Road Trip: Las Vegas to Bishop, CA

There are at least 3 roads leading from civilization to my hometown of Bishop, CA and all of them travel through the middle of desolation. There are very few towns, very few other cars and no cell phone service. The closest airport is four hours away in Reno but nonstop flights are practically nonexistent and even the flights with detours in Denver (not my favorite place ) are usually super pricey. I tend to start my drive in Las Vegas where flight costs are subsidized by the casinos and the drive home is an hour longer.

I made this drive on Saturday in a rented PT Cruiser even though I had been promised an inconspicuous Ford Focus. This is the 3rd time a rental car company has stuck me with a surprise cruiser and I have to assume this is some elaborate practical joke for the people of Hertz.

Once you escape the clutches of Vegas suburbs you can kiss civilization goodbye. You'll pass through the Las Vegas Paiute reservation and the Air Force base in Indian Springs which skirts the edge of Area 51. There will not be any aliens or government secrets to spy on -- only a minimart with the claim of "Last Gas Before Area 51!" One assumes that aliens have access to alternative fuels.

The only real town you'll pass through is Beatty which, though it was once featured on an episode of that Aaron Spelling SNL show as a rough and tumble cowpoke town, is actually an old mining town which now is mostly occupied by the gas station Eddie's World. I discovered Saturday that they're laying claim to the title "most beautiful gas station in the world" which I guess might be true -- they do have a turret outside. I tried to twitter from here with that sunset picture on the left but it turns out Beatty is not exactly iphone friendly. For some reason the market at Eddie's World specializes in bulk dry goods. There are no nut trees, gummy bear factories or pea plants within 200 miles of the outpost but the store is filled with 2lbs bags of snack food. I bought some rice crackers on the theory that they were more healthy than corn nuts which is probably not at all true.

Outside of Beatty the road is peppered with whore houses my favorite of which (yeah, I have a favorite whore house, doesn't everyone?) is "The Shady Lady" which is housed in a trailer. I guess I can imagine some trucker needing some loving on the road and even imagine maybe paying for it (imagine, not condone) but I'd think that even a dirty trucker dude would be all "a trailer? HELL NO." Apparently not.

There are two ways to get from Beatty to Bishop, the normal way and the Horst Klemm way. Dad's way is admittedly about 50 miles shorter than the other way but it also takes you along a windy mountain road that prohibits speeds in excess of crawling so I fid his claims that it's faster somewhat dubious. The road is also famous for making people who don't usually get car sick demand frequent puke break (and by people I mean me). This has no effect on Dad's insistent that this be the road of choice for my entire childhood. Regardless of the speed and high probability of barfing I'm enough of Daddy's girl to always take his road -- assuming I can find it. The turn off appears suddenly in the middle of dessert, it used to be marked by the Cottentail Ranch (that's ranch as in "we have girls who will sleep with you for money" not, "we have cows") but that was raised a couple of years ago and now I have to consider the implications of not being able to find my way home without the becon of a brothal to light my way.

CA 168 travels through the White Mountains and would be beautiful if i didn't drive it every time I wanted to go to Wet Seal from the ages of 10-18. In the 85 miles from NV to the 395 turn off in CA I passed 4 other cars and almost ran over 2 mice, a rabbit and a fox. I also almost got into 45 car accidents as I tried to push the PT above 45 on curve after curve. I eventually made it to town, passed the radio station, the BBQ Bills, the feed store with a huge red horse statue outside, the garish dutch bakery in the middle of town, the sad empty former home of KMart, and my parents house. It was probalby worth the 11 hours of travel time.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

My day was supposed to be full to the brim with babysitting but at the last minute Miss D's grandma (not my mom, the other one) pulled rank and stole her away for the day so I was left with a huge expanse of empty hours and no plans to fill them. And so, never one to spend a day lolling around, I immediately went into project mode and descending upon and empty patch of dirt in my parent's backyard. My dad had recently torn down the shed that stood in this spot for my entire childhood and this barren plot was in serious need of greenery.

