BecauseI had urgent business there, I drove from SaltLake City to San Francisco and back last week. Eschewing motels, I catnapped in the back of my ’95 Nissan Pathfinder, once taking an extended break near Donner Summit due to an accident that resulted in an hours-long backup.
Back in the Seventies, such a road trip would have taken me weeks, as I’m inclined to exit the Interstate at every opportunity. Also, I find wide open spaces invigorating and am not intimidated by long stretches of lonely highway posted with bullet riddled exit signs proclaiming NO SERVICES AHEAD. Moreover, the social climate was different back then. A cultural revolution was afoot and the air was filled with ideas–sophomoric and half-baked ideas for the most part, but ideas nonetheless. Along the highway, one would encounter a multitude of long-haired hitchhikers, “all come to look for America,” in the lyrics of Paul Simon.
In East Carlin, one could seek spiritual enlightenment at a ragtag commune called Meta Tantay, founded by a Cherokee holy man who called himself Rolling Thunder. A few miles farther down the road, one could put in for the night at another Native American themed community founded by Frank VanZant, aka Chief Rolling Thunder. Today, Meta Tantay has been replaced by a heavy equipment storage yard, while what remains of Thunder Mountain is overseen by a caretaker named Fred Lewis. I know Fred, but I didn’t stop to visit. No,I kept my eyes on the road and pressed on to Fernley, where I was greeted by a NO VACANCY sign at my usual motel.
Because I have cataracts, I don’t normally drive at night; however, now I had no choice. Squinting against the glare of oncoming headlights, I rumble stripped my way though the darkness, the frenetic score from Hitchcock’s Psycho playing in my head.
Early the following morning, I slithered from my sleeping bag into the driver’s seat and resumed making a beeline for the Bay Area, stopping briefly in Sacramento to fill my gas tank and empty my bladder. Unfortunately, the restroom at the Chevron station was closed. “Is there any way I could somehow take a leak?” I asked the night clerk.
“Yes, but I will have to pass a button here to unlock the door,” he answered.
Once inside, I discovered that I couldn’t exit because the doorknob had gone missing. In its place was a sign that read: IF YOU WANT TO GET OUT, KNOCK LOUDLY. I did so, and eventually was able to escape.
Here I will note that the American trucking industry nowadays relies heavily on drivers from India. Same goes for many filling stations, roadside diners and motel chains, in particular DAYS INN motels, which are literally plastered with OUT OF ORDER signs.
On the return trip, I experienced an unexpected detour after taking a wrong turn in Sacramento, where the freeway system is undergoing extensive repairs. I cursed loudly, but eventually got myself pointed in the right direction. Things were going smoothly until traffic slowed to a crawl on the downside of the Sierras. Taking note that my engine was overheating, I pulled off the road and raised my car’s hood–the universally recognized gesture of automotive surrender. Presently, I was joined by a Good Samaritan from Olathe, Colorado, whose Jeep Cherokee was jam-packed with tools, including even a shop creeper.
“Car break down?” he asked.
“Naw. Just giving my beloved ’95 Pathfinder a rest.”
“Mine’s a ’96,” he replied, whilst patting the rear quarter panel of his Jeep. “I’ve done all the work on her myself.”
We chatted for awhile about older cars and the importance of motor vehicle maintenance. He offered me a cold drink and I handed him a copy of my book Passing Through. “That’s a photo of my 1973 Volkswagen Kombi on the dust jacket,” I said. “It’s had a part in a Disney movie and was the subject of PBS documentary.”
“Wow!”
No sooner had we said our goodbyes than a highway patrolman pulled up. “Car trouble?” he asked.
“No car trouble. Just letting the engine cool down and waiting for traffic to start moving again.”
“It should start moving soon,” he explained. “They’ve cleared the wreckage. Semi truck tipped over.”
“Spilling a load of pilfered doorknobs, I presume?”
Once back in the queue, I was able to get up to speed, only to be forced, once again, to hit the brakes. Evidently a second accident had occurred–three passenger cars had run into one another, just for the hell of it. As a result, I found myself way behind schedule and once again driving through the night, catching a few zees at a rest stop at Valmy, Nevada, and again at Aragonite, Utah, on the eastern side of the Bonneville Salt Flats. Toilets at the former were an environmental disaster; those at the latter the highlight of my entire trip. So, let me give a shoutout to the Utah Division of Transportation and also to the young man who works the graveyard shift at the Maverick minimart in Battle Mountain. It has a phalanx of working coffee dispensers, a generous assortment of fresh pastries and spotless restrooms–complete with working doorknobs. What more could anyone ask for?
