If you pay any attention to my "tweets" on the right side, you know we just came home from Area 51. But that's only part of the story, a story that begins with these words: "So, what are you going to do this summer?"
I had, until yesterday, three travel wishes on my list of summer plans. (What happened yesterday will be explained.... later.) They were:
- Visit the Grand Canyon (Mike's suggestion)
- Go to Mesquite for the two free nights at the resort and use that opportunity to see Utah, perhaps even finally going to the Shakespeare theatre there
- Go to Tonopah and see the Milky Way.
Tonopah is the #1 stargazing destination in the U.S. I know other places (Cloudcroft, NM, much of Alaska and Montana, and so on) might disagree, but apparently USA Today said it, and the twee town has seized the accolade. They Nevada Commission on Tourism has even made a website just for Tonopah stargazers.
It's a four hour trip, landing the visitor between Las Vegas and Reno. Ew. But - so what? STARS! More than seven or eight of them! And the MILKY WAY!
All we had to do was get there.
Back in my carefree youth, road trips didn't faze me. I didn't have Triple-A; I didn't get why freeways might be safer than two-lane highways, and paying a little more for a room where the receptionist wasn't behind a cage never occurred to me. Cell phones? What were those? I was just happy to explore, and I'd bring home one, sometimes two, 15-exposure discs to prove it.
But now I am old and boring, and when I hear "road trip," I think:
- What if I travel outside of cell phone range?
- What if I'm more than five miles away from a mechanic? I knew I should've purchased AAA's extended plan with the extra towing.
- What if I have to stay in a motel? What if it's like Vacancy? Or worse (yes, worse), what if I get bedbugs?
- Do we have to come back the same way? I don't like reruns.
- This is Nevada. Isn't the drive anywhere going to be really brown and boring? Like the drive to Disneyland, but without the magic of Walt to reward me at the end?
- What if something happens?
I'm not saying I'm down on road trips. I'm just saying that they raise a lot of questions that are easiest to answer by finding something fun to do closer to home.
But, darnation, I wanted to see the Milky Way. How can I become an armchair astrophysicist if I haven't seen the Milky Way? I'll be laughed out of my daydreams!
Of course, the best time to see stars is when the moon is new (and therefore, for our purposes, invisible). That meant we had two windows of travel for this summer, and one was around the 2nd of July.
Alas, our sleep was rotten. Yet, when the day came, we decided to be young again, like early thirtysomethings, not mid-to-late thirtysomethings. So we're tired. So what. It's only four hours. We'll sleep when we check-in, then go see the stars later after the nap. We had a plan.
A plan capable of spawning several new plans. They went like this:
- "I don't want to drive through the city. I hate the "spaghetti bowl" stretch of US 95. Let's go south and through Pahrump instead. It's only 15 extra miles!"
- "You know what's outside of Clark County? Legal brothels. Wouldn't it be interesting to..."
- "Goodness, there are, like, twenty billion ghost towns on the way. Let's stop at lots of them!"
- "Hey, if we come back the much longer way, we can stop at Area 51!"
Off we set at around 7 a.m., each sipping a venti double-choc Frap with caramel. (Have to stay perky for the road - duh.)
We didn't stop in Pahrump, but it was larger than either of us expected. They have billboards, casinos, trees, acres of subdivisions, a winery you can tour, and a Wal-Mart and a Panda Express. They also have Michael Jackson, who now makes his home there. Pahrump is only an hour or so from Las Vegas, so we decided to save it for another trip when we can visit properly.
Mike took some photos, but they were just blurs from the window. Nevertheless, please gently insert some minor key sound effects into the background at this point. There's foreshadowing afoot.
You wouldn't know it from the trendy, growing suburban area, but Pahrump is famous for something other than Art Bell's paranormal broadcasts: it has whorehouses. They aren't actually in Pahrump proper, but further along in Nye County. These are the houses of legalized prostitution that are closest to Las Vegas, and I wanted to see them. Why not? It's a big part of the state culture and the Sin City image. (Even if it's actually illegal within Sin City and its county.)
Twenty miles away from Pahrump, we saw the modest sign for "Crystal, Nevada." Alongside it were signs for several adult-oriented establishments, and they all pointed an arrow down a slim but paved road. We followed dutifully. On the way, we passed a stopped truck on one side, and a shirtless middle-aged man on the other, the latter grinning and walking, shiny with sweat... or baby oil? Um.
Soon enough, we were at the "Cherry Patch" parking lot. This is Mike, putting on his "What fun!" face:
Most women would be pleased with a husband who has no interest in hookers. And, yeah, okay, obviously it's great that Mike is all about devotion and fidelity and yadda yadda. (Smooches, honey!) I mean, I still haven't convinced him to go see one of Las Vegas' famous topless shows, or that it's normal for women - even churchgoing little old ladies from the Midwest - to attend these productions. It's a cultural expedition. It's, you know, sociology and stuff. You don't have to want a "box on a pillow" to go take a gander at a legal sex farm.
