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DugCo Production
A bewildering confluence of muddled events and angst-soaked moodiness had me straining at the tethers in anticipation of my yearly May vacation. I usually take the first week in May off of work and go somewhere, even if it is just local day trips. It had been an incredibly wet winter in the northwest, and the weather is usually getting nice by early May, especially in the southwest. Another plus is that the young "future of America" hasn't been sprung for the summer yet. This year I decided to really do it right; I was 40, I had a new truck that was itching for a long trip, and "the voices" were telling me to fully climb out of the ruts for awhile. I put in for vacation for the first two weeks in May, took advantage of an offer from The Mirage in Las Vegas for three complimentary nights, and decided that I would like to finally see the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. That was pretty much the extent of the planning for this trip. Let's go!
I start after I get off work. Jack says that he is pumped and ready to go. I only get as far down Interstate 5 as Roseburg, Oregon.
I start out early the next morning full of energy and anxious to see what the road has in store and cross the California border at 8:20 am, 453 miles from home. An hour or so later I pulled into Weed, CA for gas. I took some pictures for Nat at work because he used to live here. Nat, the setting is beautiful and the people seemed warm and friendly... but "Weed Like To Welcome You"? This would explain a lot if you spent your formative years here. About 10:30 (565 elapsed miles) I finally reached the exit for highway 44 which would take me east towards Mt. Lassen, Susanville, and eventually Reno and the rest of Nevada. I was extremely tired from all of the construction on I-5 and it was a relief to get off the dreary interstate and have the trees a little closer in. 150 miles later I crossed into Nevada without fanfare, I was now on highway 395 and Reno is still 50 miles away. I didn't realize it then, but I would be traveling on highway 395 again later in the trip. I blew right through Reno having just been here a week ago (see Reno trip) .
Heading towards the vanishing point. Lots of beautiful scenery between Redding and Reno.
Realized that I hit three states today. Headed east on highway 95, diverted onto highway 50 at Fernley, and called it a day in Fallon, NV about 850 miles since home. Lucky to find a place to stay, there was an air show at the air base the next day.
Headed out at 6:30 the next morning listening to Roy Orbison with Tonopah, NV as my destination. After driving through the desert scrub for a while, Walker Lake provided a welcome rest stop. It's a pretty large lake to come upon after driving through monotonous brown flatness.
I finally arrived in Tonopah and started looking for a cheap place to stay. I could have slept in the back of the truck, but there was still snow on the ground, so I decided to put that off till I got farther south. I could have stayed at The Clown Motel... yeah, if my only other choice was The Serial Killer Motor Lodge. I finally decided to join the happy patrons at the OK Corral Motel; a fine accommodation where I slept on top of the bed and the bathroom was only marginally better than whizzing in the corner of the parking lot.
My temporary habitat secured, it was time to explore beautiful, historic Tonopah. My first stop was the local museum. Lots of rusty mining equipment, rusty wreckage from the nearby air base, and rusty construction equipment -- thrown in just because it probably got more interest there than at the local junkyard. I drove to the top of a hill behind town to get an overall view of the place. Not what I had expected, actually. I decided to ask the locals for advice as to how they amused themselves in scenic, dynamic Tonopah. I chose the convenience store clerk as a representative for the town. He told me my choices were many and varied; I could gamble, get drunk, chase women, get some drugs, or drive in the hills. I took a couple more turns up and down the main drag wondering what the place was like when the downtown area was a hopping place. I noticed that the local police were beginning to eyeball me, probably because I had driven back an forth through the same three miles of town about twenty times hoping that I had missed some wildly exciting attraction. It was time to expand my search radius. Checking the map, I found that the closest town was Goldfield, I put a Jimmy Buffet CD on to stoke the adventurous spirit, and set off for it. It was much like Tonopah, but without all the charm. Resigned, I returned to the OK Corral to eat a bag of salad greens, drink a strange mezcal-flavored beer and turn in early.
