Wickenburg to Las Vegas by Helicopter

Again.

I couldn’t have asked for better weather. That’s what I was thinking as I preflighted my helicopter early on Wednesday morning.

I’d been hired to take three people from Wickenburg to the Las Vegas area with the primary objective of viewing the new bridge near the Hoover Dam from the air. My client, who had flown with me several times before, was willing to make the four-hour round-trip flight by helicopter — and pay for it — just for a look. To make the trip more worth his while, we’d also land at Boulder City Municipal Airport, where they’d rent a car and drive over to the dam for a tour. After lunch, they’d come back to the airport, climb back on board, and I’d take them for a Vegas Strip tour before returning to Wickenburg.

I’d mounted my GoPro Hero camera on the helicopter’s nose and set it up to shoot 720p video of the flight. I expected the flight up there to yield some good images and, if the camera was mounted properly, some smooth video footage. The camera seems to work best with the light behind the helicopter. On the way back, we’d by flying with the sun in front of us, so I didn’t have high expectations. Still, I brought along a pair of 16GB SD cards and the camera’s charger so I could capture it all. The images throughout this narrative are stills taken from that video.

The Flight Up

A thin, almost lacy layer of high clouds veiled the sky as we headed northwest from Wickenburg just after 8:30 AM. There wasn’t a breath of wind. The helicopter glided over the desert, 500 feet off the ground passing over cacti and other desert vegetation, open range cattle, and the occasional manmade water “tanks,” half of which were dry. Our departure from “civilization” to empty desert was almost immediate. As I often tell people, Wickenburg is on the edge of nowhere; I could just as easily say it’s a five minute flight from nowhere. We passed over a lonely ranch alongside the railroad tracks leading to Parker and beyond, then Route 71, which runs between Aguila and Congress, AZ. Then not a single building for thirty miles, when we reached the Wayside Inn and Alamo Lake.

Alamo Lake
Alamo Lake, at the confluence of the Big Sandy River, Santa Maria River, and Date Creek. The trickle of water released from the dam is the Bill Williams River, which eventually joins the Colorado River north of Parker, AZ.

I climbed not only to cross the lake within gliding distance of shore but to clear the mountains on the far side. As we crossed the lake, I was surprised by the number of campers parked alongside its shore and the boats tied up nearby. I suspected that a fishing tournament might be either starting or finishing up. The lake is popular with fisherman, which is probably a good thing. It’s so remote — heck, it’s a 90-minute drive from Wickenburg — that it simply doesn’t appeal to the typical powerboat/jetski crowd. They usually prefer Lake Pleasant, only 30 minutes from Phoenix (or Wickenburg), which is larger and far more interesting for boating.

Beyond the lake and the rugged mountains on its opposite shore was yet another stretch of empty desert. But rather than being just a flat expanse, this one was peppered with rock formations left behind by ancient volcanos. There were areas of broken basalt, including flat-topped mesas. In the distance, to our left, we could catch glimpses of the Colorado River. If we’d been in a plane, flying 3,000 feet higher, we’d have a better view of the river and mountains in the distance; at our cruise altitude of 500 to 1000 feet above the desert floor, we could clearly see the details of the rock formations, dry stream beds, and scant vegetation as we flew.

Beyond Alamo
The desert northwest of Alamo Lake is vast and empty.

Forty-five miles from Alamo Lake, we reached Lake Havasu, one of the Colorado River’s many lakes. Formed by Parker Dam far to the south, the lake widens in a broad valley. The founders of Lake Havasu City bought the London Bridge — the real London Bridge from England — and had it installed across a manmade canal as a tourist draw. The town formed nearby. It’s popular for water sports and has a huge influx of visitors during boat races and Spring Break. A friend of mine who lives there complains that the temperatures top 100°F six months out of the year.

Lake Havasu
Lake Havasu’s surface was mirror calm as we flew over, reflecting not only the graceful arches of London Bridge, but the clouds high above.

