The salt flats that lie on Utah’s border are illuminated by the glowing orb of the waxing moon, hanging heavy in the periwinkle, cloud-streaked sky. In a single day our little turquoise car carried us a total of 647 miles from the drizzling mist of San Francisco to this dusty campsite in West Wendover on the border of Nevada and Utah. Although I’ve spent a little time in the Nevada desert, today offered a new perspective on the vast expanses of seemingly endless desert that stretch as far as the eye can see, bordered on the edge sight by lonely mountains and hills.
This morning, at about 10:30 am, Matt and I loaded up the car with our minimal luggage and drove toward the Bay Bridge through a heavy fog: a classic San Francisco summer farewell. Once across the Bay we merged onto I-80 which would be the only road under our wheels for the rest of the day. During the first several hours we listened to two lectures by Terrence McKenna, one entitled “New and Old Maps of Hyperspace” given in November 1982 in Berkeley, and the other from Esalen given in March 1996 called “Complexity and Meaning.” As the Bay Area clouds dissolved into an open blue sky, Northern California’s signature golden hills rolled by, occupied by thick clusters of live oaks so dark green they look black. Meanwhile, McKenna spoke of the imagination and how it may be the portal through which we are able to access other realms.
As we neared Sacramento a brilliant green marshland lined the side of the road, but in such an orderly fashion it appeared we were passing rice paddies. Two Vs of birds passed directly overhead, to then flutter down among the water-logged grasses. We quickly sped by, entering the urban outskirts of the state capitol.
While McKenna mused on the millennia of human dialogue with the other beings of this world – angels, demons, fairies, sprites, elves, and others – the landscape seemed to make a sudden shift to thick pine woods and the elevation rose rapidly. McKenna’s words felt more real in this landscape around Grass Valley. The further we climbed the fewer trees accompanied us, giving way instead to granite boulders and high peaks. Rivulets and streams, pools and small waterfalls, wound their way among the rocks. Our descent on the other side of this mountain pass provided a brief glimpse of the placid indigo of Donner Lake, whose sparkling waters gave no hint about the tragic fate of the pioneer family for whom it was named.
Train tracks cut into the mountain sides ran alongside us before diving into dark tunnels whose ends were a mystery. When were these tracks last used? By whom and for what purpose? And who were the toiling workers that laid down every piece of wooden rail?
Once in Nevada the road became lonely, with few cars traveling in either direction, and not a tree in sight. The land to the right became flat as a tabletop and the color of new snow – perhaps an ancient lakebed whose waves lapped these hills millions of years ago. Were we driving underwater in some distant past?
In Coal Canyon we saw an eery sign informing us, “Prison Area: No Hitchhiking.” The distant prison buildings echoed with desolate isolation. The land was nothing but shrubs and dust, inhospitable to all but the most valiant souls. I began to muse on what a car really is: an insolated climate, a magical bubble that allows one to zoom through the deadliest landscape armored in one’s most comfortable clime. It was as though we had trapped San Francisco air into our own private compartment. Yet all around us was an ecosystem unlike anything our bodies could handle, yet home to many other creatures, flora and fauna who had adapted to this particular realm.
By this point Joseph Campbell was narrating to us in his rich voice about Kundalini Yoga and depth psychology. His mythic storytelling was punctuated by the odd town names we passed by: Winnemucca (whose billboards were bigger than the town), Beverley Hills (not quite so glamorous as California’s), and Deeth Starr Valley (which could only have been named by a Star Wars fan). After a short stop in Elko, I noticed the elevation of the surrounding mountains rose rapidly, and snow even capped the tallest peaks. Perhaps more rain fell here too, because as we neared the Utah border the stunted shrubs that had surrounded us for hundreds of miles were either significantly taller, or giving way to a larger desert tree. Meanwhile, Fritjof Capra spoke to us of consciousness and matter, and how they may co-arise from each other.
At last, about nine hours after the start of the journey, the road turned toward Wendover, covering a final barren stretch before the salt flats. The scene had the feeling of the lonely crossroads where one might chance to meet the Devil, but no fallen angel have we seen yet. But who knows what tomorrow may bring?
2 Replies to “Through the Desert”
I love following this. Blogs aren’t normally of much interest to me, but, of course, I am interested in your trip, that you are safe and what it may be like if I were a fly on the wall, which I am when I read your blog and who I have been since you were born. (What a show! And I had front row seats). Your thoughts are like those beginning a good novel: being on the road, really learning how to drive in every realm: Terrance McKenna who is already on his own special trip, then Joseph Campbell’s thoughts flying over the desert in the comfort of a San Francisco bubble. It is epically fun. Hale to today and tomorrow. Happy Trails to you! Write on!
Thanks, Becca. Really enjoying your cross-country trip. I did it twice, and probably will never do it again. Last time I did it was in 1985. I look forward to your further observations.