I get some comfort as we come upon Interstate 40 west of Albuquerque. The cars and semi coursing by in both directions is a refreshing change to the inky black of Kansas. I partake of dinner at 7:30. The memories of last night's stir-fry fresh, or should I say un-fresh, in my mind, I opt for a burger and chips and skip dessert. I retire early.
Invariably, whenever I am crossing Arizona at night the moon illuminates enough of the landscape to see silhouettes of the mountains in the distance, and some of what lies just beyond the tracks. I'm mostly picking up the contrast between the light soil and the dark objects that populate upon it.
4:22am - In California now. I've been up for almost an hour now. The call of nature had a priority over sleep. Was getting ready to go downstairs to the shower and wash my hair when some fast walking woman blew right by me and beat me to it. So I skipped over to the next sleeper car and accomplished my task there.
Breakfast will be served in a half-hour, although I'm tempted to skip it and see what I can nosh at Union Station in Los Angeles. But maybe with a slice of quiche in my belly I might be able to squeeze in a couple more hours of sleep. Train staff has been indicating an arrival at 7:30, which would leave me over two hours of wait time. Hopefully, I'll have Internet access there.
Finding open Internet access in range of stations along the way has been difficult. I was able to check mail and fire off one in Flagstaff before I lost the signal. I may have gotten a second email out but am unable to confirm.
Nov. 24, 5:15am - You know I used to like Amtrak food, I really did. Now I wish they would offer a discount to sleepers for not partaking of their three square meals.
Breakfast is one of those meals where options have decreased. Grits, bacon, toast, all no more. Potatoes on the train are one of the more difficult things to get right, that's why I would always opt for the grits. Grits is grits, period. A pat of butter and a sprinkling of black pepper and they were to my taste. A sit-down breakfast out and about always seems incomplete without bacon. The little discs of pork or turkey sausage just don't live to the allure of smoky, crispy flesh strips.
Toast. I miss toast. The croissant is nice, but not quit as utilitarian as a half-piece of toast, buttered and folded, used as a utensil along with the folk to shovel food into my pie hole. One of the dining car attendants explained it as such: too many items were being returned, or not consumed, and one of those things was the toast. People would complain about the toast being too light or too dark. What?!?! C'mon! In all my years of shoving toast down my throat, not once, ever, have I sent the toast back. Sure, you may get a light slice, or one barely touched with butter or margarine. Touch luck, pal. Suck it up and eat it! Its one thing if your flesh is undercooked or your eggs were not to your order, but toast?!?!
A drinking associate of mine is always pondering concepts for the perfect bar. No frills, and run with a "you get what you get and that's all you get" attitude. I think I'd like that style for a breakfast joint. I have some rules for toast.
Number one, toasted until browned to the point of dark tan. Maybe the occasional burnt edge, but hey, cooking, even the making of toast, is a variable. You want consistency, go to McDonald's where some underpaid mope will get your order wrong half of the time. That's what you get for going to McDonald's.
Number two, no white bread. Toast should have some flavor, so you'll take wheat and like it. If I like you, you'll get rye.
Number three; butter your own damn toast! A lot of places pre-butter. The smart ones use a paint brush and slather it from a heated container of goo. Now that's class. But I figure I'd offer one concession, and it would save me a task to perform. As for the butter on the table, it's going to be a stick and not all those little, annoying, wrapped rectangles of cow fat. You whittle at the stick with your knife and be done with it. Prefer margarine? Well, tough! If you happen to prefer the taste, then you're not welcome. If you're trying to cut down on the calories, then go the fuck home and eat a low-fat yogurt!
So I eat what's served and go back to the room for a nap. The train pulls into Union Station at 7:30 and I'm left with two-an-a-half hours to kill. So I go out to where the Thruway buses pull up and cool my heels while I work on a weak Internet connection.
So the appointed time comes up and the platform is full of people going to Bakersfield, most to catch the San Joaquin train for parts north. Three Amtrak California busses are there to load up the eager throng. An easy ride awaited them.
My bus pulls in and it's a crowded Greyhound. Oh fuck, the dog! The bus is made more crowded by the addition of a passenger in a wheelchair. To accommodate, three row of seats are pushed together to make room for the chair and the platform which transports the occupant in and out of the bus. I end up seated in the aisle seat in front of the toilet. This means everybody's ass bumps or brushes my left shoulder every time they go to relieve themselves.
Getting out of town was a slow, arduous deal. First we had to stop at a couple of urban bus stations to pack in more passengers. Ah, the look of despair that washes over their faces when they make their way through the bus looking for elbow room only to find none. I'm all too familiar with that feeling.
Then it takes us a half hour or more to go three miles, the traffic plodding along at a snail's pace.
Then free of the morass, we start to get some speed and I go on a brief nod. At some point I gather about thirty miles west of Barstow we pull off to some dusty, wind-swept patch of sand to come to the aid of another Greyhound bus that developed an oil leak and could go no further. So we load up to standing room to transport the stranded passengers on to Barstow. I, along with a few of my fellow shipmates, give up our seats to the elderly. Some didn't. I would like liked to have wrung their necks.
And so I rode standing up all the way to Barstow. It wasn't too terribly unpleasant, besides the foot fatigue. I had a couple one row ahead of me making out so at least I had some entertainment. The look of orgiastic content frozen on the woman's face made me wonder where her paramour's fingers might be operating. Or perhaps the vacuum-suck applied to the nape of her neck just happened to trip her trigger. One could only fantasize.