I’d chosen our route carefully. Two hours is a long time to spend in a helicopter, especially out over the desert where the terrain can be — and, up to that point had been — very monotonous. I planned the trip to follow the Colorado River, which was quite scenic. From that point on, we’d be over one shore or another or at least nearby. It would give my passengers something interesting to see for the second hour of the flight.

Indeed, the scenery along the river can be breathtaking — especially where the river narrows and passes through mountainous terrain. Topock Gorge is one of those places. Although it’s a short stretch of river and takes only five minutes or so to overfly, it’s dramatic and rugged. During the summer season, when the lake busy, speedboats roar through this area all day long. But that day, the lake was calm and quiet and we were treated to beautiful reflections of the sky and canyon walls.

Topock Gorge
Topock Gorge is one of the more scenic areas along the Colorado River between Lake Havasu City and Bullhead City.

Past the gorge, the river twists and turns in big arcs to the east and west. Rather than follow its course exactly, we headed almost due north. We passed over I-40 where it crosses the Colorado and the farms and communities built up in the Mohave Valley. This was also desert, but desert made habitable by the river that passed through it. Make no mistake: we were still miles from anything remotely resembling a real city — but at least there were people living here.

Mohave Valley
The Mohave Valley, near Needles, CA, is full of farms and small communities clustered up near the Colorado River.

A while later, we were within range of Bullhead City Airport and I called the controller for permission to transition the area along the river. Bullhead City Airport is a real oddity. It was built on the Arizona side of the river to support the casinos in Laughlin, NV. Although it’s well over 100 miles from any international border, it’s an International airport, meaning that you can fly into it from other countries and pass through customs and immigration. It even gets airline traffic; as we flew through the area, a Sun Country 737 was coming in to land. But the airport itself gets very little traffic. This might be because of the natural “wind tunnel” that funnels air up or down the river, resulting in winds that often top 20 knots. But that day, the wind was calm — the first time ever that I’d been there — and other than the jet, we were the only other traffic in the area.

Laughlin, NV
The tall casinos of Laughlin, NV across the river from Bullhead City, AZ. You can see the Bullhead City airport on the far right.

Beyond Laughlin and Bullhead City was the Davis Dam, which forms Lake Mohave. Lake Mohave is another one of the oddities of the desert. Although there are a few marinas and campgrounds along its southern shores, most of the lake is deserted and I seldom see any boat traffic on it. Again, this is likely because of its remote location — although access is easy from the Laughlin area. It seems to me that Lake Mohave would be a great place to become a houseboat hermit.

Davis Dam
The Davis Dam is just upriver from Laughlin and Bullhead City.

Lake Mohave
Lake Mohave seems like the perfect place to get away from it all on a clear, blue lake.

We flew up the eastern shore of the lake and I kept a sharp eye out for wild burros (donkeys). I’d seen them there before. While their trails were easily visible from the air, I didn’t see any animals — or people — at all.

The north end of the lake narrows considerably where the Colorado River winds through a gorge. The rock formations are rugged and starkly beautiful. This isn’t the place you’d want an engine failure — there aren’t many places for an emergency landing. But the landscape draws me to this area each time I fly up the river.

Colorado River
The Colorado River on the north end of Lake Mohave passes through a rugged gorge.

I tuned into the Lake Mead/Hoover Dam tour helicopter frequency and began monitoring communications. I knew that the area around the dam would be full of traffic and wasn’t sure what altitude pilots would be flying at. Routes and procedures are not published; my attempt to get this information from a tour operator failed miserably. (These operators apparently think they own the places they fly over and do what they can to keep everyone else out.)

I reached Willow Beach and made my first call. “Helicopter Six-Three-Zero-Mike-Lima at Willow Beach, heading for the bridge at 2500 feet.”

Some wise-ass tour pilot came on the radio and said “Which bridge? Hoover?”

What an idiotic question. There was only one bridge within 60 air miles. Which bridge did he think? What kind of morons are those tour companies hiring?

“Hoover,” I replied.

“Be advised that there will be four Maverick helicopters over the dam in about two minutes,” he replied. No indication of altitude or any other useful information.

