Pilgrims in an Unholy Land

By providence, we found a place in St. George where we could add another entry to our Testament from the road. At the Hampton Inn, I strolled in with several people who had arrived for the St. George Marathon, which we knew about due to our chance encounter among the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon with Manny, who was planning to participate in the race. While the runners checked in and generally overwhelmed the hotel staff, I asked a maintenance person for the password to the WiFi system. Seconds later she returned with a card that had the security code on it. I wrote and posted while enjoying a cup of delicious Hampton Inn coffee.

The sun was retreating to the horizon by the time we hit the road again, and long shadows were beginning to streak across the landscape. About a half hour later we crossed the threshold into night, which was racing westward at tremendous speed. The lights of Las Vegas lit up the sky ahead. We leaned back in our seats and relaxed for the first time in the day.

Suddenly, the car slammed head-on into a wall of stench so foul, so overpowering, that Caroline and I momentarily wretched. Clasping our noses shut with one hand, we cried out in alarm.

“What the hell is that?” we attempted to shriek, but our clasped noses made our voices sound hollow and high-pitched, like the cries of startled Munchkins.

How could we know what had taken hold of the evening air out there? We were still 20 miles from civilization. Could it be that the waste generated by the 2 million denizens of Las Vegas and its millions of annual guests necessitated a landfill comprising 20 miles of desert land? Could something have escaped from nearby Area 51? Was it a dairy farm that had been left lock, stock and barrel to rot in the sun? Or perhaps the Well of Sin was simply overflowing onto the desert floor. We did not know. the odor’s origins were unsettlingly uncertain.

What was certain was that the stench was so thick and heavy that it clung to our clothes, as if we had been tossed smack-dab in the midst of a Landfill that had taken steroids. It was a moist smell, a rotten smell—like the concentrated funk emanating from a pool of feces expelled from the dripping asses of 10,000 rotund, hairy men who had dined on nothing but teriyaki steak and Vidalia onions for the past 21 days in a row. And it would not go away. Not for miles and miles. I put the gas pedal to the floorboard and goosed the car up to 90 in hopes that we could outrun the smell or dilute it with the rush of air that was spilling into the open windows and churning up our belongings in the back of the car.

About 10 minutes later the odor vanished. In its place came Vegas billboards, the first of which advertised a place called Sin City, which unabashedly advertised hard core sex toys for every desire. We noted its location in case we cared to take in some window shopping later on during our visit. I wondered if a billboard with the smiling face of Jesus were looming above the place, like the Triple X store in Farmington. But I digress.

The freeways in Vegas were lousy with speeding cars, but I maintained my composure and my speed just like our host-to-be, Maggie, had advised earlier on over the cell phone. Like a smooth air-traffic controller, she talked us in to her home near the strip, and I only had to look at my instruments to land successfully. After a wholesome meal and hours of conversation, we hit the sack. It had been an extremely long day.

Maggie’s words about the Vegas rush hours echoed in our heads so we hit the road the next morning at 6 a.m. This was not our original plan, but the air already was oppressively hot at the crack of dawn. We were headed toward Boulder City, home of the Bootleg Canyon mountain bike trail system. The trail system is located in the foothills outside of town and is part of the Boulder City parks network. After a fine breakfast of a huge hammy omelet and hash browns at the Southwest Diner at the edge of Boulder City, we set out for the trails. The heat rained down on us like fire from the sky as we stood in the parking lot readying our gear.

I am not generally familiar with desert biking. This was my first time. We were smart enough to realize that we would need full Camelbacks if we were to pull off this ride alive, so we crammed the Camelback bladders full of ice and as much water as they could hold. I could feel the desert air pulling the liquid from my body even as we stood in the parking lot, turning me slowly into jerky. The rocky ground was home to many spiky plants that could shred a tire or rip the flesh with a single careless turn.

The trail system was great, giving us plenty of twists and whoopdedoos to work with as we made our way out into the desert heat. Unfortunately, the trail system also required miles and miles of prolonged climbing to reach any scenic destinations. Additionally, the trails, marked as “easy” or “intermediate” were much harder than their given designation implied, and in many areas were unrideable—at least in the uphill direction. Unclear trail markings steered us onto some severely difficult trail sections as well, and after about 10 miles of riding we were pretty thrashed and on the verge of dehydration, and we hadn’t even ridden the trail we had come to ride: the Caldera loop, which offers views of Vegas off in the distance. At just before 11 a.m., when the sun was high and bright, we found the Caldera trail head and we set off upon its rocky path.

Now there is an old story about Lot and his family fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah after receiving a warning from God about the Sin taking place in the city. As they fled, Lot’s wife looked backward and was turned into a pillar of salt that rose from the desert floor. As we rounded a curve halfway through the Caldera loop, Vegas was clearly visible in the distance below. Smog from the city hung thick in the air and spread into the surrounding valleys, giving one valley in particular the appearance of being a huge brown lake. I took one last look over my shoulder at the city as we rode away. It was a fateful mistake. A few miles later, as our odometer registered mile 14, I began to feel strangely otherworldly. A terrible pain nestled itself in the pit of my stomach and my temples began to pound. My insides were turning to salt and my Camelback was totally empty. We painfully rode the last mile back to the car. I drank deeply and cheated death. A film of salt coated my skin and I literally sparkled in the desert sun. Thankfully, Bootleg Canyon had showers, albeit nice hot ones.

We briefly enjoyed the spectacle of some downhill riders catching big air off of some fine jumps, but the desert heat continued clawing at my skull so we fled. Down in Boulder City, we drank more water at Mel's Diner and replenished our salts by consuming one of Mel's "Famous" steak sandwiches and some awesome fries. The throbbing in my temples began to subside somewhat.

We had big plans for an evening of Vegas nightlife, but back at Maggie’s we slept the sleep of the dead. I dreamed about a dancing horse that was wearing a sparkly blue costume with one of those fuzzy toilet-brush looking thingees on its head. I forgot the wisdom that the beast imparted to me during a casual conversation, but I was glad the day was over.

See you on down the road.