Date: Wed, 19 Feb 1997 23:51:40 -0500
To:heublein@bellsouth.net, cal@gsbs.uchicago.edu, Danielle_Fuchs@peoplesoft.com,
ecb5u@virginia.edu, homunculus@mindspring.com, Rich_Fuchs@peoplesoft.com,
SNAFU@CC.MUSIC.UGA.EDU, smw4s@virginia.edu, ryssa@virginia.edu, geof@neuron.nrl.navy.mil,
joeboy@VNET.IBM.COM, cbw2c@virginia.edu, weishaupt@aol.com, WeilacherG@lynx.aon.af.mil,
brs@s-1.com, fife@s-1.com, abhijit@s-1.com
From:fuchs@med.stanford.edu (Michael Fuchs)
Subject:Day 8 (Fini)
Fuchs Overland Dispatch, Day 8
Dateline: Stockton, CA
2.19.97
Decided I could finish the trip today, got an early start. Didn't count on
the stupidity inherent in trying to cross the mountains in winter. Oops.
Of all the desolate ground I've covered, northern Nevada is the most
barren and trackless region by far. Snow-covered mountains rise up in the
distance; unspeakable flat distances surround them, and you; you can see
forever. The forboding and unreachable mountains, and the silence, make
the scene feel uncomfortably like a level from Doom. (In particular, the
last level of the first shareware edition, after you beat the 2 minatours
and the pentagramic walls come down.)
From the Roof of the Truck, Fuchs Pines for a Rocket Launcher
As was never possible with the Doom scenery, however, I could and did
ultimately reach these mountains, and began climbing rapidly. I circled
around Boundary Peak, the tallest spot in AZ, at 13,143 feet. I drove
through a backwater which was diesel free--and realized I had to make it
53 miles through the mountains on 1/4 tank. Shouldn't have been a problem
--but the prospect of getting stranded out there was terrifying; there
was no good Samaritan traversing these roads, and never would be.
Boundary Peak
I began the nerve-wracking stretch--and was stopped short. The road was
closed out, from the snows. This struck me as strange: it was 65 and
brilliantly sunny. But I was approaching the real mountains, and maybe
things were worse up there. I realized I just had room to pull around the
barricade and continue on--and almost did so. I must be approaching
adulthood, though, as I considered several similar past decisions which
have ended in disaster, and quietly turned the truck around. From the map,
my Route B would only be 80 or so miles out of the way. Plus, there was
fuel in a mere 20 or so miles. So I played it safe. And fueled up:
The Chalfant Valley Mercantile sits alone in the company of a few
outbuildings at a wide spot in the state route, and the mountains look
down on it from the distance. Feeling like I was stepping straight onto
the set of a classic road movie, I parked at the pump, and approached the
store. As I walked, I could hear my boots clacking on the pavement (and I
have rubber soles). As I rounded the corner, two women sat in the shade,
and a man was unloading a feed truck--the only people in sight. Locking
my truck had been a ridiculous, but habitual, gesture.
Still Life With Burrito & Coke, Chalfant Valley Mercantile
I soon discovered that not only was this the gas station for the area--
but also the diner, grocery, liquor store, tackle shop, hardware store,
butcher, and tobaccanist. The proprietress explained to me that they carry
a lot of stuff because folks around there didn't like to drive "into
town", which was 18 miles south of there. (Many of these folks lived as
much as 18 miles *north* of Chalfant.) Also, folks liked the good food
they cooked and served at the counter; the meat was fresh, as the animals
were slaughtered out back. I bought a Coke and a microwave bean & cheese
burrito, and proceeded south into town. "Town," Bishop NV, was indeed a
real metropolis, with several hotels, a car dealership, a bank, K Mart,
Burger King, and Denny's. And also a Taco Bell; but I'd already had my
burrito for the afternoon. As I exited, I passed a huge outdoor shooting
range: the Bishop Gun Club. Figures.
I immediately encountered a big orange sign noting that 2 more routes were
closed out. These, not coincidentally, were my B and C routes. I decided
to continue north anyway, as it looked like there were 2 or 3 other routes
that cut west through the mountains. One of them should be open. And
anyway, the weather was still great, so maybe these roads were really
opened and no one had gotten down here to change the signs yet. (Famous
last words.) I pulled out and soon passed Dead Man Summit, which I should
have, but didn't, take as an omen.
Sure enough, Tioga Pass really was closed. From near the barricade,
though, I got a spectacular view of Mano Basin (which holds Mano Lake).
Mano Basin
I was ascending rapidly, to the point that I was *really* in the mountains
now: big craggy snow-covered peaks, and me skirting closed out passes in
my U Haul. What the fuck was I doing? This question seemed salient as I
reached Conway Summit, elevation 8138. This was ridiculous, and getting
worse. I continued north, eying the mountains to my left: they were not
shrinking, much less going away. "Mountains must die!" I shouted, shaking
my fist out the window. I immediately realized I was staging Fuchs vs. The
Mountains. (I really know how to pick my battles.) Still, I had to get over
those mountains, but I had no idea how I was going to make it happen.
(Good thing--knowing would have only scared me.)