Other pilots were more generous. Although the Papillon Pilots seemed to be crossing the river farther south at 3500 feet, the Maverick pilots were operating near the dam at 3000 feet. I planned to say at 2500 feet, which would keep me out of their way.

The bridge came into view around the same time the Maverick helicopters started appearing overhead. They were flying an odd S-shaped pattern that was obviously designed to give all their passengers a view. I did a three-quarter circle from the right to the left as my passengers leaned forward and then left to see. They got a good look — I was not prepared to loiter and they didn’t seem as if they needed me to. Then I was exiting the area along the road to Boulder City.

Hoover Dam and Bridge
The Hoover Dam and its new bridge are a popular tourist attraction for Las Vegas visitors. They’re amazing from the air.

I wasn’t finished yet, though. Another tour operator does very short tours of the dam and bridge from the Hacienda Hotel just up the road. He was preparing to launch as I flew over. He kindly said he’d wait until I’d passed by, then thanked me for talking on the radio. (Apparently, some pilots don’t — that’s a scary thought.) I thanked him for listening.

Not knowing the approach procedures for Boulder City Airport and anxious to stay out of the way of any other tour traffic, I stayed low as I crossed over the city and headed for the airport. (I was later told I’d likely get in trouble for that, but no one ever called. I guess I lucked out.) There were skydivers falling from the sky near the airport so, to stay clear, I circled around to the east and landed along one of the runways. I was still on edge from mixing with so much other traffic when I set down on one of the helicopter parking spots for the FBO.

Boulder City
Boulder City was built 90 years ago to provide a home for dam construction crews. It’s since grown to a vibrant community — the only one in Nevada that does not allow gambling.

We’d been in the air for 2.2 hours and I was ready for a break.

More about this trip in another post…

On the Road Again

Notes from halfway down the long drive from Wickenburg to Seattle.

I’m writing this from a Walmart parking lot. I’m propped up in a queen sized bed with three pillows behind my back and my laptop on my lap. It’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m pretty much wide awake after just over five hours of sleep. It isn’t noise that woke me — this Susanville, CA parking lot is remarkably quiet. I guess I’m just done sleeping for the night. But it’s too early to continue my travels along winding mountain roads, so I figured I’d share an update on my blog.

This isn’t a pleasure trip — although parts of it have been very pleasant. It’s for work; I’m repositioning a truck and my new RV from Arizona to Washington State for the summer. The RV will be my home away from home as I work on cherry drying contracts for central Washington growers. The truck is needed not only to pull this massive fifth wheel trailer but to carry the refueling system I need to meet my contractual obligations.

The Truck

I’ve written about my new RV elsewhere in this blog, so I won’t repeat that here. But I’ve probably neglected the truck. It’s my husband’s truck: a 2001 Chevy Silverado 3/4 ton pickup. It has a Duramax Diesel engine with towing package and an Allison transmission. A “man’s” truck, capable of towing more than 15,000 pounds. (We bought it new in 2001 to tow a horse trailer with living quarters that I’ve since sold.) Inside, it has many creature comforts, including heated leather seats, power windows, and stereo system with iPod connection. The truck runs well and is up to the task of towing my home away from home over 1,000 miles.

I’ve mounted my old Garmin 60c GPS over the dash and have it wired into one of the DC power outlets. I’d loaded in topo maps (my preferred map type) for my entire route and then some. I’m using it mostly as a trip computer, to calculate distance driven, average speed, etc. I’m keeping close track of fuel consumption so I can calculate burn rates.

I’ve also clipped my cell phone case to the visor and connected it to another DC outlet. I’m wearing my Bluetooth earpiece for most of the trip for safer hands-free communication — when I can get a signal. Verizon has the best network — which is why I use it — but even Verizon doesn’t cover some of the places I’ve driven through on this trip. I can hear the signal fade in and out with beeps in my right ear as I drive.

