The Long Road Home

LA/XC DAY SIXTEEN:  ELKO, NEVADA

•  Two-day mileage:  544

•  Total LA/XC mileage:  4,635

•  Road Music:  Eagles, Rascal Flatts, Lucinda Williams

•  Two-day state tally:  2 (California, Nevada; what can I say — they’re both huge!)

•  New states for Beagle Man:  0  (Was tempted to count Nevada, but already did when I stopped in Vegas on the way out)

Sixteen days into my journey, and for the first time, my pardner and I arrived at our destination in daylight.  Have to say, it was kinda nice.  (Yes, yes, Langdon; feel free to say “I told you so.”)

This is absolutely the best motel we’ve stayed in since The Grand Hotel outside Grand Canyon Village!  Okay, it’s not Shutters, but at 79 bucks for the night (that includes the $15 pet charge), it’s got Shutters beat by about $625.  And it’s spacious: When I play fetch with Ricky in this room, he really gets a workout!  Nice decor, too (see pics).  But even more important, we’re on the ground floor; I can park right outside the room, and there’s a fridge with a freezer, to keep Ricky’s food fresh and to ice up my freezer packs!  (Tomorrow will be the first morning I won’t have to go searching for the motel ice machine.)

You kind of look for different things when you travel with a dog; pools, spas, massage therapists — not important.  No, it’s all about having a good space to park the dog crate.   They even gave me two room keys at this find — one for me, one for Ricky.  So what if the motel has a description — America’s Best Value Gold Country Inn & Casino — instead of a name?  I was especially happy our digs worked out so well tonight, since I had a scare driving into Elko:  Because of a miscommunication with Ms. Garmin, I found myself staring at a gravel supply company when she chirped, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”  The last time this happened was in Amarillo, and I wound up in the motel from Nightmare on Elm Street.

Had a truly lovely afternoon in San Francisco yesterday.  My friend Lisa, the one who stood me up the night before (jk, Lisa!),

called me to meet for lunch.  We got sandwiches at Lucca delicatessen on Chestnut Street, and then picnicked in the Marina, with spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz, and the mystery fog that settles on the bay even on beautiful sunny days.

But as I finally began driving east, I ran into a bit of a funk.  I’m not gonna lie to you:  I was a lot more excited heading west from Westport, when everything was new and I had the whole Robby/Ricky reunion ahead of me, than I was heading east from San Francisco.  Was getting a little sick of my car, and maybe even a little tired of my company.  (Ricky, you didn’t hear that!)  I decided to kind of “take the day off,” and drove just 200 miles to Lake Tahoe — the equivalent, for me, of driving around the block.

My arrival in Tahoe City was not a happy one.  The first thing the innkeeper said was,”We don’t allow dogs in the lobby.”  Excuse me — how ’bout, hello?  How was your trip?  On top of the contentious proprietor, the cough/cold/plague I’d picked up in New Mexico

more than a week ago reached new heights, and I felt like a total mess.

But sometimes all it takes to turn things around is one well-placed restroom . . .

I woke up to a beautiful, sunshiny Tahoe morning, reconfigured my car-packing job for about the dozenth time, which is always cathartic and makes me feel renewed, since about every two days the back of the car begins to look like a dumpster.  I headed north on 28, and just as nature was calling, I arrived at a pristine, cedar-sided public facility — far nicer than some of the motels I’ve stayed at.  Even better, the structure was situated on Carnelian Bay, in the parking lot of a

drop-dead gorgeous, extremely dog-friendly beach — the very one Jess, my server last night at the fun-and-friendly Rosie’s Cafe, told me to look for.  (Good call, Jess!)  I guess the stars were aligned:  Ricky even chose to pee and poop there, always a relief to me before we hit the car for a long spell.

The rest of our perimeter drive of Lake Tahoe was spectacular, as was highway 431 out of Incline.  But after the initial thrill of seeing the big, dry, desolate, moon-like landscape, I can’t say I was all that impressed

with Nevada, which is Native American for “Great big state with nothing in it.”  (I can’t say this too loud:  I’m still in Nevada, and if I’m reading the scale of the map right, will continue to be for the next few months.)  Seriously, I crossed through 6 consecutive counties that didn’t have a town or a person — at least none that I saw.  The cash crop is gambling, and as we’ve

already established (see Sept. 16 post), I’m not interested.  I know New Mexico is the state generally associated with UFO’s and alien sightings, but after driving through these eerie wide open spaces, I’m going with Nevada as the place we’re most likely to run into E.T.

The best things I have to say about today’s drive is that the speed limit was 75 (enjoyed that!  Needle tickled 100!  Who’s gonna know?), and that Ricky and I saw a basset hound named Lucy Brown at one of Nevada’s lunar rest stops.

Finally, and very important:  I neglected to note in the last post that the official starting mileage for the trip back from L.A. was 3,653.  This, of course, is especially significant to the thousands — okay, so it’s just Lang and Mike P. — who entered the big “Guess My Total Return Mileage” sweepstakes!  (Sorry, too late to get in on it now.)  Btw, already have the cool souvenir grand prize in my possession.