The drive across the center of Nevada was pleasant enough. Quiet enough. There was one glorious rest stop, and many signs showing animated cattle. (Message: It's an open range across the road. Beware.) There was even something labeled a "Toiyable National Forest," where the roadside scrub was maybe a little higher, a little greener. Maybe. We took their word for it (but didn't take any convincing photos).
We drove across the beltbuckle of the state before reaching a photogenic watering hole: Warm Springs. From here, you can head on to Ely, or you can turn onto the "Extraterrestrial Highway" and set your sights on Rachel, another hour away.
There are no gas stations between Tonopah and Warm Springs. There are no gas stations between Warm Springs and Rachel. And, unfortunately, there are no gas stations in Warm Springs. Not for over 20 years.
Once a small resort built around some very hot natural springs, it is now a ghost town. The main bathhouse is fenced, locked, and discarded.
But the springs themselves remain. I didn't know this at the time, or maybe (maybe) I would've stopping the car, which we all know can lead to a perfectly working car suddenly not working, leaving us stranded in, never more literally, the middle of nowhere. Doesn't Mike look like he's ready to be bullied into exploring?
I don't know how I didn't know that "Warm Springs" wasn't just a cutesy name. To be fair, I live near the intersection of a street called Warm Springs, and it's as dry as Noel Coward. And true, it wasn't as green as the one natural spring we passed outside of Beatty, where all of the sudden we both started shouting, "What the hell?! What the hell?!" For your information, that is the appropriate response when the desert suddenly turns green and moist. But, you'd think I'd have noticed when snapping this photo:
(You may have to click the picture then click "All Sizes" to see the large pool of bubbly therapeutic water in the center of the stone ruins.)
So, if you're ever riding a phantom stagecoach and it stops to switch horses in Warm Springs, do check out the mineral pools. Apparently it's fun.
We turned onto Highway 375 for Rachel, noting the rails where the "Extraterrestrial Highway" sign should be. (The ones at each end of the highway are missing. Bummer. Scully needs to write a check.)
Like U.S. Highway 6 (as opposed to the Texas version I used to walk daily as a teen), it's still open range, and for that reason I would never drive this road at night. I don't care how cautious you are; you'd have to go 15 m.p.h for the minimum peace of mind. The cows own this road. We saw three dead calves as we traveled, and almost contributed a baby bunny ourselves. (It was okay. Unlike the bird on Highway 6. And I'll just have to spend the rest of my life keeping my fingers crossed about the rabbit on NV 265. We did go back and look for it. Let's not talk about it - I'm still sick over it. At this rate, I was sure I'd start knocking down people by the time we got to the interstate.)
We only saw one actual cow in the middle of the road, shown in the distance below. It trotted pretty fast. Smart cow.
After passing nine cars, we hit Rachel at 9:30 a.m.. This was good; we'd be back in Las Vegas before the freeways get stupid (by 2 p.m.). One highway sign remains, and it's just outside the town. Obviously, now we had to stop for photos.
(Note: there are more photos in the Flickr stream: Rachel slideshow, Area 51 slideshow.)
At this point, you may wonder if I'm a "UFO believer." I mean, was this a kitschy Americana cultural stop, or was I queueing for the mothership.
(Ha. If you really knew me, you'd know I am piloting the mothership. In my own mind. Where there is a Holodeck. And the dwarf hamsters fill in as tribbles.)
By the way, the Star Trek Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton is closing in September. I know! Unfortunately, Vegas is going through a hardcore "ultra lounge" phase, so it's out with the goofy fun and in with tilting your head sideways. (And no more 70s/80s concerts at Mandalay Beach as of this summer, but we're starting to slip into another post.)
The STE is fun if you know anything about transporter beams or Borgs, so if you've never been, come now. Tickets are half-price at any half-price ticket booth on the Strip, and I hear Quarks has pretty decent vittles. Try to visit when crowds are low, so you can about pee your pants in terror like I did when the Borg started gaining on the back of the tour group. Awesome.
But do I believe? And, like Mulder, do I want to?
The stock answer, #312 in the catalog, goes like this: "It would be arrogant to assume we're the only sentient life in the universe. Therefore, yes, I believe in extraterrestrial life."
