We spent Election Day in a hilltop retreat overlooking Lake Tahoe, resolved not to discuss politics, nor to turn on the television because our two-year-old granddaughter is too young to be exposed to R-Rated presidential press conferences. And, honestly, who among us would choose banal tweets from a washed-up con man over the mellifluous tweeting of mountain chickadees?
Sadly, the time came yesterday to say our goodbyes and return to our respective quarantine quarters. Anne and I elected to return to Salt Lake City via highway 50, which cuts across central Nevada—what I like to call America’s Outback. In years past, I’ve journeyed across rural Nevada many times—usually behind the wheel of an air-cooled Volkswagen microbus—never fearing for a moment that I might be ambushed by a brigade of flag-bedecked pickup trucks chock full of yammering nincompoops. Along the way we spotted just one Volkswagen bus, a Vanagon bearing Massachusetts license plates, in the rear window of which was posted a TRUMP/PENCE sign. “Protective coloration,” as it is known in the animal kingdom.
In Fallon we counted exactly zero BIDEN/HARRIS signs, and at a dry wash a few miles farther east we came upon an immense pile of discarded footwear. Given that Churchill County is considered a shoo-in for the Republican candidate and the fact that Donald Trump and his minions can’t spell, I assumed it must be a local polling place.
Austin was once Nevada’s capital city; nowadays, it’s the place you want to live if you never, ever want to encounter a Democrat, or even a passenger car. Sandwiched between extended-cab pickups loaded with four-by-four ATVs with rifles strapped to their handlebars, we crept through town with the windows up and doors locked. The fact I was driving a Subaru Crosstrek, standard issue for tree hugging Portlandians, made me a target. Happily, my Utah plates served as protective coloration.
In Ely, we came upon still another roadside vendor of Trumpian paraphernalia, which was evidently doing a brisk business. Did this mean that Donald Trump had won the election? Anne resolved not to check her cell phone, nor did we turn on the car radio—not until hours later as we entered Utah airspace. As expected, a majority of Utah voters had drunk the Kool Aid; however, the state of Nevada was still up for grabs, and remains so as I write this. But no matter, the Silver State won’t be the deciding factor—not unless election officials in rural Churchill County decide to count all those discarded shoes.