After a trip to the nursery and roping dad into putting a nice border around the plot we were ready to garden! Or rather... to rototill. Despite all posted warnings I choose to operate this heavy machinery in a skirt and flip flops cause I'm super hardcore (also known as stupid hardcore). In addition to around 75 tons of rocks and a disturbing amount of broken glass I dug up a dead squirrel and in further testament to my hardcoredness I picked it up and threw it into the trash without so much as a whimper. Perhaps I haven't converted to 100% city girl just yet.



After erecting the overly snazzy border dad announced that he was done with the project and that it was ALL me from there on out. This was Dad's biggest lie ever because what followed was me asking him questions like "Ok, is this enough dirt or should I add that other bag?" To which he'd respond, "I don't know! This is your project!" but as soon as I'd move forward without the extra dirt he'd begin to mutter things like "hmmm seems a little sparse, might need more dirt." Somehow we managed to finish without me throwing any dead squirrels at his head.

God Bless the Mule

I'm home for the week proceeding the Family Wedding Extravaganza (which will hopefully not serve as a catalyst for the Older Daughter Bloody Rampage Fueled by Lack of Organization Extravaganza) but before the fun of running errands to the florist, setting up chairs and telling mom that seriously those shoes look fine for the 75th time can begin we have to get through Memorial Day weekend in Bishop California, better known as Mule Days. As I have mentioned before, this is cowboy country and Mule Days is ostensibly a cowboy party to celebrate all that the mule has done for us (no, not glue.) but in my experience it's mostly an excuse to buy cowboy themed dishtowels and eat Indian tacos. But this year, in honor of my first Mule Days in 7 years I was determined to attend a show. My first choice was the Tracey Lawrence concert because we all know I'm a slut for the twang but sadly the concert was Thursday night and I wasn't going to hit town until Saturday so the next best option was the coyly named, "Sunday Night Show." And so after 2 margaritas and a plate full of very cheesy Mexican food my brother, future sister, favorite little girl ever and my friend Sky went to The Sunday Night Show. Turns out The Sunday Night Show is like a rodeo on laughing gas and includes all of the following events peppered by a announcer's pleas to "Thank lord Jesus for the fun we've had here tonight!", "Buy this beautiful Dodge pickup truck," and cheers that various cowboy participants disrobe.

Bed Roll Race

In this ode to a less than restful night a mule drags a bedroll across the arena where a cowboy/person of less than complete intelligence launches themselves onto the bedroll as the mule races back to the starting line. He who survives the subsequent roads burn wins!

Musical Tires

Ingredients

• Arena full of Mules
• Guy inexplicably dressed in a mule mascot-like suit which, even more inexplicably, has a mustache.
  
• Pack of people with no shame
  
• Record playing "The Wheels on the Bus"
  
• Guy in mule outfit with cap gun that he periodically shoots off in an obvious attempt at suicide via mule kick to the head.

This is exactly like musical chairs except you know, with tires, and angry mules and a more acute possibility of death.

Guy Riding Huge Horses Roman Style

Since "Riding Huge Horses Roman Style" clearly sounds like a new fangled sexual position I'm sure all of you are happy to see that this is just some crazy dude standing on the backs of two horses as they and their horse team buddies race around the track laughing about how hilarious it would be if this fool fell on his ass. Shockingly his ass remained in air.

The Packer's Scramble

Each of four pack trains are given a collection of items deemed "hard to pack on a mule" (though my suggestion of "another mule?" was not seriously considered so clearly no one was trying too hard) and while the clock ticks are forced to pack up their train of mules and race around the fairgrounds without losing any of the haul.

On My Love For Cowboys

For a geeky New Yorker with a tech job who loves Hillary Clinton and vodka gimlets and video games I know a lot about cowboys. I know some of you are now giggling to yourself and thinking “Silly Brianna, cowboys aren’t real!” (Hi Amy!) but I grew up in cowboy country and have a number of good stories about rocky mountain oysters, horse shoeing contests and artificially inseminating cows to prove their existence. I like to bring up cowboy factoids on first dates and at parties – it keeps people entertained and it makes me seem unique but for all of my comic bravado I mostly feel sentimental about the cowboys I have known (that's cowboy, musician and friend of the family Fiddlin Pete on the left). Trying to explain love is probably almost always a futile effort but as a good little slave to the left side of my brain I’ve long been searching for the source of my love for cowboys. I cannot honestly site any of the idealistic cowboy myths that permeate urban culture. In my experience cowboys are rarely strong and silent. They do not typically bust out deep thoughts like the guys in the movies. Most of them don’t even have cute butts.

