We spent the afternoon chilling on Hermosa Beach, mulling over the loss of three of our party; predominant memories include a shed-load of sunshine, a bell being rung for an hour by a chap selling ice-creams from his little cart, and a plane flying back and forth along the coast advertising a ‘Jay Leno at the Comedy Club’ show. It got us lusting after the financial ability to afford a banner off a plane stating, ‘read this if you’re gay’.
Regardless, we soaked up the rays, nailed a free pancake or two mid-arvo, and with the bars perma-packed – this is Hermosa after all – ended up hitting the road around 6ish for the American road-trip part deux. Facing us was a considerable drive to get inland towards as-yet unconquered territories, so a cracking three-hundred mile stint of road-pounding was duly busted out (complete with cooking dinner in a McDonald’s car park) before bedding down sometime midnight-ish in a road-side truck stop at near 30°C heat with several gargantuan trucks dwarfing our van whilst drowning our ears in a barrage of air-conditioning unit generated noise. Just lovely…
The following morning Winty was instructed to move his tent by a fluorescent bib and Stetson wearing rest area attendant (power trip and the rest…), causing much disgruntlement. Whilst breakfasting, a massive 130-carriage goods train casually glided past in the distance. 130 carriages… that’s roughly around 2km long! Crazy…
With the temperature already up to barely believable 35°C by half 9 in the morning, we hit the road long-time once again, rolling over mile after mile of American tarmac and concrete and past seemingly endless panoramic views. We broke the journey in the town of Holbrook, on the Historic Route 66, another town devastated by the introduction of the I-40, removing all of its through traffic and ensuing business.
The only surviving businesses are cheap motels (some in an all-to-clichéd [for the area] wigwam style), whose advertising promises include ‘clean rooms’, as if unclean rooms are somehow the norm! Such towns are “kept alive by transcontinental truckers,” as Rough Guides to the USA say. There must be countless other towns in a similar predicament. All said, there is a nostalgic sense of beauty to Holbrook, with its frozen-in-time shop fronts and listlessly decrepit buildings all now looking rather cool and decidedly photogenic.
Back on the interstate, fate came to my rescue. Casually speeding in the vicinity of three figures, a worrying clunk from the engine persuaded me to ease back down towards an entirely more acceptable 75mph, before literally seconds later cruising past a road-side stationary cop car with a speed gun! Fate, I owe you.
Lake Havasu City was passed, famed on the one hand for water sports at Spring Break, and more hilariously for the misguided antics of developer Robert McCulloch, who spent $2.4m on buying and shipping London Bridge across the Atlantic (and reassembling it stone-by-stone) in the sixties in the mistaken belief he was purchasing the altogether more understandable Tower Bridge. Muppet…
Eventually, after the best part of 600 miles we arrived at the Petrified Forest (in 42°C heat, no less), a place which features bizarre trees that over a long period of time and processes of mineralisation, weathering, and erosion have been turned into rock. Genuinely there are trees that are rock, if you get me. Check the photos and you’ll see what I mean. We toured round the rather minimal exhibits, but it was rather strange looking at trees in rock form…
We then made our way to the Painted Desert nearby, where we were able to admire several crazy vistas of strange rock formations and stranger rock colourations, as well as the very famous rusted car that sits on the edge of the desert, permanently left to the powers of nature, being eroded into what will eventual nothingness. In the meantime, plenty of folk make pilgrimages of sorts to get a photo of it. Ourselves included, naturally. “Maintaining an image…”
Whilst cooking dinner that evening – and after clocking up a few more miles – we were treated to the passing-by of another hundred-plus carriage train and one hell of a beautiful sunset. Quite breathtaking really. During the ensuing spagbol devouring session I dug out the map and calculated we had covered a tasty thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours. It was one very large distance that repeatedly threw up decrepit houses and battered vehicles amongst the astonishingly dramatic vistas and endless panoramic landscapes, merely serving to highlight that despite America’s global view of capitalist success and reputation as the land of opportunity, not everyone benefits and an awful lot of folk have been left behind and forgotten.
Post-dinner we busted out a few more miles in one of the most amusing drives undertaken yet. With Ads behind the wheel, we were treated to the most pointless overtake in history (after sitting on its tail for twenty minutes, the car turned off as we eventually tried to pass it), the delights of New Mexico’s marking-free roads (great fun at night time; Ads: “which side of road are we on”), the cynical murder of rabbit innocently attempting to cross the road in Adam’s path (it had no chance), and the friendly nature of all oncoming drivers, each and every one of them happily flashing us as we passed them. We subsequently realised the full-beams had been on for entirety of that evening’s drive. Most amusing…
That night, the great game ‘roadside roulette’ was born. In the darkness we pulled off a road near the Colorado border, and plonked up the tent in the middle of dusty farmer’s field, with no idea what surrounded us, or just how much trespassing we were doing. Good times…
