Crossing the Sierras

We drove over the Sierras to Yosemite: A very bald statement and rightly so. The Sierras are beyond my descriptive powers. Some say man’s brain is reaching the point beyond which science can go no further. Our mammalian brain, evolved from millennia on the African plains, will no longer be able to conceive the questions to be asked as our limits approach. And without questions there'll be answers beyond us. Across the Sierras my mammalian brain was reduced to a trancelike state absorbing image after image, each more powerful than the rest and none of it remembered.

We rendezvoused with another Aventours group at Lake Mono. Their tour guide was a friend of Gregs. It was also his birthday, so buckets of water and shaving foam seemed almost obligatory. This was what our mammalian brains, evolved from millennia on the African plains, were designed for, and we went for it like a bunch of chimps on speed.

Walking round Lake Mono













Afterwards I had one of those leisurely talks with Karen and Sheri Roberts – the kind that signify nothing and evaporate in the brain. It was a very hot day.

We reached Yosemite at night and had to put up our tents in the dark. No problem. We were a well oiled machine. Later that night I talked to Candy, a vibrant, bustling secretary, originally from Yorkshire but working in Stockholm. I was intrigued. No one’s called Candy in Yorkshire. Maybe that’s why she went to Stockholm.

Later still I spent a happy fifteen dollars on whiskey sours, talking men’s talk with Ron Tillet, a cheerful Australian. He’d tried to lure Kim and Sharon out for a drink with us, but with no success, and as the evening progressed he became increasingly annoyed over his non relationship with Kim. Such is life in a small enclosed bubble with too much to drink and too many hours to think, and Kim Haslinger was beautiful.

True Believers

That night I had a dream. It was Pink Lady again, brandishing a book. True Believers.

"What the hell is this?" I snarled.

"Right back at yer, pal," she snarled back. Her ruby lips parted baring bright and feral teeth. “I’m just telling you this is probably the best goddamned book you’re gonna read this side of the great divide. Me and my friends all like it, pal, so you better read it, see.” She stomped a stiletto on my chest just to emphasise the point, and then disappeared.

I glanced at the cover. The book looked hot but wouldn’t be out until 2010. I still had time

The Devil's Playground

July 15th-18th













Would you believe it? There was war in the camp: hostility over dishwashing. I took refuge in the swimming pool, skirted the continuing arguments to eat four barbequed ribs, and, as tensions settled, played pool. Other than the great dish-washing war and possibly because of it, I missed – according to Roland – the definitive western sunset. Compensation was sought and found in a giant tub of banana daiquiri made by Roland whilst, presumably watching the sunset. Another large tub sat alongside, in reserve. There would be little sleep in the hours to come.

At ten pm we set off, travelling through Nevada by night, drinking and Casino-hopping until dawn. We stopped off at five casinos in all and the night became progressively more wild. Not only did we have an almost endless supply of Daiquiri, each casino we visited gave us a small book of five vouchers allowing us two free drinks and three vouchers to use on a small city of fruit machines.

The whole thing demanded constitutions of iron, but somebody had to do it. By dawn exhaustion over-took us all and I collapsed in blissful sleep across two seats belonging to a Elisabeth and her friend. These were two beautiful medical students from Paris. I liked Elisabeth. She called me ‘Fuzzy-face’ because of my unshaven appearance. I imagine she called me other names that night.





































We breakfasted in Reno at a Casino called the Circus. It offered thirty six course breakfasts and as much as you could eat for less than two dollars. On each table were bingo cards so you could gamble whilst you ate, and, placed discreetly between the condiments, was another message reminding you that there were starving people in the world, and exhorting you to eat sensibly.

Wonderful.

I was dining in the devil’s playground.

I left feeling exhausted, bloated and morally confused. Much like a reader of Petronius’s ‘Satyricon’, I trudged back to the coach, resolute on staying in camp that night, go no where, and eat no more food. Ever.

Camp was in a pine forest on the shores of Lake Tahoe. We swam, slept and sunbathed, allowing our bodies to recover, our minds to catch up. Greg, our tour guide tried to organise a group dinner in Reno that night, but my stomach rebelled. Instead I stayed in camp, took photo’s of the lake and observed how friendly the woodpeckers and chipmunks were, before going to sleep. Fuzzy-face had left the building.