>>> Sunday, May 2nd
At 4:30 am I tossed my room key through the office mail slot and bid the OK Corral Motel and cosmopolitan Tonopah a fond farewell. Best not to dwell on the past for today was going to be exciting -- Area 51, Rachel, and Las Vegas. Oh boy!
I started driving while it was still dark, and suddenly I got the idea that desert sunrise pictures would be pretty cool. A little before 6:00 I took a side road off the highway and drove through some rolling hills for a little while. Let me set the scene a bit. I generally got the idea that I must have been quite a way from anything because I had been driving on highway 6 out of Tonopah for over an hour and had not seen another car, or for that matter any sign of human existence apart from the entrance to the Tonopah Test Range. Even so, I was not prepared for the utter "middle-of-freaking-nowhere" feeling that suddenly washed over me when I got off the pavement and explored the raw countryside. Looking at it from the pavement is much different than getting out in it and losing sight of that pavement. Maybe it was that I was out of my element. I was born and bred a Northwest tree-hugger. I have been in wilderness areas in north central Washington, two days hike from the nearest road, but this moonlit barren landscape was creeping me out. After driving a bit, I just stopped the truck in the middle of the road, got out, set up the tripod with the camera, and just waited in the predawn stillness for the sun to start the day. I soaked up the feeling -- there was absolutely no one else in my strange, new world. Finally, quicker than seemed natural, the sun rose and broke the tranquility. I photographed the moment, less affected by the actual sunrise, than those moments preceding it.
At 6:32 am (1200 elapsed miles) I came to a trailer house that the map called Warm Springs, NV. Highway 375 begins its misunderstood journey south along the eastern border of the Nellis Test Range. This lonely stretch of road was recently designated the Extraterrestrial Highway by the Governor of Nevada. Maybe he thought no one would notice. The name fits this desolate thread of the spookiest vibes outside of the X-files with more menacing hush-hush than you can shake a secret Pentagon budget at. I gotta say, Driving through the desert at 70 MPH is great; the freedom, the exhilaration, ...the cows. Yes, it's a shock to see that first bovine UFO materializing up ahead in the distance and then realize as you whiz past mere yards apart that there is no fence between you and the huge animal. It's all open range out here. I have driven by thousands of cows, horses, llamas, and other assorted large quadrupeds in my time, but that was the first time I had attempted such a high-speed encounter without the tenuous safety of a fence separating us. The mind reels at what would happen if the dim critter were suddenly tired of its harsh desert existence and decided to end it all by skipping gaily in front of my speeding Detroit steel. Evidently, it happens. Whenever I departed one of the many stops I made along this stretch of road, otherwise happy locals would put on their "serious face" and somberly warn, "Please... watch out for the cows!" You could almost see the grisly recollections of mutilated cattle and twisted metal grimly reflected in their eyes. Must be them aliens.
And how 'bout them aliens anyhow. If you want to have a serious discussion about extraterrestrial biological entities, government cover-ups, and bleeding-edge aerospace developments all while pounding back boiler makers and playing video poker, I only know of one place -- The Little A'Le'Inn in Rachel Nevada. Coming from the north as I did, Rachel is in full view for quite a while before you can convince yourself that this sparse, dusty collection of trailers is actually what you have been looking forward to seeing since you started this morning, and the sign welcoming you to Rachel is the confirmation that you have arrived at the Mecca for UFO curiosity. As I opened the door of the truck the surreal nature of the place rushed my senses mixed with the desert air. Everything looked stark, odd, and out of step with any reality I was comfortable with. The shiny, new monument left to commemorate the movie Independence Day did look out of place situated as it was among the desert dwellings, yet the spoor of Hollywood was somehow reassuring -- as if it would be better somehow to explain it all away as an outrageous movie set. Much easier to understand than having this be real. At the other end of town, separated by a philosophical gulf infinitely wider than the few hundred yards of dirt road that you travel between them, is the small yellow mobile home that contains the Area 51 Research Center. The Little A'Le'Inn and the Area 51 Research Center are the yin and yang of Rachel. The Inn is the intuitive temple of "I Believe", while the Research Center is the analytical data store for use in making an "informed, rational decision".
