Day 3 on the road – Pahrump to Valley of Fire

Lessons in life are always hard to take, no matter how much we need to experience them. In my case, you simply can’t live over six decades on the planet without, at some point, coming to that conclusion. Hopefully, as you get older, you take those lesson-learning episodes in stride and keep on keeping on, hopefully a bit more savvy as you go forward.

Such has been my experience with the retailer I call Wally World, that bastion of cut rate sales most other people know as Walmart. In the beginning I regarded Wally World as so overtly predatory in its marketing practices, so unmindful of the irreparable damage they were doing to main street America, that I simply refused to patronize the place under any circumstances

So it was Friday morning we found ourselves at the Pahrump Valley Walmart where the parking is commodious and the greeters are friendly, if somewhat ancient. Doing our part for the economy, we bought everything from two sets of towels we forgot to bring as a laundry-day backup to the first set we did remember to bring, to our favorite yogurt and orange juice. Of course the reason that we chose Walmart instead of Honest Eddie’s Main Street Grocery was because I needed a special RV fitting for our sewer hose that allows one to hook a garden hose to the non-exit end of the hose and flush it out with water before you pack it for travel. I had already looked for that special item at each of the campground stores we had explored since we left home, but we had so far been unsuccessful. We also scored a plastic bin into which I intended to put our constant companion, a case of Arrowhead water.

Later, as we stood in the “20 items or less” line and listened to the glitter-gulch showgirl turned senior citizen retail clerk chat about washing her dog to the fascinated, and obviously flirty, male customer ahead of us, I gazed around the sales floor and, perhaps for the first time, realized that we simply would not be able to function on the road without Wally World. Walton’s brainchild may be responsible for turning 10,000 American main streets into the world’s finest source of used brick, but we had quietly abandoned our Quixotic quest for retail morality and joined the vast herd of deal seekers looking to provision yet another cross-country adventure.

Our shopping concluded, and once again on the road, we set our course south for the thriving desert metropolis of Las Vegas. As Pahrump receded in our mirrors, we sat back to enjoy some truly fabulous desert scenery along route 160. I think it was John C. Fremont who was the first non-native American to see the willow-choked springs and sandy valley that came to be called Las Vegas. He’d certainly recognize the vast stretches of sage and sand flanked by multi-colored sandstone cliffs that still adorn route 160 into the southern border of Las Vegas. The vistas are, I’m sure, just as breathtaking as they were over nearly 170 years ago.

But that’s where the similarity to historic southern Nevada ends. Once we reached Las Vegas proper and transitioned from route 160 to route 15 into the heart of the city, the drive turned from one of desert quietude to one of mass pandemonium. All of a sudden it was everyman for himself, or so it seemed. The wonderful, leisurely two-lane desert road suddenly became ten lanes of suicide bombers bent on somehow, some way getting to wherever they were going before they actually left. It reminded me ever so much of those scenes in the movie, The Fifth Element, where Bruce Willis is “driving” a cab that can go in literally ANY direction in three dimensions. Cars are coming at him in so many directions and so fast that you consider it a major miracle when he doesn’t hit much of anything. Well, that was us today.

I seldom push the RV over 60 mph, partially out of respect for a gracefully aging, 18 year old machine, and partially because I want to be able to enjoy the scenery and not get to where I’m going too fast. Unless we have reservations for some reason, most days we don’t care if we get anywhere at all. So being hemmed in by an entire flotilla of Kamikaze cars going seventy-five and eighty is exhilarating at best and downright terrifying at worst.

Still, we managed to get all the way through the worst of Las Vegas traffic without incident and were soon once more motoring at a more serene tempo. When it got close to noon I picked a likely off-ramp exclaiming that the business operating near the ramp looked like they had a nice level area to park the RV and far enough from the freeway to lessen the noise. It wasn’t until we were halfway through lunch that Concetta informed me that I had picked the entrance to the local landfill for my midday culinary event. I shrugged, “the landscaping is nice.” I said, and we went on eating.

Our destination for the afternoon stop was the Valley of Fire State Park. Having lived in southern Nevada for over a decade, Concetta had been to Valley of Fire before and had often told me about the incredible rock formations to be found there. Still, as we approached the park gate and made ready to pay our entrance fee, I could hardly believe the celebration of geology that lay before us. It was just downright awesome. Later, when we had snagged the only full-hookup campsite left in the park and had put down our temporary roots, we took off on foot to see as much of the 250 million year old sandstone deposits as we could in the fading afternoon light. Wow! What a humbling experience. Everywhere I turned the camera lay absolutely stunning orange rock formations flanked by a brilliant blue sky and white fleecy clouds. It was like a box of crayons on steroids. I just couldn’t get enough of the place. Back at the RV we spent the balance of the afternoon watching the sun set, sipping a bit of Vodka and cranberry juice, and chatting about adventures past, present, and future. What a day!

Tomorrow we’re setting out on foot to the Visitor Center which, the ranger told me, lies about two miles from here. “Watch for cars,” the ranger said, tapping his radar unit. “They don’t always obey the speed limits.” Dang, I thought, when you’re keeping company with 250,000,000 year old rocks, what exactly is their hurry?