California Trip
July 3, 2005
On cruise control through the desert. In a Buick.
Death Valley is like entering the interior of a black vinyl-clad Chevy Nova, parked all day in the open, on a sunny August day.
Fear and self-loathing in Reno.
Pauper’s Grave, 1919, Nevada City.
Last week, I drove from Orange County to San Francisco, via Death Valley and Nevada City. Visiting friends was the best part, but the long drive through the desert was “purifying.” Nothing beats sleeping out and seeing some shooting stars; eating a commemorative sardine and flatbed sandwich in the Tuolumne Meadows parking lot; and seeing the morning “Happy Hour” specials in Carson City. Plus, it went from 105° to 30° in twelve hours, a new record for me.
I made a detour to visit Patagonia’s distribution center and outlet store in Reno. What a nice set-up in an otherwise ordinary industrial park. The employees looked like they really enjoy working there, and the building has numerous details that made it “green” and “friendly.” I especially liked surveying the bumperstickers in the parking lot. As for the clothes — no bargains to be found, unless you like pink or lime green in XS.
Other than the Patagonia building, I can’t think of any compelling reason why anyone would want to be in Nevada. Why people bothered to settle there in the first place — silver mines or not — instead of heading a few more miles west — where they could have been more prosperous and lived in a nicer climate — is beyond my comprehension.