But around this part of the desert, the question is a little more explicit. It's not do you believe?, but, "Do you believe that aliens have visited this planet? Do you believe the government knows? Do you believe our military has alien technology and/or bodies? Do you believe that the Groom Lake facility, aka "Area 51," aka "that place that isn't on the map and the masses didn't really start talking about until certain BBS text files started propagating" is where they test experiment with that technology, possibly with the help of a telepathic alien?"
I don't know. And, unlike Mulder, I don't want to believe. Because... ew. Their eyes.
But all of this kind of thing did pique my interest as a youth, especially when I would be camping and see things that I'd write off as ball lightning. Except now it's 2008 and, thanks to the empowering qualities of the Internet, I know that even ball lightning is controversial. Oh. Pity you can't retro-TiVo your memory.
(Did I ever tell the story about the time I videotaped an alien? Or rather, I looked into the camcorder and saw an alien? And the number of tearful minutes I spent coping with this before I realized I was videotaping my nose, upside down?)
So, now, I'm not a "believer," but I think the whole Area 51 mythos, be it true or total horseshit, is a deliciously wacky part of our culture now, and having a visit sounded like fun. It's kind of my generation's equivalent to the St. Louis Arch - you can go your whole life without seeing it, no regrets, but why pass up a chance to visit?
(Also, it's still hopelessly fun to spot the "Janet" aircraft fly in and out of McCarran, but I think we'll make that another post later, when I have better pictures.)
That's the Little A'Le'Inn above. If you watch any show or movie that takes place around Area 51, the Little A'Le'Inn will show up at some point.
If you are a hardcore believer, they have a "trailer motel" out back, just past the picnic area:
Or you might stay there if you're just into seeing experimental aircraft, or big simulated air fights. These are the undisputed activities that go on in the skies above and around Area 51.
And if you're really into any of this, maybe you'll move there and open a gas station. Nope, there's no gas here either. The nearest gas station is about 40 miles away, on the way to Vegas. Now that's a conspiracy.
This wasn't always military/tinfoil hat territory. This marker above commemorates the Groom Mining District. Gist: Ore was spotted in 1864. The Brits invested. The mine didn't have much and was too isolated, although they gave it another go in the 1910s.
I gave you a synopsis because I don't want you to look too closely at that marker. Why? Because it contains a horrible typo. It uses "it's" for "its." It's bad enough that you simply know about its problem, looking at such a thing engraved in metal could cause your eyes to burn out of their sockets.
Or is that just a sad English teacher thing?
On the plus side, without the marker, I never would've known about The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, who look like they might even make typos on purpose, just to tell stories about them. Oh, would that they admitted dames.
People talk a lot in their trip reports about the Little A'Le'Inn's wonderful burgers and drinks, but this must be one of those places where you have to just ask. There are no menus inside, just some liquor bottles behind a counter and a glimpse of a kitchen behind a doorway. No big deal, just don't wander in, expecting to order food without making conversation.
The people working there were friendly, but they were also pretty engrossed with some friends (?) who had walked in about a minute before us. This ended up being fine; we could look at the paraphernalia for sale and UFO Polaroids on the wall without feeling the highbeams of the "first customer all day" spotlight.
In addition to maps, bumper stickers, magnets, pens, games, and - name it - the T-shirt selection is pretty good. I kept asking Mike, "Do you like this one? What about this one?" And he just kept shuddering and muttering about not being willing to wear anything with aliens on it. Again, those eyes, right?
The shirt I picked isn't in the online store, so I guess you don't get to see it. But know this: it's a 5X. Five-X! I don't wear a 5X (it's true, however contrary the Frappuccino evidence may seem), but I was so amazed, I decided I had to start. Sleep shirt ahoy! (Just so Mike can fall asleep with those aliens watching him.)
But you know what else? The woman there told us that, for some shirts, they have - out back - 8X. Eight-X! I love that there are shirts out there too big for even me to imagine.
I'd printed some maps from the Dreamland website, but - for souvenir purposes - I also bought one for 33 cents.
We drove down the highway until we reached the black mailbox:
(Don't make me explain why it isn't black.)
As soon as we got in our car, a woman drove up, unlocked the box, and put some papers in. I never found so much lint to pick at in the center of the car before, if you know what I mean.
