The typical dome of high pressure was overhead, and even at six thousand feet we had not left the haze below. There's always a wildfire burning somewhere these days---this time, hundreds of miles away at Big Sur, causing bad air advisories east of the Sierra crest. Lake Almanor was steely smooth under a beige sky. Birds walked on water in the shallows north of Highway 36. The forest dried out east of here, the air slowly warmed, but not unpleasantly. The heat only returned when we dropped into Susanville and then drifted east and south onto the high desert. A column of smoke rose over the barren ranges of Nevada ahead of us.
Traffic heading north on US 395 has been oddly sporadic---and then we learned why: A electric sign flashed ROAD WORK AHEAD POSSIBLE ONE HOUR DELAY. There's nothing more fun that sitting on fresh asphalt while the temperature hovers in the upper 80s. I certainly will not idle away the time, but since the sun is directly overhead we're in the shade, and the breeze was surprisingly cool. The breeze was also pungent with purple sage---a scent as calming as lavender. I could have taken a nap if I didn't have to absently watch for the traffic to start moving again. Exactly fifteen minutes later, it did.
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| Google Image |
"Are you going to faint?" my husband asked.
I awoke, my face on the table in a pool of cold sweat. A cluster of management floated around our booth.
"We call it Reno-itis," one of them said. "People who aren't used to the elevation just go into a faint."
"I think it's his blood sugar," my husband corrected as he rubbed the back of my neck. "He does this very once in a while."
"This is so embarrassing," I managed to mumble.
"Oh, this is nothing to be embarrassed about," said another. "Nothing like falling face first into a plateful of food. That happens quite often."
I went out again, and then awoke with a glass of orange juice in front of me---and a man sitting in the booth with us. Apparently he and my husband had been talking awhile.
"How long have you two been together?" he asked quietly. I thought it was an odd question---until I slowly thought of my position on the table, my head down in the crook of my right arm, my left stretched out on table. My husband is still rubbing my neck with his right hand, his left on the table. Our rings match.
"Nineteen years," my husband replied.
"That's a long time," he said, obviously impressed.
He continued to make small talk. At first it was quite personal, perhaps conspiratorial, but he then checked himself and spoke more generally. Still we learned he had lived in the same general area of Long Beach that we had until three years ago. It's strange how we keep running into old 'neighbors'.
"What's your birth year, Daniel?" he asked. He was taking notes as the communicated with staff via his ear piece.
"1968."
"Whoa, you're only a year older than me."
I looked up from the sweaty crook of my arm. He was a fireplug of a man, with salt and pepper hair. I would have been annoyed if I didn't feel so shitty, but since all he saw of me was my graying sideburns and thin spot on the back of my head, I had to give him slack. After all, he presumed we'd be close to the same age. And I knew he was asking my birth year so to credit our house card in some manner.
One of the women returned. "I think we should move you to the Atrium. It's a little cooler there, and you can lay down on one of the couches with your feet up until you feel better."
We were rather surprised they didn't have a private room off the lobby for indisposed guests, but the offer seemed the best solution for the interim. A wheel chair was brought, and my bent head and bald spot signaled to all diners that I was decrepit and should be pitied. We made it to the emergency exit next to the bar when the sway of the chair took its toll. I pressed my hands to my face and gave myself a lovely vomit facial. Luckily our location allowed for instant access to damp towels before we crossed the very public lobby to the Atrium. And I didn't get anything on my clothes, which every traveler is most grateful for.
I lounged most ungainly midst the plastic palms in the Atrium for some fifteen minutes, watching the glass elevators go up and their passengers look down at me. Not really the best view for the nauseous. Sharon, my attendant, returned to see how I was doing---and it was decided it was best to get me in our car and on the road again. So, after equipped with many towels and barf bag, I was put into the wheelchair again and wobbled away as my husband brought our car around. As we waited outside, my head bent down in order to keep everything down, a man started yelling at her from the parking lot.
"I need someone to help me find my car!"
"I can help you as soon as I get this gentleman in his car," Sharon replied pleasantly.
It was not the answer he was looking for. "Walking won't do," he cried. He was really agitated, perhaps strung out in some fashion. "I need someone to drive me around!"
Sharon said nothing, thinking our tableau was explanation enough.
"I'm going to the front desk and RAISE MY VOICE."
I heard him walk away, and then Sharon sighed: "Tuesday is now officially A Day of Entitlement."
Car and husband arrived, but the last few wobbles in the wheelchair were too much.
"Give me the bag. THE BAG!"
Husband put it before me, I barfed into it, and the barf fell right out the bottom and went between the chair's foot rests and splattered all over the asphalt.
"There, there," Sharon said, rubbing my back. "You'll probably feel much better now."
Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I laid back on the little leatherette passenger seat and unexpected dozed off in Truckee Canyon, awaking only when my husband asked for directions on where to get gas in Fernley. It's always much cheaper there than in Reno. Kala, The Purple Princess managed 47.8 MPG, very good considering all the climbing at the beginning of the day, without an equal amount of compensating downhill.
My husband also bought himself a small soft serve, since he didn't get to visit the Isle of Desserts at the buffet.
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| Perhaps it's best not to advertise certain town names by their initials. |
I awoke again in Lovelock. We have spent time poking through these threadbare towns and searching out the remnants of the Victory Highway, so there wasn't much of a reason to do so again. There is a pretty good stretch of the old Victory Highway north of Lovelock, however, if one is interested in pursuing such things. It goes through a [mostly] failed ranchette scheme---one that was heavily advertised in the Bay Area in the 1980s. The old road has better views than the Interstate because it's higher in elevation and occasionally changes angles.
We stopped in Winnemucca to top off the tank, gas being cheaper there than in Elko, our destination. 50.9 MPG, so The Purple Princess was now running practically ten miles a gallon above EPA highway estimate. Feeling quite well again, I took the wheel and drove through town, which seemed more lively than in the past. Mining seems to be on an uptick, and shuttle buses were carrying workers out of the canyons back to town. On the Interstate, dozens of SUVs passed by in groups, sporting little flags of various design---meant to be easily identified out on the desert. The vehicles were marked something like 'Small Mining Exploration'.
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