The Route and Stops

Track Me!
If I’m traveling — whether by helicopter or on a long drive — you can usually follow my SPOT Messenger track online at tinyurl.com/FindMaria

Every year I choose a different route for this drive, shunning freeways as much as possible. This year, the route included stops to visit with friends in Las Vegas and Reno, NV, and Ashland, OR. The route began in Wickenburg, AZ and headed west on route 60. What followed was a numeric alphabet soup of route numbers: 72 and 95 to Parker, 62 and 95 to Needles, 40 and 95 to Boulder City, 95 and 215 to Las Vegas, etc. You get the idea.

In Vegas, I visited with my friends Jim and Judith. Jim is a helicopter pilot who flies a Hughes 500c. He and his wife, Judith, lived in Wickenburg for quite a while but, like most of our other friends, bailed out when the saw the reality of the situation there. They moved to the San Diego area for a while, then various places in California, and finally in Las Vegas.

Jim, an airline pilot who took early retirement years ago — luckily, before the airline went belly up — is an inventor. He designs, manufactures, and sells power external aircraft power units called StartPacs. They’re used primarily for starting turbine engines, although he has a whole range of power products now, from power sources a pilot can use while fiddling with his avionics on the ground to big, self-propelled APUs for bizjets. When they left Wickenburg, they took their business with them. They now employ a handful of people in their Las Vegas office and manufacturing facility. Jim gave me a tour after lunch on Monday and showed me some of the new designs he’s gotten patents for.

I left Vegas and headed west and then north through Pahrump. Another road took me west again. By 4 PM, I was in Death Valley. Although the temperatures should have been topping 100°F there this time of year, it was unseasonably cool, in the high 80s, with plenty of cloud cover. There were also signs of rain coming from the clouds, but the ranger at the Visitor Center assured me that it was unlikely for any drops to reach the ground.

On one ranger’s suggestion, I made my way to Panamint Springs. After a long, slow climb up over the mountains, I experienced a harrowing descent down a 9% grade. The truck’s tow package really helped out, downshifting to 2nd gear automatically to reduce my need to ride the brakes. Note to self: avoid Route 190 between Stovepipe Wells and Panamint Springs when towing a 36-foot RV.

Panamint Springs is still inside Death Valley National Park, but it overlooks the Panamint Valley, which is one valley west. It consists of a motel-like lodge, restaurant, and dirt lot dressed up as a campground. I paid $15 for a water-only hookup for my RV for the night. (I didn’t bother hooking up; I didn’t need water.) I had a heck of a time getting the RV into its pull-through spot. Although it was plenty long enough, the campground designers had placed large boulders at either side of the driveway. Making the turn without damaging the RV’s underside was tough. But I eventually managed and Alex the Bird and I settled in for the evening. I watched the changing light on the mountainsides from a patio table at the restaurant. At night, it was dead quiet and very dark. I stepped outside to admire a sky full of stars with a crescent moon before turning in for the night.

The next morning, I was on the road at 7 AM, continuing west on Route 190. After fueling up just outside of Lone Pine, I continued north on Route 395. I didn’t realize that route was so mountainous. After leaving Bishop, the truck did a lot of climbing, eventually reaching over 8,000 feet elevation. (This was the day after descending to -230 feet in Death Valley.)

On the urging of my friend, Rod, I detoured to the Ghost Town of Bodie. That required me to negotiate 14 miles of narrow, windy road, the last three of which were unpaved. I was extremely pleased to see that the parking area was large enough to make a U-turn in without having to back up. I put Alex in the camper while I went to explore the townsite on foot with my camera. I’ll likely write about that in another blog post, when I get the photos off my camera.

I met Rod for lunch in the Reno area, not far from where route 395 intersects with I-80. Rod lives in Georgetown, CA; I’d visited him and his wife, Liz, there by helicopter several times in the past. This time, I was on the other side of the Sierra Nevada mountains and wasn’t planning on crossing. But Rod made the 2+ hour drive from Georgetown to Reno to meet with me. Rod’s also a helicopter pilot — he flies fires in twin-engine helicopters like Hueys — in the summer. The rest of the year, he does odd jobs around home. We had a very late lunch in a Chinese restaurant in Sparks, NV.

Then I continued my drive north on route 395, ending up here in Susanville.

