My First Time
July 7, 2003 was a Monday. According to the "World's Tallest Thermometer", it was 110 degrees in Baker, California that day as I pulled into the parking lot of a Del Taco to stop for a bite to eat of some vague, food-like substance. The soft top was up on my boat of a rented convertible Chrysler Sebring. That way, the Sebring sailed on the hot desert breezes, rather than have them crash over the sides of the car and through my hair. I like heat, but not that much.
Another 90 miles to go. 50 miles to the border.
For the trip, I made a mix CD of road songs. Overall, with perhaps one exception (Pink Floyd's 'Run Like Hell' was woefully out of place), it was a solid CD. The tracks were beat mixed somewhat, so that the tempo of the CD constantly increased from the first track -- Kenny Rogers 'The Gambler' -- to the last -- Lindsay Buckingham's 'Holiday Road'. I threw the CD in and let it play a few times on the way up and down the mountains of the 15. As cliched as it may sound, when I crossed into Nevada by the Primm casinos, the CD started over with 'The Gambler'.
That quiet, solitary trek along the 15 from Los Angeles was my first experience with desert. I'm an East Coast boy, born and raised in the New York City metropolitan area. We don't do desert over here. My entire impression of desert to that point of my life was of sands swallowing the tombs of the pharaohs. I was surprised to find no sand at all, but instead the austere reds and browns of the Mojave as the Sebring skimmed the shimmering asphalt of the 15 to a meeting a dozen years in the making. The austerity of the tableau spread before me appealed to my quiet, calculating nature. Later trips, in Spring of 2004, would reveal a desert in bloom, pale greens and yellows complementing their brown and red brethren. I don't think I'll ever forget the beauty, the imagery, of that scenery. Even in the desert, life finds a way.
It was just before 6pm when I rounded a bluff and saw my destination, glittering in the oranges of the evening sun. Almost 300 miles after I had left the City of Angels, I had risen up thousands of feet into the mountains to descend into the depths of depravity offered by Sin City. Anyone who has ever made the drive knows the bluff I'm talking about. One moment, you're driving along the 15, empty as far as the eye can see except for a ribbon of black. Then, you round that bluff, and Las Vegas is suddenly there, popping out of the desert like some damn mirage.
"Vegas, baby. Vegas." With renewed energy, I kicked the convertible up to 90 and sped towards my destiny.
[Part two of this story can be found here.]