I left Rachel knowing I would have to come back. The Area 51 Research Center didn't open until 10:00 on Sundays, and it wasn't even 8:00 yet. I pulled back onto the ET Highway southbound for Las Vegas. As I drove I was constantly looking at the skies over the mountain range that separated me and the highway from the valley on the other side. You can't help it, you are drawn to that boundary between the known and the unknown. The far unseen valley is home to the best-known secret military base in the US; the Nellis Test Range, Area 51, Area S-4, Groom Lake, and Papoose Lake complex. A huge vaguely labeled area of the map. After driving for awhile, I took advantage of a dirt turnout to stop, get some water out of my ice chest, and stretch my legs. Only after I had stopped did I notice a stout, white mailbox and a dirt road heading towards the mountains. Furthermore, it was not until I was in my hotel room in Las Vegas that evening and had a chance to review the material that I had bought in the Little A'Le'Inn that I realized that the mailbox was the replacement for the famous "black mailbox", and the innocuous dirt road headed back to Groom Lake and Area 51. The mailbox became famous for pretty much the same reason I had stopped there; it was a landmark in otherwise featureless scenery, it was close to Groom Lake for night viewing, and it made a good meeting place for other UFO-related sojourns.
On to Las Vegas. My stay at The Mirage was the only part of my trip that I had planned in advance, and that only went as far as making my room reservations. I was meeting Paul, a friend of mine from work, at the airport at 10:00pm. I spent the rest of the day until then enjoying my nice hotel room; watching TV, reading my Area 51 stuff from Rachel, and dinking around in the casino occasionally. Soon enough the time came to go to the airport and meet Paul, which went without incident. He was excited about being in Las Vegas so we went back to The Mirage and explored the area within walking distance of the hotel until about 2:00 am.
>>> Monday, May 3rd
After a short discussion this morning, we decided to have breakfast at The Bellagio and see what Steve Wynn (who also owns The Mirage) bought for his nearly two billion dollars. We parked in the huge garage and made our way into the hotel through a large antechamber that connected the entrance foyer and the conservatory. We discovered that the cafe was reached through the conservatory, so we headed in that direction. The conservatory was beautiful -- a stunning arrangement of flowers and greenery in a wide sunlit atrium (Paul in the conservatory). After a surprisingly disappointing breakfast, we visited the small gallery that displays what I believe is Steve Wynn's personal art collection. It is worth seeing, even if you don't consider yourself an art lover. The paintings are perfectly lit and displayed, and you are given a wand that recites prerecorded narration explains interesting points about each painting and the artist. Returning to the foyer, you are immediately struck by the Dale Chihuly glass sculpture that erupts from the ceiling and dominates your attention as you struggle to walk and gawk at the same time. We headed off in the direction of the casino where we picked up our slot cards and Paul won 700 quarters from a slot machine crossed with a pinball machine. Moving back through the foyer, we went outside through the port cochre (basically the large covered area where taxis and limos drive through) to a beautiful garden and the huge artificial lake. We followed the lake around to Las Vegas Blvd. (The Strip), Looked over the new Paris Hotel and Casino going up across the street, took a couple of pictures, then returned to the hotel. Before we left, we took a run through the shopping arcade. Like the rest of the property, is was very nice. All in all, I was very impressed with The Bellagio. It is definitely not intended to be a "family" destination; the rooms are expensive, no one under 18 is allowed unless they are a guest, and no strollers are allowed in the hotel or casino. In my opinion, this definitely is a trend to be encouraged as it made for a noticeably more relaxed, "adult" atmosphere. Mr. Wynn has all the bases covered though, as he also owns Treasure Island, one of the first hotel-casinos to encourage family Vegas vacations.
