange and brown skyrocketing on each side of the road. The roads aren’t crowded with wanderers which allows for ample opportunity to marvel at the natural beauty. The car remained silent for stretches of time save for an occasional “holy shit,” “look at that one,” or an audible gasp in amazement. Marisa sat silently snapping pictures out of open window in her perch in the backseat.

The sign for the exit read “No Name” with a disclaimer underneath informing us that there were “no services available” as if we assumed there would be in a town so inconsequential and remote that it didn’t even necessitate a name. There was no visible sign of life in the town of No Name, just an exit toward nothing. Road signs along the highways become increasingly bizarre the farther they go into desolate areas. There were signs that read No Name, signs that had just a number, and my personal favorite, “Eagles on the Road.”

“No way, not the fucking Eagles,” said Eric, referring to the classic rock band, we clearly were overtired. “I hate the Eagles.”

“Maybe they mean the Philadelphia Eagles,” I countered.

“I hope so,” he said. “If I see Don Henley I will get out of the car and fight him.”

Much to our chagrin – and luckily for the aforementioned band member - we never encountered any large birds, football players, or guitarists playing “Take it easy.”

Marcus Camry, what I named the Camry I bought in honor of the former UMass basketball player, glided easily over the faded gray pavement, worn from years of unyielding sun and wandering travelers. The three of us played as many “car games” as we could have, and the sight of endless desert and rising mountains became tired.

The sun still beat strong in the middle of the desert. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, we were about to gain another hour due to the time change, amazingly, it seemed, to Pacific Time. We would finally be on west coast standard time. Eric didn’t agree with Marisa and I that the change would give us another hour to enjoy our time in Vegas.

“The time change gives us another hour to gamble and drink,” I announced.

“What? No it doesn’t,” Eric argued, his deep voice raising a little. “We’d still be drinking the same amount of time.”

“No way,” Marisa chimed in. “Whereas it would have been four o’clock, it will only be three, so in essence, it gives us another hour.”

Eric vehemently disagreed for a good twenty minutes. With Vegas just over an hour away, we ended our long trip through Utah, hitting the Arizona border.

The drive was short, but the scenery was amazing. The highway winded through cliffs on both sides, rising heavenward. The road, though, is almost like a bridge where the sides fall off into an abyss of nothingness. If we were to crash and fall off the side of this stretch of land, no one would find our remains – if there were any – for a million years. Just another casualty of the desert. At least, I pointed out, the weather was sunny. Fortunately, we weren’t traveling this dangerous road at night, or in inclement weather, and if luck would have it, it’d be a sight we’d never see. Little did I know.

There is a strikingly similar sensation of having a full tank of gas and a full pack of cigarettes at your convenience. With both, the feeling of endless resource ensues, it feels as if you have miles to go before the needle hits the far left and the last match is lit. And so with both a full tank and full pack, Las Vegas, Nevada came up out of nowhere, sitting in between mountains and desert, screaming for attention like an overdressed woman in an otherwise casual bar setting. There couldn’t have been a prettier sight to see for the three travelers who had been surrounded by the same barren landscape for the past 24 hours. While the western part of the country had its shining moments of beauty, the time had come for rest and relaxation in the amusement park for adults.

Chapter eight

VIII.

If you haven’t called your parents lately…

“The plains ignore us,

But these mountains listen,

An audience of thousands holding its breath in each rock”

-Ted Kooser, “Visiting Mountains”

“I think we should go for it,” I announced, blowing the cigarette smoke out of my window. We argued for a few minutes, while I pulled off the road for the necessities to make a night of our driving.

It’s not like we didn’t have options for a place to stay. I had a cousin who was living in Colorado at the time, who would have gladly housed us for the evening. Regretfully, I never got around to making the phone call to let him know I’d be in the area. He probably would have implored us to stay with him, or at least warned us that we may not want to traverse the roads.

Truckers stopped and stared as we entered the truck stop. The time was fast approaching 10 o’clock, and even with the entrance into the Mountain Time zone, we seemed to be facing a daunting task. Both Marisa and I had dedicated ourselves to driving, so we loaded up on caffeine pills and a couple of large, strong coffees. Marisa took a seat behind the wheel with me sitting beside her in the passenger side. Eric sat in the back of my car, trying to position himself comfortably so he could get some rest. Marisa and I caught up on what was going on with each of us. She drove for about four hours before we stopped for gas and a snack. There definitely should have been a warning sign upon entering the highway, letting us know we were in for the worst few hours of the trip so far. If we weren’t too blind to consider the signs God was giving us – the winds, the flurry of falling snow, the altitude – regular roadside signs would have worked fine.

In the movie “Dumb and Dumber,” the two imbecile protagonists head westward to Colorado in order to return a lost suitcase to its’ beautiful owner. However, on the way there, one of the characters, played by funnyman Jim Carrey, accidentally veers in the wrong direction, leading the two into the plains of Middle America rather than their mountaintop destination.

