The Loneliest Road In America
Saturday, February 28th
I’m typing and riding in Moby’s passengers seat crossing the Mississippi River from Arkansas into Tennessee, past the Memphis pyramid. It’s 1:20 in the afternoon, so I expect we’ll pull in home around 10:00. We left Santa Cruz, California three days ago in a bluster of rain and wind.
This tour began three weeks ago with concerts in the Midwest. Being in Cape Girardeau for a Sunday night show gave the illusion that from Missouri it was just a simple hop over the Rockies to California. We love Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and looked forward to a good soak in the hot springs. To get to California, instead of taking the I-80 route across Nevada, I decided to try Rt. 50, “The Loneliest Road in America.”
Central Nevada is a landscape of simplicity. Mountain ridges and valleys run north and south that merge and sweep into each other across a hundred miles at a glance. The ribbon of two-lane Route 50 is visible every inch of distance between horizons. I look upon this scene with disbelief that the eye can behold so much earth. Not a fence, not a tree nor pickup truck comes into view for miles on end. Sagebrush, dirt and space, and an expansive peace are in this place that is cold, quiet, and dry.
The very next day we met up with Chuck Brodsky in Redding and shared a bill for The Society of Way Cool Music at Bernie’s Guitars. The room was full, and people stood up to clap at the end of each set – very fun! Chuck told us about his new love of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia and recording his new album up there with J.P. Cormier. Then the next night we’re in Placerville and it’s Valentine’s Day at the Cozmic Café. The Café is a renovated Soda Works building that was built of stout grey stone in 1859. Downstairs there are caves running into the mountain where miners once dug for gold. Later they were used to store ice through the summers. Bare light bulbs hung from an extension cord hooked to the roof of one cave. Below the lights reaching part way in were a couple of plastic tables and chairs where people can sit and drink their lattes.
After a few days off in Davis it was back to work. Friday and Saturday were full with three radio shows and two concerts. Sue and I shared the bill with Eleni Kelakos in San Jose, and Saturday we played the Backroads House Concert near Santa Cruz. Playing at Jeff and Andrea’s place in Felton is special on many levels. One, because their timber frame house in the coastal redwoods was built with concerts in mind. Two, because Jeff is a wine maker who really knows his wine and food. And perhaps most importantly, because Jeff Emery was the person who introduced Sue and I to each other. In fact this time in California was at least as much a reunion with friends as it was a working tour. After Saturday we had no concerts for almost two weeks so it was time to relax. My brother Jamie had driven down from Oregon to visit, so a party of us settled in to a rhythm of eating, drinking, talking, dogs, and muddy hikes in the woods.
Leaving Wednesday was our plan. The van all packed, the weather was raining and blowing hard. Long drive past Bakersfield and Barstow. Roads wet and fields flooded. Caravan jerking in a side wind, and wipers going back and forth for hours. Got ahead of the storm crossing the Mojave. By the time we got to Needles it was dark. We drove on to Kingman where the weather caught up with us by the morning.
The next day it didn’t take long to pass Flagstaff, and from there we lost the rain. Here are some observations from the next couple days:
- Today, wiped out 32 tumbleweeds of all condition and size. Others made it across the highway unharmed and piled like oversized dust bunnies against the roadside fence.
- Bone white half wide trailer sprung like a mushroom in a clearing next to a farmhouse crumbling. Game roosters perch on blue 50 gallon barrels evenly spaced in a dirt yard. Wooden windmill brings up water with a slow turning.
- Land prices $195 an acre, 40 acre lots.
- At night –
- Hank Williams sings on the radio between Albuquerque and Tucumcari. Red, blinking radio tower lights march down the valley.
- Petrified trees lie like dead soldiers strewn on the desert. The first water – west of Amarillo, the first trees - just before the Texas border. The country changes dramatically as the altitude lessens. We descend from the desert to feedlots and wheat.
Sunday Feb. 29th (Leap day)
The first ritual upon arriving home from a tour is the “emptying of the van.” Twenty-four days ago we departed Asheville and drove over the Tennessee mountains in the rain. Today, running a vacuum cleaner over the carpet I recognize pieces of the entire tour going up the hose. I find redwood twigs, most of them from Jeff and Andrea’s place in the coastal range of California. Next, sand from the beach jumps out of the carpet; probably from the day my brother and I went walking on the beaches north of Santa Cruz. I find a receipt from filling the gas tank in Sparks, after crossing Nevada on Route 50. If I looked deep enough I could probably trace my tour just by scraps of paper and various debris brought in by dirty boots. Water spray at the do-it-yourself carwash is sending some Arizona dust down the drain. From Asheville these specks of Arizona will wash into the French Broad River, which will merge with the Mississippi and then into the Gulf of Mexico.
It takes a few days to re-adjust from west coast time, back to east. It’s good to be home, though. Writing all this is a good way for me to look back and appreciate the events of the tour, which in the moment are fleeting. Thanks for enjoying them with me.
Remember, keep in touch. Sign the guestbook, let me know what you think. Check out the schedule page, say “hi” when we come to your town.
- Dana