We left The Bellagio and drove back to The Mirage to rest a bit and then head out again. From The Mirage, we walked across the street to look at the new Venetian Hotel, Casino, and Convention Center. We talked to the construction workers a bit and found out that they were going to open the next day. Walked down the street and crossed again to go to Treasure Island. I wanted to put a few dollars in a slot machine there to keep my slot club points from expiring. Never hurts to let them know that you were there. I was playing a machine right next to the slot club desk when I hit a jackpot for 480 dollars. I'm pretty sure they knew I was there.
I have been to Las Vegas enough times now that there are certain ritualized things that I have to do each time. It was now time to do one of my favorite "only in Las Vegas" activities. I just get a big kick from buying a huge top-shelf margarita at the walk-up window in Caesar's Forum Shops and strolling through this ultra-ritzy mall with it. Toy shopping at FAO Schwarz is a totally different experience with a stiff drink in you.
We retired back to The Mirage where we had some really nice prime rib at the Mirage's buffet. I have to mention an interesting incident at this point, primarily because it didn't happen to me. I was mentioning to Paul how good the prime rib was, especially with a dab of horseradish sauce. He replied that I could have the wimpy, diluted horseradish sauce, he had found the full-strength grated horseradish root and it was much better (can you see where this is going?). He proceeded to slather his cut of meat in a generous layer of the juicy, off-white condiment. The mucho-macho one then popped a bite into his mouth where about one-tenth of a second later the piece of meat, but not all the horseradish, flew out to land with a wet plop on the table. It took all of another tenth second for him to simultaneously turn a pretty startling shade of scarlet, begin sweating profusely, and realize he was no longer able to breathe. I took this all rather casually; after you hang around with Paul for awhile, you come to accept that occasionally he will put things in his mouth that don't really belong there. Three or four glasses of milk later he was just fine. With both of us fed, we ambled around the casino, then turned in.
I had talked to Paul about going back to Rachel, and he was all for the idea. I thought he might, since I have often suspected him of being an alien trying to fit in. So off into the desert we drove -- Destination:The top-secret base of operations for eccentric behavior -- Rachel, Nevada. At 8:56 am (1570 elapsed miles), we reached the site of the black mailbox. Now that I was all read-up on the significance of this patch of dirt and its lone landmark, I felt as if I had arrived at a truly historic place. Of course pictures were taken at this, the most photographed mailbox in the world (front, left side). The dirt road that heads off toward the hills is efficiently known as Mailbox Road. It continues on to meet up with Groom Lake Road which will eventually take you, strangely enough, to Groom (Dry) Lake. Long before you get that far however, you will encounter a guard gate or more likely some security types willing to show you how to get back to where you belong. Paul and I, being the non confrontational types, just got back on the ET Highway and headed for Rachel. Once we arrived, we went to the Little A'Le'Inn where Paul had a tuna sandwich and I had an iced tea while I played a little video poker. We soaked up the ambiance for a while, stocked up on ET souvenirs and then headed off to Upper Rachel and the Area 51 Research Center a few hundred yards of dirt road away. We were warned to watch out for cows. The Area 51 Research Center was one of those places you just can't take in with a quick stroll through the place. It takes time and effort to collect that much clutter, and it takes a proportionate amount of time to sift through it to make sure you don't miss something important or interesting among the plastic alien heads and X-Files pencil sharpeners. There are maps and books and documents of every description. I picked up a copy of a book called Area 51:The Dreamland Chronicles that, when put together with the other information I had picked up, really presented an interesting story of not only the secret base and what might be there, but the interesting people who speculate about such things and live with what others might label an obsession.
