Holbrook to Las Vegas

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be" - Douglas Adams 


Williams, Arizona - just outside the Grand Canyon


Another early morning. Another cup of coffee. Another sunrise walk with the dogs. 

I need to be careful, I could get used to this life. 

After breakfast we started the breakdown procedure, Katherine and I had become fairly adept at it at this point. The finer points that we had to fiddle with at the outset of our journey had become just another part of the routine - each task decomposable into a nearly infinite number of sub-tasks on a mental check list, each with their own sequence, measurement, and checkpoint. 

First the amenities: Wash & stow the dishes and the table. Final bathroom call for the kids, drain and flush the tanks (black then gray), pack the sewer hose (yuck!), water hose, breaker off?, stow the power cable. 

Then the mechanical: Load the dogs, back in, hitch the trailer...locks, chains, breakaway, electrical. Chocks out, jacks up, compartments shut and locked, doors locked - final safety walk around - check the lights, compartments, doors, and widgets. 

Finally the truck: Double check seatbelts, distribute snacks and water, map the route, check the playlist. Tow-mode on? Ready to go. 

By 11 am, we were out the on the road, filling up at a Maverick positioned on a hill in Holbrook on our way out the door. 

Here, in mountainous of Northern Arizona there would be no low, wide, flat, empty gas station parking lots to saunter into - every fueling stop towing this 35 foot modern wagon train would require extra precision: cautious, wide turns and careful mental calculation for angle of approach. Here was no exception.

Damn! Should have fueled up before hitching... I'll remember next time. 

Out on Interstate 40 West, we pulled straight but slowly. 

Here, in the mountains, there was a nearly continuous cycle of rising precipitously, and falling on a 6% downhill grades. Gusty winds and busy winding trucking highways made for a bit of a challenge, the limitations of towing with a half-ton pickup truck started to rear their head. 

Clearly, this was a land for diesel engines and steel frames. 

No matter. We make do with what we have. We move slower when we have to, make up for lost time with more fun. 

Even here, with its challenges. I really enjoy the act of driving. Too many people despise it, and if you ask them how they drive I'm convinced it's because they treat it like a passive act. 

They don't appreciate the art. The mechanical complexity and beauty of the automobile. 

At the risk of sounding like a cranky old man, driving a car has become too simple, and for most folks their foot instinctively finds the accelerator and their brain turns off. 

For me, it's a constant cycle of repetitive, ever changing tasks - almost like gardening on a compressed timescale.

Check mirrors, instrument gauge, balance accelerator pressure, spedometer, tachometer and gear. How does the road sound and feel?

Distance to the next obstacle - in front, behind, to the left and right. Where am I? Where do I want to be? What's the best way to get there?

It's a process that plays on both the best and worst of my psychological quirks and idiosyncrasies.  

As with almost all other avenues in my life, it's an area where I crave more information, sometimes even useless information, and sometimes to my own detriment.  There's never enough data for me.

I want to know how everything is working at every moment, even if I have no influence over it. Even if it's non-diagnostic. 

Knowing gives me a sense (albeit false, in many instances) of control over the entire situation. 

My ideal instrument cluster would be so broad and tall it would probably eclipse the windshield. My ideal vehicle so laden with sensors, dials, and counters it would scarcely leave space for passengers and cargo.

Information overload notwithstanding, highway driving is a process that, while enjoyable, leaves me utterly mentally exhausted. By 1:30 even I was ready for a pit stop.

We stopped in Flagstaff, met and had a short "social distancing" lunch at a nice little community park with Katherine's Aunt, then headed west again on 40.

Two more fueling stops - in Williams and Kingman, just as we turned off of I40 and onto US93 for the final stretch home.

It was now solidly into triple digit temperatures, and we let the dogs into the cab with the kids - I was not convinced that airflow alone would keep them cool and comfortable here. The Las Vegas valley is AC country. 

As we climbed out of Kingman and passed over the Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge we were treated to a marvelous sight - something that let me know that this chapter of our journey was almost at its end.

The mountains were towering, jagged, outstretched to the sky, dark brown and purple and gray, back-lit by the sun, giving the appearance of strips of torn construction paper layered atop each other. 

The mountains that envelop the Las Vegas valley are majestic - in some they trigger a latent claustrophobia, but for me they are a warm and welcoming embrace 

If you live here for any length of time, you become familiar with their intricacies - the little peaks and valleys of their profile on the horizon, and the experienced and long-lived valley residents will often use their shape like an all too familiar landmark-compass. Gauging direction and distance in unfamiliar parts of the ever-changing city. 

When we passed the state border, marked by the iconic blue field, silver star, and sagebrush sprigs - Katherine and I burst out in a rousing round of "Home Means Nevada" (sorry, I do love your vast expanses, but it's hard not to see this as home). 

Ian, the only two legged car-rider not born in the state, seemed more than content to simply hum and dance along. 

Following US 93 north, I was now on a stretch of highway I knew well. Every bend and stretch in the road was familiar.

I'd been following this trail as a driver since I first learned to drive, and as a passenger for far back as my memory allows. 

In-fact, as a teenager, my car trip that carried me across state lines without an adult was hauling friends in old Chevy Impala down to hike and camp along Ringbolt Rapids, just across the Arizona state line. 

Following along as US93 joined into busy 95 North, we soon saw the fabled silhouette of the city on the Horizon. 

The children were restless and incorrigible in the backseat. For them, this journey had all been about the destination - Nana and Papa's house, complete with endless sweets, different toys, and most importantly - that big, cool swimming pool filled with crystal clear water. 

Pointing out the city to the children, Ian demanded to see "The REAL Las Vegas". When we explained this was it, he was incredulous: "I don't see any swimming pool"

To him, the boundaries of the city begin and end squarely within the reaches of Nana's house. 

Before long, we had arrived and settled in. We swam in the pool, and shared our journey with family. At night, we watched the bats flutter about, while I sipped bourbon with my father from the comfort of a poolside lawn chair in the dry desert air.

In a week or so, we'd do the entire thing again, backward (albeit with a different route) - but for now we enjoyed the fruits of our labor as we reflected on our long, exciting Odyssey. 



Today's Statistics

Distance Traveled : 359 miles 

Fueling Stops : 2


Longest Distance Between Fueling: 124 miles

Today's Song(s): 

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