Gambling with Death

Thursday July 15th At eight am we were on the road again, destination – the Great Salt Lake. We were told that this lake was second only to the Dead Sea in terms of its salt content. Things like this are good to know when confronted with such an unimpressive sight. It was a grubby, dismal, barren place and the water smelt. I paddled a good half mile into the lake – Keyton's ever-hopeful gene – but the water failed to reach much higher than my knees. Maybe I should be grateful. Much higher and I could have walked out, my cojones dried and salted. I took one final look before boarding the bus. The shoreline swarmed with millions of tiny sand-flies, souls captured by Mormons in their great genealogical quest. Then on to The Great Salt Desert where we lunched. I hate to use the phrase coming up now. My crit partners would shoot me dead on the spot. But this was awesome, and it was here I momentarily gambled with death. I just wanted to experience utter loneliness, to see what it might be like to get totally and irrevocably lost. I walked out into the desert. I walked a good mile, every so often looking back to see the bus, a rapidly diminishing speck. I walked on and on until that speck could barely be seen. And then finally the point was reached where the bus couldn’t be seen at all. Here I kicked a large arrow into the ground, pointing the way back and walked a few paces farther on. Then I spun round like some demented hippy, a dervish on speed, and as suddenly stopped. I looked round, scanning sky, the blistering whiteness and savoured the silence. I stayed until I felt the first trickle of fear and then set about locating my arrow. For a minute or two I panicked, walking faster and faster, wondering where the hell the bus was: And then the welcoming speck, and the promise of bourbon. I’d lived a western dream.                                                           

 

Back on the bus we played cards – Sweaty Betty if I remember – with a slug of bourbon for stakes. We were heading into gambling country. On crossing the state line into Nevada we were all given a book of vouchers entitling us to free drinks and games in a nearby casino. 

A most gorgeous, raven haired woman controlled the Black Jack table. She operated without expression like a beautifully efficient automaton. I’d have married her on the spot. Instead I lost dollars on a crap game I never understood. It didn’t matter. It was enough just to watch her face and that little stick of hers moving chips across a long green board. Wells Campsite was also beautiful but in a different way. Greg, Gary, Roland and myself drove off-site to the nearby town of Wells to buy alcohol for our nightly punch. 

Wells is a crossroads in the desert, the gateway to so much endeavour and tragedy in the old west. Times change. Now there was a whole coach-load of Jewish folk in the liquor store – all from New York. Provisions bought we whiled away an hour in a small casino bar where I drank and Greg, with more experience, gambled.

 

Bear Lake and Salt Lake City

Wednesday July 14 Salt Lake City I hate early starts but with Aventours and a country the size of America you had little choice. Today we had breakfast at seven and to compound the misery I was on dishwashing duty with Sharon and Kim. We had great fun but I wasn’t looking forward to eating from those plates later in the day. We were not great dish-washers. After packing we were on the road once more, heading for Bear Lake in Utah followed by Salt Lake City. Bear Lake was a magical lunch spot, and mercifully we didn’t need plates. I was beginning to worry about the reaction when we eventually did. The lake itself was a beautiful turquoise and according to legend a lake monster lurked in its depths. The story originated from a compendium of sightings compiled by Joseph C Rich a leading C19th Mormon who later admitted the stories were false. An untruthful Mormon. Be still my beating heart. Still the story had traction. Other sightings followed, some describing it as a large walrus, others as a prehistoric lizard, and a few describing it as a larger than average carp. We saw nothing – though the last reported sighting was in 2004. 

I think we’d have been quite happy spending the entire day at Bear Lake, swimming, diving from rocks, just messing around, but Salt Lake City beckoned. There we toured the Temple grounds, saw a film on their founding prophet, and were invited to stroke marble-effect pillars made purely from wood. There were better ways to spend an afternoon, but there wasn’t a bar in sight.