After deciding that we had explored Rachel sufficiently for this trip, we headed back to the hotel where we washed the desert off and went down to check out the opening day of The Venetian. Themed on the canals and architecture of renaissance Venice, The Venetian was beautifully executed, There were construction workers and craftsman still working on a good portion of the property even as thousands of people streamed in to see the place. We talked to a few of the workers, and they were extremely unapologetic about the cost and schedule overruns that were evidently the source of much local discussion. They explained that the builder's said they wanted authenticity and topnotch workmanship, and By God that took time and money. I let them know that it was beautiful, and that it looked like they were doing a great job -- always like to see someone stand up for quality. We went on inside, got our slot cards, and we played a little bit in the casino; but it was way too crowded for comfort so we left the Venetian frenzy.
This was the last night in Las Vegas. Paul wanted to go check out some of the other casinos up and down the strip, but the drive to Rachel and back left me wanting to stick closer to the hotel. Paul went exploring and I ended up playing video poker for hours.
Didn't have anything special planned for today; Paul had a flight to catch in the afternoon, and I wanted to get on the road before too much of the day was gone. I have been wanting to get out to a recently opened "locals" casinos, The Reserve. As with most of the casinos that are not on the strip or downtown, The Reserve was a bit off the beaten path, but the safari theme was refreshingly different somehow and the staff was friendly. I will probably go back again. One last stop before we quit Las Vegas -- Paul saw an ad for the Las Vegas Hooters. It's always entertaining to visit a Hooters restaurant with Paul; you see, besides the obvious entertainment value that the waitresses provide, he's getting increasingly nearsighted. Between watching him strain his squinting muscles, reminding him to close his gaping jaw, and casually asking, "Hey Paul, isn't your daughter about the same age as some of these girls?" A good time was had by all.
Paul and I parted company; he headed for the airport, and I was back on the open road again. No more cushy Las Vegas mega-resorts with room service and dry cleaning, I was heading for the wilds of the Grand Canyon country. I had decided that since I was getting a late start, Kingman, Arizona would be a fair goal for the end of the day's destination. I was now faced with another decision though, which route to take? Highway 95 would take me over the Hoover Dam and straight to Kingman via a straighter, better road and highway 95 would take me south to Needles, CA then onto highway 40 to Kingman. I decided on the latter mostly because it sounded more interesting and besides it would make for another three state day. Not too much exciting to tell about on this stretch of the trip. There was more traffic than I would have liked, this is because of the people making their way from Las Vegas to Laughlin. I crossed the Nevada-California border about 3:00 pm (1865 elapsed miles) about seventeen miles before I reached highway 40 at Needles and headed east. Soon I was seeing "Visit the Famous London Bridge in Lake Havasu City" signs and decided that I simply had to go. I really didn't mind driving eighty miles off of my path, but I gotta say the Famous London Bridge is less than awe-inspiring. Getting back on highway 40 after my bridge diversion, it was only a short trip to Kingman. I decided to stay at the local KOA (Kampgrounds of America) where I could do some wash and try sleeping in the back of the truck for the first time. Of course that all had to wait until I was welcomed to the neighborhood by the closest "Kampground" resident with the highest beer consumption to still functioning brain cell ratio. "Luckily" he was only two Kampsites away. How convenient. Let's see; First, he wanted to know why I was Kamping in Arizona when Washington was so beautiful (he noticed the plates on the truck). I told him that it had been a long, wet winter, and I needed to dry out a bit. He seemed to like that answer and without further encouragement volunteered that the mess of kids hanging around his tent (I counted 4-6) were his second start at a family, the first one all grew up and left or just left. I also eventually found out he wasn't Kamping, this was where he lived; something about heart attacks, bad investments, and legal fees had left him without a house. He had a kid in jail in Alaska; the authorities said he was basically a good kid and they would let him out if he had enough money to leave the state. He was pretty sure his new crop of offspring was growing up better (but I wouldn't be turning my back on the two oldest teenage boys if I were him). I listened intently to his modern Dickensian tale for about forty-five minutes, nodding at all the right times and noticing that he was shaking his empty beer can with increasing frequency. Every time he would shake it he would upend it and encourage a few drops of increasingly warm, flat beer into his wide-open mouth. Eventually, the joy of having a friendly ear was overwhelmed by the incessant siren call of a cold beer. He made his apologies and excused himself to tend to Kamp (cooler first I noticed). I was now free to pursue my own Kampground activities. I did the wash, rearranged the back of the truck for sleeping, and spent the rest of the evening at Walmart. Ah, the simple life.
