When I was a kid, one of our family traditions was that of the “Sunday Drive.” Probably once a month in good weather, Mom and Dad would get in the car, stop at a store for a six-pack of beer, a couple of sodas and some snack food and head out. Sometimes the object was to “visit” someone. Sometimes it was just to visit the lake shore. In either case, random back roads were engaged as it it gave an opportunity to slow down and, well, enjoy the beer. Even from a young age I really enjoyed the drives and I continued to participate well into high school when most teens could no longer tolerate their parents. I just enjoyed seeing new things, taking the road less traveled and exploring even in that modest manner. To this day, I still love a good road trip. I am perfectly entertained by just looking out the window and watching the scenery roll by.
A few weeks ago, my wife and I took three days to go to Laughlin, Nevada and visit our son. Laughlin's kind of a unique place. A casino town on the banks of the Colorado River, it has been called the senior citizen Las Vegas or the Redneck Strip. For us, it is a convenient staging area. The hotel rooms are dirt cheap, there are multiple dining options and dive bars within walking distance along a scenic river walk and the place is surrounded by glorious desert and the great river itself. Last time we were there, we explored an old gold mining camp in Eldorado Canyon way out on the remote reaches of Mojave Lake. This time I wanted to go somewhere else I'd never been—Pierce Ferry, considered the end of the Grand Canyon.
Fueled by casino coffee and Cinnabons, we drove out of the river valley through the sharp-toothed peaks and the middle-finger rock that guard the river. Back through Golden Valley--one of those recently common sprawls of housing in the middle of nothing; its existence relying solely on cheap land prices. And back to Hwy 93-- AKA “the Racetrack” from Kingman to Las Vegas. Halfway to Las Vegas, though, we made a right turn at Dolan Springs and into another world.
Dolan Springs was like something not of this country. A ramshackle, almost third world collection of shacks, shanties and haphazard businesses that were built randomly among some of the largest Joshua trees, I've ever seen. Cows wandered through the middle of the “business district.” As we drove down the narrow two lane blacktop through the scenic Joshua tree forest, we were surprised to see so many houses seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Where did these people work? Las Vegas? Were they all snowbird retirees? Doomsday preppers? We passed many water tankers and noticed many of the dwellings had water tanks attached so apparently there was little or no ground water. Where was the water being shipped in from? How much did it cost? So many mysteries there.
We passed to the turnoff to Grand Canyon West—a newly developed resort on Hualapai land. You may have seen pictures of the Skywalk—the Plexiglas balcony hung over the edge of the Grand Canyon. For the lovely price of $66 per person you can walk over the Grand Canyon. No thank you. I have no quarrel with the Indians monetizing their land. I just have no need to subsidize it myself. Now we had the road all to ourselves, passing only one truck loaded down with Grand Canyon rafts headed back up the hill. Here, the Joshua trees became really thick. One of the thickest stands of endangered plant anywhere in the world. They really are amazing things to see. So unique and almost comical. It is hard to stand next to them and not smile. My wife spent most of the trip trying to figure out how she could grow one in our yard. Answer: not likely. Joshua trees need a very specific climate and conditions to grow—a fact that makes them rare and acutely susceptible to climate change. One study estimates that 90 percent of the Joshua tree population will be gone by the end of the century.
We passed through one more unlikely community in the middle of nowhere called Meadview. A small side town dominated by the strange sight of a church in the middle of the desert---looking like something out of New England. A scenic pullout gave us a brief view of upper Lake Mead. Yes, there was still water in it. From there the road twisted down, down, down eventually turning into gravel. Now we were all alone and slowly drove through a rich agave/cholla/barrel cactus desert full of arroyos and dry sandy washes. My kind of country. Down and down we drove. Ahead we could see the mud banks of another arroyo and rounding a corner saw that a river, seemingly appearing out of nowhere like magic, flowed before us. End of the road.
“Are you kidding me? This is the mighty Colorado?” Debi asked aloud.
Indeed in this huge landscape of emptiness, the river did appear modest. On closer inspection, however, it was a quiet force. Exhausted from his tumultuous tumble through the Grand Canyon, the river here sighed and relaxed. Still, there was a quiet power to it, the current deceptively quick and strong. As we walked along the sandy banks, it was hard not to both feel relaxed and energized at the same time. There are a few special places like that in the world, in nature. Places that contain an intrinsic energy, a spirit, a soul. They may be different for every person, but rivers—especially desert rivers—have always been that kind of place for me. I can understand why people drop out, become “river rats” and devote their lives to the place. It's hard to be stressed out standing next to a river. It's hard to be unhappy.
All too soon it was time to get back in the car and retrace our drive. Still, the spirit of the place would linger in me for quite some time. That was a drive worth taking.