Upon waking in the flat landscape of Kansas, Jeff Daniels’s character muses, “I expected the Rocky Mountains to be a little rockier than this.” To which Carrey replies, “That’s what I was thinking. That John Denver’s full of shit, man,” remarking on the late singers’ tune paying homage to the fabled mountain range.

Throughout the trip, even as we entered Colorado and started to roll up and down hills, we continued to make this joke. I think we may have angered the mountain gods.

After the rolling hills through the city of Denver, a lull of highway is laid out, giving a driver their final option to pull off. It’s kind of like a girlfriend taking a deep breath in an argument; you have just a moments notice for a reprieve before the real problems to begin. The skyline jetted upward in front of us despite the darkness.

My preconceived notion of what mountains were suddenly withered away compared to what I was looking at. The rolling hills of my youth were suddenly just memories, memories I had to shake for the moment as I buckled my seatbelt, repositioning myself upright as I ascended up the mountains.

I couldn’t even see the top, as the peaks of the Rockies were hidden by the most ominous looking clouds I had ever seen. Drivers well-traveled in the area sped by me, as I looked incredulously at the terrain. We navigated through tunnels, all the while driving straight towards the clouds. The rain began to fall, mixed with the already swirling flakes of snow. Around every corner was something new, but I looked in utter amazement as the signs displaying the altitude passed me on the right and on the left.

5,000 feet.

7,500 feet.

Finally reaching 10,663 feet at the Vail Pass Summit, where I almost felt like I should get out and take a few breaths of the cleanest air my lungs would ever taste – God knows I needed that - and knowing I may never be this high above sea level ever again.

When hikers reach the summit of Mt. Everest, the lack of oxygen at that altitude limits their mental capacity down to that of a ten-year old. Those successful enough to reach that point have stayed there for fewer than 15 minutes. Looking out upon the Himalayan Mountains, on top of the entire world, even the most articulate and intelligent adventurers are literally at a loss for words, rendering months of arduous climbing and adventure seem as climactic as meeting a rude celebrity. For the most part, they just desire to be back at base camp, safe from harm, and free to coherently collect their thoughts.

Jon Krakauer, a favorite writer of mine, and the author of two of my favorite books, Into the Wild and Into Thin Air, in the opening words of the latter novel, wrote about reaching the summit of the world,

I understood on some dim, detached level that the sweep of earth beneath my feet was a spectacular sight. I’d been fantasizing about this moment, and the release of emotion that would accompany it, for many months. But now that I was finally here, actually standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn’t summon the energy to care.

On a much smaller mental and physical scale, this is how we felt, yet we just sat in silence, the radio turned all the way down, not a cigarette was lit. Mentally strained from the voyage up the mountain, the descent should have been a coast for us. As we turned the corner atop Vail Summit, we realized that the voyage down was to be as onerous as the trip up, if not more so. The first sign we encountered asked drivers who might be doubtful to pull off and check their brakes. Soon after, we were warned of falling rocks, animals on the road, and slippery conditions. We mustered up jokes that the Colorado officials should have put up another sign at the peak, suggesting, “If you haven’t called your parents recently to tell them you love them, you should probably think about doing it now.”

The driving was slow down the mountain as snow and rain pummeled the windshield. I road the brakes the entire way as well-seasoned truck drivers sped past the tiny Camry inching its’ way forward. The three of us sat upright, our eyes attached to every detail of the road in case something went awry. I clenched the steering wheel tighter than ever before, my heart raced, and the only words out of my mouth were to inquire whether or not my passengers has their seatbelts fastened. Eventually, after almost an hour of driving, my brakes began to smoke and I could smell the burning brakes pads.

We hadn’t even reached the bottom of the mountain when we pulled off to a gas station. Once the air was clear enough to navigate, we exited I-70. The weather was violently cold for mid-September, and we decided to re-evaluate our decision to drive straight through to Vegas. Even Eric, who is never reluctant to take credit when he is right, was drained enough to remain mum on his assertion.

Once the fear had ceased and complete control of the senses was regained, Eric finally did speak up.

“You know who is definitely NOT full of shit?” He asked.

“John Denver,” the two of answered with a genuine laugh.

#

It was almost three in the morning, and being in the heart of the tourist communities would make it difficult to find a place to lodge for a few hours on our budget. I drove around in the snow, and we found a bed and breakfast with the lights on. We parked and readied ourselves to bunk for the evening, but no one was awake at that hour. We entertained the idea of crashing on the couch, but left, fearing the consequence of the owner awakening early and finding three complete strangers, who reeked of an 18-hour long car ride sound asleep on the couch.

Eventually, we found a Holiday Inn, where we swindled the female clerk down a few bucks, claiming I was a Toyota employee out on business, a fact I asserted by showing them my warranty card on my recently purchased family sedan. Since Toyota was one of their accounts, she gave me their cut rate. I’d be long gone before anyone from the company realized one of their “employees” used their discount.

The snow and the cold really started to hit us, as we crossed the courtyard for our room. It was 4:00 in the morning, and all we really wanted was a couple hours of shuteye. We turned on Sportscenter and stretched our legs out on our beds. Each of us smoked the day’s final cigarette and drifted very quickly to sleep.