We started out to Mexico in half a foot of snow, with the wind blowing and snow falling heavily. At first we—my mom, her boyfriend Dan and myself—weren’t sure if we were heading into worse weather than what we were leaving behind. Kelowna was experiencing its first midwinter blizzard and the streets were no more than two narrow trenches through the snow, all other lines and boundaries buried in white. Which could kind of be said about Kelowna in general: all culture, nature and previous civilizations now buried in white (people).
Anyway, the radio promised better times ahead once we reached Summerland, so we persisted on in faith. The snowflakes were as big as small birds, capable of covering the palm of your hand. These falling small birds made it hard to see much, and we moved forward at a safe and slow pace. Traffic coming in to the city was a mix of the cautious, the foolhardy and those in a ploughtruck-led conga line. Most cars were able to stay on the road.
Once we reached Summerland we saw the promise given by the radio oracle was the truth. The snow thinned, falling in enough air to see through, to see further and drive faster. At the U.S. border they let us through with no thorough vehicle or body cavity search, Allah be praised, and the snow continued on through Washington state. The only noticeable difference south of the border was the periodic presence of symbolic patriotism: the American flag.
I never really know what to think about this flaunting of the flag. Does it mean the people flying it are staunch supporters of the U.S. government even way out here in rural States, or does it mean that they are pureblood survivalists who will defend their right to bear arms even if that means they might have to destroy their own government, or is it just absolute and unwavering allegiance to the idea that is the U.S. of A, or just to the flag itself? I am curious, but I am not curious enough to try knocking on the door of a potentially armed stranger defending their property in order to find out.
Washington was awash in white, and we stayed in snow all through the high mountain passes that led us into the next states of our trip. Each day we had a blustery frozen start that usually progressed into sun and melting. At one point of the day’s thaw, in a straight stretch of road not in the mountains, we saw the remnants of a three-semi pile-up. It looks like they were sniffing each other’s tailpipes a little too closely.
It was near Reno that I felt like my life could be a video game, although it was Danny who was playing it. I don’t think there is a driving game called “Terrified Passenger” yet. But this might give you the wrong impression. Dan is my hero; he drove us safely through the snow and back again, and much more in between. We had become used to winter long before we reached Nevada, but the snowdevils kicked up there by an incoming storm system were a new creature altogether. Driving through the desert toward the horizon we could see white tornadoes blowing up across the ridges and over the highway. We missed being hit by all of them, but unfortunately we didn’t miss the town of Burton Wells.
Our last night in Nevada was in Burton Wells during a full-blown blizzard. Luckily (?), we found a cheap bunker of a motel complete with mildew so there was no chance we were going to be blown away either by the storm or by the quality of our lodgings. Enough said.
The next morning we drove out of the last of that state, through one side of a storm straight into its peaceful eye. Driving toward the thing was like driving into a white wall. Fortunately we were in the desert and the road ahead was dead flat and dead straight. The wind pushed us hard all over the road, and the air was so thick with snow that visibility was zero. When we got through this turbulent wall, we were suddenly in the eye of the storm: a column of clear air that opened up to a blue sky we hadn’t seen for days, with no wind or snow. It was like an oasis of calm that could only be kept by traveling within the storm itself. It wasn’t too many miles before we reached the other side and were buffeted once again back through to winter. The snow and wind continued until we reached the mountains on the far side of the plains, where winter began to magically fade away. Its grip continued to loosen, and by the time we started to see signs telling us how far we were from the modern Babylon, Las Vegas, the roads were dry and the skies were clear.
Another leg of the journey completed, our next gauntlet was the crazy spaghetti bowl surrounding the 24-hour meat ball of Las Vegas. Danny once again showed his quality as with sweaty palms all around, we drove on to the long exit/entrance ramp that surrounds Las Vegas. Traffic merged and exited on both sides of the highway; cars, puffy escalades and semis wove through at 100 kph, crossing three of the five lanes in order to get to their exit: it was a giant and deadly game of Tetris.If another racing game is ever made, it should be “Home Run: Las Vegas 5:10”. The only possibly good thing about rush hour would be that the cars would have to move a lot slower. Maybe. And I imagine the late night Las Vegas spaghetti bowl is often peppered with fresh corpses ground to bleeding bits in high impact collisions. Maybe I say this because I watch too much TV, or maybe I’ve seen too many car accidents, or maybe that is just about right. With the splatter factor high, why hasn’t the gaming industry gone there yet? And America is the land of highways and guns as well, so there's another winning combination just waiting to be exploited.
Our next but very different hurtle was the Hoover Dam. We had arrived in Las Vegas on December 31st, and while we were on our way out of Sin Central that very night, everyone else and their dog was heading in, determined to break their resolutions before they made them. It took three hours for us to wind our way over the dam and back on to a freeway. From the number of vehicles stuck bumper to bumper, it looked like there were going to be an ocean of folks ringing in the new year in the middle of the Hoover Dam.
Once we were out of Nevada and out of the storm of snow and cars, we had only the not so stinky town of Ajo and the Organ Pipe National Monument to go, and then we were in to Sonoita, Mexico. Felicitously, we had acquired an informative second-hand placemat in Pendleton that mapped out all the cactuses for us.
The border into Mexico was as highly porous as reputed; we had to hunt down a border guard to fill out our visitors’ visas and stamp our passports. After this, we were truly in Mexico, and the bilingualism that had started in Washington state became steadily more Spanish.Like Nevada, the earth was dry, and dust was plentiful. Every roadside thing was covered with the stuff, the desiccated dead, the skin, eyelashes, and bellybutton lint of Mexico settled and unsettled itself in great gusts of air. The dead were still in motion, animated by the wind and living in among all of life. Here, the living silt looked different, throwing the sun’s light back to us.
The further we drove from the border, the more lustrous the dirt. Along the roads saguaro cactuses sprung straight up from their rocky beds and waved their crooked arms. In the fields, chiles and sandias pulsed at each green extremity. And everywhere the air moved the earth, reflected light spun and shone.
Even in the mountains away from the open plains the stuff was everywhere. It filtered in between the thick trees, bringing down light like tiny microscopic angels. An unnamed class of celestials, we dubbed them the Moteans. The deeper we drove, the thicker the light rained and the larger its grains until sure shapes made from recycled Mexico could be seen swimming in the light. As we reached the end of the forest, the winds grew heavier and blew away all extra travelers that had landed on our car. Only the occasional wing remained, stuck flapping and bodiless on the door, window or roof. Now the entire body of the van sparkled under its veneer of sparkling scales, our mariposa baptism.