I grabbed a shower and rolled out long before the rest of the Kamp showed any signs of life. Today I would see the Grand Canyon, and I couldn't wait to get started. The truck and I were on highway 40 heading in the general direction of Flagstaff, Arizona by 5:00 am (2025 elapsed miles). About 100 miles after I started, I reached Williams, AZ and the exit for highway 64 that would take me on a loop along the south rim of the canyon and back down to highway 40 via highway 89. It was still midmorning when I reached the Grand Canyon National Park entrance. No amount of pictures, National Geographic specials, or Disney True-Life Adventures can prepare you for the walk to the railing at "the edge". I wondered where the "Oh my!" came from until I heard it again coming from my mouth. Those already at the railing smile at you in acknowledgment, and you grin appreciatively at an involuntary "Holy Jeez!" behind you. It is at once a testament to time, nature, and the immensity of all things. All those educational tv shows come trickling into the back of your consciousness, and you get the feeling that the canyon is the yardstick against which your insignificance as an individual is being measured. Even standing en mass as a representative of your species, the canyon reduces you, and the time you have spanned, to a thin layer of topsoil. Dust blown into the great hole only to get lost among the layered eons that came before. Apart from all that, it's just a damn big hole (canyon1, canyon2, canyon3, me at the edge again). I took my time stopping at the canyon overlooks along the way that I thought would give me a new perspective and then headed south again to rejoin highway 40.
I hadn't given much thought to what came next. The canyon had been the primary goal, and now it was behind me. I decided to head west on highway 40 until I got tired and then stop for the night. Much against my will, my body and mind conspired against me to make me instantly drowsy once I started westward. It was only 1:00 in the afternoon! I pulled off the road somewhere about 75 miles west of Flagstaff and filled up the truck. Hey I was on "Route 66 -- The Mother Road", cool. I asked the gas station attendant if he could recommend a nice place to camp somewhere west of Kingman on highway 40. He said to forget about camping and get a hotel room in Laughlin, NV. They had price wars during the week to try and keep the rooms full. I should be able to find a really nice hotel room for $19. That sounded great to me, and I had always been curious about what Laughlin was like. I had a destination, but that didn't make staying awake any easier once I got back on the highway. It seems the wider and the straighter the road, the more I am susceptible to highway hypnosis, and evidently the canyon had sapped my energy reserves more than I had thought possible. At 3:20 (2398 elapsed miles) I took an exit that appeared in an especially long, boring stretch with the intent of getting out and walking around to get the blood circulating. All I was looking for was a wide shoulder to get the truck off the road while I shook the cobwebs out; what appeared was a narrow dirt road leading into green, grassy meadow with a few shade trees clumped alongside the road. I instantly changed my plans as only you can when you are alone and aren't on a schedule. I snuggled the truck back under the trees in the cool shade, put the seat back, and closed my eyes. Once I stopped resisting, I fell quickly into the pit of darkness I had been on the verge of all afternoon.