Highlights of the Trip

I’ve driven through some beautiful scenery over the past two days. Snow-capped mountains, sheer granite cliffs, dry lake beds, sand dunes, layered rock thrust up on an angle and eroded to expose lines of color. Blue lakes, rushing rivers, puffy white clouds in otherwise clear blue skies. Herds of wild burros, pastures full of horses and cattle, deer. The ruins of a town in the middle of nowhere that once was home to over 10,000 people.

It’s all a blur. A trip like this on a route like this shouldn’t be crammed into a few days. It should be slowed down and savored, with stops here and there to take in the sights and sounds and smells. This isn’t quality sightseeing — it’s motoring. I may as well be on a freeway.

Later today, I’ll drop down from the mountains to I-5 near the Oregon border. From there, I’ll follow the Interstate north into Oregon. After another lunch with another helicopter pilot friend, I’ll make my way north to the Seattle area. I’ll camp out in yet another helicopter pilot friend’s yard. Whether I can get there today depends on how twisty and mountainous the roads between Susanville and I-5 are; I’ll know by lunchtime.

Idaho is Prettier than Nevada

And Oregon is, too.

[When we last left our intrepid traveler, she was making herself at home in a 21-foot travel trailer parked in a casion parking lot in West Wendover, NV. You can read about the events leading up to this point here.]

I went into the casino at 5:30 AM in search of a cup of coffee. The espresso stand looked open, but it wasn’t. I asked a person who worked there what time it opened and she said 7 AM. I was about to freak out when I realized that my watch was on Mountain Standard Time and the casino was on Mountain Daylight Time. It was really 6:30 AM. I only had to wait 30 minutes.

After a peek across the street to see if there were another option — there wasn’t, unless you count McDonald’s, which is evidently getting high marks from some folks on their coffee; I’m not that brave — I went back to the camper. I busied myself finishing up the blog entry for the previous day’s drive. I’d just connected to the Internet with my Treo to upload the post when the phone rang, cutting off my connection. It was Mike. He has a real knack for calling when I’m using dial-up networking. By the time we finished chatting, my computer’s battery was nearly dead and the inverter I’d bought to power it in the camper wasn’t working. So the post didn’t get posted.

I went back into the casino, where I spent $5.08 for a 16-ounce “latte” with an extra shot of “espresso.” Note the quotes. I’m putting these terms in quotes because that’s what the casino called this stuff. It’s not what I received. In fact, it was barely drinkable.

Inside CamperI went back to the camper and packed up my bedding. The camper’s two queen-sized beds fold out the front and back of the camper and resemble pop-up camper beds. Although it’s not difficult to set these up, it really wasn’t worth it for a night of sleep in a parking lot. So I left the beds folded up and opened the sofa to a bed. This wouldn’t have been bad if the bed were long enough for my 5’8″ height. I’m thinking it’s about 5 feet long. I slept diagonally with my legs curled up. (This photo, taken with my funky fisheye lens, makes the camper’s interior look a lot bigger than it is. But it’s roomy enough for me. In this shot, the slide-out is fully extended; I usually only put it out halfway for overnight stays. You can see the closed-up front bed in the middle of the shot.) I didn’t have a good night’s sleep, but it really wasn’t bad, given the short bed and the fact that the parking lot’s lights made it bright as day outside all night long. Even the blinds couldn’t keep the light out. In the morning, when I woke up, I had to actually look out the window to see if it was daytime.

I got Alex back into his travel box — he spent the night in his cage — and loaded him into the car. A while later, after topping off both fuel tanks, we headed out. Oddly enough, it was exactly 7:05 AM. The same time I’d left Wickenburg the day before.

My route that morning took me west on I-80 to Wells. The 58 miles took about 90 minutes, mostly because of all the high elevation climbing we had to do. You see, the mountain ranges in Nevada generally stretch from north to south. When you drive north, as I did most of the day before, you’re driving on gentle slopes in valleys. But when you drive west, you have to climb over the mountain ranges in whatever mountain passes are on the way. That morning, there were three mountain ranges to cross. On one of them, the truck actually downshifted to first gear with my foot on the floor, unable to give me more than 35 miles per hour. Fortunately, I did better downhill.

