People often ask if I ever made much money as a freelance writer—knowing that however I answer the question will most likely be an exaggeration. That said, there were a few nice perks along the way in the form of all-expense-paid junkets known as familiarization tours. The trick was to convince your host that you are a travel writer and that said junket will result in positive publicity.

The very best of these was the “Neon to Nature” tour, sponsored by the Las Vegas Visitors and Convention Bureau. Basically, all I had to do was find my way to Las Vegas, after which I was issued a nametag and a ticket to ride on the promotional gravy train. Over the course of several days I and my fellow freeloaders were shuttled hither and yon aboard a luxurious motor coach, at each stop being greeted and glad-handed as if we were visiting royalty. In addition to free meals, free drinks, a free room and free tickets to stage shows, we were handed goodie bags stuffed with various treats from the casino gift shop.

The main purpose of the Neon to Nature tour was to showcase things one can do in and around Las Vegas besides gamble. For instance, we took a power boat ride down the Colorado River from Hoover Dam to Lake Havasu in Arizona, where we dined on Fish and Chips underneath the reconstructed London Bridge. Then it was off to picturesque Old Nevada to witness a fake gunfight and participate in a mock public hanging. Thence to the top of Mount Charleston, from which we coasted on bicycles downhill through four life zones—from Ponderosa pines to Joshua trees.

I had a grand old time, but somehow never got around to writing about it. No matter—I soon received a second invitation to participate in a Fam Tour in Laughlin, Nevada. Getting there was a challenge, as it entailed driving my ancient Volkswagen van down the notorious two-lane death strip known as U. S. Route 95. Unlike the late Sam Kinison, I didn’t get crashed into, although I was passed on the right by an angry driver who shook his fist and flipped me the bird. Arriving at the Riverside Hotel and Casino, however, I was once again glad-handed and treated like visiting royalty.

Over the next few days we explored an ancient Native American settlement, sailed on Lake Mohave, prospected for gold and petted wild burros in Oatman, Arizona. At our final free supper, we dined on filet mignon and Champaign—each of us assigned his own waiter! I regretted not washing up properly, having spent the previous two hours underneath my ancient Volkswagen, reattaching a lose exhaust pipe to the chassis with a bungee cord in preparation for the ride home.

I never got around to filing a story from Laughlin; nonetheless, I received still another invitation—to participate in a fam tour sponsored by the West Wendover Chamber of Commerce. Like Las Vegas and Laughlin, West Wendover is a brightly lit gambling mecca in the middle of a vast desert. That said, there are plenty of things to do in the area besides gamble, and evidently our small group was the first to do them. For example, we went spelunking in Danger Cave, which is the least visited of all Utah State parks. In fact, the gate to the entrance is locked, and in order to get in we had to summon the official key keeper from Salt Lake City—a hundred and ten miles to the east.

During World War Two, Wendover was home to an Army Air Corps base where Colonel Tibbets and the crew of the Enola Gay trained in preparation for the bombing of Hiroshima. The base has since been decommissioned, although some parts remain off-limits to the general public; for example, the building where components of the top secret Norden bombsight were kept in separate safes. Prior to each trial bombing run, the various parts would be assembled, then disassembled following the flight crew’s return. No airman on base was ever told he was being trained to drop an atom bomb.

In addition to tourism, Wendover has a couple of heavy industries—a potash plant on the salt flats and also a hard rock mine. Following a tour of the first, we were each issued a baseball-sized salt crystal. Following the second—well, we didn’t actually complete that tour, as federal safety inspectors turned up unannounced and everyone was ordered to scatter.

I should mention that the West Wendover Fam Tour didn’t involve an air-conditioned motor coach, nor were we issued tote bags filled with goodies. Instead, we each got a sack of peanuts and then were jammed into a minivan, no motor coach being necessary since there were only seven of us.

On the second day of the tour we went scuba diving at Blue Lake. Yes, scuba diving! Now, I am told by my brother-in-law Bob, who is an accomplished diver, that one should never venture into open water before taking lessons from a certified instructor. Having gone straight from the shore to the lake with next to no preparation, I ‘m here to say I totally agree with him. I was fortunate to emerge from Blue Lake alive, and yet the most arduous test of our survival skills still lay ahead: a climb to the very top of the Goshute Range.

By this time our numbers had dwindled to just five after two had washed out of the program. Moreover, Land Speed Louise and I were no longer on speaking terms after something I’d said at supper had offended her. In order to avoid me, she had opted for a solo ATV ride, and of course I was happy to be rid of her. However, as the day wore on I came to realize that Louise had made the smarter choice. Turns out Nevada is a very mountainous state, although hardly anyone thinks of it as such—probably because all roads go around those mountains! It didn’t help that I was now suffering from an intestinal disorder, having encountered something at supper besides Land Speed Louise that had disagreed with me.

On the descent from the summit I grew progressively weak and just barely managed to stagger back to the trailhead and our minivan, which in our absence had suffered a flat tire. Needless to say, we had no spare.

It was dark by the time we made it back to Wendover, where I decided to spend the remainder of the tour just lying abed in my complimentary room at the Peppermill. The fam tour was to continue for still one more day; however, I was done with it. As Clint Eastwood famously declared in the movie Magnum Force, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

Oh, and I never got around to filing a story about the West Wendover Famiarization Tour either. Not until just now.