California Here We Come

“The Mojave is a big desert and a frightening one. It’s as though nature tested a man for endurance and constancy to prove whether he was good enough to get to California.”

Window Rock

We were engulfed in a huge sandstorm between Winslow and Winona. Red dust obliterated the highway for just under a mile; we could see it from several miles down the road, stretching away into the desert on either side and hundreds of feet into the otherwise clear desert sky. Out to the north the horizon disappeared in a red haze. The wind wreaked havoc with the semis and the giant RVs on the road around us.

At this point we made an unfortunate discovery. The RX8 had made its home for years in the Pacific Northwest, where air conditioning is rarely necessary. So the fact that the car’s AC was broken didn’t bother Dad. Up to this point it hadn’t bothered us either; we were cruising along with the sunroof open and the windows down, because at 11am it was already 87 degrees. But it presented a problem in the presence of the swirling desert dust. We had to roll the windows up to avoid choking and ended up sitting in our very own impromptu sweat lodge for several miles.

When we turned off I-40 onto Highway 89 south, we were suddenly in the pine forest. It was high and shady and cool. The temperature dropped to 72 degrees, and in place of adobe houses we started to see log cabins.

Sedona Rock Slide

Nestled in a narrow mountain valley, Sedona is beautiful. Slide Rock State Park was heaving on a holiday weekend, with families swimming and picnicking, but the natural rock slide is long enough and the park is big enough that it doesn’t feel crowded. The slide itself is a combination of slides, jumps, and pools for swimming. Cold, clear water and hot sun; the perfect complement to a dusty night in the desert. Everyone was talking to each other, talking to strangers. Both the atmosphere and the weather were warm. One guy did a backflip into the water and landed on his belly, hard. In Scotland, everyone would have chuckled softly while looking discretely in another direction. In America, everyone shared a laugh, some pointed, and he came up for air yelling “Ow! That hurt!” at the top of his lungs. Complete strangers clapped him on the back as he got out of the water. The town of Sedona itself appeared to host the most massage parlors in ten square miles we’d seen since Bangkok. Every place trumpeted the need for relaxation, offered us an opportunity for rejuvenation, told us we were “worth it.”

After cooling down, we wound our way up through Jerome and back down into Prescott. The road in and out of Jerome is terrifying; hairpin curves and two-lane switchbacks clinging to the sides of sheer cliffs. Matt thought it was a fantastic opportunity to test the RX8’s cornering capabilities. Alissa disagreed.

In marked contrast to the vertiginous roads in the Juniper mountains, we drove the incredibly flat, incredibly straight stretch of highway between Yarnell and Blythe. Up till then it had been high desert, with dry grasses, scrub brush, and sage. Now we began to see Saguaro sentinels on the ridgetops, silhouetted against the high white desert sky. This was stereotypical desert, with the colossal cacti marching in and surrounding us, escorting us to the California state line. These are giants of the earth, growing over 40 feet tall. In the heat haze of the late afternoon the road melted into the horizon, leaving us with the feeling that we were cruising into the sky.

Honeymooning in a Tent

“Every safe generality I gathered in my travels was cancelled by another.”

We came through Eagle’s Nest and Angel Fire and over the brilliant red Sangre de Cristo Mountains into Taos, with its bright blue sky and sun-baked adobe. Here is a place where artists own galleries full of overpriced pottery, paintings, and jewelry, all aimed at tourists, and all done in the bright colors that seem to reflect off every surface of this landscape. The bikers populate dusty bars at odds with the tourist money that lubricates the cogs of the bustling downtown, in silent conflict with the artists over ownership of this beautiful corner of the world. The ghosts of the bohemian artists who originally populated the town would hardly recognize the place. We were surprised by the sprawling suburbs spreading down from the foothills and onto the distant desert floor. There were lines of traffic snaking in and out of town, the blinding sun glinting off German hood ornaments. We turned off the traffic-choked highway and into the mountain passes, looking for a quiet place to spend a desert night.

When we pulled into the campground under a sliver of moon and a dazzling blanket of stars, Matt was muttering under his breath, “Please don’t let us be next to that giant RV, please don’t let us be next to that giant RV… we are. We’re right next to that enormous RV.” But after we met the occupants, we were happy with our temporary neighborhood. We’ve even forgiven them for running the generator several times throughout the day, which is unusual magnanimity for us, reserved for people we genuinely like.

Harold and his wife Alice, and Katie, their little black poodle, are consummate wanderers. We met Harold this morning as he was standing next to our fire pit, practicing his golf swing. We discovered that he is a member of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews, an exclusive organization open to membership only by invitation. In the three years we lived in St. Andrews, we never managed to gain entrance. Harold has a world-renowned collection of antique golf clubs, which he started collecting long before it was fashionable. The sale of individual pieces from this collection is what continues to fund their mobile life.

“The first time we came back from Scotland, I had a shipping container full of the things,” Harold remembers. “It came into the Port of Long Beach in California. I had to go down there and pay an import duty, but nobody could decide what a shipping container full of old golf clubs was worth.” Harold grinned and winked one watery blue eye. “I suggested five cents a club. They just shrugged and went for it. I tell you, even in the 1960s that was a steal.”

We were invited in for a tour of their RV, which was warm, comfortable, and convenient. It was the first time during our trip that we got to see the inside of one of these vehicles we had passed so many times on the road. While trying to pass them on two-lane roads and overtake them on mountain passes, we had seen them only as an annoyance, but once inside, they become a place of warmth and friendship, a truly mobile “home” in which you can welcome strangers and turn them into friends. While we preferred our tent for its privacy and mobility, we were tempted by the comfort and camaraderie of their self-contained world.