The day was cloudy and it drizzled. When I approached Wells — which may have provided a decent place to spend the previous night after all — I saw that the mountains to the south were covered with fresh snow. In fact, it may have still been snowing.

I headed north on U.S. 93 again. The terrain was changing subtly. By the time I got to Jackpot, NV, on the border of Idaho, it was hilly and green and rather pleasant. I stopped at Cactus Pete’s Casino for breakfast, putting Alex in the camper while I went inside. It had a nice breakfast burrito with a cup of truly undrinkable coffee.

It was unfortunate I didn’t get all the way to Jackpot the night before. As my friend Stan had told me, Jackpot was a very RV-friendly place. It would have been a pleasant overnight stop.

Another refueling, then back on the road. I crossed into Idaho. Soon I was driving through farm country. At Twin Falls, I screwed up and followed U.S. 30 instead of 93. Although 30 was more direct, 93 would have gotten me to the Interstate a lot quicker. But the last 10 or so miles before I finally got on the Interstate was actually quite pleasant, winding alongside a river with lots of little waterfalls. (Maybe that’s what that “Thousand Springs” on the map was all about.)

Meanwhile, the weather remained variable: mostly cloudy with scattered rain showers. By 11:30 AM, I was feeling as if I needed a nap. That’s not a good thing when you still have about 400 miles to drive. I started thinking about maybe not getting all the way to Quincy by nightfall. Maybe an overnight stay in a nice campground would be better. Someplace with an electric hookup and WiFi.

By the time I got to Boise, it was pouring. I kept going. When I reached Nampa, I got off the highway and fairly stumbled into a Wal-Mart parking lot. I wanted to stop at a Wal-Mart or a Target to buy a cheap vacuum cleaner for the camper. You know, the kind on a stick. My mother used to call them “electric brooms.” I figured a walk around Wal-Mart might wake me up a bit. And maybe it would stop raining while I was in there.

I turned out to be a Super Wal-Mart, with groceries. I thought I’d take the opportunity to pick up some food for the camper, just in case my overnight stop wasn’t anywhere near shopping or dining. I bought some soup and eggs and orange juice and cereal. That kind of stuff. Then wiper blades for the truck and the vacuum. I brought it all out to the camper and stowed it away. Then I studied the map and came up with a plan — I’d press on and see how I felt by 5 PM. If I wanted to stop for the night, there were a handful of state park campgrounds I could try.

So I fueled up again and headed back out on I-84. It was about 2:30 PM and the rain had let up considerably.

A while later, I passed into Oregon.

I don’t know if it was my tiredness or my lack of enthusiasm for Nevada’s dull scenery or the changeable weather, but the ride into Oregon on I-84 was beautiful. Rolling green hills, farmland, irrigation canals, streams, rivers, snow-capped mountains, trees, rock formations. The interstate twisted through all this, with the inevitable climbs to slow me down so I could get a good look. Unfortunately, the rain came down very hard sometimes, making for bad visibility and tricky driving. It was also making me tired.

I pulled off the highway at Baker City and consulted the map. There was a state park with a campground about 50 miles farther up the highway. I got back on the road and homed in on it.

Hilgard Junction State Park is a tiny sliver of land alongside a creek just off the freeway. It offers primitive camping that includes a paved parking spot, picnic table, and fire pit. There’s a water faucet every 3 or 4 sites and a garbage pail every 2 sites. There’s also a restroom with cold running water. A campground host watches over all this. The fee: just $8/night.

Camper At Hilgard Junction State ParkI drove in to check the place out. The campsites were right on the creek. I drove down the little road toward the turnaround loop at the end. The sites were not pull-throughs, so I’d have to back in. The hell with that, I thought. I found one with a nice, long driveway and pulled in head first, parking the truck’s nose facing down the creek. This pointed the camper’s front door right up the creek. I just fit in the space. Works for me.