We followed the store-bought map's directions down the gravel road to an intersection:
We chose the center road, as directed. Eventually we came to what the map calls "Groom Lake Road." If you go left, you'll end up back at the highway:
If you go right, you can drive down bumpy, rutted gravel road for eight miles.
Obviously, if you've come this far, you turn right.
Although the meter stayed firmly in the "Having a Lark!" zone, by the end of the eight miles, especially after a few little hills and several deep tracks just made for flying rocks up into the underside of the hatchback (another conspiracy?!), I think we would've cried if either one of us had suggested getting the extra few feet to get right by the sign.
We stopped, talking very obviously and clearly for all hidden microphones (really) about how, no way, no how, did we want to pass that sign or any other less recognizable marker and spend an hour face-down in the dirt, waiting for the Lincoln County Sheriff to arrive and fine us $650 apiece. (Apparently this is the standard trespassing penalty for first timers.)
My Dad tried to be a spoilsport and point out that, when you get to the sign, you're still miles away from the installation proper. Whatever! After bumping all the way down that horrid rocky road in a Ford Focus hatchback, we felt chuffed.
Besides, we were being seriously observed by both machine and man. That was cool.
See the orange post in the first photo? You can hike up to that line. If you're a hiking-in-the-desert-where-you're-not-wanted kind of person.
The second photo was taken after I made a three-point turn and went back a little ways. (Someday the secret recording of our conversation will be declassified, and you will get to hear me discover from Mike that there is a special name for turning around in stages. That's another reason why we stopped where we did - any closer, and it would've been trickier to get back.)
Mike did get a closer photo of the sign, this time not through the car window:
That's a crop, and I know it's not the best, but it's ours. We have a tiny tripod just for this occasion. Neither one of us could be bothered to reach into the back seat. Not even knowing that there is no way we will drive down that road again. Now you know why it's a good thing we found and married each other. And aren't having kids.
Here's a close-up crop of the cammo dude, sitting in his SUV on the hillside shown above:
"Cammo dude" is the preferred tourist lingo for the private security firm that sits there, doing its bit to keep people out. They aren't known for their willingness to engage in conversation, or for allowing some "oops!" slack when people accidentally(?) cross the border.
But, I don't know, I think waiting for sightseers to drive out and be awestruck over a sign (for a base that these days only sort of doesn't exist) might be the high point of the shift.
You know what we had to do now, right?
Drive all the way back.
(Brave sniffles.)
We took Groom Lake Road all the way back to the highway, turned, and - after some picturesque turns through the hills - soon were at Crystal Springs, allegedly another ghost town. It lies at the junction of the ET Highway and US-93.
Above is the Alien Research Center, but it's only open on weekends. (Supposedly they have one of the missing highway signs.)
Crystal Springs, the first county seat for Lincoln (but only for a year), may be deserted now, but there are plenty of cows around to enjoy the squishy land. Mike called to them from his window.
The sign for Alien Fresh Jerky confused me. Isn't AFJ in Baker? And, you know, I'd always wondered why it was in Baker, when Baker is in California and nowhere near the hotbeds of alien souvenirs.
Turns out that the building is where Alien Fresh Jerky used to be. Ah. Again, the power of the Internet.
We stopped in Alamo for gas, where we discovered how much of Area 51 we were still carrying with us:
And then the fun ended. US-93 is endless. Endless. Endless. Then, when we reached I-15, we got to see for the first time what the north side of Las Vegas is like. The north north side, up by the Speedway.
BLEH. No wonder some people think this city is nasty. BLEH. I don't care how posh the Aliante planned community is, and how it's going to end the tradition of people from throwing up in their mouths a little when saying "North Las Vegas," the freeway and all the scenery around this end of the valley is icky poo poo.
And the construction! Bleh. And then the way your car loses power for no reason and you have to pull off the nearest exit into the ghetto! Ew!
Okay, so ours was but one experience, but if you're wondering why we're not driving to Utah, despite saying this was finally the summer for it, there's your answer. I-15 north of Las Vegas is ugly and industrial and horribly congested in a non-character building way. Also, I'm a snob.
Meanwhile, I'm wondering if the future holds a day-tripping charter bus to the Grand Canyon.
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