Elko... Ruby Mountains... Wells... Hot Springs
When we woke up, we were in northeastern Nevada, driving through a whole lot of hilly desert not-much. Every so often, we'd pass a highway exit. You looked at this side road wandering off into the emptiness and wondered who ever thought it was a good idea to go that way.
We drove through Elko soon after dawn. Things were pretty sleepy on and off the bus. One building advertised Western Folklife and a Cowboy Poetry Center, but this early in the morning, it wasn't really a bustling cultural hub. We passed South of Elko, South of its Spring Creek suburb, back out into the desert.
We stopped at a crossroads where road construction was going on. Big machines moved dirt; people with stop signs told us to stay where we were. And they gave us some bad news.
The plan was to drive up into the Ruby Mountains here, have a camp breakfast, then hike out to a pretty lake. But the road construction blocked the relevant road. We couldn't drive to the trailhead. Instead, we made do at a picnic area far from those scenic wonders.
We made a camp breakfast, ate, cleaned. We headed up a trail, sort of. This trail wasn't actually finished: after a short way we were headed up something halfway trail-ish. Then we were making our way through scrub, dirt, and trees. We were walking uphill on loose dirt. After one long stretch where the ground kept slipping out from under my shoes, I gave up and headed back down. It seemed like a good way for a not-so-graceful fellow like myself to twist an ankle. Fortunately some more nimble folks kept going and took photos so that later on I could see... that the view didn't really change that much even if you got higher up.
(OK, so this trip was off to a so-so start. But it was nice to get a chance to get out and stretch our legs, and it was pretty amazing how far we'd traveled while sleeping.)
Back on the road. Past Elko again. On the outskirts of Elko, where the desert stretched. This dry land made no sense to me. I talked with Naru, who was from Japan but had been at a work-study in Vancouver BC. I figured that if he could put up with this place after coming here from Vancouver, I could handle it too.
We stopped at truck stops to refuel and for bathroom breaks. Usually this happened at night. But around Wells NV, we stopped at a Flying J truck stop during the day. Since I'm not used to truck stops, this seemed wildly exotic.
We drove through Wells NV and on out; we drove through some farmland. We parked on a patch of dirt next to a dirt road. Here was the plan: we'd hike along this dirt road a couple of miles. There was a hot springs to soak in. There we would soak. Then we'd hike back out.
There was another bus parked at this patch of dirt. It wasn't a Green Tortoise bus. It looked like a repurposed school bus. There were bicycles on top. The inside looked like it contained a lot of gear, but some of that gear looked like hula hoops. I had a guess at this bus' purpose and asked some folks standing next to it: "Y'all heading to Burning Man?" and they were. And they stayed there as the Green Tortoise folks started heading out along the trail.
I don't like being hot, and didn't plan to soak in any hot springs. But I'm glad I walked along that dirt road anyhow. This walk took us through farmland along a creek through the desert. If you want to see contrasts, walk along a creek in the desert: lush growth with dusty dirt all around. Conversation was a little surprising along the way: I kept assuming that everyone in the world had heard of Burning Man.
Me: So I asked those folks in the funny outfits if they were going to Burning Man, and sure enough, they said "Yes."
Them: Huh? What you say? What's Burning Man?
Me: Buh, well it's this art festival...
When I assumed that Burning Man was an internationally famous Big Deal, I was just being a provincial boob. Serves me right.
At the wrecked car, I wasn't the only photographer. Curt took some photos, too. Curt had a couple of Leica film cameras, took his photography seriously, liked the results that the Leicas gave him. I snapped some shots with my eight-year old digital camera. Eight years. For a digital camera, did that count as retro-luddite? Maybe I didn't want to ask a Leica enthusiast for his opinion on that. I headed on back towards the bus.
Back in Wells NV, we stopped at a park to pile out and make a camp dinner. A couple of local kids watched us, then ran over to a baseball field, where they talked to some older kids in the dugout. Those older kids then went away. Later on, I made my way over to the dugout. There were spatters of strange liquid on the ground, as if someone had been sipped a beverage made partly of antifreeze and had then spat it out. And there was a pair of jeans on the dugout bench. I couldn't figure out what those youths had been doing in this dugout, but it made sense that they'd skeedaddled when they found out that a horde of grown-up freaks had shown up as they were doing it.
Here I learned something about camp cooking for large groups of people: carrying water is a non-trivial part of the cooking. You read about folks who live in the third world, subsistence farmers, favela dwellers, that their water jug technology makes a difference. On this trip, I carried water in plastic jugs. Water for washing, water for coffee, water for tea, water to drink. I thought about Chris Dunphy, no doubt on his way to Burning Man, writing about his nomadic existence. I briefly thought lazy thoughts: did we really need so much water?
But at the same time, I was a fog-loving San Francisco boy passing through the Nevada desert. I drank water like a fish.
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