Walking around, I felt like an extra in Stepford City – only no one had given me the diazepam. It had to be Valium. It had to be. I couldn’t figure it out. Sunshine and Valium. Everyone seemed so goddamned content with those smug little smiles that told us they knew something we didn’t. Maybe they did. I bought a Mormon bible for a dollar, but was later ripped off 11 dollars buying a T Shirt from a fresh-faced boy - with the smile. Beneath a late afternoon sun I consumed two milkshakes and too many ice creams watching people walk by, searching for a break in the wall of contentment. Tourists may see that in Monmouth today, an alternative Paradise. I love it. But that Wednesday, July 14th I saw it as alien, artificial, and it gave me the creeps. That night some of the group went bowling but having consumed too many milk products, I stayed in camp and spent the time talking to Evelyn, Daghmar, Sharon and Kim; drank bourbon, swatted mosquitoes. The only other highlight of this day was noting that Ron Tillet didn’t sleep in his tent that night. Can you imagine that? I’d become a canvas-flap-twitcher. I must have been really bored that day. I blame it on the milk.

Dirty talk in Jackson Hole

Tuesday July 13




Jackson Hole seen from above










Me and the pink lady were walking side by side, she still licking the ice-cream she’d bought in Yellowstone Park. Somehow she managed to talk between licks. “You know,” she said, “we’re walking on history.” I nodded, barely able to talk. My head was hurting from too much grog and the pink lady spoke in a high, dry monotone that cut through me like a knife.

“Mountain men crossed and re-crossed Jackson Hole between 1810 and 1840 catching beaver. The valley was supposedly named after the fur trapper David E. “Davey” Jackson in 1829, perhaps earlier.” She paused. Another lick. “The fur trade declined around 1840 and we don't hear about Jackson Hole again until after 1860.” Then, mercifully she disappeared, ice cream and all, and two other figures stepped into view: Roland and Veronique.

Together we walked around Jackson Lake and caught the boat back from the other side. From the boat I was able to take several dramatic shots of the Tetons.
















“You know how they got their name,” she whispered. I span round. The lady wasn’t in sight, but her voice was all around and I caught the whiff of vanilla and chocolate. I shook my head, wondering whether Roland and Veronique were privy to the same conversation. They seemed pretty quiet.

























The pink lady continued. “les Trois Tetons” Then because my French is pretty poor, she translated. “The three breasts!” Well, I’d always heard French women were different. I squinted, trying to make sense of what she’d just said; wondered how long those poor bastards had been out there alone and what else they did to beaver, but then the dirty talk ended and she became all factual.

“The Shoshone however called the mountains Teewinot,” (It sounded like dog food) “meaning many pinnacles.” Well, at least they could count. Three breasts, indeed. Then she whispered something else that made my blood run cold. “The Tetons are the youngest of all the mountain ranges in the Rocky Mountain chain. Most other mountains in the region are at least 50 million years old but the Tetons are less than 10 million and are still rising. Jackson Hole is of the same age… and is still sinking.”

Never mind. We’d be somewhere else tomorrow.

Later that afternoon, instead of going to the Hot Tubs with the rest of the group, I went to get my picture taken as a Cowboy, then celebrated with a lemonade at the Mountain High Pizza Pie with Evelyn.





I remember the pizzas were good.












That evening we all went to a barbecue at a ranch-house. It was a large sombre barn. I was one of seven hundred people being fed beef, beans, potato and coffee very, very quickly. Industrial farming feeds beef much the same way. American efficiency is wonderful. That night we had fresh grog.

Jackson Hole

Monday July 12

















I hear it’s great in Jackson Hole















Yup, mighty pretty.


















Okay, whose big idea was this?

The town square has arches on each entrance; each arch is made from elk antlers that have been naturally shed. Or so I've been told.


















We had, for us, a late breakfast at 7 am and decamped to Snake River for a day of white-water rafting. It was fast and exhilarating, and then there were the quiet moments, drifting down river past immense sandstone cliffs. It was easy to dream of Shoshone and Blackfeet, easy to dream of making this a more permanent way of life. Our time on earth is finite. What better way could there be to spend it like this? Only John Lennon was right. Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. What chance dreams?













The Pink Garter Theatre

Back in camp we soaked up the sun and lined up for the laundry. In the evening some of us went to the Rodeo but I went with Kay to the Pink Garter theatre to see ‘Little Mary Sunshine’ My God, it was funny. Or maybe the sun had got to me

It took several drinks in the bar afterwards to settle me down, and a few more at the Ranch inn just to make sure and get those damn tunes out of my head. It didn’t prevent several erotic dreams of Nancy Twinkle, but that was alright.
























Rome does things differently :) Made from the bones of 4000 Capuchin monks, all naturally shed but perhaps more macabre than Jackson Hole's bone-gate. (In response to Maria's comments below.)