There’s one major drawback to the campground. I cannot get a steady cell signal. This almost caused me to leave — if I didn’t check in with Mike, he’d worry and I’d get scolded. But as I walked toward the self-pay station and tried unsuccessfully to telephone him, I managed to get a few text messages out and get one in return. It seemed the signal would hold just long enough for sporadic text messaging. I’d succeeded in communicating with him so he wouldn’t worry and I could stay.

A while later, Alex and I were settled into the camper. I perked a small pot of coffee — of course I have a percolator! — and made some soup. I enjoyed both while sitting on the camper step, looking out over the creek. My closest neighbors, two sites away, made their dinner on the fire and retired into their Minnie Winnebago with their two dachshunds. I made my sofa bed with an extra blanket on it, did the dishes, and fished out the 300 watt inverter to charge up my laptop. I even ran the heat for a while to get the dampness out of the camper.

As I finish writing this, rain is falling gently on the camper roof. Alex, in his cage, seems to be settled in for the night. I’m less than 200 miles from Quincy. While I probably could have made it there if I drove hard, this one last night on the road is like a little vacation before I get to work.

Life in the Slow Lane

Quickly makes you lose your mind.

Were you one of the three thousand or so cars that passed me today? I was driving the 1994 Ford F150 pickup with the bird cage stand in the bed, towing a 21-foot travel trailer from Wickenburg, AZ to West Wendover, NV.

The truck can pull the trailer, but barely. I’m lucky if I can get the speed up to 65 mph. Where the speed limit is 75 mph, everyone whizzes past me. Heck, they whiz past me just about everywhere, since I can’t keep the speed above 50 if I’m going uphill.

And there were lots of hills on this trip.

We — Alex the Bird and I — departed Wickenburg at 7:05 AM. The route, which was determined by Google Maps and adjusted to avoid Hoover Dam traffic, took us up U.S. 93 to I-40. We took the Interstate through Kingman, AZ and exited at Beale Street. Normally, we’d continue north on 93, but since I didn’t feel like dealing with a TSA search of the camper prior to crossing Hoover Dam, we hopped on State Route 68 to Bullhead City, crossed the Colorado River at Laughlin, and continued west on State Route 163. Then north on U.S. 95 to I-515 through Las Vegas. Then I-15 north to U.S. 93 north to S.R. 318 to U.S. 6 to U.S. 50 (briefly in Ely, NV) to U.S. 93 to U.S. 93A to West Wendover, NV.

Whew!

We were in the truck for 12 hours. I made one bathroom stop and two fuel stops, one of which included McDonalds. This was the first time I’d eaten at a McDonalds in at least three years. I hate myself for loving those fries.

I’ve never before been so aware of hills. The truck does okay on level ground and it even does pretty well going downhill. But get it on a slight incline going up and it’s an absolute dog. I mean, at times, I couldn’t even keep 50 MPH. When it dipped below 45 MPH, I had to turn the flashers on, like an underpowered, overloaded big rig climbing a hill.

Did I mention that quite a few of those passed me, too?

It’s funny, because everyone warned me to “take it slow” and “watch out for speed traps.” Hell, I’m more likely to get ticketed for driving too slow than for speeding.

Of course, there were exceptions. The ride down 68 to Bullhead City had a 6% downgrade for about 12 miles. I think that’s the only time I’ve ever been on a stretch of road with two runaway truck ramps. To save the breaks, I popped the truck into 2nd gear a few times to slow down. Worked like a charm. I had to repeat this exercise after a grueling climb up the other side of the Colorado River Valley on 163 when there was another section of road with a 6% grade.

I stopped for fuel at Searchlight, NV. Poor Alex seemed shell-shocked. I changed out his food and his water and closed him back in his box. (Alex travels in a lucite box with air holes, a perch, toys, and bowls for food and water. It’s really important to keep his box out of the sun when traveling.) I went into the camper to use the toilet and noticed that the fridge wasn’t running right. Later it seemed to be okay.

