This is from notes taken at the time; minimal editing has been applied.
"I'm on the same trip as you are, man!" He talks by shouting and then shout-mumbling. It's a weird thing, and kind of unnerving but the big meth-head seems to be a gentle giant of sorts, just scratching his legs in an absentmindedly bugged-out fashion as we gassed up in 29 Palms, California. He had beautiful red-nosed pitbulls in the back of his El Camino, a blacked-out swastika tattoo, and a gut that spoke of prodigious beer consumption along with whatever else kept him running. "It's 150 miles to the river, man! Just head out east and don't turn left, or else you'll end up in Vegas!"
None of us had the heart (or guts) to tell him that's where we were headed, so we sort of nodded along and got out of there.
We were 80 miles outside of Joshua Tree, on a two lane stretch of desert blacktop, when things really took wing. It had been a rocky start. For me it's been nice to be on vacation, but this hasn't felt really all that special. Fun and relaxation -- which god knows I could use a little bit of -- but nothing more. There were flashes of what could be. I got my first hit when Mark from MFA offered me free pizza at Lanesplitter's when I ran into him on the BART. It wasn't super special, but it was out of the ordinary enough to perk up my senses. That's right! I have no obligations here. I'm my own man again. It's starting to kick in.
There's nothing like seeing a steaming freight train, 100 cars long and fully loaded, rolling through the desert valley as you're climbing out of Essix, California, on your way to Vegas. It's a unique experience. Something from the old days. Then 20 Miles later you're climbing another hill on the same two lane desert strip, and you're watching I-40 recede just like the Union Pacific line. Out here it seems that truckers own the road. You remember how integral long-haul freight is to the modern American economy.
Beep Beep! There went a roadrunner. For real. We're trying to avoid the Interstate when practical, so this is all on a state road that should connect to a highway that should lead us to Vegas. We're headed towards some billowing smoke clouds -- it's brushfire season -- and we have the road nearly all to ourselves. We'd seen the remnants of a fire on our way towards Joshua Tree, climbing over a little pass as we left Palm Springs, the hillside black with ash and occasionally a red splash from a fire-retardant drop.
When we'd stopped to snake some Wi-Fi after getting groceries there we met a local businessman, an asian fellow who ran a manicure spot on the modest commercial strip behind the hotel we were leeching internet from. He was hanging out eating an ice cream and killing the afternoon; with the temperature well up over 100 his business was empty, and would probably be that way until the fall when the season picked up again. He told us that the pass had been closed and the temperature above 110 the previous day, so our timing was right. Fortune smiles again as we head into the Deserts of Eastern California.
Tearing along through the desert on long straight roads, the smell of smoke is getting stronger. There's a big burn going out here somewhere, the dry brush and grass are more dense than usual thanks to a wet winter, but now flammable as ever after a month of 100 degree preparation. High and dry, they say. When lighting strikes, the result is often wildfire. We seem to be heading towards it, as a couple Park Rangers pass us by with their lights flashing. This is the trip; the highway lane markers ticking off time as the open road rolls away and the American wilderness plays out around us. It's a whole different level of freedom.
At around 4pm we came up on a turnoff for the road to Vegas. There were a few rangers parked there with the outgoing lane blocked off, and we slowed down and waved as we went by, thinking nothing of it. About 5 miles further we started seeing fire on the horizon. Smoke had been a constant for a while, but now we could actually see the ridge-line aflame. Shortly another ranger came down the road our way and stopped us, told us to turn back, that the rangers we'd passed before had been a "barricade," and that we'd blown right by them. Didn't seem like that to us, but we turned around and went back.
At the roadblock there was a pretty slow moving fellow and a lady highway patrol officer. There was a minute of awkward conversation as Mark half-apologized for not telepathically understanding that we were supposed to stop there and the officials pretended they'd signaled us not to pass --- "what happened? you just blew right by us after a moment we were back on our way to the regular highway. A bona-fide run in with the law. (there's an audo version of this)
So we backtracked all the damn way to I-40 where I stopped to piss on the overpass. Out in the wide open, you pass plenty of exits with no services. Truckers'll just park there, hang out, whatever. It's an ok place to piss. Merging back in with the high-speed interstate traffic was a shift, but pretty soon we got to a state highway that would take us there via Boulder City. It's not quite the back road through the Mojave, but it's way more wide open than the interstate, and if we wanted to go that way we'd have to backtrack to Berdoo and get the 15. Fuck that noise. We don't backtrack on this trip unless we have to.
There on the 95 is when the vehicle registration blows out the window. We had it up in the sun visor because that seemed cooler than the glove compartment. The sun was coming strong from the left so Luke pulled it down and pushed it over and whoop, it was gone. So that's that.
We start imagining what the stop would be like.
OFFICER: Oh, so no registration, huh?
VAGABENDERER: Sorry, sir. It blew out the window in the desert.
OFFICER: Uh-huh. I'll be right back. (Goes back to vehicle, gets on radio... returns) So. Apparently you guys just blew right by a ranger blocade, huh?
VAGABENDERER: Well, see sir. That's a complecated story...
OFFICER: I'm sure it is. Son, I'm gonna have to ask to search this vehicle.
At which point they would discover, of course, that we're upright citizens. Sure.
Anyway, the rest of the drive passes relatively smoothly. We're starving by the time we hit Vegas, and it's tense finding a place. But thanks to stolen wi-fi from a Best Western we were considering, we found a better deal just off the strip, and it was no time before we were popping pills and dining on a C+ $8 prime rib. Vegas, baby. Vegas.