Of course cowboy stereotypes aren’t all favorable. Earlier this year I attended Pro Bull Riding at Madison Square Garden where the opening ceremony made a very compelling argument for cowboys being ignorant, culturally unaware and easily fooled into voting for anyone willing to don a pair of boots. The arena at the garden was covered in dirt and a huge “USA” had been carved into the floor, a guy wearing a cowboy hat fashioned out of the box for a Coors Light 24 pack was sitting 20 feet to my left and inexplicably an army tank was parked on the right edge of the stadium. New York City was ready for some bull riding. As the event began (following an awful preshow involving people dressed up as janitors and lip singing songs from 1967) the lights were dimmed and a huge screen was lowered down from the ceiling. What followed was a series of shots of each bull rider before a backdrop of his home state. Each chaps-clad stereotype recited a couplet from a poem about loving America and horses and chewing tobacco. Interspersed between the poetry styling’s of the manliest men in New York City were shots of air force jets and soldiers in Iraq. As the camera pulled out as the last of the bull riders delivered his final line (a guy from Brazil who I’m sure loves freedom slightly less than all the American boys) the USA on the floor BURST INTO FLAMES! This was followed by a brief fireworks show and then the night’s honorary guest was introduced. If anyone out there has any doubts about how badly Rudy Guliani wants to be president let me lay them to rest. A New Yorker does not put on boots, a fringed suede jacket and a bolo tie unless he is serious about getting him some southern votes. And the cowboys are more than ready to vote for Rudy – he saved America after 9/11, he’s a “true American hero.” (like GI Joe only sleazier and less homoerotic).

Despite the ridiculousness of Bull Riding does NYC I still felt a bit mushy while watching those guys get tossed around. Cowboys almost always tug at my heart strings and I have never been able to fully explain why. I usually just blame it all on nostalgia. Fiddles and songs about the rodeo make me happy because they remind me of home. I’m sure this is at least partially true… except… I didn’t listen to a lot of country music when I actually lived in the country (In fact it took a class at a liberal east coast college to teach me to love Loretta). I also didn’t willingly go to very many rodeos and I mostly gave up horseback riding around age 12. As an adolescent I used to pride myself on not being country.

Every August friends of my parents host an annual weekend party at their remote (no phone, no light, no motor cars without four wheel drive) cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains. It’s typically 3 days of horseback riding, potlucks, hiking and drinking with good old boys. For years I was all but outcast by the other kids my age (junior rodeo stars all) because I insisted on spending my afternoons with my nose literally in a book but figuratively in the air. I was way too good for cowboys. If it weren’t for my parent’s good standing I’m sure I’d have been told to go back to the mall. Most of the families at this party have deep roots in the Owens Valley ranching community; their grandparents drove cattle in the Sierras and they all seem to be living an extension of their ancestor’s lives. Not so the Klemms. Dad was born in Germany, mom in Wisconsin. My grandparents on both sides all but hated horses. No matter, somehow my parents and younger brother manage to fit right in, but I have never been able to walk the line between book smart and horse smarts. I am having a hard time articulating the divide between myself and the rest of the party guests without sounding like a huge snob but I could not join in on late night drinking games or afternoons of four wheeling because I couldn’t speak the language. Conversely I assume that everyone else could only roll their eyes as I sat on the porch for hours reading “The Beauty Myth.” or in the cab of my dad’s truck listening to Liz Phair on repeat. And yet…I have rarely felt as at home as I do at that party. There is an acute sense of belonging that somehow seems to transcend the fact that I am so obviously out of place.

Despite my embodying almost everything they hate there are a lot of real cowboys out there who I know would never hesitate to let me sleep on their floor, ride their horses, eat from their menudo pot or pat their ass (though some of the women might look at me askance). Unconditional love is always pretty awesome but it is even more astonishing when it comes freely from people so different from me. My heroes are writers, musicians and scientists but my family will always be cowboys.