The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries: 1-9-2020

Mimosa, Spaghetti bowls and the big NOTHING

I'll start this blog from the end. 

Hello Arizona! To say I am ecstatic to be here is the understatement of the century. Had Dave and Cindy not been watching me pull in, I might have jumped out of the truck and kissed the ground. As it was, I could barely back into my parking spot. It's crazy – I can back any one of my trailers into just about any configuration of tight spots – but if I know somebody is watching me, I am lucky to get the thing in reverse. Dave said to watch out for the fluffy little cactus. Hell, I couldn't see Dave let alone a fluffy little anything.

Cindy had been keeping track of my progress as I made the 900 + mile journey across three states. She ended each text with emojis of cacti, sunshine and mimosa. Practically the first thing she did after her and Dave helped get me settled was pour me a large glass of cranberry/vodka. At the risk of committing buzzed blogging laws and a slew of grammatical and spelling errors while under the influence...I shall attempt to start this days episode of “The Pumpkin Cheesecake Diaries.”

I woke up in Alamo Nevada freezing my butt off. Alamo was colder than Wells and Ely put together. The horse water had more than a skim of ice to break through. I wouldn't have noticed the cold so much had I opted to not park at the official hookups but instead parked next to my horses. I didn't feel comfortable parking clean across the facility from them. I was sure somebody was waiting to steal them in the middle of the night. My imagination runs wild at the best of times and more so after dark.

I didn't sleep as well as I would have liked. Several rigs pulled in during the night. In my half wake/half sleep state – I was sure they were the horse thieves coming in with empty trailers to haul off Jack and J'Lo. Do they hang horse thieves in Nevada still? Is it legal to shoot them? Eventually I woke up enough to look outside and verify they had plenty of horses of their own and weren't interested in a cranky mare and a high-strung buckskin. Even so, I kept a close watch on the goings outside and a closer watch on my .380.

My new friend from Rupert, “John Smith” (if that's even his real name) approached my camp as I went about morning chores. Their pickup and generator batteries were both drained. He needed a jump. That's the thing about those beautiful big travel trailers, with all the slides, electronics, fireplaces...etc, they drain the batteries pretty fast when you're dry camping. I was worried even with my small LQ. Fortunately, my new to me Dodge fired right up. phew

I pulled around to the “Smiths'” rig (if that's even their real names) so John could jump his truck and generator. I thought it was odd you had to jump start a generator. I learned the type he has requires battery power to start. It made me feel better about having to crank on my old pull start champion that chugged to life after a cold night with a few good pulls and a shot of quick start. John thanked me again for the jump and expressed he hoped to see me in Wickenburg. I waved goodbye to the “Smiths.” (If that's even their real names) and went back to breaking down camp.

I topped off the water tank and emptied the septic. The critters and I went for a short hike on the motocross track to stretch our legs for the last leg of our trip South. I felt bad asking them to climb back in that trailer yet again. They did so without complaint and I promised it would be the last I'd ask of them for a few days at least.

I am taken back by the diversity of Nevada's geography. A true feast for the eyes. Every spot you look is utterly unique from the next. It's not like the mountains a child draws in pictures. With a big peak – followed by a couple smaller peaks – another big peak ...smaller peaks and so forth; all capped with snow and a few trees splattered in. This terrain seems to have no real continuity to it. From rolling sand to jagged peaks dotted with mesquite - to the sharp ravines rimmed with random fields of massive boulders. Spots of cactus, Joshua Trees and grease wood shoot up here and there. It is a visual surprise and it's always unexpectedly different. It is as if God is an abstract artist.

And then there is LasVegas. Not sure what God was thinking with this one. Definitely abstract – in a Picasso – ear where your mouth should be sort of way. You're traveling along through the desert, pop over a hill and bang...there it is sprawled out in all it's neon, felt top, one armed bandit glory. Now to avoid the heart of it at all costs.

I had been warned of the white knuckle run through Vegas and the dreaded Spaghetti Bowl that sat at its cold, black asphalt center. Story's tell of the wayward traveler caught in the perpetual loop of traffic circle hell for weeks...I dreaded it almost as much as I had the Ely weather horrors.

I had Google mapped a route that bypassed the “Spaghetti Bowl” by way of Lake Mead. I was determined to cheat the pasta hell of it's next victim. I jumped off the interstate at Exit 45...proud of my victory. Take that Spaghetti Bowl! My smugness quickly faded as Gigi the GPS barked: ...LEFT!! Get in the second lane from the left! Now you idiot! Quick! Too late...you missed it. Loser.

The left lane change came too quick for this country girl. I couldn't make it over without crashing into a limo from the Graceland wedding chapel. Did you know you can get married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator? Don't ask me how I know this. There isn't enough Fireball in Vegas for me to retell that story.

Anyhow – I'd missed my cutoff. Gigi stumbled with her reroute calculations: Turn South in 400ft

The dreaded Spaghetti Bowl

...East...turn East...no, wait, that's not right...turn North in 30 feet. What the hell. Just drive until I figure this shit out. Gigi eventually got us back on the interstate headed to Exit 43. The Spaghetti Bowl exit. There was no turning back now. We were committed. Close your eyes- throw on a blinker and go for it. The Spaghetti Bowl wasn't as bad as I'd worked myself into believing. That happens a lot – things are seldom as bad as you fear. I guess that's where the saying: There is nothing to fear but fear itself comes from. Except Sharks – fear those creepy bastards.

I had made it out of Vegas and nobody died – at least not in direct relation of my actions thus far. It's obvious by now that I do not understand the intricacies of the US road systems. It is my belief the civil engineers who designed them either had a sadistic sense of humor or were drunk. I didn't know if I was on 515, 15 or 11. Turns out, I was on each of them...all at the same time in some stretches. Why give the same road several different numbers? There are plenty of numbers out there fellas – it's not like you needed to conserve by duplication.