At Barstow the masses disgorge themselves from the bus to gorge themselves on McDonald's, Subway, pizza, etc. I took the opportunity to reclaim my seat and remain seated for the reminder of the journey. And what a journey indeed over moderately high passes and great sprawling valleys. Finally got into Vegas only twenty minutes late.
Nov. 25, 6:08am - Travel can have its ups and downs, but getting to the destination and being embraced by familiar faces make the effort worthwhile. Although, next time I'll forgo sleep and take the shuttle out of Kingman instead of facing that Greyhound meat grinder again. Barb picked me up not long after I got to the Las Vegas bus station, and from there things just kept getting better.
Once settled in Barb broke out a Thanksgiving leftover plate made up for me: turkey, potatoes, yams, stuffing, gravy, and broccoli casserole. Everything was good; I even ate most of the turkey, although I'm not much into large, identifiable pieces of flesh. The standout was the casserole; I could eat mass quantities of that stuff.
Al got home as I was stuffing my face and we all ate from various foodstuffs, and then settled down for an evening in front of the idiot box. My dinner was complemented with a piece of Al's homemade carrot cake, a family favorite.
Last year at Barb and Al's tenth wedding anniversary, Al made a half-dozen of his carrot cakes for family and friends to enjoy. The cake is another item I could eat mass quantities of. So imagine the ideal Vegas meal of broccoli casserole and carrot cake. And Christmas tamales too if I ever get down here around here in late December.
Next day Al had go to work at the bicycle shop, so Barb and I were left to seek out our own amusements. After a shower and a cup o' joe we ventured not too far to a joint called O'Aces Bar & Grill. Nice friendly place serving plenty of good food. We each settled for scrambled eggs and home fries, and decaf with a shot of Baileys.
After that we made the hour's drive down to Lake Mead to walk an old railroad line converted over to a trail. We learned from a comely park employee on bicycle that the railroad was built to accommodate the construction of Hoover Dam.
The view from the trail.
The Railroad Hiking Trail is about 2.7 miles in length from where we parked to where it ends. Walking its path skirted us high above Hemenway Harbor, with wide sweeping vistas of lands near and off beyond the far side of the lake. We also traversed through five tunnels that the U.S. Government had carved out to make way for the line. One was quite long and another curved enough that you could not see the exit until you stepped inside. Aside from a pit stop when Barb skirted off to find a secluded place to pee, we paused only to take photos of the tunnels, the rocks and the view.
Our intrepid park guide clued us in to an extension of the trail that continued on over to the parking garage at Hoover Dam. So in agreement we trekked along to unknown vistas. The beauty of the land on this trail was marred by the omnipresence of human activity. Power lines, transfer stations and sheet metal buildings abounded. And not too far south loomed U.S. Highway 93 coming down from Boulder City to an inspection checkpoint, then on to the dam. We remarked at how easy it was by hiking the trail to avoid the checkpoint and carry out what nefarious deeds we'd be so inclined to perpetrate.
The trail eventually reached a decline of about what I would say to be about six to seven stories of altitude, when we came upon a concrete structure of switchbacks, or what I would call the wheelchair ride of death. These switchbacks descended another five stories until we reached the top of the parking garage, and then we descended another five stories of stairs until we reached the bottom.
After taking a very necessary pee break we waltzed over to the concession service to scarf some grub before the return trek. The place was abuzz with all the touristas who had come from far and wide to have a 'dam' experience. We eventually got through the maddening crowd and settled outside with our shared meal.
We split an order of onion rings and a grilled veggie sandwich with fries. Well let me tell you about the grilled veggie sandwich. The only thing grilled about the sandwich was the two slices of white bread, more like a light toast on one side, heated through just enough to affix the slice of American cheese to the bread. It was served open face, one cheese slice for each bread slice, atop the fries and vegetables. The vegetables consisted of slices of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and pickles on top of a pile of shredded lettuce, all still chilled.
This wasn't a grilled veggie sandwich?!?! It was a cheese on toast with salad! At the least we should have gotten dressing. We each took a cheesy bread slice and filled it with our garden bounty, scarfed the fries and rings and made the long trek back to the Jeep.
The climb out of about 200 vertical feet total was quite the feat, considering we'd already been trekking for four miles already. The sun had moved enough in our adventure so that the return views of the mountain scape we walked upon had changed greatly.
After our eight mile hiking expedition we made it back to the Jeep, and slowly worked ourselves in for the ride up out of the valley and up to Boulder City. Once in town, we took upon another venture to find St. Andrew's Catholic Community which featured a labyrinth. A labyrinth is an intricate puzzle upon which you walk upon, winding your way upon the twists and curves until you reach the center, and then make your way out from where upon you came in. In the process of the walk, you have time to reflect and meditate. I felt the experience of walking the path to be much more significant after previously walking eight miles of trail. It offered a restful cool down, and indeed gave one time to pause.
Upon completion we popped back in the Jeep to face the most formidable challenge yet: shopping at Fry's Electronics on the South Strip. It being the Saturday after Thanksgiving the streets and parking lot were bumper to bumper and we eventually found a spot in the lot about a hundred miles from the store entrance. Inside, the store was abuzz with consumerism run amok, a stark contrast to the peaceful oasis of the labyrinth.
We scoped out laptops and tablets, audio systems and shavers, waited an immeasurable amount of time for refreshment inside the store's coffee shop. Eventually we left empty-handed and made the run home, where we hooked up with Al and had dinner at a nearby Mexican strip-mall joint, and finished the evening, once again, worshiping the idiot box before retiring.
| Photos from the Picasa Web Album: Lake Mead National Recreation Area Historic Railroad Hiking Trail |
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