Then on to Las Vegas. I got a phone call from one of my cherry drying connections just as I neared the network of freeways there. When I hung up, I realized I was on I-515. I was supposed to be on I-15. But since the two highways merged north of the strip, I stuck with it. I had to pull over to make a phone call and I had to pull over again to check the bike rack after a passing car signaled me that it was loose. (It wasn’t that loose.)

Eventually, north of Vegas, I took the exit for 93 north. That started another trip through another featureless desert valley. Or maybe there were two of them. It’s easy to lose track in terrain like that. The mountains on either side were nice looking examples of uplifted sedimentary rock. But 93 miles of road with only 2 gas stations. And that’s where I nearly made a very big mistake.

The truck has two gas tanks. They each hold about 16 gallons of fuel. I usually stick with one tank until I get to E, then switch to the other. I’d switched to the second tank and had 3/4 tank left. So when I passed that second gas station, it never occurred to me to buy fuel.

I drove another 100 miles before I reached the next gas station. By that time, I’d completely drained the second tank — the engine was sputtering when I flicked the switch to change tanks. I was back on the first tank, seeing how far into the red I could get on its gauge when I reached the gas station. I would have been completely out of gas within five miles.

The pumps were so old that they couldn’t handle the math for fuel prices over a dollar. You know the kind of pumps. The digits aren’t created with LEDs or LCDs — they’re on a wheel and roll over as the numbers change. The owners of the place had taped the per gallon price ($4.28) written on a piece of cardboard over the place where the purchase total usually appears. I got out and spoke to the two women in the shack adjacent to the pumps. “I sure hope those pumps work,” I said. They assured me that they did.

I got two bars on my cell phone and used the opportunity to call Mike and check in. Good thing I did. An hour later, I had no cell signal at all. And I wouldn’t have one for more than two hours.

If you’ve never driven through the emptiness of Nevada, you probably have little idea of what it’s like. I’ve driven in every state of this country except Minnesota and there’s no state that has more nothing than Nevada. Sure, the rugged, rocky, barren mountains are pretty — for the first hour or so. The valleys between them are often nothing more than vast plains of nothingness. Think salt flats or dry lake beds or mile after mile of scrubby vegetation clinging to existence on scant rainfall and harsh winters.

I’d hoped to write something interesting about the drive, but there’s nothing memorable about it other than miles of straight, empty blacktop cutting through the desert. If I’d broken down, I’d have to hope one of the dozen or so cars who passed each hour would be kind enough to stop. At least I was dragging along a little house with me if I had to spend the night out there.

Things changed when I neared Ely. I’d climbed into high desert, over 6,000 feet. The truck seemed to be wheezing for breath in the thin air; I was lucky to get 40 miles per hour when we climbed through the pass just south of town. I decided to call it quits for the day. It was 5 PM and I was getting tired.

But Ely — no offense to the people who live there — didn’t have much to offer. Sure, there was an historic downtown that looked kind of interesting. But I needed to park an RV and I needed to spend the night in it with Alex the Bird. (How many hotels do you think take parrots?) There was a casino on the east side of town with a sign promising $15 RV sites. But the parking lot was dirt and the whole place looked sad and neglected. I kept driving.

An hour later, I reached a crossroads. I was supposed to turn left on route 93 to head north toward Wells. But Wells, which was 78 miles away, was a speck on the map on I-80 and I didn’t know what I’d find there. If I kept straight on 93A, I’d reached West Wendover in 59 miles. The map promised a bigger town. What I saw inmy mind was a Nevada gambling town on the border of Nevada and Utah, right on I-80. I imagined casinos with big parking lots for trucks and RVs. It wouldn’t take me too far off course. So I continued on 93A.

I rolled into West Wendover around 7 PM. It was exactly as I’d imagined it. Bigger, in fact. I homed in on the casino with the brightest lights and biggest parking lot. I pulled into a spot at the far end of the parking lot and used Google Maps in my Treo to look up the casino’s phone number. Minutes later, I had the security department’s permission to park there rather than in the truck parking lot across the street. This shot was taken with my Treo a while later, after dinner in the casino’s steakhouse.

I’d been on the road for 12 hours with six short stops. I’d covered more than 650 miles. I was halfway to Quincy.