Once I hit 93, things began to smooth out a little. Smooth out as in less hectic, NOT smooth out as in smooth road. The closer I got to Arizona, the rougher the road became. I followed 93 South over the Hoover Dam with glimpses of the Colorado.

The sign said: Arizona Last Stop – Monster Trucks, Firearms and The American Flag. Was I in Arizona? I looked around for cactus. No cactus. No welcome to Arizona sign. That is another thing I noticed about Nevada and Arizona. There aren't many instructions to get your through your daily routine. As an example: Road construction. There will be one sign and one sign only: Road work ahead – 45 mph. Whether you slow down or not is entirely up to you. There isn't going to be an orange clad flagger cautioning you again to pay attention. There isn't going to be a pilot car holding your little hand and escorting you safely through the maze of machinery and orange cones. If you can't figure out you're still in construction and need to slow it down – you'll find out soon enough when you hit that pot hole going 75 and end up with the wrong view of the Hoover.

Still no cactus. I had to google my location to verify I was indeed in Arizona. Where was the damn cactus? I didn't come 900 miles to see sagebrush. I can see that from my back door!

I pulled over at a scenic wide spot to take a break (that's code for pee) and take official tourist pictures of the Colorado with the rest of the Asian people. Asian is about the only nationality I have not been mistaken for. Today, I felt Asian. That group was smiling from ear to ear taking selfies from every angle imaginable. They even took selfies of themselves taking selfies! I worried for them when they all climbed on the wall to take an action shot jumping off said wall. I was relieved for them when their feet hit ground on the right side of the cliff.

Speaking of having to pee. Rest areas are few and far between here along the 93. When you do find one, don't be surprised if it consists of a wide spot and 2 porta-potties. I was thankful to be carrying my own facilities on more than one occasion.

I continued down 93 in search of cactus. Still no damn cactus but they sure have a lot of towns called Crossover around here! Every few miles you come to a sign for Crossover – ¼ mile. But you never actually reach it. Must be the same folks that named the highways – they used the same name for every town on a 30 mile stretch. By the end of that 30 miles it dawned on me what a crossover really is: A spot in the median to “crossover” to the other side of the highway. Don't judge me. I'm from Idaho. We call them “flipping a bitch.”

I don't know what Grasshopper Junction is – but it's for sale! Chocolate covered grasshoppers maybe? I believe I shall pass on both. Oh sweet! I am within 60 miles of the Grand Canyon! A couple times I thought I'd made it all the way there. Turns out I'd just hit another pot-hole. No damn cactus yet – but Arizona is littered with all the scenic pot-holes you never wanted.

First cacti sighting

Three minutes into a Marco-Polo session with my daughter...I catch a fleeting glimpse of it out my passenger window at 70 mph. The one thing my heart desired as the reason to coming to AZ. The elusive cacti! I'd survived Wells, Ely, Alamo horse thieves and the Vegas spaghetti bowl...only to damn near run off the road trying to snap a shot of my first Arizona cacti sighting! I'm normally the most careful driver you can be pulling horses – but this was a real live cacti – I'd ask the horses forgiveness later. I mashed on the breaks and fishtailed to a stop. I was getting a picture of that damn cacti if it killed us all.

I filled up in Wikieup (hey, that rhymes...I must be getting rummy) and made note of the horse hotel for future reference. Didn't appear as it would be too hard to find someplace to camp on my Arizona adventure should the need arise. A horse hotel AND a beer garden. What else does a girl on an adventure need?

The highways through this section of my journey are a unique culture all in themselves. Around every bend there was something interesting to see...or nothing at all. Literally – the word “NOTHING” sprawled across a large, dilapidated billboard that hung askew as if 'NOTHING' was clinging to something for all it's worth.

For Sale. An old 50's style gas station stood deserted at the junction of highway 93 and 71. I wondered what it was like in it's day. I imagine it was a growing concern before the addition of newer, faster routes rendered it obsolete. There was a sadness about it now. I longed to take it off the market. Rebuild it's old frame while maintaining the original patina. I'd hire struggling locals to work it – breathing life back into it's historical past at the same time creating income for those needing work. I should have been born a million dollar philanthropist instead of a middle class wanderer.

I was almost to Aguila. I hung a right off 71 onto 60. Cindy sent a text warning me to be careful on this last stretch of road. I was driving 5 miles over the speed limit. The majority of the cars passing me at dangerously excessive speeds bore California plates. Highway 60 is one of the main roads leading to Los Angeles from here. They drive almost as fast heading toward their State as they do moving out of it into others. Go figure.

I pulled into Family Dollar at Aguila and called Cindy. I am here. She gave directions on how to get to their place. Turn here – turn there – go past this old thing or that. It all made perfect sense until the part about being the last place on the hill. I head toward the only thing resembling a hill with ranchettes on it. I pulled into one (obviously not the right one) and asked a gal where I might find Crandalls. She pointed me in the right direction. Cindy met me at the end of her drive and led me the rest of the way home. I kidded her she may have lived in Arizona too long if she considers her place on a hill. In her defense – the road does slope uphill some.

Dave and Cindy all but set up my camp and had dinner on the table before I stepped out of the truck. Cindy had been texting enticing emoji's of sunshine and mimosa. I rattled off a thousand miles an our (road drunk and now slightly buzzed as well) as we sat down to the best Chorizo's ever. I shared my pumpkin cheesecake to die for before getting the best sleep in 4 nights.

No idea...I seem to be the only one in AZ that has seen this giant Indian billboard thing.