Harold and Alice told us tales of their travels and their migration from an old, square-sided canvas tent to their current 22-foot RV, which Harold calls “cheating.”

“We honeymooned in Yosemite, 66 years ago, in a tent.”

We did the math and figured out that Harold was 94. He and Alice have been all over. Their first RV trip was in Tasmania, where they rented a rig. He had fond memories of Adelaide and the Great Barrier Reef. He kept up their rig himself, Alice informed us, and while he insisted it was no trouble, she told us it was a lot of work. We believed her. Harold and Alice come from an active generation, where everyone did for themselves, and all that activity keeps them young. They have no children, which seems to have given them a lot of freedom and maybe even promoted longevity. Harold jokingly suggested that having kids takes 18 years off your life expectancy.

Our time with them was short. “We’re keeping you from your hike,” Harold kept saying. “Nobody wants to listen to old people talk.” On the contrary, they gave us hope and courage. It was much needed. Harold said he’d see us in Scotland. We really hope he makes it.

We know we’ve been surrounded by these Leviathans too long when we see their RV in our rearview mirror and Alissa comments, “Actually it’s not that big.” Everything American is huge. The cars, the trucks, the landscape, the farms, even the sky is bigger out here.

Road Warriors

“Permanence is neither achieved nor desired by mobile people. They do not buy for the generations, but only until a new model they can afford comes out.”

As we pulled back onto the highway from our latest rest stop, we passed a long line of semi-trucks parked at the far end of the lot, their drivers nowhere to be seen, most likely holed up in their cabs for a much-needed rest. These titans of transport rumble up and down the Interstates, enthroned like kings in their cabs, their kingdoms moving with them from one roadside diner to the next. “The truckers cruise over the surface of the nation without being a part of it.” (72) Steinbeck had an appreciation for truckers as professionals, keepers of a specialized knowledge and bearers of a secret language. He was lucky enough to be accepted among them, as a fellow wanderer with his own wisdom, his own secrets. In our sports car, which marked us out as amateurs, we were never so lucky. We had to make do with the occasional longing look or appreciative nod.

Rest areas in some states have started offering free coffee, presumably to help keep these legions of truckers awake and alert. Since we were trying to awaken our inner Americans, we decided to stop and try this free coffee, because Americans don’t turn down free anything. After tasting it, we decided that in the future we would pay for our coffee. It just proves the old adage that you don’t get something for nothing. But after spending so many thousands of miles sharing the roads with those giants of transport and more than once wondering what our little Mazda would look like after an altercation with one of them, we submit that we as a nation owe our truckers better coffee.

In addition to these ubiquitous semis, giant RVs seem to be proliferating across the country. They are starting to rival the trucks for numbers and size, though certainly not road dominance. These are 40-foot behemoths towing luxury four-wheel drive vehicles. You’d never know gas was hovering around $4 per gallon. New and shiny, these giants of the road are driven by white-haired retirees in convoys collectively worth millions of dollars.

These glistening wheeled residences parade through the tiny towns where their dusty, road-weary cousins are parked permanently next to rusting water tanks, surrounded by waist-high grass, with boards propped against the peeling sides to cover the wheels and give the whole thing the illusion of permanence. But there is nothing more precarious. For some people mobility is freedom. For others it’s a threat.

Yet the attraction of mobility seems undimmed since Steinbeck’s day. There are thousands of residents of RV Parks along incredibly straight stretches of highway. Collectively, they sponsor a section of the road, paying for its maintenance and cleaning up the trash people jettison from the windows of moving cars, just like the boys in Colorado. This lends a sense of ownership, of control over a symbolic stretch of freedom. Where else but America would so many people live in their RVs and spend time and money beautifying a stretch of highway? You can even adopt a highway through the American Highway Maintenance Corporation, which provides recognition for your efforts by means of huge signs along the side of “your” stretch of highway, advertising your commitment to beautifying your environment. Some of these signs display names of individuals and families, others advertise “Capital Bail Bonds,” or “Conservative Evangelical Christians.” For the young boys we met, it was a sense of social responsibility that compelled them to clean up after their less responsible compatriots. For the older generations it seems to be an unquenchable desire for a sense of place. They’ve rejected the obligations associated with a traditional home and replaced them with others.

At another of the infamous rest areas, we met a former pastor who had supplemented an allegiance to Jesus with an allegiance to the road. He and his wife have been living in their fifth wheel trailer for about a year now. They travel around between RV parks and people’s driveways. They subscribe to newsletters and magazines all about the RV culture (though we were unsure how all that mail gets delivered). The Reverend said that an estimated one million people in the US live exclusively in an RV. It’s a completely nomadic, mobile culture. The most recent US census calls these “people on the move” and counts them as an entirely separate subset of the American population, like students or military personnel. This is the road warrior culture, where a vehicle is a status symbol, an indicator of independence and imagined individuality. It will take more than high gas prices to change that.

We also found RVs inhabiting the various campgrounds where we spent our nights. These existed in various states of permanence, from those just parked overnight to those leveled with wheel blocks for a longer stay, and even some who planned to stay for entire seasons, with potted plants growing outside and above-ground pools set up in the next campsite. Either way, nearly every RV we saw had a satellite dish, some affixed to the top and some set up on tripods outside, so the occupants never had to be out-of-touch with the all-important TV culture. As Steinbeck drove through the country he noted, “It is a rare house or building that is not rigged with spiky combers of the air. Radio and television speech becomes standardized, perhaps better English than we have ever used.” (82) The loss of the regional particularities which he observed continues apace in America’s campgrounds, all thanks to the ubiquity of TV.