As consciousness gradually replaced the deep state of "serious nappage" I had attained, the cloying scents of warm wood and grass and dust were the first sensations to make it through the fog. Then came the start, before you open your eyes, of not being able to use the available data to place where you have awakened. The eyes snap open; I'm in my truck, in a field of grass under trees, the sound of a busy road in the distance... relief surges through my gut as I put it all together. After a big stretch and a little walk, I was on my way again, refreshed and in a much better mental state. Just the other side of Kingman, I left highway 40 to continue west towards Bullhead City and Laughlin. There was a long, winding descent into the Colorado River valley. Strictly speaking, I suppose it's a relative of the Grand Canyon I just left, but the Colorado River here had been run through the Hoover Dam, and that seemed to take all the fight out of it -- along with the beauty. I drove through Bullhead City on the Arizona side, then crossed the bridge to Nevada and Laughlin. True to the word of the gas station attendant, there were flashing signs everywhere advertising low room prices. I chose the one he specifically recommended, the Riverside Hotel and Casino. And as advertised, I got a nice, nonsmoking room for $19 plus tax. I took my stuff to my room, washed up, and went to check out the facilities. When I walked into the casino, I think I dropped the average age by about twenty years. It was a permanent AARP convention. They did have a large nonsmoking casino though, and I spent a few enjoyable hours playing 25 cent video poker people-watching the retirees pursuing their leisure with a take-no-prisoners abandon.
It's Friday, 7:30 am (2523 elapsed miles), and once again, I'm in the truck ready to go -- without a destination. I sit in the hotel parking lot with the engine idling, scanning the map waiting for a destination to leap out at me. To my utter surprise one did. West, and a little North lay Ridgecrest, California, A fairly good sized town supporting the China Lake Naval Air Base. I had worked on a proposal for Boeing here for about six weeks seven or eight years ago and despite having to work sixteen hour days, had fond memories of the place. The rest all fell into place. I would travel West until I got to highway 395, then go North to Ridgecrest and on to Yosemite. Sounds great, and now I can get out of the parking lot. Westward along highway 40 until I reach Barstow, then divert onto highway 58 to reach Four Corners, CA and the intersection with highway 395. It's only about 45 miles from here to Ridgecrest and it's just like I left it, well pretty much. I drove by the building that Boeing occupied when I was there, and it was vacant, the Boeing logo had been removed from the side. Oh great! The merger disease that was closing so many Boeing buildings had made it to here too. I went just up the street to another building, the one I had actually worked in when I was here. It was vacant too. Hmmm. For some reason, I decided to take another turn around the block to look at the main building again. A couple of blocks further up the street I spotted a new-looking Boeing facility. It kind of looked like a mini-mall, but nonetheless it was a Boeing presence in Ridgecrest and I somehow felt better knowing that it was there.
I desperately needed to do some laundry. I also needed gas, and while I was filling up I asked for directions to a good laundromat. The directions were simple enough and as I pulled into the Thrifty Wash parking lot I had a rush of recognition -- this is where I had done my laundry when I was working here all those years ago. I loved this place, and remembered it fondly. It may sound strange to say you love a laundromat, but this was special. I had always got the impression that the owners of this laundromat were doing exactly what they wanted to be doing, and by god they were going to be the best darn laundromat on the planet. The place was clean, all the machines worked, the staff was alert and helpful -- it was an efficient, pleasant, and happy place to be. What other laundromat have you seen where all the machines had names! This was a place where you could be on a first name basis with your dryer -- "hello, my name is Keeler, and I'll be your dryer today". It was a model for the rest of the world to take notice of; you could be successful and make your customers happy too! As I was filling putting detergent into my washer, I accidentally spilled a few grains on the top of the spotless machine. Instantly, the attendant was there with a damp cloth to unobtrusively remove the offending mess and restore perfection to the line of gleaming white surfaces. There were rules of expected behavior posted on the walls, and these further demonstrated that this business had loftier goals than gouging poor schmucks who were without means to cleanse their garments. Care for your children and behave with good order, decency, and common sense. Indeed! You would be hard pressed to see better guidance displayed in most city halls across the country. Washing, fluffing, and folding behind me, I must bid fond adieu to Ridgecrest. It was 2:20 in the afternoon (2757 elapsed miles) and it was bout 170,000 degrees Fahrenheit here in the Mojave desert. OK, it was only about 85 degrees, but that was plenty hot for me.
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DugCo Production