(The day before we left, I read Mike some of the items on the "menu" at the Cherry Patch. I was really stumped by "Box on a Pillow," though. The description said, "You walk in and the only thing you see is a box. Now, what can you do to it, without talking, listening or seeing the other half." And I was all, "What, you step inside a box? There's someone on the other side of the box? The box is divided? Does the box have a hole in it? Is it like a confession booth? Or is someone hiding inside a box?" It took me awhile to work this "box" thing out. I'm charmingly slow like that.)
I realize that, in the above photo, in addition to Mike's game attempt at looking like he isn't being dragged to the site of cash-based debauchery, you can't see anything because someone painted our windows white.
Okay, no one painted the windows white, but... I don't know if I can talk about it yet.
(Gulp.)
All right, the thing is... what happened was... Okay. Okay, here's the deal:
The camera has lots of fun little modes to give you extra control over your photos, right? Except, I never use them unless I'm very deliberately wanting to try something. So far, despite being so inspired by the Understanding Exposure book, the only things I like to try are shallow depths of field and long exposures. So, if you turn the dial to "Av," it will default to a wide open aperture. And if you turn the dial to "Tv," it will default to a multi-second shutter speed.
But again, I only go there when in the mood to try stuff, and I'm never in the mood to try stuff if I'm in the middle of the hot Nevada desert. Or if I'm somewhere I'm unlikely to visit again. The dial stays firmly on "P," which might as well stand for "Point and Shoot, without the Flash." It also stands for "Proud to be setting my own white balance, ISO, and exposure framing, so stop trying to make me feel bad for not taking more control over the camera." Again, the dial stays on P.
Unless someone else uses your camera.
And you don't think to check the dial.
And, because "P" always gets the job done, you don't look at the pictures after you take them.
For the next 100 miles.
Go ahead, feel sick about it. I did. Later. At the time I took the next photo, though, I had no idea that my loving husband had accidentally, for no known reason, moved the dial to "Tv," where the longer-than-normal-but-not-so-long-you'd-notice exposure setting sits ready.
These things happen. Pat, pat. We have our memories. Until those slip away, but HEY, let's change the subject.
As you can see (sort of), this brothel was closed, so we would need to use the brothel down the street for services. He he he. Actually, we were both relieved - this was perfect. We could take tons of pics (I will not stop to weep here - brave typing continues) without worrying that a madam would shoo us into a room and make us choose from a horseshoe line-up of women. (I've seen that episode of Twin Peaks where Audrey does the cherry tongue-twister trick. I know things.)
When we drove back down the short road, the truck was gone, and the shirtless sheeny man was now on the other side of the paving, standing behind a very small hill, burning something. We didn't stop to ask questions.
And that was Crystal, Nevada.
Our next stop was Beatty, and I knew from a little research that there would be ghost towns all along the way. I also knew that many of these ghost towns were classified as "completely vanished" or "just a few foundations remain." So, more ghost than town, really. But I didn't expect the former townsites to be so... unmarked. Maybe the huge number of historical markers in Texas has spoiled me, but if you didn't know those towns were there then, well, you wouldn't know they were there. Sad and fascinating.
This was our route along US 95. Why yes, that is the "Nellis Air Force Bombing and Gunnery Range" all along the eastern side of the road. Time was when you wouldn't see that on a map. Once upon a time, there was just a mysteriously blank spot covering much of the southern part of the state. It's only in the past 10ish-so years that the Air Force has admitted to the base's existence. But, we'll save all that doo-doo-doo-doo Area 51 hype for when we get there. For now, just know that it was amusing to be in constant sight of this area for most of the trip. (Again, boy is it huge.)
Beatty greeted us with a good, old-fashioned sprawl of an antique showcase, which sent us into a sudden stop as we immediately hearted this little town. (Which was saved from being ghost town itself thanks to the highway. The message of Pixar's Cars, about what can happen when the highway bypasses a place, was really brought home during this trip.)
Unfortunately, few items at this charming store/yard had prices, so we didn't get to contribute to the local economy here. I mean, I was kind of curious about how much the Star Wars/Burger King glasses were, but not enough to have to open a line of discussion with the proprietor. (Because, really, anything over a dime would've been pushing it. There is some memorabilia I prefer to enjoy in other people's collections.)
The camera was still quietly sitting in the wrong mode, sternly teaching me a lesson about not paying attention. Just imagine how vivacious and compelling these shots would have been (sincere cough):
There were some neat things there for the right collector - ashtrays and swizzle sticks from long gone casinos, old soda bottles - but we were ready to move on... to detour four miles down the road for... Rhyolite! The "don't miss" ghost town on Nevada!
Beatty is neat - it has a Bank of America inside a little house, for heaven's sake - but the pull of a proper ghost town kept us from lingering.
But the question is, how many neat-o shots did we take in Rhyolite before I happened to see the little "Tv" icon in the viewfinder and shriek, "Shutter speed?!"
Answer: I took 18 snaps, four or five of which I'm sure National Geographic would've paid top dollar for (*another sincere cough*), before I made the shocking discovery that we'd been living the unFlickr'd life since the start of the trip.
So let's stop here. In the next installment of "One Night in Nevada," we'll jump right into Rhyolite, starting with the proper snapshots. Proper snapshots.... taken through the dirty windshield, too bleak and washed out to love. It's always an education 'round these parts. Sorry in advance. There will be more hookers, though, so stay tuned!
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