Not long after this, I shook my head in disbelief at the sign noting that
395, the north-south road on which I was detouring, was itself out, 12
miles ahead. The official detour went around to the east. BACK INTO
NEVADA. Feh! It was now obvious I would have been infinitely better off
detouring south instead of north, but at this point it was too late. I
took off EAST, on a narrow, guard rail-less, shoulderless road right next
to a powerful river. Realizing my powerlessness, I tried to maintain my
patience and caution, and focus on getting me and all my worldly
belongings safely out of this fix. Try to enjoy the ride; it would be a
good exercise for me and my temper.
Still, I was doing 85 or so on a long straight-away when a loud, fuzzy,
disembodied voice rang in my ear. It said: "KENT! STOP TOUCHING YOURSELF!"
No, actually, it said "U-HAUL! SLOW DOWN!" Highly confused, I snapped my
head to the left where a police car was passing me, loudspeaker squawking.
"Holy shit," I thought (probably not surprisingly), and hit the brakes.
Damn the eyes of these rental trucks, with no rearview mirror.
Approaching Carson City (God save me), I was too despondant to even check
my map anymore. I just followed the signs for the detour route. As I got
back on 395, though, I was nearing Tahoe. TAHOE. According to this same
shitty atlas that didn't make any note of the mountain range (which
incidentally was still between me and California, and, inconceivably, was
getting even bigger) there were a couple of roads that went from the Tahoe
area back into California. I looked at the map, and the line of the road
going west. I looked at the staggerlingly huge mountain range, also to the
west. I pulled off onto route 88, thinking "I can't wait to see how
they're going to do this." That was when the windstorm kicked up.
As it happened, I didn't capsize. And I wouldn't have noticed if I had, so
ecstatic was I to see the "Carson Pass: OPEN" sign! I turned on the
radio, and picked up a Tahoe alternative station. As I struggled to
control the truck through the insane crosswinds, they chose that moment to
play Cake's "Going the Distance." I laughed and laughed and laughed and
laughed.
He's going the distance
He's going for speed
She's all alone, all alone
In her time of need
He's racing, and pacing
And plotting the course
He's fighting, and driving,
And riding on his horse
He's going the distance
Ahhh, ahh.
"Yah!!"
Carson Pass is *really* a mountain pass. Not sure what else to say, except
that it was the most harrowing 90 minutes I've ever spent on the road.
Weaving around rocky cliffs, I climbed radically. It started to rain. Then
snow. I saw the 3rd most frightening road sign I've ever seen: "No
standing, stopping, or parking: AVALANCHE AREA." The banks of plowed snow
were piled up, in places, 22 feet high--they leaned steeply, as if they
might fall on me at any moment. The road surface--subject to snow,
avalanche, and mudslide--was absolutely terrible. The other motorists,
like me, were trying to keep from falling off of the mountain, while
getting through the pass before it was closed out again. Then the fog
rolled in, thick as cotton. I couldn't believe this was my life.
Carson Pass. Luckily, My Film Ran Out Before It Got Genuinely Bad
Eventually, miraculously still on all 4 wheels, I started to descend--
and I descended from 8000 to 3000 feet, in short order (wreaking hell on
my eustachian tubes). The sheer cliffs gave way to steep forests. Finally
I was free of the mountain fastness--and I've never been so happy to be
on level ground before in all my life. But, what I exited into was the
most amazing part:
Just beyond the 'Welcome to California' sign, the landscape changed very
suddenly into incredibly green, lush, verdant rolling hills. I swear, it
looked like Ireland. Turns out, it was actually California wine country.
The sun was setting, still just over the horizon, glowing soft cool orange
through several layers of cloud and mist. The whole sky was delicate
shades of pink and purple. The air was warming. It was unbelievably
beautiful.
As I gazed around, mouth agape, it seemed very, very, very much as if I
had been required to dash myself on the brutal rocks of the pass, and
fight my way through the tempest, in order to be granted entrance to this
Valhalla. The whole sequence was just uncanny, almost to the point of
corniness. The radio perked up again, this time with Sarah MacLachlan's
"Possession". To this exquisite accompaniment, the sun finally set under
the crazily pink cotton candy clouds strewn across the now-azure sky. I
wept from the sheer beauty of the sight and sound (symbolism
notwithstanding).
Directly across from the Stockton Quality Inn, where I toil at the
keyboard, is (of course) a Taco Bell and a convenience store with beer. I
don't know what all this balleyhoo about a high cost of living here is: my
two roasted veggie fajitas, and bean burrito with lettuce and tomato, cost
the same amount, to the penny, as ever before. However, the young woman
who made it for me was a lot cuter than any T-Bell employee I've
encountered on the East Coast.
Also... there is an espresso stand out in front of the convenience store,
where I procured an exceptionally well-crafted Cafe Mocha. Just when you
think things couldn't get any better....
Miles Travelled Today: 407.6
Total Miles Travelled: 2882.6
Tomorrow: Merely a short hop over to the Valley, which won't bear
journalizing. So, this is it. Fini. I thank you all for playing... and I
miss everyone terribly already. But--I will return. (And, as this series
demonstrates, I'm not in any important sense gone anyway.)
<-- r o a m <--