In New England, five hours of driving can get you through two or three states. Out West, it takes all day to get from one side of a state to the other.
Nevada is hundreds of miles of beautiful sparse nothingness, just colossal flat plains covered with brush and grass, surrounded by mountains. Everything is huge -- except signs of human habitation, which are few, far between, and tiny. We passed highway exits that weren't on the map, probably because there wasn't anything there. Seriously, we couldn't figure out the purpose of some of these exits, because they led to dirt roads which seemed to peter out in the scrub after only a few feet. The signs had town names which referred to nothing at all, as far as we could tell. What's the point of naming a highway interchange?
Like Nebraska and Utah, Nevada has a sensibly zippy speed limit of 75 mph. We, of course, exceeded that somewhat. One result was that we passed a number of drivers multiple times as we outpaced them, fell behind for bathroom breaks or snack stops, and then caught up again. We passed one Grizzly Adams type at the wheel of a primer-splotched pickup with Wyoming plates three times and even gave him a nickname, Smelly Truck Guy, because we could smell the oil his truck was burning from half a mile back. We also played road tag with a big rig from Canada's Northern Lights Aeronautical Team, which we gathered from the truck decals was a group of Quebecois stunt pilots. We couldn't imagine how a plane might fit in an 18-wheeler, though, so we're still wondering what it was carrying.
At one point we passed beneath a towering reddish rock wall on which someone had spray-painted "Earth: Love It," which should go in the dictionary as the perfect illustration of an oxymoron.
The best town name we saw all day was the incongruous Beverly Hills, NV, which was little more than a farmhouse and barn surrounded by shrubs a few feet from a highway off-ramp. We stopped just past it to take snapshots to commemorate our trip:
Basically, there's not a lot to say about driving through Nevada. It's big, there are mountains and plains, the truck stops often have slot machines inside, and it's good to take every opportunity to go to a rest room, because the exits can be 50 miles apart (or more!). Oh, and Reno is a miniature version of Las Vegas with a lot of huge hotels and casinos we didn't bother to stop for.
We crossed the border into California at about 2:30 pm, cheering. We then had to stop for gas, which cost $1.77 a gallon. Welcome to California. Since I'm used to paying $1.25 in Massachusetts, it was a little shocking.
We had originally planned to push on to San Francisco, which would have entailed a 700-mile day, or at least Sacramento, but Jon reminded me that if I got to San Francisco at 8 pm, I would have to look for a parking space in my unfamiliar new neighborhood at a time when one was least likely to be available. Instead, we decided to stop at Lake Tahoe. We rented a room at The Inn at Truckee, a slightly spendy former Super 8 (sense a theme here?) with faux-distressed pine furniture and an excellent view of the towering pines, which smell wonderful. Then we headed for Truckee's quaint historic downtown, where Melanie bought silver hoop earrings at a fine-crafts gallery. I insisted we visit Andy's Truckee Diner, a genuine Kullman diner from the '40s which used to be in Pennsylvania until its current owners brought it to California in 1995. I had the chili cheese fries. They were ridiculously good. Another positive fry experience.
So we are now in California, a mere 4-hour drive from the end of our travels. Tomorrow we'll get up at 8 or so, grab breakfast, and head for the end of I-80 and San Francisco.
I don't regret doing this at all. As tiring as it's been, I'd do it again. Next time, I think I'll do it without a cat and take side roads. There are giant balls of twine and pioneer museums to be seen.
I will definitely bring my own vegetables.
Thanks for traveling along with me! You can go back to my Virtual Diner now.